by Janey Mack
Sipping the icy vodka, I settled in to the story with a happy sigh.
Too soon, Lee came back and flopped down across the table from me. Amped, he drummed his hands bongo-style on the table. “What’s Tampico? A six-hour flight?”
I nodded and he proceeded to devour the fruit and cheese plate.
Captain Hester came on overhead. “We will be landing in San Luis Potosiat at the Ponciano Arriaga International Airport in approximately two and a half hours.”
“That doesn’t sound like we’re going to Tampico.” Lee frowned.
“You’re in the cockpit for the better part of the trip and you didn’t talk about the flight plan?”
Lee reached across the table for my drink, took a swallow, and coughed. “Vodka?”
“I prefer to call it ‘heavy water.’ ”
“Christ, Maisie,” he hissed. “We’re on mission.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re cool with this?”
I took pity on him. “Ponciano is the closest airport to Autódromo Potosino.”
“What’s that?”
“A NASCAR track that Carlos Grieco doesn’t own, but is a major holder in the consortium that does.” I leaned in. “Grieco is an old-school muscle car freak. His life is all about racing and restoring seventies-style racers. We’re talking badass legends like Pearson, Petty, Yarborough, Earnhardt Sr. Not a big surprise that we’re stopping there. Either to watch Grieco race or to pick him or El Cid up on the way back to Tampico.”
We landed and taxied to a separate hangar, bypassing the main terminal.
I packed my gear into my satchel, after loading my Christian Louboutin clutch with my phone, passport, and wallet.
Lee stopped to glad-hand with Captain Hester. “Thanks for the ride, squid.”
“Keep an eye on him, Mrs. Renko,” Walker said as I moved to the exit. “You know Marines are sailors who can’t read.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.” I stepped out onto the stairs.
On the ground, in front of the MDX, stood the Hanson brothers. Serbian Zastava M21s slung over their shoulders, they wore plaid Western shirts tucked into jeans over exaggerated pointy-toed cowboy boots. And, just for me, they were all wearing oversized eyeglasses. “Hey, Chicago!” they shouted.
Lee growled behind me, “Who the fuck are these clowns?”
“Easy, guy. They’re the Hermanos Hanson. El Cid’s crew, and from the looks of it, our transportation.”
I introduced Lee to Chac, Jefe, and Esteban. We piled into the SUV, Esteban behind the wheel, Chac riding shotgun, while Jefe sat in the far back row behind us. “We go to Villa Zara Zaragoza,” Chac said over his shoulder, “to the Autódromo.”
The sun was bright and merciless. Esteban turned onto Route 70. Thorn scrub and desert stretched for miles on either side of the highway. Thirty minutes later, the circuit appeared on our right-hand side.
“So, Grieco’s a NASCAR superfan?” Lee said, as Esteban turned into the Autódromo.
“No.” I shook my head to the side. “More accurately, an old-school American muscle car freak.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Muscle cars are dangerous.”
“And old,” Chac piped up. “Full of temper.”
“Cars built in the sixties and seventies?” Lee gave Chac a doubtful smile. “How dangerous can they be?”
Chac waved a finger at him. “Too much power for the body.”
“You’re talking cast-iron V8, big-engine beasts,” I said. “The steering’s either nonexistent or overboosted. The name ‘muscle’ came from the engine and from the pipes you get changing gears—no hydraulic assist for the clutch. And brakes ?” I laughed. “Hey, Chac—what are those things used for again?”
“I do not know. What is brakes?” Chac winked at me. “All I know is crack-up.”
“Reckless power, Lee. You’ll love it,” I said. “And Grieco races these bad boys on a short half-mile oval track.”
Esteban stopped the SUV. Lee hopped out and took my elbow as I stepped down onto the asphalt. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “You’re pretty cute when you think you know what you’re talking about.”
I pretended to stumble and dug my elbow into his side. “Gee, thanks.”
Autódromo Potosino was a short seven-tenths of a mile long, low-speed course, the entire circuit visible to the stands. Chac escorted us down close to the track. A small grouping of people was in the metal bleachers with umbrellas, balloons, and signs that said Feliz Cumpleaños, Carlos!
