Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  For some reason known only to him, Kontrolyor thought that sharing yet another tragic Russian breakfast recipe would alleviate my cabin fever. He set a plate in front of me that held a pinkish white slab heavily peppered on coarse rye bread. “Salo,” he said.

  Gorilla and the two other men lounging in the kitchen and eating donuts thought this was hilarious.

  “What it is?” I asked.

  “Sliced pig lard. Delicious.”

  Mmm! Nummy! Almost as good as raw bacon.

  “Do not eat,” Stannis whisper-warned in my ear, before saying in a voice everyone could hear, “We leave in an hour.”

  I sat at the counter until Kon turned his back, wrapped a sizeable chunk of the salo in my napkin, and hid it in the pocket of my robe. “Thanks for breakfast, Kon.”

  Gorilla leered at me.

  “What’s that?” I pointed across the room. He turned. I swiped the donut off his plate and trotted down the hall to my room.

  I flushed the salo down the toilet, took a shower, and got ready. When I came out of the bathroom, a present—my outfit for the day—hung on the closet door hook. A St. John Milano pique-knit fitted blazer and scoop-neck dress in caviar black.

  Two thousand dollars of clothes from a brand I thought was too old for me.

  I looked like a million bucks in it.

  I added a Stephen Webster black diamond bracelet and the Cartier earrings and went out to meet Stannislav Renko.

  There is nothing quite as wonderful as flying via private jet. No lines, no security, just a drive right up to the tarmac and a dropoff at the plane.

  The Lear 60XR belonged to cartel boss Carlos Grieco. Peerless didn’t come close to describing the spacious, stand-up cabin, ebony wood veneers, supple ivory leather seats, Wi-Fi, and every electronic accoutrement known to man.

  The flight attendant served us diet Schweppes Tonic Water with lime.

  “Eat little. Drink less,” Stannis said. “Cartel men are like roosters and mad dogs together.”

  Awesome possum. Let’s do business with Dr. Moreau.

  Even with Gorilla and Kontrolyor in tow, we weren’t exactly going in heavily armed. The apprehension must have showed on my face.

  “I deal with Alfonso Javier Rodriguez,” Stannis said. “The bastard son they call ‘El Cid.’ He is like me. Levelheaded.”

  Exactly how I think of you, sweet pea. “That’s reassuring.”

  “He is up-and-coming capo. Do not trust him.”

  The lack of alcohol in the tonic water must have gone straight to my head because I blurted, “Aren’t you worried about getting the cars through customs?”

  His chin dipped in amusement. “There are no customs for things to leave the United States. Only to come in.” He smiled. “Again, train cars are mere packages. Not for anyone except sender and receiver.”

  I know it’s true. It just seems so . . . utterly unbelievable.

  Stannis set a familiar red box on the table between us.

  Cartier.

  Hmm. Well. Gosh.

  I opened it. A diamond engagement ring.

  The Tank de Cartier. A thick white-gold band with a square-cut princess diamond sunk in the center. Designed as the antithesis of showy oversized stones, it could hold no stone larger than 1.15 carats.

  Whiskey Tango—Feck!

  “Gee . . .” I breathed.

  “You like, yes?” Stannis said, nodding. “Is not good to be only girlfriend in Mexico.” He took the ring out and put it on the finger of my left hand. A size six, it fit perfectly.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good.” He sat back in his seat and opened a magazine.

  I held my hand out and waggled my fingers, admiring the whiter-than-white sparkler.

  Fate’s a twisted bastard.

  The engagement ring I always wanted. From the man I didn’t.

  The Lear landed in Tampico in less than six hours. El Cid and his crew met us at the hangar of the private airfield.

  Stannis and I descended the stairs to a guy in his late twenties, ringed by a squad of four heavily armed men. Standard Cartel projection—power and muscle. Each wore ballistic vests, Sig P226 handguns, and Ingram MAC 11 spray-and-pray submachine guns.

  El Cid was a couple inches shy of six feet. Lean-jawed and hungry-looking, shaved head with reflective sunglasses and an unlit Cubano in his mouth. He was ripped as rock in cargo pants and a black T-shirt.

