Powder Trade (Black Magic Outlaw Book 4)

  POWDER TRADE

  by Domino Finn

  Copyright © 2016 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

  Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

  First Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.

  Cover Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

  DominoFinn.com

  Chapter 1

  The man with the 9mm Uzi waved at me.

  "Hey, you're Chucho, right?"

  I nodded even though I wasn't. Chucho was dead.

  He shook my hand and said, "I'm Manolo. I don't think we've worked together yet. They say you're solid."

  I nodded again and hooked my thumb around the strap of my Uzi. We both had them. On the outside, we were nearly identical. Honduran mercenaries in Miami. Shady illegals working security for a Caribbean drug cartel. Not a bad gig for a homicidal psychopath.

  But that was Chucho, and I wasn't him.

  My real name's Cisco Suarez, and Manolo wouldn't believe it for a second, but I know magic. I'm an animist, a tapper of spirits, and right now I wore a straw mask. It's an intricate spell that involves, well, a straw mask, as well as other tokens of spellcraft. A beeswax candle, a little smoke and shadow, and boom: I had taken on Chucho's appearance. The real mercenary was facedown in a pool of blood in a cheap motel room.

  I hadn't wanted to kill him, but he drew a gun. Wasn't that always the way? But I'd managed to interrogate him first, pick up his mannerisms, and confirm the final details of the drug deal. So here I was, an interchangeable mercenary in a nondescript parking structure before dawn. With Manolo.

  "I'll clear the ground," he said. "You take the top two floors."

  "Already did," I told him. "There's less activity here than in a nuclear disaster zone."

  Manolo looked impressed. "An early starter. Good deal." He took a casual glance around but otherwise trusted my word.

  There was no reason not to. The parking garage was an old building behind a floundering strip mall in Hialeah. The day hadn't started yet and, even when it did, the open parking outside would be the first to get used. The location had been well picked by the cartel. Little road traffic. Not a camera or attendant in sight. Before the sun rose and the shops opened, this place was a barren wasteland.

  The predawn hour was important to me as well. Or rather, the darkness was. Exposed to sunlight, my straw mask would disintegrate in a wisp of smoke. Bye-bye disguise.

  "Okay, here we go," said Manolo after a phone call and two smokes.

  A black Econoline van approached the garage. I'd caught the same sight a month before when I learned of this drop: two men, Honduran as well, and a metric shit-ton of powder in the back. The driver swiped a keycard to raise the gate. Manolo and I stepped up to the van and peeked in the windows.

  "Hola muchacho," said the passenger, bumping fists with Manolo through the open window. The driver looked me over with annoyance. Maybe Chucho had slept with his girlfriend or something. I just nodded and he drove past with a frown. Drug dealer drama.

  Manolo and I wordlessly followed on foot. Like I said, I'd seen this go down before. From a distance and unable to act. This time I was prepared, which is why this was going to be the easiest robbery ever. All I had to do was complete the sale, ditch my buddies, and drive off in a van full of cash. Another contribution to the Cisco Suarez fund, and another damaging setback to my new arch-nemesis, Connor Hatch: primal being and the scariest drug kingpin since Pablo Escobar.

  I probably shouldn't underplay the primal being part. Connor's a jinn, sometimes known as a genie. He's a higher being of fire and air, from a world above ours. He's also the guy who single-handedly ruined my life and made me the off-the-grid outlaw I am today.

  There are no take-backsies from that. He and I are dead set against each other now. Only with him in hiding and near invulnerable to my spellcraft, I had to settle for hitting his business interests instead. Months of small-time strikes and heists had to be putting a dent in his wallet, and it was only a matter of time before I forced Connor to show his face again.

  As far as plans went, it wasn't subtle. That's what I liked about it. But I was getting ahead of myself. Step One was the easiest robbery ever.

  An errant honk spun me and Manolo on our heels. His hands grabbed Uzi just as fast as mine. Idling at the curb across the street was a sleek blue Cadillac. The tinted front window slid down and a hunched figure nodded us over. From my angle, I couldn't see more than that he was white.

