Violent Tranquility

Prologue

Reynosa, Tamaulipas, Mexico

US/Mexico Border

Paramilitary Headquarters of El Escuadron Negro

Mira Cabron, what I want you to do is to go back to that piece of shit Governor and teach him a very valuable lesson. The problem with these fucking public officials is that they don't understand our sincerity. Kill his son; maybe he'll understand then, but if he doesn't—then the people of Reynosa will find a replacement for him when they find his beheaded body burning in the street!

Sure thing, Boss! Hernan Contreras said with an ostentatious military salute, turning to leave the room.

What do you think? Santiago Echeverria asked his advisor.

Roman Romero looked at the man he called a friend and answered, Chago, if you allow a low-life Governor to disrespect you by ignoring your orders you will soon have every lowlife drug dealer in the city ignoring your orders and rules. By killing his son you are sending a message—but I'm afraid it's not a strong enough message. You know that this is a border town and American influence here is strong. You should just be done with that asshole once and for all. Quick and effective violence in the face of adversity; that's the message you want to send. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who challenges us with be dealt with immediately and with extreme prejudice!

Echeverria nodded. You're right, as always, but I have already given an order and it will be followed. If he doesn't come around—well, then I will personally go and kill him, he said.

No. You will not expose yourself in that manner. We're not in Honduras anymore. We must do things differently here. Remember that the Americanos have no problem crossing the border and kidnapping people like us to convict us in their courts as terrorists. We have over five thousand men at our disposal, all Special Forces trained and we're recruiting and training more as we speak. We're stronger than the Mexican military and have the best weapons money can buy. Nobody in this country can touch us. But if you start to personally expose yourself—then you'll become a target for the Americans, and that—you do not want, Romero warned.

Echeverria poured them another glass of Tres Generaciones tequila and handed one to Romero, raising his up in a toast. To power, and bringing these miserable people to their knees, he toasted, gulping down his tequila.

Romero drank down his slowly wondering how long it would be before he was comfortable enough financially to get out of Mexico and allow Santiago to make his own decisions. He knew that Santiago was a good leader, but behind every good leader there was always a great strategist. Romero knew that it was his strategic advice that had made El Escuadron Negro the powerhouse it had become.

El Escuadron Negro were the official enforcers of the Mexican Drug cartel, but that was about to change. They had amassed enough manpower to overtake the Cartel and challenge the Mexican military too. Soon, very soon, they were going to have it all. And then he would get out, right before the weight of the world fell on their shoulders. Just like he knew it inevitably would. The difference between a good leader and a good strategist was that a good leader dies on the battlefield while a good strategist gets out in the nick of time and lives to tell about it. To power! he toasted.

Chapter 1

South Texas

Rio Grande Valley

Franco, why are you so insistent in knowing? Martina asked.

I just am; what's wrong with making small talk? he asked.

Martina wondered where his questioning was headed. Look, whatever happened between Milo and I is our business. I don't see how that should even be a topic of conversation. And to be honest—if it wasn't for Milo, we wouldn't be having this discussion in the first place. I would definitely not be roaming around the Rio Grande Valley, at 110 degrees with 100 percent humidity, with a man that's supposed to be dead--

Whoa! We have to draw the line somewhere, Marti. You want to talk about people who are supposed to be dead like we're something beneath you. What about Milo? Isn't he supposed to be dead? Don’t push my face in the dirt because I'm a ghost, Franco said, feigning hurt feelings.

Will you stop it with Milo! If you only knew how important our relationship is you wouldn't--

That's what I'm trying to find out, Franco said, smiling.

Arrrghhhh, you're intolerable! she screamed, grabbing at her golden hair.

I may be falling for you and you wouldn't even know it, Franco continued.

You're just horny and think you can talk your way into my pants. You'll be okay once we're in Mexico and you can buy yourself the services of a sporting lady and a bottle of Mescal to keep you warm, she mocked.

Warm? Warm? That’s the last thing I need right now! I think this damn heat has me googley eyed over you because of your ice-queen status. You’d probably cool me down enough to survive through the night.

Martina regarded him with curiosity. Franco DeLorenti was a ghost, or rather, a person who had to relinquish his prior identity due to very serious threats to his existence by the government he once worked for.

