“I’ll only tell you one more thing,” Miel says, not quite meeting my eyes. The way she spits the words out quick, I can tell it’s a losing battle to speak them, and my pulse quickens in anticipation. “Your brother didn’t get shot because of you.”
Oh, is that it? My heart sinks a bit at the lack of helpful information. “I know that, Miel. I’ve heard it a hundred times. Doesn’t make me feel better about how that night went down.”
“No, listen,” Miel says, grabbing my arm earnestly. Her eyes dart up, as if checking for a camera, but there are no cameras in my bedroom or bathroom. Not that I know of. “I’m only telling you this because you came through for us the other night, and I think you deserve something in return. What happened five years ago wasn’t just a robbery gone bad. Max died because of your family’s business.”
“Café Palacios?” I breathe, as if she could mean anything else. Miel nods fervently.
“It’s not just coffee. Your parents also used it as a cover to smuggle cocaine into the country for our old boss.”
“You’re lying,” I say instinctively, pulling away from the other woman. “That’s just a rumor, based on nothing but racist stereotypes. It’s not true.”
“It’s true, Selina,” Miel insists, as I unconsciously step back and away from her, as if her words are physically hurting me. “And Max—”
“Stop lying to me,” I tell her, a shrill edge in my voice. “Is this another mind game? You think this is what I deserve for helping patch up your partner in crime, who probably had it coming? You’re going to shit all over my dead parents’ memory, my family name, as a favor? Fuck off, Miel.”
The woman’s bare biceps flex for a moment, and I brace myself for a slap or some other punishment for speaking to my captor that way. But after a beat, she just shakes her head at me.
“Don’t you dare tell Vega I told you anything,” Miel says, effectively ending the conversation. As she leaves, she pauses in the doorway and turns back to me, no nonsense in her dark eyes. “It’s the truth, Selina. Even if you don’t want to believe it.”
Even with the new burst of motivation that comes from Miel’s so-called confession, it takes me a couple weeks to get my shit together. But when I do, I feel a rush of confidence like never before. I’ve worked my ass off for this, and I know that I can pull it off. As long as not a single thing goes wrong, anyway. And if something does go wrong, it could easily cost Kate her life, or maybe even my own. I guess that’s the downside of your first major solo endeavor being escape from a criminal who has an even bigger criminal out for him.
Oh well. I’d rather die trying to escape Vega’s chokehold than live forever in his grasp.
That’s how I’m supposed to feel, right?
I don’t let my hesitance sway me. Of course I’m hesitant. This is going to be crazy dangerous. But I have to do it. I don’t know if I could live with myself knowing I didn’t at least try.
So on a Thursday morning, when Vega and Miel go into the city and leave me at home with Hernando and Brock, I launch myself into action.
The guys are working in the den downstairs, so I haul the vacuum upstairs and leave it running in the hall. In my bedroom, I grab my white Givenchy tote and begin shoving jewelry into it. I don’t have any cash, but every single thing I own is worth at least a handful of hundred-dollar bills. What else? I toss in a couple extra shirts, panties, and leggings, just in case I find myself on the run for longer than expected. I glance down at my current jeans-and-t-shirt outfit and decide it will do the job. Simple, walkable, not likely to draw too much attention, but still flattering enough to easily convince men to do me favors. I can’t wait to start wearing my real clothes again, after this all goes down the way I need it to. Just holding the Givenchy tote makes my body yearn for de la Renta dresses and Jimmy Choos.
I sit down at my vanity for a quick face refresh, keeping the look natural enough to make me look real and of-the-people, but again, making my lashes long and lips plump enough to keep guys falling over themselves to help me out. I’ve never fled for my life before, but I’ve also never paid for a drink, and that has to translate into some kind of relevant skill set, right?
I leave the bag just inside my bedroom door, ready to go, and do a rush job on vacuuming the upstairs. Is it time yet? I’m impatient, now that freedom is so close I can nearly taste it.
