A full moon glow cast the Eastside safe house in a spotlight, illuminating the chipped stucco. After leaving his truck in an overnight parking lot five blocks away, Evan strolled to the bungalow, pretending not to notice the window-tinted dark SUVs parked at intervals along the block.
Not unlike the ones that had borne Anjelina off into the night.
These sported Hertz rental license-plate frames. Someone had flown into town in a hurry, likely on a private jet. Since Evan and Jovencito had parted ways at the auto shop, there’d been no Guaridón–Los Angeles direct commercial flights, and none of the connecting flights matched the time frame either.
As Evan entered the big square room, he was already picking at the scab a half inch behind his hairline, freeing a trickle of blood. Tucked under his arm, a plastic bag held the crimson-crusted baby wipes and the bloodstained clothes he’d changed out of beneath the underpass.
Moving quickly, he scattered the wipes across the bathroom counter, dropping a few on the tile for good measure. He flung the dirty clothes on the floor by his bed when he heard a faint whistling from outside. Seconds later someone rapped on the front door.
Snatching a tissue from a box, he pressed it to the cut on his forehead, braced himself, and opened the front door.
Jovencito grinned that blank grin as he entered, trailed by a stream of men. A second sicario with DARLING BOY inked across the front of his neck eye-fucked Evan before patting him down, liberating his ARES 1911 and Strider knife. He rose and put his face kissing distance from Evan’s, medicinal breath leaking through meth-rotted teeth. He wore a fixed-blade combat knife in a leather sheath on his belt, angled down his hip like an old-fashioned beeper. They stared at each other unblinkingly until Darling Boy finally moved on.
The men storm-troopered through the house, opening cabinets, flinging papers from drawers, and racking back closet doors. The bungalow offered scant opportunities to search, but they left no space unexamined.
Evan stood against the wall, letting the night breeze wash through the open front door. The men finished and halted, Jovencito raising a phone to his rosy cheek. “Okay, Jefe.”
He slid the phone back into the breast pocket of his cotton blazer. His youthful features and thick head of black hair contrasted with Darling Boy’s gleaming skull and sunken cheekbones.
Everyone stood in silence, hands crossed at their groins, eyes lowered in respect.
Out in the night, a coyote howled and a car alarm bleated twice and someone yelled something from a passing car.
Evan swiped blood from his brow before it could trickle into his eye.
They all waited and waited some more. At last the sound of footsteps tapped up the front walk, a leisurely pace. A shadow fell across the threshold, a man’s form carved from the streetlight glow.
El Moreno entered the house.
He walked past Evan, through the stone-still flanks of his men to the neatly made bed. He hopped onto the mattress, stretching out, crossing his ostrich-skin boots on the sheets, showing Evan the soles.
An impressive bit of theater.
Raúl Montesco took in the small room, his right cheek drawn up, crow’s feet pinching the temple. Contempt—the only emotion expressed lopsided on the face.
But when he looked at Evan, his features smoothed into a mask. “You didn’t take my money.”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t take my product.”
“No, sir.”
“Rondo was bringing you in? To be a member of his team?”
“Yes.”
“You want to be one of us? A León?”
“Yes.”
The Dark Man rose from the bed, leaving scuff marks where his boots had been. He walked over and stood in front of Evan. They were the same height, nose to nose, eye to eye.
That wide, oft-broken nose. The sharp V of his widow’s peak, crazy curls cascading over his forehead. Mouth stretched too wide, square teeth spaced out. And on his forearm a lion inked in fiery orange, predatory eyes glowing an icy blue.
He smelled of cigarettes and spicy cologne.
He stared right into Evan, and Evan stared back. Evan could see himself mirrored in the Dark Man’s pupils, the shape of his head and torso like a generic paper shooting target outlined in the obsidian blackness. He wondered if Montesco was looking at the same reflection in his own eyes.
“Come with me,” El Moreno said, and strode for the door.