The US Government has proven more efficient in terminating their own agents than they have in terminating terrorists. Of course, all they have to do is call their agents in for a meeting and dispose of them...discretely. It’s not as if they can just call Al Qaeda leaders into a conference and send them to oblivion.

Franco was given the heads-up by a friend of his in his Agency that he was ordered for elimination and for the sake of preservation he took the appropriate measures to become what the Agency wanted him to be...dead. A feat not easily accomplished considering his employers, but not an impossible task either. Lucky for him he actually pulled it off.

Franco was a handsome, quite charming man, but unfortunately for him, he wasn’t Martina's type. Consequently, his constant inquiries about her relationship with Milo Class stacked the deck against him even more so.

Milo was a Houston entrepreneur and ex-major cocaine re-distributor whom she had met when she was a DEA Agent on assignment in South Texas. At the time, Milo was just a twenty two year old pup and she, a twenty nine year old divorcee with a broken heart and major trust issues with men in general. Milo had befriended her and their relationship had blossomed.

When she met him Martina hadn't known that Milo was a major drug dealer or any kind of drug dealer for that matter. She had been trained to identify specific characteristics in drug traffickers, but Milo had eluded the modus operandi...or maybe her subconscious mind made her turn a blind eye to what should’ve been obvious.

For a while she despised him for what she considered a violation of her trust. She even went as far as to question her ability to remain in the field of law enforcement, but eventually she came to understand that Milo never took advantage of her position, and all in all, she had a pretty impressive track record with her agency. She definitely had a knack for nabbing crooks, so why quit?

She figured her knack for nabbing bad guys is what attracted her to bad guys in her personal life. With Milo she couldn’t complain; she enjoyed spending time with him and found his undivided attention both appealing and addictive.

In all due honesty, she had to admit that Milo held a special allure that captivated her. On the issue of intimacy; he was just the perfect gentleman with a flair for conversation. Milo made it easy for her to seduce him. Or maybe, just maybe, he had seduced her by making it easy for her to seduce him…sort of like a reverse seduction. Nonetheless, she liked to think it was her choice to seduce him and went about doing it by inviting him to spend some time with her on a farm in Kentucky—where she had her way with the young Milo Class.

She kept Milo on that farm, albeit not against his will, for an entire month making love until their hearts were content and afterwards…remaining loyal friends. She and Milo never made love again after their Kentucky tryst, which made her wonder if that was the secret to an everlasting relationship. Make love to a man for an entire month and then never sleep with him again. Was that the secret to success in a relationship? And then every September when Milo took her to Brazil for her birthday she reminisced on their month of passion but never allowed herself to cross that line again.

Milo was in love with his then-girlfriend, Ms. Rosie Gallo, now wife, Mrs. Rosie Class. He and Rosie had recently extended their family and were the proud parents of a beautiful baby girl...Amanda Lee Class.

Her career also blossomed after their Kentucky rendezvous. Martina left the DEA and joined the CIA where she quickly climbed the ranks. After making a run for the director position and losing to a man, she was granted the position of Director in a newly created agency called SIN, short for Selective Intelligence Network.

The Selective Intelligence Network dealt with intelligence obtained from the millions of Government informants that had infested the Federal and State systems. The information that worldwide law enforcement agencies were receiving was so immense that a special intelligence agency had to be created. SIN was borne to maintain records and verify the overwhelming amounts of information that was harvested during the debriefings of millions of informants that co-operated with the different jurisdictional authorities in an attempt at receiving a lesser sentence.

Milo had become a ghost when the drug cartels he brokered for had erroneously and maliciously ordered his contract terminated—permanently. He spent a month in a coma after sustaining life threatening injuries, but survived.

With the help of his brother, Vito Classio (an Interpol agent) and Milo's longtime friend, Senator Ochoa, it became possible to place Milo Class in the highest ranks of the undead. Of course, Martina played a big role in having any and all information existing in Intelligence Data Banks changed or altered, making the relinquishment of his prior identity a success.

Emilio Classio was his new legal name and in short, Milo Class lived on. He currently called Verona, Italy home and was the main reason why she was cruising along Highway 83 in the Lower Rio Grande Valley with Mr. Franco DeLorenti en route to Mexico.

