by Gayle Wilson
“He has his reasons.”
“Whatever he does is fine with you?” she mocked, letting her amusement show, hoping to anger him enough that he would explain his devotion to the man who waited downstairs.
“Yes,” he answered calmly. There was only an underlying pride in his voice.
“How long have you known him?” she asked, not really expecting a response. That was certain to be forbidden territory.
“We were children together.”
Rae fought the urge to smile at the idea of someone like him and Diego as boyhood companions. Diego’s small dark eyes watched the idea give her amusement.
“He was my friend,” he said, denying her disbelief. “I was always the outsider, the one the others played tricks on, but he never tricked me. He was my friend. He was quicksilver.”
He had slipped into Spanish for the last word, and she was fascinated by that strange description. She watched his eyes relive the past and knew without asking that he would die for the man downstairs. It was a loyalty money couldn’t buy and the kind the cartels were built upon.
“Will you come?” Diego asked, reminding her of his invitation.
“Yes,” Rae agreed. She had a few things she wanted to say to Diego’s master.
She stopped him at the door with her question.
“What does he look like, Diego?”
He turned back to face her after a long pause, but she could read nothing in the look he gave her.
“Like a man,” he answered simply. He waited for her mockery but, warned by something in his dark eyes, she didn’t speak again.
LESS THAN AN HOUR later Rae was following Diego down the stairs, shivering involuntarily at the memory of last night’s journey. He had not blindfolded her, and he made no attempt to do so before he knocked and waited for permission to enter. She found herself anticipating, hoping finally to see Diego’s master face-to-face, wanting to know what the man looked like who had created the dark fascination she no longer bothered to deny.
It was not until the deep voice gave permission and they entered the room that she realized that wasn’t going to happen. She allowed her eyes a moment to adjust, but even so, she could see nothing of the features of the man who was seated across the darkened room. The lamp resting on the surface of the massive desk he sat behind had been arranged in such a way that its brightness hid his face.
Diego directed her to a chair near the door, as far away from the desk as the dimensions of the room would allow. She took a deep breath, waiting. His nickel, she thought. He was the one who asked her to come downstairs, to meet with him. Let him make the first move.
“How do you feel?” The silken tone disturbed the quietness of the dim room.
“Like someone hit me in the back of the head with a shovel,” she said, her own voice ringing too sharply, angrily, into the heavy atmosphere.
Again the silence grew between them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “Although it’s important that I understand the events of that night, I want you to know that I would never have condoned the use of drugs.”
She laughed, its sound brittle, a contrast to the quiet sincerity he had managed to inject into his voice. God, he used that gift like a musician playing a priceless instrument. All the lies sounded better covered by the beauty of his voice.
“Do you honestly expect me to buy that holier-than-thou routine? When it comes to terrorizing people, you don’t strike me as a novice. Is this how you get your kicks? You indulge yourself by tying up women and putting your hands on them when they’re helpless to prevent it? Or is that the only way you can get close enough to a woman to touch her? Is that the real reason for the blindfold and hiding behind that light? You have to have your women tied up and drugged because you’re so—”
“That’s enough.” At the sharpness of that command she swallowed the rest of the bitterness, turning her head away.
“You have a right to the anger you feel. I’ve done enough to you to cause it, but the drug was not part of my plan. Diego believed that you were lying and that I…” He paused, sounding uncertain for the first time, and when he spoke again, it was something different. “I thought you might be interested in learning why I brought you here and what happens next. However, if you’re not…”
He waited, surely knowing that she would have to respond to that offer.
“Of course, I’m interested in whatever you’ve got planned for me. I can’t tell you how reassuring it is to know that you have plans for my future. Could I have that in writing, please?”
She had steeled herself to hate him, to destroy whatever inexplicable attraction she had felt, but when she was with him those resolutions were meaningless. Even if it were the one trump in her hand, she couldn’t chance what happened to her when he touched her, when he caressed her either physically or with words. She knew that danger was as real as if he decided to kill her. At least then she would die with her integrity intact. She realized he was speaking again, and she blocked the confusion he always caused to focus on his words.
“…the kind of person who would betray her co-workers. I apologize for that assumption, but I had been told you were involved in everything that went on that night. I needed to know exactly what your role was. I still need to know which of you holds the secret of the identity of the man who died that night.”
“So you had Diego drug me in order to find out?” she accused. She wasn’t buying that business about it not being part of his plans. Diego didn’t make a move unless his string was pulled by this dark puppet master.
“Diego acted on his own.”
“Right,” she said, laughing, mocking him. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”
This time the silence lasted even longer, as if he were weighing how to answer her, how to make her believe. Apparently he wasn’t accustomed to people who openly expressed their disbelief of what he said. When he spoke again, it wasn’t to her.
