Weakness Gets You Killed

Part 6

"I'll let you go, on the condition that we go with you," he says, giving me time to process his condition.

"No, absolutely not. I do need to go down there, but I am not going to Mexico City, to do gang business, with my big brother, his wife, and two young children. I would rather just not go. This is my business, the gang I run. I'm not going to drag you into the crossfire with me. Combat Eighteen isn't the only gang down there. There's drug dealers, cartels, addicts. I'm not going to bring you into gang fights, centred right around me. They'll do anything to get to me. If they find out that I didn't go alone, they'll go after you guys. Most gangs down there don't care about morality. They care about getting the job done, and not getting killed or arrested in the process." I shake my head vigorously.

"You said so yourself, you need to go down there and check out the damage for yourself, right? Well, you can do that, but I'm not giving you the opportunity to ditch us. I'm not letting you go again," James insists.

"Y'all can come with me," I relent with a sigh. "But you need to have someone there to protect you at all times. I'm not letting any of you get hurt if I can prevent it. You stay with the boys in the mansion, or you can go out and check the place out. But you have to have someone that works for me and is trained in defence with you at all times. I'm going to go tell the pilot to get the jet ready," I say, as I go to leave.

"Jet? You have a jet? Why didn't you tell me you have a jet?" Mary squeals excitedly.

"When do we leave?" James asks calmly, hands folded on the desk.

"Get your bags packed. We leave as soon as possible. You can sleep on the plane. I will be in the cockpit." I walk out, leaving two stunned adults in my wake.

We pulled up to the airport, bags and passports in hand, as we go through security. I think it's kinda dumb, having to go through security if it's your airplane. If you pulled any stunts, you would just be wasting your money. Once we had shown our passports, I walked up to the hanger where the jet was, with an excited six-year-old Grace right on my heel.

"Grace, give her some room, for heaven's sake! You're practically stepping on her heel," Mary ordered whilst she pushed Jemma in her stroller. James was walking behind her, on a business call of some sort.

"... Yes, sir. I know, but I'm heading out on vacation with my family. I will probably be back in a few weeks or so..." I tune out as I approach the staircase.

"Hola, mis amigos! Yo soy Carlos. Soy tú piloto. ¿Quieres que me lleve tus maletas?" Carlos speaks rapidly, talking a mile a minute.

"Si, Carlos. Gracias. Pero hablar ingles por favor. Ellos no hablan español." I reply, gesturing to the confused family behind me.

"Ah, sí. Lo siento." Carlos apologises. "Hello, my name es Carlos. I'm sorry, my English is very poor." He explains as he takes our bags up the stairway into the jet.

"James, look at this!" Mary exclaims in awe. "Your sixteen-year-old sister has a private jet! With an ice cream bar!"

"Ice cream bar? Where!" Grace demands as she jumps up and down. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her.

"Please, I don't want to have to carry you off the plane when you get sugar crash. So, I beg of you, limit the ice cream. 'Kay?"

"Fine," She sighs in disappointment.

"Okay. Everybody, please get ready for takeoff."

"¿Están preparados?" Carlos asks when I step into the cockpit.

"Sí, deberían serlo," I reply.

30 minutes or so later, Carlos announces that we can walk around now. As I step out, Grace rushes forward.