Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Valentino Rodriguez POV

A tax collector. The description is simple: someone who collects taxes and gives them to the government, which then delivers the benefits to its residents. I wasn't a member of a government body; I wasn't even included in the government book. I've never worked a job that required me to be in line with the government, but I did collect taxes.

The vehicle drove over the red and black speed bumps. As we went across to Mexican territory, I could sense the shift in the weather. The thermometer's temperature felt like it had hit through the roof. I collected taxes in Los Angeles and within a two hundred-mile radius of Mexico.

The Mexican soil was composed of pure golden sand that had been permeated by the heat of the sun. My nostrils flared as soon as I smelled the smoke, and the hot breeze coming through the open window pushed it back into my face.

"Reaper, I told you none of that nonsense."

"Come on, dude, my finger was genuinely trembling; this is like sipping your morning coffee.

"I don't drink coffee." I muttered. Reaper, actual name Javier Carmen, was born in the center of Mexico, surrounded by drugs, guns, and bloodshed. He fell in love with it all at the age of 14. He had his first taste of blood with a rifle when he was 15 years old, and he has only been reaping ever since.

Reaper and I have been companions for ten years; we get along, vibe, and do stuff. I gather the money, and if they do not have it, he pulls the trigger. That was our role in and around Mexico and Los Angeles.

"You don't use drugs, drink coffee, or smoke anything, what are you?"

"Health," I answered while maintaining my eyes on the steamy hot road. I could smell the burning of my tires. "Get rid of it." I murmured. We did not work for the government; rather, we worked for someone the government despises: Hugo Jose, better known as The Trapz's Cartel leader.

The Trapz is an underground group that invests in businesses of all sizes, from hair salons to major corporations.

Everyone has to pay their dues, and if they don't, Reaper steps in. I have my own style of doing things and earning money. When I run around Mexico and Los Angeles, I am not compensated.

The rounds are easy to make. Every month, Hugo compiles a list of who needs to pay and what. He provides us instructions from the prison. We handed along the money to higher-ranking officials and repeated the process.

In total, around 149 businesses are affected each month, with a few more likely to join the chain each month.

When a business invests in Trapz, it is acknowledged for a charge of 35% of the company's earnings, which is a lot, but many would rather live another second than die.

Reaper pulls out a roll of paper. It rolls were so little that if they fell from one's fingers, they may be lost in the sand. He groped for his pencil, which was usually resting in the tight crease of his ears; if it wasn't his pencil, it was his preferred brand of smokes.

"How much are the runs for today?" I inquired, looking over the little paper. The small paper needs to pass through many hands and corners before it reaches our hands.

"We have 67 businesses in Mexico, but we will only strike one?"

"Who's?"

"Martinez's place... He's been slacking for almost two months now. He has 40 thousand in the back and 20 to pay up."

"Sixty up front."

"And you know Hugo does not toy with his money. If he doesn't have it, we'll murder him." He grinned.

"We killed him." I nodded. I have my fair share of blood on my hands. I enjoy murdering just for financial gain. Reaper and I must pay ourselves. Many people would ask why we would labor for the Trapz if we didn't earn a share of the profits. The solution was straightforward.

Once we are in these business establishments, we scoop it out and discover the layout of the money vault, so whether it is beneath your mattress or locked up in the bank, we are robbing our cuts.

We make runs at least once a month to keep under the radar. In this game, you cannot be too greedy or too proud. I take everything I want. Anything I desire, I take.

"We killed him. And take anything he has."

Reaper laughs and makes an eager motion from his seat. He's always eager to kill someone. It's his method of letting off steam.

"We skin him alive, in his own bathtub, and fuck his bitch?"

"Leave me out on the fucking his bitch."

"You're always so stressed. It's only some pussy; you should take a dosage every now and again."

"I don't want to."

"You haven't gone out since..." He snapped his fingers, evoking the memory of the girl who I said had broken my heart. Deja. Deja was difficult to forget; I knew I was dabbling in trash, but it didn't mean I didn't have my sights set on a future with her. "I can't seem to recall the bitch's name."

