TWENTY-EIGHT
THE T-REX
I tried to stay awake as long as possible. Since there was no other outlet to our sexual frustration, March and I did some level-six crosswords together under Dries’s disapproving gaze—buccinator is one of the most ridiculous words in the English language, by the way, and “solicited by the neonate” isn’t a definition, it’s an intellectual scam. I eventually got vanquished by dormancy and 10 hours breezed by at 650 miles per hour.
Still curled against March’s shoulder in my seat, I stir and take a bleary look at my surroundings. Someone—probably him—covered me with a purple fleece blanket. It’s the click of a lock that fully rouses me. Isabelle exits the bedroom, looking a little . . . flustered. She secures a black hair tie around her messy bun and readjusts her navy blue dress. She greets me with a nervous smile that I return drowsily before settling back against March. His shirt smells of fresh laundry, and he wasn’t wearing those jeans last night; he must have changed at some point. He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Good morning, biscuit. Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah, those seats are incredible.” I grin, patting the cushy white leather. “What time is it?”
He checks his watch. “Four thirty p.m.”
I rub my eyes. “Okay . . . not gonna sleep much tonight—”
“There she is, fresh as morning dew!”
I look up to see Dries toasting me with a cup of fuming coffee whose pleasant aroma soon fills the cabin. He’s standing in the bedroom’s doorway, looking pleased with himself, as usual. Uncharacteristically, he’s not yet wearing his full three-piece suit, only beige linen pants and a clean shirt whose opened top buttons reveal a patch of gray hair.
Hold on. Bedroom. Isabelle. Dries . . .
Rusty gears rotate with slow, painful jolts as my sleepy neurons do the math. My nose bunches. Dries’s gap-toothed grin stretches a little wider, a little smugger, if that’s even possible. In the galley, Isabelle is zealously fixing meal trays. A rebellious curl springs free from the bun she hastily fixed, and she won’t look at me. So I turn to March instead, hammering a silent question. He averts his eyes and clears his throat.
Sweet Jesus, Dries banged the flight attendant while I was sleeping. Less than twenty feet from us, he committed the unthinkable, and now she’s going to serve us a meal, and I already know that my omelet is going to taste awkward.
I straighten in my seat and shake my head at Dries, who winks at me in return. I can’t believe he pulled that kind of shit when he kept playing outraged nineteenth-century dad with March—God forbid we so much as kissed . . . while he was busy nailing Isabelle!
The dreaded omelet is eaten in silent outrage—mine anyway, because Dries looks peachy, and I figure that after years of celibacy, March has developed the indestructible mental armor of a yogi. I’m sure that whatever he thinks of Dries’s stunt, he won’t comment. But his plate speaks for him. I take an anxious peek at the artful tableau he’s created in the white porcelain. Grapes, watermelon cubes, and blueberries, all sorted apart in perfectly parallel lines. One single blueberry rolls out of line and threatens to touch the omelet: he tucks it back in place. The faint creak of his fork against the plate is nerve-racking. This is a man who’s been tested beyond endurance, and all that sorting is the only way he knows how to deal with it.
After we’re finished, I give March a hug—one he’s earned, regardless of Dries’s snort—and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and freshen up. I’m not touching that shower stall with a ten-foot pole; God knows what happened in there too. I slip on the canvas sneakers Phyllis found for me and strike a ninja pose in front the mirror. Lecherous dads, supervillain uncles: I can handle it all.
In the cabin, March is adjusting the cuffs of a navy blue jacket over his white shirt. I freeze in the doorway as I take in the broad-shouldered silhouette whose back was turned to me in my dreams. Always wearing a navy jacket and dark jeans. Spit-shined shoes. Black leather gloves. I manage a trembling smile. “You were in my living room . . . and there was a pink knife.”
A crease forms between March’s eyebrows, but the curve of his lips tells me he’s happy. “You and I had a bit of a rough start . . .”
“How rough?”
Guilt flashes in his eyes. “I roped you on your bed with your own tights.”
My mouth falls open at the same time as Dries’s, but while he looks ready to strangle March, it’s a giggle that bursts out of me. “What? Seriously?”
“Yes.” He nods with a chuckle. “But I had to let you go when you threatened to throw up all over the bed.”
I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “Is that how you seduced me?”
“No, I took you out to eat fried pork and squid-ink ice cream for that. And I showed you my—”
“Enough!” Dries’s neck has turned a nice shade of burgundy under his shirt, and his features are taut with meteoric rage.
March turns to him, his expression perfectly blank save for a twitch of his mouth, which etches a dimple in his cheek. “Website.”
I grin excitedly, ignoring Dries’s menacing glare. “You have a website?”
“We had to close it down,” March admits.
“Because you had to disappear and Struthio Security along with you?”
“Yes. It’s a pity; we had a lovely brochure—I didn’t even really mind that it was an emu instead of an ostrich on the cover. I kept some, as a souvenir.”
