Gideon

by Cherry Adair

  Riva put her palm over the SIG tucked into her belt, and put a stop–right-there palm up when one of the soldiers went for the KA-BAR strapped to her thigh. Her heart did a quickstep, but she didn’t glance over to see how Gideon was faring. This was about power, and here and now she was the one who had to wield it.

  “We will not give up our weapons. I’m sorry, Escobar. You I trust. But there are two of your men who are not trustworthy. Until such time as they die, we retain our weapons.”

  He gave her a shocked look. Hard to tell with the amount of Botox on his face. “Who—”

  Riva placed two gentle fingers over his mouth, making sure her fingers brushed his lips intimately. “I will share that vision with you when we have more privacy,” she whispered for his ears only. “Be patient.”

  Maza waved the men away. He trusted Graciela, she’d never lied to him. As far as T-FLAC knew. Opening the front door of heavy painted steel, he stepped inside, then held the door for her.

  “Oh, my. This is unexpected,” Riva said, inserting wonder and approval in the words as he led her into a large room that smelled faintly of mildew, and strongly of a powerful musky incense that made Riva sneeze twice in a row.

  “Salud.”

  The rustic, utilitarian exterior didn’t match the overly accessorized interior. Predominantly royal blue velvet furniture, and a lot of it. Lampshades with bullion fringe and a gory, giant-sized oil painting of bullfighters in a heavy baroque gold frame. The floor was covered with a Turkish rug of blue and black with swirls of gold. Knickknacks—either rampaging bulls, or fighting cocks—in ceramic, bronze, and glass, and of varying sizes and every description covered every flat surface on numerous shiny brass and dusty glass shelving units.

  These weren’t collections amassed in months. These were well-loved collections gathered over many years. Had Maza been in Cosio all this time? And if so, why had he only popped up less than six months ago?

  “It’s so lovely and cool in here, such a treat after the hot, stifling jungle. You must have a very big generator,” she said for the benefit of control listening in. Probably a 10kW for this building, which she suspected housed his personal space. A generator was always a fun thing to disable to disrupt things.

  “What can I offer you to drink? Limonada Peruana? Pisco?”

  “Limonada, please.” She smiled, taking a seat at one end of a bright blue, deeply tufted velvet sofa with a serpentine back, the whole curving length topped with a gilded wood carving of an anaconda. “No alcohol for me until your project is complete.”

  “Yes, we must address that issue.” He signaled one of the two men standing beside a door leading farther into the house. He was instantly replaced by another soldier dressed in the same fatigues as the others. The guy went off to, she presumed, get the drink. Gideon, standing between two soldiers armed with AKs behind the curved sofa, was offered nothing.

  Maza came and sat right beside her, their knees almost touching. Unnecessary, since the damned sofa was ten feet long. He wore some pricey cologne smelling like vetiver and heavy on the patchouli. “But first. I will hear about this miracle that saved you from the helicopter crash. I thought I’d lost you forever, and my heart has been heavy. And what must you have encountered on your journey to reach me. I shake to think how you managed to survive the ANLF, as you must’ve passed through their territory, yes? The ANLF, animals… All the dangers of the rain forest, alone—”

  “I wasn’t alone, my dear. I had my faithful Dante with me.” Riva cast an appreciative glance at Gideon, before returning her attention to Maza. “No one could ask for a more faithful, loyal bodyguard. If not for him, I would not be with you today.”

  Maza’s appearance wasn’t unexpected. She’d read his dossier in flight and was prepared for the odd, preppy look of him. Knowing who and what he was, his clean-cut persona was jarring. He looked as if he belonged to a country club, and had a blonde wife and two adorable children and a puppy in the suburbs. The reality was so far from who he really was that it was chilling.

  His looks and her opinion didn’t mean squat. As soon as she knew what he was going to do the next day in Santa de Porres, he’d be dead.

  While she casually pretended to admire his décor, she checked out the entrances and exits of the room, counted weapons and types of weapons, tried not to spend too much time making eye contact with Gideon, and told Maza an abbreviated summary of the past week.

