Kill for Me

by Tom Wood

  Alamaeda still wasn’t sure if it was all one great big act—one more scam she wasn’t in on—but she didn’t mind. She was happy to go along for the ride. Sure, she knew to keep her hand on her purse at all times and where never to walk alone, but that was the same as in any city. If there was the option to look at somewhere in its best light, she had learned to take it. Play the victim, and somehow everyone looks like an enemy.

  “Five says they keep us waiting at least ten minutes,” Wickliffe said from the passenger’s seat while cleaning her sunglasses.

  “Five whole dollars?” she said back with a smirk. “Are you sure you can afford to lose it?”

  Wickliffe shrugged. “You only live once.”

  She nodded. “Deal.”

  They were expected, but the guys at the gate still acted as though Alamaeda and Wickliffe were strangers, unrecognized, in need of verifying. She recognized the men guarding the entrance to the casino parking lot, and she even knew the name of one, yet they couldn’t remember her or her associate. They couldn’t remember the two American women who visited them from time to time. No, they had to check their identification under a microscopic gaze. Sometimes they phoned the office to check that the visitors weren’t imposters. The idea was to delay them, frustrate them, and show power.

  “Do you mind if I sit this one out?” Wickliffe asked.

  “Hangover?”

  Wickliffe smiled at the gentle mockery. They both spent plenty of time in bars, washing away the bitter tastes of the day, but Alamaeda had never seen Wickliffe looking worse for wear. She was a robust woman. Slim, but tough. She could handle herself. She never got sick.

  “I don’t think my patience can handle her royal highness today.”

  She shrugged. “Up to you.”

  It took eight and a half minutes of waiting before they were waved through. Alamaeda worked the wheel with one hand while the other was held out in Wickliffe’s direction, and she wordlessly dropped a five into her palm.

  There was a massive empty lot between the casino and the half-finished parking garage. Alamaeda drove across it and tried hard to imagine it full of valet-parked cars. It seemed so empty, so devoid of life that it was incapable of supporting it.

  A better-dressed and better-mannered employee greeted her outside the casino entrance. He smiled at her and treated her as if she were a paying customer. He stopped short of kissing her ass, but he did hold open doors.

  A private elevator took her up many floors before the brass-plated doors opened and the head of security stood before them, waiting for her.

  He was the same height as Alamaeda but twice as heavy, at a conservative estimate. His name was Anthony Angelo Castellon, but no one called him that. Alamaeda had never been more frightened of another human being.

  She didn’t show it, and he did nothing that made him appear threatening. But she knew his history. She knew what he had done and what he could do. That history was the reason he had been hired as a trusted bodyguard and feared enforcer. He gestured for her to raise her arms.

  “You know I’m carrying,” she said. “I’m always carrying. The guys downstairs told you I’m carrying. Shall I start wearing a button that says ‘I’m carrying’?”

  He acted as though she hadn’t spoken.

  In seconds, he was tapping the gun slung under her arm in the webbing beneath her jacket.

  “There’s no round in the charmer,” she said, word for word as she always said it, “and the safety is on. I’m legally allowed to carry it here, and if you try to confiscate it, you are breaking the law and I can have you arrested.”

  “Take it out,” he said, “show me.”

  Like Alamaeda, he always said the same thing. She removed the gun and presented it for him to check. He was thorough but gave it back.

  “Keep it in the holster.”

  Alamaeda said, “I always do.”

  He ushered her on, and she smirked to show she didn’t care about his needless routine, about the stalling tactics at the entrance. They succeeded only in delaying her. Nothing more. It took a lot more than sitting in her car while they played out the charade or the unnecessary searches to frustrate her. One time she had even taken a quick nap. She didn’t see a show of their power but of fear. If they wanted to intimidate her, they should just let her walk right in without so much as a glance. That would show her they didn’t care about her, her work, her own power, that she wasn’t a danger to them. That’s how a power game was won. These guys didn’t have that level of game. They were thugs, and their imagination was nonexistent.

  Their employer, however, was a different animal.

  Alamaeda found Heloise Salvatierra waiting for her in the huge living area of the suite. The room was bigger than Alamaeda’s entire condo, and the suite as a whole was bigger than the two-story home in the Calabasas suburbs where she grew up. Every piece of furniture, every fixture and ornament looked so expensive Alamaeda was always afraid of breaking something that cost more than her annual salary.

  Heloise smiled when she saw her and shook her hand. She would embrace her, Alamaeda knew, if only she’d let her. She didn’t understand that dedication to the pretense. They both knew exactly who the other person was and what she wanted. It was a waste of both their time and energy to pretend otherwise.

  “How nice to see you again, Joanna. You’re looking well. Did you enjoy your vacation?”

  The pleasantries and compliments were hard for Alamaeda to stomach, but she kept things civil. “I did indeed, Miss Salvatierra. Thank you for taking the time to see me. I appreciate your continued cooperation.”

  “It’s always a delight to talk with the Drug Enforcement Agency.”

  Sometimes, Alamaeda felt like she might throw up. “I wanted to update you on our progress regarding the attempt on your life earlier this month.”