  I frowned. Not just because Manolo did too. Something was off about this. These weren't our buyers, and they weren't supposed to be here.

  "Fucking Nikolai," spat Manolo.

  "You know this asshole?"

  He nodded. "Russian mobster wannabe. The boss brought him on to help with our security problem."

  Security problem. That would be a big fat euphemism for Cisco Suarez. I guess months of small-time strikes and heists taught Connor a thing or two.

  My cohort stormed toward the car. I trailed at a distance, stopping at the threshold of the garage and leaning on a pillar. I wanted to get a closer look at Nikolai but needed to make sure he didn't get the same at me. Disguises like mine aren't foolproof, depending on who's doing the looking.

  Manolo traded sharp words with the driver, but he didn't antagonize him. Pissed but respectful. After further words were exchanged, the back doors opened and a couple of rowdy-looking fellows stepped out, all broad shoulders and straight foreheads. The bulges in their jackets hinted at serious firepower.

  Just what I needed.

  Manolo spit on the street in one final show of protest before hiking his shoulders and heading back. The two Russians followed. The Cadillac sped off.

  "It's out of our hands," whined Manolo, leaning on a nearby wall and crossing his arms. "We still run support but they take the lead. Boss's orders."

  I glared at the approaching men, but their natural scowls put anything I could muster to shame. The first brushed me with his shoulder and pushed me to the side, his cruise ship to my jet ski. The second stared hard as I tightened my fist. I let them pass without incident.

  After all, I was running support. Boss's orders.

  Chapter 2

  I didn't like this.

  Extra muscle specifically hired to sniff me out? Not a promising start to the easiest robbery ever. The good news was the two Russian goons appeared to be all mass. Sharp eyes and quick fingers, perhaps, but no signs of magical know-how. An odd choice against me, but I couldn't underestimate them.

  The two men traded whispers in a private powwow. Then one headed to the stairwell.

  "Hey," called Manolo. "We already secured the building."

  He disappeared up the steps without acknowledging the statement. The other treated us to a sneer and some choice words. He spoke in his native language, but his meaning was all too clear.

  "Come on, puto," replied Manolo. "Inglés!"

  I didn't point out the irony of Manolo's request for English. Whether the Russian understood it or not, he clearly didn't appreciate the tone. He spread his shoulders and let his jacket fall open, revealing the Kalashnikov underneath. Fucking assault rifles.

  "Hey," I barked, stepping between the converging men (and raising Chucho's profile higher than I liked). "We're all professionals. No need for static here."

  The Russian stared at me before speaking in a chipped voice that sounded like gravel. "No problem if behave."

  I rolled my inner eyes. Way to reinforce a stereotype, buddy. But he seemed cooperative in an overbearing sort of way.


  "Watch who you tell to behave," snapped Manolo.

  The Russian flashed open his jacket again.

  "Let's cut the shit," I said. "We don't like working with you and you don't like working with us, but the boss is shelling out money for us both. This is a simple transaction. Let's just do this and go on our way."

  His scowl lessened. I'm a charmer.

  "What's your name anyway?" I chanced.

  More of a glower now. "You call me Veselovsky."

  More inward eye rolling. "Chucho and Manolo. Now we know each other. We good?"

  He shrugged. "We good if you listen. You two, Chucky and Mango, stay on perimeter. We have the van."

  He turned away and headed for the parked van at the opposite wall.

  Manolo hissed. "Whatever you say, pop star."

  I gave him the side eye.

  He looked at me defensively. "Are you serious? Chucky and Mango? Besides," he said, switching to Spanish, "it's the name of the strip club they work at. Pop Stars."

  For some reason the first image that came to my head was Veselovsky spinning upside down on a pole. But I knew what Manolo meant. "How connected are they?"

