Ruthless Sinner: The Zeta Cartel Novels, #6

By AJ Adams

Determined to get her mother the healthcare she needs, drop dead gorgeous Spirit Westcott works as a stripper, not caring a jot that it cements her reputation as the village bad girl. But when Spirit falls foul of John Cooper, the newest member of the notorious Zeta Cartel, she loses her job. Furious, Spirit confronts Coop–only to discover his secret drug lab. When Coop decides to save her, by disappearing her and keeping her captive, Spirit is less than impressed. However, she quickly learns that Coop has an even deadlier secret, and one that may drag her into the abyss.

 

When dangerous, single-minded John Cooper learns his best friend was murdered, he resolves to exact bloody vengeance. The knowledge that his prey is a Zeta, one of Mexico's most dangerous cartels, doesn't stop him. Coop joins the organisation, only to discover that finding his prey won't be easy. To his annoyance, sexy Spirit Westcott is also a spanner in the works. After embarrassing him in public, Coop suddenly finds himself saddled with an unwanted captive, and her cat. Then, just as things couldn't get worse, a killer takes aim at the village girls. As Coop is drawn further into the cartel, he is forced to make decisions that may cost him his life–and that of his love.

 

Ruthless Sinner is a gripping tale of vengeance, murder, cartel violence and finding love in the darkest of times. It is the sixth novel in the Zeta Cartel series and can be read as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393851592

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter Zero: Coop

Fifteen years before

The portal lay before me, the prop beam shoring up the fragile entrance to the passage that led into the heart of the mountain. The others had gone down already. I had to follow, but fear nailed my feet to the ground. The shackles, always heavy, now weighed a tonne.

You! The cane landed across my shoulders, leaving a white-hot trail. "Stop fucking around. Dom stuk kak."

Killing him wasn't an option. At least, not yet. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.

His pale eyes narrowed. How tall are you?

Oh, hell. I dunno. Time to distract him. I feel sick. Fever, maybe.

You're not sick. You're just a lazy little shit, Rossouw raised the cane again, smiling with anticipation. A beating will smarten you up.

I braced myself, waiting for the pain.

Wait! Steenkamp strolled over, his long lean face lit by evil. We need him in good shape.

Not good. Steenkamp was meaner than a mamba.

He took me in, his white suit shining brightly in the dimly lit cave entrance. He was running to fat, his belly falling over his belt. Don't beat him, he repeated. Make him work for his insolence.

Right. Rossouw snatched my headlamp. The thin leather straps were already soaked with sweat. Outside, the scorching sun had withered the grasses of the veldt. Inside, the mountain trapped and amplified every fiery breath of air. He pursed his lips and tossed it away. Get moving, boy.

Behind us, the second shift fed rocks into the crusher and topped up the extraction vat. The engine hummed, and the fumes of acid and solvents filled the air. Gold mines aren't pretty places. I was in a living hell, and it was about to get worse.

One moment, Steenkamp drawled. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar case. I stood tall, knowing what would happen.

Rossouw was gleeful, and Steenkamp brimmed with sadistic joy. The guards had talked of these two being kicked out of their jobs at Pretoria's maximum security jail during the apartheid years. Given the cruel filth that worked there, speculation about what they'd done was rife. As none of us escaped whippings, and we had witnessed hangings and one beheading, it must have been unspeakable.

Steenkamp lit the cigar, puffing at it so the tip glowed red. Turning it around pensively heightened my tension and his enjoyment. Pride kept me from shaking and begging. But he knew the effect he was having. We all did.

Finally, judging I had reached screaming point, he tapped the ash off the end carefully. Another smirk and then he winked at me. Ready? He would burn me. Searing pain. On the shoulder, in the ribs, wherever the skin was soft.

He waited, torturing me. A long count of five stretched my fear; I had to lock my knees to prevent myself from falling to the ground and begging.

Come on already! Rossouw cried. Do it!

Laughing, Steenkamp leaned in, looking into my eyes. They were ice cold, as merciless as death. Now, he whispered.

The fire seared my gut while an iron hand on my neck kept me in place. I bit the cry that threatened to escape by biting my tongue. The acrid taste of blood mingled with the scent of burnt flesh. Rage and helplessness flamed, fuelling defiance. I didn't make a sound.

