by Ann Aguirre
A disembodied voice sounded on the intercom, different from the man in the SUV. “You will find clean clothing in the armoire. Please avail yourself of the facilities. In half an hour, someone will escort you to my study.”
Even if I had wanted to argue, I saw no button I could press to make my fear and fury known. I slid off the mattress and onto the thick, plush carpet, and then glanced down at myself. My jeans were stained; my shirt still carried orange smudges. God only knew what my hair was doing. It would serve this bastard right if I confronted him in all my stink, but I couldn’t stand myself another minute.
In the wardrobe, I found a small array of attire: a pair of jeans, designer slacks, a couple of blouses and sweaters. More unnerving, they were all my size. I closed the door on such creepiness and went into the bathroom. If possible, that was worse.
Oh, it was a dream of a room, all gilt and marble; there was a Jacuzzi and a separate glass stall for when you wanted to rinse off. Since I didn’t think it was right to lounge in a spa tub when my friends might be dead and I had been abducted, I glared at the offending opulence as I got in the shower. Even the toiletries bespoke an unnerving knowledge of me. The expensive shampoo and conditioner smelled of frangipani, my preferred scent.
Well beyond worried and now into creeped-the-fuck-out, I rushed as I would never ordinarily do. I only had thirty minutes anyway, if I didn’t want some goon dragging me out of the bathroom naked and wet. Clean clothes would armor me for what was to come.
I dried off and couldn’t resist the frangipani body cream. All this luxury had the effect of diffusing my fear, cutting it with anger instead. I could use the boost of looking more together than I felt. Worry gnawed at me underneath, mostly about Butch and Shannon. If they weren’t okay—
I cut the thought and dressed quickly. Each article contained silk; I could tell by the way it slid against my skin. They had even provided shoes; I growled over the fact that they fit when I jammed my feet into them. Someone knew me better than I knew myself; they’d bought black slacks and a matching V-necked sweater. Add platform Mary Janes, and you had an outfit I’d buy on my own. This look leaned toward the conservative end of my spectrum, but still. I might’ve thrown myself out a window if the closet had contained long skirts and peasant blouses.
I checked the time and found I had enough remaining to deal with my hair. Since it was wet, I could only plait it, but I went with a French braid so I didn’t look schoolgirlish. I needed power for this confrontation.
A few moments later, a knock sounded. Really? We’re pretending I have a choice? Why not just drag me by my hair? I wore a scowl when I flung open the door, hoping I didn’t appear frightened. I didn’t want them to think they’d succeeded in terrorizing me, although they totally had.
“Follow me.” It was the same henchman who’d said, You’re going to be difficult, right before he drugged me.
Because I wasn’t looking for a repeat performance, I fell in behind him. He spoke not a single word as he led me down a long, luxurious corridor—I recognized some of the artists whose work hung in a display worthy of a gallery. Priceless objets d’art lined the walls, but it was simple and elegant, not as if the owner sought to boast of what his money could buy.
We passed a number of rooms, some of which I would be hard-pressed to name. Others I knew, like library, conservatory, dining room. My escort swung open an ornate, beautifully carved teak door. This room was unquestionably a man’s study, from the gleaming desk to the matching wing-backed chairs. Even the carpet seemed manly, with its muted maroon pattern. Reflexively, I started pricing the furniture for what I could get for it in my shop—and then I remembered I had none.
“Wait here,” the henchman told me.
“Of course.” I didn’t know whether he noticed the biting sarcasm. Probably not. Thugs were not known for their intellectual acuity.
He left, shutting the door behind him. I knew this tactic. They were watching me to see what I’d do alone. The waiting was meant to soften me up, so I’d agree to anything by the time my captor arrived.
I obliged them by wandering, a sign of nerves. In my circuit, I read the titles on the shelves. The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. So he’s a learned man and a strategist. There were titles in other languages as well; evidently this villain was multilingual, as he owned texts in Chinese, Russian, German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. It was also possible he was a collector, which boded ill for me. Maybe he’d change his mind when he found out I wasn’t a natural redhead.
