He is nineteen years old and as ready as he’ll ever be.
He gives a last glance back through the big glass doors at Jack, his only connection to legitimacy.
He is also Evan’s only connection to humanity.
14
Rambo in a Bespoke Shirt
This time when Evan arced up from the depths and broke the surface of consciousness, he sensed a difference in the consistency of the air.
A draft.
Rolling his head to the side, he noticed that the bedroom door was ajar.
He rose, wobbling a bit on his feet. Then made his way toward the door. When he stepped through, he picked up movement far down the hall on either side of him. First he looked left, where Manny waited, shotgun leveled. To Evan’s right was another narco—one of the guards he’d spotted earlier from his window—with his weapon also at the ready. Evan took a step toward Manny, and both men moved with him, maintaining the twenty-foot buffer.
They had learned.
Manny jerked the end of the shotgun at the other man. “Dígale, Nando.”
Santa Muerte, tattooed on the side of Nando’s neck, looked like she was melting. He swiped sweat from the ink quickly, his hand slapping back onto the shotgun’s barrel. “Mr. René say he invite you to take some air. He say perhaps you can find some perspective.”
René’s arch tone, replicated through poor diction and a strong Mexican accent, made Evan smirk.
Nando flicked his head, making clear that the request wasn’t really a request.
Evan started down the high-ceilinged hall, Manny backpedaling and Nando bringing up the rear, the three men moving of a piece. The chalet smelled of dust and sweet rot, all the scents of a time-honored place. The space opened up around Evan, such a contrast to the locked and barred room.
They reached a landing. “Hold up,” Manny said. He shot a quick glance behind him, finding the top step with his boot, then looked back and ran his tongue across the caps. “Okay. Slow as shit, ése, or you be wearing a round in your face. Then you need golds like me.” He bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. “¿Comprendes?”
“Comprendo.”
The three men moved awkwardly down a few broad flights of stairs, Manny sliding his hip along the polished wooden banister for balance so he could move backward while keeping the shotgun raised. They reached the ground floor, stepping into the embrace of an expansive parlor. The lush Persian carpet yielded softly underfoot. Evan took in the intricate woodwork, the scattering of billiard tables, the excessively stocked bar. René certainly didn’t skimp, particularly when it came to luxury. Two foot soldiers sat on leather couches sipping scotch, Kalashnikovs resting on the cushions at their sides. They barely took notice of the bizarre procession moving past them.
A hostage being moved at double gunpoint didn’t warrant a second glance. Business as usual. Evan wondered how many times René had played through this scheme. How much blood had the walls of this chalet seen?
Evan paused, adding the men to the tally—two dogs, eight guards, Dex—before Nando prompted him to keep heading down a wide corridor. They passed a library, a sunroom, an empty ballroom with a listing grand piano and a past-its-prime air right out of a Victorian novel.
The grand entrance rose two stories, crowned by a glittering chandelier the size of a Buick. Evan leaned back on his heels, looking up, a country rube visiting Kuala Lumpur. Chalet windows filtered in the burnt orange of the setting sun. Manny halted by a curved Hollywood staircase and gestured for Evan to continue outside.
Evan placed his hand on the doorknob. The metal felt like ice. “I can just leave?”
Manny smiled. “You can try.”
And then Evan understood.
His thin tailored shirt and jeans would provide scant protection from the cold. René wanted to show him just how unforgiving the terrain was, to dissuade any thoughts of escape.
But he didn’t need to escape. Not yet. He needed to recon, gather intel, get the lay of the land. And René was providing him with a perfect opportunity to do just that.
Evan stepped outside, the breeze sweeping straight through him, biting at his ankles, his neck, his wrists. Clenching his fists, he drove them into his pockets. A light snow fell, so fragile that the flakes dissipated the instant they hit his clothes. For a moment he stood on the vast stone porch, giving his body a chance to acclimate.
René was right to show off the brutal landscape. SERE training aside, without a clear plan Evan would die of exposure. He appreciated the pageantry. Now he had to bear down and gather as much information as he could.
