"You're taping it, right?" Grigori knows I am. "Get it translated. Nico is one of Gustave Conti’s sons and has been presumed dead for three years. If the Venezuelans killed him…"
He doesn’t have to finish. The Contis are one of the five major crime families in New York. The Italians would pay a lot for that information.
"Copy."
I kill the mic and phone call. I wait a few more minutes until I'm sure Aurelio is done with his phone call and not about to take another one, before I break my little camp. It's been three days since I put it up. Glad to finally be getting off this mountain. I don't mind roughing it, but I'm still a girl who likes a hot shower now and then.
My ATV is where I left it, camouflaged with a tarp and brush. I make sure there is still enough gas in it, and ten miles later, I'm back where I stored the Jeep. I torch the ATV and take the Jeep back into Caracas, where my first visit is to Yorvi, one of the few men Imostlytrust in this town. I don't fully trust anybody, but Yorvi and I have been working together now and then for years, and he's the type of guy who won't bite the hand that feeds him. He knows that I won't let him starve, but he also realizes that I'll kill him myself if he gets any ideas.
In front of his tourist trap shop sits a girl in a pink shirt selling pirated movies off a blanket; she doesn’t look at me twice. I've put on my black wig, sunglasses, and an oversized dress that makes me look a hundred pounds heavier. I notice one of Valverde’s lookouts at the corner, a teenage boy with a chipped tooth. He barely spares me a glance. I shoulder past two tourists and keep moving inside.
The kid behind the counter looks up.
"Tell Yorvi I want him in my room when he comes back."
"Yes, Signorita," the kid accepts the ten-dollar note I hand him, and I walk out, making straight for my hotel and a hot shower.
The Cessna humsbeneath me like a living thing, the propeller’s drone sounding like an asthmatic cough, but she’s in the air, and that’s all I need. The sky over Tamaulipas is white-hot, too clean, too bright, too much of everything. Sweat trickles down my spine, gluing the faux leather seat to my back. She’s probably not the safest plane in the world, but it’s not like I had many options. If I had options, I'd be sipping Vodka Paloma on a beach somewhere, not flying this piece of shit scrap metal. Then again, getting her in the air had been a nice challenge. I pride myself on being able to ride, drive, fly, and sail anything that brings me from pointAto pointB. It's just a little side hobby of mine that has come in handy on occasion.
How did I end up in Mexican airspace?
It started last night, in my hotel room—thankfully, after my well-deserved shower and a peek at the files on Nicholas Conti that Grigori sent me. I was so absorbed in it that I nearly missed the quiet knock on the door. Yorvi gave me a nervous once-over. "You were looking for me?"
I let him in and asked him to translate the recording I made. He translated the call line by line, his voice flattening as the meaning sharpened, making him even more nervous.
The bottom line was:
Nico was still alive and in the hands of the Mexicans. At La Cueva del Jaguar, an isolated, cartel-controlled mine in the Sierra in Mexico. A place where people disappeared quietly.
Yorvi barely finished translating before the hallway outside erupted. Gunfire shattered the doorframe, and splinters exploded inward. He went down hard, his blood spraying across the cheap carpet. I didn’t stay to see if he was dead. I was sure Valverde’s men wouldn't miss twice.
My only choice was to go out the window. Three stories down stood a dumpster I had repositioned to that spot for this exact scenario. The dumpster smelled like rot and old fish, and I landed hard. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and pain bloomed through my ribs. It wasn't one of my most elegant escapes and hurt my pride, but I was alive and well enough to get out of the dumpster while shots were being fired at me from above.
I didn't wait for Valverde's men to track me and made a run for it through the escape route I had scouted out my first night here.
A motorcycle—bought upon arrival and stashed around the corner—made for a quick getaway to a secondary location.
All it took to get into Mexican airspace after that was a quick search, a few thousand dollars in bribes, and patience. A plane already scheduled to run from Venezuela to Mexico—officially haulingindustrialmaterials, unofficially stuffed with heroin—was the perfect disguise.
I ditched the pilot and showed up when the groundcrew needed someone who didn’t ask questions and was vouched for by one of Aurelio’s lieutenants—our tech team helped with that part.
The cover won’t hold long, but it doesn’t have to. Only long enough to reach the mine. Long enough to find Nico. Long enough to decide what comes next.
I roll my shoulders, easing the kink in my neck, then pull the headset down and dial Grigori.
"Da, Malishka—yes, little one." He's the only one who gets away with calling me that.
"Grisha," I respond, calling him in turn by the nickname he hates. "I found out that Nico is alive and that they moved him from Caracas to a place in Mexico. I'm on my way now."
There is nothing for a heartbeat. Then Grigori exhales slowly. He doesn't ask me if I’m alright, he knows better, but I am. My pride took a little bruising, but I'm building it back up. "Listen, Valverde knew I was there and that I've been watching him. "
"Blyad." The Russian word crawls through my ear like smoke. I keep my eyes on the horizon, flat and endless, the ridges of the mountains cutting the world in half. "Does he know who you are?"
I hate to admit this, but he is the Pakhan; he needs all the information. "I don't know. But whoever tipped him off would have probably told him that, too. And the only people who knew I was there are ours."
"If you've been compromised…" He doesn't need to finish.
"I'll get to the bottom of this," I promise.