“Diego, I would like you to make the same offer to Ms. Phillips you made to me last night. She is, after all, the one who was injured by your actions.”
Rae didn’t understand, not even when the giant took the gun from his shoulder holster. She fought down the small surge of panic, but Diego held the pistol loosely in his hand. He moved until he was standing directly in front of her, between the light that so effectively hid his master and her chair. He knelt on the Oriental rug, her eyes following his movements.
As graceful as a dancing bear, she thought cynically, and just as well-trained. It was not until he placed the gun in his mouth, the muzzle against its roof, that she understood what was happening. Sickened, she closed her eyes against the images that filled her mind.
“Yes or no, Ms. Phillips?” the dark voice asked calmly. “I assure you, whatever your choice, Diego will obey.” And Rae believed him. Diego would obey. A willing sacrifice in whatever was going on here. Her choice.
With Diego out of the way, she might have a chance. Of course, since the master was offering her this opportunity, he must be prepared for that eventuality. Still, she knew she should shout yes and increase her chance of escape, however small that chance might be.
“He was my friend,” echoed instead. She remembered the memories in the black eyes of the man who was now kneeling before her and those in his voice. “I was always the outsider. The one the others played tricks on, but he never tricked me. He was my friend.”
Diego might not be very bright, but he understood loyalty. And it was possible it had happened as he’d said, Diego taking the initiative with no direction this time from his master.
You want to believe that, her mind mocked, because you don’t want to think he’s capable of ordering what happened last night. Her heart argued against that logic, Then why did he sit with me, hold me while I was sick? She was suddenly sure of that memory, surfacing out of the dark mists. Hard arms holding her. Strong, yet incredibly gentle hands helping her through the maelstrom of nausea caused by the e
ffects of the drug.
“Ms. Phillips?” he asked again.
“No,” she whispered past the sickness in her throat, knowing she was a fool.
“Diego,” he said softly, releasing the man on the floor. Eyes lowered, Rae didn’t watch the giant rise to his feet to take his accustomed place behind her chair.
“I would like your promise that you will remain in that chair until Diego comes back for you,” said the voice that had whispered endearments to her last night. After the same voice had damned her soul to hell as a lying bitch. In spite of it all, she had to force her rebellious mind to remember who he was and what he had done.
“If I refuse?”
“Then Diego will take you back upstairs.”
“And if I agree?”
“Then Diego will wait outside the door while we talk.”
“In private?”
“Yes.”
“So you can put your hands on my breasts again? So you can make love to someone who can’t resist you?”
“I didn’t bring you here for that. I swear I won’t touch you. You have my word.”
“Why should I believe you? You’re such a trusting individual yourself. You drug me to make me betray my associates so you can kill them, and then you—” She cut off the description of what had happened last night. There was no use saying it again. “You go to hell,” she suggested instead. “I won’t make deals with you. Diego can leave or stay. I don’t care. Aren’t you afraid I’ll overpower you? You might need Diego to protect yourself, remember? Mucho hombre,“ she mocked him.
Again the silence echoed. A heartbeat. Then two.
“Yes,” he agreed softly, and she wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be an equally mocking answer to her question or an expression of his supreme self-confidence, his smug agreement with her last phrase. Before she could decide, he continued, as calmly as before. “Then Diego will take you back upstairs. You have my assurance you won’t be hurt again during your stay. Thank you for seeing me.”
Rae felt Diego’s hand on her arm, but she didn’t respond. Her lips betrayed her, giving him the promise he had asked for. “I won’t move from the chair until Diego comes back. You have my word.”
Diego released her arm, and she sensed the silent communication between the two. As always, the master’s stronger will won, and the door finally clicked closed behind Diego.
She might as well take advantage of the situation. It was possible that he did feel a degree of regret for last night. If so, he might tell her something she could use.
“You promised you’d tell me what your plans for me are. Can I assume they don’t involve my immediate release?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. How long do you plan to keep me here?”
“Until I know who dealt with the cartel. After that, I see no reason to hold you any longer.”
“I don’t understand. You must know who…” she began, and then stopped. This had troubled her from the beginning. He was the cartel. How could he not know who had betrayed the courier? When he spoke, it wasn’t an answer to her question. It seemed to have nothing to do with the conversation they were having, but she listened anyway. She told herself that this was why she’d stayed downstairs, why she had given her promise—in hopes that he would give her something that would let her understand what was going on.
“After Pablo Escobar was killed, it was discovered that there was a billion and a half dollars unaccounted for, a billion and a half of his personal fortune that had simply vanished. Everyone knew the money should be there, but it wasn’t, and no one could find it.”
He paused, but she only waited. She had heard rumors about Escobar’s lost treasure before, but she’d discounted them as fantasy.
“That money had been invested, almost certainly abroad, to take it out of the reach of the government, should Escobar be taken. It has never been located.”
