“We're all dangerous,” Hollis argues, but the man has no idea.
I sigh in irritation, the sound getting lost on the ocean breeze.
“I only met him once,” I remind them.
Nash scoffs. “We all know how much you can tell about a person by just meeting them once.”
I look over at the two of them, wondering why I even showed up in the first place today.
“He’s deadly.” My eyes dart back and forth between the two of them so they know how serious I am. I’d never tell them how I know he’s deadly, but since Angel and I have had similar experiences, I know he has to be. You don’t survive what we did and walk away unchanged. “Not to be fucked with. Not to be researched. Not to be tracked. Just get your jobs, get them done, get paid, and leave it alone.”
I can tell by the look on both their faces that this isn't something they're going to give up on easily, and that makes them stupid and deserving of whatever they may get as a result.
But why should I care if they want to track Angel Guerra? If they want to end up dead on the side of the road, then who am I to stop that from happening?
“He met with you,” Hollis says, the sound of his voice like nails on the chalkboard, like a stubborn child who just won't take no for an answer. I have no doubt that Hollis is an only child, that he’s been given just about everything he’s ever wanted. I wouldn’t be surprised to discover the man only works for the thrills the job provides, for that adrenaline rush when you’re staring down the possibility of death, and how it makes you feel when you survive.
“You met him so you know more about him than we do,” Hollis continues.
“He's my boss just like he's your boss,” I tell him. “I haven't gone out of my way to find out information about him.”
That's the truth. I'm not gonna hunt Angel Guerra down. I'm not going to try to find out more about his life.
Not because I care, despite our shared history, but because I don't give a shit about Angel Guerra. So long as I keep getting those jobs in my email, I'm happy.
I don't want to be his friend.
I don't wonder what the man does at night.
I don't even care about the jobs that he takes that could get him killed. I only care about how it affects me.
I just want to get paid, stash my money away for when I feel like not doing this anymore, and move on.
“You honestly think that he would hurt us if we found out more about him?” Nash asks.
It's my turn to laugh.
“I'm pretty sure that Angel could’ve killed me sitting right here on this beach several months ago and no one would have noticed. He's that dangerous. He's that deadly. I like life too much to chance crossing the man.”
“We deal with deadly shit on a daily basis,” Hollis says.
He's right. We do the jobs that lead us to the darkest, dangerous, most sinister places in South America.
What he's not saying is that each and every one of those trips could find us dead, and I don't think that Angel would blink an eye if it happened. Hell, the impression that I get from Angel is that he doesn't even care if we work for him or not. He doesn't care if we die.
We're not in any form a liability nor an asset to him. He's making fifty percent off our backs, but if we don’t take the jobs, the man is more than capable of doing them himself.
It doesn't bother me though. He finds the job. He pays for the expenses.
I get paid, he gets paid, and I don't have to waste my time trying to find the next job to do. There’s always work. There’s always someone willing to pay an insane amount of money to get their loved one back.
“I think you're lying,” Nash says.
I turned my eyes from the waves to glare at him. “I'm not fucking lying, man.”
“You don't seem like the type of person who's going to work for someone that they don't know, at least on some level.”
My smile is slow.