Chapter 6 - The Lion’s Den
The storm broke over Century City with violent fury, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse garage.
Julian threw his duffel bag into the trunk of his armored Mercedes sedan. His hands were shaking so violently he dropped the key fob twice on the wet concrete. Victoria stood beside him, clutching her designer purse to her chest, her expensive heels clicking frantically against the pavement.
"Where are we going?" she cried over the sound of thunder. "The airports will be watched! If Ricardo went to the DA—"
"We drive south," Julian barked, slamming the trunk shut. "We cross the border at Tecate before Hector’s people flag the plates. I have a twin-engine Cessna sitting on a private strip outside Ensenada. In six hours, we’ll be in Costa Rica. They don't extradite for corporate fraud!"
"Corporate fraud?!" Victoria shrieked. "You tried to murder his son! That’s attempted capital murder, Julian! They will hunt us with drones!"
"Shut up!" Julian yelled, grabbing her by the collar of her silk blouse and shoving her toward the passenger door. "Get in the car or I’ll leave you on the curb to take the fall alone!"
Victoria scrambled into the passenger seat, sobbing hysterically.
Julian sprinted around to the driver’s side, wrenched the door open, and threw himself behind the wheel. He slammed his foot on the brake, hit the engine start button, and the twin-turbo V8 roared to life with a deep, guttural growl.
He shifted into reverse, looked in the rearview mirror—and his heart stopped.
Blocking the underground garage exit ramp were three matte-black Chevy Suburbans, their high-beam light bars illuminating the concrete pillars in blinding, halogen brilliance.
Julian slammed on the brakes. "No. No, no, no!"
He threw the car into drive, intending to ram his way through the narrower pedestrian gate on the left. But before his foot could hit the accelerator, the side doors of the Suburbans slid open.
Six men in tactical gear stepped out. They weren't police officers. They wore no badges, no department insignia. They were Hector Ortiz’s private contractors—former tier-one operators whose loyalties were paid in Mendoza gold.
And walking slowly down the center of the ramp, his hands shoved casually into the pockets of a long black cashmere overcoat, was Ricardo.
He walked with the terrifying, rhythmic confidence of an executioner. The rain dripping from the open garage entrance soaked his shoulders, but he didn't blink. He stopped twenty feet from the Mercedes' front bumper, bathed in the white light of Julian's headlights.
Julian stared through the windshield. His chest heaved. The pistol lay on the passenger seat between him and Victoria.
"Run him over," Victoria whispered, her eyes wide, manic, completely unhinged. "Julian, run him down! He’s in front of the car! Hit the gas!"
Julian’s hand drifted toward the gearshift. His knuckles turned white. He looked at Ricardo’s face through the rain-streaked glass.
There was no fear in his brother’s eyes. Only an infinite, bottomless abyss.
Julian looked past Ricardo. On either side of the ramp, two operators had raised suppressed carbines, their red laser dots dancing across the windshield, perfectly centered on Julian’s forehead and Victoria’s sternum.
"If I hit the gas..." Julian whispered, his voice trembling, "they put thirty rounds through this windshield before the tires rotate twice."
"You coward!" Victoria screamed, lunging for the gun on the seat. "You pathetic coward!"
Julian reacted on pure instinct. He backhanded Victoria across the face with enough force to crack her jaw, sending her sprawling against the passenger door, bleeding and senseless. He snatched the pistol, kicked his door open, and stepped out onto the wet concrete, holding the gun in both hands.
"Stay back!" Julian screamed, his voice cracking into a shrill, desperate shriek that echoed off the concrete walls. "Stay back, Ricky! I swear to God I’ll shoot! I’m your brother! You hear me? We have the same blood!"
Ricardo didn't stop. He continued walking forward, closing the distance step by measured step.
"You stopped being my brother," Ricardo said, his voice quiet, almost gentle, yet carrying with absolute clarity over the hum of the idling engines, "the second you turned that key in Mateo’s door."
"It was the money!" Julian sobbed, the gun shaking wildly in his hands as the red laser dots hovered over his chest. "Father gave you everything! The company, the land, the respect! He gave me scraps! He made me your errand boy! And then Elena died... and she left seventy million dollars to a six-year-old brat who doesn't even know what a dividend is! It was mine, Ricky! By right of blood, it was mine!"
"Mateo loved you," Ricardo said, stopping five feet from the barrel of Julian’s gun.
Julian flinched as if slapped.
"He spent three weeks building a wooden picture frame for your birthday, Julian," Ricardo continued, his voice thick with unspeakable sorrow. "He hid it in his toy chest so you wouldn't see it early. It burned into ash last night. Along with every single memory of you that was worth keeping."
Julian’s lower lip trembled. The gun began to dip downward. "Ricky... please. We can fix this. We tell them it was an electrical fire. Victoria planned the whole thing—she brought the solvent! She told me about the trust clause! I was just... I was in debt, Ricky! The casino in Macau... they were going to kill me!"
From the passenger seat of the Mercedes, Victoria stirred, groaning through broken teeth, her bloody hand reaching for the dashboard.
Ricardo didn't look at her. He didn't look at the gun. He looked directly into the ruined, cowardly soul of his younger brother.
"Drop the gun, Julian," Ricardo said softly. "Or die right here in this puddle like a stray dog. It makes no difference to me. The footage is already at the DA’s office. The warrant was signed twenty minutes ago."
Sirens began to wail in the distance—real sirens this time. LAPD cruisers, five or six of them, screeching around the corner of Avenue of the Stars, their red and blue lights painting the concrete ceiling in frantic, pulsing patterns.
Julian looked at Ricardo. He looked at the laser dots on his chest.
With a pathetic, choking sob, Julian’s fingers uncurled. The heavy automatic pistol clattered against the wet concrete, sliding harmlessly to the edge of Ricardo’s polished leather shoes.
Julian fell to his knees in the dirty puddle water, burying his face in his hands, weeping uncontrollably as Hector’s operators moved in with plastic zip-ties.
Ricardo didn't watch them cuff him. He turned his back on his brother, pulled his phone from his coat, and dialed a number he had memorized four hours ago.
"Camp Pendleton trauma wing," a crisp military voice answered.
May you like
"This is Ricardo Mendoza," he said, walking away from the flashing lights toward the rain. "Tell me she’s awake."
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