  My friend snorted. "They might be the mob, but they're small-timers. Nikolai owns a restaurant and a nudie bar and now wants a piece of the cocaine business. Don't know why the boss is dealing with them."

  I considered Veselovsky as he bullied the Honduran driver of the van. Even back in my youth, the Russians moving into Miami was a thing. They're not huge, but they're vicious, hardened criminals looking for opportunities after the collapse of the Soviet Union. New York was their first stop, but cities like LA and Miami are fertile ground too. If Connor was working with them, they probably weren't as small-time as Manolo thought.

  I clenched my jaw. Two wrinkles in my day so far and it wasn't even 5 a.m.

  "Trust me, bro," said Manolo, "they're small fish. They just have something the boss wants. Why else do you think he's on his way stateside?"

  Everything stopped. "Wait, Connor's coming to Miami?"

  Manolo looked at me like I was an idiot. We weren't supposed to use names. It was "the boss" this and "the boss" that. But he forgave the slip in favor of unloading a juicy rumor.

  Even though we were twenty yards from the rest of the crew, he spoke low and in Spanish to keep the conversation private. "The boss doesn't trust our expertise. Doesn't even want me to work the meet tonight. He's buying new boats, something to beat the radar, and he doesn't want us anywhere near it."

  Tonight. "Asshole," I commiserated. "Like we ever let him down."

  "I know, right? Like we're stupid. Between you and me, I'll tell you what's going down."

  I raised my eyebrows. "You know?"

  He nodded, but before he could say anything, the second Russian emerged from the stairwell and rejoined his companion. They seemed pleased that the garage was, in fact, empty. I took offense at that. I mean, I wasn't really a drug dealing mercenary, but I took pride in my work.

  I turned back to Manolo. "Well?"

  He leaned in conspiratorially. "I bet he's buying into casino boats."

  "Like a cruise ship?"

  "Nah, too big. The go-fast boats to Bimini. Gamble a little on the boat, gamble a little in the Bahamas, and back to Miami in time for dinner. The Russians run a couple of those outfits. It would be good cover. They bribe the Coast Guard already."

  "They can hide illegal, shady activity with a perfectly legal, shady enterprise." I was impressed. "You know where this is going down?"

  "I don't know nothing," he said. "And neither do you. Come on. It's almost time."

  Manolo hiked across the lane of the garage, a couple cement pillars down, taking a better flanking position. As perimeter guards, our job was mostly keeping an eye on everything outside the perimeter. Our van was parked against a wall and had four guns protecting it, so we were the early warning system and first line of defense.

  It would've been optimal for me to move further away in the opposite direction from Manolo, but I wasn't really guarding the perimeter. My interest was purely in the van. The drugs, I didn't care about. Connor would lose them to the street. The cash payment was my target. Connor would lose that, too.

  But I now wondered if this robbery even mattered. Money was nice, but the real prize was Connor himself. My strategy was much more complicated than paper and powder.

  Jinns are powerful creatures, but they can't directly harm humans they don't enter a deal with. That means, head to head, he was powerless against me. (Ignoring, for a moment, his private army of mercenaries.) But Connor is a being of the Aether, made of fire and air, able to vanish at will. That meant there wasn't a whole lot I could do to him either. I couldn't hurt him directly, but I sure as hell could screw up his plans.

  And that's what this robbery was about. But a secretive meeting that his usual mercenaries weren't informed of? Those plans sounded much grander, and much more vulnerable to someone with a grudge.

  Someone like me.

  I had to make that meeting tonight. Some way, somehow.

  I considered ditching the Chucho act for a second, but a maroon El Camino with chrome wheels turned down the block. A sharp whistle from my lips alerted the rest of my crew. I rested my hand on my Uzi and resigned myself to seeing this through.

  They call this the Magic City. Miami is a city of vice—built on sex, drugs, and crime. I was about to shoot for two out of three.

