“¿Pero las carreteras?” I ask, leaning forward. “Escuchamos que están inundadas.”
But the roads? We heard they’re flooded.
He waves a hand dismissively, the universal gesture for ‘don’t worry about it.’ “No, no. Estas tormentas pasan todo el tiempo. Las carreteras no son perfectas, pero se puede manejar. Mi hermano hace el viaje cada semana.”
No, no. These storms happen all the time. The roads aren’t perfect, but they’re drivable. My brother makes the trip every week.
I turn to Dominic, and I can feel the hope starting to build in my chest despite my best efforts to stay realistic. “He says his brother owns a rental car agency. And apparently the flooding thing is overblown. These storms happen all the time. The roads aren’t great, but they’re drivable.”
Dominic stares at me. “So we could drive.”
“It’s about five hours according to the map I looked at earlier.” I’m already doing the math in my head. “If we leave at dawn, we’d make the weigh-in with time to spare.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Do it. Ask him to call his brother.”
I turn back to the stocky guy and tell him we need a car for early tomorrow.
He’s already pulling out his phone, grinning like he’s personally invested in getting Dominic to Mexico City, likeRoman winning somehow became his mission too. “Claro que sí. Voy a arreglarlo ahora mismo.”
Of course. I’ll set it up right now.
He steps away from the bar to make the call, and the tall guy with the mustache extends his hand toward Dominic from across the bar. “Buena suerte mañana. Aunque Volkov va a ganar.”
“He’s wishing you good luck,” I say. “And also still insisting Volkov is going to win.”
Dominic reaches over and shakes his hand. “Tell him thanks. And tell him he’s still wrong about Volkov. Roman’s going to surprise everyone.”
I translate, and the guy laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to the TV with the satisfied air of a man who knows he’ll be proven right eventually.
A few minutes later, the stocky man returns, pocketing his phone with a satisfied nod. He tells me his brother will be expecting us at six in the morning and that the agency is two blocks from here, Rodríguez Autos.
“We’re set,” I tell Dominic.
Dominic lets out a breath, and I watch the tension drain from his shoulders like water from a cracked dam. “Holy shit. We might actually make this work.”
“We might.” I raise my mezcal glass toward the stocky guy and his skeptical friend. “Gracias. De verdad. Nos salvaron.”
Thank you. Seriously. You saved us.
The stocky guy grins and raises his beer back. “¡Que gane Kincaid!”
May Kincaid win!
His friend groans loudly and mutters something about people who don’t understand fighting, and the bartender laughs, and for a moment the whole bar feels lighter. Like we’re all in on the same joke, all rooting for the same unlikely outcome.
Dominic catches my eye across the table, and there’s a glint in his expression that looks almost like excitement. Almost like fun.
“Looks like we’re driving in the morning,” he says.
“What could possibly go wrong?” I laugh, and somewhere outside the thunder rumbles like the universe is already preparing its next obstacle.
CHAPTER 23
Dominic
The rain is still coming down hard when we find Rodríguez Autos, a small lot wedged between a pharmacy and a taqueria two blocks from the hotel. The streets are flooded at the edges, water rushing along the curbs and pooling in every dip and pothole. A hand-painted sign hangs over the office door, barely visible through the downpour, and a dozen cars sit on the asphalt in neat rows, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement.
A guy in his fifties is waiting inside the small office, watching us through the rain-streaked window. He steps out under the overhang when he sees us coming, breaking into a grin that looks exactly like his brother’s.
