The night my parents sold me to the cartel, a torrential storm tore the roof off the dockside warehouse. A man in a black suit pressed the muzzle of his gun to the back of the pimp’s head. He turned to me and said, "From now on, you're mine."The hair behind his left ear was matted with blood—a fresh gash from the shootout moments ago.
I sat huddled in the corner of a shipping container, the scar behind my own left ear burning fiercely. "Touch me, and I'll rip your throat out."He just laughed, slapping a wad of blood-stained bills against the pimp's face. "I'm taking this one. Damaged goods or not, that's on me."What he didn't know was that buried right beneath my scar was a DEA transmitter. My mission was to get my hands on the Alexander family's money-laundering ledgers within three months. Three months later, I pulled the trigger. But I wasn't aiming at him.