A private birthday race; six cars were on the track, but only two were contending. A metallic-orange Chevelle, I recognized instantly as the one Special Unit and I had acquired for AJ, and a glorious yellow Plymouth Superbird I was pretty certain Carlos was driving.
Lee stood at the edge of the bleachers, head on a swivel, eyes continually scanning for threat, while Chac and I took a front-row seat.
I’d forgotten how much fun watching a race was. It was exactly the same as when Da had taken us as kids. Thunder pulsing up from the ground as the cars flew past, the tang of melting rubber and brake dust. Flashes of brilliant colors and the whine and whump of the engines.
Five laps to go, hitting speeds around 110 mph, AJ’s Chevelle dropped low on the track riding the apron, as Carlos and the Superbird took the high line and ultimately the checkered flag. Everyone cheered as he took a victory lap, including me.
Chac gestured for me to walk with him toward the track. “Come, we see El Cid.”
I glanced back at Lee, who gave me the nod. We crossed the track to the pits. AJ, leaning against the Chevelle in his black Nomex Crow racing suit, pushed off and came toward us stripping off his gloves, then he kissed me on both cheeks. “Gimme some sugar, baby.”
Army of Darkness. “Hail to the king, baby.” I grinned and kissed him back.
“Damn, you’re good.” AJ threw a salute over my shoulder. “Here he is, the man of the hour.”
Carlos Grieco left his adoring throng and was coming our way. His NASCAR-style jumpsuit was bright yellow. Unzipped to the waist, a tight Under Armour T-shirt stretched across his barrel chest. He’d pulled his arms out of the sleeves, letting them swing.
At five-foot-seven, he was my height, but with a good seventy pounds on me, easy. The jewelry added another two. From the look of his arms, he was heavily muscled beneath his layer of indulgence. He stank of sweat, gasoline, and a heavy, flowery cologne.
AJ’s hand went to the small of my back. “Tío, this is Maisie Renko.”
“Yes, I see.” Carlos nodded at his nephew. “Go tell Miguel to check the secondary air valve tension.”
“You got it.” AJ jogged off down the track.
“Mr. Grieco,” I said. “It is a pleasure, indeed, to meet you.”
He gave me a once-over that was less than pleasant, smoothed his sweaty mustache, then extended his hand.
Ick.
I put my fingers in his.
“I extend my hospitality to you, for the inconvenience you suffered in Juárez,” he said.
Oh, so the bomb in the cooler was an “inconvenience.” Got it.
“Thank you.”
He clenched my hand, letting me feel the threat. “Women should not be involved in this type of enterprise, Señora Renko.”
“I agree.”
“I accept your influence over your husband.” Grieco’s mustache flared up at the corner, exposing smoke-stained teeth, and he jabbed me in the chest with a thick middle finger. “But not my nephew, yes?”
I looked down at his finger resting just above the V of the neckline of my dress. “We’re business associates first. Friends second.”
“El Cid has fiebre del Ártico.”
Talk about lost in translation. “Oh?”
“Arctic fever.” He slid his finger far down between my breasts, rough knuckle grating against my skin. “He likes only the whitest women.”
My pasted-on smile dried up and crumbled off.
; We all may have sprung from apes, but you didn’t spring far enough.
At least he was out of Lee’s line of sight. I didn’t flinch, just stared back with a blasé look on my face and said blandly, “Then we’ll have to find him one, won’t we?”
Grieco removed his finger. “You leave that to me.”
AJ trotted back. Grieco threw a playful arm around his neck. “I thought for sure you had me. Then you turn chicken.”
AJ grinned, teeth flashing against his dirty, swarthy face. “Thank your lucky stars, old man. You woulda been eating the wall except”—he glanced over his shoulder at the Chevelle—“I love my baby too much.”
Grieco slapped his cheek. “Women and cars. Things you must learn to keep in perspective.”
Somehow I knew at that moment, Lee was smiling.
Chapter 30
The Lear made the hop from Ponciano to Tampico at full capacity. The rear of the plane held Grieco’s protection squad wearing ballistic vests, FN Five-seveN MK2 handguns, Ingram MAC 11 spray-and-pray submachine guns at their sides.
