Dark horse, p.24
Dark Horse, page 24
As unhinged as the Dark Man was, he could maintain exceptional focus when discussing the intricacies of his dealings. Which chemicals came through which ports of entry, where to route product through Third World customs, how to build out low-cost infrastructure for pop-up labs. He smoked and smoked, dark pupils enlarging until they seemed to consume his eyes entirely.
Evan mostly listened, asking pointed questions where he could, mentally filling in the dossier of La Familia León’s enterprise he planned to turn over anonymously to the authorities once the mission was completed.
Reymundo sat silently on the adjoining couch at the edge of the cushions, looking impatiently at the door. One thing was clear: He wasn’t built for this.
After a few hours, they moved poolside. Montesco continued to smoke, switching to cigars and adding mezcal to balance out the mix of stimulants. A sipping shot glass, an orange slice, worm salt with ground agave larvae and chili. Evan took a pass, keeping an eye on the guards, noting faces, movements, positions as the Third Commandment demanded.
From their position beneath a pergola, he could see the side window of the room in which he’d spotted a figure from the front yard earlier but sensed no movement inside. He tried not to watch too closely. As the sun continued its path west, he caught a glimpse of a massive chandelier beyond the window, tear-shaped pendeloques casting heavenly winks of light from myriad facets. Beyond that no sign of movement. Or of Anjelina.
As dusk came on, Montesco got stuck in a loop of his own drugged thinking. He seemed unable to escape a spiraling obsession with the third Gulf Cartel shooter, Evan’s fiction taking root deep in his awareness.
“I don’t know how to describe him to you,” Evan said. “But I’d know his face if I saw it again.”
“I will figure it out. And when I do, you’ll go back to L.A. And you’ll bring me his head in a box.”
“I’m worried.…”
“What?”
“That they might come here first.”
Montesco snorted. “Good luck to them. This estate is built to repel an attack. Every hallway, every room. I have escape tunnels, a helicopter, and a fucking private army.”
“Those measures are worthless,” Evan said, “if they have an inside man.”
Montesco rose, stumbled, slamming a hand on the table hard enough to make the bottle of mezcal jump. A dagger of sweat had bled through his shirt at the collar, stalactites painting the fabric beneath his armpits. He smelled bitter, smoke and body odor.
“Get Darling Boy down here!” he bellowed to no one in particular. “He knows the most about those Gulf motherfuckers. I want him to get me the name of the third shooter. And I want him to turn this place upside down to find the mole.”
A few men scrambled into motion, scurrying inside the house, shouting commands. A few minutes later, Darling Boy emerged through the space where the sliding doors had been accordioned open.
As El Moreno explained the problem, it became clear his body chemistry had crossed out of control, his voice rising in pitch and then falling to a whisper. His thoughts grew rambling, desultory, tempestuous. Darling Boy listened attentively with a forbearance that suggested he’d negotiated this type of storm many times over. Reymundo leaned back in his chair, away from the table and his father.
When Montesco’s words finally faded off into a low growl of exhaled smoke, Darling Boy spoke. “I will assemble pictures of Gulf sicarios. And I will look into our men. Every last one of them.” While he said this, he kept his cold eyes locked on Evan.
“Now,” Montesco said. “Now, now, now. And bring this one with you.” He shoved at the edge of his son’s chair with the toe of his cowboy boot, causing Reymundo to topple over.
“Yes, Jefe.”
Montesco glowered at them all. “And how is that bitch?”
“She behaves poorly.” Darling Boy unsheathed his knife, admired his reflection in the blade.
“What bitch?” Evan asked.
“We have a prize hen in our captivity,” Montesco said. “Much too fine to be kept in the coop with the others. Isn’t that right, Reymundo?”
Picking himself up, Reymundo dusted off his knees. His bangs fell over his eyes, but he didn’t look up at his father.
