Shady Lady

by Ann Aguirre

  “You’d let me go,” I said, trying to reason out his motives. “On the off chance I might do Montoya some harm before I died?”

  “Precisely.”

  “But if I’m not willing to take your challenge, then I’m not worthy of your protection.”

  Which was pretty messed up, as I considered—he was saying I had to prove I was good enough for him to use as bait. Ramiro Escobar had a high opinion of himself. Then again, maybe he wanted to make sure I had the nerve to see the scheme through—that I wouldn’t turn on him halfway through and try to make a deal with Montoya, using him as the lure. Since I had no beef with Escobar—apart from his pulling me out of the car and drugging me, he’d proven himself a pretty good guy, for a cartel boss—I’d never do such a thing. Regardless, I had to admire such twisty thinking.

  “I see we understand each other.”

  I had a clear picture, all right. Now I just needed to decide what to do. To give myself time to think, I took two more pieces of ham, some cheese, and apple wedges. Escobar watched me eat, elegant in his white suit. I couldn’t help but imagine the pale linen spattered with blood, but it would be mine spilling out if I walked away.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “I’m in. What am I supposed to do first?”

  “You will be allowed to pick one person to help you. Only one. I will send men to secure this individual and deliver him or her to the starting point. There will be clues along the way as to what you need to be doing. Once you pass all three tests, I will return you to Texas.”

  “Where we’ll take on Montoya together.”

  It sounded like he was describing The Amazing Race. Great news for me, he loved mythology, strategy, and challenges straight out of reality television.

  Escobar rose and padded over to his desk, where he lofted a sheaf of paper. Contracts, maybe. “Upon confirmation of his death, I’ll pay you one hundred K.”

  That was nothing to him, but it nearly made me choke on my cheddar. “Whatever you’re having me do first, it must be worth something to you.”

  “Some things,” he said, “are priceless.”

  I’d heard that tone before. “You want me to retrieve some lost artifact. Then, once I’ve got it, you’re going to make me handle it, knowing it’s charged with hellacious shit.”

  “I did say the final task would test your courage.”

  I knew the drill now. Mental acuity amounted to locating the damn thing. Physical challenge would be the actual acquisition—and courage? Well, who wanted to touch a magickal item that caused mayhem and destruction? He wasn’t sending me to Calcutta to retrieve Mother Teresa’s thimble.

  “So you did. Are you going to call your guy to check me out now?”

  “As long as you’re willing.”

  Oh, sure. I had all the power in this partnership. “Go for it.”

  Escobar used the intercom this time, murmuring in Spanish. The gist was that he wanted Paolo to come to the study right away. I occupied myself with eating. There were tiny Belgian chocolates arranged artfully around the edge of the plate.

  When Paolo appeared a few minutes later, I decided man was a stretch. The kid couldn’t be more than eighteen, slim and pretty, with caramel skin. He had doe eyes and long lashes, and I stopped worrying that his examination would be awful and invasive.

  “Señorita Solomon,” he said, bowing over my hand.

  When our fingers brushed, it threw a spark. My eyes met his in silent recognition. He was gifted, but it would be rude to inquire in case his boss didn’t know. I held my tongue.

  “Ah,” Escobar said. He had noted it too, so apparently he was familiar with such things. “She is like you, it would seem.”

  “I have brought two objects for you,” Paolo murmured. “One contains a charge that will tell you something about Señor Escobar that you could never otherwise know.”

  So it was a test more than an examination. I wished he’d said so in the first place. Though perhaps Escobar’s English wasn’t so precise as I’d thought—he might have used examine as a not-quite-accurate synonym for test. I did that kind of thing in Spanish all the time.

  The boy opened his palms, which were long and narrow. In his left hand he held a silver key—in his right, a gold ring. Most likely they wanted a show. Well, I was in no mood for theatrics, so I merely brushed my fingertips over each item. The key contained nothing, though it presumably unlocked something. That established, closing my eyes, I took the ring and curled my hand about it, accepting pain as the price of my gift, and let the images come.

