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Javier Peña was not having a good day.
He slept like shit. His coffee tasted like shit. He’d run out of his favorite cigarettes. Some idiot bureaucrat broke his coffee mug in the office. And worst of all, it was like he and Steve had hit a wall in their chase.
Every lead they went out into the field following turned out to be nothing but bullshit, and if they actually managed to get good intel, they showed up to nothing—one of Escobar’s thousand informants always tipped him off one way or another.
Noonan was on their ass about their methods, and Carillo’s methods were giving Murphy morally cold feet, and Murphy’s wife wouldn’t stop pestering Javier about making sure he kept his partner alive.
Javier wasn’t heartless, and he wasn’t a fucking idiot. Steve might’ve annoyed him, but they were partners. He wasn’t going to leave him out in the dirt, no matter how much he might’ve wanted to.
But it had been a very long, very disastrous thirteen hour work day, and all Javier wanted to do was sit down, tend to his budding alcoholism, and smoke a few cigs. But of course, in all the chaos of the day, he’d forgotten that he was out, so he had to stand up, put the glass down, and go to the corner store. At least it was a Friday night—he could always sweet talk the cashier that worked Friday nights into giving him a discount.
He ended up getting more than a discount—she gave him three packs for the price of one, and all it took was a smile and some compliments. At least some parts of the world still worked in his favor.
Javier was in a better mood on his way back. It wasn’t much considering how shit his day had been, but he tried to ignore it as he opened his new pack. He took out a cigarette and tucked the rest into his pocket. He was about to light it when a voice spoke up from behind him.
“Are you Javier Peña?”
He had half a mind to pull his gun out on the spot. Usually people asking about him by name on the street wasn’t a good thing, especially in Spanish.
But he didn’t. He stopped in his tracks and turned, immediately locking eyes with the source. He wasn’t expecting someone like you, standing stiff with crossed arms and hardened eyes. He wasn’t expecting a woman at all—especially one that didn’t look interested in him. He’d been propositioned enough on these streets to know you weren’t a working girl.
Javier glanced away to light his cigarette and blew out the smoke before he finally looked back at you.
“Who’s asking?”
You didn’t shift beneath his gaze. “Someone that needs your help.”
He looked you up and down. You weren’t dressed in any particular way, just a linen shirt and too-long cargo pants fringed with dirt. Definitely not a working girl, and you weren’t exactly rolling in it either.
“I don’t run a charity,” he responded.
“I’m not asking for charity,” you said sharply. “But we can’t talk here.”
Javier raised an eyebrow.
“You’re DEA,” you said. “You know better than anyone that the walls have ears.”
“You’ve got information?”
“I’ve got a gold mine,” you said.
Javier stared at you for a good, long moment, almost hoping he could read your mind if he looked at you for long enough. You didn’t waver, didn’t look away—just met his gaze with those sharp eyes of yours.
He normally wasn’t this desperate. But right now, they needed any intel they could get—especially if it could get them through back doors.
Eventually, he cursed under his breath and shook his head. “Fine. Follow me.”
He turned and started walking, and he could see you following him in the reflection off a storefront’s windows. You caught up to him relatively quickly, and he passed another glance at you.
“If you’re fucking with me—”
“You think I’m stupid enough to fuck with the DEA?” you interrupted.
“I never know with girls like you,” he said.
You scoffed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Girls that track me down on the street and try to become informants,” Javier said.
He saw your jaw clench in his peripherals. “Well, I’ve got a pretty good reason to hate Escobar.”
Javier hummed and blew out another cloud of smoke. The nicotine had started to ease some of the sharper edges in his mind. Was probably why he felt more agreeable to what many would consider a bad idea.
The two of you continued the rest of the way in silence, though Javier noticed how you kept your head on a swivel. Eyes constantly darting around, focusing on shadowy areas like something was going to jump out at you, not going a minute without checking behind you.
Not only did you not have a sense of humor, you were jumpy and paranoid. Just what he wanted in a potential informant.
