by Peg Brantley
Shit. His contact wasn’t alone. And the man sitting with him at the tiny table was not one of the good guys.
CHAPTER TEN
Sedona could not figure out what was going on. Over the last several hours— twelve? twenty-four? she couldn’t be sure about anything anymore—she’d begun to understand that money was not behind her kidnapping. A practical woman, Sedona knew she might be beautiful to some but she was no longer young. Trafficking was unlikely.
What then?
She was left alone for hours on end. But it was always the same piece of white trash who eventually returned. He brought her food that initially she’d hated. She was a good cook and to have to eat the crap he brought was almost as horrible as the ties that bound her. But eventually the Chinese food and English muffins with ham slices and cheese became tasty and even desirable.
Going to the bathroom was another issue entirely. Her captor had finally come back with a package of cheap underwear that he allowed her to change into whenever she’d lost control when he was gone for too long. She hated herself for being grateful. She hated him for making her hate herself.
Sedona had been alone now for a long time but her body had not turned against her and she felt a strange mixture of gratitude and pride. A little bit of courage sat around the torn edges of her psyche as if it was looking for a reason to attach itself.
She was a survivor. She’d
demonstrated it over and over again. She’d kicked all kinds of habits over the years, and with each successful recovery she’d proven her strength. She’d shown everyone that she wasn’t someone to take lightly. She’d come out of a love that was all wrong, and she’d come out stronger.
And now… now she was the one who held her brother together when he was sinking into the abyss of depression. Teo needed more than medication—he needed her.
The door to the room opened with a bang. Two men entered, in the middle of a conversation. One of them was the one she’d come to know as her captor. The one who only followed orders. She watched him carefully as he pushed through the entry.
“—he’s already doing what your father wants.”
“Not good enough. Without the results I demand, nothing will ever be good enough.” Sedona heard the door close. “I want my sister back.”
Sister? What the hell was he talking about? She was the sister. She was the one who…was there something familiar about that voice? She fought to remember where she’d heard it.
Screw this. She kicked out as far as she could, moved her arms to their fullest—albeit constrained—position, and grunted and moaned through the gag her captor reapplied with infuriating regularity.
The sudden silence of the two men’s conversation scared her. What were they about to do? Had she set them off? She tried to pull into herself, feel less like an animal on display. Feel less vulnerable. Become smaller.
Sedona heard a slap as someone hit the surface of a piece of furniture. “Never question what I ask you to do again. I have killed for less.” The second man’s voice was familiar but she couldn’t place…
“I wasn’t questioning you. I just thought maybe you weren’t aware—”
“I’m always aware.”
Sedona heard her captor blow out a sigh. “VV, what I mean is…”
A roar filled her head, like thousands of waves hitting the shore at the same time. She didn’t hear the rest of the sentence her captor spoke. Whatever those words were no longer mattered.
Oh, God. Realization slammed her heart against her chest.
VV. As in Vicente Vega, Jr. Sedona felt her world constrict. She knew, beyond any worst possible scenario, this was not going to end well. * * *
Dia let out a yelp and bolted upright in her bed, convinced she was about to be gator food. Her tiny cry sounded loud in her head and forced her eyes to open. She saw the bed around her and the solid floor beneath it. No ripples. No bumpy skin. No teeth.
Moonlight filtered through the windows in a green-yellow tinge. It seemed to stick to the thick air. The mosquito netting around her bed, kind of romantic at first, now made her feel like a caged animal. She wanted to shove it away, but Pilar had warned her that the mosquitoes in the Honey Island Swamp were ruthless from dusk to dawn, and unless she wanted to be miserable she’d best keep herself as protected as
possible.
Dia pulled the sheet up to her shoulders, checked the floor one more time for any signs of movement, then laid her head back down onto her pillow.
This place was all so different, and it didn’t help that she’d somehow lost her Justin Bieber backpack. She must have left it at the last little house where they stayed. They made her leave so fast.
She looked up at the netting. It seemed like the real netting was a lot easier to get away from than the one her father had created. The only time she ever got out from under his net was when VV lifted it up for a few hours. Was VV worried about her? Probably not. He was likely so busy learning their father’s business that he didn’t even know she was gone. She resented that just because he was a boy he got all of the attention. At least from their father. Mamá had been a different story. She’d treated them the same. Still, she thought maybe there was a possibility her brother missed her and worried about her.
And her father? How did he react when he found out she’d run away? Dia was certain someone would have had to give him the information—he would never have noticed on his own. Relief that she was no longer his responsibility was probably quickly replaced by anger that she had defied him. And deadly anger toward anyone who had helped her. She owed a tremendous debt to Pilar and Luis. Without them she would still be under her father’s thumb.
Without Pilar and Luis she would never have learned about Santeria.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mex moved cautiously into the coffee shop. He approached the counter where baristas held court and he refrained from looking directly at the two men sitting at the table. His awareness, however, engulfed the entire Starbucks. If his contact sent a signal, Mex needed to receive it. He had to trust that if there was a problem, his old friend would let him know.