A circular cobblestone driveway received a gravel road that pointed east, the only clear route in or out. The hard earth crunched beneath Evan’s hiking boots as he stepped off the edge of the cobblestones, putting the chalet behind him. Pine air whistled in his windpipe, clean as mouthwash. Turning back, he admired the grand exterior. Four stories of stone and wood plunked down on an apron of landscaping carved out of the hard terrain. Boxy shrubs artfully concealed a few sunken basement windows. A tower stretched up from the east wing, manned by a rail-thin guard whose silhouette Evan didn’t recognize. He included the man in his mental count.
Evan rotated in a full circle, taking in the sweep of the surrounding range. The valley position was ideal for René. A single lookout could monitor incoming traffic from all directions, the amphitheater effect of the mountains ensuring that a car or a plane would be heard from miles away.
It made even more sense why René had hired narcos for his detail. Aside from ISIS bodyguards who were unwooable by money, narcos had the most experience conducting illicit and elaborate operations while staying off the radar. Evan had no doubt that these men had cut their teeth hiding powerful drug lords from the federales, rival cartel assassins, and DEA drones while doing the legwork to keep the empire running. Procuring these men was ingenious and bold—René’s trademarks.
The air was crisp, the view at postcard resolution. Above the ridge a hawk caught a wind current, frozen in place like a fleck of paint on a camera lens. The slope to the north looked to be the most gradual, which suited Evan fine. The border to Liechtenstein lay that way.
The red barn sat a few hundred yards to the east. Two narcos perched on wooden crates by the door, smoking and sipping coffee, their AKs dangling from straps. They wore long dark coats, heavy enough to add bulk. One poked a fork into a plate of food. A fire languished between the crates, down to ash and embers, a pot hanging over it like something from a cowboy movie. Evan recognized them as two of the men he’d seen jogging into the barn earlier. The Dobermans lounged at their boots, resting.
Evan started toward the men, and they both rose quickly. The dogs lunged to their paws and issued a rumbling growl in stereo. But still they kept slack in the leash. They were well trained, not junkyard menaces.
The wet air conveyed the scent of cigarettes, onions, and garlic. As Evan drew near, he saw that the plate held a half-eaten tamale smothered in green salsa. His stomach leapt at the sight.
Giving the men a wide berth, Evan passed by. “Buenas tardes,” he said.
“Buenas tardes.”
The barn door rumbled open with a metallic rasp. Another narco, with grease stains on his hands and shirt, stepped outside as he lit up a cigarette. A tenth guard. His left cheek sported an impressive knife scar, his patchy beard riding the pitted flesh haphazardly. He saw Evan and froze.
Through the rolled-back door, Evan took in the interior. Only now did he realize that the barn, for all its cozy Old World appearance, was built of metal. There were no stables inside, but an open stretch housing a pair of big Mercedes SUVs—Geländewagens with their license plates removed. Beside the G-Wagons, a vintage Rolls-Royce Phantom was parked, jacked up on the left side, its rear tire removed. Gear lockers lined the back wall. A distressed feminine voice carried out, ringing sharply off the metal, echoes making her words unintelligible.
Evan strained to source the sound, catching a flash o
f movement between the G-Wagons, a woman doubled over, head bent painfully, her mane of straight black hair thrown forward over her face. He couldn’t see her features, but the sounds clarified as cries.
She slid bizarrely along the ground like a stop-motion insect, one arm twisted up as if in supplication. It wasn’t until just before she skittered behind one of the vehicles that Evan spotted the massive hand clamped over her wrist, wrenching the arm painfully as it dragged her from sight.
It had a streak of color across the back just beneath the knuckles.
Dex.
The man with the grease-stained shirt slammed the door shut quickly behind him, clearly concerned by what Evan had seen. Or was he? Had the whole episode been staged?
At a twenty-yard standoff, the men regarded Evan, blinking. Then they flicked their cuernos de chivo at him: Get moving.
He kept on toward the edge of the pine forest, half expecting them to herd him back toward the chalet. But they let him roam.
