“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.”
“I am aware.”
A micromanager, eh? “Look, I’m sure you didn’t pull me out of my car for the pleasure of my company. Why don’t we get down to business?”
Clearly he wanted something from me or I wouldn’t be here, at least not with all my parts intact. Montoya might be a rabid dog, but Escobar had an equally brutal reputation. He just went about his work more quietly; the bodies he dumped didn’t surface and wind up on the news.
“A meal first,” he said with implacable politeness.
I managed a smile. “I can’t remember when I last had a proper meal. That would be lovely.”
A little voice shouted in the back of my head that this was crazy, but I crushed it. One didn’t anger the wolf by refusing to share his meat. According to older rules of hospitality, if I ate his food and drank his wine, he shouldn’t do violence against me. I’d just hang on to that hope.
“He hunts you like an animal,” he noted as he turned to step into the hall. I heard him speaking to someone in a low voice. When he returned, he added, “Our repast will arrive shortly. Will you sit?”