  When I opened my eyes, I was smiling. “Your first name isn’t Ramiro, and your mother loved you very much. That was her wedding ring.”

  “What is my name?” Escobar asked, his voice gone hoarse with some emotion I was afraid to identify. His lean jaw clenched in expectation of my answer.

  “Efraín,” I said softly. “Because you were second-born of twins, but your brother died when you were small, and you cannot bear to hear the name spoken because you miss him, even now.”

  I had seen her writing their names in a baby book, each letter lovingly inscribed with near-calligraphic quality. Somehow I doubted the woman I had seen would be proud of the life her son had chosen. Escobar knew it too.

  “You have a real gift,” Paolo declared.

  As do you, I said with my eyes. But still, I would not ask. He should tell me, if he wanted to, but this was neither the place nor the time. Not with Escobar pacing like a tiger. When Paolo slipped out, I wanted to follow, but I hadn’t been dismissed.

  Escobar ran an agitated hand through his shoulder-length silver hair. “The hour grows late. In the morning, I will hear your choice as to your partner in the coming trial. Leave me now.” He spun away to pace some more.

  I hastened out of the study, where I found Paolo waiting for me. “I thought you might need a guide back to your room.”

  “Yeah. I wasn’t paying attention before.”

  “Not surprising. You were doubtless worried.”

  I smiled. “To say the least.”

  “You were curious back there. About what I can do.”

  “Obviously. But it’s up to you if you want to tell me.”

  We walked for a few moments in silence. The house seemed bigger now that it was full dark, endless corridors full of shadows. I felt very small and cut off from the people who cared about me. Tomorrow, who knew where the hell I was going—and to make matters worse, I had to pick one person—only one—to take with me, even though I didn’t know what I was getting into or what kind of help I’d need.

  “I don’t mind,” Paolo answered eventually.

  I expected him to tell me, but he showed me instead. A single white rose sailed out of a nearby vase and floated toward my hand. Smiling faintly, I took the bloom. “Fantastic control. I expect you can do damage as well.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. It made sense that Escobar would cultivate employees whose talents could be weaponized. This innocent-looking boy had probably killed with his gift—a sobering thought. I’d do well to remember that a pretty face and big eyes didn’t equate to harmless.

  “Well, thanks for the escort,” I said. “This is my stop.”

  “My father will send someone for you at first light.”

  That revelation rocked me. Nothing in the older man’s manner had hinted at a paternal relationship. To the best of my recollection, he’d treated Paolo like staff.

  “You’re his son?”

  Slim shoulders rose and fell. “He has many. Most were discarded.”

  Oh, the irony. Montoya went mad because a prostitute aborted his child and he never sired another. Escobar appeared to have demon sperm, but he was also a cold, heartless bastard, and he had sons enough to abandon if they didn’t measure up. No wonder Montoya hated him, quite apart from their business conflicts. It must seem like salt in the wound.

  On another level, it reinforced my need to be cautious here. A man who could treat his flesh and blood like help w
as capable of damn near anything, and I would do well to remember that. I’d fallen into the shark tank for sure this time.

  “Good night,” I said then. “I have some thinking to do.”

  How could I ever choose? I had the funny feeling this decision might prove portentous in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.

  Corine’s Choice

  Dawn stole across the horizon. From the bed where I sat propped against the pillows, I could see tendrils of light. Montoya’s men would arrive soon to ask for my decision. And really, it was no choice at all. Right then, there was only one person I could ask. Yet I found myself examining my reasons, just to be sure I’d made the right call.

  Not Shannon. I was sure about that. As much as I cared, that was why I couldn’t take her with me. I needed her to be safe.

  And though Jesse might never forgive me, I couldn’t envision any scenario involving him ending happily. After all, he worked as a cop. If Escobar scooped him up, his colleagues would either mount a manhunt or—after the debacle with his partner—assume he too was on the cartel’s payroll. He had a family: Off and on for the past few months he had been bugging me to come to Laredo again to meet his parents. I thought it seemed precipitous, but unless I wanted them to hate me for ruining his life, I’d better not go that way. So not Jesse, either.