Physically, the man sitting across from his friend hadn’t changed much in the ten years since Mex had seen him. A muscleman for La Familia, the rival group of Vicente’s Senora-Ciento cartel, was known as Dejar—so named because many people he was seen with dropped out of sight. Dejar had been part of the protection the day Mex told a La Familia boss he would not play their game either. There was something decidedly different about him. He’d put on a little weight. Who hadn’t? But there was also something about his shoulders. More stooped. Mex straightened his posture and immediately felt taller. More fit and in control. There. That was the big difference. Dejar’s swagger was gone. The arrogant confidence of the drug cartel member was now a misty memory.
What had happened?
After Mex bought his coffee, he moved to a location where he was in the line of sight of his contact while Dejar’s back was to him. People might change, but he wasn’t prepared to bet his life that this man wouldn’t stand up in the middle of Starbuck’s and finish the job he’d started years ago. Even if ordered by a different cartel. Another cartel that Mex had refused.
Mex’s contact barely glanced in his direction and gave an almost
imperceptible shake of his head. Mex sat down at an empty table, watched, and waited. A few minutes later, the cartel member stood up, put on some designer shades, and shoved a package toward the other man. In almost every other city in the world, this action would have brought at least a few whispers but in the new Monterrey, it was a common occurrence. Nobody wanted to get involved.
The contact slipped the package into an inside jacket pocket and pushed back his chair. He waited for Dejar to leave, then he went to the counter to order another espresso and joined Mex. “It’s been a long time, Gray Eyes,” he said in excellent English as he slid into a chair.
Mex raised an eyebrow and sipped his caramel macchiato. What he wouldn’t
give for one of Juan’s Cubans right about now. He set the cup down. “It has been a long time. Things change.” Mex sharpened his observation of his old friend. “What was your business with Dejar?”
The man shifted in his seat. “Merely a matter of expediency.”
“Yours or his?”
“What does it matter?”
“I need to know whose side you’re on. I’m in Monterrey, dealing with some sensitive issues, and I want to know who I should be watching.”
“You have been away a long time, mi amigo. Today, in Monterrey, you need to watch everyone.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I truly wish Dejar and I had been able to finish our business before you arrived. You know me, Mex. I like to keep things personal.”
“When your ‘personal’ has the potential to impact me, it’s no longer private. It no longer belongs to you.” Mex pushed his cup to the side. “Now answer my question.”
More shifting in his seat. A sip of his espresso. A tiny cough.
Mex waited.
“You know my parents were killed in a plane crash when I was thirteen, right?”
Mex nodded.
“Mi tia, my father’s sister, took in the four of us. They already had three children of their own, but they were determined that our family would stay together. It was crowded. It was
difficult, but she was determined to make it work.”
Mex understood the concept of family. He waited.
“The woman who saved us, who wrapped us in her arms, is ill. She’s dying. The cancer brings her
unbelievable pain. The painkillers her doctor prescribed don’t touch her agony. But these,” he patted his jacket, “these bring her relief and allow her last moments on this earth to be filled with family and friends rather than darkened rooms and mind-numbing drugs.”
“Dejar provides them?”
“For the last three months.”
“And what do you provide in return?”
“I pay him.”
“And what else?”
His friend sat up straight and stiff in his chair. He looked directly at Mex. “I don’t arrest him. It’s a small price to pay to help my aunt.” His chin lifted. “Don’t judge me until you find yourself in my shoes.”
The moment the words were of his mouth the man seemed to realize what he’d said. “I’m sorry. Your loss…”
Mex thought about Sedona. He thought about Dia. He reached across the little table and clamped his hand on his contact’s arm, his eyes hardened. “Screw my loss. Do you have what I want?”
* * Mex walked into the lobby of the Safi Valle. The magnificent hotel never failed to impress him. Between the luxurious surroundings and the attentive staff, he understood how this hotel had stayed around as long as it had. The efficiency of the front desk had him registered and on the way to his room in less than three minutes.
He liked the hotel’s visitation policy. Not exactly private, but the odds of someone unexpected popping up at his door were diminished—which was a good thing. All thanks to the new
Monterrey.
He put the keycard into the door and pushed it open. He’d arranged for a two-bedroom suite. Mex required a certain amount of privacy, but he and Darius needed a common area to work and compare notes.
Darius walked into the suite from the terrace, his cell phone held firmly against his ear. “I promise. Yeah, just a couple of days. This is important, or I wouldn’t be here.” He held a finger up in Mex’s direction. “Gotta go, honey. Mex is here. I’ll call you later.”
The journalist looked at Mex. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve never been in a city that was this much of a war zone, unless I was in a war zone.”
Mex laid two weapons on the table. “Yep.”
Darius picked up the 9mm Glock and expertly dismantled the weapon in three swift steps. “This’ll help.”
“I thought you had a green light for this trip.”
“I do.”
“Didn’t sound that way.”