Before heading back downstairs I fish the small orange bottle out from the back of my nightstand drawer, behind my night creams, loose hair ties, my trusty vibrator, and a handful of condoms that may or may not be expired by now, and shove it deep into my jeans pocket.
The guys are still in the den. I take the long way to avoid them, ending up in the kitchen. The neon clock on the microwave says it’s just past noon. Perfect. I make a couple of sandwiches, Brock’s with dijon, like he likes it, and Hernando’s without cheese, like he likes it. Then I get out the pitcher of iced tea I made yesterday and pour two glasses. Checking over my shoulder, I make eye contact with the camera. Only Vega has access to the feeds, and he’s not here right now. I can only hope he’s not obsessed enough to be keeping tabs on me even while out and about.
I take the pill bottle out of my pocket and dump the tiny white tablets out onto the cutting board. Sleeping pills, for when the nightmares get too bad. One usually knocks me out pretty quick, but I’m about half the size of either of my guards. How many will it take to knock them out cold and fast, but won’t accidentally end up causing them actual damage? I resent these two for being complicit in the crimes against me, but I would never want to actually hurt them. I finally decide on three each, then add a seventh to the pile, then take it away. I glance up at the camera again, reflexively. I don’t feel good about this, but it’s the only way. I grab the rolling pin and quietly crush the pills into a fine powder, which I split into two piles and swirl one into each of the two glasses of tea. The stuff is strong, like Kate used to make it. Enough sugar to give you a cavity. I’m hoping that will be enough to mask any odd taste from the pills.
I grab two bags of potato chips out of the pantry, arrange everything on a big tray and carry it out to the den, as I usually do. The guys are bent over something on Hernando’s big laptop, the screen of which he unsubtly slants down when they notice me entering the room. I smile politely and set the tray down on the table, handing each of them their respective lunches and a glass of tea. They thank me and dig in, completely unaware of my betrayal.
I try to discreetly busy myself on the other side of the den, straightening up the decorative baubles on the mantle, tucking the Xbox controllers back into the drawer where they belong. I can’t stop looking up at the camera, my guilt inescapable. Why do I feel guilty? I’m just doing what I must to take back the freedom I have a basic human right to. They left me no choice.
The guys are looking at the computer screen again, muttering quietly to each other. How long is this going to take? I can only rearrange the throw pillows on the sofa so many times.
Behind me, I hear a soft thump and a confused gasp. I turn and pretend to look shocked at the sight of Brock face-down on the table, arms hanging limp at his sides.
“What the fuck?” Hernando frowns, checks the guy’s pulse, and turns to me with a biting look. Shit. It didn’t occur to me that they both wouldn’t pass out in unison, that I might be left with one very angry and very conscious guard to contend with. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about the problem for too long. Hernando rises and takes about two steps toward me, slurring out demanding questions peppered with threats and some real blue language before slumping down onto the carpet in slow motion.
A nervous giggle escapes me, and I glance up at the camera. Fuck. Okay. Now what?
I run up to the table and immediately check Hernando’s laptop. What are they doing? The screen is split into four segments, with different video feeds running in each. Not from our cameras, of course, or I never would’ve gotten this far. It looks like some kind of security camera, with the date and time tag
ged in the corner. This is live. It takes me a second to recognize the building I’m seeing. That’s City Hall. I can see Mayor Conrad’s office in the upper right corner, where his tiny pixelated figure is accepting a takeout bag from an assistant. Why are we—they—running surveillance on the mayor? Movement in the bottom left corner catches my eye. The lobby. Two figures just entered the screen. A man and a woman, and while their faces are small and blurred on the screen, by now I recognize those gaits easily. Vega and Miel. What the hell is going on?
The laptop beeps and the screen goes black. A red window pops up, demanding a password. Hernando must have security precautions in place to prevent strangers spying on his shit. I don’t even try. I don’t need the laptop. I don’t need to know what my kidnappers are planning. I just need to get out.
