by Camilla Monk
Actually, it’s not sexual. They’re just March’s favorite animal because he likes their soft, thoughtful gaze, and he’s convinced that they’re smarter than they let on—star-nosed moles only come second, although he admitted to finding them fascinating as well.
I first imagined we’d land in Quito, but we’ve started our descent toward an airstrip that’s been hacked into the jungle, south of a winding brownish river. Dries has cooled down a little, since March is no longer talking about tying me up—I need to ask for details about that, because while he doesn’t strike me as a wannabe Christian Grey, I’d rather have some forewarning if I’m dating a potential ropist.
I hold my breath as the jet’s deceleration buzzes in my ears. The Gulfstream’s wheels caress the runway in one of the smoothest landings I can remember—which is technically not that many. After Isabelle has opened the door and the airstair is in place outside the jet, March and I get up from our seats first and take our respective suitcases, but Dries has a little something to settle first. I feel a pang of sympathy for the young woman as her fingertips trail shyly down the front of his vest. She whispers something in his ear; he smiles, but his eyes remain distant. I don’t think he’s going to call her.
It will be at least another hour until the sun sets, and on the sunny tarmac, a group of men awaits in front of several Jeeps and pickup trucks. Shirts, jeans, ordinary civilian clothes . . . but those who don’t openly carry a gun barely hidden under half-open jackets—
Sadly, I’m getting used to this sort of welcome committee.
“Do they work for the Queen?”
“No,” March says. “For one of the Board’s members. He lives and operates primarily in South America.”
What kind of business our host operates remains to be seen . . . I scan the testosterone-fueled crowd on the tarmac. Amid the dark clothes, rugged beards, and leather jackets, a patch of color billows softly in the late-afternoon breeze. A young woman stands, wearing a long white blouse embroidered with multicolored flowers over tiny shorts. My gaze trails down, from the black braid flung over her shoulder to the stripe of bronze skin I glimpse underneath her blouse. Unless it’s a trick of the light, she’s heavily pregnant under the garment.
The teen—because upon further examination I conclude she can’t be over twenty—waves at us excitedly and runs toward the airstair. March responds with a gentle smile; is she someone he knows?
Dries goes first, but she barely acknowledges him. Her almond-shaped eyes are set on me—or is it March?—and she’s quivering with excitement, her full lips pressed into an impatient pout. Because I can’t just stay stranded up there, I trot down the airstair nervously. The second my feet touch the solid ground, she pounces, pulling me into an excited hug. I blink and breathe a flowery perfume as she squeaks, “Oh my God, you’re Island! I wanted to meet you so much!”
I send a questioning look at March, whose mouth opens to offer an explanation, I presume. Before he can do so, however, our hyperactive host drags me away and pulls out a golden smartphone from the back pocket of her shorts. “Selfie!”
She pulls me against her and wraps her arm around my neck, bringing our cheeks together. Once she’s adjusted the phone in front of us though, the corners of her mouth fall. She lets go of me and whirls around to glare at March. “You don’t get to be in the selfie.”
March takes a step back and raises his palms in surrender. One, two, three pictures get taken, which she promises she’ll send me, and we’re led to the car. When he attempts to climb in the same Jeep as me and the girl, March receives another glare—he doesn’t get to ride with us either and is relegated to another vehicle with Dries. At this point, I expect someone to show up any moment with a can of spray paint and write “box of shame” on the hood.
Once I’m sitting in the back seat with her and the doors have slammed closed, I overcome my stupor to ask the obvious. “Thank you for welcoming us. But . . . do we know each other?”
She rolls amused eyes at me. “I’m Beatriz!”
As we drive away from the aerodrome on a road crossing that lush valley we saw from the tarmac, I glance at our driver’s sunglasses in the mirror, searching his shuttered expression for answers. There are none to be found.
“I’m Antonio’s wife!” Beatriz insists.
Here we go again . . . Maybe I should print out warning cards that I’ll give to people every time they expect me to recognize them, like deaf people and Jehovah’s Witnesses. “I’m sorry,” I say with a sad smile. “I’ve got amnesia. I don’t remember you, or Antonio.”
