by Josie Brown
“Sí, Dia de Muertos. The revelers will either dress as you, or in memory of those you’ve killed.” A tear rolled down her cheek. She was thinking of my first kill: Miguel. “It is at El Maestro’s behest that the women dress in white, like virgins.”
When I reach out for her, she sidesteps my hand.
“Maybe I’ll pass on the honor.” But of course, I’ll be there. I’ll do anything to escape this cage. The dinner will be my chance to leave, one way or another.
She freezes, but only for a moment. After all, we’re still on El Maestro’s Candid Camera. I feel her toes dig into my thighs as she rises over me. She squeezes hard on my shoulders as she massages them. Then, softly: “You promised.” Her declaration is softer than the breeze that is filtering through the high barred window.
Fulfilling my promise may get us both killed.
Still, I couldn’t leave her in this hellhole. What he would do to her is unthinkable. We both know it. “Yes, and I meant what I said.”
Her hands move down my spine: prodding, pressing, caressing, as if thanking me.
Perhaps warning me.
As her fingers roll over my calves, she murmurs, “I leave you a present: a new potion. Es veneno. A drop on his fork or in his drink and he is muerto.”
Ah, a poison.
Now she moves up my back. Rolling her knuckles across my shoulders she mutters, “The mirror on the wall of his office wall leads into a secret tunnel. Go west.”
“How do you know this?”
“Miguel found the architectural drawings in city hall. He dreamt of a coup.”
I dream of escape. I say a prayer of thanks in his name.
Our little show goes on for another fifteen minutes. Finally, Lola’s supple, knowing hands fall away from my body. She rises off me with a sigh. I pretend to sleep as she taps the bars on the door with her nails, alerting the guard that she is ready to leave.
His footsteps echo on the concrete floor as he makes his way over. The key clinks as it enters the lock.
“¡Mira aquí! El Maestro wishes that El Santo wears this tonight. I’ll be back in an hour, to escort him.” Through the cracked mirror against the wall, I watch as Jaime hands Lola a suit. It is black, as is the shirt beneath it. No tie.
Very gangster. And perfect for my escape.
Lola takes it and hangs it over one of the straight back chairs.
The door clinks shut again. Her footsteps follow his down the hall.
I wait another ten minutes before getting up from my bench and going over to the suit. Yes, it is my size.
I dress with care, since there is always the chance that I might die in this suit, but I think not. Kill in it, yes. And, I’ll do so in style.
I head back over to the bench, where I notice a tiny vial beside a folded towel.
The poison will buy me time to find Lola, perhaps.
In any event, I will escape.
Forgive me, Lola, if I don’t do both.
There is no odder feeling than seeing your face covering the faces of hundreds of others, all of whom are marching toward you to the beat of mariachi music.
Every now and again, the bands stop in front of El Maestro’s balcony in order to serenade us. There are other masks as well—some of El Maestro—but not many of them.
The procession, almost an hour long, is nearing its end. On the hill flanking the other side of the plaza, the small army of men who have set up the fireworks display await El Maestro’s signal to light up the dark sky.
On the breath of the night wind, tumbleweeds roll from one side to the other, kicking up skirts of dust from the dry ground. They gild the bodies of my victims, which, at my host’s orders, were tied to high posts throughout the plaza, as a deterrent to any intentions to defy him.
As Lola pointed out, it led to the assumption that I serve El Maestro as his executioner.
Yes, I am. He’s about to find out.
“You see, gringo—they love you!” El Maestro shouts above the loud din, then slaps me on the back. “Look at how many virgins smile at you! If I command it, they will gladly give themselves to you.” He winks at me. “Perhaps, Santo, we will take them together, eh?”
I shake my head. “Not interested. I hold to my vows.”
El Maestro laughs heartily. His eyes shift to Lola, who had the task of serving us our food and drink. I eat very little of it. Watching El Maestro drool over Lola is enough to make anyone lose his appetite.
Throughout the meal, he patted and groped her whenever she was within reach. All the more reason she ended every course beside the ornate antique sideboard that is laden with all sorts of delicacies: trout in a black bean sauce, pollo molè, arroz con pollo, and a mélange of stewed and grilled vegetables. The meal is served with award-winning California wines. This monster is no stranger to the good life.
Noting her slight blush and the look of longing in her eyes when I glance her way, his smile collapses into a grimace.
What he doesn’t know is that she isn’t mourning for my unrequited love, but for that of her fallen Miguel’s. For his executioner, she has already granted absolution.
For his mortal enemy, El Maestro, she plans his murder.
Did I bring Lola’s vial of poison? No. I knew I’d never slip it by the guards who frisked me before I entered El Maestro’s private quarters.
But from the looks of things, I won’t need it.
A far wall is covered with El Maestro’s prized possessions: his antique weapons collection. I’m personally familiar with several of them.
Hello, old friends. Glad to have you so close by.
El Maestro walks over to the balcony. He gives the high sign to the men on the hill to prepare to start the fireworks.
Any moment now…
Lola puts a small round platter on the table: apples, pears, and mangos are nestled among wedges of various hard cheeses. One of the wedges is pierced with a small paring knife.