A soft footfall from behind made me spin from my scrutiny of the shelves. A man in his late forties stood before me. He was tall and slim, almost painfully elegant in a white linen suit. His sharp, foxy face came to a point at his chin, balanced by the blade of a nose. Bronze skin contrasted pleasingly with a spill of iron gray hair. He gave the impression of careless grace, but I had the feeling he never made a move without orchestrating it. His eyes shone like black pearls, lustrous but containing terrible depth.
I didn’t know exactly what Montoya looked like; in my vision where I saw Min with four men, he could’ve been any of them, so that offered no help. As my host padded forward, I noted he wore no shoes. Interesting dichotomy, that informality when measured against his crisp white clothing—perhaps it was meant to disarm me.
“I trust you found the accommodations to your liking,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“I have nothing to say until I know my friends are safe.”
In my head, the shots echoed as we drove away, and I couldn’t restrain a flinch.
“They are well,” he assured me.
Relief left me light-headed, so much that I couldn’t speak. Thank you for Shannon. He took my silence for skepticism.
“But I do not believe you’ll take my word. Shall we call them?” He lofted my phone—the same one they’d texted. I had no idea how long it had been, how long I had been unconscious.
Sudden hope surged through me, but I managed not to snatch it from him. “Let me dial.”
“Of course.”
He passed the cell over and I punched in Shannon’s number. It rang three times and then her wonderful voice came on the line. Caller ID told her who it was before she picked up. “Corine? Where are you? God, we’ve been so worried.”
“I don’t know. Are you okay? I heard gunfire.” Even if I had a clue where I was, I wouldn’t tell her. I didn’t want Shan involved further, if I could help it.
“They shot the engine block.” The disgust in her voice came across clearly. “You have any idea how long it takes to get a tow truck in the middle of the night? I had Skittles and Pepsi for breakfast.”
“Where are you? Did Kel find a place for you to stay?”
I heard a rumble of background noise, a cocktail of male and female voices. “We went to Laredo.” Ah, shit. Shannon confirmed my fear. “I’m staying with Chuch and Eva. He’s funny, but she’s so mad at you for not calling. They’re really nice. I think Jesse’s coming over tonight.”
Great, when this was over, I was so going to hear about my failure to communicate. Assuming I survived. But I had to find a way to keep Shannon safe, a solution that didn’t endanger her . . . or anyone else, for that matter. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Chuch and Eva, after they’d been so kind to me. I wouldn’t be ringing again after this. Given sufficient warning, I wouldn’t put it past Chuch to try to trace the call. The former weapons dealer had crazy connections. Like it or not, it looked like I was on my own.
“And Butch is all right?”
“He misses you.”
Despite my wishing Kel had gone another route, there were few people I trusted more than Chuch and Eva. They’d look after Shannon, and he likely hadn’t known where else to go. It wasn’t like God’s Hand had contacts of his own; he was too much of a rolling stone.
“I’ll be in touch when I can.”
Before she could finish the question, my host took the phone from me and hit “end.” Not content with those measures, he powered the device down and handed it back to me. “Feel better?”
“Some.” If he’d meant to harm us, he could’ve done so already. Well, not Kel, not permanently, but Shannon was fragile. I wished I’d sent her to Oklahoma City.
“I merely wished to discourage your friend from following. He has a history of leaving wreckage in his wake.”
I considered what we’d done at the warlock’s compound and then later at Montoya’s mountain hideout and had to agree. “Fair enough. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get a little private time with me. So what do you want?”
“You interest me,” he said. “Montoya has gone off the deep end over you, señorita. Others have failed to provoke such a powerful reaction. Why is that?”
I shrugged. It was a long story, starting with my exboyfriend’s mother, a dead prostitute, a fictional curse, and a bunch of bad luck. As ever, mine.
