My room is still an ocean of bags. There’s only a small trail of open space leading to the bed and the bathroom. I select a red silk robe with matching sheer lingerie to go with it. Since I don’t have any makeup, Diego has brought in a stylist from the mainland. He arrives and quickly goes to work, transforming me into a total knockout.
When he’s done, even I want to have sex with me.
After throwing on the robe, I walk into Diego’s bedroom to show him the final look. I stand at the threshold and twirl the belt of my robe.
“Hey, stranger,” I coo in a raspy voice.
I open the robe and let it slide off my shoulders.
Diego’s eyes go wide. “Don’t tempt me. That’s too much for any man to resist.”
“Good. Hopefully, Peña will feel the same.”
Diego holds a tiny bottle and uses an eyedropper to fill it up. He screws on the top and tapes the cap.
I draw near to him and stare at it.
“You must be very careful not to get any of this on your skin,” he says. “It’s very potent. Even if the slightest amount got into your body, it would leave you gravely ill.”
“How much does it take to kill someone?”
“Less than a drop. There’s enough in here so that the first sip should be enough to do him in. You’ll want to be near him when he drinks it because the paralysis will cause him to drop the glass. If it shatters and makes too much noise, his guards may suspect something. According to Eduardo, the guards wait outside the room, so you have to be quiet about it.”
“Are they going to believe that he’s taking a shower?”
“I think so. Eduardo’s girls told him he usually does unless he’s too drunk to get up. He should be pretty out of it when you arrive.”
“Good.”
Diego and I—along with his main bodyguard, Santos, and several other guards—take the yacht to a dock in Cartagena.
When we step off the boat, a Lincoln Navigator is waiting for us.
“This is the same vehicle used by the escort agency,” Diego says. “I didn’t want to risk driving up in a different one and drawing suspicions.”
The men begin attaching magazines to their rifles. I hear the clicking of metal all around me in the vehicle.
“I hope he doesn’t decide to inspect the car,” I joke.
“He won’t,” Diego says. “We’ll have to drop you off at the gate. They’ll let you in from there. Eduardo has told Peña that your name is Rachel. Remember that in case anyone asks.”
We drive for about thirty minutes.
When the driver announces that we’re getting close, I spray perfume on my neck and wrists. I take a deep breath and tell myself this isn’t different from the undercover work I’ve done my entire career, though I can’t name another time when my objective was to assassinate a suspect. It shouldn’t be too difficult. If Peña is already drunk, I’ll just excuse myself to the restroom and mix the drink there. He’ll be too out of it to know what’s happening.
The Lincoln trundles through a wealthy suburb with homes set back far from the road and gates outside every drive. Set along each side of the road, giant thujas and privet hedges obscure all of the homes except for their rooftops.
The vehicle pulls into a brick drive with an imposing metal gate that is solid and black.
“This is it,” the driver says.
“Will you wait here while I’m inside?”
“Yes,” Diego says. “We will be here as soon as you come out.”
He kisses me as I open the door.
“You’re going to do great,” he says.
I close the door and approach the gate. There’s a call button along the wall that’s next to the gate with a camera above it.
I press the button and wait.
The gate begins retracting and a voice emits from a speaker. “Follow the path to the front of the house.”
My heels click across the drive. It’s the only sound I hear. Glancing around to get my bearings, I look for any possible escape routes. A large wall encloses the entire front yard. Beyond that there’s the same giant shrubbery. I doubt the backyard is any better.
A man smoking a cigar steps out of the front of the house. The pip of his cherry grows bright. When the man walks beyond the portico, a billow of smoke follows him.
“Eduardo tells me you only speak English,” he says.
“Yes, that’s correct.”
He takes another long drag, studying me. “I didn’t know Eduardo was using traveling girls. When did that happen?”
I shrug. “I’m not really sure. My manager told me he had work for me in Colombia that paid well. I don’t know any of the details beyond that.”
