by Maggie Ryan
He used some of his water to turn tonight’s beverage of choice into a liquid, though the orange drink tasted nothing like the freshly squeezed juice that Jennie, the housekeeper and surrogate mother at the Black Stallion Ranch, made every morning. Anson chuckled as he opened the heated meal and dipped his spoon inside and took his first bite. Christ! He’d almost rather eat a big bowl of Jennie’s hippie, tofu laden meatloaf than the “pork patty,” but knowing he’d expended a lot of calories and would continue to do so, he ate every single bite. At least this MRE offered a pouch of peaches and a slice of pound cake that helped clear his palate of the pork and actually tasted good. With his meal completed, he stowed his trash back in the pack after sealing it in a plastic bag. Though he could crawl outside and bury it, he’d not leave a single trace of his existence behind. He was a firm believer in the adage, “take nothing but photographs and leave nothing but footprints” whenever he was out in nature. Checking the time, he pulled out the most vital piece of equipment, punched in the numbers to encrypt the call and waited for someone to answer.
“Buena tarde, cómo lo llevas, hermano?”
“Hanging good,” Anson said, the pleasure of hearing a familiar voice easing some of the tension he’d carried all day. He could easily picture Stryder, his younger brother by a year, sitting in the operations center at home. In fact, as the picture popped into his head, he added, “And get your feet off the table before you break something. You know how sensitive that equipment is.”
A deep chuckle came over the line. “Jeez, don’t get your panties in a wad, bro, everything is cool here. How are you doing, Anson?”
“I’m good, tired but good,” Anson said. “I saw her. I saw Natalia.”
“Seriously? That’s fantastic. Zoya will be so happy to hear that…” Stryder paused and then asked, “I mean, it is good, right?”
“Yeah, she looked good,” Anson said and proceeded to tell his brother how he’d watched the woman swimming. “It appears that just like Mark Twain, the news of Montez’s impending death has been greatly exaggerated. The man is alive and kicking.” He admitted that his first reaction at seeing Montez touch Natalia was the desire to charge into the compound and drown him in his own fucking pool.
“I can’t blame you, but fat floats. As obese as Montez is, I’m afraid he’d just bob around like some obscene pool toy,” Stryder said with a chuckle.
Anson knew Stryder understood his feelings but was trying to relieve the anger he could obviously hear in his brother’s voice. They’d been on several missions together as part of the Black Stallion team. Their latest mission had been in Russia, where the two had taken on the role of men interested in buying a sex slave—all in the name of gathering information to take down a notorious criminal by the name of Vasily Poplov. That mission had brought Zoya into their lives and into Stryder’s arms. They had a small wedding before Anson had left for Argentina and were expecting the birth of their first child. That was another reason why Anson had refused his brother’s offer to come with him to Argentina.
“Yeah, but I won’t leave Argentina until the man is six feet under… well, it might take a deeper hole to stuff him into.”
They both chuckled at the visual and then Stryder informed him that their father was waiting to talk to him. “Before I pass Pops the phone, keep safe, bro. You need us… any of us, and we are there.”
“I know, thanks.”
The next voice Anson heard was his father’s. “Hey, son. You good?”
“Yeah, Pops.” He spent the next few minutes sharing every scrap of information he’d gleaned from his reconnaissance, ending with, “Montez is alive and well. I just saw him enjoying drinks and a cigar by the pool. Someone either got their facts wrong or they are purposefully attempting to send us down the wrong path.”
“Can’t say, but I have discovered that there might be a better opportunity to get to him other than at his compound. There is a fiesta being planned in honor of his sixtieth birthday this weekend. If the guest list includes some of the names we’ve researched, I guarantee there is a very good chance that he’d not attend without Natalia on his arm. Montez won’t be able to resist showing her off.”
Anson wasn’t aware he’d growled until his father said, “Son, you can’t allow your emotions to get the better of you—”
“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” Anson snapped before he got himself under control. He couldn’t deny the irony of his father’s words. In Russia, Anson had practically said the same words to Stryder. “Sorry, Pops, it’s just…”
Drake was silent for a few moments before evidently understanding that his son had nothing else to add that wouldn’t be a lie. “I know, Anson. Believe me, we all know how you feel. But you’ll need to keep it together if you have any chance of getting Natalia out of Argentina. We are continuing to monitor every channel and put feelers out to everyone who can help, but I’m sure you know you are smack dab in the middle of one of the most dangerous countries in the world. Drop your guard and someone is likely to slit your throat without pause or bothering to ask questions first.”
“I hear you,” Anson said, steeling himself to focus on his mission.
“All right. As I was saying, the party is to be held at the Alvear Palace Hotel. Guests will be bringing their own guards, so be prepared for a small army. But it still gives you a better chance to crash the party. We’ll get you whatever information we can before you go in. You might think about changing your looks a bit as well. I imagine there aren’t that many blond-haired, blue eyed gringos walking around the streets.”