  He gave Stannis a bear hug, then offered his hand to me and said in perfect English, “I am Alfonso Javier Rodriguez. But everyone around here calls me El Cid. And you are?”

  I put my hand in his. “Maisie Mc—”

  “She is Vatra Anđeo,” Stannis interrupted. “My fiancée.”

  El Cid’s mouth smirked around his cigar. “Nice to meet you, Vatra. Shall we?”

  They escorted us out to two armor-plated Lincoln Navigators, drivers waiting behind the wheel. Gorilla and Kontrolyor rode in the lead car, while Stannis and El Cid and I were in the tail SUV.

  We passed through miles of colonias—Tamaulipas slum housing—that seemed to stretch forever. El Cid said, “I was surprised to get your call, Renko. Your reluctance to do business with us is well-known. You do not trust Mexicans?”

  Stannis burst into laughter and smacked El Cid in the chest. “You attend American college, yes?”

  “An MBA from UCLA.” El Cid rolled the cigar in his mouth. “What of it?”

  “Only college man tries to influence by calling racist.”

  “Busted.” El Cid flashed his palms and chuckled. “So what’s your holdup?”

  “Drugs.”

  “That’s not the only area we operate in.”

  Stannis shook his head. “Interests too often migrate. No drugs in my shipment. No drugs used by people working for me.”

  “And if I can guarantee that?” El Cid asked.

  Stannis cocked his head. “We wait and see.”

  The Puerto de Tampico was one of Mexico’s busiest and most important east coast seaports. A small city unto itself, it was the future of modern port works.

  “The Puerto de Tampico is one of the few ports served by double-railway,” El Cid said as we drove into one of the public terminals. “Your containers are unloaded from the train and directly onto the container ship.”

  “With correct port-side supervision, yes?” Stannis said.

  “It’s extremely difficult for any port to ensure one-hundred-percent accuracy when transporting over nine million tons of cargo annually.” El Cid sighed. “The services Mr. Grieco provides are unparalleled.”

  “Numero cuatro.” The driver announced our destination as he put the Navigator in Park.

  We got out and walked two city blocks to watch the intermodal crane lift the containers from the Juárez train onto the container ship, while the stink of tar, salt spray, and diesel fuel wafted over us.

  “Not that one.” Stannis pointed at the twenty-foot rusty red container several containers behind the one the crane had just picked up. “That is gift from Goran Slajic to Carlos Grieco.”

  El Cid waved over one of his men and rattled off some orders in Spanish. The man took off at a jog to the men working the cranes. El Cid turned to me. “May I inquire?”

  Stannis gave me the nod, and I took the key fob out of my purse. “It’s a bronze LS 460 TMG Sports 650 sedan. Twin-turbo V8, mind-blowing body kit, fender flares, and stacked exhaust pipes.”

  “A pretty woman who likes cars.” He tipped down his sunglasses, flashing velvety brown eyes. “Hubba-hubba.”

  That cracked me up. “Get a lot of girls that way?”

  “More than I know what to do with.” He slid the glasses back up. “What’s your story? You a mechanic or a car dealer in your spare time?”

  “Neither. With five gearhead older brothers, it was either man up or shut up.”

  “What rims you rollin’ in?”

  “Dodge Challenger,” I said, not even trying to stop the grin from spreading across my face. “S
RT Hellcat.”

  “No shit?” El Cid tagged me in the shoulder.

  God, I miss Hank. “Hey, a girl never knows when she’s gonna need to unleash an ungodly hell storm of speed.”

  “You get that bitch on the track?”

  “Not yet.” I shook my head. “What do you drive?”

  “Aside from being trapped in the Navigator like some prep-school prig?” He spat on the ground. “Only time will tell. I just lost my baby in a race. A ’68 Road Runner. I was haulin’ the mail, cut a tire, and that was that.”

  Seriously? “Where are you racing?”

  “Autódromo Potosino. Tequila and gasoline, chica. Ohhh yeah.”

  “Don’t they run a NASCAR there?”

  “A minor one. The track belongs to Carlos Grieco now. My boss is obsessed with Richard Petty and Banjo Matthews. He prefers to settle disputes on the track.”

