Tropical Ties, Lethal Lies by Aaron Michael Ricossa

Author:Aaron Michael Ricossa [Aaron Michael Ricossa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aaron Ricossa
Published: 2024-07-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 37

The music, though exceptional, sounds like nothing more than the muffled roar of a nearby freeway. It passes over Banks’s head with no recognition or appreciation. He can’t hear it. He can’t feel it. He can only stare at his hand. His empty hand, left barren by the woman he loves. Missing her already sounds ridiculous. Loving her at all, seems like an irrational impossibility. How he got to this place, this feeling, this emptiness inside, doesn’t make sense. How in only two weeks, in such a short time, could this woman come into his life, make him fall in love with her, and then desert him.

His hand is so empty, so alone, and yet…her seat isn’t.

“Hurts doesn’t it?”

A man sits beside him now, filling the seat Amber left behind only moments ago. He speaks, but Banks doesn’t care. He can’t care. That part of him was shattered. He swung for the fences, cared too much, and struck out.

“Being left that is.” The man continues to speak, though facing forward as if he’s actually watching the show in front of him. “My wife left me seven years ago. Still hurts.”

Banks doesn’t reply, doesn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.

“Still love her though. That never goes away. My one solace is knowing that she’s safe. Living a life without me, is what makes her safe.”

Banks’s hand slowly closes to a fist, and he stands to leave.

“Do you think Amber will be safe?”

The man’s voice, though nothing more than a mumble in the background of Banks’s consciousness, snaps him to attention. His head turns just as the song ends and everyone stands and claps. The man does the same. Their eyes lock on each other as one man claps and the other burns from within. There’s something about his face, something about his smug smile, something that feels familiar, that feels sinister. As the cheers die down and the crowd begins to sit, they don’t move.

“How do you know that name?”

“Take a seat,” Vargas says, sitting himself. “We have much to discuss.”

Banks sits, his eyes never moving from the man’s. The music begins to play again. A slow song, the beat soft…for now.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Banks responds.

Both men now stare forward. Their gaze watching the brass, the strings, the drums, but their concentration, their awareness is on each other.

“That’s interesting because I know who you are, and I know what you’ve done. You’ve killed eight of our men…so far. A handful of them were key players, and yet we have no idea why you’re targeting us. So I think before anything else, we need to get that settled. First, I work for—”

“El Bandido, I know,” Banks interrupts, not sure why people always feel the need to announce the obvious.

“Good, then you know I’m serious.”

The two sit silently for a moment, Vargas in no rush for his answers.

“So, Banks,” he says the name mockingly. “Is that a first or last name?”

“Bit of both, I guess.”

“So more of a nickname.”

“I suppose.”

“No matter.

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