I take his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “Maybe once this is all over, you can reopen Struthio.”
He squeezes my hand back. “Who knows?”
“March?”
“Yes?”
“What’s with the ostriches? Is it, like, a fetish?”
•••
Actually, it’s not sexual. They’re just March’s favorite animal because he likes their soft, thoughtful gaze, and he’s convinced that they’re smarter than they let on—star-nosed moles only come second, although he admitted to finding them fascinating as well.
I first imagined we’d land in Quito, but we’ve started our descent toward an airstrip that’s been hacked into the jungle, south of a winding brownish river. Dries has cooled down a little, since March is no longer talking about tying me up—I need to ask for details about that, because while he doesn’t strike me as a wannabe Christian Grey, I’d rather have some forewarning if I’m dating a potential ropist.
I hold my breath as the jet’s deceleration buzzes in my ears. The Gulfstream’s wheels caress the runway in one of the smoothest landings I can remember—which is technically not that many. After Isabelle has opened the door and the airstair is in place outside the jet, March and I get up from our seats first and take our respective suitcases, but Dries has a little something to settle first. I feel a pang of sympathy for the young woman as her fingertips trail shyly down the front of his vest. She whispers something in his ear; he smiles, but his eyes remain distant. I don’t think he’s going to call her.
It will be at least another hour until the sun sets, and on the sunny tarmac, a group of men awaits in front of several Jeeps and pickup trucks. Shirts, jeans, ordinary civilian clothes . . . but those who don’t openly carry a gun barely hidden under half-open jackets—
Sadly, I’m getting used to this sort of welcome committee.
“Do they work for the Queen?”
“No,” March says. “For one of the Board’s members. He lives and operates primarily in South America.”
What kind of business our host operates remains to be seen . . . I scan the testosterone-fueled crowd on the tarmac. Amid the dark clothes, rugged beards, and leather jackets, a patch of color billows softly in the late-afternoon breeze. A young woman stands, wearing a long white blouse embroidered with multicolored flowers over tiny shorts. My gaze trails down, from the black braid flung over her shoulder to the stripe of bronze skin I glimpse underneath her blouse. Unless it’s a trick of the light, she’s heavily pregnant under the garment.
The teen—because upon further examination I conclude she can’t be over twenty—waves at us excitedly and runs toward the airstair. March responds with a gentle smile; is she someone he knows?
Dries goes first, but she barely acknowledges him. Her almond-shaped eyes are set on me—or is it March?—and she’s quivering with excitement, her full lips pressed into an impatient pout. Because I can’t just stay stranded up there, I trot down the airstair nervously. The second my feet touch the solid ground, she pounces, pulling me into an excited hug. I blink and breathe a flowery perfume as she squeaks, “Oh my God, you’re Island! I wanted to meet you so much!”
I send a questioning look at March, whose mouth opens to offer an explanation, I presume. Before he can do so, however, our hyperactive host drags me away and pulls out a golden smartphone from the back pocket of her shorts. “Selfie!”
She pulls me against her and wraps her arm around my neck, bringing our cheeks together. Once she’s adjusted the phone in front of us though, the corners of her mouth fall. She lets go of me and whirls around to glare at March. “You don’t get to be in the selfie.”
March takes a step back and raises his palms in surrender. One, two, three pictures get taken, which she promises she’ll send me, and we’re led to the car. When he attempts to climb in the same Jeep as me and the girl, March receives another glare—he doesn’t get to ride with us either and is relegated to another vehicle with Dries. At this point, I expect someone to show up any moment with a can of spray paint and write “box of shame” on the hood.
Once I’m sitting in the back seat with her and the doors have slammed closed, I overcome my stupor to ask the obvious. “Thank you for welcoming us. But . . . do we know each other?”
She rolls amused eyes at me. “I’m Beatriz!”
As we drive away from the aerodrome on a road crossing that lush valley we saw from the tarmac, I glance at our driver’s sunglasses in the mirror, searching his shuttered expression for answers. There are none to be found.
“I’m Antonio’s wife!” Beatriz insists.
Here we go again . . . Maybe I should print out warning cards that I’ll give to people every time they expect me to recognize them, like deaf people and Jehovah’s Witnesses. “I’m sorry,” I say with a sad smile. “I’ve got amnesia. I don’t remember you, or Antonio.”
Her eyelids flutter in a series of rapid blinks as she digests the news. “It’s okay. Maybe they never told you about me anyway, but Antonio . . . he’s going to be so sad.” She pouts. “Maybe you could pretend you remember him?”
That sounds like the premise of a bad Adam Sandler movie . . . So no. “Beatriz, I’m not sure it’d be right to lie . . . but maybe you can help me and tell me a little more about him?”