There’d be no going Rambo in a bespoke shirt on an empty stomach with zero planning. Not in this weather.
As Evan hiked through the trees even the muddy patches held firm, frozen in place. Though the branches filtered out most of the snow, a light dusting still fell, melting on impact. He worked his way up the first slope, sticking to the ridge. The trees were less dense here, providing better sight lines to the chalet below and the looming crest. He paused, breathing hard, his sweat clammy and cold across the back of his neck. His hands were going numb.
He spotted a clearing ahead and set up the jagged slope toward it. When he finally reached the break in the trees, he paused, leaning against a boulder. A glasslike puddle at his boots looked like a portal to the underworld, the reflected pines thrusting down to a miasma of subterranean clouds. A loon arced gracefully down to land, kissing its mirrored opposite and shattering the illusion. The sleek black head bobbed, and then a mournful wail drew out and out, warbling the air.
Evan would have to head back soon or risk frostbite. He climbed atop the boulder and peered up the northern face of the range, charting a mental course over the brink.
His thoughts traveled to a midsize carrier that right now was sliding south alongside the Baja Peninsula toward the Panama Canal.
Seventeen years old. Locked in a goddamned twenty-foot ISO-standard container like a piece of break bulk cargo.
For a moment the image of Alison Siegler made him debate going for it. Insulating his skin with a paste of mud. Once he got past the rim, he could build a shelter, search out tinder, forage for food. Maybe it was worth taking the shot now.
The loon’s howl cut off abruptly, and it took flight with a graceless flapping, flecks of water raining down on Evan’s head. He turned to see what had scared it off.
A ten-point buck had wandered silently to the water’s edge. His majestic head was raised, obsidian eyes fixing Evan where he stood. Evan’s breath gusted out, wisps riding the air. He could see the buck’s breath, too, twinning plumes from the nostrils. The buck lowered his front leg, muscles sheeting beneath the fur.
A frozen moment.
Then the buck jerked.
An instant later the gunshot thundered across the valley.
Evan’s head snapped upslope to search out the shooter, but it was too late.
The stag buckled onto bent front legs. He wheezed. His hind legs kicked, propelling him forward onto his neck. The puddle sprayed, dark with churned-up muck. Then the buck collapsed onto his side. Crimson matted his fur, running into the water.
Evan slid down from the boulder and walked over. Breath fluttered the tattered fur at the wound, air leaking through the punctured lung, the sound like a deep, hoarse sigh. Saliva frothed the mouth. One rolling black pupil looked up at him.
Evan squatted over the buck, rested a hand on the warm neck, stroked it gently until an inner stillness claimed the eye.
He tallied the new count: Two dogs, ten guards, Dex. And a sniper.
He understood better what René had wanted him to learn on his little nature hike.
Now that the point had been made, Evan was not surprised to hear heavy footsteps approaching through the underbrush. It was time for him to be returned to his box. A moment later Dex broke through the tree line into the clearing. Still crouched, Evan looked up at him.
Dex was expressionless as always, his gaze absent of life. His face maintained that preternatural blankness as he lifted his right hand and cupped it over his mouth—elbow flagged to the side, palm pressed to his lips, the V of his thumb and forefinger snug against his nose. For the first time, Evan saw the tattoo on the back of his hand clearly. It was a mouth stretched eerily wide, conveying pleasure but no happiness.
A painted smile, slapped monster-mask crooked over Dex’s actual mouth.
15
Back-Alley Philosophers
René’s sleek steak knife sliced through the cut of venison, juice oozing from the pink center. He skewered the cube of meat on a designer fork and held it out to his side. Dex took it gingerly and deposited it into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, nodded.
A poison taster to the king.
Of course, the majority of toxins would take much longer to manifest, but Evan was learning more and more how much René indulged his affectations.
With its dark woods, brass sconces, knockoff Monet, and silk rugs overlaying a parquet floor, the formal dining room had a somber ambience, taking itself too seriously. Evan sat at the opposite end of an elegantly set table the size of a small sailboat. He and René were the only two dining. Aside from Dex cast in the role of guinea pig, the sole deviation from the Citizen Kane setup was Manny standing ten yards behind Evan with a shotgun aimed at the base of his skull.
