“Who says?”
“I saw you fucking the bitch on the lawn chair.”
Mortified doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel. Not only did he see us, it means all the men who were on the helicopter saw us too. They may be dead, but the guards here had it confirmed. If anyone doubted it or hadn’t heard, they know now.
That pisses me off, but there’s nothing I can do. Pablo shoots the ground between Humberto’s feet, making him jump back. The guards behind him move enough so that he falls, landing hard on his ass and back.
Pablo strolls forward as though he has all the time in the world to continue their conversation. He says something far too quiet for the microphones on the security cameras to pick up. He kicks Humberto in the belly before he gestures for men to help the old man onto his feet. As Humberto stands, he’s bent over. Pablo’s fist shoots out and lands an uppercut that snaps Humberto’s head back. It looks like he would’ve fallen over if not for the guards already holding him up.
Pablo spins on his heels and gestures over his shoulder for them to come. Blood covers Humberto’s face. I suspect Pablo recalls I can see everything and perhaps there’ll be a recording of all of this. He doesn’t need Humberto’s assassination caught on film to be used against him later. He heads toward what I believe are the guards’ barracks. They go inside, disappearing from the cameras for a moment.
Then I see them move past rooms that have two beds in each. There’s a kitchen similar to the one here in the panic room. Then there’s a doorway that opens to a basement. Once the door closesbehind all the men, there’s little left for me to observe except for the other men patrolling the property. I watch men gather the bodies of the executed guards who betrayed the Diaz family.
I don’t want to know what will become of them. My guess is they’re destined for an incinerator, most likely. I’m sure any ash will soon be silt on a riverbed, but I don’t need that confirmed. I’m left with nothing to do but wait as I look around.
My stomach growls. The sun’s already setting, and I don’t remember the last time I ate. I open cupboards and find various canned and packaged goods. There’s a wide variety, all of which look surprisingly good. I settle for a cup of instant soup. It’s hardly a delicacy, but it’s quick and only requires water.
As it heats, I wonder what kind of person it makes me that I will happily have a meal while I know a man’s being tortured near me. I have no qualms with what Pablo’s likely doing, despite how I’ve always felt knowing myabuelohas done the same things. It’s always revolted me to know he’s a man who depends upon violence to get his way.
I have spent a lifetime feeling morally superior to him, even though I’ve known I could and would kill if I needed to. But I choose not to. I get myabuelodoes these things to survive and to provide for the family. But there was the opportunity to leave the cartel life when he arranged for my father to marry Luciana. Yes, obviously that didn’t work out, but I knowlos Diazgave him another opportunity to get out. I suspect I wasn’t told the full truth about why he didn’t.
My family always told melos Diazthreatened our family with extinction ifAbuelosubmitted to them—which never made sense to me. He always fought to keep that from happening. He always made it sound like my father’s family were rivals tolos Diaz.I think it was machismo that refused to allow him to give in and made him decide to continue with a vendetta rather than make peace.
I don’t know.
The microwave dings for the hot water, and it pulls me out of my musings. I pour it over the soup concentrate and stir before wandering to a rocker recliner. They set this place up for comfort, not just necessity.
How long do they expect someone to remain down here? Days? Weeks?
That’s both terrifying and reassuring at the same time. It makes my stomach cramp.
I don’t have my phone, so there’s no doom scrolling the news or social media. There are books on the shelves, but I don’t believe I can concentrate. I spy the remote for a TV mounted on a different wall from the security screens. If this room’s powered by a generator, then perhaps they have satellite reception down here too.
Success!
I flip through the channels, having to choose betweentelenovelas, game shows, and football—soccer. I don’t need the fabricated angst that goes along with thenovelaswhen I feel enough in real life. If I watch a game show, the noise, flashing lights, and fake excitement will wear on my nerves. I settle for the football match. This I can handle.
Argentina versus Brazil. The Cain and Abel of the football world, except they’ve taken turns winning and losing for decades. It’s the OG sibling—neighbor—rivalry in international sports.
I don’t pay attention to the time as the first quarter moves into the first half, which ends with halftime. Then it’s the third quarter, and the fourth quarter winds up pushing the second half into overtime. The final score is zero-zero. A perfect match.
I’ll never understand sports in the States where someone can score two, or three, or even seven points, and games can wind up with scores over a hundred. One touchdown or one basket, onepoint. Either the ball crosses the line or goes in the basket one at a time, or it doesn’t. Real football doesn’t need to give extra points just because the shot comes from a distance. Though male football players are little bitches. They cry if someone taps their ankle. They’d never survive playing with their period.
My mind wanders now the game is over, and there’s no sign of Pablo. I know Humberto’s no threat and never really was. I know Pablo is the master of this domain. But I’m still worried that somehow something went wrong, and I can’t see it. It makes me anxious as I switch to a game show I don’t need to listen to, to know what’s happening as the letters turn. It’s less noisy than the other choices, but I still mute it. Trying to solve the puzzle keeps me occupied until the episode’s done.
Movement on the security screens catches my attention. Pablo emerges from the basement alone. I doubt he wants me to see him as he is now, but I can’t look away. There’s blood splattered across him. It’s on his hands, forearms, and chest. It soaks his shirt. It sprayed across his pants. He appears to be sweating as he ducks into a bathroom. A guy knocks and hands a stack of clothes to Pablo through the partially opened door.
When Pablo returns to the screen, he appears refreshed. Just as put together as he always does. He’s in a suit now, and I assume the man who brought his clothes found it in a bedroom here in the house. From what I’ve heard, the men are all roughly the same size—huge. I never looked in Pablo’s closet, but I bet the men in the family leave clothes here for this reason. He hands a bag to a different guard, and I’m certain it’s his original clothes that’ll get burned to leave no evidence.
I watch his movements across the yard and into the house shift across each screen until he’s outside the door to the panic room. I hear it unseal. Then he’s there. He walks in and opens his arms. I don’t hesitate to rise and rush to him.
Chapter Eleven
Pablo
I hate leaving Flora alone in a place called a panic room. She appeared fine, and it’s a comfortable space, but I worry about her getting bored. I worry about her wondering why we need such a well-stocked and furnished place. I worry she’ll see something on the monitors I can’t shield her from. However, she needs to know what’s happening on the estate in case Humberto’s arrival masked some genuine attack waiting to happen.
All the guards are on high alert without me saying anything. They all knew Humberto was aware of this location. He grew up coming here. However, he hasn’t visited since before I was born, so nearly forty years ago. It’s the first time he’s been outside his walls in thirty-six years. It was supposed to be a life sentence.
