The top and skirt were both made of a shiny, red fabric and the top was embellished with red sequins around the neckline and the single strap that went around her neck.
The skirt had a long side slit. She’d chosen the outfit because of the amount of skin it showed off. She would never wear anything like this, but Magdalena Sanchez would. It was the first time she’d used the credit card with her undercover name on it. She’d almost signed the wrong name when she’d paid for the outfit.
She smoothed the long slim skirt in place then checked to make sure the wire Morales had given her was still in place after slipping her top on. Running her hands along her torso, she was amazed how well the wire blended in.
She teased and scrunched her long dark hair to give it that full look everyone seemed so crazy about. It wasn’t really something she was into, but she was playing a role. She pulled all her hair to one side and secured a couple of bobby pins to hold it in place. Then she applied thick black liner to her eyes, fanning it out a little at the edges. Maggie Barnes didn’t need much makeup, but Magdalena was different. The makeup helped her look more like a Colombian national than a woman with ancestral roots in Portugal. Of course, she didn’t look one-hundred percent Colombian. Her complexion was a bit too pale for that. It would darken soon enough with the sun—she’d always tanned easily and darkly—but for now, the makeup did the trick.
She applied some dark blue eyeshadow then finished her eyes with two coats of black mascara. The bronzer she’d chosen made her skin look deeper, but in a natural way. She streaked pink blush on her cheeks then blended it into her skin. The final touch was a bright red lipstick the same shade as her outfit. As she applied the lipstick, she thought about the gun in her bag. As much as she wanted to holster it under her skirt, she’d been warned security would be tight. She couldn’t risk being swept by a metal detector on her first night undercover.
A knock sounded on her door. “You almost ready, Mags?” asked Garcia. She reluctantly tucked her gun in a dresser drawer, marched to the door, and yanked it open.
“Bet your ass, I’m ready,” she said as she smoothed her skirt.
Garcia winked at her. “Wow, sis,” he said, already in character. “If looks can kill, those cartel assholes don’t stand a chance.”
“Ah, but you forget, brother.” Maggie dipped her head as she linked arms with Garcia. “You’re one of them now.” She spoke in Spanish, hoping all the work she’d been doing on her accent would pay off when she met the Ceiba brothers. She needed to sound like a Colombian, not an American who’d learned Spanish in school.
Garcia nodded. “Well played, well played.”
A loud catcall sounded from the balcony as Williams entered the apartment, and Maggie looked over her shoulder at him. “Stuff it, Williams.” She rolled her eyes and blew out a breath.
On the street in front of the apartment building, the team piled into a black SUV with tinted windows.
“In the back, chica,” Williams reminded her. What an ass. This part of the gig was almost harder than realizing she’d be face to face with a couple of murderous drug lords before the night was over.
She took a little comfort in knowing he was their driver and would have to act the part. He jumped in behind the wheel and Garcia, in his role as Julio Sanchez, took the front passenger seat.
As they drove to the Ceiba mansion, Maggie checked her cleavage one more time to make sure her wire wasn’t visible. All clear. She wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip, unsure if it was the humid climate, or her anxieties about the night that caused her temperature to rise.
They drove in silence and Maggie wondered if Williams and Garcia had been rehearsing their roles the way she had. She’d studied everything she could find on Magdalena Sanchez, Julio’s sister. Thanks to her makeup application she even resembled the woman, yet she was still thankful the Ceibas hadn’t met her before.
The paved driveway to the mansion was already lined with vehicles. “You two ready for the biggest party of your lives?” asked Williams in a tone that hinted at jealousy. His job was mostly surveillance from the outside—stay with the vehicle and scope out the perimeter when he could. Eventually, he’d be introduced to the Ceibas as well since he was supposed to be Sanchez’s connection to the US drug trade.
Ahead of them, closer to the mansion, were several men with Uzis staggered at various points in front of the mansion and along the driveway.