Her eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks as she digests the news. “It’s okay. Maybe they never told you about me anyway, but Antonio . . . he’s going to be so sad.” She pouts. “Maybe you could pretend you remember him?”
That sounds like the premise of a bad Adam Sandler movie . . . So no. “Beatriz, I’m not sure it’d be right to lie . . . but maybe you can help me and tell me a little more about him?”
Beatriz clasps her hands and nods eagerly—I’m diagnosing either hyperactivity or joie de vivre in this girl, probably both, but I decide I like that. As it turns out, March rides in the Jeep of shame because he tried to kill Antonio a year and half ago . . . and failed to do so when I bravely stepped between Beatriz’s love and March’s gun. She explains to me that it all started when her big brother, a certain Angel Somoza, lost his temper upon learning that then-eighteen-year-old Beatriz had been seeing a handsome and tenebrous Mexican hero almost twice her age—Antonio Romos. So Angel hired March to kill Antonio, because that’s apparently how he deals with family issues. I’m obviously not going to cast the first stone here.
Anyway, March let Antonio go, who subsequently vanished back in the shadows . . . for about three weeks before resuming his torrid affair with Beatriz, this time with a luxury of precautions—none of which included condoms. Angel’s legendary short fuse blew up again when he discovered his sister was pregnant, but this time March was unavailable to shoot Antonio—being presumably dead. Beatriz used her secret weapon—the waterworks—and her brother begrudgingly agreed to let Antonio live if he made his sister an honest woman.
And so, in a couple of weeks, Beatriz Romos will give birth to a little girl whose future uncle, the temperamental Angel, may or may not be an international arms dealer.
“You know we’re going to call her Isla,” she says, her tone now more subdued. “Because she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
I feel my ears grow a little hot at the compliment. I’m not sure I’m deserving of such honor, especially since I can’t even remember the circumstances in which I allegedly saved her husband’s life in a heroic display—I’ll have to ask for March’s version of the events. I stare down at my lap to conceal my embarrassment. “Thank you . . . I’m very honored.”
“You deserve it!” she replies, the electric joy that seems to power her returning fast. “I’ll show you my ultrasounds. She looks so beautiful. Like a lump, but a beautiful lump, you know?”
I can only nod: I’m pretty sure I’ll unleash hell if I dare to question whether a parasitic lump growing inside you like an alien can truly be beautiful. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm, one of my hands moves to rest on my stomach almost instinctively. That’s what Anies wanted from me . . . and the idea filled me with horror. But I guess it’s different when it’s a lump you really want to have, with someone you love. To the best of my knowledge, I never gave the idea any consideration until I saw Beatriz’s proud baby bump. I gulp, mentally praying that my biological clock isn’t catching up with me at the worst possible time. I frown down at my belly. No, I don’t want a lump. Not in the immediate future anyway . . .
“Do you want one too?”
I snap back to reality. Beatriz is watching me, her large brown eyes full of curiosity.
“Um, no. Maybe in a few years.” If I can project myself that far in the future, that is.
She draws a compassionate sigh. “I know; you need to f
ind someone first.”
I’m about to remark that I do have someone—even if she doesn’t like him—but for the time I notice that it’s gotten a little darker in the car. We passed a few clusters of small houses with tin roofs, but now we’ve left the road crossing the valley for a narrow trail, and around us, the dying sunlight is now filtering through dense tropical vegetation. “Are we going into the jungle?” I ask.
Beatriz nods. “We’re almost there; the Refugio is on the other side of the Rio San Miguel.”
As she says this, the Jeep tears through the emerald lace we’d been enveloped in until now. Sure enough, there’s a recently built steel bridge crossing over a river reflecting a fiery-pink sunset. Somehow, I doubt that those heavy-duty steel cables and surveillance cameras are the work of the Ecuadorian government . . . The Jeep’s wheels clank on metal boards as we drive across until we’re back on the rough terrain of the trail. I notice a grayish smudge in the trees, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the furry creature hanging upside down from a high branch. “Oh my God, was that a sloth?”
