Sangre y Polvo II: The Inevitable Death of Daytonio Diamantes

❖❖❖

PROLOGUE

“Shut the fuck up, Max.”

“What’s with the hair?”

“Shut the fuck up, Tony.”

Three seconds of silence followed. Not the good kind. The kind where everyone wonders who’s gonna screw up first. I leaned back and let ‘em stare.

Max looked irritated, like I’d complicated a math problem he’d already solved.

"We thought you weren’t coming,” he said. “You made that pretty clear.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”

Tony let out a chuckle, shakin’ his head like he’d just been proven right ‘bout somethin’.

“Man disappears, ducks the calls, skips the meetings, then strolls in like nothing happened,” he said. “That’s bold.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tony.”

Cancer didn’t laugh. He stood there at the head of it all, hands folded like he was takin’ attendance instead of holdin’ together a team.

“Gentlemen,” Jiles said, smooth as ever. “We’re not here to unpack feelings. We’re here to win.”

Max’s eyes never left me.

“That so?” he said. “Because last I heard, he wasn’t interested.”

“That was then,” I said.

“And now?”

I pushed off the wall, shakin’ my head.

“Now, I ran outta better options. That, or I finally figured out I didn’t have any to begin with.”

That hung there for a second ‘fore Tony started smirkin’.

“Honest, at least.”

“So, what’s the strategy?” Tony asked. “We got a plan?”

“No rules, right?” I cut in. “Tornado. Whole fuckin’ thing falls apart the second that bell rings.”

I grinned real wide.

“My kinda rodeo.”

Cancer’s gaze shifted to me then, really settlin’ in, like he was takin’ inventory and likin’ what he saw.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t pick people who misunderstand the objective.”

I held his stare.

“Don’t worry, hoss,” I said. “I understand it just fine. Hurt them. Win. Everything else? Don’t fuckin’ matter.”

And the funny thing was… I’d spent the last few days figurin’ that out the hard way.

❖❖❖

CONSEQUENCE

Three Days Earlier

Let’s pretend you ain’t had a good couple-a weeks.

You’re stuck in Mexico with a target on your back.

You and your buddy lost your tag titles to a couple-a chucklefucks that don’t deserve to share a ring with you.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, you’ve got a match comin’ up with a buncha boys you wouldn’t trust to hold your drink, so you do the sensible thing: you call up Cancer Jiles and tell him you ain’t fuckin’ doin’ it.

Problem solved.

Thing is, everything else ain’t.

You’ve been wearin’ this fuckin’ mask the whole time and it fuckin' sucks. Your nose itches. Your beard’s sweatin’. Every breath feels like suckin’ air through a gym sock.

So, there you are, wavin’ your dick in the wind. What’re you gonna do, hoss?

Cut loose, motherfucker.

You hit the town like a bull in a china shop. One tequila turns to two, two to three, and next thing you know, you're tradin’ a baby goat that’s been pissin’ all over your hotel room for a little baggy of Mexican marchin’ powder.

That’s cocaine, if’n you ain’t followin’.

The night stops makin’ sense. White lines and mariachi music blur into the shoutin’ ‘til time goes soft.

Your heart’s kickin’ like a jackrabbit trapped in a tackle box, you got your arm ‘round some sweet little señorita who don’t give a damn ‘bout what’s under the mask. Somebody starts clappin’. Somebody else starts chantin’ ‘Dia-man-tes!’ like they actually know who you are.

She laughs.

The kinda laugh that says you ain’t makin’ it back to your own bed tonight.

She grabs the front of that mask and pulls you in close.

“Daytonio,” she says, draggin’ the name out like warm caramel.

And that’s the beauty of it. No ex-wife you’re still sweet on, no Chinese biomedical conglomerates, no brother in a hospital bed. No debts or ghosts. Nothin’.

‘Cause tonight, you ain’t Daytona Diamonds.

You’re Daytonio Diamantes.