“I can’t trust this one to handle it either,” Montesco said. “She’s been giving us headaches. Doesn’t know her place, always chirping at my men, the girls. We don’t want to damage that perfect face. Yet.” He ground his cigar into the orange slice. “She needs to be broken like a wild horse.”
“I’ve been there,” Evan said, striking a sympathetic tone. “I’ve guarded trust-fund girls and the daughters of sheikhs. There’s an art to it. Keeping them in line. No hassles, no friction. There’s a way of making them understand. So they don’t behave poorly.”
Montesco studied him, reptilian eyes flat and unblinking. For a moment Evan thought he’d pushed too far too quickly.
Then El Moreno waved his cigar. “Let’s see how good you are, X,” he said. “Why don’t you go get that puta in line.”
“Where is she?”
He stabbed the glowing tip of the cigar at the corner bedroom on the second floor and said, “Take him.”
Darling Boy rose. Evan followed him into the house. Even the back of his neck was inked, blue-black flesh rippling like snakeskin.
They wound their way up the metal stairs. Darling Boy stopped on the landing, waiting as Evan ascended to the second floor, keeping uncomfortably close. Evan’s face drew level with his shoes, his knees, crotch, chest, chin. Then they were standing nose to nose.
“I been with him seventeen years,” Darling Boy said. “Then you come along. Golden boy, straight teeth, pretty face. White. And he sits you at his side.”
“Thank you,” Evan said.
Those sunken eyes blinked once, twice. “For what?”
“For calling me pretty.”
“El Moreno is a great man. He has few blind spots. But you should know…” Darling Boy dug the tip of his pointer finger into Evan’s chest. “That I don’t.”
He turned and led Evan down the narrow hall. They moved through a pinned-open metal door, and then he gestured to the closed door at the end and faded back toward the stairs. Thumbing through his phone, Jovencito sat outside the room on a chair tilted back so his shoulders rested against the wall.
He didn’t bother to look up as Evan approached.
“El Moreno wants me to take next shift,” Evan said. “See if I can talk some sense into her.”
Jovencito jogged forward, the front legs of the chair clicking against the tile. Pocketing his phone, he stood. “Don’t touch the merchandise.” That handsome grin. “Tempting as it may be.”
He walked past Evan, brushing his shoulder. Pulling out his RoamZone, Evan called up a white-noise-generating app tuned at specific frequencies to mask voices from being overheard or captured by covert surveillance. He put the phone away and then stood with his hand on the doorknob, waiting for the sound of Jovencito’s footsteps to recede downstairs.
A long and winding road had led to this door. There were no Commandments for this, no rules or touchstones to guide him in managing whatever lay in the room behind. He took a breath, eased it out, twisted the knob silently.
She was there, lying atop the covers on the bed, facing away. A tumble of thick black hair strewn across the comforter, head dipped forward, neck bent, a loose approximation of a fetal position.
He entered loudly enough for her to hear his movement and shut the door behind him. “Anjelina,” he said softly.
She turned, one arm stretching open so she could view him in a half twist across her body. She was so beautiful that it was unsettling to look at her directly, as if he were seeing something he wasn’t meant to see. For a moment he felt discomposed, voyeuristic. Then he refocused, clearing the haze of the first impression, seeing her as a girl a few years older than Joey.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m … an acquaintance of your father’s,” he said in a low voice, inching forward. “I’m here to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” She shifted further onto her back, the soft bump of her pregnant belly rising into view. “I don’t want to be rescued,” she said. “I ran away.”
36
The Meaning of Regret
For the first time in memory, Evan found himself shell-shocked. He had a moment of pure denial, nearly sufficient to convince his brain that he’d misheard her.
The First Fucking Commandment.
He thought about the pictures from her eighteenth-birthday party, how she’d worn a shawl so its ends dangled over her stomach, just enough to distract from the swell beneath.
Anjelina pushed herself up against the plush upholstered headboard, arms protectively crossed over her rounded belly. “My father sent you?”
Evan still couldn’t find words.
“What’s your name?” Her voice was deep—not husky and not unfeminine either, but edged with soulful throatiness.
