by Logan Fox
Then he wished he hadn’t, because he looked like shit.
There was a razor in the cupboard. Shaving cream. Cologne. Nothing he’d ever used, but he could recognize the names. Paul Gaultier. Giorgio Armani. He hesitated, and then took one out. Sniffed.
It probably cost what he made in a month. He tried to sneer, but he felt strangely resigned to the fact that this man had more money than he could wrap his head around.
Crime paid. This palace was living proof. Javier’s polished teeth and gaudy rings, all proof.
One of the Paco Rabannes didn’t smell too bad. Leathery and spicy. He set it on the basin and went back into the room to investigate the closet. There were several pairs of jeans inside, immaculately pressed, and a few button up shirts. Various sizes, and all but one pair of jeans too small for him. There were t-shirts, and one black in XL, which was a bit tight around his biceps but at least didn’t strain too much around his chest. He could wear his jacket over it, so it would work fine.
There were even cotton boxers and briefs, still sealed in packaging. Socks, handkerchiefs, belts.
You could arrive here a poor man and leave feeling like a king. Was that Javier’s intention? How many of the guests by the pool had rooms like these and how many lived in some squalid staff quarter hidden in the back of this palace?
The shower felt better than anything—except perhaps his night with Cora—had for a long time. He wondered briefly if he was using up all the hot water, realized the man probably had on-demand heaters everywhere and solar to run it all, and stayed a few minutes longer.
There was nothing he could do with his hair, but he shaved his face and splashed cologne on himself.
Better. At least, when he said goodbye, Cora would remember this version of himself and not the grubby, sweaty version she’d been stuck with the past week.
God, a week? It felt like a month. A fucking lifetime. And he had only a few hours left. Could he get her alone? Tell her some of those things he’d told her dead-cold body after he’d dragged her from the Rio Grande? What if he did, what would it matter? He would still have to leave. It would just make leaving her that much harder.
No…came a low growl inside his head. We break the toy so no one else can play with it.
He grabbed both sides of the sink and leaned over the basin, eyes closed and chest heaving until it felt it would burst.
She’s ours. If we can’t have her—
Finn searched hurriedly through his jacket, found his packet of mints, and slid two of them into his mouth. He severed them, sucking hard so the strong taste coated his mouth.
The voice faded, but its sinister intentions clung to his mind like a slick of rancid oil.
He had to leave. Not tomorrow. Not after dinner. Now.
When he looked up into his reflection, his eyes glittered like one of Javier’s sapphire rings. Cold and brittle with resolve.
27
Hola
He felt like a million bucks. Fuck it, he felt like a billionaire. Lars stretched at the window of his room, gazing out through the clear glass at the landscape below. This side of the villa looked out over distant, craggy mountains and desert scrub. Nothing moved down there, despite twilight drawing near and color-washing the horizon with pink and purple hues.
Maybe it was the cologne. He was definitely going to shove a few of those into his pockets before he left. Maybe the shower, big enough for an orgy…with room to spare for some waiters in penguin suits.
No gold faucets, though. That had been mightily disappointing. He’d really wanted to see some gaudy bathroom fittings. How could Javier proclaim to be a capo if he didn’t have—
A knock at his bedroom door interrupted his thoughts. He swung around as the handle turned and Milo walked inside.
“Almost glad you made me stay,” Lars said. He swept out his hands to take in the room. “I mean, fuck the Four Seasons. This is more like—”
“We’re leaving.”
Lars let his hands fall to his sides with a slap. “What, now? What happened to ‘dinner’ and ‘first thing in the morning,’” he said, putting airquotes around the words.
Milo didn’t seem to notice his sarcasm. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“Fuck it.” He flicked his hand and went over to the dressing table where his jacket hung over the back of the chair. “Who wants to eat caviar on crackers anyway? God knows, champagne always gives me the runs.”
“Lars—”
“Don’t worry, Milo, I know my place.” He swung around to face Milo. “I’m at your fucking beck and call, master.”
“Lars, I—”
“You fucking nothing.” Lars charged for the door, sliding into his jacket. “Where’d they take our guns, you think?”
He ripped open the door, startling the maid standing outside with one hand raised to knock. She was a small, petite thing, dressed in a cute little frock with a hat and everything. Latino…then again, why wouldn’t Javier hire illegals to work for him? He probably despised anyone who had paperwork. What criminal would want to associate himself with people that did things by the book?
“Hola,” Lars said, stepping aside. He saw the bundle of fresh towels and sheets in her hands. “No need, miss. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving?” Her eyes went wide. “I’m sorry, señor, I came as quick as—”
“It’s not you,” he said, grabbing her shoulder and giving her a squeeze. “It’s him.” He used his chin to indicate in Milo’s direction and then sidled past the woman. “Now, if you can just show us to our weapons…”
The maid stood in the threshold of his room, looking from him to Milo, who’d taken up a silent, brooding station by the foot of the bed.
“Señor, please. You must stay.”