So, you grin under that mask and lean into it.

Another tequila shows up. Then another. The night dissolves into flashes; dancin’, laughin’, a line off her thigh, her whisper in your ear, her hand draggin’ you out the door.

After that?

Memory gets fuzzy.

And that’s why it ain’t much of a surprise when you wake up the next mornin’ in a bed you don’t recognize with a gun pointin’ in your face.

Now, when a man wakes up like that, two thoughts come along with it. First is well, that ain’t good. Second is how the hell did I get here?

I blinked the bender outta my eyes while my brain crawled back into place. Yellow walls, a creakin’ fan, and a mouth that tasted like copper and old batteries.

Neither the gun or the man holdin’ it moved.

He stood there calm as Sunday mornin’. Dark mustache. Dead eyes. I’d seen that look before; loan sharks, pit bosses, men who’d already decided how things ended.

I turned my head slow and saw the Daytonio mask sittin’ on the nightstand.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t on my face.

Which meant he knew exactly who I really was.

“Buenos dias, Daytonio.”

Now, I ain’t gonna lie and say I was calm, ‘cause that’d be bullshit, but I still managed a hungover grin.

“Mornin’, amigo.”

He didn’t smile back. Just stood there with that pistol pointed square at my forehead.

“Well, shitfire,” I said. “This is already off to a real friendly start, ain’t it?”

Nothin’. That quiet you only get from men who’ve been waitin’ a long time to do what they’re ‘bout to do.

“...alright,” I said. “Lemme take a stab here. This cartel business? Comin’ to collect after all these years?”

“You ask many questions,” he said.

“You’re pointin’ a gun, I’m askin’ questions. Seems fair,” I said. “I’ve got a pretty robust catalog of mistakes to choose from, compadre. You’re gonna have to narrow it down for me.”

That got me somethin’. Just the slightest tightenin’ ‘round his eyes.

“You were in Tijuana,” he said. “You wrestled. Seven years ago.”

“Yep,” I said. “I’ve wrassled a lotta places.”

“You met my sister.”

There it was. Weren’t some revelation. Only a slow, awful feelin’ of a drawer openin’ in the back of your brain and you already know you ain’t gonna like what’s inside.

“...buddy,” I said. “You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”

“Marisol.”

Ding.

“...ah,” I said.

Tijuana. Seven years back. Hot nights. Cheap beer. Bad promises.

“She remembers you,” he said.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “They tend to.”

Wrong answer. He darted forward and grabbed me by the shoulder, pressin’ that ever-lovin’ gun up ‘gainst my temple. All of a sudden, I weren’t feelin’ too mighty no more. All them muscles ain’t worth a pile of horseshit when you got cold steel kissin’ your skull and somebody else’s finger sittin’ on the trigger.

“Alright!” I shouted. “That one’s on me! Be cool, amigo! Be cool!”

“You said you’d come back,” he said through clenched teeth. “She trusted you.”

The barrel dug a little harder into the side of my head.

“She waited,” he said. “She had your baby.”

There it was. Laid out plain. I blinked once and let out a long breath through my nose as the math worked itself out whether I liked it or not. Seven years. Tijuana. Marisol.

“...well,” I said. “That’s… yeah, that checks out.”

“That is my nephew,” he said.

“Right. So we’re clear here…” I muttered. “...this ain’t cartel business, huh?”

“No cartel,” he said.

“...right,” I muttered. “Reckon I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse, amigo.”

He sneered as he pulled the gun away from my head, takin’ a few steps back without takin’ the aim off me.

“You left,” he said. “You did not come back. She raised him alone.”

“...yep,” I said. “That sounds ‘bout right too.”

“She told me if I find you…” he said. “...I make sure you remember.”

“Well,” I said. “I’d say you’re doin’ a helluva job so far, buddy.”

This weren’t endin’ with a handshake and a life lesson; I knew that much. He’d been carryin’ revenge for years and there weren’t much left to do but pay up.