Anson smiled. “Check your history, Pops. Germans began emigrating to Argentina in the early part of the nineteenth century. Then, when Juan Perón became president in 1943, he was a huge Nazi sympathizer. After Germany lost the war, more people flocked to join their ancestors. I assure you that I’m not anywhere near the anomaly as you’d think. Oh, and if that doesn’t convince you, pull up Shakira on YouTube. She was born in Barranquilla, Colombia, and is not only an extremely talented singer, she is about as blonde and pale as I am.”
“Jesus, it still amazes me how you just seem to know all this random shit—”
“Research, of course,” Anson cut in and heard his father chuckle.
“Yeah, if you’d stopped at the German info, maybe. Throwing that bit in about some hot Latin woman was a little over the top.” Drake paused and then added, “I still say I should come down there—”
“No, at least, not yet,” Anson countered. “With Poplov making sure that every bidder at that auction knows we are after them, I have a better chance solo.”
“That’s fine, but at the first sign of trouble, you swear to me, you’ll call.”
“I will, Pops. Thanks for the information. I’ll work my way back into the city and develop a plan.”
“My turn to show off my brain. Rumor has it that Montez is a huge fan of the rodeo. Every Sunday, they hold the Feria de Mataderos on the outskirts of the city. During the week it’s a quiet residential section, but the population explodes on Sundays. There is a rodeo, races, and horsemanship demonstrations. The rodeo might give you the perfect opportunity to get closer without standing out quite as much. The only thing we Steeles know more about than bad men are horses.”
“That might just work,” Anson said.
“Well, if it doesn’t, you’ll get a chance to thank Jennie for insisting all you boys take those dance classes. At night there are dancing demonstrations and contests,” Drake said with a chuckle.
“You’re a funny man, Pops.”
“I have every faith you’ll do whatever is necessary,” Drake said, his voice turning deadly serious. “Stay safe, son. I love you.”
Anson closed his eyes for a moment; the love he felt for this man was so strong, it pulled at him. “I will, Pops. Talk to you soon.”
Once he’d shut off the phone, he crawled from beneath the poncho and walked into the trees to empty his bladder. He watched as something flew from a
nearby tree. “Fuck, even the bats are blood suckers,” he mumbled, recognizing the species as desmodontinae or, for fans of horror movies, the vampire bat. Zipping up, he returned to his camp. He knew that he needed to change his socks. Sleeping in wet socks was a sure way to get trench foot. Not wishing to watch his feet rot, he removed his boots. After peeling down his socks, he rolled each one over a boot, effectively blocking the opening to ensure that he wouldn’t find a spider had crawled inside during the night. Half the species of spiders in this country were just as venomous as the snake he’d encountered earlier. Using a wet wipe, he cleaned his feet, allowed them to air dry, and pulled on a fresh pair of socks. His toilette complete, he stretched out on the ground, his pack becoming his pillow. With an arm flung over his forehead, he stared up at the top of the makeshift tent. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves as nocturnal animals scurried to and fro, looking for their dinner.
Anson found himself wondering if Natalia was yet asleep, but that thought had his blood pressure rising as he instantly considered her most likely bed partner. Forcing his thoughts away from things better left alone, he ran mathematical equations in his head for a while to calm himself. Closing his eyes, he could see the maps he’d studied before he ever stepped foot in South America appear. As his inner eye traveled across roads, forded rivers, and climbed mountains, he knew that, while he didn’t know exactly how he planned to get Natalia out, he’d not leave unless she was by his side.
Chapter 2
Natalia Alvarez looked out the window onto the grounds of Juan Montez’s compound, feeling defeated. The luscious green of the lawn lined with colorful flowers looked beautiful on the surface, but only hid the darkness inside. The large mansion with vegetation all around had become her new home. A long stone pathway leading up to an impressive front door was always flanked by several guards holding machine guns, prepared for an attack. Tall walls surrounded them, with armed men stationed in towers interspaced along its length. She had willingly placed herself in this palace, this fortress, this prison—all to fight a war unaided. Natalia was all alone but she had a plan. She would win. She would conquer. She would be victorious or die trying.
Though on days like today, she wondered if she would indeed die.
Would she fail?
This place had become her prison, her hell, and her sad existence for the past six months—a half year of torture. She wasn’t getting any closer to her goal than when she had first arrived.
Sighing deeply, she struggled to hold her head high. She had to keep telling herself over and over that this had been all her idea. She had masterminded each and every step of the way to be where she was today. This was her mission. She had to keep her focus even though her spirit was slowly losing faith. Going in, she’d known it would be hard. But day in and day out with Juan Montez—her family’s enemy—had been a far greater challenge than she had been prepared to face.
But she had to remember this was revenge.
This was her payback for what he had done to her family. Retribution for forever searing the memory of her loved ones’ massacre into her mind to live with for the rest of her life—her now ruined life.
Her life had once been good. She had once been a spoiled, pampered, loved little girl of a king. The king of a very powerful drug cartel.
Yet the lullaby of a cartel princess is one of gunshots. A rapid, metallic song of pop after pop. Cries of pain and death accompany this melody, forming the dark and morbid soundtrack of what was once Natalia’s life.