  “In hard-to-corner classic muscle cars,” I said, shaking my head. Crazy cartel bastards. “Talk about nerves of steel.”

  “That’s me.” El Cid smiled. “I race myself. Unlike the other lieutenants, who race by proxy. And you’re gonna love this—you can race your own or bid to ‘rent’ one of his, which, if you wreck it, you bought it.”

  “Wow.” I glanced at Stannis, who gave me the frown-shrug of “are you okay?”

  El Cid caught it. “Tell me, how’d a sweet thing like you hook up with a badass like Renko?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” I squinted at him. “You’re awfully charming when you don’t need to be. What are you after?”

  “You.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, I’m your huckleberry.”

  He waved his finger at me and quoted Tombstone right back. “Oh, you’re no daisy. You’re no daisy at all.” He laughed and stomped his feet in a mini-dance.

  “That’s right.” I smiled.

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone who knows shit worth knowing around here?” El Cid ran a hand over his shaved head. “You’re one cool kitty.”

  “Back at you,” I said.

  One of his men approached and said something.

  El Cid reached into his pocket. “Time to head back to the airfield.” He held out his hand to shake and palmed me his business card. “My private number.”

  “Gee, thanks, Hef.”

  El Cid grinned around his cigar. “You slay me, Maisie.”

  Chapter 40

  I sank into the leather seat of the jet, exhausted and beyond elated to leave Tampico.

  It was a bit of a shocker, however, to find out we were returning to Chicago via Honduras.

  “Three days of beach,” Stannis said. “I watch the ship load.”

  I vaguely recall the U.S. government issuing a travel ban. . . . “I didn’t pack anything.”

  “How much for swimsuit?” Stannis raised a finger. The flight attendant came over. “What can I get you, sir?”

  “Vodka. Two glasses. Leave bottle.”

  She returned after a few moments with a bottle of Chopin on ice and a plate of black bread, caviar, and its accoutrements. We clinked glasses. I struggled to sip it, overcome with the desire to get so hammered I couldn’t feel my teeth.

  “What think you of El Cid?” Stannis asked.

  “I like him,” I said noncommittally. “New business partner?”

  “Isolated deals, okey. Maybe. Never business.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cartels are empires built on sands of drugs. Greedy, risky money. They destroy everything they touch.”

  “There’s trouble in all business, even legitimate ones,” I said.

  “No. A drug addict will sell his own child and become whore. The need for drug fuels his animal cunning.”

  He threw back his drink. I followed suit and poured us another.

  “Still,” Stannis said, “I like Alfonso Javier Rodriguez. Is clever. Smart.”

  “He’s not that smart,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  I reached in my pocket and took out the business card with no name, only a number and held it up between my fingers. “He believes I’m engaged to you, yet gives me his private number.”

  Stannis chuckled in pure delight. “You keep safe, Vatra Anđeo. He is useful for us.”

  We landed on Honduras’s Roatan Island airstrip and were met by the Mayoka Lodge concierge, who whisked us to French Harbour after Stannis explained I had no luggage.

  A sundress, shorts and tee, sunscreen, and two swimsuits later, we were delivered into the lodge’s presidential suite. Quiet seclusion with exceptional views, pure rustic luxury. Dark wood, white linens, and Wi-Fi. And, my God, did I have calls to make.

  But Stannis, being Stannis, kept me within arm’s reach at all times. He was that crushy best friend you love but who never gives you a minute to think, much less a half hour to call your boss to get permission to stab him in the kidneys, making sure to twist the knife on the way out, immobilizing him before slitting his throat in betrayal. The stress was eating me alive. I looked almost gaunt. I hadn’t slept in days.

  For three days, we snorkeled—poorly, because I was a terrible swimmer—and sunned and shopped and drank.

  Sunday, he got the call. The container ship was coming into Port of Puerto Cortes. “You miss Black Hawk again,” Stannis said.

  “Why?”

  “You are unwell, I think,” he said. “You stay in room and rest.”

  “I promise,” I said and meant it.

  He took Gorilla and Kontrolyor. The second they left, I hit the buttons on my watch. No signal tracking.