  “Oh, that? I’ve been trying to put it behind me and forget all about it.”

  “Does that mean you still have no idea who tried to kill you?”

  She shook her head.

  Alamaeda couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows in skepticism. “You have no clue who ordered half a dozen machine gun–toting hitmen to attack you while you were driving downtown?”

  “I’m at a loss,” she said with unflappable poise. “Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity.”

  Alamaeda caught the laugh, but only just. She cleared her throat. “You don’t think it might have been your sister, Maria?”

  Heloise looked shocked. “Why ever would my dear little sister want to harm me?”

  “Why indeed?” Alamaeda replied. “Why would the two daughters of Manny Salvatierra be fighting a war for control of the drug cartel he had ruled as sole patron for almost three decades?”

  “My father was in the real-estate business.”

  This time Alamaeda didn’t try to hide her amusement. “Miss Salvatierra, why do you bother with the charade? What do you hope to achieve?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

  Heloise accepted the small praise with a small nod. “Likewise, the DEA is consistent in its perseverance, if nothing else.”

  “We all have our crosses to bear.”

  Alamaeda approached the wall-length, floor-to-ceiling window. It was an amazing view, even if Guatemala City was not known for its architecture. Still, there was something impressive about the densely packed buildings and the chaos they framed. Or was it contained? For a moment, Alamaeda gazed down upon it and imagined what it must feel like to be Heloise and what she must think when she did the same.

  Heloise walked up and stood next to her. “What do you see?”

  “Impossibility.”

  “How so?”

  “That’s for you to answer, don’t you think?”

  Heloise said,
“I’m afraid I’m not fond of riddles.”

  Alamaeda turned to face Heloise and the huge, empty suite behind her, atop the huge, empty casino. “Of course. You look rushed off your feet.”

  Heloise said, “Why do you come here? What do you think I’m going to say?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But we can’t understand evil unless we face it.”

  She seemed offended. “You think I’m evil?”

  “Maybe I’m trying to find out. Maybe that’s why I keep coming back.”

  “I think you misjudge me.”

  “My judgment is pretty sound. I’m willing to trust it here.”

  “Yet you don’t know the answer to your own question.”

  “I’m reserving judgment until all the facts are in.”

  Heloise smiled. “Then when they are, I’m sure you’ll come to realize that I am nothing more than a businesswoman.”

  “And how is the casino business?”

  “Taking its time to solidify.”

  “Yeah, I bet,” Alamaeda said with a nod. “Getting a gaming license is pretty tricky when you’re the head of a drug cartel.”

  “Well, it transpires that government officials are quite susceptible to the hearsay your organization likes to spread.”

  “Is that why you’re keeping a low profile? Is that why there have been no revenge attacks against Maria?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying.”

  “Roll back a bit and we were scraping sicarios off the pavement every other day. Your guys would kill some of Maria’s and she would kill some of yours. Back and forth, tit for tat, over and over. Now, it’s strangely quiet. I’ve been asking myself why. But, as you say, government types don’t like bad press. The fewer the corpses and bullet holes, the greater the chance that some corrupt pencil pusher in city hall will bow to your pressure to grant a gaming license.”

  Heloise’s face was unreadable.

  Alamaeda continued: “Of course, you can’t just let the attack go without a response. You can’t show weakness to either Maria or your own people. You lose the respect of your men, and you lose your life. So I’ve been scratching my head, wondering what you’re up to. You’re keeping a low profile and crossing your beautifully manicured fingers in the hope that a reduction in bloodshed will be enough to get your casino business going, but you simply can’t give Maria a free pass in the meantime. So what are you doing? I just can’t figure it out.”

  Heloise smiled. “Perhaps, Agent Alamaeda, what you’re missing is an outside perspective.”

  Alamaeda had no idea what that meant.

  • Chapter 23 •

  Five kilometers wasn’t far to walk, but Victor wanted to leave the immediate area as fast as possible. Whatever Ruiz’s words about a lesson taught, it didn’t mean it had been learned. Maybe they would come looking for revenge, maybe with backup. No real threat, but Victor didn’t want to leave a trail of injured young men across the countryside, signposting his movements. So he flagged down a pickup truck, which stopped, and he climbed into the load bed, dropping cash into the waiting palm of a boy, who then slapped the cab’s rear window with his palm three times and the truck set off.

  From a practical perspective, he had made an avoidable error. He went out of his way to circumvent trouble. He saw these things coming and made sure they didn’t escalate. Here, though, he wasn’t yet in tune with the environment. A stranger in a strange land. He had to be more careful.

  Thick clouds had rolled in and covered the sun. He expected rain, but the clouds never broke. He disembarked with another passenger from the back of the pickup after they had been traveling for a short time, to give himself enough of a lead.

  The airfield was privately owned and one of hundreds scattered across the countryside. Some were little more than repurposed fields where small prop planes could take off and land, most coming from Honduras and heading north to Mexico or the Bahamas. This one was a little more organized and had a pretense of legitimacy. It advertised itself as a flight school, but it had taken a lot of time on the phone to arrange a lesson. Despite the many pilots registered at the airfield and many planes housed in its hangers, none seemed available to take Victor.