Steenkamp let go and stepped back, scowling with disappointment. Tough nut, huh?

Sucking in a shuddering breath prevented me from speaking and saved me from further trouble.

Steenkamp's eyes lit up as he spotted my water canteen. You won't need that. It went flying out too. "Vort! Get to work."

Hitting him would have led directly to my death. My gut roiled, and I had the sweats, but I hid my fear and stepped into the portal. The first twenty feet were wide and easy. Then the roof sloped down steeply, forcing me to my knees. Shackles clinking, I crawled, sucking in air as I left the light behind me. The shaft narrowed and dipped again. Now flat on my stomach, I moved along, every second leading me deeper into the earth.

The passage branched off at intervals, but my course was the one that went deepest. I had been down it a thousand times. I knew every twist and turn, every inch of rock. But without my lamp, the journey seemed endless. Worse, the sensation that the mountain resented my presence grew. In the unrelenting darkness, the hard stone became living rock, intent on crushing me.

Gasping for air, body slick with sweat, skin grazed by a continuous expanse of grit and pebbles, my horror rose. Finally, almost passing out, the passage narrowed and twisted, forcing me onto my back. For a moment, the walls pressed down on me. I was stuck.

Squeezed on all sides, I felt the weight of the mountain. I was deep down in its bowels, out of reach of air and sky, trapped in granite coils. I would never get out. I was buried alive.

I breathed through the panic and centred myself. Fear would kill me. I sought the rage that was seldom far away. My parents killed in front of me. Fury blazed, burning out hysteria. I would live and avenge them. Soon, I would kill them all.

Pushing with my heels got me moving into the curve and clinging to a small outcrop and pulling got the rest of me through. Weighed down by my shackles, I fell into the little cave. With space around me once more, I breathed again.

I'd made it. But in my heart, I knew I was running out of time. Even the lousy rations weren't slowing my growth. Another half inch and it was curtains.

Coop, Thando was waiting for me. The others went off already. What took you so long?

I wasn't admitting to that paralysing terror. I stopped for a nap.

Thando looked over his shoulder and murmured. Bongani is flaking out.

More trouble.

He was laughing just now and not in a good way, Thando whispered. And he was talking to his grandmother.

The woman had died in the slave raid that had taken Bongani months ago. Okay, we should watch our backs.

Because the last one who'd lost his reason from fear, hunger and overwork had taken his pick to Thando. It wasn't personal, but he'd almost brained him. Thankfully, I had wrestled him away before he'd done more than graze him.

Unfortunately, the boy had gone raving mad. When your life depends on others, you can't be soft. Working underground with constant tremors, rockfalls, cave-ins and poisonous gasses blowing up from fissures already made survival a challenge. Adding in a murderous lunatic could mean all our lives.

So, I put him down before he could do more damage. I didn't regret it. A quick snap of the neck and it was over. He didn't suffer; he probably didn't realise he was dying.

If it happens again, we fake a rockfall, Thando observed.

Yeah. We had left the body in the portal and pretended ignorance, but one of the new boys had spilled the truth, hoping to curry favour. Depriving Steenkamp and Rossouw of an execution had earned me twelve cuts of the whip. My back ached at the memory.

The rat had been beaten too, Rossouw couldn't resist, and then I'd given him a thorough thrashing. I didn't kill him because he was new, but it instilled the facts of life into him. The code is easy: you keep your business close and your mouth shut, no matter what. Talk, and you pay in blood.

Thando read me like a book. Sensing my anger and despair, he held out his hand, Look what I found.

One good nugget streaked with gold, and another with copper. A thousand years ago, the tectonic plates far below had shifted, piling up earth above. Further movements allowed lava to shoot through the molten rock, lacing Kikeenja with riches.

Thando pressed one into my hand. They'll not beat us tonight, he whispered.

That was typical of his generosity. I put it away in my sack. Thanks.

Hey, where's your headlamp? Thando asked. Oh, fuck. They took it?

Yeah. My canteen, too.

Thando leaned in, spotting the fresh burn. He didn't speak; there was nothing to say. He had his own souvenirs. Steenkamp worked his cigar on an almost daily basis. So Thando merely sighed. We share mine.

Thanks.

His teeth flashed in the ebony face. We're brothers, aren't we?