  Her lemonade drink, in a Baccarat-looking crystal glass, was set before her on a red lacquered tray with a silver platter piled with small Ecuadorian Postres filled with fruit and dusted with powdered sugar.

  Curling her leg under her, she pretended to sip her drink from the heavy glass. Real crystal from the weight. She didn’t trust him not to slip something into her drink. Setting the glass down on the tray, she took a moment to assess the dangers in the room. Spatially aware of where everyone was situated, Riva kept her attention on Maza. Up close, she could tell that his black hair was colored, leaving silver at his temples. She already knew he was vain from her briefing.

  “Surely God has blessed you to save your life. That is quite the hair-raising story,” he said admiringly when she finished her tale with the theft of the truck from the poacher.

  “What an adventure for you, and yet, you didn’t have a vision of any of this?”

  “As I’ve told you before.” One of the tapes obtained of the conversations between Maza and the real Graciela came to mind. “One cannot change fate. And I do not see my own future. Escobar, you know this. I saw only that you and I would meet because I saw it in your future and that sustained me. I was fortunate that I made it to you alive.”

  “Yes. Indeed. I am most fortunate. What can you tell me of my new undertaking tomorrow? Success?”

  Riva took his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I’ve seen that you should not do anything decisive for at least seventy-two hours, my dear. Nothing at all inflammatory. The perfect time to get everything you desire will be three days from now, at three thirty-three in the morning.”

  “Impossible,“ his voice rose, and his skin darkened as he flung off her hand. “It must be tomorrow.”

  Riva held his gaze as she said quietly. “Then you will fail.”

  His hand shot out and he slapped her across the cheek, so hard her head bounced off the back of the butt-ugly sofa and her hair went flying. “You lie! Do it again. Look into my future again, damn you!”

  Riva straightened, smoothing down her hair as she touched her palm to her hot cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two men set to guard Gideon halt his forward lunge. Her cheek stung as if bitten by fire ants, and her eye watered, making Maza’s angry face blur.

  “Strike me again,” she said coldly, getting to her feet, “and I will see no more visions for you. Ever. For all these years you have trusted me, and now, when I refuse to pretend the vision is what you want, you strike me?” I want you deader than dead, you sick fuck.

  “It is only because I value your services so much that I strike you. Anyone else in my employ would have a bullet in their brain at such a comment.”

  He spoke conversationally. Riva had never seen brown eyes so dead, so cold. “Sit.”

  She held his gaze.

  “You will sit down and you will have another vision. A more favorable vision.”

  Riva knew she was walking a fine line between getting killed and obtaining respect, but the tightrope was a deadly necessity. “Striking me is not conducive to me producing a clearer vision, Escobar. Just the opposite. If you strike me again, I will be less willing to help you. And the more distressed I am, the less able I’ll be, as well. My mind must be clear, and trouble free, if not, I see nothing.” If only that was true. “I hope I make myself clear.”

  “I brought you to me for the express purpose of ensuring that my next project go well. God spared your life for this exact purpose. You will not tell me what to do and you will have a new, advantageous vision. One that enables me to do exa
ctly what I need to do.”

  No escape.

  Anything she did at the moment would screw the mission, and get herself and Gideon killed.

  Unacceptable.

  Taking advantage of her hesitation, Maza grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her down beside him. She didn’t fight him as she so desperately wanted to. Instead she resumed her seat, keeping her gaze flat, her features nonhomicidal.

  “You must give me the perfect time,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “What is the perfect time. Tomorrow?”

  He was so close she could see the lines around his eyes and mouth, and the striations in his flat brown eyes. Riva knew she could have the SIG in her hand in seconds, fire a shot a second later. And a second after that she’d be a bloody mess on his hideous carpet, too.

  “Wait. Get what we need,” control said unnecessarily in her ear.

  No shit.

  “Heed me, Escobar,” She leaned in closer to him, keeping her eyes steady on his. “I cannot change what I see. I cannot change fate if you do not listen to me.” She paused for maximum impact. “If you do not alter your course of action, tomorrow you will die. I cannot be more plain than that.”

  “Have another vision.”

