Page 39 of Shadow Man
“What’s her name?”
“Viviana Martinez. Twenty-three. Graduate from UCLA.”
My head jerks up in surprise. “She’s American?”
“Colombian. She moved back from California last year… Tell me, why is Señor Santiago so interested in this one, eh? I thought he was happily married. Wife. Baby—”
“His interests don’t concern you,” I interrupt tersely. “If there’s nothing further, we’re done here.”
Sparing myself any more false salutations with Gomez, I head toward the vehicle. Truth is, I don’t have a fucking clue why he’s so interested in this woman. He’s never mentioned her name to me before, but I learned a long time ago that Dante’s darkness is like shock therapy. You never know which truth will be jolted from the depths next.
I’m still pissed at him for adding to my task load. I could have located and extracted Anna within a matter of hours, but now I have to talk down a load of petty drug lords and babysit some chick until he and his gun arrive to settle scores.
I tear out of the airport hangar and follow the directions to Cartagena, stifling a yawn as I go. It’s ten p.m., and it has been a long-ass day. My whiskey hangover has lodged in my temples, but my craving for her is the greatest ache of all. I backed off to let her heal, but I’m done with that approach now. I’ve come here to claim her, even if I have to lock her up and fuck the past out of the both of us to make it happen.
I switch on the radio to keep myself sharp, and some rock singer starts wailing about getting his dick sucked. The night is clear and warm. The slit of a moon reminds me of a part of her I want swollen, glistening and laid open for me.
I’m a mile out from Santa Perdida, traveling on a road that’s more ditch than dirt, when a red Renault goes flying past me pushing all the limits, forcing me to swerve out of the way, my tires skidding on the loose stones.
“Godammit!” I roar, flicking my middle finger at the dark-haired driver, but she’s long gone. “Son of a fucking bitch!”
Five minutes later, I’m rolling into a small village that’s more night than houses, and parking up next to a small bar with a cracked window and a neon Coca-Cola sign that’s flickering on and off.
I can tell something’s off right away. Call it the sudden surge of ice in my veins, or the fact that the village’s entire population is standing outside their houses in various states of undress and staring at me.
Hitting reverse, I park a hundred yards away and grab my gun, tucking it into the back of my jeans as I exit the vehicle.
I can't see shit through the windows of the bar. The blinds are down and the door is locked, but the whole situation stinks of wrong.
“What happened here?” I reel off in Spanish to a man lurking nearby. He ducks his head and disappears back into his home like a frightened animal.
“Is there another entrance?” I snarl at another. He nods and points to a small pathway that’s dividing two tiny houses like a dirty black tributary.
The pathway loops around to a small yard. The back door is wide open. Pulling out my gun, I approach cautiously, the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up like needles.
I smell the bodies before I see them. Three. One still has his dick hanging out of his pants, which turns my body an even paler shade of blue.
Where the fuck is Anna?
I kick the casualty lying closest to me, and his head rolls sideways. The left side is all mashed up and bloody. White bone. Gray matter. Someone shot the bastard, point-blank range, but I still recognize him. Alberto Fernandez. Alejandro Fernandez’s son…Jesus Christ.Whoever pulled the trigger here just started a fucking cartel war.
The corpse is still warm. I need to get out of here and fast. I’m standing in a bar with a gun that may as well be smoking with three dead cartel boys lying at my feet.
I’m halfway back to the car when the night air comes alive with the sound of engines. I curse and break into a run, reaching for the door as the first bullets pepper the side panel.
“I’m not your fucking target, assholes!” I yell, but the assholes aren’t listening, judging by all the screams of “colgó los guayos”and “dead man” painting the streets. They’re of the ‘kill now, ask questions later’ persuasion, and I’m not hanging around to change their minds.
“Fuck!” I slam the shifter into drive as a couple more bullets caress the front windshield. Fortunately, Gomez had the foresight to lend me a bulletproof vehicle so the metal and glass are still holding together as I half-donut to get the hell out of the village.
My horizon is a wall of Jeeps, automatic weapons and unforgiving faces.
I slam the brakes on and hit reverse, the jarring cobblestones doing jack-all to calm my nerves as another round of bullets scratch the paintwork. I keep going though, hitting the end of the street and swinging a tight one-eighty to the sounds of running footsteps and shouting as the car suddenly stalls.
“Motherfucker,” I roar, turning over the engine as a face appears at my window. I watch his expression drop in shock and recognizion as I slam my hand down on the lock system and hit the gas, his lips still curling around the name that haunts me:
El Asesino
Double fuck.