Beatriz clasps her hands and nods eagerly—I’m diagnosing either hyperactivity or joie de vivre in this girl, probably both, but I decide I like that. As it turns out, March rides in the Jeep of shame because he tried to kill Antonio a year and half ago . . . and failed to do so when I bravely stepped between Beatriz’s love and March’s gun. She explains to me that it all started when her big brother, a certain Angel Somoza, lost his temper upon learning that then-eighteen-year-old Beatriz had been seeing a handsome and tenebrous Mexican hero almost twice her age—Antonio Romos. So Angel hired March to kill Antonio, because that’s apparently how he deals with family issues. I’m obviously not going to cast the first stone here.
Anyway, March let Antonio go, who subsequently vanished back in the shadows . . . for about three weeks before resuming his torrid affair with Beatriz, this time with a luxury of precautions—none of which included condoms. Angel’s legendary short fuse blew up again when he discovered his sister was pregnant, but this time March was unavailable to shoot Antonio—being presumably dead. Beatriz used her secret weapon—the waterworks—and her brother begrudgingly agreed to let Antonio live if he made his sister an honest woman.
And so, in a couple of weeks, Beatriz Romos will give birth to a little girl whose future uncle, the temperamental Angel, may or may not be an international arms dealer.
“You know we’re going to call her Isla,” she says, her tone now more subdued. “Because she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”
I feel my ears grow a little hot at the compliment. I’m not sure I’m deserving of such honor, especially since I can’t even remember the circumstances in which I allegedly saved her husband’s life in a heroic display—I’ll have to ask for March’s version of the events. I stare down at my lap to conceal my embarrassment. “Thank you . . . I’m very honored.”
“You deserve it!” she replies, the electric joy that seems to power her returning fast. “I’ll show you my ultrasounds. She looks so beautiful. Like a lump, but a beautiful lump, you know?”
I can only nod: I’m pretty sure I’ll unleash hell if I dare to question whether a parasitic lump growing inside you like an alien can truly be beautiful. In spite of my lack of enthusiasm, one of my hands moves to rest on my stomach almost instinctively. That’s what Anies wanted from me . . . and the idea filled me with horror. But I guess it’s different when it’s a lump you really want to have, with someone you love. To the best of my knowledge, I never gave the idea any consideration until I saw Beatriz’s proud baby bump. I gulp, mentally praying that my biological clock isn’t catching up with me at the worst possible time. I frown down at my belly. No, I don’t want a lump. Not in the immediate future anyway . . .
“Do you want one too?”
I snap back to reality. Beatriz is watching me, her large brown eyes full of curiosity.
“Um, no. Maybe in a few years.” If I can project myself that far in the future, that is.
She draws a compassionate sigh. “I know; you need to find someone first.”
I’m about to remark that I do have someone—even if she doesn’t like him—but for the time I notice that it’s gotten a little darker in the car. We passed a few clusters of small houses with tin roofs, but now we’ve left the road crossing the valley for a narrow trail, and around us, the dying sunlight is now filtering through dense tropical vegetation. “Are we going into the jungle?” I ask.
Beatriz nods. “We’re almost there; the Refugio is on the other side of the Rio San Miguel.”
As she says this, the Jeep tears through the emerald lace we’d been enveloped in until now. Sure enough, there’s a recently built steel bridge crossing over a river reflecting a fiery-pink sunset. Somehow, I doubt that those heavy-duty steel cables and surveillance cameras are the work of the Ecuadorian government . . . The Jeep’s wheels clank on metal boards as we drive across until we’re back on the rough terrain of the trail. I notice a grayish smudge in the trees, and crane my neck to catch a glimpse of the furry creature hanging upside down from a high branch. “Oh my God, was that a sloth?”
Beatriz grins proudly. “Yes, it’s very quiet around here, so they like it. Sometimes they even enter the garden, but I have no idea how they do that. Angel keeps asking Ernesto to check the surveillance tapes because he doesn’t like that. He thinks it’s personal, that they’re trying to defy him.”
I plaster a smile on my face to conceal what would otherwise be a wince. The more I hear about Beatriz’s volatile brother, the more I worry . . . like when the wall comes in sight. I stare through my window at the tall concrete fortification that just burst into view, slicing neatly through the sea of trees. It must be at least fifteen feet high, topped with barbed wire and, again, cameras—Jurassic Park comes to mind. Are they keeping a T-Rex in there or what?
The Jeep jolts to a stop. Beatriz’s hands fidget on her huge belly, and her feet tap the floor mat impatiently as huge steel gates whir open to let us in. When she notices the hesitation on my face, her smile turns a little apologetic. “Angel likes his privacy.”