Damn straight we are.

We set the light on the ground, took out our picks and worked the rock. Beyond us, the other three worked their patch. In the strata above us, a dozen more laboured. The sound of their picks carried through the passages, creating a constant background clatter.

I worked efficiently, picking away stone to reveal the treasure hidden within. The lava had brought up copper, lead and most of all, gold. It's why we were here, trapped in hell, working till we dropped or grew too tall to navigate the passages.

The stone in front of me fell away, revealing a wide vein of dull silver. Tapping carefully, I pulled out a lump of metal as big as my fist. I spat on it and rubbed it with my thumbnail. It was too bright for silver. Inspecting it, I realised I was looking at platinum.

It was a sign. Thando, we leave today.

He stopped mid strike, his pick in the air. Y-you sure?

They knocked the ones who grew too much on the head and dumped them down a dead shaft. And I was an inch away from not making it. The plan will work. All we need is bleach and soap. We know where to get it.

Right, the laundry.

Steenkamp always picks one of us. You know how to make sure you get the job.

Theft meant a flogging. Thando shuddered. What if he catches me?

He won't.

Right.

To give him courage, I showed him my find. This is the lure. When they see this, their greed will drown out caution.

Okay. He closed his eyes, and I knew he was praying. May God bless us and grant us success.

My faith had always been shaky and my time in the mine had burned it out completely, but I didn't share. Like most of the boys, prayer was all Thando had left. There was no point in worrying him. God is most definitely rooting for us. But I couldn't help but add, He owes us.

Blasphemer! The flake came out of nowhere, face twisted with fury.

The raised pick missed my head by a fraction of an inch. My reaction was instinctive: one hand on his wrist and a fist in his gut. Working the mine for three years had turned my hands into hammers and I was more muscled than a wildebeest. He folded instantly.

Bongani! Oh no! Jeso and Mat crowded round, crying, Why did you kill him, Coop? We could have talked to him.

He's not dead. Part of me said to put him down, it was safest for all of us. But his buddies were in tears and if my plan succeeded, we would all be free. Look, will you be responsible for him?

Yes. They were already moving him. He'll be okay.

If he flakes again, he's gone. They had to know the stakes. No second chances.

Yes, Coop. Thanks, Coop.

The rest of the shift passed in a haze. As I worked on autopilot, I went over my plan. It was tricky, by no means foolproof, but it was the best I could do.

It had taken months to devise it because we were in a hopeless situation. Rossouw and Steenkamp were both seasoned prison guards, and they maintained a system that kept us under control.

There were thirty of us. I was the eldest at sixteen, with most aged ten or eleven. We were all shackled, even the youngest and smallest, and we were kept apart, three groups of ten working the rock, the processor and the garden that provided our food.

Rossouw, Steenkamp and their mates worked us till we dropped, with no rest or holiday. In addition, our shifts varied from day to day, so we never knew when we could eat or sleep. As we couldn't talk together as a group, general revolution was out. Also, the boys were too scared to fight. Rossouw and Steenkamp's regular floggings, whippings and punishments had taken the heart out of them.

It was up to me. My plan was simple: I would use greed to bait my trap, and I'd use the mine as my weapon. Crazy? Perhaps, but a gold mine is basically a processing plant where you shove rocks into vats of chemicals to extract the treasure. And when you have chemicals, you can build a bomb.

High above, a whistle blew, calling us back up. Thando shoved his haul into a bag. Coop, you sure about this?

I was packing too. Yes. The vats are filled with nitric acid that separate the copper from the gold. If we add bleach, we get chlorine gas.

Right.

While his father had been a chemist, the work had never interested Thando. But I had grown up in my dad's lab, watching him create safer ways to dispose of industrial waste and getting an excellent education in chemistry on the side.

I suppressed the pain that flooded in with the memory. He and mum were gone, killed by the Steel Jackals, a gang that rejoiced in slaughter and made extra cash by selling Thando and me to Steenkamp and Rossouw.

After today, I would hunt them down and kill them all. Trust me. You do your part. I'll do the rest.

Then I chipped two slivers off the platinum and secreted them in the bottom of my bag.

Climbing into the passage, the fear took hold again. It was always worse going up because the weight of the manacles plus the haul made movement slow. As for the twists and curves, an incorrectly balanced load could kill.