Lee and I rode facing backward, while Grieco and AJ sat across the table from us. The music pulsing, booze flowing as Grieco lit a celebratory cigar.
“You.” He pointed his glass at Lee. “You are not Eastern bloc. Who are you to Renko?”
Lee jerked his chin in my direction. “I’m the containment squad.”
Grieco thought that was hilarious. “You were soldier, yes?”
“Yes sir. I’ve served.”
“That is why Americans go to war. To learn geography.” Grieco paused for our obligatory chuckle and snatched up my hand. “This ring. It is too small for a brave woman.”
Lee’s warning flashed in my mind.
Awesome. Time for the charm.
Lee didn’t move a muscle, but he didn’t like Grieco touching me. I didn’t much care for it, either.
“And you are very brave,” Grieco said. “Here? Alone? Dealing with El Cid, when Renko made it clear that he would not soil his hands with narcotics.”
AJ took a sip of his drink before steering the conversation back to the ring. “It’s the European aesthetic, Tío.”
“So? She’s a fucking American.” Grieco turned my hand in his. “I send the boy to school, and now he takes me for some blinged-out paisa. What do you think, Maisie?”
I refused to let my gaze drop to his stubby, ridiculous, ring-encrusted fingers, holding mine. Instead, I glanced around the Lear and his men. “How could anyone possibly find a man with this level of sophistication and the control of the most important Mexican port city primitive?”
“Yes. Yes,” he said, finally letting go of my hand. “How do you come to deal with El Cid?”
I smiled demurely. “Stannis is a man who allows himself the occasional uncomfortable luxury of changing his mind.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake.
Grieco’s face darkened.
“Ahhh! You see? You see, Tío? Renko, too.” AJ laughed, smoothly transitioning my comment from incendiary to harmless. “I’m not the only one with fiebre del Ártico. Although, to be fair, Renko’s a polar bear himself.”
Grieco laughed, raised his arm, and snapped his fingers.
Moments later, our flight attendant returned with a tray of six fat lines of cocaine and three short black straws.
Feck.
The birthday boy snorted the first two, then gestured for me to take a turn.
I’d never done it. Never even been curious. And I really didn’t want to give it a go right now.
“Mr. Renko prefers she doesn’t,” Lee said.
Grieco ignored him and handed me a straw. “I prefer you do.”
Nice and easy does it.
I didn’t dare glance at Lee.
Mimicking our host, I sucked a single line up into my nose. It burned like I’d snorted champagne up my nose, only my nose went numb before I felt the burn hit the back of my throat and slide down.
“Thank you.” I set the straw down and muffled the desperate hawking throat-clear with a cough. “I think one’s enough for now.”
AJ swooped down for the other two. The remaining line went back to Grieco.
What I really wanted was water, but as I’d already wussed out, I raised my drink. “Salut.” I took a swig of vodka. I couldn’t feel myself swallow.
Why would anyone ever do this shite?
The rush hit.
Wow. I get it.
Who would have thought increasing the neural activity in the nucleus accumbens in the mid-brain could be this mind-blowingly awesome?
From the looks of it, Grieco and AJ. I was smart and witty and the world was fantastic and Carlos was actually pretty decent. And funny.
I grinned at Lee, who pinned me with a fierce glare, then ran his thumb slowly over his mouth.
Zip it the hell up, Maisie.
Roger that.
I spent the rest of the trip chewing the insides of my cheeks to keep from talking.
We landed on Carlos’s private airstrip just outside of Tampico.
“I will see you at the party tomorrow, Maisie.” Carlos raised a hand and the three men in the back of the plane followed him out.
AJ raised his hand to the flight attendant signaling for another round. “Let’s give him time to get gone.”
Out the window a crew of four heavily armed men waited at two black Lincoln Navigators at the edge of the hangar. Standard Grieco cartel projection—power and muscle. Identically equipped to the men who rode in the back of the plane.
Carlos said something and laughed as he and his men packed into the SUVs and drove off.