Beatriz grins proudly. “Yes, it’s very quiet around here, so they like it. Sometimes they even enter the garden, but I have no idea how they do that. Angel keeps asking Ernesto to check the surveillance tapes because he doesn’t like that. He thinks it’s personal, that they’re trying to defy him.”
I plaster a smile on my face to conceal what would otherwise be a wince. The more I hear about Beatriz’s volatile brother, the more I worry . . . like when the wall comes in sight. I stare through my window at the tall concrete fortification that just burst into view, slicing neatly through the sea of trees. It must be at least fifteen feet high, topped with barbed wire and, again, cameras—Jurassic Park comes to mind. Are they keeping a T-Rex in there or what?
The Jeep jolts to a stop. Beatriz’s hands fidget on her huge belly, and her feet tap the floor mat impatiently as huge steel gates whir open to let us in. When she notices the hesitation on my face, her smile turns a little apologetic. “Angel likes his privacy.”
Makes sense. If he’s really that bad and he hangs around with that Queen person, the man had better make sure security is tight in his crib. And what a crib it is . . . My nose flattened to the tinted glass, I take in the madness that is Angel Somoza’s “Refugio”: a Rubik’s cube of glass, steel, and concrete in the middle of the jungle. On three floors, long rectangular units pile up, overlap, some connecting to others like bridges. At least one of them contains a fricking pool, which glows a peaceful turquoise through the windows encasing it. All around this marvel of modern architecture, a garden stretches, delimited by a tangle of trees: the little chunk of jungle that’s trapped inside the compound behind the walls we passed.
Maybe I should try selling Kalashnikovs to despotic fruitcakes, like Dries said.
The cars stop in front of the villa’s entrance, where more goons await. That’s when I notice that there’s a clear dichotomy going on here: half of the guys follow the same dress code as our driver and his colleagues—jeans or cargo pants, dark shirts—some revealing abundant rugs of chest hair, but none that would ever stand comparison with March’s, by the way. There’s the occasional gold chain or leather jacket but mostly unostentatious, practical stuff. And then there’s the other half . . . A bunch of guys that look like Matrix agents, in identical, perfectly fitting black suits. A couple of rebels do wear their hair in carefully slicked back ponytails, but the rest of them boast short, well-kept haircuts, a far cry from the messy beards and wild locks of many of Somoza’s men.
Either Angel couldn’t decide over a dress code, or these are someone else’s watchdogs . . .
“Antonio!”
Beatriz’s loud squeal draws my attention to a man in his midthirties walking toward our car with his arms wide open. Pretty handsome, with short black hair and a little mustache, wearing a burgundy shirt over dark slacks. His most striking feature though is the tattoos covering his face. Various numbers on his forehead and his neck, delicate tears running down his cheeks, and a crown on his chin—that I first mistook for a goatee. Beatriz opens her door to jump out of the car and directly into his arms. On his hands, I notice more numbers, bullets, and a heart transpierced by three swords. She didn’t specify what Antonio did for a living: I’m starting to suspect he’s in the same business March used to be in . . .
Beatriz pulls her husband close for a deep kiss while I step out of the Jeep. When they break their lip-lock and he sees me, Antonio’s smile becomes a full grin. He extends one arm to invite me into a group hug. From the corner of my eye, I notice that March and Dries exited the Jeep of shame. I briefly hesitate before trusting my instincts and allowing Antonio to wrap his arm around my shoulders. The greeting that rolls off of his tongue is enveloped in the same warm Latin accent as Beatriz’s. “Let me see you, querida. So tough even the Lions couldn’t eat you.”
“I’ve heard you’re pretty tough yourself,” I say, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
He shrugs, his expression turning mysterious. “Antonio is immortal.”
Against his chest, Beatriz giggles in response. I love the way he puts emphasis on his own name like a brand. This guy sounds like a lot of fun. March walks to us, but Dries keeps a safe distance, eyeing Antonio with a sort of watchful contempt. The culprit lets got of Beatriz and me to shake hands with March, who takes on the offer with a good-natured smile.
“And it looks like death spat you out too, Surafricano.” A hard glint flashes in Antonio’s gaze as he adds, “Good thing you’re not here for me. There can only be one immortal . . .”
