Fear roiled in my stomach, making a mess out of the chips and chocolate. I curled my hands into fists and braced them on my knees. I didn’t know whether to get out boldly and ask what they wanted, or sit here waiting to be summoned.
“They want to talk,” he said quietly. “If they’d wanted you dead, one shot would’ve done it as we drove. Here, they have greater vulnerability.”
That was certainly true. Kel was no longer handicapped by managing an automobile, so he could fight. Maybe they didn’t know who—or what—he was. Another advantage they couldn’t factor.
Thus bolstered, I climbed out of the vehicle. Slamming the door jolted Shannon awake, and I saw alarm when she registered the three black SUVs, but he stilled her with a hand on her arm.
Thank you
, I thought.
Keep her safe for me.
Everything looked pale and wan beneath the lights. I heard bugs whirring around the building, distant sounds of cars on the highway. I played cool and leaned against my car door like I wasn’t expecting a shot through the forehead any second. Wait, no—they’d give me two to the back of the head, make it look like an execution to avoid questions.
For several long moments, nothing happened, and then a strange man—strange in the sense that I’d never seen him before—stepped out of the nearest SUV. They drove Denalis, I noted, less flashy than a fleet of Hummers. I was conscious of my wrinkled clothing, dark circles beneath my eyes, messy hair, and orange Cheetos dust on my chest, but I didn’t move. If we were going to have a stare-down before he spoke, so be it.
Henchman One paused, a hand on the open door. “Corine Solomon?”
“Who’s asking?”
In answer, he twirled two fingers in the air. Three more guys stepped out, grabbed me before I could do more than throw a wild punch, and chucked me headfirst into the Denali. My face skidded across fine gray leather and someone slammed the door behind me. In a squeal of tires, we were moving.
Oh, shit.
I’d been kidnapped.
I lunged for the door, only to be brought up short by one of the thugs. He didn’t hurt me, but he effectively blocked me from flinging myself out of the moving SUV. The sister vehicles stayed in the rest area, and as we sped away, two shots rang out. I screamed and pounded on the glass.
No, no, no, no. Kel can fight incredible numbers.
He’d done it before. I had seen it. The guardian could live through damn near anything—maybe even a bullet in the brain—but Shannon . . .
No, not Shannon.
A scream built in my throat.
Shortly, the other two SUVs flanked us, providing protection, I supposed. Four men accompanied me in this one, and they all wore black and impassive expressions. They were mixed nationalities, so I couldn’t be sure who’d taken me. Regardless, it meant nothing good. I tried again to get to the door, though we were on the highway and doing eighty. Dumb, sure, but no worse than believing gangsters wanted to talk.
“You’re going to be difficult,” a man said with faint exasperation. His accent was difficult to place, but it wasn’t Mexican. Not Canadian either, more like—
Before I could make up my mind, a needle prickled my skin and I fell into a dark hole.
I woke in a sumptuously appointed room, all white—impossible to keep clean without an army of maids attending to every smudge and spill. Judging by the pristine carpet, whoever had taken me possessed such an army. I fought down a sick certainty that, like Señor Alvarez, Shannon had died because of me. My head felt thick from whatever they’d drugged me with, and my tongue tasted funny.
A disembodied voice sounded on the intercom, different from the man in the SUV. “You will find clean clothing in the armoire. Please avail yourself of the facilities. In half an hour, someone will escort you to my study.”
Even if I had wanted to argue, I saw no button I could press to make my fear and fury known. I slid off the mattress and onto the thick, plush carpet, and then glanced down at myself. My jeans were stained; my shirt still carried orange smudges. God only knew what my hair was doing. It would serve this bastard right if I confronted him in all my stink, but I couldn’t stand myself another minute.
In the wardrobe, I found a small array of attire: a pair of jeans, designer slacks, a couple of blouses and sweaters. More unnerving, they were all my size. I closed the door on such creepiness and went into the bathroom. If possible, that was worse.