I died a thousand times, but eventually I was back in the portal, blinking in the light. They had worked us through the night. Outside, the sun was rising.

Don't just stand there! Steenkamp's cane hit me across the ribs. Get on with it, boy.

I walked to the vats and emptied my bag onto the sorter. Behind me, Thando moaned artistically, I'm so tired. I'm going straight to my bunk.

Steenkamp couldn't resist. No, you're not. You're on laundry detail.

Score.

Now it was my turn. I'm hungry.

The ice eyes gleamed. You're not going anywhere. Get your shift's haul processed.

It was working beautifully.

As Thando went off to the overseer's compound, and the rest went to eat under escort of two guards, I sorted the rocks as slowly as possible. Chipping off bits of stone and double-checking slivers in the light for gold and copper stretched out the job too.

When Steenkamp's gaze turned on me, suspicious at my sluggishness, I tipped petrol into the engine and started the crusher. As the first batch of pulverised mixture hit the vats, I was there, stirring the noxious liquid carefully.

Thando must've worked hell for leather because he was back at the cave entrance just as I readied to add the final batch of stone. Seeing his nod and the hands behind his back, I reached into my bag and quietly secreted the two small shards of platinum by chipmunking them.

Then I picked up the enormous piece of ore. Sir? My voice was muffled but okay. What about this?

Steenkamp's attention focussed instantly. Give me that!

We found small nuggets from time to time, so I knew they would set it aside. And as platinum is rare, more valuable than gold, they would want to know more.

Rossouw came racing over. Is that silver?

It's too heavy.

Christ, it's huge.

They stared at me. This came from shaft six?

I acted dumb. Kind of.

Steenkamp's cane whacked me over the back of the legs. What the fuck do you mean, kind of?

I picked it up after.

After? Rossouw snapped.

I stepped aside, pointing. There. Uhm, I had no light, I'm not sure, but I was crawling out, I think. It fell off the roof and so I just picked it up.

Jesus, there's a vein just inside? Rossouw was already on his way to see.

Here, take a torch. Steenkamp was right behind him.

Intent on their search, they missed Thando running in, dumping the bleach and soap by the vat and darting off again.

I don't see anything!

Me neither!

They emerged, red-faced and furious. "Jij was uit jou ma se gat gebore. Another whack of the cane. There's nothing there!"

I ducked into the shaft, went deep and crawled a few feet in. Spitting out the platinum slivers, I threw one ahead of me and brought the other back, pleading, See, sir? This is from the roof. But inside.

Greed set aside all caution. Kicking me out of the way, they shed their jackets and went in.

I see a glimmer!

Where?

It was time. I kicked the prop beam, bringing down the loose rock on top.

What the fuck?

That little shit!

They weren't worried because they would burst through the miniature rockfall in minutes. Except I only needed seconds. Grabbing the soap and petrol, I poured it over the rocks. Digging in Steenkamp's jacket provided the lighter.

Jesus Christ!

The petrol burned, and the soap ensured it clung. The heat drove the men back into the shaft. As I poured in more through the cracks, swearing turned to screams.

I'm on fire! Help! Fuck!

The guards from the third shift came running. Too shocked to even point their weapons, they ran full tilt into my soapy Molotov mixture. Proximity to the flame turned them into human torches instantly.

Run! I screamed at the boys behind them. Get out, now!

It was mayhem, the guards rolling on the cave floor and the two trapped overseers fighting their way out from the blocked shaft.

Jesus! Help me!

Panic and pain motivated them. The rocks were already tumbling away. The fire was burning out, but it was game over. I opened up the bleach, tossed it into the vat, and ran for my life.

As I exited, a cloud of yellow-green gas expanded, driving out the air. I stood outside, watching from a safe distance as the two guards screamed. One tried to beat out the flames in his hair while the other wailed in terror as his skin came off in chunks. When the gas hit them, they threw up as well.

Help! Rossouw staggered out from the rockfall, clawing at his neck. Aargh. The rest was an agonised rasp.

That's chlorine gas for you. It burns your skin, and when it hits your lungs, it turns to acid.

Steenkamp appeared behind him, collapsing instantly. His body convulsed, the white shirt and blond hair blackened by flame. I was glad to see he was beyond words. As he wailed, the fire consumed him.