Our host clicks his tongue at Lola to get her attention. When her eyes finally meet his, he nods toward the vast liquor bar at the other end of the room, where a bottle of very expensive port sits on a silver tray with two glasses.
She purses her lips. Her eyes dart from side to side. Slowly, she steels herself to walk over to it and pick it up.
She’s poisoned his port.
“Que linda, la virgen, eh?” El Maestro pats Lola’s bottom as she pours the port into one of the glasses and puts it in front of him.
I shrug. “Si, que linda.”
El Maestro pulls her into his lap and nuzzles her neck.
With all her might, she slaps his face.
He stands up, roaring. With an elbow to her back, he shoves her down onto the table with one hand, while unzipping his pants with the other. Bending over her, he hisses, “No more disrespect, puta! El Santo may not want you, but I do. Not to worry. He’ll enjoy watching your deflowering. All men do. Stop your struggling, puta. Who knows? It might fan the fire of lust you’d hoped he’d have for you.”
At the same time he kicks her legs apart, he slaps her head on the table so hard that she whimpers, but she has quit struggling. She lays there, shivering and mouthing prayers as he positions himself between her legs.
The thrust is deep, and draws a whimper from her as he leans into her and gasps a curse into her ear.
But Lola isn’t the one who has been penetrated. The paring knife, sharp and shiny, went between his ribs and pierced a kidney just as smoothly as if it were butter.
It comes out just as easily. As he quivers through his death throes, I wonder if I should grant him the courtesy he never gave his oppressors: that of a quick death?
I think of the priest and of Miguel as I jerk back his head with one hand and run the knife against his throat with the other.
Just as he collapses on top of Lola, the fireworks begin.
The sky lights up as if a war has started.
It hasn’t yet. The spoils of his diabolical kingdom will go to the victor among the narc
os, who will soon begin another bloody war with one another.
Lola and I won’t be around to see it.
I shove El Maestro’s body to one side. She shakes as she clutches my hand, and stumbles with me to the vast mirror on the wall. We twist the sconce that moves the mirror to one side. The staircase it hides falls so steeply that it might as well be taking us into Hell.
I remind myself that this is only an illusion. In truth, these are the steps that will take me to you.
I push the lever that closes the mirror once more, and we begin our descent.
There is a light at the end of the staircase. For the past five minutes, we’ve been following its glow to our final destination.
Lola was right that the stairs end in a hall that leads in two directions. The one that goes east is the shortest—twenty feet at most. It must open into a basement corridor.
I head in that direction.
“El Santo, that is the wrong way!” Lola tugs at my sleeve.
“I know. But I’ve got some unfinished business. You go on ahead. Leave Paraíso now, Lola—before they come looking for you.”
She nods, then shakes her head. “I stay with you.”
Her nobility astounds me.
Still, she just made my mission a little harder. I now have two reasons to stay alive.
As I thought, the door opens next to El Maestro’s meth lab. How had One-Eyed Juan put it? Oh yeah. El Maestro was an artist. Meth was his medium.
Well, you know what they say: art is subjective.
The hall window’s curtains are open. No one is in the lab. They are all outside, watching the fireworks.
The real ones are just about to begin.
The room is filled with at least twenty vats. I move from one to another, raising the temperatures to as far up as they will go.
Seeing me, Lola follows my lead.
We get all but eight of them when someone walks by the half-glass wall—a guard. He glances in.
I hiss to Lola, “Get down!”
Too late, the guard sees her.
She turns around to find him staring at her.
He draws his AK-47 and rushes through the door.
I roll behind it.
The heavy metal door bursts open. He points his gun at her. “¿Quién eres? ¿Por qué estás aquí?”
To answer his question as to who she is, she raises her hands and smiles. “They want me to clean up in here.”
I slam the door into the man.
Instinctively, he pulls the trigger.
A bullet from his AK-47 hits Lola. She hits the floor like a rag doll.
Other bullets hit the tanks around her.
I leap out from behind the door, onto the floor, and slide as far down the hall as possible.
The impact throws the guard through the glass and into the hallway.
Even a five-hundred year-old stone palace can’t stand a blast of this magnitude. The explosion goes up and out. I barely make it into the tunnel, shutting the door behind me.
Then I run like hell.
The tunnel must run for two miles underground. It ends at a staircase that climbs up some thirty feet. I wonder what will be waiting for me there.
Hopefully, not a platoon of armed guards.
When I get to the door at the top, I look through the peephole at the darkness beyond.
I hear nothing.
I open the door, just a crack. Then wider.
That’s when I see him: Abu.
“What the—”
He grabs me in a bear hug. He’s not the only one. George Taylor, one of Acme’s pilots, is also there.
And so is Jaime. His grin comes with a wink. He flips open his badge. “Undercover DEA,” he explains. “Your boss put out feelers about any gringos in the custody of El Maestro. At the same time, your men here”—he nods toward Abu and George—“flew Varick Velesco here from Los Angeles. That confirmed it.”
“How did you know my getaway would lead me here?”
“Lola. She and Miguel have been quite helpful to us.” His smile fades. “I presume the fact that she isn’t here with you is a bad sign.”
