At 4:57 P.M., Evan picked up the cargo van, black as promised, from the curb adjacent to Hertz. A homeless guy stinking of tequila lay slumped against the oversize front tire, tattered cowboy hat pulled over his eyes.
Evan roused him, a gentle tap of his boot against the guy’s sandaled foot.
Before the soft kick connected, the guy rolled onto his feet with surprising grace and stared at Evan with clear brown eyes. “Tommy said to tell you, ‘Don’t miss the mark,’” he said, then dropped a single car key into Evan’s palm and shuffled away.
Evan climbed into the cargo hold, which was grubby, a few oil spills, grime at the seams, an amoeba of hardened chewing gum on the floor in the corner. He took a moment to change into the clothes he’d requested. They looked like what he’d worn for the bulk of the mission, facial-recognition-thwarting pattern on the button-up, tactically discreet cargo pants with streamlined inner pockets. A number of Pelican crates held the surveillance gear he’d ordered.
But the clothes and the security equipment weren’t what mattered.
What mattered was what was hidden beneath the false bottom of the cargo hold.
Forty-five minutes later, he pulled beneath the giant carved monkeys of the grand archway. The chicken coop looked empty, each cell showing only a band of late-day sunlight near the bars, the invisible inhabitants pulled back into the shade like overheated zoo animals. He double-checked the position of the decoy sewer grates and storm drains along the driveway and gardens as he had those leading into the estate, then noted the positions of the guards.
Sure enough his favorite sicario was waiting at the portico, arms crossed.
Evan edged off the driveway and parked half over a disused flower bed. Rolling down the passenger window, he caught a waft of jasmine and could hear rats scurrying in the gardens, awaiting their next feast.
“The hell kind of parking job is this, gabacho?” Darling Boy asked, approaching.
“Lotta valuable gear in here,” Evan said, climbing out. “I don’t want one of you idiots clipping the van on your way in.”
“Don’t move.” Darling Boy stopped Evan with a spread hand, spun him around less gently than was warranted, and frisked him from the ankles up, groping at his crotch with brisk, pragmatic intent. “Jefe is smart enough to forbid you having weapons in the house.”
Evan turned around, holding his arms wide. “He made that clear to me.”
“Well, I’m making it clear, too. Open the back.”
Evan unlocked the rear door, and Darling Boy climbed up and in. He examined the interior carefully, his sunken eyes picking across every crack and fissure, his foot tapping beside the blackened disk of gum. Then he opened and studied the gear in every last Pelican case. Finally he climbed through to the front and searched the seats, the glove box, the center console.
He wormed back out to where Evan leaned against the side of the van, face tilted to the sun, soaking in some vitamin D. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not yet,” Darling Boy said, and headed into the mansion.
Evan locked up the van and entered.
The lean, jittery guard named Nacho greeted Evan in the foyer with a lowered MP7 and a hot glare.
“Jefe wants to see you,” Nacho said. “In his bedroom.”
Evan started back.
“You should know,” Nacho called after him, “that you are hated here.” He had hungry, sullen features, gold-framed sunglasses pushed up into his glossy hair. Hand loose at his belt, thumb tucked behind the grenade pouch. And those fucking teeth, like a mole rat’s. “You’ve been whispering poison in Jefe’s ear. Making him paranoid. About us. But he should not be paranoid about us. He should be paranoid about you.”
“Ah,” Evan said. “One of Darling Boy’s men.”
“Darling Boy has been with Jefe for seventeen years. Darling Boy recruited most of us. We are all Darling Boy’s men. And we will wait for you to stumble.”
“Careful that you don’t get hurt first,” Evan said. “While you’re waiting.”
He padded down the corridor, passing the first set of spiraling stairs and ascending the second. Montesco’s suite was at the end of the corridor, double doors thrown wide, the sounds of vigorous sex issuing out.
Evan stood in the doorway. A giant picture window overlooked the pool and cabana. The bed was enormous, two king-size mattresses set side by side, the furniture modern and overly sleek, lacquered woods and shiny chrome fittings.