Her mission was to effectively infiltrate, sabotage, and dismantle the organization that had betrayed Milo and almost killed him. She was to deliver the main leaders of the Cartel to Milo in Cuba. It had become a personal vendetta for Martina and Vito Classio to see this through.

To aid her in the covert operation she had been given unlimited funding, compliments of Milo's unlimited and generous wealth, and three deadly, US Special Forces trained killers to command. Milo called them Martina's Ghost Squad, because they didn't exist in any police or intelligence data bank. Franco DeLorenti was one of her ghosts.

I think I should just call Milo and you can ask him whatever you want to know-- she was saying.

There you go again. Why do you want to bother Milo with something like this? I'm just making small talk. Is there anything wrong with that? he asked.

She smiled to herself knowing that every time she suggested calling Milo...Franco fell back into formation, like he had just done. Men, they were so predictable. Well, some men were predictable—with the rare exception of Milo Class—and Jack South, another one of her ghosts.

Let's stop off and eat something in McAllen. Probably be the last safe meal we'll get to eat. Surely, the last glass of drinkable water we'll have for a while, she said.

Which reminds me, we need to pick up some Pepto-Bismol—you know, just in case, Franco said.

That's extremely sexy of you, Franco—you definitely know your way into a woman's heart, she said, laughing under her breath causing him to turn three shades of red.

You'll appreciate me when you get salmonella poisoning from their food and water, he said, embarrassed.

And I thought you were Special Forces. What ever happened to eating bugs and drinking swamp water to survive? she said smugly.

This isn’t the 80’s, there’s stuff in the water now that never existed back then…not even in the rivers of Vietnam, he answered in defense.

All I can hope for is that you’re still as tough as you were back then. Are you up for this, Franco? she asked, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes.

Are you shitting me? Franco declared.

Martina smiled at him and said, Let’s go get that pepto you were talking about. And she laughed aloud as he steamed in his seat.

Chapter 2

Matamorros, Tamaulipas, Mexico

US/Mexico Border

Hotel San Marcos

The flickering of the candles was the only illumination to evidence the Mephistophelean scene of room 66. Marc, as he called himself, would have liked to have rented room 666 but the hotels in Mexico had proved to be small affairs, one floor—maybe two—making his preference for gaining complete access to the number of the beast virtually impossible. Mark had to be satisfied with room 66. At least it consisted of sixes. He had disassembled the bed and leaned it against the wall to allow him enough room for his own adaptation of The Black Mass.

The hotel room was equipped with heavy canvas style curtains that kept the sunlight and infernal heat out. The six-hundred-sixty-six candles were carefully aligned over the native sulfur pentagram that he had carefully created and centered in the area of the room. And now he sat naked in the middle of his brimstone pentacle with the flickering of the candles hauntingly illuminating the blood that covered his body nefariously, her blood.

He had sacrificed the woman to his demons, or rather; they had sacrificed her as an offering to the Prince of Darkness. They were his mediators until he earned his way into the circle. The dismemberment was part of the ritual, as was the consumption of her human heart.

The sanguineous body parts were strategically placed in their corresponding places in the pentagram to make his offering true. He chanted in a language he did not understand but allowed the spirits to take over his body as they had done when they had used him as a vessel to sacrifice the prostitute…whose body now surrounded him. He was at the center of her soul and his offering would bring him closer to acceptance into the circle.

Marc knew that he was risking getting caught by sticking around too long in Matamorros. He had already sacrificed fifteen women in the small Mexican town and knew the media was in a frenzy.

The ritual had always taken place in hotels which were named after saints. That was just a wild coincidence—almost every Mexican hotel was named after one Saint or another. The Saint Killer, that's what they called him...sort of like an oxymoron, placing prostitutes in the same category as Saints had to be some sort of a sin. Not very ingenious, the Mexican media folk—simplicity for the masses was his guess.

It was time to move on. He leaned down to kiss the woman's severed head on the forehead as he had done over a hundred times to different prostitutes he had sacrificed. He would leave the evidence of his ritual for the authorities to find. After all, he was untouchable with the demons on his side.