I nod. “She helped me blow up El Maestro’s meth lab and got shot for her efforts.” I frown at the thought. “What did Velesco say to get him on El Maestro’s bad side?”
“That he was taking El Maestro’s verdugo home with him. El Maestro didn’t like that. So he gave Velesco a choice: if he beat you, he’d be allowed to live. He realized that either way, he wouldn’t be bringing you home.” Jaime shrugs. “You were quite a little cash cow for El Maestro, something for him to throw in the faces of the other narcos. Sadly, Jack, you may have started a trend with these gladiator events. In the meantime, El Maestro’s territory is up for grabs, so I have my work cut out for me.”
Abu pats me on the shoulder. “Let’s get going before they discover we’re here.”
I hop into Jaime’s truck with Abu and George. As we roar off down the road, I ask, “Donna isn’t here?”
The looks exchanged between George and Abu tell me all I need to know:
Something is terribly wrong.
Abu insists on telling me only after we’re wheels up:
That you, Donna, became a double agent for the Quorum, in order to win my release;
That sometime within the past six hours, Ryan has been killed;
And that according to the NSA, you, my dear wife, were his executioner.
I shake my head adamantly. “I don’t fucking believe you! Where did you hear that bullshit?”
“Look, Jack, don’t shoot the messengers.” Abu throws up his hands. “I’m just relaying intel that is coming from Acme headquarters. Because we’re down here, we’ve been out of the loop!”
“How would the NSA know about Ryan’s death before Acme?”
“Because of previous kidnapping attempts, apparently all Covert Ops directors and their loved ones must wear subcutaneous tracking chips. Ryan resisted doing so—until recently. I think your kidnapping convinced him to comply.”
“Makes sense,” I admit.
“As it turns out, when Donna came to him about your plight and her dilemma—accepting Eric Weber’s tasks in exchange for your release—Ryan injected her with a tracking chip too—so that we wouldn’t lose sight of her while she was undercover with the Quorum. But as part of the deal, Donna insisted that only your mission team could know of your kidnapping.”
I nod. “I would have done the same.”
“We’ve had video and audio contact with her the whole time—up until last night. Then she went dark. In the meantime, Ryan was killed, and Donna’s tracker put her at the scene of his murder.”
“It still doesn’t mean that she pulled the trigger.”
“No, it doesn’t. But it validates an anonymous video link the NSA received just an hour ago. It shows her taking the kill shot.” Abu frowns. “In the meantime, Eric and his bodyguards, Gunter and Hugo, have disappeared.” He shrugs. “Dominic, Emma, and Arnie are being briefed by POTUS. We’re to land at Lion’s Lair so that we can join them. By then, I’m sure Donna will be picked up as well.”
He doesn’t say the obvious: unless she left with Eric.
And then I remember Varick’s taunts.
Donna, what the hell have you done?
Chapter 19
Be Polite to Your Partner
Wives, the easiest way to show your love and respect to your husbands is to be polite. Use this rule of thumb: treat him as you hope he’d treat you. For example:
1: Never be rude to his parents. By setting a good example, perhaps he’ll follow it too.
2: Never walk into the bathroom when he’s sitting on the throne. It’s not the best look on a man. And despite your protestations otherwise, there are a few situations where it’s hard to look ladylike. This one ranks high on the list for you too.
3: Never come home drunk out of your gourd. That way, you lead by example that he should not either.
4: And, finally, don’t
borrow his lipstick. For that matter, the fact that he wears any should make you wonder where his mouth has been.
“Mom! Mom!” Mary’s voice sounds frantic. “There are some men here to see you. They’re from…from Lion’s Lair!”
Lion’s Lair.
Lee.
I rise slowly from the day bed to meet my fate.
My husband may be dead. My boss is, for sure.
I don’t know how long I’ve sat in the playhouse. All I know is that the late afternoon sun is no longer overhead, but that the dappled light coming in through the window is at a slant.
Before I open the door, I do my best to alter the look on my face from guilt to curiosity. I can’t let Mary read the truth within it. Not yet, anyway. I need time to grieve.
Mary holds my hand as I walk through the yard. The men are waiting at my back door. They flash badges embossed with the NSA logo.
I assure them that I’m Donna Stone Craig.
When they ask me to accompany them to Lion’s Lair, Mary clasps my hand so tightly that I think she’ll break a finger.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Will Dad be home soon too?” she asks softly.
I think of the many times she asked that very question of me in the five years during Carl’s disappearance. My heart broke each time then. It does so now, too, because I can’t answer her.
Realizing this, tears fill her eyes.
As I’m driven away, I don’t look back.
I am escorted outside Lee’s office, and told to take a seat on the sofa opposite Eileen’s desk.
If she’s a ghost hovering anywhere about, I’m sure she’s laughing at my dilemma.
The heavy, brisk steps coming from the hallway stop when they reach Eileen’s door. They warn me that several men are about to join me.
My firing squad?
No. It is Jack. At his side are Abu and George.
I run to my husband and shower him with kisses—
So, why isn’t he kissing me back?