  Chuch would never leave Eva, and she was pregnant. Plus, they functioned as a unit; I could hardly ask for one without the other.

  Chance? With the way things ended between us, I had no right to drag him into this mess now. My heart ached at the thought of him. I hoped he was happy and safe, at least, but if I wanted him to stay that way, I needed to leave him alone. Additionally, Nalleli had just cleansed me of all the ill luck, and it made no sense to summon him when I didn’t know what I’d be facing.

  That left only one alternative, as I’d known all along.

  Since I wasn’t sure where they were taking me, I dressed in jeans and a plain pullover. It gave me the willies when I located fresh underwear. Escobar just knew too much about me for personal comfort.

  Paolo came for me shortly thereafter. Doubtless that was meant as a kindness, since he was young and nonthreatening. I followed him through the silent, opulent halls. Instead of turning toward the study, we went all the way through the house to an enormous veranda. Beyond, a private plane sat waiting on a distant airstrip.

  “I’m not seeing your father again?”

  “You will not,” he said, “until you’ve proven yourself. He is . . . reclusive.”

  This just kept getting better. “Okay. So do I tell you the name, then?”

  He inclined his head. “Please.”

  “Kel—big guy, bald, tattooed—he was with me when they grabbed me. I’m sure your dad knows who he is.”

  “Undoubtedly.” His tone implied Escobar knew everything worth knowing. “Farewell and good luck.”

  I made my way across the veranda, down the steps, and across the field. A man in black waited for me, arms folded, beside the stairs leading to the plane. I had no idea if we were even still in Texas; the landscape gave me no clue. We might’ve crossed the border while I was unconscious.

  “¿Lista?” the thug asked as I approached.

  Ready as I ever will be. Nodding, I preceded him up the steps. He gave the orders and we got under way. I didn’t mind flying, except for takeoff and landing, but everything shook more in a small plane. This one couldn’t hold more than ten people. That meant we couldn’t be going far—well, not across an ocean, anyway.

  Apart from my silent guard, I didn’t see anyone besides the pilot, and unlike commercial planes, I could see right up the aisle into the cockpit. They exchanged a few muttered words in Spanish, and then the plane powered up. I buckled in. A little voice asked if I was crazy. As we zoomed toward the end of the airstrip, I decided the answer was yes.

  We put down in what seemed like a sea of trees—from the air, everything was green. I closed my eyes rather than watch the pilot aim for the impossibly small runway that was more of a dirt track in a clearing. The man guarding me grunted at me to exit the plane. I was tired and sore by this time, so I stumbled down the metal steps and into sweltering heat.

  It was a different kind than I had felt in the mountains of Mexico; this was jungle heat. Monkeys chattered in the distance, and I suppressed a shiver. The guard gestured me toward an old decommissioned military jeep. They aren’t big on the explanations.

  When I approached the vehicle, relief spilled through me. Kel sat in the backseat, and he didn’t appear to have come to any harm. I swung up beside him, immediately feeling more centered. It had shaken me more than I wanted to let on, the easy way Escobar had taken me.

  “You knew I was in no real danger, right?” I asked softly. “That’s why you didn’t fight?”

  “It was a necessary risk.” Which meant he hadn’t been sure.

  “Did they explain the point of this exercise?”

  “You chose me.” Somehow he made it sound like more than it was, a decision driven by necessity, as if I wanted him here, and, moreover, as if that meant something. “We’ll see it through together.”

  The men conferred, and then two of them turned back toward the plane. One got in the driver’s seat. He didn’t speak to us, merely took off driving along a rutted road. A couple of times, I tried to ask a few questions, but he wouldn’t give me anything, so we passed the miles in silence. The light faded over the trees, and at nightfall, we came to the outskirts of a village.