He suppressed a sigh. So much for a relaxing night.
-
You grit your teeth as Peña patted down your body. The warmth of his hands against your bare arms was a shock, especially when you could feel it through your shirt—part of you expected him to be cold to match the rest of his demeanor. “Is this really necessary?”
“Gotta make sure you’re not bugged,” Peña said. He moved to your sides, then your front and back. Your loose button-up didn’t give the opportunity to hide much, but he didn’t seem like the kind to take chances.
“Why would I be bugged?” you asked wryly.
“Because the head of a DEA agent goes for 500 grand,” he responded in equal fashion. His hands didn’t linger on your chest as he finished vetting your torso, at least, which seemed like a low bar to clear. “Besides— beautiful Paisa approaches me on the street, implies she has information on Pablo Escobar, I take her home? Sounds like the start of a bad joke that ends with me getting my head blown off.”
“Nothing about this is a joke,” you said.
“Well, I see people get their heads blown off every day,” he said as he crouched down, finishing up his inspection with your legs. “I try to keep the mood light when I can.”
Peña stood up after he got to the bottom of your left leg, seemingly satisfied, and gestured at his couch with his head. “Sit.”
“Are you finally done?” you asked mockingly. “Think I’m clean?”
“Don’t give me a reason to think you’re not.” He picked up a near empty glass from a side table and walked into the kitchen. “Now do us both a favor and sit down and shut up.”
You decided to meet him halfway as you took a seat on the sofa. “I never knew DEA agents were so mean.”
“I’m being pretty nice right now, all things considered.” You heard the clinking of glasses and liquid pouring from the kitchen, but you didn’t look up. You just stared at your hands, trying to suppress the rising dread in your chest.
A part of you didn’t really know what you were doing. Talking to a DEA agent was about the worst thing someone in your position could do. All it took was one bit of gossip in the wrong ear, one of your brother’s old friends to wonder what you were up to, and you were dead.
But the worst case scenario had already happened. As far as you were concerned, you had nothing left to lose.
You started at the sudden sound of Peña setting something down on the table. You glanced up to see a bottle of whiskey alongside two glasses—one filled with a finger of liquor, the other empty.
“You a whiskey girl?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “But I could use some right now.”
He chuckled and filled the other glass, then pushed it over to you and set the bottle down. Javier picked up his own glass and took a sip, then leaned back in his chair. He looked every bit the ruminating agent as he stared at you.
“So,” he said, “what the fuck has you asking me for help?”
“My brother worked for the Medellín Cartel,” you said.
Peña's eyebrows rose. You guessed he probably didn’t expect you to say that.
“He get fired?”
You picked up the glass and downed a third of it, grimacing at the taste. You really weren’t a whiskey girl, but you preferred to focus on the burn of the liquor rather than the memory. You scraped your nail against the glass once it faded.
“Killed.”
“About the same thing for Escobar,” he said. He leaned forward. “You work with him too?”
You shook your head. “I stayed as far away from all of it as I could. But all Marcelo saw was the money.”
You could practically see him file the name away in his brain for future use. It probably wouldn’t get him far.
“So your brother works for Escobar, takes a wrong turn, gets killed,” Peña said. “And you come to me because you think they’ll come after you?”
You shrugged. “Marcelo had his cartel friends over all the time. They know me, know my face—know that my brother told me shit they don’t want repeated.”
Peña tilted his head. “So you choose to rat them out rather than take his place.”
You scoffed. “They beat him black and blue before his best friend shot him in the head. They left him in the living room for me to find. I’m lucky I’m here talking to you, agent.”
“Well, what got dear Marcelo killed?” he asked.
You gave him a mirthless smile. “He made one mistake and it ended up being the biggest one of his life. They gave him a target to take out. He failed, loudly and obviously in El Poblado. Escobar snipped the loose end.”
Peña’s eyes widened. “Your brother was behind that botched assassination on Luciana Rodriguez?”