“Right, right. Okay, come inside.”
I step through the front door.
Two guards immediately inspect me. They remove the robe and tell me to unclasp my bra. Adrenaline pumps through me. I worry they may give me a cavity search.
“That’s enough,” the man with the cigar says. “We want the lady to be in good spirits when she sees Mr. Peña. I don’t think she’s carrying any bazookas up there.”
I smile. “Well, I might be in a few minutes.”
The men laugh.
“He’s gonna like you. Come. Follow me.”
I go with him through a dark hall, trailing a haze of smoke. At the last door, the man knocks and cracks open the door.
Spanish words are exchanged.
The man nods to me. “He’s ready for you.”
I thank him and enter.
The bedroom is dark except for a bathroom light and a muted television with an action movie playing. The smell of tequila is so strong that I have to resist covering my nose. On the bed lies a wrinkly man in a silk pair of boxers. Dark skin sags over bones. A thick mane of hair covers his chest. His eyes are grey; if there was ever any spirit in them, it’s long gone. So this is the great Peña: a frail, weary man in a blacked out room drinking himself to death.
He rises in the bed, pointing at me. “What’s your name? Your real name.”
“Miranda.”
Why not? This man is going to be dead within the hour.
“Miranda. Pretty name. I like that better than Rachel. Rachel sounds like a whore.”
He laughs, followed by a round of coughing.
“Would you like a drink before we begin?” I offer.
“Sure, I’ve been drinking all day, but what’s another? Pour one for yourself.”
I go to the desk on the other side of the room—next to the bathroom—and set out two rock glasses. Peña isn’t drunk enough for me to excuse myself to the bathroom.
Not yet.
I pour us both a glass, but I give Peña about twice as much. I need this man drunk fast.
With a smile, I hand him his drink.
He takes a sip and looks me over. “Aren’t you something else. Eduardo must really have his shit together.”
“Thank you.”
He tips the glass as he studies me, gulping the tequila with shocking ease. I’m relieved when he quickly kills the first drink. I want to get out of this place as fast as possible.
“Let me get you a refill,” I say.
“No, no. First you have to finish yours.”
I maintain a smile. This isn’t a contingency I had planned for. “You don’t have to get me drunk. I do it all either way.”
“Yeah, but I requested a party girl so bottoms up.”
He isn’t asking.
I plug my nose and drink. My eyes fill with tears, and I can’t stop coughing.
Peña claps. “That’s real tequila. None of that watered-down American crap. That’s why I got all this hair.” He pats his chest. “Fill them back up. And make sure they’re the same amount in each glass. I saw you trying to cheat with that first one.”
The tequila rushes to my head. I pour the next glasses to the brim.
He takes his glass and drinks it in less than five minutes.
“Hurry up,” he says. “You’re slowing me d
own.”
I force another sip and stare at the glass. I still have another half to finish. As I nurse my tequila, Peña pulls out a large bag of coke from a drawer of his nightstand. He scoops out a small pile onto a mirror, draws out a couple of lines, and snorts them using a metal object that has similar dimensions to a rolled-up bill.
He draws out another line.
He gestures with the metal piece. “Your turn.”
I stare at the cocaine and then at Peña. “Oh, no. That’s not really my thing.”
“I don’t give a damn what your thing is. Come over here and do a line. It will help you drink faster.”
Fuck me. I sit down on the bed as Peña holds the mirror to my face. He tells me to plug one of my nostrils and to inhale through my nose as quickly as I can.
The powder rushes in. My nose, along with the upper-bridge of my jaw, goes numb.
“That’s pure,” Peña says. “None of that stamped-on shit.”
My heart begins revving and my mind races with thoughts and the desire to speak. The back of my throat goes numb, as well. I throw back the rest of the tequila without any resistance.