Montesco was entangled with five or so women, a confusing, squirming mass of limbs and flesh. Evan tried to do the math in his head and failed.
A burly guard stood against the far wall, hand gripping opposite wrist by his waist, classic bodyguard position. His MP7 was slung, his eyes averted, expression impassive.
Evan cleared his throat.
Montesco’s head popped up from the scrum. It took some effort for him to extricate himself, and then he shooed the women out. They gathered their clothes on the way, brushing past Evan. Their cheeks were flushed, but their manner was bored, businesslike, a construction crew leaving for lunch break. The guard didn’t move. He might as well have been painted on the wall.
Montesco came at Evan, glistening and naked, his left nostril powdered with white, tattooed lion gazing out from his inner arm. “Did you find the third shooter?”
“No. But I have a bead on him. My associate is still working to track him down. In the meantime I wanted to get back here to safe the estate.”
“I told you to bring me his head.” Montesco slid a flat hand beneath his nose, wiping the excess. The room smelled of sweat and sex. “I want him dead.”
“And he will be. I’m prioritizing your safety.”
“You have the gear you promised?”
“I do.”
“Has Darling Boy checked it all?”
“Proctologically.”
At this the Dark Man cracked a smile. “You told me to trust no one. I am taking your advice seriously. I may like you, Caballo Oscuro, but you are still new to me. And my men, they are not taking to you.”
“It’s not my job to be liked.” It took some effort for Evan not to acknowledge Montesco’s nakedness. “It’s my job to protect you, even against your own men. Like Jovencito.”
“What do you need of me now?”
“I want to check the escape tunnels and hatches for hostile surveillance gear and explosives. Vehicles, too—I want to sweep them, make sure that there are no tracking devices or explosives. Then I want to install additional security measures.”
Montesco nodded a few times rapidly, rooting in the heap of pillows on the floor and blessedly coming up with a bathrobe. Yanking open a drawer on the Hollywood Regency mirrored nightstand, he withdrew a lighter and a crack cigarette. “Darling Boy will oversee you.”
Evan felt his body heat tick up a half degree. The first hitch in the plan he’d mentally rehearsed a few hundred times.
“We don’t like each other,” Evan said. “Obviously. It’s close-quarters work. I move fast, I move efficiently, and I move alone.”
Montesco swung his head around, freshly lit stick between his lips. “I don’t give a fuck what you want. This is how it will go. Tomorrow morning you can start.” That too-wide mouth stretched into an off-kilter smile. “Try’n relax for once. Take a woman to your suite. Take two.”
“I’m good,” Evan said. “I want to interview the girl again. See if she remembers anything about Jovencito she didn’t mention before. Maybe she saw something I didn’t. Could help lead to the third shooter.”
Montesco held an inhale as he spoke, the words an airless screech. “You said you were closing in on the third shooter.”
“I’d like to close in quicker.” Evan hesitated, for the first time unsure of his status here.
Montesco’s bloodshot eyes moved to his guard. The burly man returned the look, a flicker of shared suspicion.
“It’s fine,” Evan said. “I’m tired anyway. I’m happy to deal with it when I get back to L.A.”
“No.” Montesco smiled, let the smoke leak through his teeth. “If you can squeeze more information out of her, do it.”
As Evan withdrew, his sense of unease intensified. His absence had left room for Darling Boy to sow distrust, for paranoia to swell. He could only hope he had enough time before the wave broke. He’d be watched every step of the way now, a feeling compounded by how the guards watched him as he headed to Anjelina’s room.
Darling Boy sat in the chair outside her door, using his combat knife to shave the fingernail of his pinkie into a point. He spoke without looking up. “She is sleeping.”
“Then I’ll wake her,” Evan said, barging in.
Anjelina shot up in the sheets with a yelp, startled by his entrance.
“Shut up,” he said loudly as the door swung closed behind him. “I have a few more questions for you.”