You nodded. “The only thing worse than killing a journalist is failing to kill a journalist—especially one that’s refused dirty money. The mess was all over the papers the next day, and she was giving interviews the whole week.” A chill fell over your skin as your hand tightened around the glass, and you had to glance away. “Marcelo was dead before he could even try to plead his case.”
“You truly have my sympathy,” Peña said. His eyes had softened, no longer looking like they were skeptical of every word you said. “Burying a sibling…” He shook his head. “It’s awful.”
You shrugged. “It’s how it always ends, isn’t it?”
“For those at the bottom of the ladder,” he said. “Why do you think Escobar gets everyone else to do his dirty work?”
You tipped your head in recognition as you took another sip of whiskey. Much better than the shitty liquor you were used to—despite the money Marcelo started raking in from his cartel jobs, the two of you never really grew out of the bottom shelf.
“I never actually got to bury him, though,” you said. “Soon as I found his body, I took what I could and ran. I wasn’t going to wait around for a bullet in my head too.”
“I’m surprised they weren’t there waiting for you,” Peña said.
You chuckled wryly. “Me too. But I’ve learned to count my blessings when I can get them—they don’t come around too often for people like me.”
A shaky sigh fell from your lips as you leaned back, taking a moment to compose yourself. You hardly knew Peña, yet you were telling him about some of the worst days of your life.
“I stayed at some shitty motel for the past few days trying to figure out what to do,” you said. “I remembered hearing your name around some of the circles—a DEA agent who seemed to have endless amounts of informants. I… I mostly got lucky finding you.”
“It’s very brave of you,” he said. “But why now? Why not in the middle of all this, when you had the most access to information?”
“I’m a selfish woman, Agent Peña.” Your gaze fell down to the amber liquid—it was easier than looking him in the eye. “I didn’t want my brother to get hurt, so I kept my distance and I kept my mouth shut.” You paused, shaking your head with a slight laugh. “No, actually. I told him a thousand times it was better to be poor and honest than rich with dirty money. But all we’ve ever known is poverty—Marcelo wanted more, and Escobar offered him a way out.”
Peña offered a thin smile. “How do you think he gathered so much popularity so quickly?”
“Believe me, I know.” You huffed as you sunk into the cushions. “I still remember that day he came home after Escobar announced he was running for Congress—400,000 pesos, just handed to him. How could he not fall further in?”
He raised an eyebrow. “And you’re sure you haven’t?”
“Some of the money I took from the house is probably dirty but…” you shook your head. “But Marcelo gave them everything he had, and they killed him for it. Nothing could make me work for those motherfuckers.”
“I do like a woman with principles,” Peña mused.
You huffed another mirthless laugh as you leaned forward, setting your glass on the edge of the table. “Can you help me or not?”
“You want me to ensure your safety in exchange for the information you have,” he said.
You nodded.
“Well, my protection is pretty valuable,” he said. “How valuable is your information?”
“Marcelo was a floater,” you said. “He did work for whoever under Pablo needed it. I’ve got names from Gacha, the Ochoas, even some of Escobar’s main men. And I know the names of some rats in the police department, even one in your precious DEA.”
Peña frowned. “Who?”
“Maya Alberts. Gringa secretary from Utah.”
By the look on his face, you gathered that you were right. “How do you know that?”
“Just because I didn’t get involved in all that shit doesn’t mean I didn’t listen,” you said. “His friends saw me as lesser than them—idiots talked around me all the time.”
“You have this in writing or anything?”
You tapped your temple. “It’s all up here. You give me a pen and paper, I can get them all down.”
He blew out a loose breath and shook his head. “You’re valuable.”
“I told you.”
“Well, I didn’t know you were this valuable,” he said. “I have to run all this by Murphy and the rest, but if your names match up, you actually are a gold mine.”
“And you better do everything you can to take them down,” you said.
“We have to be careful about all this,” Peña said. “If Gaviria or Gacha or— or god forbid Escobar figures out that you’re running your mouth, you’re going to be their top priority.”