Makes sense. If he’s really that bad and he hangs around with that Queen person, the man had better make sure security is tight in his crib. And what a crib it is . . . My nose flattened to the tinted glass, I take in the madness that is Angel Somoza’s “Refugio”: a Rubik’s cube of glass, steel, and concrete in the middle of the jungle. On three floors, long rectangular units pile up, overlap, some connecting to others like bridges. At least one of them contains a fricking pool, which glows a peaceful turquoise through the windows encasing it. All around this marvel of modern architecture, a garden stretches, delimited by a tangle of trees: the little chunk of jungle that’s trapped inside the compound behind the walls we passed.
Maybe I should try selling Kalashnikovs to despotic fruitcakes, like Dries said.
The cars stop in front of the villa’s entrance, where more goons await. That’s when I notice that there’s a clear dichotomy going on here: half of the guys follow the same dress code as our driver and his colleagues—jeans or cargo pants, dark shirts—some revealing abundant rugs of chest hair, but none that would ever stand comparison with March’s, by the way. There’s the occasional gold chain or leather jacket but mostly unostentatious, practical stuff. And then there’s the other half . . . A bunch of guys that look like Matrix agents, in identical, perfectly fitting black suits. A couple of rebels do wear their hair in carefully slicked back ponytails, but the rest of them boast short, well-kept haircuts, a far cry from the messy beards and wild locks of many of Somoza’s men.
Either Angel couldn’t decide over a dress code, or these are someone else’s watchdogs . . .
“Antonio!”
Beatriz’s loud squeal draws my attention to a man in his midthirties walking toward our car with his arms wide open. Pretty handsome, with short black hair and a little mustache, wearing a burgundy shirt over dark slacks. His most striking feature though is the tattoos covering his face. Various numbers on his forehead and his neck, delicate tears running down his cheeks, and a crown on his chin—that I first mistook for a goatee. Beatriz opens her door to jump out of the car and directly into his arms. On his hands, I notice more numbers, bullets, and a heart transpierced by three swords. She didn’t specify what Antonio did for a living: I’m starting to suspect he’s in the same business March used to be in . . .
Beatriz pulls her husband close for a deep kiss while I step out of the Jeep. When they break their lip-lock and he sees me, Antonio’s smile becomes a full grin. He extends one arm to invite me into a group hug. From the corner of my eye, I notice that March and Dries exited the Jeep of shame. I briefly hesitate before trusting my instincts and allowing Antonio to wrap his arm around my shoulders. The greeting that rolls off of his tongue is enveloped in the same warm Latin accent as Beatriz’s. “Let me see you, querida. So tough even the Lions couldn’t eat you.”
“I’ve heard you’re pretty tough yourself,” I say, raising an eyebrow in amusement.
He shrugs, his expression turning mysterious. “Antonio is immortal.”
Against his chest, Beatriz giggles in response. I love the way he puts emphasis on his own name like a brand. This guy sounds like a lot of fun. March walks to us, but Dries keeps a safe distance, eyeing Antonio with a sort of watchful contempt. The culprit lets got of Beatriz and me to shake hands with March, who takes on the offer with a good-natured smile.
“And it looks like death spat you out too, Surafricano.” A hard glint flashes in Antonio’s gaze as he adds, “Good thing you’re not here for me. There can only be one immortal . . .”
March chuckles. “I’ll remember to bring my sword next time.”
That’s when Antonio seems to take notice of Dries standing behind March. His expression sobers, and he strides to him, a challenge gleaming in his eyes as he extends his hand.
Dries stiffens and adjusts his linen jacket with a sharp tug. “You can’t be serious. That clown cunt fired a rocket in my dining room; I don’t even know why I’m letting him live,” he informs no one in particular, before spinning on his heels and marching into the villa, right past a guy who was apparently coming to welcome us and stands there dumbfounded.
I blink at March and Antonio alternately. “What is he talking about?”
That’s when the shift occurs on Antonio’s features that tells me he’s figured something is wrong.
March relieves me of the burden of having to inform Antonio that I remember nothing of his glorious deeds. “Island suffered memory loss. She might sometimes need a little context on past events.”
Antonio’s expression softens. I read pity in his gaze, and I hate that . . .
“I hope you at least haven’t forgotten me,” a soft female voice remarks with a touch of amusement.
All eyes set on the pair of newcomers standing in the villa’s doorway. The man with the indigo shirt, there’s nothing familiar about him. He must be in his thirties, and at first he reminds me of Pirate Morgan because of his wavy black hair and the thick stubble covering his jaw. The woman though . . . her presence makes me shudder with a sense of dejà vu. Faint lines around her mouth suggest she must be in her late forties, but her honey skin is otherwise flawless, and her white tapered dress hugs lean curves. Black tresses fall onto her shoulders, framing a single pearl around her neck. It’s like a photograph, something once printed in my brain and long forgotten. I know, without a doubt, that I’ve seen that pearl before.
Her gaze sets on Dries, balls-shriveling cold. “I believe we need to talk.”
There it is, the T-Rex they’re guarding in these walls.