  Chapter 3

  The El Camino buzzed into the garage and pulled ahead. I crossed in front of the car and checked the window. A driver and a passenger, both fairly young, and a grizzled fellow in the back. He was portly and balding and could've been someone's grandfather. I could tell he was a strict son of a bitch just by his face.

  Columbians. It showed just how much power Connor had assumed that the Columbians were buying from him.

  This was the usual help. At least, these were the same characters I'd seen a month before. Unlike the Russians, no surprises here. So far, so good. I stepped aside and waved them on. As they passed, I caught a glimpse of the metal briefcase handcuffed to the old man's wrist.

  I followed behind the car. The Columbians slowed when they noticed the extra muscle leaning on the van. The two young guys exchanged a nervous look. I didn't blame them. I didn't like the Russians either.

  They parked a couple spaces away from the van. The two vehicles were opposites. The Honduran mercenaries went for unobtrusive black. An old handyman's truck. The maroon El Camino was shiny and blinged up, attracting attention just by existing. The passenger hopped out.

  "What the fuck is this?" he asked, talking to our driver but keeping his eyes on the Russians.

  Our two guys exited the van, eager to get this over with. The driver shrugged. "Extra security. Don't worry about it."

  I stopped twenty feet from the vehicles as they emptied. The old man with the briefcase drew the expected attention. This was no ordinary briefcase. It wasn't skinny and meant to hold paper folders. It was more like a reinforced box, and from the way the man leaned, it had weight. He stood in the vacant parking space between vehicles and a crowd gathered around. Even Manolo inched forward. All eyes were on the briefcase except for those of the Columbian driver. He leaned on his door with his back to the show and lit a cigarette. One of our guys went for the back doors of the van.

  "Wait," called Veselovsky, holding his AK at his side. He had good trigger discipline with his finger, which meant he'd done this once or twice. He motioned toward the briefcase. "I want to see money."

  Their passenger shook his shotgun back and forth nervously, looking each of us over. He was itching to get out of here already. The old man waved him off and set his briefcase atop the trunk of the Camino. Veselovsky and our driver followed, and Manolo inched forward even more. He was practically part of the group now, leaving me the sole eye on the perimeter. A quick glance to the road showed we were clear, so why the hell was the driver of the El Camino eye-fucking me?


  No way my disguise was failing.

  The metal briefcase clicked open. The men leaned forward. I shifted to the right and saw it. Cold, hard cash. It looked good. Brand new stacks of hundreds. A quick calculation put the double-wide box at two million. You could practically see the tension evaporate. Just to be sure, Veselovsky checked a stack of bills and returned it, satisfied. The old man closed the case and smiled.

  "You have key?" asked Veselovsky.

  "Of course," answered gramps in a decidedly ungrampslike voice. He turned to his man with the shotgun. "Check the van."

  The kid nodded and went around back. Our guy opened the door for him. He unzipped a black duffel bag and gave the contents a sideways glance. "Is this the right order, Papa?" he asked in Spanish.

  "What the fuck you talking about?" asked our guy.

  The old Columbian sighed and stepped around Veselovsky to check the van. I wanted to get closer but the Camino driver was still on an island, smoking away from everybody else. He couldn't be left unsupervised.

  "There's nothing wrong with the cargo," assured the Honduran at the van.

  The Russians watched intently, grips tightening on their rifles. "Problem?" asked Veselovsky. So much for everybody relaxing.

  "What are you, stupid?" snapped the old man. "This is what we always get." He rapped the kid on the back of the head and a few of the guys chuckled. The man zipped the bag closed and dropped it in the kid's hands.

  If it was the usual order, each bag carried fifty kilos of coke. That was more than a hundred pounds.

  The kid hugged the oblong bag and waddled away, letting his shotgun slacken in his hand. The old man pulled his key chain and popped his automatic trunk a hair. "Load up." The bag carrier moved to the El Camino. The old man looked around for the other Columbian. "Where is that lazy puto? Help me out, will you?" He handed another duffel bag to our guy instead.