by Callie Hart
I ditch every single last scrap of clothing I’ve brought with me, and I buy a suit and tie, briefcase, polished tan leather shoes and a pair of aviators. The money I’m carrying with me goes into the briefcase.
I am no longer Cade Preston, vice president of the Widow Makers Motorcycle Club. I am Samuel Garrett, executive sales representative at Holland Radisson Tailors & Purveyors of Fine Cloth. Thank god for fake passports, and thank god for fake back-stories. The travel documents and sales pitch I prepared back in New Mexico at the Widow Makers compound were meant to be used if I needed to chase Julio down in Columbia or Brazil. I hadn’t banked on Ecuador, but the paperwork holds up when customs officials inspect it. The suit I’ve bought is expensive enough that they don’t ask too many questions—what is your business in Ecuador, Mr. Garrett? How long do you intend to stay for? Do you plan on traveling back through Mexico on your way home to the United States?
I already have my responses scripted out: I’m searching for a new manufacturing site; I’m going to be in Ecuador for a week. Maybe more. And no, I don’t intend on flying back into Mexico.
They don’t care about my responses. All they care about is the envelope of money I casually “forget” on their desk.
“You may go, Mr. Garrett. Have a nice day.” Smiles all round. Handshakes. A warm pat on the back.
I know nothing about Ecuador. Like, zero. Absolutely fucking nothing. I read the in-flight pamphlet in the back of the seat in front of me on the flight, but it’s in Spanish, and while I can speak the language fluently, reading it, on the other hand, is another matter entirely.
By the time we land in Eloy Alfaro International Airport, I know that the population hits somewhere under the sixteen million belt, and that there are four distinctly different regions to the country. The thing about in-flight pamphlets, though, is that they don’t tell you where you might find the local coke and heroin moguls, or where you might be able to buy a shit load of guns. More’s the pity.
I buy a couple of t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, a new backpack, a new leather jacket and a pair of white Adidas sneakers from the stores before leaving duty free, and make my way to the first rental place I can find that has motorcycles. I could easily rent a car instead of a bike, but the past week sat on the back of the scrambler has given me time to think. Time to plot, and scheme and plan. Plus the vibrations of my cock against the gas tank feels really fucking good. You just don’t get that kind of stimulation in sitting behind the wheel of a Honda Civic.
The rental company only has touring motorcycles, which isn’t going to work. If the House of the Wolves are smart, they’ll be holed up in the hills somewhere, probably off road, and I’m gonna need something that can handle a few dips and bumps in the terrain. The guys in the rental place barely understand me when I try and explain what I need, but eventually we get there. They give me the name of a second-hand place that won’t lease me a motorcycle, but will sell me something reliable on the cheap.
Four hours later, I have a five-year-old version of the motorcycle I just left behind in Mexico, and I’ve gone from sixty grand down to fifty. I ride to a shifty looking café just outside the city, all too eager to leave the busy, over-crowded roads and streets teeming with people behind. There, with a giant cup of coffee glued to my hand and a stale queso wrap growing staler on a plate in front of me, I make a call from my cell. A call I am seriously not looking forward to.
“You did what?” On the other end of the line, Jamie sounds pissed. “You flat-out killed him?”
I stuff the queso wrap into my mouth, hoping the sound of me eating will drown the rest of my conversation with him. That’s not going to work, though. I need something from him, and I can’t really ask him if he can’t understand a word I’m saying. I swallow the huge bite of food in my mouth and sigh. “He had it fucking coming, man. Tell me you weren’t sick of his shit, Jamie. Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing if you were in my situation.”
Silence reigns supreme. I chew on another bite of my food, while my best friend, technically my boss, chews on what I’ve just said. Eventually, he grunts down the phone. “You should have called it in,” he says. “We could have done some recon work, seen how many of his guys hung around once he left the country. Now we don’t know how many of them are gonna come looking for payback.”
“You know as well as I do, no one’s gonna be mourning that disgusting piece of shit. If anything, those power hungry bastards will be sending us thank you cards.”
“Maybe,” Jamie concedes. “But still…”
I discard the wrap, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. But sometimes it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?”
Jamie laughs. I can imagine the way he’s pacing, still trying to process the information that Perez, one of our sometimes allies and nearly-all-the-time-enemies is dead, though. I probably should have given him a heads up first. I’m not looking forward to parting with this next piece of information, either. “While we’re on the subject of things I need to ask forgiveness for, I should probably let you know that I’m not in Mexico anymore.”
“What? Where the fuck are you, Cade?”
“Ecuador.”
“The fuck are you doing in Ecuador?”
“Julio said Laura was with the Villalobos cartel. I came to find them.”
“Ah. Right. So…would you even be calling right now if you didn’t need me to ask one of the guys to find out where the Villalobos family is based?” He can read me like a goddamn book. He’s laughing, but he’s pissed at me, too. Or worried about me. Probably both.
“I would have called,” I tell him. “Eventually.”
“Damn it, you asshole. You should have let me come with you. Do you know how shitty I feel right now?” he snaps. “You’re my brother. I should have your back right now.”