Standing in the sunlight, breathing in the hot clean air, I watched the men who had enslaved and tormented us die. They went in terror and in agonising pain. It only took a few minutes, but it was a lifetime to them. The righteousness lightened my heart.

Behind me, the boys surrounded the last two guards. One fired a shot, but it was hopeless; hate drove out humanity, and revenge had its hour. They tore them to shreds.

When it was over, Thando looked at me. What now?

The gas will clear soon. We'll finish processing the haul.

And then?

I examined the blue sky and the veld stretching into the distance. We had no clue where we were or what direction the nearest town was. It didn't matter. We were free.

Chapter One: Coop

Iknew something was wrong as soon as I hit the dirt road. I pulled up, wondering what set off my inner alarm. A second look brought the observation from my subconscious forward: it had rained the night before and I'd left tire tracks in the fresh mud when I'd left that morning. Now there was an extra set leading in and out. That meant visitors, and that meant trouble.

I cut the engine, checked my knife, picked up my gun and considered. The driver had taken off, but there was no knowing if his pals were lying in wait. The marks indicated an off-road vehicle, a Land Rover perhaps. I might have to deal with six or more hostiles.

Slipping an extra couple of clips in my pockets, I exited the SUV. The sun was setting, flooding the fields with warm pink and orange light. Our place lay two miles down the track. With the fields planted with sunflowers, it was easy to duck and run. A hundred yards from the house, the crops thinned. I dropped to the ground and took stock. No movement. Then my breath stilled: the front door was ajar.

Moreau should have been on guard duty, sweeping the horizon for trouble. But it's boring to sit for hour after hour gazing out at sunflowers. He must have snuck off, the fucking idiot. I hoped I'd get to give him a punishment beating for disobeying orders. But the silence suggested it was too late.

I fought the impulse to rush in. The gaping door might be a lure, with a gun behind it. Leopard crawling through the field reduced my visibility but also my response time. On reaching the yard, heart thudding and adrenaline flowing, I waited.

Stilling and listening for movement reassured me. I could sense no threat. The birdsong, frogs croaking in the river beyond, and natural sounds of the countryside suggested I was alone. It didn't mean it was safe as hunters are adept at ensuring the prey feels confident, but there were no more precautions to take.

Showtime. I counted five and was on my feet and moving swiftly. Standing by the entrance, there wasn't a peep from inside. I pulled out the inch square of mirror I always carry in my back pocket. Angling it up, I periscoped into the hall.

Blood. Buckets of it. Everywhere. My guts settled, but I wasn't happy. I told myself there might be a survivor, but I feared it was hopeless. Still, I owed it to my team to discover the truth - and to avenge them. So I went in.

Boucher lay in the centre of the lab, surrounding by shattered glass. They had shot him in the back. From the gun still tucked into his holster, he'd not heard them coming.

I found Pelletier behind the packing table. His broken fingers and battered knuckles told me he'd put up a fight. It hadn't helped him. They'd beaten him down and cut his throat. It was his blood spread all over.

Moreau lay next to him, sprawled face down. I thought he was gone until I saw he was still bleeding. I rolled him over gently, Who did this? He'd been gut shot.

He opened his eyes, whispering, They said I was holding out.

Disappointed, were they? I examined the wound. By the nice red blood, it had missed his liver. He'd live. There's an excellent hospital fifteen miles away. I'll get the SUV.

I thought they were friends, Moreau mumbled.

He did not notice my sharply indrawn breath. What?

Looking up, I spotted a tag on the wall. Liberté, the calling card of the Sons of Chaos. It was outlined in blood. Pelletier's probably. Fucking Moreau. You told the Sons about the farm?

Yes, he groaned.

The stupid fuck had gone against my orders, against the code, and blabbed about our business. Rage surged. This loose-lipped moron killed my team and my operation. You talked. My fists clenched with temper. I warned you.

Yeah. I'll know next time. He still didn't understand. God, it hurts. I need to see a doctor.

You should have kept your mouth shut.

The knowledge dawned in his eyes. Wait! No!

I picked up the hatchet. One scream, one slice, and it was done. I looked down at his body. He'd brought this on himself. The fucking idiot.

