Shady Lady

“¿Lista?” the thug asked as I approached.



Ready as I ever will be. Nodding, I preceded him up the steps. He gave the orders and we got under way. I didn’t mind flying, except for takeoff and landing, but everything shook more in a small plane. This one couldn’t hold more than ten people. That meant we couldn’t be going far—well, not across an ocean, anyway.



Apart from my silent guard, I didn’t see anyone besides the pilot, and unlike commercial planes, I could see right up the aisle into the cockpit. They exchanged a few muttered words in Spanish, and then the plane powered up. I buckled in. A little voice asked if I was crazy. As we zoomed toward the end of the airstrip, I decided the answer was yes.



We put down in what seemed like a sea of trees—from the air, everything was green. I closed my eyes rather than watch the pilot aim for the impossibly small runway that was more of a dirt track in a clearing. The man guarding me grunted at me to exit the plane. I was tired and sore by this time, so I stumbled down the metal steps and into sweltering heat.



It was a different kind than I had felt in the mountains of Mexico; this was jungle heat. Monkeys chattered in the distance, and I suppressed a shiver. The guard gestured me toward an old decommissioned military jeep. They aren’t big on the explanations.



When I approached the vehicle, relief spilled through me. Kel sat in the backseat, and he didn’t appear to have come to any harm. I swung up beside him, immediately feeling more centered. It had shaken me more than I wanted to let on, the easy way Escobar had taken me.



“You knew I was in no real danger, right?” I asked softly. “That’s why you didn’t fight?”



“It was a necessary risk.” Which meant he hadn’t been sure.



“Did they explain the point of this exercise?”



“You chose me.” Somehow he made it sound like more than it was, a decision driven by necessity, as if I wanted him here, and, moreover, as if that meant something. “We’ll see it through together.”



The men conferred, and then two of them turned back toward the plane. One got in the driver’s seat. He didn’t speak to us, merely took off driving along a rutted road. A couple of times, I tried to ask a few questions, but he wouldn’t give me anything, so we passed the miles in silence. The light faded over the trees, and at nightfall, we came to the outskirts of a village.



Our driver cut the engine and addressed us in accented English. “This is as far as I take you. Instructions wait at house of Señora Juárez.”



“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Thanks for the ride.”



Kel was already out of the jeep, so I got down too. He led the way down the narrow dirt track leading into the small cluster of houses. I had no idea where we were, but from the look of folks going about their business, I guessed somewhere in Central or South America. That covered a lot of territory.



He stopped a man at random. “Perdone. Estamos buscando a la Señora Juárez. ¿Sabe dónde vive?”



Though the villager treated us both to a look of justified suspicion, the guy pointed us in the right direction. Broken glass crunched underfoot as we walked. The few shops open were small, occupying the bottom floor of someone’s home, and the brands of beer advertised rang no bells either. We definitely weren’t in Mexico, where you couldn’t go twenty feet without seeing a Sol sign.



“You don’t mind that I called on you for this?” Based on his reaction earlier, he might even be pleased, but I needed to be sure.



“If you had not,” he said, “I would have found you. I have my orders.”



“I don’t think Escobar would take kindly to our breaking his rules. He’s crazy.”



In a different way from Montoya, of course, but I didn’t feel any safer, even with this prospective alliance on the table. This was so far outside my usual parameters as to be laughable. And stupidly enough, I missed my dog.



“But he is well-disposed toward you, and you need his resources.”



“Right. Is Shannon okay? And Butch?”



“They’re fine. Shannon was helping Eva put the finishing touches on the nursery when Escobar’s men showed up.”



Honestly, that news scared the shit out of me. If Escobar knew that much, Montoya might be able to find out too. There was no guarantee I could keep trouble away from Chuch and Eva’s front door, much as I wanted to. If anything happens to them—



But this was no time to get emotional. I had to be strong and resourceful and brave. Especially brave. As we approached the ochre adobe house, I steadied my breathing and tried to compose myself.



He rang the bell and no one came, so he rapped on the heavy wooden gate. From within I heard slow stirring and footsteps. An old woman answered; she peered at us with rheumy eyes and then waved us in, but no farther than the courtyard. She bade us wait, shuffling around the corner of the house. Five minutes later, another woman stepped through the front door, carrying two backpacks. She was not young, and she wore fear in the shadows beneath her eyes. When she held out the bags, her hands trembled. I tried to question her as well, but she shook her head.



“Tell him I did as he asked,” she said in Spanish. “Tell him. Go now.”



Other than refuse and be ejected forcefully, there was nothing for us to do but step back onto the street. It was dark now, and there were no streetlights. Only the distant shimmer of taberna lamps lent any illumination. From this angle they might have been stars blinking back at us, sad and melancholy, through the windows.



“Whatever we’re meant to do first, we can’t begin in the dark.”



He agreed with a quiet nod. “Did you notice anywhere we could stay the night?”