The door sealed, and he thumbed on his white-noise app and eased to her side. “Listen to me carefully,” he said quietly. “Do not leave this room for any reason until I come for you. Do not give anyone an excuse to get upset. Anything asked of you, obey. No complaining, no conflicts, no throwing off sparks. Tension is mounting, and until I can initiate extraction, I need you to stay as removed from Montesco’s mind as possible.”
She crossed her arms atop the bulge of her belly. “What tension?”
“I don’t have time to explain. I just need you to listen. Understand?”
“Okay, okay.” She planted her feet on the mattress, pulled her thighs up against her belly. “Did you see my father?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He won’t kill Reymundo.”
“What else did he say?”
“I don’t have time to explain.”
“Did Mamá talk to him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he listen?”
“Yes.”
There were tears in her eyes instantly. “Then everything will be okay.”
“I need to know that Reymundo won’t get in the way of anything I need to do here.”
“What do you need to do?”
The question surprised him. Despite what she had been through, what she had seen, she was still an innocent. “Kill everyone,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s the only way I can get you out. And it’s the only way you won’t be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. I’ll ask you again. Will Montesco’s son try to interfere?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Talk to him. Make sure. This is the last you’ll see of me. Before it’s time.”
He started out.
“Wait,” she said in a whispered rush.
He halted, picturing Darling Boy outside, that shared look between El Moreno and his guard in the bedroom. Evan’s impatience intensified, a simmer in his stomach. “What?”
“My papá, I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
Evan said, “I don’t care.”
“The pressure of it,” she said. “In his eyes I was perfect. I tried to be for so long. And then I just couldn’t.”
He understood that she was terrified, but he couldn’t bring himself to empathize with her.
“The more I did right, the more proud of me he was,” she said. “And the more I could disappoint him.”
“This is something that can be dealt with later.”
“I know,” she said, in a diminutive voice that sounded much younger than her eighteen years. “But I had to say it before I went home.” Her enormous brown eyes pulled to him. “I needed someone to hear it.”
“I heard it,” Evan said. “Now, stay in the room.”
Before going to sleep, Evan emerged from his bedroom and walked the mansion at night. Guards watching him with glittering eyes, cologne and cigarette smoke wafting off them. The place was desolate, abandoned, just the armed men there in every room like staging props, as unnatural as the rest of the decor.
He took a pass through the front yard, breathing the scent of night-blooming jasmine. The guards at the front gate kept him in view, shadowing him from afar. He gauged the distance from the front door to the van, from the van to the gates, from the gates to the limestone formations beyond, and he wondered if his planning had been sufficient. The margin for error was zero.
He’d drifted close enough to the chicken coop to see someone’s breath huffing out from between the cell bars. He moved closer. The captives were asleep, save for a young lady in her twenties with ratty hair and a pronounced nose. She hacked a few times, an unforgiving, dry cough, and then glared out at him with discerning eyes.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said in passable English. “You have a mother, sisters, a daughter maybe. You see us. But you pretend you don’t. All those pretty girls come and go in the big house. And you keep us out here like cattle. Voiceless, faceless, nameless.”
Behind her, her cellmates slumbered. Buckets on the floor, filthy plates crusted with residue. Slots in the bottoms of the doors sized for trays to be passed through. Body odor and human waste, a barnyard reek.
Evan stared at her through the bars. “What is your name?”
“Aurora,” she said.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“God is watching you,” she said. “Everything you have done. Everything you will do.”
Evan thought, I hope not, and walked back inside.
The foyer guard rose as he passed. He drifted through the kitchen under the watchful eyes of two more men positioned at the bar in the adjoining conversation pit. The knives were missing from the wooden block, put away since Evan had left. Interesting.