  It doesn’t work like that, asshole. “I will try, but I must know more about the variables. More about your alternatives. You need to talk to me, my friend. Tell me what you feel are the obstacles, and I will do my utmost see alternative courses of action for you. You have been my patrón for years now, and you know I always want to help you in any way I can. Please, do not doubt me now.”

  He sighed, and gave her a white-capped, gold-toothed smile. “Thank you, my dearest Chela. You have always been truthful with me. I have had hundreds of successful business dealings with you, and much success defeating my enemies. Surely this will be the same.”

  “I will attempt to have another vision. But, if I have the same result, you must believe me, my dear. I would be devastated should you die. I value our friendship so very much, and I can’t imagine my life without both your friendship and your patronage.”

  He nodded. “Just so. I will let you enjoy your drink, perhaps one of these delicious pastries, and let you rest for half an hour.” Getting to his feet, he snapped his fingers as if he’d just remembered something. “Before you go, I have a small gift for you, my dear. I’d be most honored if you’d accept it for all your years of loyalty to me.” Going to a gold-leafed box on the other side of the wide coffee table, he returned with a blue Tiffany box with a white bow.

  What was inside that box had never seen a jewelry store, much less Tiffany’s. She knew it in her gut, and she knew it with utmost certainty by reading his microexpressions. His primary muscle movements were malice, triumph, and brilliantly disguised fury.

  God, she wanted to pull the SIG and put a bullet right between his too close together eyes. Leaning forward, she picked up her glass as if it was a lifeline. Leaning back, she gave him a confident smile. “No gifts until I can assure you, you will have a long, healthy life.” She forced a smile. “Keep that until your project is completed.”

  “No. I insist.” Riva felt the return of her previous vision as a cold, dark red throbbing warning surrounded her.

  “And I insist we wait.” The vision crowded back, too damned vague to grasp other than extraordinary mental anguish. Nausea rose in the back of her throat and her mouth went dry. She brought the heavy glass to her lips with difficulty.

  “I appreciate that you so generously bought me a gift, but in a few days we will have your triumph to celebrate.” She couldn’t drink, her limbs felt heavy and numb as the swirls of darkness surrounded her. “That would be a more appropriate time, don’t you think?”

  Pushing the tray out of the way, he sat opposite her on the wide marble coffee table and untied the glossy white bow. His tanned fingers were thin—skeletal, with big knuckles. Eyes fixated on his hands, Riva noticed his painful-looking hangnails, rough and red, and his ragged cuticles. Taking a bracelet out of the box, he dangled it between his fingers, a pendulum for her to admire. She knew looking at his hands was a hell of a lot safer than seeing what he was offering her.

  Lifting her eyes, she forced herself to see what he held.

  It swam into focus. Just a narrow band of dull silver. The sharp jolt of foreboding felt like a physical blow. It resonate in her bones and made her muscles feel water-weak.

  There was so much evil in it Riva could barely force the air in and out of her constricted lungs.

  Ohgodohgodohgod.

  Every drop of moisture in her body seemed to dry up. If she didn’t grip the sofa cushions she’d dry up and fly away. Mouth parched, lungs constricted, Riva had the sensation of drowning.

  “Regulate your breathing,” Control warned.

  Yeah, she couldn’t hide anything from her control in the sky. He was getting all her haywire vitals in real time.

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping like hell Maza didn’t hear how breathless she was. “It’s…” Evil. “Beautiful. But I don’t like to wear jewelry when I have to concentrate. It interferes with the energy flow.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples for emphasis.

  Energy flow? Understatement. What was flowing through her was cauldrons of lava, pulsing red and burgundy with washes of black. The bracelet inspired a vision of fear and foreboding that was eating her alive. Dear God…

  He swayed the bracelet in front of her. Paralyzed, she couldn’t even flinch as he brought the dull circle closer and closer. “I insist, my dearest Graciela. I insist. Here, give me your pretty arm.”