“I don’t care,” you said honestly. “If my death is the price I have to pay to pave even one brick on the path to nailing Escobar, then I’m okay with that.”
Peña pursed his lips. “My informants aren’t usually so…”
“Suicidal?”
“Uncaring,” he decided. “The best informants are the ones that stay alive long enough to be informants.”
“I’ve lost everything, Agent Peña,” you said. “I want justice against the men that killed my brother. I don’t care what I have to do to get it.”
Again, he stared at you. You don’t know what he thought it would do for him—if he believed he could tell whether you were lying or not by looking in your eyes, if he was trying to memorize how you looked in case he had to turn you over, if he just liked looking at people. But eventually, he sighed.
“You’ve bared your soul and we’ve just met,” he said. “I think you can call me Javier.”
You nodded. “You’d better take these men down then, Javier.”
He smiled as he stood up. He actually had a pretty nice one.
“Like I said, I have to go over all of this with my partner—maybe get Carillo involved too.” He looked at you. “It might take some time while we verify it all, but don’t worry. I keep my informants safe.”
Your mind went back to the mangled body of your brother, sent as a message to Escobar’s people of what would happen if they crossed him. You could only think about how much he suffered in his final moments.
Bile creeped up your throat, but the memory still burned more. All he wanted was a better life for the two of you.
“All I care about is taking these bastards down.”
He shook his head. “You might not care about yourself, but I do. You’re staying the night here.”
You frowned. “I have—”
“You don’t have somewhere to stay,” Javier interrupted, taking the words out of your mouth. “You’ve got a shitty motel that’s probably already on the cartel’s radar. You go back there, you get a load of lead in your brain.”
“Still.” You glanced around. “There’s got to be a better place than here.”
Javier raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like my place?”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” you bit back. “It— it’s just your place. I don’t want to intrude.”
He actually laughed at that, a genuine sound you weren’t expecting. “You’ve got the Medellín Cartel on your ass and you’re worried about imposing?”
“Well—” your frown deepened— “when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”
“Because it is.” He left you with that as you started to walk towards the hallway.
You figured you would be crashing on the couch—it was pretty comfortable. Most things in Javier’s apartment were cheap, but this seemed to be one thing he splurged on—him, or the DEA when they outfitted the place. The plush cushions had just enough give to support you, stark contrast to the stiff state your body seemed to always be in these days.
He came back holding a bundle of sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. He set it down on the chair he’d been sitting in and looked at you.
“Are you going to get up?”
“Those are for me, aren’t they?”
“‘Course not,” he said. “You’re sleeping in my room. I’m taking the couch.”
You scoffed. “You want to talk about imposing—”
“It’s for your own good,” Javier interrupted again. He seemed to like interrupting. “If someone tailed you here, or somehow figured out you’ve come to me, then they’re gonna break in through the front door or the window. I’d prefer to be the first line of defense in that case.”
“You can’t be serious,” you deadpanned.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Javier said bombastically. “You came to the DEA agent for protection, and now the DEA agent is protecting you? How in the world will you survive?”
You scowled at him, but you stood up anyways. You took the chance to polish off the rest of your glass—you didn’t grimace as hard this time, at least.
“Bathroom is on the left, kitchen’s right there.” Javier pointed his finger as he talked, which he then aimed at you. “Don’t move anything around. I’ll know.”
Deciding to bite your tongue, you nodded. Javier Peña was, after all, doing you a ginormous favor. You stopped right before you could reach the hallway and turned back to look at him, already at work stuffing sheets in the cracks of his couch.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “I— I appreciate all this. More than you know.”
Javier paused at your words, and when he turned around he had an uncharacteristically soft look on his face.
“…Course.” He nodded his acknowledgment. “Sleep tight.”
Your lips twitched in the slightest smile. “You too.”
As you walked down the hallway, you felt his gaze burning into you. You resisted the urge to look back.