“Pamela gets to this point with every pregnancy. There’s nothing I can do that’s right. If we agree on something one day, it’s a fight the next. Believe me, this is the best thing for our marriage.” He reassembled the weapon, leaving the magazine on the table. “Did you get some bullets?”
Mex pulled a box out of a cloth bag and sat it down on the table. “Load both mags. I need a shower.”
His cell phone rang. “Anderson.”
“Why didn’t you go with my driver?”
Shit. Vega. “I’d made other arrangements.”
There was a pause. Obviously Vicente Vega was not used to people thinking and acting for themselves. He wondered how that translated to his parenting.
“And you didn’t come alone.” He sounded accusatory.
“I never said I would.”
“You brought this Egbert Darius Johnson who has the safe deposit box key.”
Egbert? “Yes. He’s my partner.”
“Can he be trusted?”
“Look, Vega. You don’t need to trust him. I do.”
Another pause. “When will you arrive?”
“Darius needs a shower, then he’ll get a cab to your home. I want him to begin interviewing your household staff, starting with those who have been with you the longest.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be talking with Dia’s
classmates and friends tomorrow.”
“I do not want this Darius in my home without you.”
“Darius will have a better chance at getting answers.” He didn’t say it was because Darius was black.
“He will be here all night, and I do not want him in my home without you.”
All night? “He’ll interview your staff, the main ones, and then leave. How many are we talking about? Three? Four?”
“Fourteen.”
Shit.
“I can send a car.”
Mex considered whether they would be more or less likely to be pulled over riding in an armored limo driven by someone associated with a cartel. “No, thanks. We’ll catch a cab.”
“My driver will know which routes to take where you won’t be bothered by checkpoints.”
The system hadn’t changed. It had just spread.
“Fine. Have your car outside of the Safi Valle in fifteen minutes. And tell whoever is driving to answer all of our questions while he takes us to your villa.” Mex disconnected.
Darius cocked his head. “Looks like tonight has turned into a two-man job. How large is the staff? Five or six?”
“A few more, Egbert.” Mex watched as his friends face stained with embarrassment. “Hey, your name’s got nothin’ on mine. It’s just a new piece of information about you is all.”
Mex moved to his bedroom and called over his shoulder. “Send your wife some flowers. Pamela might just welcome you home.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The worn mat underneath her was familiar. She’d been sitting on it, or one like it, as a diviner for years. For such an important client, she had one
assistant, two attending priests, and two attending priestesses who joined her on the mat. Her client sat directly in front of her on a low stool.
Within reach, she had a jicara, the gourd filled to the brim with water. A lit cigar and a lit candle provided the grace and the power for the diviner to consult the spirits to get answers for her client.
The man on the stool was
impatient, which always made the divining difficult. As they worked through his questions, he would be given certain symbolic items to hold in his hand. They included a smooth black stone, various shells, a bone taken from the left hind leg of a goat, and a tiny doll’s head that would fit in his hand.
She sprinkled three dashes of water from the jicara over the sixteen cowrie shells she held in her hand, and said the special words intended to prepare them. “Fresh water, freshen the road to the orisha, refresh my power. Freshen my home. Freshen Elegguá of
Eshu Loroye. Bring us freshness that has no end.”
The diviner rubbed the small bits between her palms. Over and over, around and around. Then she leaned forward and tapped the hand that held the shells to the mat three times. After the third strike, she lifted her hand and opened it to allow the shells to spill on the mat, ready for her to read. Divined. The Diviner.
The client spoke for the first time. “Can’t you hurry with this? You know what I want to know. I just need
confirmation.”
“We spend one session a week together. It is unlikely anything has changed in that time. Settle. Relax. Let me employ my powers to assure what you are doing will succeed.”
The Diviner had determined months ago the weaknesses of her client —his deepest desires and his deepest fears. She could play them. She had played them. For the first time in her life, she knew the security of a roof over her head, all the food she could eat, and the promise of more. All from luring an outwardly strong man into her power. She’d taken his. Used it. Made him believe in the future she divined from the shells. From her diloggún. She had moved beyond the mundane religious concepts of the Santeria practitioners who had been her early mentors. She could taste greater power, and greater power was exactly what she wanted.
Five times in the past eighteen months, her client asked her for advice on what course of action he should take in order to achieve his goals. Four of those times, she told him to stand strong and move forward. One time she advised him to cut his losses. Each time she had been proven right. After the second success, she had been invited to move into his villa—be a part of his inner-circle. She had learned all of the ways this man could be controlled. Beyond sex. Beyond money. It all centered on her influence. Her
divinations would determine what this man did.
He approached her to begin a sexual relationship two nights after she’d moved in, but she was too smart for that. She didn’t intend for him to ever tire of her, and if either of them was going to do the using, it would be her.
Regal, beautiful by any standard, the Diviner compelled attention when she entered a room. Both men and women were aware of her presence, and the power she held over their lives. She knew men dreamed about her but awoke soaked in the sweat of their fear. She learned early to use her assets—all of them.