I glanced at the mask on the nightstand.

“...listen, buddy. ‘Fore we do this whole thing,” I muttered. “...you mind if I have a cigarette? Y’know, ‘fore I face the firin’ squad.”

“...one,” he said.

I gave a small, respectful nod, like we was two gentlemen conductin’ a civilized exchange.

“Appreciate that,” I said.

I reached for the pack sittin’ on the nightstand, but when my hand got there, my fingers brushed the edge of that mask. Crumpled. Damp. Useless.

So, I grabbed it.

I whipped that mask straight at his face, quick as I could manage. Fabric tanglin’, eyes blinkin’ ‘gainst it, that momentary panic.  The gun went off and the shot tore past my head so close I felt it kiss my ear ‘fore it punched into the plaster behind me.

I snatched my phone from the end table and lunged forward, shoulder drivin’ into him, and then I was through the space he’d been standin’ in, grabbin’ the bedsheet off the mattress in the same motion and wrappin’ it ‘round my waist as I went.

I hit the door at a run and didn’t slow down even when I heard gunshots behind me. Out into the hallway, down the stairs, into the daylight.

I didn’t look back. Just ran. Barefoot, half-naked, wrapped in a bedsheet and breathin’ like my lungs were tryna tear their way outta my chest. I tore through the street and didn’t stop until the building was gone behind me.

❖❖❖

COLLAPSE

One alley turned into another ‘till I found myself wedged ‘tween a chain-link fence and a brick wall, legs givin’ out ‘fore my brain. I caught myself, breathin’ all ragged like I’d been sprintin’ from the end of the world.

“...alright,” I muttered to myself. “You’re good, old boy. You’re fine.”

I straightened up and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, tastin’ like salt and copper. Then I did what any reasonable man in my situation would do: I pulled out my phone.

I scrolled past a few names I weren’t ‘bout to call. Folks who’d either hang up, laugh, or even worse, actually answer. Then I found it: Elaine. I hit call. It rang once. Twice.

And then… “Daytona.”

Flat. Even. Calm, like always.

“Yeah, no shit it’s Daytona,” I snapped. “I gotta problem, Elaine. A real fuckin’ problem. Five minutes ago? Had to bust outta some fuckin’ apartment after this sonuvabitch told me I was the daddy to some kid I ain’t never met! And he was gonna shoot me over it! Had a gun pointin’ in my goddang face! Now, I’m standin’ in some alley in the middle of Mexico City, barefoot and half-naked, and I’m thinkin’ it’s ‘bout time you send your goon squad to get me the fuck outta here.”

Silence. Just… empty space.

“I see,” she finally said.

“Y’see?!” I shouted. “That’s what we’re goin’ with?! Y’fuckin’ see?!”

“What would you prefer I say?”

“I’d prefer you fuckin’ fix it!” I shot back. “That’s kinda been the arrangement, ain’t it?! Y’all juice me up, I go out there and do what I do, and when things go sideways, you fix it! So, let’s fuckin’ hear it! Where’s my goddang ride?! Where’s my backup?! Hell, where’s the nearest airport I ain’t gonna get shot at on my way to?!”

Another pause. Longer this time. When she spoke again, nothin’ in her voice had shifted an inch.

“The Mingliang Initiative can no longer provide assistance.”

I blinked.

“...what?”

“The Initiative was acquired last week.”

For a second, I thought I’d misheard her.

“Acquired?” I sputtered. “What the hell does that mean?!”

“It means control has transferred to a rival organization. Funding has been frozen. Operations are being restructured. The ML-347 program has been suspended save for the remaining stock in your apartment.”

Each word came out neat. Clinical.

“Naw. That ain’t…” I muttered, pacin’ faster. “You don’t get to just…  pump me full of experimental bullshit, turn me into a goddamn science project, and then sell the whole fuckin’ operation off while I’m out here dodgin’ bullets!”

“I am telling you exactly that.”