René’s eyes flicked down the length of the table at Evan. At last, he spoke. “This is proving to be a protracted conversation.”
He mopped a pink square through the juice pooled on his plate and took the meat off the tines. He closed his eyes as he chewed, then dabbed the corners of his plush lips with a linen napkin.
Evan looked down at his setting. His venison had been cut into bite-size pieces. No utensils. His napkin had no bamboo ring. But the bone-china plate would shatter readily, and he could wrap the napkin around the base of one of the shards.
René interrupted his thoughts. “You have to stop trying to kill my men.”
Evan said, “Trying?”
René’s laugh seemed to catch him by surprise. When the smile faded, it was as though it had never existed. “Eat,” he said.
Evan ate with his fingers, the meat delicious and salty, tinged with rosemary. He couldn’t remember being this hungry since he was a kid. He’d spent a lot of years half starved, fighting for every mouthful.
René looked genuinely pleased that Evan was enjoying his meal. “Would you like seconds?” he asked.
“Yes.”
René moved a bejeweled finger to a slender white remote on the table beside him, and a moment later one of the broad kitchen doors swung open. The narco from the barn, now wearing a chef’s smock in place of a grease-stained shirt, emerged with another plate of meat, also cut as if for a child.
“Careful, Samuel,” René said. “Right there is fine.” He gestured to a spot several feet up from where Evan sat.
Keeping a wary eye on Evan, Samuel placed the plate down with a thunk and retreated to the kitchen. As the doors fanned wide, Evan peered through, taking in the huge kitchen with its center island, wood-fired oven, and cavernous pantry. He plugged it into the blueprint of the house he was constructing in his head.
He rose, claimed his plate, and returned to his seat. The bore of Manny’s shotgun tracked him the entire way.
“Look up,” René said.
Evan did.
“Smile.”
Evan stared at him. René’s eyes peered out through the unnaturally smooth skin of his face. He was serious.
“What, René? You want to be friends?”
René pointed the knife
at him. “Given your circumstances, is it wise to make me an enemy?”
“We’re well past that already,” Evan said.
He resumed eating, letting his eyes pick across the room. European outlet plugs spotted the wainscoting. The knockoff Monet upon closer examination was a Monet. On the east side, the dining area blew open into a cathedral-style living room. Beyond oversize couches and ottomans arrayed like sleeping elephants, floor-to-ceiling windows showed off snow-spotted panes backdropped by the black of night. Evan could see his own ghostly reflection floating in the glass.
Even across the length of the table, René’s gaze felt cold on the side of Evan’s face.
“You’re not a complainer,” René said. “I appreciate that. It’s amazing what people can convince themselves constitutes stress. Most Americans seem to believe that safety assurances are awarded at birth like factory-issued warrantees. So far as I can tell, the only American growth industry is entitlement.” He settled back, folded his hands across his belly. His suit, made of a thick velvetlike fabric, didn’t wrinkle. It rippled gracefully, flowing like water. “For the sheep, moral outrage is the coin of the realm. They smother themselves in it.”
Evan ate his meat, one precut bite at a time.
René bristled, his first show of impatience. “Well?”
“This doesn’t interest me,” Evan said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve dealt with enough tin-pot tyrants and back-alley philosophers for one lifetime.”
Rene drew his head back, just slightly, but Evan could see that he was stung. His complexion was bloodless, save for tinges of pink rimming his nostrils and eyes. Despite all his efforts, he looked unwell.
His fingers drummed on a BlackBerry that sat next to the clicker. He peeked at the screen, let it darken again. Since BlackBerry was a Canadian company, many believed that it gave better protection from the NSA. Evan guessed that René used a mirror system for his comms, transmitting every text or call through several intermediaries. Only his inner circle would know where he was, keeping him as safe and hidden as a cartel kingpin gone to ground.
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