After our drinks, we left the aircraft. One of the Five-sevenS waited for us with a silver Navigator. Odds Carlos’s fleet was stolen from the U.S.? Dead even.
AJ and I got in the backseat while Lee and the man stowed our luggage. The driver was up front, Lee riding shotgun.
“So, how long to Carlos’s house?” I asked.
“We’re on my uncle’s property right now,” AJ said. “He owns everything within a ten-mile radius.”
We were coastal now, right off the Gulf. Tropical savannah, the AC protecting us from the 90-degree heat. The land was sandy one side, sodden with small lagoons on the other. The fortification was impressive. Barbed wire, game cameras, watch towers. I recognized one of the outlying buildings. Lee scanned the landscape, eyes calculating distance, noting everything as we drove leisurely through the compound.
“Is that a horse barn?” I asked, pointing at the smaller of two large buildings. Several cars were parked outside. Some spectacular, others barely hanging together.
“Yes. But neither building is used for livestock any longer. The horses prefer to hear the sea, from their air-conditioned and heated paddocks. Those are used for car maintenance, servant parking, etcetera.”
The rooftop of the mansion came into view. “Take us to the laguna first,” AJ said. The driver slowed and turned down a gravel road. He stopped the Navigator at a sort of beach house at the edge of a mangrove swamp.
AJ hopped out. “C’mon, I want to introduce you to my baby.”
Lee was out, opening my door before I even reached for the handle.
“C-Rey! Where are you?” AJ opened the small bar fridge built into the outside of the patio kitchen. He took out a cleaned chicken carcass and walked down to the water.
A grayish brown crocodile with yellowish bands and dark spots on its body heaved itself slowly up onto the edge of the inlet.
AJ waved me over. “It’s cool, Maisie. Pacific crocs aren’t aggressive.”
I left my heels on the grass and trotted barefoot to his side at the freshwater lagoon.
“He’s a Morelet’s. Bigger than most, at ten feet, three inches long, aren’t you, C-Rey?” AJ offered me the raw chicken. “Wanna feed him?”
No. Not even a little bit.
I pointed at a red fleshy circle the size of a nickel on the croc’s stubby arm. “What h
appened to his elbow? Was he in a fight?”
Shadows crossed AJ’s soft brown eyes. “Go back to the car, please.”
I did as AJ lured C-Rey up onto the grass. The croc had two more wounds—one on his side, another on his tail. Tossing the giant reptile the chicken, AJ squatted and took a closer look at the injuries. He straightened, threw back his shoulders, and washed his hands at the outdoor sink.
“Let’s go.” AJ climbed into the Navigator. Deep grooves now bracketed his mouth.
We drove past heavy cement statues and through iron gates up to the mansion. Decorative protection against everything from suicide bombers to murder squads.
“Wow,” I said. “Gorgeous.”
“The estate is typical of the French and Spanish ‘grandiose style,’” AJ said mechanically. “Tampico and its architecture were heavily influenced by New Orleans oil barons.”
“The east wing is original,” he continued on autopilot. “It was built during the oil boom in the early nineteen hundreds. And it will boom again. Tampico is rich with shale oil deposits. Buried gold in the backyard.”
Uniformed servants were waiting in the drive. We got out of the car, AJ rattling off a list of directions in Spanish to a woman in a long black skirt and white shirt.
“Dinner is at seven, Maisie,” AJ said, swiping through his smartphone. “Anyone in uniform will get you whatever you need. Please feel free to explore the house until then.” He put the phone to his ear, his voice low and harsh as he walked away.
The woman walked Lee and myself through the main floor before taking us up a sweeping staircase to our rooms. Two bedrooms, each with their own bath, a connecting balcony and door between them. The furniture was hand-wrought iron and wood, the linens Egyptian. Our luggage was already there.
I opened my suitcase and started unpacking, counting down in my head. Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Without knocking, Lee stepped into my room and closed the connecting door behind him. He hit his watch, checking for bugs, Wi-Fi signal tracking, and found none. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell you think you were doing on that plane?”
The fleeting euphoria I’d experienced from the coke was long gone, leaving a comet’s tail trail of a headache. “If it makes you feel any better, I feel quite horrible now.”