something nonalcoholic and in a can-unopened.
A significant look passed between him and the bartender. The two men nodded slightly, as if they’d just had an entire conversation that she’d missed. As the man went away to get their drinks, she leaned toward John and breathed, “What was that all about?”
A supremely unconcerned expression on his face, he replied under his breath, “No one can slip anything in our drink if it comes out of a pressurized, unopened can. I just served notice to the locals that I’m no amateur, and they will have to go through me to get to you.”
“You promised you wouldn’t-”
He cut her off quickly. “And I won’t. But there are going to be a few ground rules, for your safety and mine. I’m just establishing those up front.”
She only vaguely understood what he was talking about. It all sounded like testosterone-induced posturing to her. The thing about the tampered drinks made sense, though. She had to give him credit for that. She wouldn’t have thought of it herself.
The raisin guy set two sodas, still in the can and unopened, on the table in front of them. John smiled and peeled off a nice-size bill from his money clip and passed it to the guy with a word of thanks and directions to keep the change. The guy’s eyes lit up and he smiled a little more widely at them.
“Hmm. Interesting,” John murmured.
“How so?”
“The bartender is a low-level flunky. That measly tip was significant to him, which means he’s not paid a lot by the big boys, hence he’s not far up the food chain. This may take a while.”
“Why?”
“We’ll have to work our way up through layers of management, as it were, to get to the folks you’re really here to talk to. Get ready to do a whole lot of soda drinking, babe.”
His prediction wasn’t wrong. Over the course of the next several hours, a half-dozen men wandered into the joint and made their way to the table in the back corner. John made it crystal clear that it was her job to sit there and sip sodas while he did all the early-round talking. And she had to admit, he was really good at it. He was pleasant and relaxed with everyone, and he put all the interviewers at ease. He never hinted at anything threatening or did any macho posturing. He was respectful and quiet, and the locals seemed impressed with him. Lord knew she was, too. No way would her patience have held up like this. She’d have been ranting and raving and demanding to see Huayar in person hours ago.
“Ahh. Now we’re getting somewhere,” John muttered as the cantina door opened once more and the red light of sunset streamed inside the bar. The joint’s true dinginess shone in stark relief for a moment, and then the door swung closed once more, cloaking the establishment in more flattering half-light.
She gazed at the pair of men who’d walked into the bar. One of them was noticeably better dressed than the other locals, his long-sleeved white shirt pressed, starched and well-tailored. His jeans weren’t threadbare, and his boots were made of ostrich skin. A definite step up the crime ladder.
John gestured easily to the seats across from them. “May I buy you a drink, gentlemen?”
The new men nodded and ordered a local brand of beer she’d never heard of. Only when the brown bottles had been delivered and the bartender had retreated, did the crisply dressed one speak. “Miss Montez, we’ve been awaiting your arrival. What delayed you?”
She started at being addressed directly. She glanced over at John to see if he wanted to intervene, but he merely shrugged slightly and indicated that she should answer. “Uhh, there was no delay. It took a few days to get the right travel papers to come down here. I’m sorry if I worried you.”
Something nudged her foot warningly-from John’s side of the table. He must not want her apologizing to these guys. She supposed it did show weakness. And one must never show weakness to jackals if one didn’t want to be said jackals’ next meal.
“Have you got what you said you would bring?”
“I keep my promises, Mr.-” She let the question hang in the air.
“Call me Fuego.”
Fuego? Fire? A little heavy-handed on the machismo, but whatever. “I keep my promises, Mr. Fuego.”
“Just Fuego, Miss Montez.”
“As you wish. Tell me, Fuego, do you have what I want, as well?”
He shrugged and she pressed, “The deal is they will be safe and unharmed when they are returned to me. Your employer has kept his word, has he not? My family is all right, yes?”
She glanced out the corner of her eye and realized that John had gone stock-still in his seat. Shock was quickly being chased from his expression by something cold and dangerous-killing rage. Abject relief that she’d extracted her promise from him before they’d come in here flooded her. The next time she glanced over at him, his expression was completely bland, as casual as it had been all afternoon.
“We have done as we promised, Miss Montez. Your family is alive.”
“And unhurt?” she pressed.
The guy looked irritated at the pressure. “They are fine,” he finally conceded.
She leaned back in her seat, so relieved she felt ill. She wanted to ask what came next, to get this guy to spell out the details of the trade, but John would no doubt kick her under the table if she looked too eager. Besides, her throat was too tight to speak without choking, which would make her look weak and panicky. As hard as it was for her to rein in her impatience, she sat there, sipping at a tepid soda, and waited for Fuego to do something with the big, fat ball bouncing around in the middle of his court. The man stared at her for several long minutes. It felt like forever, but she managed not to squirm under his scrutiny.
Finally, the guy leaned forward. “My employer is eager to speak with you.”
“And I with him. I want to get this over with as soon as possible.”
“Unfortunately, he is not here this week. He is…on a retreat…in the mountains. You may wait here for him, or you may go to him if you are in a hurry.”
John leaned forward. “How far up into the mountains is this retreat?”
Fuego glanced over at him in irritation, like John was an impudent underling who didn’t know his proper place. It amused her to think that Fuego might have underestimated her gunslinger. But then, maybe that was the idea. She sat back and let John play his game. She watched as he threw a rather dull look at Fuego, the kind that hired muscle without a lot of brain cells to spare might use. It would have amused her if so damn much wasn’t at stake.
“How far?” John repeated. “I ain’t no fan of nature hikes in no jungle. Too many damned bugs and critters.”
In fact, the high mountains of Peru were carpeted in arboreal rain forests, which were a far cry from the tropical jungle of the lower altitudes, but then she suspected John knew that.
Fuego shrugged. “It’s a few days away. Not bad if you know what you’re doing. But for you…” He let the insult hang in the air, unspoken.
John’s eyes took on a truculent glint. “I didn’t say I can’t camp and hike. I just said I don’t like it. I mean, who in hell wants to go anywhere without television and cold beer?”
She bit back a smile at that one.
Contempt glittered in Fuego’s gaze. “If I give you a set of coordinates, do you think you could find them?”
John shrugged. “Sure thing.”
Fuego pulled a ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket-sporting the logo of a Las Vegas casino-and scribbled on a water-ringed napkin. He pushed the scrawled string of numbers across the table at her. She looked down at them, barely able to read the messy scrawl.
“Three days. Be there by sunset, or they die.”
And with that grim announcement, Fuego abruptly pushed back from the table and stood up. Melina started as John mirrored the movement. Fuego lurched in surprise as John’s hand snaked out so fast the guy didn’t even get a chance to flinch, and trapped the guy’s neck in an iron grip.
“Give your boss a message for me, will ya, Foo-ay-go? No matter how long it takes us to hike up to him, he touches one hair on any of his hostages’ heads before we get there, and he’ll regret ever being born. You catch my drift? We’ll get there when we get there, and he’ll damned well be waiting for us with a smile on his face and her family happy, well fed, and without a scratch on ’em.”