I grab Hernando’s phone, abandoned next to the laptop, and turn it on. It asks for a password. I set it back down.
Trying to be modest for no apparent reason, I check all of Brock’s pockets until I find his phone tucked into the back one. This one asks for a thumbprint. Idiot. I grab his limp right hand and hold the thumb against the glass. My eyes wander back to the camera while I wait. This feels bizarrely inappropriate, using this man’s body while he’s unconscious, even if all I’m doing is holding his hand. As soon as the screen flicks open I drop the offending limb and open up the settings app, where I disable all the security measures. There. Now I have a phone. I have to assume Vega will have a way of tracking me through it, but as long as I ditch it as soon as I can, I’m golden.
I run upstairs, grab my makeshift go-bag, and run back down, legs so anxiously shaky I’m worried I’ll trip and fall to my death before I even get a chance to exit the house. But I don’t. I call a cab as I speed walk down the long drive to the gate, emphasizing my immediate need perhaps one too many times. It must work, because I’ve barely let myself off the estate when the black-and-yellow sedan rolls to a stop beside me.
“I don’t have any money,” I say as soon as I open the back door, feeling the need to be up front about the situation. The cabbie moves to shift back into drive. “Wait! I do have this.”
I reach into my goodie bag and pull out the first piece of cold metal my hand touches. It’s a Prada bracelet, something gold and a little bit gaudy that I don’t think I’ve ever worn. I hand it over to the guy who needs to be my salvation, hoping he won’t take the dick move and just drive off now, with his prize and without me. He doesn’t, so I slip into the backseat before he has a chance to change his mind.
“Prada,” I say, in case he somehow hasn’t read the brazen logo. “That’s worth a couple thousand, at least.”
“How do I know it’s real?” he asks, even though we both know I’ve already won this round.
“You picked me up here,” I shrug, and he doesn’t have to look back at the big gate I just walked through to know what I mean. “I swear, it’s one hundred percent genuine.”
The guy gives a noncommittal grunt, but pockets the jewelry. “Where to?”
We get to City Hall around noon, as planned. Unless he can help it, Allan Conrad takes his lunch alone, in his office, with bizarre but specific instructions to his assistant that he not be disturbed unless aliens are attacking the city. His exact words, according to an old assistant’s tweet last year. Stupid girl was promptly fired. She’s since deleted the original offending post, but the internet never forgets.
After entering the lobby together, I fall a few feet behind Miel. In the hallway just outside Conrad’s office, I disappear into the corner and pretend to busy myself on my phone. Up ahead, Miel approaches the assistant parked just outside the mayor’s closed door, claiming to be lost and making a damn good show of it, too. The assistant, Becky Parker, a barely paid grad fresh out of UGA, tries her best to explain the route in question, but it will never be enough. Finally, she gives in and offers to guide Miel herself. After all, the building is relatively quiet as everyone is out for lunch, and Conrad won’t be looking for her for another hour. Becky doesn’t say that out loud, of course. The two women turn the corner and march down the hall, Miel talking the young woman’s ear off about how terrible her sense of direction is. I don’t catch Becky’s attention.
As soon as their voices fade, I make my way to the mayor’s door and push it open. Unlocked. This guy must feel very secure on his throne, or he has nothing to hide. We all know it’s not the latter. And it won’t be the former for much longer.
Mayor Allan Conrad, a thin, average height white guy with a respectably thick head of salt-and-pepper, startles at my intrusion, a forkful of kale hovering halfway to his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says, tone polite but stern. “I’m not taking meetings right now. You can schedule—”
“I think you want to hear me out, Allan,” I say, matching his sternness, but with a darker edge. “I have what some might call an offer you can’t refuse.”
“I’m sure you do,” Conrad says, a patronizing smile plastered on his face. Does he really not see what’s going on here? “Like I said, you can talk to my assistant about setting up a meeting.”
“I didn’t realize she knew about your history of embezzlement,” I say, mock-serious. “By all means, I’ll ask her to fit me in.”