“What 'bout me, huh?!” I snapped. “What 'bout your fuckin’ asset?!”

“You are no longer my responsibility.”

I put my back up ‘gainst the wall and, all of a sudden, I was feelin’ a helluva lot smaller than I actually was.

“...dammit, I trusted you, Elaine!”

“I did not ask you to,” she said.

That one landed colder than the rest. Like trust had never been part of the deal to begin with; just somethin’ I’d convinced myself was there.

“Well, ain’t that just–” I started, then stopped, ‘cause I didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Perfect? Predictable? Pathetic? Take your pick.

“So, that’s it then?” I asked. “You just… wash your hands of me? After all the shit I did for you people?”

“Yes.”

A period at the end of a sentence.

I swallowed hard, jaw tightenin’, little cogs turnin’ in my head as I tried to work out a plan that’d get me outta this alive. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll… fuck it, I’ll call up Bambi and see if she can figur–”

“She won’t be answering your calls, Daytona,” Elaine said.

“...what?”

“She’s with me.”

“With you,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“...that ain’t funny.”

“It isn’t a joke.”

“Then what is it then?!” I shouted. “She’s with you?!”

“She made a decision.”

“Bullshit!” I snapped. “You made a fuckin’ pitch!”

“And she accepted it.”

I laughed. Short. Ugly. What else was there to do?

“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” I muttered. “Soon as I’m outta town, everything starts fallin’ into place for everybody else, huh?”

“She’s leaving the country,” Elaine continued, like she was readin’ off a schedule instead of talkin’ ‘bout my life. “With me.”

“And the kid?” I asked, already knowin’ the answer and still hopin’ it was different.

“The child as well. They’ll be provided for,” Elaine said. “Stability. Resources. Structure.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “All the stuff I ain’t, ain’t that right?”

She didn’t argue that. I dragged a hand down my face again, feelin’ the grit and sweat and whatever else I’d picked up ‘long the way.

“So, that’s it,” I said. “You get your new bosses, she gets a new life, and I get… what? Cut loose in an alley in Mexico wearin’ a bedsheet?”

“Yes.”

Again. No decoration. No sympathy. Just the truth as she saw it.

“Alright,” I muttered. “I see how it is…”

And the funny thing was, I did see it. Or at least, I was startin’ to. All them little threads I’d been hangin’ onto? All the trust I’d been placin’ in people who never asked for it? Snapped clean. One after another.

“...y’know,” I said. “For what it’s worth…”

I stopped myself.

“...naw, fuck it.”

And I hung up. No goodbyes, no more beggin’, no more pleadin’. Nothin’. I stood there, listenin’ to the city hum ‘round me, feelin’ that panic settle into somethin’ colder, quieter, more permanent.

Then I laughed.

“...well, shit,” I said to nobody.

And don’t that sum up the whole kittenkaboodle?

❖❖❖

CLARITY

Let’s pretend you ain’t had a good couple-a weeks.

You ever notice how a man can run himself clean outta options?

Not all at once. Not in some big, dramatic collapse. It’s smaller than that. One bad decision here, one burnt bridge there. One phone call you don’t make. One promise you don’t keep. And then, one day, you look up and realize there ain’t nowhere left to go but wherever your feet happen to be pointin’.

For me, that happened somewhere ‘bout forty-five minutes outside of Mexico City, in a motel that looked like it had been losin’ a fight with time for the better part of twenty years.

The sign out front was missin’ a couple letters. The doors didn’t quite shut right ‘less you gave ‘em a good kick. The carpet had that permanent kinda damp to it, like it’d soaked up a thousand bad nights and wasn’t in any hurry to let ‘em go.

It was perfect.

Just like old times.

I stood in the bathroom with nothin’ but a towel draped ‘round my shoulders, starin’ at myself in a mirror that had more scratches than reflection left in it. For a second, I didn’t recognize the fella lookin’ back at me. Then again… that was the point, right?