“Had just about enough of people telling me what to do,” he said through his teeth. His jaw was starting to ache from how hard he clenched it. “Just show us our stuff, and we’ll get out of your hat.”
The maid reached up to touch her little hat, and then scowled at him as if he’d insulted her. “No,” she said, sniffing and disappearing into the bathroom.
Lars’s eyebrows almost touched his hairline. “Now this, Milo, this is what makes ordinary people start believing in shit like fate. Because right now, every fucking thing seems determined to have us stay here.”
Milo let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I was being an idiot earlier.”
“Ya think?” Lars snapped back. He came back inside the room, trying to keep his voice low and failing miserably. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be having a fucking vanilla shake right now, thanking fuck I’d never see Princess Cora again.”
“I said I’m sorry.” Milo crossed his arms over his chest, which made his muscles seem even more pronounced than before. It looked like he’d also gone through his guest closet. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like he’d had as many choices as Lars, being a triple-x-l and all. That black t-shirt looked like he’d significantly shortened its lifespan.
Lar’s dark jeans and button up shirt hung like someone had hand-tailored them for him. Then again, he’d always had a model’s body. He could never bulk up, no matter how hard he’d tried.
Some of his anger deflated. It wasn’t that he was pissed at Milo…he was pissed at the chit of a girl who was messing with his friend’s head. That was why he wanted out of here. If he could just get Milo away, the guy could gather his fucking wits and be done with her.
Then, as if his thoughts had been a signal, the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Whatever ambient light had infused his room died and the shadow grew more substantial.
The maid exited his bathroom, his clothes thrown over one arm.
“Hey, where you taking those?”
“To clean,” she said slowly, like he was an idiot. Which he probably was, if he’d had to ask.
“You don’t have to do that. I said we’re leaving.”
Then she laughed. She actually fucking laughed. She stabbed a thumb at the window, where the purp
le sky was settling into banded colors like a poorly mixed cocktail.
“You’re too late, señor. No one can leave after dark.”
And with that mysterious statement, she left again, his clothes tucked under one arm as she pulled the door closed behind her.
When he turned back to Milo, the man was wearing a deep frown.
“Oh, woe is me,” Lars said… shoving his hands into his armpits and leaning his weight to one side. “Guess we’re stuck in Count Dracula’s fucking castle for the night.”
“No one leaves after dark?” Milo repeated, shaking his head. “What the fuck is that about?”
“Paranoid drug dealers, Milo. I guess they can be unreasonable sometimes.” He rolled his eyes and turned for the door. “You of all people should know that by now.”
28
Meth rush
Ailin came to walk beside Zachary as he climbed out of the rusted Chevy. They’d driven deep inside his stretch of land; construction had to start close to the border. He wanted his project completed as soon as possible, and further away from the Rio Grande he began, the longer it would take to complete.
One of the engineers he’d hired for the job gave him a brief nod. Then he returned to his study of a blueprint. It had been trapped beneath two rocks on a makeshift table—a pair of planks spanning the distance between two barrels.
He had no interest in blueprints. His only interest was in the lead engineer telling him the project was complete.
And then that delightful sound as he put a bullet through the man’s skull. Yes, he’d promised him riches and safe passage for his family across the border. But they both knew information of this construction project could never pass the borders of his property.
Everyone working on the project—engineers, workers, even the women they’d brought along to help with their laundry and cooking their meals—none would be allowed to leave Zachary’s land.
For their sakes, he hoped they’d said fond farewells before they’d left Mexico.
His footsteps echoed back to him as he descended the gently sloping decline that led into the mouth of the excavation. Later, when the project was nearing completion, a building would be erected over this site. A solid floor cast. And then mechanisms put in place that would slide open to allow his men to enter.
That was all less than a month away, if he was to believe Ailin’s reports.
Cool air slid over his skin as he and Rodrigo stepped deeper inside. He had more than a foot of space above his head, and could stretch his arms out to either side without touching either wall. The ground was flat, still dirt here, but a rough ceiling had already been put in place. Ailin stooped—he was definitely in danger of hitting his head—but most men could walk inside comfortably.
A worker hurried toward them, leaning his weight into a narrow mining cart.
Zachary felt like a miner from the gold rush era. The anticipation of striking it rich weaved through the air like smoke. He could taste success and the victory of a project seen to completion.
No longer would he have to try and expand his empire in Mexico. All he had to do was keep a tract of land, no more than a few hundred acres, on both sides of the borders. In time, Sinaloa and El Calacas Vivo might even forget about him.
Until his first shipment arrived. Methamphetamines that would make junkies commit murder for one more hit. Yes, heroin was more addictive and had always been cheaper, but with a hefty increase in supply of meth, and a drastic cut in price, those tweakers could shell out the same amount they spent on their daily heroin fixes for three times the amount of crystal. He would undercut every cartel currently supplying meth to the southern states, and introduce the drug into new territories. It would be so cheap, a school child on a pittance of an allowance would be able to afford it.