  When Riva remained still, he grabbed her wrist, turning her skin white from the pressure of his fingers. Open, and hinged like a handcuff he snapped and locked it around her wrist. It wasn’t tight, or restrictive, it didn’t look like anything other than a rather plain piece of jewelry. His fingers felt hot on her icy skin. “There. We are joined inextricably forever.”

  She couldn’t look at it. It wasn’t an aggressive slap and it wasn’t a threat of a bullet to her brain. It was much, much worse. He had one-upped her with lethal ramifications, because the smooth metal felt like putrid death on her wrist. The grim reaper’s hook would feel no worse. She was so cold, goose bumps had formed on her skin.

  “Your temp dropped six degrees,” Control cautioned, his voice even in her ear. “And regulate your breathing, you’re hyperventilating. Your BP is dropping.”

  Sure, as soon as she got this damn thing off her wrist. She had to inspect it carefully and report back to control, but right now she couldn’t even abide by the fucking directive to even her breathing. She sucked in a ragged breath, too overwhelmed by the physical ramifications of the damn bracelet to process anything else.

  “That’s sweet of you. But you know eventually I must return home.” God. She had to snap the hell out of this fugue state, and start being active instead of reactive. “I’m exhausted and need to rest if you require me to have another vision. Is there somewhere quiet I may lie down for a few hours?”

  “Of course.” He rose. “One of my men will take you to a room where you may rest and reflect. I’ll return for you in an hour for a more favorable answer.”

  “Tell me how can I help you,” Gideon demanded, closing the door after Maza’s people escorted them to a windowless room so Riva could rest and have another fucking vision. As if she was a goddamned psychic hotline.

  On Maza’s orders, his men had stripped them of all their weapons.

  The room was drug dealer chic with alien-style purple flower prints covering the bedspread, pillow shams, and swagged drapes over a nonexistent window made of mirror. The ghastly fabric even covered the lampshades. To break up the overpowering floral tribute, there was plenty of brass ornamentation and a variety of large, strategically placed, mirrors.

  And plenty of places to hide cameras and microphones.

  Maza could watch them in 3-D, and Gideon didn’t think for a moment that he wasn’t enjoying this particular show. The room
was clearly designed for spectator sports.

  Riva sank down on the edge of the king-sized bed with a heavy scrolled brass headboard. For bondage purposes, Gideon supposed, not missing the gold-veined mirrored ceiling.

  “I’ll get you some water.” He went into the bathroom. It, too, was covered in mirrors and brass, with white faux marble, female crap all over. Found a glass, and filled it with tap water. Returning to the bedroom, he found Riva with her head on her knees.

  Really bad fucking shit. “Do you want a sip of water? It’s cold.” He wanted a fast car, an Uzi—no, he wanted a missile and a clear shot. He’d settle for a fucking army so he could throw her over his shoulder and haul ass out of there. Away from Maza, the jungle, and Cosio.

  “Give me a sec,” her voice was muffled. “I think I might puke.”

  “That bad?” She looked up at him with glassy eyes. Yeah, that fucking bad. Her olive skin was dead pale, and she was sweating and shaking as if in the grips of a fever.

  The comm was in her left ear. Could her control hear their convo? He hoped yes.

  “Go for it. Nothing could make this room any less hideous. Being in here with all these mirrors makes me want to puke as well. Who’d want a bedroom without any windows, anyway?” He crouched down in front of her, hovering his hand over the thick fall of her hair, but not quite touching.

  If T-FLAC could hear him, what the hell good was it knowing their circumstances? Unless they had a bulldozer right behind that wall?

  Gideon didn’t know what the fuck to do. He liked being in control. Hell, he’d run a multibillion-dollar corporation— A spear of pain ricocheted around the inside of his skull. Jesus, yeah. He had run a multibillion-dollar corporation. Was there anything in his past that could help him in his present? Because he fucking-well did not like seeing her undone and being powerless to fix it.

  She was scaring the living crap out of him. Another vision from hell in less than twelve hours? There was some extremely bad shit coming down the pike. Did her buddies listening in realize how bad this was for her? Did they give a flying fuck, or was it all about the mission? If she failed, would they simply send another operative in her place? Was Riva’s mortality simply a speed bump? Had they heard him?