“The better question is why you care.”
“I am Ramiro Escobar,” he answered, as if that explained everything.
Horribly enough, it did.
Deals with the Devil
It all made sense now. Back in Laredo, a man named Esteban helped us out when we went up against Montoya for the first time. He’d told us he worked for Escobar, Montoya’s biggest rival. I could only surmise I’d been taken by the same guy. Still, it seemed best to confirm the supposition.
“You sometimes find yourself in competition with Montoya?” I ventured.
He smiled. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
Well, only because of Esteban. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by letting him know his legend wasn’t as big as he believed. No man wanted to hear that. I relaxed a little, though. Now I thought I knew why he’d scooped me up. Sure, since he had my cell number, a preliminary conversation would’ve been more polite, but handled this way, he proved he meant business. A benign kidnapping revealed certain panache, but I shouldn’t lose sight of how dangerous this man was.
“Yeah. One of your . . .” What did you call a guy who worked for a drug dealer? Henchman sounded very 1960s Batman. I decided on, “. . . employees helped us out a while back.”
“I am aware.”
A micromanager, eh? “Look, I’m sure you didn’t pull me out of my car for the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we get down to business?”
Clearly he wanted something from me or I wouldn’t be here, at least not with all my parts intact. Montoya might be a rabid dog, but Escobar had an equally brutal reputation. He just went about his work more quietly; the bodies he dumped didn’t surface and wind up on the news.
“A meal first,” he said with implacable politeness.
I managed a smile. “I can’t remember when I last had a proper meal. That would be lovely.”
A little voice shouted in the back of my head that this was crazy, but I crushed it. One didn’t anger the wolf by refusing to share his meat. According to older rules of hospitality, if I ate his food and drank his wine, he shouldn’t do violence against me. I’d just hang on to that hope.
“He hunts you like an animal,” he noted as he turned to step into the hall. I heard him speaking to someone in a low voice. When he returned, he added, “Our repast will arrive shortly. Will you sit?”
I’d known enough dictatorial men to realize that wasn’t an invitation; it was an order wrapped in a courteous coating, like the hard candy shell on MM’s kept the chocolate in line. Muting a sigh, I crossed to the pair of wing-backed chairs. They were angled for intimate discussion, and the gleaming cherry table between them could easily hold a tray. Despite myself, my stomach rumbled.
Since he didn’t yet want to talk about why he’d brought me here, I made small talk—and I wasn’t good at it in the best of times. This didn’t qualify.
Still, I offered, “You have a lovely home.”
Escobar scrutinized my movements and mannerisms. “Yes.” Unlike most, he didn’t thank me for stating the obvious. “As I said before, you intrigue me. Would you mind if I have one of my men examine you?”
“What would that entail?”
I wasn’t about to offer myself for rectal probing or freelance vaginal spelunking. Like hell would I budge from this chair, unless he answered the question in a less-than-alarming fashion. Surreptitiously, I wrapped my fingers around the arms. I could do the passive-resistance thing.
“Nothing invasive.”
Claims the kidnapping drug dealer.
“Maybe,” I said. “It depends on how dinner goes.”
From his expression, he took that as a flirtatious rejoinder. Oh, crap. While I was trying to figure out how to backpedal from that, someone rapped on the door. At Escobar’s murmured assent, a servant clad in black and white entered with a tray of cold cuts, gourmet cheeses, and fresh fruit. While he laid out the repast, I sat quiet in my chair, battling back the fear that pounded like a pulse. Despite my bravado, I was in a precarious situation. I needed to make this man happy enough to let me go, but without selling my soul in the process.
“That will be all, Carlitos.”
The employee nodded and he didn’t quite back out of the room, but his look as he left offered that sort of deference. Since I was hungry, I served myself some rolled ham, a few slices of cheddar cheese, and a handful of grapes. He waited until I cleaned my plate, anxious to be a good host. I found that slightly distressing.