It was purer, too. He cherished the health of his customers, after all. The longer they lived, the more he profited. Heroin users could overdose on a single—
His cellphone rang shrilly, the sound echoing strangely in the tunnel. The worker looked up in astonishment, and immediately began backing up with his cart. There wouldn’t be enough space for them to pass each other. But Zachary waved a hand, turning and heading for the exit to take the call.
“Don Zachary,” came Rodrigo’s flustered voice. “She escaped.”
29
Someone had to do it
Finn caught up with Lars as the man was thumping his way down the stairs with ill grace. They came out in front of the gardens that filled in the inside of the villa, and they both stopped for a few seconds to take it in. Then Lars let out a muttered, “Rich people,” and stormed down the passage.
“Where are you going?” Finn called out after him.
“To find something ridiculously expensive to consume.”
Finn squeezed his eyes shut with his fingertips for a second and then followed. After stopping a harried-looking scullery maid—this one might have worked in the kitchen, if the hairnet was anything to go by—they were directed to the entertainment area.
A few men were playing pool, others crowded around the flat screen television watching a soccer match. There was even a bartender on duty, idly smoking a cigarette behind the richly polished wood bar.
Lars had already ordered when Finn came up to him. The bartender poured a shot of amber liquid into a tumbler for Lars, which the man downed, and then another when he asked for a top up.
“Open bar, right?” Lars asked.
The bartender gave him a quizzical frown and shrugged. “¿Que?”
Lars waved away the question and turned to Finn. “Coffee for you, right? Hey, maybe they have that expensive one that the jungle cats shit out.”
That’s what he’d been going to order. Not kopi luwak, but just a normal coffee. Or maybe an espresso. That way, he could stay alert in case—
In case what? In case Javier’s compound was suddenly attacked? In case someone came and kidnapped Cora like a thief in the goddamn night?
“Captain Morgan, neat.”
“Make that a double,” Lars said happily. Then he clapped Finn on the shoulder. “Good to see you loosening up a little, buddy. You had me worried there.”
Finn made an unhappy sound, but didn’t shrug away Lars’s hand. It had been a few weeks since they’d seen each other last; Lars had been cooped up in a few gigs close to Washington for near to a month. Unsurprisingly, his friend didn’t look the worse for wear. He’d only seen Lars looking frayed once, come to think of it. The day he’d come out of his anesthesia, after the operation where they’d stitched up his throat and repaired his larynx as best he could. That day, Lars had been so twitchy and out of it, he’d thought the guy was on drugs.
“I’m fine,” Finn said. “It’s just been a fuck long week.”
“Yeah…” Lars murmured into his glass. He turned to the glass walls that looked out over the pool. The night lights had come on, turning the pool a brilliant blue. More lights glittered from between the vegetation studding the oasis and fringing the waterfalls feeding into the smaller pools. “Jesus…this place.”
Finn could see silhouettes moving in the far distance. Guards, patrolling. Did Javier have guards patrolling the walls at night, too? He hadn’t noticed electric fencing on the top of that Great Wall of Texas, but perhaps electrifying such a large perimeter wasn’t feasible.
Then again, judging from every stick of lavish furniture inside this place, nothing seemed not feasible to El fucking Guapo.
“Hey, buddy, you guys got some weed around here?”
Finn gave Lars a deadpan stare, but he ignored him as he patiently waited for the bartender to answer him.
“¡Hola, Hector!”
One of the men watching the soccer match turned with an annoyed grimace on his face. “¿Que?”
“¿Churro?” the bartender said, pointing at Lars.
Hector gave Lars and Finn a studious look and then cocked his chin to the bartender. “Si.” He fumbled in a pocket and produced a joint, holding it ou
t for Lars to fetch.
Lars did so with a grin, ducking his head so Hector could light it for him.
“Outside,” Hector said, waving away the joint when Lars offered it to him. Then he turned back to the soccer match.
Lars shrugged, cocking his head to the door as he passed Finn.
Acrid smoke billowed into Finn as Lars exhaled before they reached the door. He waved it away, and took a big draught of the cool evening air when they were standing on the patio.
A couple were busy making out in one of the smaller pools, bodies almost hidden by the fronds of a palm tree.
Lars never offered Finn the joint; he knew how he felt about weed.
Finn sipped at his drink and followed Lars to a pair of loungers a few feet away. Lars sank down with a sigh, nipping the joint with the heel of his shoe before stashing it away in the pocket of his button up shirt. He shrugged when Finn looked at him. “What, it’s not mine.”
The rum coated his mouth like fiery oil.
“So…is she a really good lay or something?” Lars asked quietly as he lay back on his lounger.
Finn squeezed his eyes closed for a second and then let out a long breath. After another sip from his glass, he glanced up at Lars. “She was a virgin.”
Nothing in Lars’s expression changed until he let out a low whistle and gave his head a shake. “Fuck, man.”
Finn lifted his eyebrows, and looked away. The couple in the pool were still kissing, but at least they were still wearing their swimsuits. He squinted. No, not a couple. There was a third person, almost completely obscured by a rock feature. Watching?
“—you didn’t know?”
He turned to Lars. “What?”