May your soul burn in hell, he said to the head.

A sudden knock on the door startled him. Señor, checkout time is in two hours, the heavily accented Latin voice informed him.

Marc wondered what the hell was wrong with the hotel service in Mexico. Why would they send someone to disturb their guests two hours prior to checkout time? Okay, thank you! he said, loud enough to get rid of the intrusive messenger.

Standing up slowly and walking to the tiny bathroom, he flicked on the light as he walked in. The person standing in the mirror looked vaguely familiar. He always felt like someone else after the ritual and had trouble grasping reality. His blonde hair was a dark crimson color and his white skin had an unearthly brownish-red tone to it. His face, which had felt slippery and soft with the warm blood, now felt sticky and tight. He had eaten the woman's heart leaving him strangely satisfied. In his condition he could go for days before he would eat anything again making his body thin but carved out of pure sinewy muscle.

Marc reminisced on the wonderful bout of sex he had been having with the prostitute when the demons took over. He could remember every second of what had transpired, but he couldn't stop it from happening, he couldn't stop the demons from killing her. Not that he had felt the urge to stop them anyways.

Scalding water on his body is what he desperately needed but the water at his hotel was lukewarm at best. He watched the streaking brown water swirl down the dark abyss of the drain, the soap burning his eyes.

Staring at the drain had become the norm since he had been stung by a scorpion in Durango in a shower not too different from the one he stood in now. The damn thing had crawled out of the drain and stung him on his big toe before he could react. He had just stood there frozen as it happened and watched the damn thing make its escape back down the drain. Of course, those tiny little white scorpions are of no real danger to a full sized human. His tongue had gone a little numb for a few hours and that was that, but the sting burned like hell for a good thirty minutes.

He knew it was time to move on...the demons were calling to him again.

Chapter 3

Where's the fire? asked the man in military fatigues.

Cornelio Fosa didn't know how to react. He had been driving down La Rivereña farm road in his blue Nissan Pathfinder when the limited traffic came to a stop. Several black Hummers formed a sort of makeshift inspection checkpoint on the side of the road and his truck was the last in line. He juggled the idea of turning back but decided against it, besides; turning back would make him look guilty of something. His wife and two daughters accompanied him which quickly turned into a cause for alarm when he noticed the commanding officer looking at them lasciviously.

His wife was a very beautiful thirty five year old woman, dressed in a short summer dress. His daughters, age fifteen and sixteen, were trending in very short miniskirts and tight mini-sweaters.

I don't understand, he answered, confused.

Pull over to the side of the road over there, the man in fatigues said, pointing at an area under a large tree away from the road.

Jefe, I've got fifty dollars here in my pocket that you can have if you just let us be on our way, he said, thinking fast.

The man in fatigues looked at him with steel eyes. I said—park your truck under that tree! he yelled.

Damn! Cornelio knew he had screwed up. Yes, sir, he answered and drove his truck to the semi-secluded spot under the big mesquite tree. He watched as the rude man stomped his way towards his truck with four men by his side.

Step out of the vehicle, he said.

Cornelio opened his door and pled, Please, I don't want any trouble.

The man in fatigues grabbed him from the hair and pulled him out of the truck; pulling his face close enough to his that Cornelio could smell what he ate for breakfast. He looked dead into his eyes and said, It's a little late for not wanting trouble.

His wife and daughters stepped out of the truck and pleaded with the man. Please, señor. Please don't hurt him, they said.

The man looked at the girls and asked, What are you willing to offer for his safe release?

Cornelio just about went crazy at the man’s insinuation and started to struggle. Pinche puto! he got to say when he was punched in the stomach and was sent down to his knees gasping for air.

Noooo! Don't hurt him! screamed the girls.

The man in the fatigues kicked Cornelio several times making him convulse on the ground. Then he turned and grabbed the sixteen year old girl from her hair.

I think I'll have some fun with you first. Do you have a boyfriend yet? I hope you don't because I want to be your first, he said, kissing her full on the lips, reaching down to tear her skirt off, leaving her exposed in lacy pink panties. Pulling the front of her panties down to take a peek, he said, Oh, yes, I definitely want to be your very first boyfriend. He slipped his hand deep into her panties and probed her virgin sex with his rough fingers, bringing a cheer from the rest of his men.