She could almost smell the gunpowder from that day. As a child, she had known it was coming as the hairs rose on the back of her neck. Her fingers, intertwined with the rosary she held as she sat in the pew of the Cathedral of La Plata grieving her younger brother’s death, shook in anticipation.
She could hear the staccato of death in the distance. One pop, then two. The Montez cartel was coming for them.
“Don’t worry, sister,” Enzo had whispered as he patted Natalia’s smaller hand. “We have our best men on guard outside. The Montezes won’t be able to even get close.”
“I can hear them. They’re near,” Natalia remembered saying. Even at the age of twelve, she was smart enough to fear for her life, and nowhere near gullible enough to accept simple assurances.
Natalia’s grandmother, who sat on the other side of her trembling body, hushed her and touched the intricately designed cross Natalia held with white knuckles. “Pray for your brother. Let the men outside worry about such matters.”
Nodding her head in compliance, Natalia had closed her eyes and prayed for her poor little brother as her grandmother had instructed.
Though now, looking back on her memory, Natalia should have known better.
The entire Alvarez family should have all known better. They should have known that even a funeral for a six-year-old boy would hold no sacred ground. No. In the turf war between the Montez and the Alvarez families, there was no mercy. There was no time-out. There was only opportunity for more bloodshed and carnage. Even in the house of the Lord, there would be no peace between the two Argentinian drug lords, Bautisto Alvarez and Juan Montez.
Cocaine was their true God.
“Get down,” Natalia remembered saying barely louder than a whisper to her grandmother who sat beside her, dabbing her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “Get down!” Natalia had screamed, the blast of gunshots announcing Montez’s men’s presence as they charged through the double doors.
Turning to see men with AK-47s enter the church, shooting with vengeance and zero mercy, Natalia had reached for her grandmother, pulling her down while Natalia’s brother, Enzo, pulled out his pistol to join their family in defending the entirety of the Alvarez Empire. They were paying the price for all of them foolishly sitting in the same room at a funeral for poor Lautaro Alvarez, an innocent boy shot in crossfire similar to what was once again threatening to destroy even more of her family.
The Alvarezes, of course, had security at the doors, snipers positioned on surrounding rooftops, and every single male had been armed to the teeth. But that had only added to the rain of bullets falling upon that poor Catholic church which became the location where so many died.
Falling to the ground to shield her grandmother from bullets hissing by her ear, Natalia watched as her oldest brother, Ignacio, ran to protect their mother, as her father—Bautisto Alvarez—was shot in the leg. The wound certainly slowed him down, but it did not stop this powerful beast of a man. He would make these people regret their actions. As the leader of the Alvarez drug cartel, he would definitely make each and every one of them pay with their lives.
The sick melody of Natalia’s life continued on as volleys of bullets ricocheted off the walls, the pews, and even the statue of the Virgin Mary was marred by the attack. Stained glass shattered all around as people screamed while ducking for cover.
“Abuela, get further under the seat,” Natalia said, struggling to push her grandmother’s body beneath the pew for safety. Even at her young age she had wanted to fight these bastards too, but carrying a gun as the precious little mafia princess of the feared Bautisto Alvarez would never be allowed. No, never. Anyone who was caught giving little Natalia a gun would lose his hand, if not his life. Natalia Alvarez, the treasured daughter, would never be a bandito. Or so her father thought. Natalia on the other hand, had other ideas. The role of a submissive Latin woman, like her mother, was not for her. The day her little brother was shot and killed, she had finally had enough. She would have her revenge when the time was right, this much was a given.
Natalia shivered and fought back tears with the memory of that awful day. Of how she was met with resistance from her grandmother, who wasn’t listening to her command. “Abuela, you must get under there.” Bullets were blanketing the church, shards of glass were flying, and splinters of wood from destroyed pews made every inch of space in the church a battleground. “Ahora. Abuela, please!”
With another shove, she had pulled her hand away in hor
ror to see it covered in her dear grandmother’s blood. “Abuela! No!” The sound of gunfire masked her screams. “No!” Natalia turned her grandmother’s limp body in her arms, looking into her face. “Please, Abuela!” She hadn’t even cared that she sat in the middle of a war zone while she rocked her grandmother’s bloody body on the floor of the church. Nor did she care if a bullet had claimed her life that day.
Very slowly, her grandmother’s eyes had opened to look up at Natalia, and her blood-soaked hand reached to stroke her face. Natalia could barely hear her frail voice as she croaked, “My Natalia. My beautiful, beautiful Natalia.”
Natalia covered her grandmother’s body as best as she could while she used the pew to cover what she couldn’t.
Her grandmother pushed Natalia off her enough so she could see her almond-shaped, green eyes. Everyone said Natalia had her eyes. “My loving granddaughter, promise me you will end this war. It has to end.” She coughed and blood formed in the corner of her mouth. Her white teeth turned red as she smiled softly. “No more death. No more war. Peace, my Natalia. Find our family peace.”