I recollected seeing a simple sign for Hostal Ochoa a few blocks back. It had been slightly off our route and down a side street, but I thought I could find it. This time I led the way, retracing our steps. After making the last left, I saw the white sign once more.



“There,” I said, pointing.



It was a tall, narrow building, part concrete and part adobe. We mounted the few steps to the dark wood door. I’d never gone backpacking in Europe—the tour with Chance had been more upscale—so I didn’t know whether one knocked or simply entered. Kel answered the question by trying the handle; the knob turned, so we stepped into the foyer, furnished simply in rustic style. The wood gleamed in the faint light, warm and welcoming.



A round, middle-aged woman came down the hall toward us. Her hair had been oiled and braided in a complex, impressive corona about her head. Her welcoming expression faded toward uncertainty when she got a good look at Kel. I tried to assuage her worry with a smile.



“Necesitamos un cuarto, por favor.” I didn’t ask if he wanted his own room.



“Claro. How long will you be staying?” she asked in Spanish.



“Una noche? No estoy segura.” I hoped not more than one night, anyway. It occurred to me to wonder whether we had cash in our backpacks. I didn’t even know what country we were in.



“Está bien.” She gazed at me, probably gauging how much she could ask. Since I was wearing jeans and a pullover, I didn’t look affluent. The backpack made me look like a traveler on a budget. She decided on, “Cuarenta.”



To my vast relief, Kel produced a couple of orange bills from one of the pockets in his pack; it wasn’t as pretty as any of the Mexican banknotes. I read the currency as he passed it over. Holy crap, we were in Peru; I managed not to let my shock show. Looking as if she felt better already, the woman led us down the hallway to the stairs.



They were narrow and dark as we climbed, but the house smelled fresh and clean. Plain wood floors needed no other adornment. On the third floor, she paused and opened a door near the stairs. The room was spartan and contained nothing other than a chair and a full-size bed. I presumed the door in the wall was a closet.



“The bathroom is over there.” She pointed down the hall. “Shared, but I have no other guests on this floor tonight.”



Good to know.



After informing us where to find towels and that breakfast would be served at eight a.m., she hurried out. I closed the door and turned the bolt. Since our room faced the street, I headed over and closed the curtains as well. It made the room seem even smaller—and it wasn’t large to start with—but I could deal. I told myself it was cozy, seated myself in the chair, and rummaged through the backpack.



I found five hundred nuevos soles, a map, and five pairs of clean underwear. Ew. How long did he expect this to take? If Escobar’s estimate was accurate, I’d be wearing these same clothes for almost a week. I had socks too, and hiking boots. When I glanced up, I found Kel studying me.



After opening the map, with a fingertip I traced the black ink path that had been drawn. “It looks like we’re supposed to head into the jungle from here.”



“Up the river.”



I checked the scale and swore. “That’ll be a hell of a hike.”



It was a good thing Escobar had provided me with boots, but breaking in new footwear by wearing it for miles at a time was a crappy idea. Not like I had anything else. Everything I owned had been blown to shit, along with Señor Alvarez, who hadn’t wanted to look after the shop for me this time. I’d known he didn’t, and instead of closing the place, I’d made him an offer too sweet to refuse—fifty percent commission on anything he sold. The paper crumpled in my hands.



“It wasn’t your fault,” he said quietly.



“I didn’t set the bomb, but I put him there in my place.” Much as I appreciated the effort, I wouldn’t be letting myself off the hook anytime soon.



Doubtless sensing I wouldn’t be swayed, he changed the subject. “Did you find a pendant in your bag?”



I dug into the pack once more and found the necklace wrapped in tissue in a side pocket. Kel was already wearing his. When my fingertips brushed the metal, they singed, but it was like catching the embers of a fallen star, unexpected and magical. Images whispered in my mind’s eye, showing me glimpses of the pretty young woman who had woven a protective spell on this medallion as if she were twining summer roses in her hair. Watching her I couldn’t help but smile, despite our circumstances, and I dropped the leather cord around my neck.



“Saint Christopher,” I said.



“Patron saint of travelers.” His eyes were gray and grave, quiet like clouds gathering the strength for snow.



“Is that all true? The saints and miracles.”



“I don’t know. I’m not Catholic.”



Again, the hint that angels and divinity lay outside the purview of organized religion. Oh, how his secrets intrigued me.



“This is meant to hide us, isn’t it? Keep us from Montoya’s sorcerer.” Pity no such spell lasted forever. I could quietly disappear. But crossing Escobar would be suicide, as that move would leave me with two cartel bosses on my back.



“It is.” He turned from me abruptly. “You should sleep.”



“I suppose you don’t?”



If that was the case, I should get off the chair, because he’d be sitting on it all night. Pity it wasn’t padded, but the room didn’t lend itself to such extravagance. There were no rugs, nothing that could be stolen or broken. Fortunately, I found the sheets clean, if slightly threadbare, when I turned down the bed. The gold and brown spread echoed the warmth of the wood, so the room was charming in its simplicity.