  I called Edward Dunne.

  “Maisie, me gel!” He sighed in relief. “You fair put the heart crossway in us all!”

  Nice to know someone cares.

  It was good to hear his voice. “I’m on Roatan Island, Honduras. The cars were shipped via another line through Juárez to Tampico, loaded on a container barge, and are entering the Port of Puerto Cortes today. Final destination, somewhere in Lebanon is as close as I can get.”

  “When can you come in?”

  “Soon. I’m hoping we return to Chicago tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Good,” he said. “Good.”

  “How bad is it?

  “Well, Danny’s fit to be tied. Can’t blame her, after calling in the Feds only to have it go arseways.”

  “I couldn’t help that—”

  “Of course not, lass. Don’t fret,” Edward said. “Stay safe and come home.”

  I hung up and called Hank.

  “Good afternoon, Miss McGrane,” answered the languid drawl of his secretary. “Mr. Bannon is out of country. He won’t be available by phone for thirty-four hours and twenty-two minutes. Can I help you?”

  Lovely. “Nope. Just checking in.” I tapped the red End Call button onscreen.

  I dialed home. Because why the hell not?

  Mom answered. “Where are you?”

  “Hi to you, too, Mom. I’m on a mini-break with Stannis.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “That’s funny, because I think Walt Sawyer is a prince of a guy.”

  She gave an inelegant snort. “I know a criminal when I see one, baby.”

  How does one argue the truth?

  “And Hank?” Mom said.

  “He knows we’re just friends. The thing Hank can’t figure out is why Flynn would e-mail him pictures of Stannis and me.”

  “That was wrong of him. Wrong,” she admitted tightly. “You missed the latest on TV, I take it.”

  Great. Now what?

  I fingered the notch at the base of my collarbone. “Oh?”

  “Leticia and someone named Sanchez apparently foiled a fraud ring.”

  Well, this conversation just went to hell faster than a handbasket full of hookers strapped to a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird.

  “And somehow,” Mom continued, “Koji and Cash, of all people, ended up with credit for the bust. In fact, they’re going to receive a Department Commendation ribbon of merit. From th
e illustrious Mayor Coles, of course.”

  Even money that Cash was Googling Waterboarding: Tips and Techniques.

  “Imagine that.” I smiled. “I bet their SWAT teammates will be so jealous.”

  “When are you coming home? There are some things we need to discuss.”

  If you only knew.

  “As soon as I can.”

  Chapter 41

  We made quite an entrance at The Storkling, Stannis in a black Hugo Boss suit and me in a pale blue and silver Roberto Cavalli dress that made my legs look a mile long. Our backdrop of muscle didn’t hurt, either, as three of his guards in dark gray suits with Gorilla and Kontrolyor brought up the rear.

  Stannis had reserved the lounge for the celebration. Gorilla texted an invitation to his men moments after we landed. Judging from the overall lack of sobriety, the men and their dates must have left the instant they got it, changing in the car on the way to The Storkling. At the sight of their leader, however, the men instantly straightened up and quieted down. Their dates, less so.

  On our arrival, the lounge staff came out with trays of rakija shots.

  Stannis raised his glass.

  Please don’t make it ghastly.

  “If you fear the butcher remain out of slaughterhouse,” Stannislav said.

  His instantly sobered-up men threw back their shots as though they were their last.

  That’s what us leprechauns call “horrifically delicious.”

  “Think that was bad?” I held up my left hand with the ring Stannis told me to wear that evening. “You should have heard how we got engaged.”

  Everyone laughed. The relief washing over the lounge was almost palpable. Including Stannis, who kissed me to cheers.

  He and I worked the room, all laughs and smiles and how d’ye dos. The women, unaware of the power he wielded, were far more receptive to our charms.

  After a half hour, we left his men and Gorilla and Kon in the bar and walked through the gold curtains into the dining room.

  Bobby Blaze was in full swing, singing a buoyant and hip version of “Alright, Okay, You Win.”

  The Storkling was North Pole kind of chill. How someone as unaware and uncouth as Eddie V. could create this oasis of cool in Chicago was beyond me.