“You and I both know you couldn’t have come,” I tell him. “Not with things the way they are right now.” Neither of us wants to talk about the reason he has stayed behind. His girlfriend is sick. Really sick. Disappearing off on a mission with me just wasn’t an option. And I would never have let him come, even if that weren’t the case. He’s happy now, and he’s already given up so much. It’s time for him to get on with his life. “Besides, you do have my back. You’re gonna let me know where these motherfuckers live so I can go pay them a visit,” I tell him.
“Yeah. On your own.”
“It’ll be fine, Jamie. When is it not fine?”
“One of these days, it really won’t be. And then what? Do not make me travel all the way to fucking Ecuador to find what’s left of your body, Cade. I will be so fucking mad at you.”
“You can kick my ass when you come join me in hell. How ’bout that?”
Jamie grumbles down the phone. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll text you whatever we find in a couple of hours. In the meantime, if you change your mind, feel free to get back on the next fucking flight home, and I swear I won’t castrate you for being a reckless dick.”
“You’re one to talk,” I tell him. “When was the last time you didn’t handle a situation like this recklessly?”
Jamie doesn’t say anything. He barks out a shout of laughter, and then he hangs up the phone.
******
It’s close to eight in the evening when I receive the location of the Villalobos cartel. Orellana, to the east. Way, way, way the fuck to the east. It’s a ten-hour ride if I use the freeways, or a thirteen-hour drive if I stick to the back roads. Adding three hours onto my journey is annoying as hell, but it also means I’m less likely to get pulled over by cops, or caught up in traffic and accidents.
JAMIE: Took forever to track them down. These guys have no paper trail. No online presence whatsoever. We had to pinpoint them using keywords from Ecuadorian police reports. As far as we can tell, Orellana is where they’re based. We’ve scoured the area, and scrubbed the satellite images. These buildings seem to be the most likely location. It’s the best we c
an do right now. We’ll keep looking, though.
Underneath his text message, he’s sent a fuzzy screenshot of a group of buildings, surrounded by trees. A whole lot of trees. So I was right. If this information is correct and this is where the Villalobos cartel is based, then they’re way out in the middle of fucking nowhere. There doesn’t even seem to be any roads in and out of the compound. Not even a goddamn dirt track.
I shoot Jamie a quick thank you, and then I’m climbing on the back of the motorcycle, making sure I have everything I need with me for the miles and miles that stretch out ahead of me. All I really need is a small can of gas and a working cell phone, but the toothbrush, first-aid kit and chocolate bars will help make life more pleasant if I get stranded somewhere.
The ride passes by in a blur of rickety wagons and clouds of dust. I could power through and do the stretch all in one go, but setting off so late has made that impossible. Still, I barely stop to sleep—there are no motels on the route I’ve selected, and without my camping gear, sleeping on the ground off the side of the road beside my motorcycle is less than comfortable. My time in the military serves me well, though. I’m used to functioning without rest. I’m barely even tired as I finally begin to see signs for Orellana.
When I arrive, I’m surprised to find a quaint little fishing village at the foot of a tall mountain range. There are no Holiday Inns here. No Motel 6s. I don’t see a single storefront as I ride the motorcycle down what appears to be the main street of the tiny town. The locals hurry out onto the streets—presumably startled by the sound of the bike’s engine—and they gawp at me with their mouths hanging open as I burn past them.
Everything is decaying, falling down, tumbling back into the water and the dirt. The buildings are more like shacks, some of which stand on high stilts set back from the road. Some of them stand on the river, with tiny rusting tin boats tethered to rotting wooden posts out front, bobbing on dank green water. Children in worn-out clothes run alongside me as I weave my way through the streets of Orellana; they’re poor and obviously have little, but their clothes are clean, and they have shoes on their feet. Smiles on their faces.
I don’t stop in the town. The building complex I’m looking for isn’t down here, after all; from the looks of the image Jamie sent through for me, the complex is further up the mountain, deep in the thick rainforest that surrounds the town for miles and miles.
The scrambler handles the dirt tracks that weave up into the hillside without a problem. My bones feel like they’re being jarred out of their sockets, and the noise the engine makes is amplified through the rainforest, though. I sure as shit won’t be sneaking up on the Villalobos cartel at this rate.
My heart quickens in my chest as I think about what I might find up here. It’s been years since I’ve seen my sister. Years. If she is with the Villalobos crew, what the fuck is she going to be like now? Doped up? Broken and in pain? Will she hate me for taking so long to find her? I hate myself for that. I won’t hold it against her if she does. I run myself around in circles until I’m dizzy—it’s dangerous thinking this way. Laura might not be here, after all. It’s entirely possible that my House of Wolves guess back at the Perez farmhouse was wrong. Jamie and I have already traveled all over Chile, Columbia and Mexico looking for her, our seemingly endless journeys always as a result of some small piece of information that inevitably leads us on a wild goose chase. Why should this time be any different?
Because it feels different this time, a voice whispers in the back of my head, treacherous, evil, cruel thing that it is, setting me up for failure. She was alive, though. When Jamie was in that hotel room, bargaining with Julio, my sister was alive. After so long, it was a miracle. If whoever took her has kept her alive for such an extended period of time, why would they suddenly kill her now? It wouldn’t make sense.