I stared at the tag, considering what I was up against. The Sons of Chaos were a pop-up gang that specialised in small robberies. Vicious and well-armed, they attacked mini-markets, petrol stations and homeowners in nearby Marseilles.

They were too low-rent to qualify as my customers, but I'd come across them from time to time. Moreau had run with them for a while, but he'd bottled out when they'd begun slaughtering their victims besides robbing them.

Why he'd shot off his mouth, telling his old pals of his exciting new enterprise, was beyond me. The first rule of business is to shut the fuck up, everyone knows that. Informers and moronic blabbermouths can expect only one fate: death.

I looked at the body, thinking he'd gotten off easy. Boasting had cost him his life, the lives of his two friends, and robbed me of half a million quid in supplies and product. It pissed me off, it really did.

Recruiting reliable staff was increasingly too much of a nightmare. Vowing to work alone from now on, even if it meant pulling two-day stints, I took a last look around. Then I took Boucher and Pelletier outside, laying them out at the edge of the sunflower field.

Shrouding the bodies with bedsheets from the farm, I gave them a heads-up. Give me a few hours and I'll send their souls to hell. The promise made me feel better. Then I remembered Moreau had a sister. There was no point in hurting her, so I dragged him out and shrouded him too.

As the sun dipped under the horizon, I worked on my revenge. The Sons claimed to lead the anarchist revolution, but they were just a nasty bunch of scum with a penchant for violence. They were small and unaffiliated. Taking them out would have no consequences. Not that it would have stopped me, but it was good to know I could wreak my vengeance without looking over my shoulder afterwards.

A thorough check of the farm revealed they'd taken the Laughing Unicorn, my bespoke MDMA. They'd smashed the equipment and trashed the container of methylamine, but they'd not thought to take the acetone and other household chemicals.

Typical. The gang lived for destruction but were way too lazy to educate themselves about basic chemistry. That was helpful - for me. I had all I needed to send my message.

I got the Land Rover, collected my kit, loaded the supplies and set the farm alight. It was a shame to destroy the place, but the Police Nationale are efficient. They might figure out I'd been there, but there was no point in handing them fingerprints and DNA evidence. Also, it would draw attention. Pelletier and Boucher had no family, but they deserved a decent burial. And Moreau had a sister.

By the time I reached the city, it was coming up to midnight. The gang's headquarters lay on the outskirts of Marseilles, in one of the grubbier districts. There were no lights to be seen in the row of derelict warehouses, but they had tagged their door. When I walked up past piles of rubbish, I could hear the faint beat of trash punk. A dropped pink tablet on the ground, stamped with my brand, a laughing unicorn, confirmed I was in the right place.

I went around the back, climbing up the emergency stairs and ending up at the fire exit. It was trashed, hanging lopsided on hinges thick with rust. Someone had secured it further by nailing a plank across it, but there was a six-inch gap at the bottom.

My mirror helped me take stock covertly, but I might as well have brought a marching band: the gang were dancing, high as kites on my Laughing Unicorn. They jumped about, crashing into each other, howling like hyenas. I counted eight of them.

As they were too far gone to think of security, I set up in peace. The little frying pan, a cheapie from IKEA, fitted neatly on the small camper's stove. Stirring rat poison into window cleaner took a second, pouring in the bleach and a shake of a specialist floor polish, a second more. I pushed the entire thing through the gap, ensured it was warming nicely, and went back to the front.

There was lots of rubbish on the stairs, and it made an impressive pile against their door. I doused it with acetone and tossed in a match. It roared briefly, blue flame spreading quickly over the paper and then the greasy cardboard. Soaking the walls got the peeling paint going. Kicking more refuse from the street into the stairwell ensured there was plenty of kindling.

Within seconds, thick smoke filled the air. Within minutes, the heat soared. Thanks to my chemical starter, the fire was taking hold of the structure. Time to back off and enjoy the revenge.

The first scream ripped right through the music and the crackle of flame. I observed the windows, seeing the shadows flicker back and forth.

"Fait chier!"

Pierre! Pierre!

Another shriek.

"Au feu!"

By now, my campfire supper would be filling the place with chlorine gas. As I waited, my mind went back to Kikeenja. Fifteen years before, I had rejoiced in my revenge. This too was necessary. They had invited death by killing my people, but I took no joy in it. Actually, I felt nothing.