“Call me X.”
Her face was flushed, forehead twisted with consternation. “Arnulfo—is he okay?”
“… who?”
“Arnulfo? He was catering the party. My birthday party. They hit him in the face with the butt of a gun. So much blood—they split his lip. They weren’t supposed to hurt anyone. Is he okay? And Hortensia, my God. She must’ve been terrified.”
Evan finally caught up to himself. “The caterer? A split lip? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done? I didn’t have a choice. My papá, he would’ve killed me. And worse…” Tears sprang to her eyes instantly, glassing them over but refusing to fall. “It would have broken him.”
The pieces slid into place with sudden horrifying clarity.
“Reymundo,” Evan said.
She looked at him, trauma writ large upon her face. Even in grief she was luminescent, lit from within. Impossibly wide eyes, impossibly long lashes.
“Zihuatanejo,” Evan said. “Both of your families happened to vacation there every year during Semana Santa.” He ran his fingers through his hair, a rare show of aggravation. “Star-crossed lovers playing games.”
“Don’t belittle us. You have no idea what Reymundo’s been through. You have no idea how strong he is.”
“So what’s your plan? Let your parents believe you’re dead? Live out your days here under lock and key? Hope not to get fed to the lions?”
At this her lip trembled, but she bit down on it. “This wasn’t the plan. This isn’t our future. Reymundo doesn’t want this any more than I do. We’re gonna get out of here, and we’re gonna start over, and we’re gonna—”
“You’re not gonna anything, Anjelina. El Moreno is a psychopath. This isn’t a game. This isn’t a movie. They will kill you in the most painful way possible. Feed you to the lions. Cut your eyelids off. Carve your face right off your head. You’re on his land, where he tortures and kills people. Your unborn baby is here with these men.”
“I didn’t know what to do.” She was refusing to cry, her hands clenched into fists, emotion coming up beneath her smooth skin, inflaming the rims of her eyes and nostrils. “We didn’t know what to do.”
“People have died,” Evan said.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “We didn’t think it would go like this. I’m sorry. Reymundo thought it would be safe here, that his father would be proud to have a grandbaby, that he would let us leave and start a life. It didn’t … didn’t work out that way. We’re not free here. He keeps me watched in here, won’t let me see a doctor, won’t let Reymundo see me when he wants. But I couldn’t have stayed at home either.” Her tone sharpened, and she kept on vehemently, as if Evan were arguing with her. “It was impossible there, too. Me. The only Urrea child. Aragón’s daughter. Pregnant by a León. There were no options. I know who my father is. I know what he’s capable of.”
“You think he would hurt you?”
“Not me,” she said. “Reymundo. My dad would’ve gone to war.”
“He has gone to war.”
“You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like. I had nowhere to go. They put you on a pedestal, and any way you step, you fall off.”
“What? Who did?”
“I don’t know. Everyone. The whole town. My father. You can’t move. It’s like”—her hand circled helplessly—“they want you to be a portrait. But it’s always their painting, you know? And for once”—she sucked in a wet breath—“I wanted to be the painter. My own painter.” Now, finally, she was sobbing. “There’s so much pressure. What they think, what they want, how they’ll act if you don’t do the right thing in their eyes. You’re exhausting. You’re all so exhausting.”
“I’m not here to exhaust you. I’m here to help you.”
“Right. You’re different.” She tried for sarcastic but only came off heartbroken, despairing. “I just want to be left alone. I just want to be alone with Reymundo and the baby. Why can’t we just—”
“You can’t do this right now,” Evan cut in. “Understand me?” He shot a glance at the door. “You cannot fall apart.”
“I know. Sorry. I’m sorry.” She tilted her skull back to thunk against the headboard. A moment ago she’d been crying freely, but already she was reining it in, getting herself under control. “When I was first here, I used to pinch myself, like to wake up from a bad dream.” She showed him the inside of her arm, the tender skin bruised yellow and purple. “But then I stopped. Easier to just be … numb.”