Oh, it was a dream of a room, all gilt and marble; there was a Jacuzzi and a separate glass stall for when you wanted to rinse off. Since I didn’t think it was right to lounge in a spa tub when my friends might be dead and I had been abducted, I glared at the offending opulence as I got in the shower. Even the toiletries bespoke an unnerving knowledge of me. The expensive shampoo and conditioner smelled of frangipani, my preferred scent.
Well beyond worried and now into creeped-the-fuck-out, I rushed as I would never ordinarily do. I only had thirty minutes anyway, if I didn’t want some goon dragging me out of the bathroom naked and wet. Clean clothes would armor me for what was to come.
I dried off and couldn’t resist the frangipani body cream. All this luxury had the effect of diffusing my fear, cutting it with anger instead. I could use the boost of looking more together than I felt. Worry gnawed at me underneath, mostly about Butch and Shannon. If they weren’t okay—
I cut the thought and dressed quickly. Each article contained silk; I could tell by the way it slid against my skin. They had even provided shoes; I growled over the fact that they fit when I jammed my feet into them. Someone knew me better than I knew myself; they’d bought black slacks and a matching V-necked sweater. Add platform Mary Janes, and you had an outfit I’d buy on my own. This look leaned toward the conservative end of my spectrum, but still. I might’ve thrown myself out a window if the closet had contained long skirts and peasant blouses.
I checked the time and found I had enough remaining to deal with my hair. Since it was wet, I could only plait it, but I went with a French braid so I didn’t look schoolgirlish. I needed power for this confrontation.
A few moments later, a knock sounded.
Really? We’re pretending I have a choice? Why not just drag me by my hair?
I wore a scowl when I flung open the door, hoping I didn’t appear frightened. I didn’t want them to think they’d succeeded in terrorizing me, although they totally had.
“Follow me.” It was the same henchman who’d said,
You’re going to be difficult
, right before he drugged me.
Because I wasn’t looking for a repeat performance, I fell in behind him. He spoke not a single word as he led me down a long, luxurious corridor—I recognized some of the artists whose work hung in a display worthy of a gallery. Priceless objets d’art lined the walls, but it was simple and elegant, not as if the owner sought to boast of what his money could buy.
We passed a number of rooms, some of which I would be hard-pressed to name. Others I knew, like library, conservatory, dining room. My escort swung open an ornate, beautifully carved teak door. This room was unquestionably a man’s study, from the gleaming desk to the matching wing-backed chairs. Even the carpet seemed manly, with its muted maroon pattern. Reflexively, I started pricing the furniture for what I could get for it in my shop—and then I remembered I had none.
“Wait here,” the henchman told me.
“Of course.” I didn’t know whether he noticed the biting sarcasm. Probably not. Thugs were not known for their intellectual acuity.
He left, shutting the door behind him. I knew this tactic. They were watching me to see what I’d do alone. The waiting was meant to soften me up, so I’d agree to anything by the time my captor arrived.
I obliged them by wandering, a sign of nerves. In my circuit, I read the titles on the shelves.
The Prince
by Niccolò Machiavelli.
The Art of War
by Sun Tzu.
The Divine Comedy
by Dante Alighieri.
So he’s a learned man and a strategist.
There were titles in other languages as well; evidently this villain was multilingual, as he owned texts in Chinese, Russian, German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese. It was also possible he was a collector, which boded ill for me. Maybe he’d change his mind when he found out I wasn’t a natural redhead.
A soft footfall from behind made me spin from my scrutiny of the shelves. A man in his late forties stood before me. He was tall and slim, almost painfully elegant in a white linen suit. His sharp, foxy face came to a point at his chin, balanced by the blade of a nose. Bronze skin contrasted pleasingly with a spill of iron gray hair. He gave the impression of careless grace, but I had the feeling he never made a move without orchestrating it. His eyes shone like black pearls, lustrous but containing terrible depth.
I didn’t know exactly what Montoya looked like; in my vision where I saw Min with four men, he could’ve been any of them, so that offered no help. As my host padded forward, I noted he wore no shoes. Interesting dichotomy, that informality when measured against his crisp white clothing—perhaps it was meant to disarm me.
“I trust you found the accommodations to your liking,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “Would you care for something to eat?”