“I don’t understand what all this has to do with—”
“I asked you before. Did you never wonder how the courier got the information he gave you that night?”
The realization of what he must mean was as abhorrent as the image of Diego with the gun against the roof of his mouth.
“His accountant?” she asked. “Is that what you’re trying to suggest? That the courier was Escobar’s accountant?”
There was the small but distinct hint of laughter, quickly suppressed, but that amusement was reflected in the dark voice when he spoke again. “Not exactly—” Whatever he had intended to tell her was deliberately broken off, followed by a long pause, and then he continued smoothly, “Not exactly, Ms. Phillips, the term I would have chosen. But I suppose,” he finished softly, “that your assessment is accurate enough for our purposes.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
Her mind went back to that night and the dying man—a man he was suggesting was a part of the evil that was Medellin, a very vital part.
“He wasn’t…” she began, realizing belatedly that there was no argument she could make against his claim. She had spent only a few hours with the courier. She had no way of proving that the man she had listened to that night wasn’t involved in the cartel. His courage and endurance, his willingness to die in the fight against the drug lords, his concern for her in the midst of his own agony—all had made too great an impression. Despite her captor’s assertion, her conviction was just as strong now as then that the courier wasn’t that kind of man.
“I don’t believe you,” she said simply. There was nothing else she could say.
“All right, querida,“ he suggested softly, amused again. “Offer another explanation. Why is everyone so interested in the courier? Why have so many people died? Think.”
And as she did, she knew his explanation made it all fit. The courier had made his agreement with Paul to provide the money-laundering information in exchange for protection, for a promise to make him disappear. Once he was out of the reach of the cartel, and Paul had everyone believing he was dead, he would quietly start reeling in the money he’d hidden for Escobar? God, it all fit. It all fit. He had known Escobar was going down, and he’d timed it just right. He made the offer to Paul and got out before the takedown in Colombia. It even explained why the courier’s name was so important to this man. He wasn’t interested in revenge. He wanted something far more tangible—the billion and a half dollars, the location of Escobar’s lost fortune that the courier could give him.
“He wasn’t that kind of man,” she said softly, remembering, still fighting the suggestion that the man in Virginia had not been what she had thought him to be.
“You’re so certain of the character of a man whose name you never learned? A man you spent, at most, a few hours with, under circumstances…” The dark voice hesitated.
“He wasn’t the kind of man who would work for the cartels. In any capacity. I know that. You’re wrong,” she said, the memory of that man and that night too important to her to allow him to destroy it. “And he’s dead,” she added, still denying her own scenario. “He died that night. Paul told me—”
“With a billion and a half dollars riding on it, would you be willing to take Paul Hardesty’s word?” he interrupted quietly.
She suddenly remembered her own conviction that Paul hadn’t been telling the truth about the courier’s death. Something in what he’d told her that day had rung false. She had thought, then, that the lie involved the manner of death, but what if…What if Paul had instead been lying about the whole thing?
She closed her eyes against the bitterness of her growing disillusionment. “Why did he still give us the money-laundering information? We’d failed him, betrayed him. Why would he endure that agony to give us those names?”
She waited, but he didn’t answer, and it didn’t matter. She could guess. “Because we offered him the best shot at surviving, at getting out. If he kept his deal with us, Paul would get him away. Into witness protection or out of the country. When he recovered, he could sta
rt collecting the overseas investments Paul didn’t know about, and no one would be the wiser. Everyone would think he was dead.”
Finally it all made sense. Except his role. The role of the man with the beautiful voice.
“Were you the one sent to torture him?” she questioned. “Were you the one who failed?”
“I had nothing to do with torturing him. You have my word on that.”
“The word of a drug lord? You must think I’m a fool.”
“I had nothing to do with what happened to the courier,” he repeated calmly and convincingly.
He really was very good, she thought again. No wonder they had entrusted this mission to him. She shook her head slightly, and, although he was hidden from her eyes by the carefully placed light, it was evident he could see her quite clearly.
“I represent other interests,” he said.
Of course, she realized suddenly, not only Escobar’s people would be interested in recovering that money. Not given the amount.
“But why kidnap me?”
“You were the closest to him. You had the most contact with him. You might have known something that you didn’t even realize you knew. My…task was to find out what, if anything, you knew.”
She filed away the memory of that small pause, to be examined later.
“And thanks to Diego’s injection, you found out I know nothing. Why you?” she asked, really wondering.
“I am the one best equipped.”
“Why?”
His hesitation was again brief, but she knew it also was significant. Her father had taught her that.
“Because I hold a position somewhat analogous to that held by the courier,” he said finally.
“‘Somewhat analogous’?” she repeated, questioning. Who the hell used a phrase like “somewhat analogous” in everyday conversation?
“I would be able to recognize the importance of any information concerning the investments and to pursue it. I would know what to look for.”