"Putain de merde!"

The screams and roars increased as panic set in. No doubt the loud music and highs were adding to the confusion. By now, they'd be looking for a quick exit. A crash and tinkle of broken glass drew my eye to a side window. One man was about to jump. From his hesitation, he thought he'd not survive.

"Au secours!"

The shout was echoed by a ball of flame that blasted out the remaining windows. As I'd hoped, the idiots had opened their front door, inviting the fire inside. It flashed through the entire storey, lighting up the chlorine gas - and everything else in its path, including hair, clothes, skin and flesh.

"Putain!"

A burning figure appeared at the window, screaming briefly before collapsing. Inside, the wails were dying down. But a squeal of agony signalled one had been lucky. It was the would-be jumper.

When I went up to check, the smell of barbecue was overwhelming. From the burns, the blast had propelled him out. His eyebrows had vanished, his face was blistered and the top of his tee had melted into his skin. One of his ankles had ballooned; all those delicate bones were shattered.

He lay at my feet, muttering, "Au secours!"

Too late. I hunkered down at his side, ready to send him on his way. Payback's a bitch.

Coop?

I recognised the face under the crispy exterior. Marc Duval. I'd done business with him the year before. I'd thought about hiring him for Moreau's job, but Duval was too fond of his psychedelics. As labs are dangerous enough without hallucinations, I'd decided against it. Duval, you fuck. You killed my people and ripped me off.

Oh, shit.

Despite the injuries, he knew what he was in for. I'm an independent operator, but the gangs don't interfere with me because of my rule: fuck with me, and you're dead. It's short, sweet, and I am very serious about enforcement.

I didn't know! Duval gasped. Jesus, Coop. We're friends!

He could have robbed the farmhouse and left my people unharmed. A flash of that bloody tag fuelled my rage. Screw you. You'll go screaming.

Wait! he was desperate. I can help you.

I had a little acetone left. A sprinkling on his clothes would end him. I don't need your help.

I know who murdered Thando.

A shaft of ice pierced my gut, and all the air punched out of my lungs. Even after three months, the horror torched me afresh.

As I forced back the pain, Duval was moaning. Christ in heaven, he mumbled. What did you do, Coop? I'm on fire.

Ironic really, because that's what killed Thando. He died doing what he loved: racing his Aston Martin. He was addicted to speed, and he lived for competition. But at the London Raceway, he spun out of control and crashed. It was the start of the race, and the car was loaded with fuel. The Aston Martin went up like a bomb. Thando died instantly.

I'm burning up, Duval whined.

Serves you fucking well right.

Look, I have what you want, Duval gasped. Let's deal.

When I first heard the news, I couldn't believe it. The Aston Martin was brand new, straight out of the factory, and Thando had been blessed with excellent reflexes.

I'd been halfway round the world, in Japan, checking out new products, but I'd taken the first flight to England. By the time I'd arrived, they had completed the autopsy. Heart failure, they said. A simple accident. It was pure rotten luck that he'd been behind the wheel.

Duval coughed and arched. He was choking on his own vomit. I rolled him over and slapped him on the back. He threw up and drew a ragged breath, moaning, Oh God, oh God, oh God.

My aim had been to make the Sons suffer. An eye for an eye, as the old book said. But now I knew I might have to trade to get a lead on Thando's death.

When I hit London, I hadn't accepted the autopsy report. I'm a suspicious bastard and with Thando being tipped to win, I wondered if someone had gotten at him.

Racing attracts big bets and even bigger egos. There were a dozen rival drivers and even more gamblers who profited from Thando's being out of the race. I hired two PIs and told them to give me the works.

Three weeks and hundreds of hours of investigation later, they had come up empty. Putting my suspicions down as a consequence of my lifestyle, I had accepted the report, flown Thando's body back to Eswatini, and buried him.

Now I realised my instinct had been right, I burned to know. Tell me, I growled at Duval.

It was a gambling deal, he huffed. He was at the track because he had a bet on.

Who?

Duval gasped. I'm burning.

That would be the chlorine. I retrieved a bottle of Evian from the SUV. Holding it where he could see it, Who?

Help me, Coop!

Who?

A Zeta, he gasped.