“Looks like shit just got real, friends,” Williams said. He wasn’t her friend, and she didn’t appreciate him stating the obvious so blatantly. Her stomach roiled from nerves. He parked the SUV behind a Mercedes limousine that had the sunroof open. The driver was still inside—no doubt, waiting while his clients got drunk or doped up.
Garcia tucked an envelope into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. It was the invitation to tonight’s party Morales’s DEA friends had intercepted on its way to the real Sanchez. Why the guest of honor would need an invitation, Maggie wasn’t sure, but she was quickly realizing life in Bogota wasn’t like life in DC.
Williams placed a black cowboy hat on his head then said in a Texan drawl, “Good luck.” His accent was impressive, and it surprised Maggie. Williams had always been a jerk to her, and she equated that with him also being bad at his job. She’d have to rethink that now.
Garcia nodded to Williams and hopped out of the SUV. Maggie opened the door, wondering why Williams hadn’t done it for her like a good driver would, gathered her skirt, and joined Garcia on the driveway.
A salsa band started up from somewhere inside the mansion, and the sound of the horns shot energy through Maggie as Garcia placed his hand on the small of her back. He nodded as if to say, “We got this.” She flipped her hair to the side and held her head high as they walked up the drive, the music getting louder and the guards growing in number as they reached the main entrance.
Garcia pulled his invitation from his suit jacket and handed it to the doorman.
“Ah, señor Sanchez. We’ve been waiting for you.” He handed the invitation back to Garcia, and in a large swooping motion, he signalled for them to enter, and a Colombian woman held the door open for them.
Maggie’s breath caught at the sight in front of her.
Chapter 7
They stood at the main entrance on the ground floor. In front of Maggie sprawled what had to be dozens of people. There were local Colombians and Americans too—all customers or business partners of the Ceibas, she assumed. A group of Americans walked by speaking English and she recognized two of them as actors she’d seen in a movie not that long ago.
Inside, she was flabbergasted. Outside, you’d think she experienced this sort of thing every day. An official-looking man just inside the door gestured that he wanted to take a look inside Maggie’s purse while a man next to Garcia scanned him with a handheld metal detector.
After they’d been cleared to enjoy the party, the woman who had held the door open for them approached. “Hola,” she said. “I’m Consuella. Señor Ceiba asked me to look after you tonight.” She gave Garcia a wink that made Maggie wonder what she meant by “look after.”
“That’s very kind,” Garcia replied in Spanish.
“Can I get you anything?” Consuella asked.
“We’re fine, thank you,” Garcia said.
“Señor Ceiba is upstairs.” Consuella picked up some empty glasses that had been placed on an end table near the entrance. “Let me know if you change your mind about a drink. We also have a bar set up to your right.” She continued on her way with the empty glasses, and Maggie assumed she was taking them to the kitchen.
Maggie eyed the white spiral staircase in front of them. She’d never seen so much white inside a mansion before. What was she thinking? She’d never been in a mansion before either. Was it the white that made it feel so spacious even with all the party goers?
The salsa music stopped, and cheers erupted from upstairs. As they ascended the stairs, Maggie spied tables full of colorful fo
od and drinks below them. Maybe they should have explored the main level before coming upstairs. She could use a snack. No, the Ceibas were the whole reason they were there, might as well meet the men they were going to take down.
Upstairs were even more people than on the main level. A small stage was set up for the band in an open area toward the back of the room which Maggie guessed—from the couches placed strategically around the outskirts of the room—was normally a lounge area. Because the second level looked down over the main level, the railing on the spiral staircase extended in both directions at the top of the stairs. A glass panel supported the railing, protecting anyone who might try to take a shortcut downstairs.
Opposite where Maggie and Garcia had arrived at the top of the stairs, was a large balcony. There were too many bodies to get a good view of the balcony from where they stood, but Maggie could see enough to know the balcony overlooked the jungle.
A Colombian man Maggie recognized from photos as Carlos Ceiba rose from a couch. The thick gold chains he wore around his neck jingled as he stood.
