Behind the Mask (Undercover Associates Book 4) by Carolyn Crane Page B
Authors: Carolyn Crane
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against a direct shot to the face, but it could deflect some of the cheap shot out there and had. Wearing an unreinforced mask from a vendedor de mercado would be suicide. “Say more,” Hugo demanded.
“ Imagen y substancia ,” the boy said.
“ Inglés ,” Hugo said.
“The thin mask, it is all image and no substance. Kabakas is a great warrior of both image and substance.”
“Not great. Kabakas is nothing special. He practices hard, so that he is a little better than everybody else, and he doesn’t let emotion into his mind.”
The boy said nothing. He wanted Kabakas to be something more than a cold-blooded killer. They all had.
Hugo said, “It is the belief that bullets can’t hurt him that has his opponents shooting wildly. It’s the terror. Kabakas doesn’t vanquish his opponents. Kabakas’s opponents vanquish themselves.”
Undaunted, the boy picked up the Uzi and checked it over with quick, efficient motions. His heart would be thundering. Something you never wanted in the killing business.
“Kabakas is no different from a successful farmer or businessman,” Hugo said. “It’s about projecting yourself as somebody to respect, to do serious business with. Do you understand?”
The boy frowned. He didn’t give a fuck about his flower business now that the Kabakas stuff was out.
The battles Hugo fought were won in the first moment, not the last. He won the moment an enemy understood what he was; the kill was just the outcome. Things worked the same way with women. It was not the last moment, the fucking, that made a woman his. It was in the first moment that a woman fell.
Defiantly, the boy fingered the bandolier. God, he was practically feral. Hugo had really fucked up with him. He could put back entire battalions, but he couldn’t get this small boy to behave. He had picked up an old math textbook and he’d been trying to teach him from it, but the boy refused to do the lessons by the book. Hugo himself barely understood it. The boy was growing up as an animal. He needed schooling. The boy liked reading, but nothing else interested him.
Except, of course, Kabakas.
They packed up the things they’d need, and the boy made them a simple meal of beans, rice, and plantains. The beans were undercooked; the rice and plantains burnt. Café Moderno usually packed them off with meals to heat. No more of that, now.
He really should’ve killed El Gorrion when he’d had the chance. It had just served no practical purpose at the time, and Hugo was a practical man.
Even now he didn’t need to kill El Gorrion; he just needed his men to stay off the mountain. It was El Gorrion’s men that Hugo needed to terrorize.
Hugo’s contact had provided him an acceptable target: a plane expected at dawn in a jungle airfield near the Papas Sud River. He would take out men, money, and a plane in one painful swipe. He’d put the fear in them so deep that they wouldn’t even look at the mountain again.
After that, he and the boy would eat in Bumcara.
They headed out five hours early, leaving time for washed-out roads. They stopped at a mercadillo and Hugo ran his finger along the thick, leaf-shaped blade of one of the barong swords on display. He could sharpen it. Make it work. He hefted one. It felt heavy and good in his hand—too good. He’d sworn off this, and he didn’t want it to feel good. He tried to feel bad about what he was going to do, but he felt only anger. Saw only the old man, dead on the ground. He tightened his hand around the grip.
Espadas de Kabakas , the vendor said approvingly.
Not quite. The blades were much too long. Did people think they were that long? The real ones had been created to his specifications by a famous blacksmith in Mindanao. Unfortunately, those swords were at the bottom of the Azolla River where he’d thrown them soon after the fire.
He tightened his hand around the curved-bone hilt; he’d wrap cord around the grip for better handling. “I’ll take all
“ Imagen y substancia ,” the boy said.
“ Inglés ,” Hugo said.
“The thin mask, it is all image and no substance. Kabakas is a great warrior of both image and substance.”
“Not great. Kabakas is nothing special. He practices hard, so that he is a little better than everybody else, and he doesn’t let emotion into his mind.”
The boy said nothing. He wanted Kabakas to be something more than a cold-blooded killer. They all had.
Hugo said, “It is the belief that bullets can’t hurt him that has his opponents shooting wildly. It’s the terror. Kabakas doesn’t vanquish his opponents. Kabakas’s opponents vanquish themselves.”
Undaunted, the boy picked up the Uzi and checked it over with quick, efficient motions. His heart would be thundering. Something you never wanted in the killing business.
“Kabakas is no different from a successful farmer or businessman,” Hugo said. “It’s about projecting yourself as somebody to respect, to do serious business with. Do you understand?”
The boy frowned. He didn’t give a fuck about his flower business now that the Kabakas stuff was out.
The battles Hugo fought were won in the first moment, not the last. He won the moment an enemy understood what he was; the kill was just the outcome. Things worked the same way with women. It was not the last moment, the fucking, that made a woman his. It was in the first moment that a woman fell.
Defiantly, the boy fingered the bandolier. God, he was practically feral. Hugo had really fucked up with him. He could put back entire battalions, but he couldn’t get this small boy to behave. He had picked up an old math textbook and he’d been trying to teach him from it, but the boy refused to do the lessons by the book. Hugo himself barely understood it. The boy was growing up as an animal. He needed schooling. The boy liked reading, but nothing else interested him.
Except, of course, Kabakas.
They packed up the things they’d need, and the boy made them a simple meal of beans, rice, and plantains. The beans were undercooked; the rice and plantains burnt. Café Moderno usually packed them off with meals to heat. No more of that, now.
He really should’ve killed El Gorrion when he’d had the chance. It had just served no practical purpose at the time, and Hugo was a practical man.
Even now he didn’t need to kill El Gorrion; he just needed his men to stay off the mountain. It was El Gorrion’s men that Hugo needed to terrorize.
Hugo’s contact had provided him an acceptable target: a plane expected at dawn in a jungle airfield near the Papas Sud River. He would take out men, money, and a plane in one painful swipe. He’d put the fear in them so deep that they wouldn’t even look at the mountain again.
After that, he and the boy would eat in Bumcara.
They headed out five hours early, leaving time for washed-out roads. They stopped at a mercadillo and Hugo ran his finger along the thick, leaf-shaped blade of one of the barong swords on display. He could sharpen it. Make it work. He hefted one. It felt heavy and good in his hand—too good. He’d sworn off this, and he didn’t want it to feel good. He tried to feel bad about what he was going to do, but he felt only anger. Saw only the old man, dead on the ground. He tightened his hand around the grip.
Espadas de Kabakas , the vendor said approvingly.
Not quite. The blades were much too long. Did people think they were that long? The real ones had been created to his specifications by a famous blacksmith in Mindanao. Unfortunately, those swords were at the bottom of the Azolla River where he’d thrown them soon after the fire.
He tightened his hand around the curved-bone hilt; he’d wrap cord around the grip for better handling. “I’ll take all
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