“Be whatever you need to be right now,” Evan said. “But in front of them, you have to obey me. Completely.”
“Wow.” She glowered at him, face flushed and miserable. “I knew it. You’re not different. You’re just like everyone else.”
“If you listen to me, there’s a chance Montesco will let me guard you. If you don’t, you get Darling Boy. You choose.”
She pulled in another breath, locked it between clenched teeth. Speechless, defeated.
He sat on the edge of the bed, took her bare arms in his grip, held her gaze, hoping she would match her breathing to his to slow it down. “I will figure out how to protect you.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what you want.”
Behind them the door banged open, and she bolted upright, startled.
Jovencito entered, whistling a high fluttering tune.
Evan kept his grip on Anjelina’s arms but now made it look menacing, switching modes on a dime—new posture, new bearing, new expression. He stared straight through her eyes, spoke in a cold, hard voice she recoiled from. “Fuck with me again and I will teach you the meaning of regret.”
She jerked her head in a terrified nod.
“Don’t damage the goods,” Jovencito said. “Romeo will be upset. Which means his father will be angry.”
“No need to damage her,” Evan said, sliding off the bed. “Not anymore. We’ve reached an understanding. Isn’t that right, girl?”
She looked at him, still breathing hard, nostrils flaring. Behind her long eyelashes, her gaze was wounded, as bruised as the dappled skin of her forearm.
She lowered her eyes, gave a meek nod.
Evan started out, Jovencito signaling his approval, wearing an impressed frown. Clearing the doorway, Evan couldn’t bring himself to turn around and see the wreckage on Anjelina’s face.
“You continue to surprise, Caballo Oscuro,” Jovencito said. “Who knows what else you’re capable of?”
Evan wondered the same thing.
* * *
The bedroom suite was the picture of luxury—marble surfaces, granite soaking tub, high-thread-count sheets. Somehow before this week, Evan had managed not once to play houseguest to a criminal mastermind, but that drought had ended with a twofer. The room looked to have been done by an upscale designer—generic art on the walls, a squat floor vase sprouting curling willow branches, floating shelves filled with actual books, though they were coverless, organized by color, and half were upside down. Montesco could buy everything in the world but class.
Freshly showered, Evan crossed the room, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, and stared at the array of decorative literature. An urge rose in his chest to alphabetize them. He quashed it.
At the foot of the sleigh bed, a rolling suitcase rested atop a luggage rack, hard-shelled lid raised to display the brick of hundred-dollar bills he’d requested.
That certainly beat a chocolate on the pillow.
To the memory-foam mattress, lying down, a single deep inhalation that he drew up from the soles of his feet. Exhale.
Exhaustion descended over him.
A secret love affair. A pregnant girl. A faked kidnapping. One family destroyed, the other dangerous beyond compare.
And the Nowhere Man tangled up in the middle with a skill set utterly unsuited to addressing a conflict like this. This was the stuff of families—disappointment and passion, resentment and heartbreak, dashed dreams and failed hopes. Intimacy. This wasn’t his arena. What had Mia told him? You fit in, sure, but that’s different from belonging.
He thought of her freckles, the weight of her head in the crook of his elbow, his fingertips at her neck, checking for a pulse.
He tapped her number into the RoamZone, sent her a text: how did it go with the neurologist?
A pause. Now she was typing, the three dots taking their time.
Finally: can you talk?
He felt the weight of the question in his chest.
He texted: no. A moment after the fact, it occurred to him how she might take that, so he added: out of country for work. no privacy.
when are you back?
i don’t know.
The screen was blank. Still blank.
Then:…
He waited. Impatiently.
i need a consult with a neurosurgeon now.
Evan stared at the phone. Tiny digital words rendered from ones and zeros. Just eight of them. But they packed an awful lot of punch.
day after tomorrow 10 am, she texted.
The doctors were in a hurry. Time-sensitive matters were rarely ideal when it came to neurosurgeons.