He walked past the antique steel safe, his 1911 and Strider knife held captive inside along with a collection of other visitors’ phones and weapons. Grabbing a bottled water from the refrigerator, he headed back through the ground floor. Behind him in the dark house, boots scuffed floorboards, doors opened and closed, the men tracking him as he made his quiet rounds under the guise of a nighttime stroll. A surfeit of lights illuminated the yard. Through the windows he confirmed guard positions, tallied the manpower, noted familiar gaits and postures and faces.
His running count showed one sicario and thirty-eight men, and nothing he saw now indicated an update was in order.
The morning would hold a lot of killing.
As he walked down a tight hallway, he spotted the rustic oak door of the study. It was ajar, its rounded top casting a skewed tombstone shadow across the tile floor. A bluish glow emanated through the threshold.
Evan moved to the doorway and froze.
A spa-like blue from the aquarium glass irradiated the dark walls and bookshelves, the rolling ladder and imposing mahogany desk. But none of the furnishings held Evan’s attention.
The figure floating inside the tank did.
Slow-motion twists, like a synchronized swimmer who’d lost his partner. Bare-chested, tattered pants, claw marks pronounced across the back of the torso from a leonine mauling. Half the head gnawed off. One leg missing at the knee, an arm ending in ribboned streamers of flesh. In the bisected jaw, a row of exposed molars glimmered like pearls. Hunks of flesh taken from the right flank, the left buttock, the meat of the thigh. Bubbles clung to what remained of the nose, the eyelashes, the spaces between the remaining toes.
Venustiano. The tree trimmer.
Evan sensed movement in his peripheral vision. Way down at the ends of the hall, figures moved into view, faces barely lit.
Darling Boy to the left.
Nacho to the right.
Darling Boy smiled at him. Even from this distance, his teeth looked like stumps inserted at random into his caving gums. “We figured this mono needed to be taught a lesson more than Romeo did. I convinced Jefe not to wait till the end of the month.”
Evan shrugged. “You don’t have patience for the long-term plan.”
“What long-term plan is that?”
Evan looked back at the corpse spinning slowly in the ethereal light, sea-changed and gruesomely bewitching with pallid skin and purpled viscera. Faint whiff of chlorine and formaldehyde. The study itself was like a theater set, all those unread books, the empty blotter, the disused Montblanc. To men like El Moreno and Darling Boy, little in this world was authentic. Other humans weren’t real. Their suffering wasn’t real. The families they left behind weren’t real.
Evan pulled back, walking toward Nacho, but turned right down the next corridor, leaving the men momentarily behind.
A dark stone corridor, thick with the scent of animal musk.
He heard it then, a low ticking growl.
No, not a growl. A contented snore.
Floor-to-ceiling bars set in the stone near the end, light falling through, broken into slats.
He neared.
Sure enough the king slumbered, lying on his side, spine pressed to the cold rock of the rear wall. Muzzle stained from the day’s feast. Massive paws like spiked boxing gloves, twitching with a remembered pursuit.
Evan put his shoulder blades to the wall opposite and slid down to sit on the floor.
The lion hoisted his massive head and regarded him, orange-brown eyes burning bright. He curled his top lip and tasted the air, tasted Evan’s scent, the ridiculous brown pom-pom at the end of his tail shushing across the floor. The tuft was used for balance and to lead other lions through the long grass. Spined tongue sharp enough to slough the skin off your hand with a few licks. Incisors spaced to slide between the vertebrae of prey and sever the spine surgically.
Everything by design, cruel and majestic.
The lion didn’t care about lost daughters and damaged sons. Didn’t know how to engage in small talk or what to bring to a dinner party. Didn’t understand how to talk to a frustrated sixteen-year-old hacker, a woman on the verge of a life-ending surgery, a nine-year-old boy terrified of being left motherless.
He was built for one thing and one thing only.
They shared the air for a time. The mansion was so quiet it could almost be mistaken for peaceful.
Finally Evan rose, one knee cracking. The lion’s head lifted to track his movement. They regarded each other through the bars with something approaching professional courtesy. Evan gave him a nod.
“You and me, pal,” he said, and headed out.