Peña was right. My head is cleared of the alcohol except for its relaxing qualities. This concerns me. If Peña continues doing coke, the alcohol isn’t going to put him into the inebriated state I need him to be. I pour us more drinks and urge him on by finishing mine first. This leads to another round and then another, followed by more coke.
My brain’s pleasure centers light up with activity. I’m more awake and alert than ever and I sense Peña feels the same. I’m running out of time and options.
If I’m going to do this, it has to be done now.
I excuse myself to the restroom.
I retrieve the bottle from inside me and take a piss. The rancid odor coming out of my body alerts me to the poison I’ve consumed. I flush the toilet and open the bottle, keeping it in the palm of my hand.
Outside, I pour us another drink. As I return the cap to the bottle of tequila, I tip my hand with the poison into his glass. The solution disappears into the drink. It’s dark enough in the room for me to leave the small bottle on the table.
“Time for another one!” I say.
Peña shakes his head. “No more for me. If I drink or take in any more coke, my dick’s never gonna work. Set those glasses down and come earn your pay.”
The rock glasses shake in my hands. I don’t know what else I can do. The plan was contingent on him drinking the poison. If I force it down his throat, the guards will hear.
I set the drinks against the nightstand. “First, let me give you a back rub.”
I crawl behind him.
“If I wanted a massage, I would have called a masseuse. I want my dick su—”
My arm strangles his neck, pressing as hard as I can. Peña gags and tries to scream, but my tight grip prevents any sounds from escaping.
Peña pushes back.
His strength surprises me. He flings himself off the bed, sending me with him. My shoulder smashes into the nightstand, knocking over the lamp and the rock glasses. They shatter as we hit the floor.
I squeeze Peña with everything I have in me. He continues to thrash his feet as he tries to pull my arm away from his neck. He throws back his head, slamming his skull into my lip.
Warm blood fills my mouth.
A guard knocks. “Está todo bien ahí, Mr. Peña.”
I don’t need to speak Spanish to know what they’re asking. The doorknob starts to turn. They’re coming inside, and in a few seconds, they’ll see me on the floor strangling Peña.
A vertical beam of light streams through the cracked door.
I begin to moan, feigning the best orgasm of my life. “Ohhh! Ohhh! Yes, Peña! Yes!”
The door closes
The knob turns back.
I squeeze Peña’s neck with everything I have left in me until my arm crushes the cartilage of his larynx.
He stops fighting.
His breath fades.
I release his body and collapse to the floor.
I pant and try to catch my breath, but I can’t relax. I have to get his body into the bathroom.
So that I don’t make too much noise when moving his body, I go to the shower stall and turn on the water.
I pause in front of the mirror. My lip’s busted and I have a bruise forming below my eye and chin. I hope Peña is a fan of rough sex or my beauty marks are going to appear rather extreme.
Peña’s frail body is easy to move. I get him into the bathroom far enough to close the door.
I grab the empty bottle containing the poison and toss it under the bed. I don’t see any point in cleaning up. Now I just need to get out of here.
After putting my robe back on, I open the door.
Two guards are standing outside.
They look at me and smile.
“Was Mr. Peña too rough for you?” one of them asks.
I curl one end of my mouth and answer him in a sexy, raspy voice. “I think I was too rough for him.”
I start down the hall.
One of the guards spanks me on my ass.
I ignore him.
All that matters now is getting out of here before they discover Peña. I want to break into a full sprint and run out the front door to the awaiting SUV and into Diego’s arms. Yet I have to be calm. This is the part where most undercover operations go wrong, because it’s when officers and agents let their guard down.
The man with the cigar is standing at the front door. “We already arranged payment with Eduardo.”
I nod to him as he opens the front door.
“I thank you for your hospitality,” he says, shutting the door.
I move under the portico and down the front steps.
The gate begins to open.
I see the Lincoln waiting outside. I’m almost there. This harebrained scheme actually worked.
I’m halfway down the path when I hear shouting from the house.
“Detengala! Detengala!”
I don’t look back.