March chuckles. “I’ll remember to bring my sword next time.”
That’s when Antonio seems to take notice of Dries standing behind March. His expression sobers, and he strides to him, a challenge gleaming in his eyes as he extends his hand.
Dries stiffens and adjusts his linen jacket with a sharp tug. “You can’t be serious. That clown cunt fired a rocket in my dining room; I don’t even know why I’m letting him live,” he informs no one in particular, before spinning on his heels and marching into the villa, right past a guy who was apparently coming to welcome us and stands there dumbfounded.
I blink at March and Antonio alternately. “What is he talking about?”
That’s when the shift occurs on Antonio’s features that tells me he’s figured something is wrong.
March relieves me of the burden of having to inform Antonio that I remember nothing of his glorious deeds. “Island suffered memory loss. She might sometimes need a little context on past events.”
Antonio’s expression softens. I read pity in his gaze, and I hate that . . .
“I hope you at least haven’t forgotten me,” a soft female voice remarks with a touch of amusement.
All eyes set on the pair of newcomers standing in the villa’s doorway. The man with the indigo shirt, there’s nothing familiar about him. He must be in his thirties, and at first he reminds me of Pirate Morgan because of his wavy black hair and the thick stubble covering his jaw. The woman though . . . her presence makes me shudder with a sense of dejà vu. Faint lines around her mouth suggest she must be in her late forties, but her honey skin is otherwise flawless, and her white tapered dress hugs lean curves. Black tresses fall onto her shoulders, framing a single pearl around her neck. It’s like a photograph, something once printed in my brain and long forgotten. I know, without a doubt, that I’ve seen that pearl before.
Her gaze sets on Dries, balls-shriveling cold. “I believe we need to talk.”
There it is, the T-Rex they’re guarding in these walls.
TWENTY-NINE
ANGEL EYES
This has yet to be stated explicitly, but I have little doubt the woman we’re following inside the villa’s lobby is the Queen. Which would make the man with the scary face . . .
“Angel, you have to tell me who decorated this place,” the T-Rex says in her silky voice as our little group makes its way across the heart of the Refugio,
a hall whose glass walls showcase the illuminated garden outside. A complex chandelier made of hundreds of white origamis hangs above our heads, dominating the room. She’s right, by the way: Angel’s furniture is an interesting blend of modern and retro with very little color, mostly a camaïeu of grays with touches of black lacquer and reddish wood. Nice stuff.
Angel—because yes, that guy in the indigo shirt is apparently Beatriz’s fearsome brother—flicks his wrist in the direction of one of the henchmen sandwiching our procession. “Ernesto . . . you find the name of the architect.”
Ernesto, a fiftysomething guy with a loose linen suit and an elaborate gray mustache, takes note on his phone with a nod.
We’re led down a hallway sloping to a set of tall black doors. The walls around us look like a thick concrete tomb—I’m guessing this is some sort of bunker under the villa. When one of his goons opens the doors to reveal a large meeting room, Angel freezes and, for the first time, turns around.
I gulp.
A little shorter than March, all lean muscles and hawkish angles, Angel Somoza isn’t good-looking in the conventional sense of the term. His high cheekbones are a rough terrain, plowed by old acne scars. A deep track runs from his Cupid’s bow to his ear, clearly the result of some grisly punishment—the cut looks too deep and too straight to be the product of a mere accident. And his eyes . . . let’s just say I’m glad it’s Beatriz he’s burning holes into with that dark, intense gaze. She doesn’t flinch though; huddled against Antonio, she sustains her brother’s cold glare bravely.
His scarred mouth twitches in apparent irritation. A deep, husky voice echoes around the concrete walls, unnervingly loud in the silence. “Beatriz. Ve a tu cuarto.” Beatriz. Go to your room.
Her nose bunches, and her hand squeezes Antonio’s, but she eventually looks away, defeated by the command without a fight.
Aw, come on, what is this, the eighteenth century? I’m keenly aware that it’s a disastrous idea to step in, but my mouth starts working before I can stop myself. “Should the two of us go too?” I ask tartly, pointing to the T-Rex.