On the counter sat a little plastic bag from a roadside pharmacy. Cheap. Crinkled. Inside it, a box of hair dye. Platinum fuckin’ blonde.

Funny thing 'bout trust: You spend your whole life thinkin’ it’s somethin’ you give to other people, but turns out, it’s mostly just somethin’ you gamble. And me? I’d been on one helluva losin’ streak.

I’d trusted the mask to keep me safe. The drugs to make me better. Elaine to steer the ship. Bambi to still be there when I got back. Hell, I even trusted myself to fix it all.

Didn’t fuckin’ work, did it?

I set the box down on the sink and leaned in closer to the mirror, studin’ the man lookin’ back at me like I was meetin’ him for the first time. Same eyes. Same scars. Same dumb sonuvabitch who kept thinkin’ the next move was gonna be the right one.

Only difference was, now I knew better.

I tore the box open. Water started runnin’. Gloves went on. That sharp, chemical smell filled up the room like a bad idea I’d already committed to. I worked the dye through my hair slow at first, then quicker, fingers movin’ on instinct more’n thought.

Not tryna become somebody else. Not really. Just tryna… see what was left when all the other versions of me stopped workin’.

When the timer buzzed, I rinsed it out, watchin’ the water run cloudy for a second ‘fore it cleared. I pushed my hair back, lifted my head, and looked at the mirror again.

Platinum blonde, just like ol’ Cancer Jiles.

Didn’t look like him, but hell, didn’t look much like me neither.

What it looked like was a man who’d finally run himself outta places to go.

I stood there a second, water still drippin’ down the sink, watchin’ that version of me try to make sense. Only real difference was, there wasn’t nothin’ left to hide behind now. No mask. No handler. No promises I could pretend to keep.

Just… me.

I ain’t a businessman. Ain’t a family man. Ain’t much of a friend, if we’re bein’ honest ‘bout it. Hell, I ain’t even all that good at takin’ care of myself, but there was one thing I was still good at.

Wrasslin’.

That was it.

Only thing that ever came natural. Only place where all the noise in my head lined up into somethin’ that made sense. You put me in a ring, give me a problem with a pulse, and I could solve it. Always could.

Everything else?

That’s where it all went sideways.

“...welp,” I muttered. “Reckon that narrows it down.”

I looked back at myself, squintin’ a little like I was measurin’ somethin’.

“Brandon Youngblood...” I said under my breath.

I’d shut him down once. That wasn’t luck. That was me.

“I can do that again.”

My upper lip sneered on its own volition.

“Clay Byrd...”

That one sat different. Took my titles off me and Robby. Took somethin’ that was mine and walked off like it belonged to him. That ain’t the kinda thing that just… goes away.

“That ain’t settled.”

I shifted my weight, rollin’ my shoulders once.

“Hayes Hanlon…”

I let out a short breath through my nose.

“...I don’t like his fuckin’ mustache.”

Simple as that.

“Ria Lockhart...”

The one pulled somethin’ else up. Somethin’ older.

First match in PRIME. Three-way. Me, her, and ol’ Bobby Dean.

I won that night.

“Yep,” I said. “That ain’t changin’ neither.”

I stood there a second longer, lettin’ it all line up in my head. Weren’t no speeches, no grand realizations. Just facts. I didn’t have nothin’ else. Didn’t have a backup plan, didn’t have a safety net, didn’t have nobody waitin’ on the other end of Culture Shock.

All I had was that ring. And if that was the case, then I was gonna treat it like it mattered.

I reached over and picked up my phone. Scrolled ‘til I saw Cancer Jiles' number waitin’ for me. I hit the call button ‘fore I started second guessin’ myself.

When he answered, all he said was, “Speak.”

“Change of plans,” I told him. “I’m in.”

I hung up ‘fore he could say a damn thing back and looked back at my reflection.

Platinum hair.

Same eyes.

Same scars.

No excuses left.

"Good enough."