Joshua Graham - Terminus

“The Hernandez branch needs further evaluation before I turn it over to anybody.”

“I promise, Lito, you put me in charge of that branch, I will take the best care of Maria.” He smiled. “If not, I can’t guarantee your precious little sister will remain innocent about her—”

“Alfonso, I warn you—”

“I can’t guarantee her safety, either. Her neck is so soft, so fragile…”

Was this hijo de puta actually trying to use Maria’s life to blackmail him? Alfonso was indeed dangerous. With all the weapons and assassins available to him, he could have her murdered and disposed of without anyone knowing about it, without lifting a finger.

He wanted to kill Alfonso right then, right there, but Lito had learned not to show his hand too soon.

“I see.” He kept his expression neutral. “Perhaps we can come to an understanding.”

“Just give me a chance, Lito, eh? I promise to take good care of the Hernandez branch and Maria.” Which probably meant he’d treat her just a little better than the dozens of girls he perpetually abused both sexually and emotionally. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you down.”

Lito was silent for a minute. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, now that you put it that way…”

A triumphant smile lit Alfonso’s beaten face.

“Yes?”

“Give me a minute to consider your…proposal.”

The sun painted the sky amber as it sank over the horizon at Imperial Beach. Between the Venetian blinds, slats of dying light cut through the dust of the dimming office. The only sounds were the ticking of an antique grandfather clock and Maria’s soft weeping outside—so naive, so foolish. That was why Lito had to protect her.

This was not the life Mama had envisioned for any of them, especially baby Maria. But it was Papi, the infamous Victor Guzman—by whose side Mama stood until her own untimely death—who had brought this upon the Guzman family. Lito could still hear his raspy dying voice: No use crying over fate. Blessed or cursed, you accept the hand you are dealt, and you fight!

Then came the memories of all the good times he and Alfonso had shared since childhood, Lito only twelve and Alfonso seventeen when they first met. But thanks to his size and ferocity Alfonso had already been in security training, part of the family for all intents and purposes.

A twinge in Lito’s chest clipped his reverie short. He patted his old bodyguard’s face gently and smiled.

“Thank you for all your service to our family, Alfonso.”

“Wait! Where are you going? WAIT!”

He walked to the door, opened it, and with a nod to his lieutenants, shut it behind him.

“Lito, no!”

Out in the hallway, he heard Alfonso’s panicked cries. Maria pulled free from Eduardo and ran over with tears streaming down her cheeks. “ Ay dios mio !”

Before she could say another word, two loud pops exploded behind the door.

Twice, Maria flinched.

Twice, she gasped.

“Maria.” He kissed the top of her head—a sweet jasmine fragrance rose from her hair. “One day, you will understand,” he said gently. “You may even forgive me.”

THE JOURNEY ACROSS THE PACIFIC was worse than he had imagined. He’d agreed to this job thinking, what was the big deal? Air or sea, cargo is cargo, right? But now, after four weeks of mid-ocean ship transfers in the middle of the night, dodging international patrols, Yuri Kosolupov had to face the irony that he might die from sea sickness.

Hanging his head over the gunwale to heave what little of his lunch he had kept down, Yuri comforted himself with the thought of his wages for this “simple” operation—20 million euros for gathering up components from various locations (an abandoned warehouse in Volhynia, Ukraine, the back alley of an electronics component factory in Pyongyang) and transporting the entire package to the States via the Mexican Border. Five million of it was already in his account in Zurich as a retainer, the rest to be paid upon delivery.

And now, after all the trains, the armada of ships he and his precious cargo had transferred from countless times, he felt like he was going to die on this miserable fishing boat off the coast of Ensenada.

The sky turned a shade of green that probably matched his complexion. As a dark veil obscured the sun, the air turned frigid with threatening winds that agitated the waves.

Just what I need now.

“Hey, Yuri!” Tom Jonas, the boat’s captain, came over and slapped him on the back. “Feeding the fish again?”

Yuri wiped his mouth.

The ship started to pitch, and his stomach clenched again. A distant howling announced the impending storm.

“How much longer?” Yuri asked.

“You’re going to want to get below decks, unless you fancy getting soaked.”

“Just get us to dry land, all right?”

“I’ll do that.” Jonas shook his head. “Just don’t blame me if you go overboard in this storm. You fall in, I’m not coming after you. Not with that storm coming.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re a hoot, Koso…Kuso. Whatever.”

“Yuri.”

“Like I said, whatever.” Jonas was a man who spent more time with dead fish than people. And dead fish didn’t complain, nor did they vomit all over his deck. They only bled.

Soon after Jonas left, the sea began tossing the boat.

Yuri chose the path of prudence and went below decks to stay with the package while Jonas battled the storm. One benefit of impending doom was that it distracted him from the waves of nausea that rose and fell with the ocean’s. He wrapped his arms around the splintery crate that held the package and cursed the wind, the boat, her captain, and the buckets of dead fish who were his only company in this dark hour.

I didn’t come this far to die like one of these stinking fish !

Above the cargo hold, he heard Jonas preparing for the onslaught, swearing and laughing maniacally.

“Here it comes!” The idiot knew nothing of the concept of healthy fear. Or perhaps he dealt with it by mocking it, even as he went down with his ship.

Heavy blows rocked the boat—heavier, he’d be willing to bet, than if some great leviathan had attacked. Then came the pitching, the falling, the leaping of the vessel. The single light bulb dangling from the ceiling fizzled out.

Yuri cursed the darkness.

Not until the frigid water seeped through his pants and engulfed his hands did he realize the truth: he was going to drown.

Why had he agreed to this? Shouldn’t it have bothered him that thousands would die? No, he was just a courier, what his client did with the package was not his responsibility. But what use would all that money do him and Irina now? She would probably wait a month, maybe two, but even if his body weren’t eaten by sharks or returned to Kiev, she’d move on to the next man who made the same grandiose promises he had. She was stunningly beautiful but shallow as they come. And that had been fine with Yuri because like most young guys, he only thought with his loins.

Until death comes looking for you.

Up above, the water smashing down onto the deck sounded thunderous. Here below in the gloom, the water around Yuri rose. If the boat took on any more, the package might begin to float. Hard to maneuver in water—his head could get crushed between the crate and the hull.

“I’m not ready to go,” he muttered as tears began to sting his eyes. He thought of Mommochka , who had always believed in him, sacrificed so he would become a “concert violinist like Oistrakh.” How disappointed she would be to see him in the hereafter, having lived the life he’d chosen instead. Not that he’d see her, where he was going. She would be in heaven, not him.