partially separated from the rest of the house and hung down in the water.
I’d expected something nicer. Looked like Mota’s intensely manicured image didn’t extend to his house.
The bedroom light was on, shadows shifting on the ceiling. He was home. I poled the skiff to the opposite side of the canal and drove it as far as I could into a thicket of mangrove. I sat down and waited for the light to go out. I’d do him in his sleep.
I’d be the prime suspect. Thanks to Wu, my feud with Mota had been well advertised. And it wouldn’t take much asking around to learn of my new protection racket. They’d come for me. A cop killer.
Did it matter that Mota might’ve killed a cop himself?
I doubted it.
Were this the old days, I wouldn’t sweat it. Back then, I had protection at the highest level. Between Paul and the Bandur cartel, I had free rein. I was untouchable. Bulletproof.
Shit, Mota never would’ve challenged me in the first place.
Damn that SOB. Why couldn’t he have stood down like he was supposed to?
The guy had grown tougher than he used to be, a bona fide badass. But had he gone so bad he could’ve chopped off Froelich’s head? That shit was savage.
The timing of it was hard to contradict. Froelich must’ve died just hours after I ordered the breaking of Jimmy’s legs. Who else could it have been?
I told myself it didn’t matter. Either way, Mota had to die. The mission required it.
My face hurt. I probed my features with my fingers. They felt strange, like I was wearing a puffy mask. My side ached, like somebody had shoved a shiv between my ribs. Despite the pain, I had to smile. Good fucking fight.
The bedroom light went out. My heartbeat moved up a tick. I checked the time. I’d give it a half hour, let him get into a deep sleep first. Let him dream his last dream.
I spent the next thirty concentrating on how I was going to beat the rap. The obvious move would be to frame Wu. After that stink he raised tonight, he’d be an easy mark.
But he was one of mine. That dumb, scar-headed asshole was one of mine.
I twisted my brain, trying to figure a way. All raps were beatable. There was always a way. And I was a fucking master, a frame-job maestro. Evidence was my paint, crime scenes my canvas. The perfect scam was out there. I could find it if I just concentrated. Think, dammit. Just think …
Fuck this brainy shit. I’d kill that dickhead and take his body with me. I’d take it out to the jungle and find a nice private place to dump it. The jungle made quick work of corpses. Geckos and ’guanas. Beetles and maggots. Give it a couple days, and he’d be mulched into shit.
I poled the skiff out from the mangrove and crossed the narrow canal, pulling up to his dilapidated back porch. Broken posts sat atop bent pilings, the collapsed floor half submerged. I tied the boat to a loose beam.
I pushed my shades up onto my forehead. I needed to see. Carefully, gingerly, I stepped onto the porch. Floorboards creaked. The rooftop swayed. Shit. I froze, my heart pounding, my throat dry, my teeth clenched tight. I reached for my piece, my ears waiting for the sound of approaching footsteps, my eyes zeroed in on the bedroom window.
Nothing.
Breathing easier, I moved toward a window, not the bedroom window, but the one on the opposite side of the door. This section of the porch was underwater. I stepped slowly into the drink, taking care to keep from slipping on river muck. Cool water seeped into my shoes as I popped the screen and crawled silently through.
I was inside. A rush came over me. I was unstoppable. A fucking force.
My inner enforcer was in charge now.
I slunk down a hall, water squishing in my shoes, the bedroom door my target. I carried my piece two-handed to keep the shaking under control. Mota didn’t know what was coming. Wakey, wakey, pretty boy.
The bedroom door was open. I filled the door frame, my piece trained on the bed, bathed in the blue glow of a holo-clock.