“So now we’ve eaten,” I prompted.
“Let me cut to the chase, then. I believe you could prove useful to me.”
Oh, man. That was the second-to-last thing I wanted to hear, right after, I want to cut off your head and make a bowl from your skull.
“How so?”
“Montoya has shown he will stop at nothing to get to you, and his anger makes him vulnerable. In the past weeks, he has taken great risks. Therefore, I want you to help . . . remove him as an obstacle to my business interests.”
“Are you sure you have the right woman? I can’t even fire a handgun.”
“You surround yourself with dangerous, capable people,” he said quietly. “The lack of martial physical skill is of no consequence to a good general. He must merely know when to deploy his men.”
“I don’t have ‘men.’ ”
“You do.” He spoke with the air of one who never argued; Ramiro Escobar didn’t need to. “Under the right conditions, I will offer you my protection, which will incense Montoya all the more. In short, I intend to use you as bait. If you survive, I will reward you richly.”
Who wouldn’t leap at a deal couched in terms of if you survive? But with his blood money, I could rebuild my shop. I saw it renovated, better than ever. Temptation swirled in my head. I remembered the clips of the wreckage on the news; there was no way I’d manage without a windfall. Otherwise, I had to start over.
Maybe—no. I mentally shook my head at the offer, trying to resist. On the other hand . . . I mean, it’s not like he’s asking me to do anything bad. I was going after Montoya anyway. My conscience whimpered. Yeah, that’s how it starts. I couldn’t afford to alienate him inside his stronghold, however, so I maintained an impassive expression. Well, I tried, anyway.
“I have to deal with him,” I admitted. “He’s not walking away from this.”
Not after Ernesto, Señor Alvarez, and my shop. If I’d considered running, that was no longer an option. He had made Shannon and me homeless and killed innocent people trying to get to me. If I didn’t stop it, the body count would just keep rising.
I went on. “So, I’m listening.”
He smiled. “I thought you were a reasonable woman. But before I cement an alliance with you, I want tangible evidence that you are, in fact, as tough and resourceful as I believe.”
I’d seen The Labors of Hercules on his bookshelf, so I feared I knew what came next. “Let me guess. A test? I hope not twelve of the
m.”
“We can learn a great deal about how our would-be allies perform under duress,” he observed. “For you, I set forth three tasks. One challenges your physical endurance, another tests mental acuity, and the last feat, your courage.”
“How am I supposed to survive long enough to run the gauntlet?”
“Where I will send you,” Escobar said softly, “my enemy will never find you. If you return successful, I will extend my protection to you, and we will move forward in our joint efforts to destroy Diego Montoya.”
My skin crawled at the idea of being beholden to Ramiro Escobar. Beneath the polite, urbane exterior lay a yawning emptiness that suggested he did not acknowledge anything beyond his own fingertips as sovereign or self-willed. Could I walk away from this, or had he just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse?
“Assume I pass your trials. Assume we crush Montoya with me as bait and you as the steel trap.”
“Highly desirable outcomes.”
“What then? Will we have any obligation to each other thereafter?”
“No,” he said. “Though as a courtesy I will not rescind my protection, so long as you do not cross me or interfere in my affairs.”
That could be handy, if I didn’t think about all the harm he caused, lives ruined, people murdered. You know, little things. I took a deep breath. This was worse than any course I’d considered to date, using evil to fight evil. If I allied with him, I had to accept this tarnish on my soul. I shuddered because I knew what kind of man Escobar was; drugs might even be the least of it.
“If I refuse your offer, what happens then?”
“I let you go.” Escobar lifted his shoulders. “In all likelihood, Montoya will succeed in killing you, which will be unfortunate, but I cannot mourn someone who passed up such an opportunity.”
Kel wanted to ask Twila for an introduction to this guy, or someone like him. He glimpsed my future and it didn’t look bright. Even he can’t keep up with the numbers Montoya can send—it only takes one stray bullet.