That's all yours Filemon, show her how it's done! one encouraged.

Filemon’s men slapped his wife and younger daughter around as the animal took the sixteen year old to one of the black Hummers. Cornelio could see his daughter struggle as the bastard tore her panties off and pulled his pants down around his knees. The animal raped her on the seat of the Hummer with the door wide open while the other men brutalized his wife and other daughter.

A man walked towards him, raising dust with his military boots as he did, and swung a hard kick at his face. Darkness is what followed.

Cornelio woke to find his wife and daughters lying naked on the ground next to him. They had been raped and beaten. It was unearthly quiet, not even a cricket chirped in the stillness. The Hummers and his truck were gone along with the animals that had done this to his family. His wife stirred from her unconscious state as the girls just laid there...the only sign of life were their bellies moving up and down with every breath. The bites and bruises all over their bodies made him choke up and he began to cry.

Chapter 4

Fatima, it’s a pleasure to see you again, Milo said, pecking her on the cheek.

Baby Milo, how you have grown, she responded, looking him over like a piece of meat she wanted to eat. She liked what she saw and wanted him to know it.

Sit down, let's have a drink, he said, interrupting the crackle of electricity she felt between her legs.

Fatima was Milo's third cousin and ten years his senior, yet the age difference wasn't noticeable because she had been graced with Sicilian blood and her beautiful features accentuated the passionate woman she had become. The lustrous cascade of liquid black hair shrouded her perfectly beautiful face giving her an erotic semblance.

The voluptuous body she proudly flaunted before Milo was the product of a lot of discipline and sacrifice…well, whatever she hadn’t attained through hard work and strict dieting, she had worked hard to pay for. Cosmetic surgery was not an inexpensive luxury in Italy.

She wore a taupe colored skirt and blouse ensemble by Dolce & Gabbana with white stockings and a garter belt from Victoria's Secrets. She knew she looked hot and wanted Milo to acknowledge that fact.

What can I fix you? Milo asked, walking behind his full bar.

A Glenlivet on the rocks will do, she said, noticing Milo's surprise. She hadn't seen Milo since he was a little boy and had been surprised to find that he had grown into a sexy man. She was reintroduced to him almost a year ago at his wedding. Of course, the only aspect she didn't like was the fact that he was marrying a beautiful American girl. It was not her intention to break up his marriage; she just wanted a taste...a good long taste of Milo Classio in her bed.

In life, she'd become accustomed to getting what she wanted and right then and there she wanted him. Allowing Fatima a golden opportunity to seduce him, his wife was on the left wing of the villa tending to their daughter.

Really; that's a strong drink for a lady, Milo said.

I've got strong tastes, she said licking her lips. And I'm not always a lady, she informed, looking him over slowly.

What can I do for you? he asked, sitting next to her on the chaise longue, handing her the Glenlivet.

She put her hand on his thigh and answered, Why do you think I'm here for anything other than a social visit to a friend I haven't seen since he was a little boy? A fine friend who is far from being a little boy anymore. She rubbed his thigh and was surprised when Milo put his hand over hers and pulled it gently off his leg.

Fatima, be cool. This is my home and my wife is tending to our baby--

Would you like to meet me somewhere else perhaps---so you can be more comfortable? she asked quickly, hoping he would agree. She couldn't wait to have him naked in a bed, any bed.

He laughed and said, Ah, my dearest cousin, if only you weren't my cousin and I wasn’t happily married--

Don't call me cousin! We're too far related for such formality, she complained, allowing her skirt to ride high on her thighs exposing the fact that she wore no panties.

She knew Milo could see her nakedness and maybe even the diamond stud embedded on the piercing that graced her nether regions. Piercing of the clitoris had become a fashion in Italy too, and quite pleasurable for her.

Okay, so—this is just a social visit?

What else would it be? she asked, leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips, taking the opportunity to squeeze his member through his trousers. She liked what she found.

Milo gently pulled back, cutting her kiss short and removed her hand from his privates. Be cool. Like I said, this is my home and I'm married--

Don't you like me? she interrupted, pouting her beautiful