I run.
My heels stamp across the uneven path.
Doors to the Lincoln burst open. Diego and his men pour out, taking crouched positions and aiming their muzzles. The quiet neighborhood, cradled by posh surroundings, becomes a battlefield.
The clamor of automatic weapons rattles the ground beneath me. Bullets whiz in both directions. They sound like angry cicadas buzzing by my ear.
Diego shouts to me, but I can’t understand him.
My heel catches a crevice between two bricks and cracks. I don’t have time to stop and remove the strappy heels. I continue hobbling. I have to hurry. The gate is starting to close. If it shuts, I’ll have no way out.
The bullets strike closer. The ring of gunfire becomes terrific. The herringbone-patterned brick explodes.
I run through the airborne shards of debris. I’m almost there. A few more steps before I’ll be in Diego’s arms.
The cracked heel breaks lose.
I fall to the ground.
Knees and hands slam onto the pavement.
I only know to keep moving, to give them a harder target to shoot than an immobile one. The gate is almost shut. I rip the broken heel off my foot and try to get back to my feet, yet the uneven stride throws me off, and I fall back onto the shattered brick.
I’m not going to make it.
Diego plugs the gate by wedging his M4 lengthwise into the dwindling gap. The gun holds. He swings under the carbine and rushes toward me.
“I’ve got you,” he shouts.
He throws me over his shoulder and runs for the gate. The roof of Peña’s home is covered with soldiers firing and reloading.
A slug strikes Diego in his leg. He stumbles, but remains on his feet. He passes me through the gate and into the hands of his assistants.
They grab me and carry me inside the vehicle.
Diego grabs his gun. Blood trails his staggering feet. He collapses against the
back door and has to be pulled in the rest of the way.
The driver doesn’t wait for him to get all the way inside. The Lincoln rushes away with his legs still hanging out, tires and gunfire screaming into the night.
I’m asked if I’ve been hit.
I tell them I don’t think so.
Diego writhes in pain. His pants are removed so the bullet wound can be examined. His pant leg is soaked in blood. More pours out from the wound on his calf. If they don’t stop the bleeding soon, Diego won’t make it.
I discard my robe. “Tie this around his leg.”
I instruct them to place the tourniquet a few inches above the wound. The act may cost him his leg, but at least Diego won’t lose his life.
The back window explodes.
Shards of glass blast across my face and hair. The SUV swerves, the driver almost losing control.
I stare over my seat. A vehicle is following with a gunner hanging out of the window.
“Get down,” Santos yells, pushing my head behind the seat.
I cover my ears as the awesome clatter of exploding gunfire rattles my teeth. The sulfuric smell of spent munitions fills the air. Hot casings drop on me.
Tires screech.
I don’t know if it’s our vehicle or not.
“Got ‘em,” Santos yells. “Hit the gas. Get us the hell out of here.”
We’re several blocks away from danger before anyone realizes that a young guard in the back of the Lincoln has taken a fatal shot to the neck. The rest of the ride is quiet save for Diego’s occasional groans.
When we arrive at the dock, the driver says he’ll take the vehicle somewhere to be destroyed.
Diego is carried onto the yacht and laid upon the dining table. He isn’t going to survive, and none of his men know what to do.
“We have to get the bullet out,” I say.
I check his pulse. It’s weak but still beating. His face is pale; his eyes flicker.
I grab one of the guards. “You see this?” I point to Diego’s femoral artery. “I want you to press here until I tell you to stop.”
He nods and does as I say.
No one asks me how I know any of this. I yell for a small knife of some kind as I wash my hands in the kitchen sink. I’m handed a steak knife and a paring knife. Neither are great options, but I take the paring knife. “Hold him still.” His limbs are held down. I begin fishing for the bullet. The blade slicing into already mangled flesh has Diego screaming and resisting. Good. As long as Diego is kicking and hollering, he isn’t dead.
Reckless Page 11