Jesus, Mexico's biggest baddest cartel. It wasn't good news, but as he'd delivered, I poured half a bottle over him. He steamed a little, and he moaned a lot, but the water was taking the edge off the chemical burn.

I watched him, thinking it over. The Zetas had set up shop in London just two years before, but they were expanding steadily, first establishing a foothold and then engaging and destroying a local gang. It gave them a small but lucrative territory, or plaza as they called it.

They might have controlled London, fuck it, England, because the Zetas were hell on wheels, infamous for their aggression, but they confined their operation to just part of the city. Rumour had it lack of manpower hampered them.

Neither of the two PIs had mentioned their involvement with the London Raceway, but with the Zetas, that didn't surprise me.

On their home turf, the cartel removed opposition with crucifixion, beheadings and mass slaughter. Nobody could withstand the Zetas. Even the combined efforts of the Mexican military with the US authorities spanning the ATF, DEA, and FBI hadn't made a dent.

In London, with just a toehold, they were just as deadly but inconspicuous. The cartel were ace at covering their tracks, but they'd made a mistake. They shouldn't have killed Thando.

I would find the fucker and I would destroy him. Which Zeta?

More moaning. I need an ambulance.

Which Zeta? I repeated.

A touch was enough. I dunno his name!

I reached for the acetone. Bye, Duval.

Wait-wait-wait! Fear fuelled him nicely.

Talk.

Coop, Duval begged. We have a deal, right?

I got back on track. If I could put my hands on Thando's killer, I'd take him apart, Zeta or not. There were thousands of them in the Americas, but if there weren't many of them in London, a visual ID might be enough. What's he look like?

It was on the Dark Web.

Jesus. A rumour on a chat board. Okay, in the part of cyberspace devoted to criminal enterprise, but still gossip. What a waste of frigging time. Duval, you prick, it was some wannabe leading you on.

No, he gasped. He was mouthing off. He didn't know I know you. Or that you were here.

That was probably true. When you're in my business, you stay covert. I managed it by maintaining a small but loyal client base in southern Europe and moving often. It's no fun to travel all the time, but when you're in place for just weeks, the authorities can't keep up. It's a pain in the arse, but better than being busted.

I can give you his handle, Duval gasped.

It wasn't much, but I had no other leads.

Do we have a deal? Duval whined. Christ, my ankle's fucked and I can't move my legs.

He didn't deserve to live. Perhaps if he'd robbed me, I might, very maybe, have let it go. I didn't give a fuck about Moreau, but Pelletier had been a friend and I had liked Boucher.

It wasn't personal, Duval whined again. We were drunk. We got carried away.

I wanted to kill him. But I wanted the information more. I'll forgive you for robbing me.

Thank God. Duval's face twisted with relief.

That's another thing about me. I keep my word, always. Talk, Duvel. And make it quick. Because I had to leave before any cops got wind of my project. To encourage him, I poured the rest of the water over him.

Duval gasped and gave me the goods. He goes by Dark Lord.

Christ, it sounded more and more like a wannabe acting big. And?

He likes porn, the dark stuff.

What does that mean?

Torture and snuff.

A sick fuck. How do you know he's a Zeta?

He boasted about the Texas victory. Said he was on the winning team.

The Zetas had fought a brief but bloody battle there recently. I wasn't persuaded. There had been bombings that had made the regular press. Dark Lord might have just heard about it. Still, What convinced you he's a Zeta?

"He said Nuevo Laredo was boring. And that he was going clubbing with the patrón, the London boss, in Bubbles."

And that was it. I asked more questions, but Duval was all tapped out. Also, the shock was wearing off. He was gasping as shivers of pain racked him. From the way he moaned, he'd damaged his back in the fall as well. Good, he deserved it.

I sat back on my heels and considered. The information was highly dubious, but I knew I was committed.

An ambulance. Duval patted his pocket for his phone, wincing as his burnt fingers ached. Help me.

He had deep scratches in his neck and cheek, visible even under the blistered skin. Pelletier was a friend.

Duval's eyes widened. We've got a deal.

The warehouse was burning merrily. In the distance, sirens wailed. Time to go. I took the acetone out of my pocket. I forgive you for robbing me. Now, let's talk about Pelletier and Bouchet.

Wait-wait-wait!

I sprinkled him lightly. Payback's a bitch.

"Oh God, no! For Christ's sake,