by Ann Aguirre
“I trust you found the accommodations to your liking,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“I have nothing to say until I know my friends are safe.”
In my head, the shots echoed as we drove away, and I couldn’t restrain a flinch.
“They are well,” he assured me.
Relief left me light-headed, so much that I couldn’t speak. Thank you for Shannon. He took my silence for skepticism.
“But I do not believe you’ll take my word. Shall we call them?” He lofted my phone—the same one they’d texted. I had no idea how long it had been, how long I had been unconscious.
Sudden hope surged through me, but I managed not to snatch it from him. “Let me dial.”
“Of course.”
He passed the cell over and I punched in Shannon’s number. It rang three times and then her wonderful voice came on the line. Caller ID told her who it was before she picked up. “Corine? Where are you? God, we’ve been so worried.”
“I don’t know. Are you okay? I heard gunfire.” Even if I had a clue where I was, I wouldn’t tell her. I didn’t want Shan involved further, if I could help it.
“They shot the engine block.” The disgust in her voice came across clearly. “You have any idea how long it takes to get a tow truck in the middle of the night? I had Skittles and Pepsi for breakfast.”
“Where are you? Did Kel find a place for you to stay?”
I heard a rumble of background noise, a cocktail of male and female voices. “We went to Laredo.” Ah, shit. Shannon confirmed my fear. “I’m staying with Chuch and Eva. He’s funny, but she’s so mad at you for not calling. They’re really nice. I think Jesse’s coming over tonight.”
Great, when this was over, I was so going to hear about my failure to communicate. Assuming I survived. But I had to find a way to keep Shannon safe, a solution that didn’t endanger her . . . or anyone else, for that matter. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Chuch and Eva, after they’d been so kind to me. I wouldn’t be ringing again after this. Given sufficient warning, I wouldn’t put it past Chuch to try to trace the call. The former weapons dealer had crazy connections. Like it or not, it looked like I was on my own.
“And Butch is all right?”
“He misses you.”
Despite my wishing Kel had gone another route, there were few people I trusted more than Chuch and Eva. They’d look after Shannon, and he likely hadn’t known where else to go. It wasn’t like God’s Hand had contacts of his own; he was too much of a rolling stone.
“I’ll be in touch when I can.”
“Wait. Where—”
Before she could finish the question, my host took the phone from me and hit “end.” Not content with those measures, he powered the device down and handed it back to me. “Feel better?”
“Some.” If he’d meant to harm us, he could’ve done so already. Well, not Kel, not permanently, but Shannon was fragile. I wished I’d sent her to Oklahoma City.
“I merely wished to discourage your friend from following. He has a history of leaving wreckage in his wake.”
I considered what we’d done at the warlock’s compound and then later at Montoya’s mountain hideout and had to agree. “Fair enough. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get a little private time with me. So what do you want?”
“You interest me,” he said. “Montoya has gone off the deep end over you, señorita. Others have failed to provoke such a powerful reaction. Why is that?”
I shrugged. It was a long story, starting with my exboyfriend’s mother, a dead prostitute, a fictional curse, and a bunch of bad luck. As ever, mine.
“The better question is why you care.”
“I am Ramiro Escobar,” he answered, as if that explained everything.
Horribly enough, it did.
Deals with the Devil
It all made sense now. Back in Laredo, a man named Esteban helped us out when we went up against Montoya for the first time. He’d told us he worked for Escobar, Montoya’s biggest rival. I could only surmise I’d been taken by the same guy. Still, it seemed best to confirm the supposition.
“You sometimes find yourself in competition with Montoya?” I ventured.
He smiled. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
Well, only because of Esteban. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by letting him know his legend wasn’t as big as he believed. No man wanted to hear that. I relaxed a little, though. Now I thought I knew why he’d scooped me up. Sure, since he had my cell number, a preliminary conversation would’ve been more polite, but handled this way, he proved he meant business. A benign kidnapping revealed certain panache, but I shouldn’t lose sight of how dangerous this man was.