  Our driver cut the engine and addressed us in accented English. “This is as far as I take you. Instructions wait at house of Señora Juárez.”

  “Fantastic,” I muttered. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Kel was already out of the jeep, so I got down too. He led the way down the narrow dirt track leading into the small cluster of houses. I had no idea where we were, but from the look of folks going about their business, I guessed somewhere in Central or South America. That covered a lot of territory.

  He stopped a man at random. “Perdone. Estamos buscando a la Señora Juárez. ¿Sabe dónde vive?”

  Though the villager treated us both to a look of justified suspicion, the guy pointed us in the right direction. Broken glass crunched underfoot as we walked. The few shops open were small, occupying the bottom floor of someone’s home, and the brands of beer advertised rang no bells either. We definitely weren’t in Mexico, where you couldn’t go twenty feet without seeing a Sol sign.

  “You don’t mind that I called on you for this?” Based on his reaction earlier, he might even be pleased, but I needed to be sure.

  “If you had not,” he said, “I would have found you. I have my orders.”

  “I don’t think Escobar would take kindly to our breaking his rules. He’s crazy.”

  In a different way from Montoya, of course, but I didn’t feel any safer, even with this prospective alliance on the table. This was so far outside my usual parameters as to be laughable. And stupidly enough, I missed my dog.

  “But he is well-disposed toward you, and you need his resources.”

  “Right. Is Shannon okay? And Butch?”

  “They’re fine. Shannon was helping Eva put the finishing touches on the nursery when Escobar’s men showed up.”

  Honestly, that news scared the shit out of me. If Escobar knew that much, Montoya might be able to find out too. There was no guarantee I could keep trouble away from Chuch and Eva’s front door, much as I wanted to. If anything happens to them—

  But this was no time to get emotional. I had to be strong and resourceful and brave. Especially brave. As we approached the ochre adobe house, I steadied my breathing and tried to compose myself.

  He rang the bell and no one came, so he rapped on the heavy wooden gate. From within I heard slow stirring and footsteps. An old woman answered; she peered at us with rheumy eyes and then waved us in, but no farther than the courtyard. She bade us wait, shuffling around the corner of the house. Five minutes later, another woman
stepped through the front door, carrying two backpacks. She was not young, and she wore fear in the shadows beneath her eyes. When she held out the bags, her hands trembled. I tried to question her as well, but she shook her head.

  “Tell him I did as he asked,” she said in Spanish. “Tell him. Go now.”

  Other than refuse and be ejected forcefully, there was nothing for us to do but step back onto the street. It was dark now, and there were no streetlights. Only the distant shimmer of taberna lamps lent any illumination. From this angle they might have been stars blinking back at us, sad and melancholy, through the windows.

  “Whatever we’re meant to do first, we can’t begin in the dark.”

  He agreed with a quiet nod. “Did you notice anywhere we could stay the night?”

  I recollected seeing a simple sign for Hostal Ochoa a few blocks back. It had been slightly off our route and down a side street, but I thought I could find it. This time I led the way, retracing our steps. After making the last left, I saw the white sign once more.

  “There,” I said, pointing.

  It was a tall, narrow building, part concrete and part adobe. We mounted the few steps to the dark wood door. I’d never gone backpacking in Europe—the tour with Chance had been more upscale—so I didn’t know whether one knocked or simply entered. Kel answered the question by trying the handle; the knob turned, so we stepped into the foyer, furnished simply in rustic style. The wood gleamed in the faint light, warm and welcoming.

  A round, middle-aged woman came down the hall toward us. Her hair had been oiled and braided in a complex, impressive corona about her head. Her welcoming expression faded toward uncertainty when she got a good look at Kel. I tried to assuage her worry with a smile.

  “Necesitamos un cuarto, por favor.” I didn’t ask if he wanted his own room.

  “Claro. How long will you be staying?” she asked in Spanish.

  “Una noche? No estoy segura.” I hoped not more than one night, anyway. It occurred to me to wonder whether we had cash in our backpacks. I didn’t even know what country we were in.