“Señor Sanchez,” he said in a booming voice. “So nice of you to come tonight.” He shook Garcia’s hand then turned to Maggie and held out his hand, not like he wanted to shake hers, but like he wanted to take it in his. She reluctantly moved her hand toward his and he snatched it up and brought it to his lips.
She bowed her head slightly, not sure what else to do.
“Mi hermana, Magdalena,” Garcia said.
“A pleasure,” Carlos said. “Let me find my brother. Have a seat.” He gestured to the couch where he’d sat before standing to greet them. “Try a sample, perhaps.” He winked then left to find his brother.
Maggie hadn’t understood what he meant until she sat on the long white couch. She smiled at a couple that was already sitting there. The woman leaned over the coffee table and snorted a row of coke off the glass coffee table. Right. Of course there’d be samples. For the Ceibas, this party was all about customer service and gaining new business.
As Garcia was about to sit, Carlos appeared with a man who showed a definite family resemblance to him—Ricardo. The older of the two, Ricardo wore considerably less jewelry than Carlos. Where Carlos’s hair was longer and slicked back, Ricardo’s was cropped short, showing off his dark Colombian features.
She stood next to Garcia and Ricardo extended his hand to her in much the same way Carlos did. She gave him her hand and he accepted, squeezing it gently. “Ricardo Ceiba,” he said. “It’s lovely to meet you.” He also kissed her hand, but this time she didn’t have the urge to run to the bathroom and wash it.
Then he shook Garcia’s hand, and the four of them stood in silence for a brief moment before the salsa band started playing again.
Ricardo leaned in close to Maggie and Garcia. “Why don’t we talk outside?” he asked. “It’s a little quieter out there. Not much . . .” he glanced at the band “. . . but a little.” He shrugged and offered his hand to her again, and she accepted, following him out onto the balcony.
When they arrived on the balcony, she was surprised Garcia and Carlos hadn’t followed them. She tried to peer inside to see if they’d sat back down on the couch, but there were too many people dancing to the salsa band to see through the crowd. She knew the brothers didn’t make decisions without consulting each other. This was likely a ploy to get her away from Garcia.
A waiter arrived at their side, holding a tray of drinks, and Ricardo lifted a flute of champagne off the tray and handed it to Maggie. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had champagne, but of course, Magdalena Sanchez would not have refused the glass.
“Thank you,” she said, meeting Ricardo’s gaze. He was a sophisticatedly handsome man. His warm brown eyes were almost intimidating. She could see why he was so respected. If she didn’t know he was a cartel boss, she’d think he was another type of businessman, maybe an investment banker. Although he was dressed much more casually than an investment banker might dress. He wore a powder blue polo shirt, beige khakis, and dark brown loafers.
He grabbed a champagne flute of his own then clinked it against her glass. “Welcome to Bogota.”
She smiled and sipped the champagne, keeping her eyes locked on his the whole time. There was something about him. She swallowed her champagne then inhaled deeply, catching a waft of his woodsy cologne.
“Shall we sit?” He gestured to a seating area where white wicker furniture with bright yellow cushions welcomed them. A yellow orchid perched on an end table next to one of the chairs. “Magdalena,” he said once they were seated. “Such a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” She took another sip of her champagne, surprised that her glass was almost empty. Why did this man make her so nervous? Where she would have expected to feel the same disgust she felt for his brother, there was only intrigue.
Maggie eyed the orchid next to Ricardo. She had never seen one with so many blooms. He turned to the plant and plucked one of its flowers then leaned closer to her and tucked it behind her ear.
She lightly touched it with her fingers, not wanting to disrupt it. Ricardo trailed a finger along her jawline and her skin tingled beneath his touch. She closed her eyes briefly, then stood and walked to the balcony railing.
Beyond the floodlights of the mansion was the vast jungle. It was under darkness now, and she sensed danger could easily lurk there. No wonder there were so many armed men out front. To the right of where the stone patio led into the jungle was a pool lit from underwater. The aquamarine water was peaceful and still it resembled glass.