“Yeah. One of your . . .” What did you call a guy who worked for a drug dealer? Henchman sounded very 1960s Batman. I decided on, “. . . employees helped us out a while back.”
“I am aware.”
A micromanager, eh? “Look, I’m sure you didn’t pull me out of my car for the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we get down to business?”
Clearly he wanted something from me or I wouldn’t be here, at least not with all my parts intact. Montoya might be a rabid dog, but Escobar had an equally brutal reputation. He just went about his work more quietly; the bodies he dumped didn’t surface and wind up on the news.
“A meal first,” he said with implacable politeness.
I managed a smile. “I can’t remember when I last had a proper meal. That would be lovely.”
A little voice shouted in the back of my head that this was crazy, but I crushed it. One didn’t anger the wolf by refusing to share his meat. According to older rules of hospitality, if I ate his food and drank his wine, he shouldn’t do violence against me. I’d just hang on to that hope.
“He hunts you like an animal,” he noted as he turned to step into the hall. I heard him speaking to someone in a low voice. When he returned, he added, “Our repast will arrive shortly. Will you sit?”
I’d known enough dictatorial men to realize that wasn’t an invitation; it was an order wrapped in a courteous coating, like the hard candy shell on M&M’s kept the chocolate in line. Muting a sigh, I crossed to the pair of wing-backed chairs. They were angled for intimate discussion, and the gleaming cherry table between them could easily hold a tray. Despite myself, my stomach rumbled.
Since he didn’t yet want to talk about why he’d brought me here, I made small talk—and I wasn’t good at it in the best of times. This didn’t qualify.
Still, I offered, “You have a lovely home.”
Escobar scrutinized my movements and mannerisms. “Yes.” Unlike most, he didn’t thank me for stating the obvious. “As I said before, you intrigue me. Would you mind if I have one of my men examine you?”
“What would that entail?”
I wasn’t about to offer myself for rectal probing or freelance vaginal spelunking. Like hell would I budge from this chair, unless he answered the question in a less-than-alarming fashion. Surreptitiously, I wrapped my fingers around the arms. I could do the passive-resistance thing.
“Nothing invasive.”
Claims the kidnapping drug dealer.
“Maybe,” I said. “It depends on how dinner goes.”
From his expression, he took that as a flirtatious rejoinder. Oh, crap. While I was trying to figure out how to backpedal from that, someone rapped on the door. At Escobar’s murmured assent, a servant clad in black and white entered with a tray of cold cuts, gourmet cheeses, and fresh fruit. While he laid out the repast, I sat quiet in my chair, battling back the fear that pounded like a pulse. Despite my bravado, I was in a precarious situation. I needed to make this man happy enough to let me go, but without selling my soul in the process.
“That will be all, Carlitos.”
The employee nodded and he didn’t quite back out of the room, but his look as he left offered that sort of deference. Since I was hungry, I served
myself some rolled ham, a few slices of cheddar cheese, and a handful of grapes. He waited until I cleaned my plate, anxious to be a good host. I found that slightly distressing.
“So now we’ve eaten,” I prompted.
“Let me cut to the chase, then. I believe you could prove useful to me.”
Oh, man. That was the second-to-last thing I wanted to hear, right after, I want to cut off your head and make a bowl from your skull.
“How so?”
“Montoya has shown he will stop at nothing to get to you, and his anger makes him vulnerable. In the past weeks, he has taken great risks. Therefore, I want you to help . . . remove him as an obstacle to my business interests.”
“Are you sure you have the right woman? I can’t even fire a handgun.”
“You surround yourself with dangerous, capable people,” he said quietly. “The lack of martial physical skill is of no consequence to a good general. He must merely know when to deploy his men.”
“I don’t have ‘men.’ ”
“You do.” He spoke with the air of one who never argued; Ramiro Escobar didn’t need to. “Under the right conditions, I will offer you my protection, which will incense Montoya all the more. In short, I intend to use you as bait. If you survive, I will reward you richly.”