I ride the scrambler further into the rainforest, barely willing to acknowledge that either way I’m riding toward danger. Laura’s not going to be camped out at this place on her own. If she is here, then she’s going to be heavily guarded, and the men watching her are highly unlikely to hand her over without so much as a by-your-leave and a sorry-about-that-we-probably-shouldn’t-have-taken-her-against-her-will.
It takes me forever to find the building Jamie sent me on the satellite image. My cell phone loses service, and trying to triangulate my whereabouts using landmarks is next to impossible with the high canopy and the trees pressing in from all sides. Eventually, after much swearing and sweating, I manage to find what I’m looking for. Three separate low-lying buildings rise up out of all the greenery—dark, concrete boxes with no glass in the yawning window frames, weeds and ferns sprouting from the rooves and the cracked pathway leading up to the open doorway of the first, largest building. They’re little more than ruins. Whatever they used to be, they were never the home of a secretive, incredibly rich cartel. Perhaps this was a meeting point for some of the Villalobos cartel members, but never anything more. It’s likely squatters live here now. The three buildings form the sides of a square, one side left open, given access to a courtyard between the structures. Rusting, twisted metal lays everywhere, and rotten mattresses, abandoned sofas, and old, smashed TV sets sit among the long grasses, like some kind of bizarre long-forgotten hotel room that Mother Nature decided to reclaim as her own.
There isn’t a single soul around, and my heart plummets in my chest. Fuck. After riding all this way, traveling through three different countries and spending a small fortune, I’m drawing yet another blank? No way. No fucking way.
I kill the scrambler’s engine and climb off the motorcycle, wincing as my joints complain. The pain’s not enough to distract me from my goal: recon the area. Find clues. Figure out who used to live here, and find out where the fuck they are now. I’m almost about to step through the open doorway of the largest building when a voice stops me in my tracks.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I spin around, gun already in my hand, my finger ready to squeeze the trigger, to find a young woman leaning up against the trunk of a tree, arms folded across her chest.
My first thought: Wow.
She’s beautiful. Her dark gray tank top hangs loose on her frame, the front tucked into her dirty, ripped jeans. She’s covered in sweat, her forehead glistening with it, which somehow makes her look…well, hot. Hazel almond-shaped eyes, thick, light brown hair shot through with strands of gold, tied in a messy knot on top of her head. Freckles. Freckles everywhere… Across the bridge of her nose, over her high cheekbones, over her shoulders. Her skin is a deep golden color. Perfect. Utterly flawless. She must be in her mid to late twenties, and she looks very, very amused.
I only notice the huge, serrated knife in her hand when she points it at the doorway I was about to step through. “We booby-trapped that place a few years ago. A trip wire across the doorway. Old land mines buried under the dirt floor. I can’t really remember where everything is now. Personally, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go snooping, Mr. American. It would be a sad day for you.” Her accent is mild; she could easily pass as an American herself, but there is something there. A soft, subtle lilt that lets me know English probably isn’t her first language.
“Is that right?” I consider the shell of the building in front of me, trying to buy some time. Trying to decide how this situation is going to play out. I’m holding up a gun, and this girl, whoever the fuck she is, has a huge knife clasped casually in her right hand. Gun beats knife every time, but still. No need to automatically assume she’s hostile.
“How do you know I’m American?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
A smile pulls at her lips. She shrugs one shoulder, pushing away from the tree. “You’re the only person out here wearing a leather jacket in one hundred degree heat.” A pout. A really fucking sexy pout. “And then there’s the fact that we got a call from a friend of ours a couple of days ago, letting us know that an insane guy on a motorcycle was probably headed toward Ore
llana. That kind of gave you away.”
Hmm. Someone from Perez’s place must have figured out who’d paid them a visit, and where I’d likely be headed next. Perfect. I should have killed those four bastards in the living room after all. “I see.”
“You should put away your gun, Mr. America. It’s hard to have a conversation when you’re staring down the barrel of a pistol.”
I eye her knife, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“You may as well,” she advises me. “There are men in the trees all around you, and their guns are much bigger and much more impressive than yours.”
I cast my eyes around, searching through the camouflage of the greens and browns surround us, and I can’t see anything. I got very good at spotting snipers in the desert, but I can’t seem to find anyone here. “You’re bluffing,” I tell her.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess the choice is yours, Mr. America. Do you lower your gun and talk to me like a civilized man, or do you risk finding out if I’m telling the truth?”
The situation really is that black and white. I do as I’m told, or I potentially get shot in the head and I never see it coming. My grip tightens on my gun. “Sorry. You are literally gonna have to prise my weapon from my cold, dead hand.” I never had my rifle taken from me in Afghanistan. I’m sure as fuck not going to lose a weapon in some rainforest in Ecuador.
The woman’s smile spreads across her face. “As you wish.” She gives a slight nod of her head, and I hear the bolt of a rifle being drawn. I duck to the left just in time to avoid the bullet that comes tearing out of nowhere; it buzzes my arm, clipping my jacket, tearing a hole in the leather. Miraculously I’m not even grazed, but I’ll admit my heart rate has jumped up a notch.