Palm trees rustled in the jungle below, and alarm bells rang in her head. As she turned to warn Ricardo, somebody yelled, and the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun blared through the air.
Chapter 8
In an instant, Ricardo was on his feet, pulling Maggie away from the balcony. “Magda, no!” he yelled. He ushered her into the mansion with his hand on the small of her back.
Inside, the salsa band had stopped and appeared to be frantically packing up. People screamed as gunfire continued outside, and she couldn’t tell if it was return fire, or someone firing at the mansion.
Shit.
“Stay down, everybody,” Ricardo said, removing his hand from Maggie’s back. “Our security team is on it.” Then he turned to Maggie. “Please excuse me. We’ve had some problems with Le Gent recently. I must see what’s going on.”
“Of course,” Maggie said. She eyed Ricardo as he hurried downstairs then she scanned the room for Garcia. Her heart raced before she located him across the room, comforting a woman who was crying. She marched in his direction. When he looked up, he furrowed his brows, staring at the orchid tucked behind her ear.
“I’m going to see what Ricardo’s up to,” she said, then gave him a look that told him he better come with her. When she got to the main floor, she followed the commotion to a back entrance where guests had gathered. Many stood staring with gaping jaws.
The popping of gunfire stopped suddenly, and she wasn’t sure if it was because the cartel had killed the rebels, or if everyone was reloading.
“What’s going on?” Garcia asked from behind her.
“Ricardo said it was Le Gent,” she said, then shrugged as she made her way to the front of the crowd. Garcia followed closely behind.
When Maggie spotted Ricardo outside, he appeared to be arguing with Carlos. Carlos aimed a machine gun into the jungle, flanked by four other men—two with machine guns, two with Uzis. She scanned the other men, but it was too dark to make out any distinguishing features.
“Come on,” she heard Ricardo say. “Didn't I tell you this was going to happen?”
“Just go inside. We’ll take care of it,” said Carlos, staring out into the jungle.
“I’m not going inside unless you’re coming with me.” He paused as if waiting for the gunfire to start again. “You scared them off. There’s no sense firing blindly into the jungle. Let the professionals do what they came here to do.” He gest
ured to the men flanking Carlos. He had a point. The flood lights only went so far. Why the hell the six of them were standing out there under the lights, she had no idea. They were sitting ducks.
She snapped into her role as Magdalena and marched up to Ricardo. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to be standing under these lights?” She tried to look as doe-eyed as possible while lightly touching his arm.
“Nonsense,” said Carlos, as if he was invincible. “Our men in the jungle have chased away the terrorists.” If it was Le Gent, they weren’t the terrorists. It was FARC—the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia—that were the true terrorists, but she could see how Carlos would believe otherwise, and as Magdalena Sanchez, she had to agree.
“Carlos.” Ricardo gave him a look that told her he’d taken her point.
“What men?” she asked.
“That’s none of your business.” Carlos said it without looking at her.
“If my brother is to do business with you, I make it my business.” She spun around and headed back inside.
“Magda, wait,” Ricardo yelled after her. “Carlos, you idiot.”
As she passed Garcia, he joined her, trying to keep pace. “Whoa. Where’s the fire?” he asked.
“I’m trying to make a point,” she said. “The Ceibas have put everyone here in danger. Why would Julio Sanchez want to do business with risky men like that?”
“Magda! Julio!” It was Ricardo again. Maggie stopped and turned suddenly. Guests parted the way for Ricardo as he barreled toward them. “Please,” he said. “I assure you that won’t happen again. We’ve taken care of it.”
Garcia nodded cooly as only Julio Sanchez could. He pulled a card from his suit pocket and handed it to Ricardo. “We’re staying at the Hotel Tequendama.” Of course, they couldn’t very well tell him they were in the apartment building on the hill. “Perhaps it’s best we reschedule.”
Maggie's Mark (Ceiba Cartel Book 1) Page 3