Who wouldn’t leap at a deal couched in terms of if you survive? But with his blood money, I could rebuild my shop. I saw it renovated, better than ever. Temptation swirled in my head. I remembered the clips of the wreckage on the news; there was no way I’d manage without a windfall. Otherwise, I had to start over.
Maybe—no. I mentally shook my head at the offer, trying to resist. On the other hand . . . I mean, it’s not like he’s asking me to do anything bad. I was going after Montoya anyway. My conscience whimpered. Yeah, that’s how it starts. I couldn’t afford to alienate him inside his stronghold, however, so I maintained an impassive expression. Well, I tried, anyway.
“I have to deal with him,” I admitted. “He’s not walking away from this.”
Not after Ernesto, Señor Alvarez, and my shop. If I’d considered running, that was no longer an option. He had made Shannon and me homeless and killed innocent people trying to get to me. If I didn’t stop it, the body count would just keep rising.
I went on. “So, I’m listening.”
He smiled. “I thought you were a reasonable woman. But before I cement an alliance with you, I want tangible evidence that you are, in fact, as tough and resourceful as I believe.”
I’d seen The Labors of Hercules on his bookshelf, so I feared I knew what came next. “Let me guess. A test? I hope not twelve of them.”
“We can learn a great deal about how our would-be allies perform under duress,” he observed. “For you, I set forth three tasks. One challenges your physical endurance, another tests mental acuity, and the last feat, your courage.”
“How am I supposed to survive long enough to run the gauntlet?”
“Where I will send you,” Escobar said softly, “my enemy will never find you. If you return successful, I will extend my protection to you, and we will move forward in our joint efforts to destroy Diego Montoya.”
My skin crawled at the idea of being beholden to Ramiro Escobar. Beneath the polite, urbane exterior lay a yawning emptiness that suggested he did not acknowledge anything beyond his own fingertips as sovereign or self-willed. Could I walk away from this, or had he just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse?
“Assume I pass your trials. Assume we crush Montoya with me as bait and you as the steel trap.”
“Highly desirable outcomes.”
“What then? Will we have any obligation to each other thereafter?”
“No,” he said. “Though as a courtesy I will not rescind my protection, so long as you do not cross me or interfere in my affairs.”
That could be handy, if I didn’t think about all the harm he caused, lives ruined, people murdered. You know, little things. I took a deep breath. This was worse than any course I’d considered to date, using evil to fight evil. If I allied with him, I had to accept this tarnish on my soul. I shuddered because I knew what kind of man Escobar was; drugs might even be the least of it.
“If I refuse your offer, what happens then?”
“I let you go.” Escobar lifted his shoulders. “In all likelihood, Montoya will succeed in killing you, which will be unfortunate, but I cannot mourn someone who passed up such an opportunity.”
Kel wanted to ask Twila for an introduction to this guy, or someone like him. He glimpsed my future and it didn’t look bright. Even he can’t keep up with the numbers Montoya can send—it only takes one stray bullet.
“You’d let me go,” I said, trying to reason out his motives. “On the off chance I might do Montoya some harm before I died?”
“Precisely.”
“But if I’m not willing to take your challenge, then I’m not worthy of your protection.”
Which was pretty messed up, as I considered—he was saying I had to prove I was good enough for him to use as bait. Ramiro Escobar had a high opinion of himself. Then again, maybe he wanted to make sure I had the nerve to see the scheme through—that I wouldn’t turn on him halfway through and try to make a deal with Montoya, using him as the lure. Since I had no beef with Escobar—apart from his pulling me out of the car and drugging me, he’d proven himself a pretty good guy, for a cartel boss—I’d never do such a thing. Regardless, I had to admire such twisty thinking.
“I see we understand each other.”