“I have nothing to say until I know my friends are safe.”
In my head, the shots echoed as we drove away, and I couldn’t restrain a flinch.
“They are well,” he assured me.
Relief left me light-headed, so much that I couldn’t speak.
Thank you for Shannon.
He took my silence for skepticism.
“But I do not believe you’ll take my word. Shall we call them?” He lofted my phone—the same one they’d texted. I had no idea how long it had been, how long I had been unconscious.
Sudden hope surged through me, but I managed not to snatch it from him. “Let me dial.”
“Of course.”
He passed the cell over and I punched in Shannon’s number. It rang three times and then her wonderful voice came on the line. Caller ID told her who it was before she picked up. “Corine? Where
are
you? God, we’ve been so worried.”
“I don’t know. Are you okay? I heard gunfire.” Even if I had a clue where I was, I wouldn’t tell her. I didn’t want Shan involved further, if I could help it.
“They shot the engine block.” The disgust in her voice came across clearly. “You have any idea how long it takes to get a tow truck in the middle of the night? I had Skittles and Pepsi for breakfast.”
“Where are you? Did Kel find a place for you to stay?”
I heard a rumble of background noise, a cocktail of male and female voices. “We went to Laredo.”
Ah, shit.
Shannon confirmed my fear. “I’m staying with Chuch and Eva. He’s funny, but she’s
so
mad at you for not calling. They’re really nice. I think Jesse’s coming over tonight.”
Great, when this was over, I was so going to hear about my failure to communicate. Assuming I survived. But I had to find a way to keep Shannon safe, a solution that didn’t endanger her . . . or anyone else, for that matter. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to Chuch and Eva, after they’d been so kind to me. I wouldn’t be ringing again after this. Given sufficient warning, I wouldn’t put it past Chuch to try to trace the call. The former weapons dealer had crazy connections. Like it or not, it looked like I was on my own.
“And Butch is all right?”
“He misses you.”
Despite my wishing Kel had gone another route, there were few people I trusted more than Chuch and Eva. They’d look after Shannon, and he likely hadn’t known where else to go. It wasn’t like God’s Hand had contacts of his own; he was too much of a rolling stone.
“I’ll be in touch when I can.”
“Wait. Where—”
Before she could finish the question, my host took the phone from me and hit “end.” Not content with those measures, he powered the device down and handed it back to me. “Feel better?”
“Some.” If he’d meant to harm us, he could’ve done so already. Well, not Kel, not permanently, but Shannon was fragile. I wished I’d sent her to Oklahoma City.
“I merely wished to discourage your friend from following. He has a history of leaving wreckage in his wake.”
I considered what we’d done at the warlock’s compound and then later at Montoya’s mountain hideout and had to agree. “Fair enough. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get a little private time with me. So what do you want?”
“You interest me,” he said. “Montoya has gone off the deep end over you, señorita. Others have failed to provoke such a powerful reaction. Why is that?”
I shrugged. It was a long story, starting with my exboyfriend’s mother, a dead prostitute, a fictional curse, and a bunch of bad luck. As ever, mine.
“The better question is why you care.”
“I am Ramiro Escobar,” he answered, as if that explained everything.
Horribly enough, it did.
Deals with the Devil
It all made sense now. Back in Laredo, a man named Esteban helped us out when we went up against Montoya for the first time. He’d told us he worked for Escobar, Montoya’s biggest rival. I could only surmise I’d been taken by the same guy. Still, it seemed best to confirm the supposition.
“You sometimes find yourself in competition with Montoya?” I ventured.
He smiled. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
Well, only because of Esteban. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by letting him know his legend wasn’t as big as he believed. No man wanted to hear that. I relaxed a little, though. Now I thought I knew why he’d scooped me up. Sure, since he had my cell number, a preliminary conversation would’ve been more polite, but handled this way, he proved he meant business. A benign kidnapping revealed certain panache, but I shouldn’t lose sight of how dangerous this man was.
“Yeah. One of your . . .” What did you call a guy who worked for a drug dealer?
Henchman
sounded very 1960s Batman. I decided on, “. . . employees helped us out a while back.”