  In the end, he had been able to organize an hour’s lesson, but only for an extortionate fee. One that had been quoted to him to put him off, to get rid of him, but he had agreed nonetheless.

  The entrance to the airfield was guarded. A teenager with a badly hidden pistol sat on the same kind of plastic chair the man at the petrol station had been sitting on. He wore a gray hoodie over a white T-shirt. His trousers were black jogging bottoms with a red stripe down the sides. His shoes were trainers with a floral pattern. His hair was long and unruly, held in place by large headphones. He had several days’ worth of stubble, but it was thin and patchy across his cheeks.

  As Victor neared, the teenager eventually noticed him and shot to his feet. He shouted something about private property and that Victor was trespassing.

  “I have a lesson booked,” he explained, with his hands raised in an unthreatening manner, because the teenager’s fingers were inching closer to the handgun tucked into his jeans.

  “You know,” Victor said, pointing to a sign that read AVIATION SCHOOL, “a flying lesson.”

  The teenager was struggling. He was a sentry looking out for cops or rivals. He had probably never dealt with anyone else.

  Victor reached for his wallet to hasten the impasse, but the teenager lost his cool and pulled his piece, thinking Victor was doing the same.

  This wasn’t someone who needed to prove something, like the young men in the comedor. The teenager was working, and on sentry duty because he wasn’t trusted with anything else. Which meant he had never fired his weapon in anger. He was more scared of Victor’s wallet than Victor was concerned about the Beretta shaking in his hands.

  “Call,” Victor said, and used his free hand to make the universal symbol for a phone. “Check.”

  The teenager had the gun outstretched, elbows locked, gripping the weapon so hard his fingers were reddening. He didn’t know what to do.

  “It’s okay,” Victor said, inching closer, wallet in his left hand, held up and obvious. “I’m just here for my lesson.”

  The teenager wasn’t planning on shooting him—he was too scared to actually squeeze the trigger—but the danger of a negligent discharge was increasing with every second.

  Just a little closer and Victor could launch the wallet in the guy’s direction, which would cause enough of a distraction for Victor to cover the remaining distance and drop the teenager. Even with the distraction, there was a lot of ground to cover, so by the time Victor reached him there would be no opportunity to do it the easy way. He would have to strike hard and fast, or else risk the gun going off, which would hit Victor or not, but even the latter was bad. It would mean the flying lesson would be untenable, and would compound the fact that he had already left an unmistakable sign of his presence with the fight in the comedor. Another hurt and bloody local would be like adding flashing lights to that sign. Besides, the teenager wasn’t like the guys in the comedor. He was weak and skinny and might never fully recover from a few disabling strikes. A lifetime unable to twist off a bottle cap was a steep price to pay for a momentary loss of cool.

  “Check my wallet,” Victor said, raising it as he neared and drawing the teenager’s gaze higher and away from the rest of Victor. “It’s all in there.”

  Two more steps were all he needed.

  Victor took one of those steps closer, readying to spring off on the second step, readying to throw the wallet, when a voice yelled, “Put that gun down, you idiot.”

  The teenager obeyed without hesitation. The muzzle dropped and Victor wouldn’t have to hurt him, after all.

  The release of tension transformed the teenager’s entire body. His face relaxed
. His arms loosened. His stance widened. He even smiled.

  “I almost killed you,” he blurted out at Victor.

  Victor raised an eyebrow. “I was terrified.”

  The other guy was tall, with a rotundness his shirt couldn’t contain. He had a bald head and a few days’ worth of stubble. Forty-three or forty-four, with a deep tan and dry, callused hands. His clothes were simple but expensive. A black jacket hung well on his shoulders. The brown shirt was unfastened at the collar. Dark jeans in a loose cut fell over suede loafers. His skin was smooth and pale.

  “I’m your pilot,” he said.

  He clipped the teenager around the ear as soon as he was in range and ripped the pistol from his hand. The teenager backed away quickly, almost falling over, and rubbed his ear as he looked sullen and embarrassed.

  “Kids,” the pilot said to Victor, as if he would understand.

  Victor wasn’t sure he had ever been a teenager, but he nodded anyway. “What is it with the young guys here? They’re wound up pretty tight.”

  “Aren’t they everywhere?”

  Victor shrugged, as if he understood, as if he agreed.

  “Estuardo,” the pilot said, offering his callused palm and a set of short, fat fingers.

  Victor shook it.

  “We don’t get many foreigners asking for lessons,” he said, “Mister . . . Mathus.”

  “Call me Ryan,” Victor said.

  Estuardo gestured for Victor to walk with him, and they started along the track toward the airfield. After a few meters, Estuardo stopped and turned.

  “Hey,” he called to attract the teenager’s attention.

  When he had it, Estuardo threw the confiscated gun, but not toward the kid. Instead he tossed it far into the long grass and chuckled as the teenager trudged to collect it.

  • Chapter 24 •

  “So, you want to learn to fly,” Estuardo said as they neared a hangar.

  “It’s been a dream of mine for a long time.”

  “What’s been stopping you?”