I had a clear picture, all right. Now I just needed to decide what to do. To give myself time to think, I took two more pieces of ham, some cheese, and apple wedges. Escobar watched me eat, elegant in his white suit. I couldn’t help but imagine the pale linen spattered with blood, but it would be mine spilling out if I walked away.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I’m in. What am I supposed to do first?”
“You will be allowed to pick one person to help you. Only one. I will send men to secure this individual and deliver him or her to the starting point. There will be clues along the way as to what you need to be doing. Once you pass all three tests, I will return you to Texas.”
“Where we’ll take on Montoya together.”
It sounded like he was describing The Amazing Race. Great news for me, he loved mythology, strategy, and challenges straight out of reality television.
Escobar rose and padded over to his desk, where he lofted a sheaf of paper. Contracts, maybe. “Upon confirmation of his death, I’ll pay you one hundred K.”
That was nothing to him, but it nearly made me choke on my cheddar. “Whatever you’re having me do first, it must be worth something to you.”
“Some things,” he said, “are priceless.”
I’d heard that tone before. “You want me to retrieve some lost artifact. Then, once I’ve got it, you’re going to make me handle it, knowing it’s charged with hellacious shit.”
“I did say the final task would test your courage.”
I knew the drill now. Mental acuity amounted to locating the damn thing. Physical challenge would be the actual acquisition—and courage? Well, who wanted to touch a magickal item that caused mayhem and destruction? He wasn’t sending me to Calcutta to retrieve Mother Teresa’s thimble.
“So you did. Are you going to call your guy to check me out now?”
“As long as you’re willing.”
Oh, sure. I had all the power in this partnership. “Go for it.”
Escobar used the intercom this time, murmuring in Spanish. The gist was that he wanted Paolo to come to the study right away. I occupied myself with eating. There were tiny Belgian chocolates arranged artfully around the edge of the plate.
When Paolo appeared a few minutes later, I decided man was a stretch. The kid couldn’t be more than eighteen, slim and pretty, with caramel skin. He had doe eyes and long lashes, and I stopped worrying that his examination would be awful and invasive.
“Señorita Solo
mon,” he said, bowing over my hand.
When our fingers brushed, it threw a spark. My eyes met his in silent recognition. He was gifted, but it would be rude to inquire in case his boss didn’t know. I held my tongue.
“Ah,” Escobar said. He had noted it too, so apparently he was familiar with such things. “She is like you, it would seem.”
“I have brought two objects for you,” Paolo murmured. “One contains a charge that will tell you something about Señor Escobar that you could never otherwise know.”
So it was a test more than an examination. I wished he’d said so in the first place. Though perhaps Escobar’s English wasn’t so precise as I’d thought—he might have used examine as a not-quite-accurate synonym for test. I did that kind of thing in Spanish all the time.
The boy opened his palms, which were long and narrow. In his left hand he held a silver key—in his right, a gold ring. Most likely they wanted a show. Well, I was in no mood for theatrics, so I merely brushed my fingertips over each item. The key contained nothing, though it presumably unlocked something. That established, closing my eyes, I took the ring and curled my hand about it, accepting pain as the price of my gift, and let the images come.
When I opened my eyes, I was smiling. “Your first name isn’t Ramiro, and your mother loved you very much. That was her wedding ring.”
“What is my name?” Escobar asked, his voice gone hoarse with some emotion I was afraid to identify. His lean jaw clenched in expectation of my answer.
“Efraín,” I said softly. “Because you were second-born of twins, but your brother died when you were small, and you cannot bear to hear the name spoken because you miss him, even now.”
I had seen her writing their names in a baby book, each letter lovingly inscribed with near-calligraphic quality. Somehow I doubted the woman I had seen would be proud of the life her son had chosen. Escobar knew it too.
“You have a real gift,” Paolo declared.
As do you, I said with my eyes. But still, I would not ask. He should tell me, if he wanted to, but this was neither the place nor the time. Not with Escobar pacing like a tiger. When Paolo slipped out, I wanted to follow, but I hadn’t been dismissed.
