"I'll look into my end," he vows, and then he says something he hasn't said in a long time, "Be careful, Malishka, it feels like a storm is coming. A big one."
As if on cue, the plane jerks through a pocket of turbulence, startling me, and a metallic shudder rattles my teeth. Shit. I grip the yoke and steady the bird.
"Yeah," I agree, taking the little pocket for an omen. We disconnect and the yoke bucks once, hard, then settles under my palms. A few minutes later, I let out a hiss through my teeth as I eye the thin strip of dirt carved out of scrub on the ground where I’m meant to land. The Cessna kisses down with more attitude than grace and rattles to a stop beside a rusting fuel drum and a pickup with a mismatched door.
Heat hits me like a wet slap when I climb out. Two men step from the shade of the shack, dressed in baseball caps, cheap sunglasses, and boots that have seen too many bad ideas. Kalashnikov machine guns are slung over their shoulders, and handguns are strapped to their thighs. One is wiry with a coyote smile; the other’s belly presses against his belt like it’s trying toescape. On said belt, a set of keys jingles with every move he makes.
"You’re not El Gordo Luis," Belly says in Spanish. Or at least I think it's what he says.
No shit, Sherlock.Do I look six feet and three hundred pounds?
"He didn’t make it," I answer in English, flat, bored. "I’m his replacement."
They trade a string of fast words, from which I only pick up a few—avión, reemplazo, Valverde—enough to know I need a tutor. I file it under: later.
"Why would they send a gringa as a replacement?" Coyote asks in broken English.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because I was the only one handy who could fly that piece of trash." I point at the plane.
Belly eyes me suspiciously, then nods at Coyote to check the plane. The scrawny one vanishes, and I light a cigarette, looking bored and trying to ignore the way Belly is eyeing my breasts, which are unfortunately visible even through the oversized dress I picked up.
"Está todo aquí, jefe." Coyote cries from the cargo hold. I roll my eyes meaningfully at Belly.
He nods at me, "Vámonos."
I pretend to protest, but that was the plan all along: being taken to their lair, where I should be able to findNico. If he's still alive. "Hold on, that's not the plan. Give me my money, and I'm out of here."
"We have to unload the plane, gringa, you want to stand out here in the heat and watch?" Belly informs me, and just then, several trucks come down the road in a gust of dust.
"Fine, but you’d better have a beer," I grumble, shouldering my bag and following Belly into his Jeep. My pistol is a quiet, reassuring weight hidden underneath the cotton of my oversized dress. Coyote gets into the driver's seat, and we pull off the strip, spreading a cloud of dust behind us in a dirty ribbon. The mountain road climbs fast, then turns mean. Switchbacks chew at the tires. Coyote drives one-handed, texting with the other, while the radio burbles out banda music interspersed with a DJ's voice who is laughing too hard and talking too loud. For a moment, I contemplate shooting them all, including the radio, but that would only complicate my mission, so I resign myself to the torture for a little while longer and watch the world in slivers through the dirty window.
All I see are goat trails, a woman hanging laundry like flags of surrender, and the silver seam of a river cut so low it looks like a scar. The ridgelines stack into each other until the horizon is a line of broken teeth. I mark the distances; a ten-minute drive translates to an hour and a half on foot, maybe two if you’re bleeding.
"¿Hablas Español?" Belly asks without turning.
"Enough to land a plane," I reply. He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard today. It probably is.
We crest a rise, and there it is—La Cueva del Jaguar—the mine’s mouth is nothing but a black coin set into the hillside, and a corrugated metal outbuilding squats beside it like a doghouse for a monster. Two pickups idle near the cave. A third is at the far fence line, bed bristling with men who pretend rifles make them gods.
"Let's get your payment and a beer, eh, gringa?"
"Whatever you say, jefe, lead the way." I keep my tone bored and follow him. He shrugs. That’s the plan anyway. He thinks it’s his.
They lead me past a sagging chain-link gate and a Virgin statue with chipped paint. I bow my head out of habit. I've long ago stopped practicing religion and make a note of the guard who pretends not to watch me. Inside, the heat retreats some, but the cave’s dampness threatens to drown me. The mine swallows all the light but repays in echoes that bounce off the high walls. My skin prickles in warning as I count the many men up front and note the abundance of guns. It makes sense, though. The plane I flew in is packed with heroin from Caracas. All these men here are going to take it to places like Mexico City and across the border.
We reach a steel door where a man with a crooked nose and a better rifle looks me over like I’m a crate he doesn’t trust.
"Teléfono," he says, tapping his pocket. I hand him a decoy with a cracked screen. He grunts, pockets it, and pushes the door open. He doesn't frisk me. Macho asshole.
We pass a row of alcoves retrofitted into cages, containing the most pitiful sight of men, women, and children of all races. All of them are filled to the brim, except one, which only holds one person. I don’t check if it's Nico. Not yet. I walk like a woman who sees nothing but a paycheck.
The tunnel narrows. The light worsens. The air tastes like old pennies and bad decisions. A hand closes around my elbow, too familiar, too confident. I let my shoulder roll, break the grip at the thumb, and step aside just enough to become a problem. My elbow finds ribs. My palm finds a face. Crooked Nose goes down on his knees for a few seconds, glaring at me.
"Careful," I murmur. "I bruise easily."
They laugh. They always do, right up until they don’t.
"Chamber," Coyote says, trying to herd me right, toward a steel door marked with red paint. My eyes flick left, to a darker branch that blows cold air, a ventilation shaft. An exit sign Mother Nature carved herself. I tip my chin toward the red door like a good girl and snare the keys off Belly’s belt with two fingers when his eyes flick away. Nobody notices a woman’s hands when she looks compliant.