We stare each other down for a moment. Game recognize game, Conrad doesn’t immediately react in any way.
“I see,” he says after a moment, gesturing for me to take the seat across from him. I don’t. “What do you want? Money? Is this extortion?”
I approach the desk but still don’t sit. Instead, I rest my hands on the low back of the open chair, casually looming over the man. He keeps a steady face, but I see him squirm as he tilts his head back to meet my eyes, a layer of perspiration gathering on his brow.
“Quite the contrary. I don’t want anything from you. I’m here to help.”
Conrad narrows his eyes but says nothing. He’s smarter than he looks. He knows it can’t be that easy.
“You still haven’t returned all the money you stole from your old employer, the money you used to buy your way into this office. That’s a pretty hefty chunk of change, vanished from their books right around the time you left their employ. How long do you think you have until someone finally notices? End of the year? End of the quarter?”
“I’m guessing you’re here to offer a generous donation,” Conrad says wryly. “But what’s the catch?”
“No catch,” I say, and we both twist a humorless smile. “I front you the money, and you pay me back. My payment plan is fairly generous, I think. The lowest interest rates you’ll find this side of the law.”
Conrad sighs heavily. He must know he’s cornered. He took that money recklessly, with no finesse. He’s lucky to have gotten away with it for this long.
“That’s a good sell, Mister…?”
I finally take my seat, battle won.
“Vega,” I answer, squaring my shoulders. “Javier Vega.”
“Tell me exactly what you want, Mr. Vega.”
We talk business for the rest of his lunch break, nailing down an arrangement. He drives a hard bargain, Conrad, but nothing we shake on today matters. I have all the power in this relationship, and that includes the power to change my mind, if I so choose. I have a feeling that sooner or later, I’ll choose. But for now, having the mayor of Atlanta in my pocket is good enough.
After we reach our agreement I stand to leave, but pause just before reaching the door.
“Oh, and, Allan?” I say, turning back. He raises an eyebrow expectantly. “One more thing.”
I meet Miel in the lobby. She keeps her cool until we’re on the front steps, and then she whips around to face me.
“And? Did you get him?”
I give her a sideways look. “What do you think?”
“Of course you did,” Miel squeals, as if she just found out I bought her a puppy, not that we’re successfully funding a government official’s crookedness. I share her excitement, although I refrain from joining
the public display. We’re about due for a break. Assuming we don’t get shot to death right here on the sidewalk, a fate that remains highly probable, this is as good a break as any.
“I’m starved,” Miel says, and I can’t help but feel relieved that she’s talking to me like we’re back to normal. “Remember that Jamaican place with the huge portions? I think it’s a couple streets down. Let’s go there.”
“Sure,” I say absently, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “Just one sec, let me check in with the guys.”
She nods and begins strutting toward the intersection. I follow a few steps behind, tapping Hernando’s name on my speed dial list and waiting for it to go through.
Voicemail.
Weird. I try again, and after a minute of rings, I’m back at voicemail.
Maybe he and Brock are training, I tell myself, or even playing video games, those assholes. I fight a wave of panic as I try Brock’s number next. A couple rings, then it cuts abruptly to voicemail. Did he just hang up on me? Someone’s getting his ass handed to him later. I try again, and this time I get sent straight to the canned recording. Miel pauses a few feet ahead of me and turns back, confused. I hadn’t realized, but I’ve frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, annoyed pedestrians elbowing past me.
“What?” Miel says, seeing something in my expression. “What did the guys say?”
“Nothing,” I tell her, and watch her brows bend down in confusion. I can’t be the one to panic, not right now, but it’s a fight to keep the anxiety out of my voice. “Something’s wrong back home.”
I have the cabbie take me to the police station. Perhaps I could’ve been a bit more subtle about it, but I don’t care. I consider changing our route to the nearest pawnshop instead, but why be the middleman? Let the recipients of my generous payments be the ones to get severely underpaid for their secondhand goods.
Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 14