I tightened my teeth in rage. I never completely get over her, and that means I never get over the idea that someone has disrespected her. "C'mon, dude. Her name is Deja." I whispered.

At the same moment, a faint recollection emerges.

"Oh, yeah, she was a true slut. She played you better than the game did, son." He reached over to rub my head, but I shoved him back in his seat.

"She didn't play me; I let her go to college, where she found a guy who is better, you know."

"Better?"

"She's sleeping with a man who cannot safeguard her on these streets."

I shake my head. "And when things go bad, when Hugo decides to abandon us, you think I'll be able to defend her?"

"He will not turn on us."

Even though Reaper grew up surrounded by snakes, he couldn't identify them. I realized immediately away that The Trapz were nothing but traps.

At the present, we don't have even a 1% rate from his cut; he was nothing more than a snake with his coil around it all.

We grow raised in a shithole system and leave America, believing we are fleeing, only to run straight into it. Hugo was not based in Mexico; although being born, growing up, and having his first child in Mexico, he was headquartered in America, which was far more corrupt than Mexico.

"Each breathing breath." I whispered. "Every waking hour, I wait for him to deliver us the slit throat. We are doomed if there is even one incorrect counting and we do not have the funds to fill it in."

"We always get it right."

"You're right. Because when is Martinez going to pay?" I scoffed.

"Don't get all cocky with me; you asked for him two months in a row."

"The man is only trying."

"Maybe he should drop out of the game."

"I don't know."

The car has finally distinguished what appeared to be a settlement, coated with sands and residents lounging out on the porch and watching the scorching days pass. My pistol is in my hand as I prepare to exit the vehicle. Reaper remained planted by his side, looking around.

I slipped the jacket suit on to complete my three-piece grey and black outfit.

The sandy breeze swept dust over my shoes, practically burying them in sand. I slipped on my sunglasses. Being a tax collector does not have to entail appearing like a drugged-up criminal, but rather a day at a typical office job. Reaper and I dressed professionally. Every day, three-piece suits with work boots or shoes, a shade for the strong yellow heat of Mexico and Los Angeles.

"Clear." He grumbled as he adjusted his jacket to conceal the revolver hanging within the waistline of his leather belt. We also have a couple extra firearms hanging about our bodies.

"He doesn't have the 60. We skin him."

"I hoped not to get my hands filthy."

"The work is nothing but that."

The loose sand skidded beneath our shoes, which provided little hold. And getting to the almost-broken-down tattoo business with a home on it was difficult. That is how most businesses work in town. The business was below, while the housing was upstairs.

I looked around the little neighborhood; a few men sat about, hands hidden inside their shirts, their gaze fixed on us. We were protected by The Trapz since we had a tattoo of it on our skin like a brand. When we display our wrist, we kill without risking our lives.

I kicked the sand off my shoes before arriving at the porch.

We came in, and the sound of tattoo guns resonated through the air with a deafening buzz. The laughing faded as soon as they noticed us. We slowly strolled through the middle till we reached the back.

We heard a never-endingly chuckle right behind Reaper. "G-good to see you. May I give you a drink? Lucia, bring the tequila."

"No need; we didn't come here to socialize, Martin." I took a seat on the sofa and rested my feet on his table. He gasped as he looked down at the table, which was covered with narcotics; my feet managed to kick off a few needles and a liquor cup. I smirked, staring at the table.

"You appeared to be preoccupied. No?" I turned to confront Reaper, who kept his glass on, his face straight, and emotionless.

I knew his hear race to feel the hit blood on his palm.

"Bu-busy? I only have a couple Amigas, nothing grande."

I nodded slowly, my hands spread on the sofa's headrest. He stumbled in his stance as I looked at him.

"It's 60 this—" Just across the room, I could hear the rattling of what appeared to be two glasses touching. The sound reaches the room, and a small girl of Mexican descent holds two glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila.

She has yet to see me, as her gaze remains fixed on my shoes on the table.

"Serve them up, bitch." He shoved the girl hard, causing her fragile body to collapse onto mine. I moved quickly and nabbed her before she could make a hard impact.