“Close the door.”
I close the door.
“Place the keys on the roof.”
I place the keys on the roof.
“Now walk across the intersection to the other side.”
I hesitate. I don’t want to leave the kids. But I can’t stop thinking about how Colin and Mitchell were taken out so quickly, so efficiently.
“What about the children?”
“The children will be safe as long as you follow directions.”
I walk across the intersection. It’s deserted. The entire neighborhood is deserted.
At the other end of the intersection, I stop and turn around. The car is less than fifty feet away. It seems like a mile.
I can see the children in the back, crying again. David starts to undo his seat belt, starts to reach for the door.
I shake my head, wanting to yell at him to stop it, to stay put. But right then comes the screeching of tires and the angry roar of an engine.
A red Porsche pulls up next to the car. Its windows are tinted. The passenger-side door opens and a Hispanic man steps out. He wears a black suit and sunglasses. He opens David’s door, bends down and says something, then leans back and slams the door shut. He glances at me for only an instant before he takes the keys off the roof, gets in, starts the engine, and pulls out into the intersection.
He drives right at me.
I step aside. I watch helpless as he passes me in my own car, the Porsche following. David is the closest to me, and as they pass, he places his hand flat against the window, holds it there, tears all over his face.
I want to do something but can’t think of anything to do. I refuse to wave goodbye because it’s too final, too concrete, and I plan on seeing them again. When and how, I’m not sure, but I plan on seeing them again.
In my ear, the man says, “Now that the children are gone, are you ready to get them back?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I believe it is now time for us to meet.”
He disconnects the call.
I look at the phone, start to redial the number, when a black Lincoln Town Car appears down the street. It too has tinted windows. It stops right beside me.
The back door opens.
I step inside.
Forty-Six
There are three men in the Town Car. The driver, of course, and a man in the passenger seat who once I slip into the car turns around and aims a gun at me. The third man sits in the back. He looks to be in his late-forties. He has jet-black hair and dark skin and has an odd attractiveness like Marc Antony. He smiles at me and says, “Good afternoon.”
I don’t say anything.
My door closed, the Town Car starts in motion again.
For a long time there is silence. The man beside me stares out his window. The man in the passenger seat stays turned in his seat, the gun aimed. His eyes are deep and brown and don’t leave me for a second.
For an instant I have that sense of déjà vu, being back in Paris, riding in the car with Reed and Boylan and Boris. At that time I hadn’t really cared what happened to me. I didn’t mind talking bullshit. I didn’t have anybody to worry about but myself.
Finally the man says, “Do you know who I am, Miss Lin?” He continues staring out his window. “My name is Javier Diaz. My father is Ernesto Diaz. You caused us some very serious trouble recently.”
“I apologize.”
The man looks away from the window, smiles at me. “Is that so?”
“Whatever trouble I’ve caused you and your father, I’m sorry. You can do whatever you want to me, but please, don’t involve those two kids.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Miss Lin. If it were up to me and my father, you would already be dead. But there are other parties involved. Parties that have requested we spare your life for the time being.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Though this is odd to say, my father and I are grateful for what you did. Not that it lessens our anger in any way, but your … attack helped give us new perspective in certain areas of our business.”
“What business?”
“Are you really that stupid, Miss Lin?” The man pauses, shakes his head. “No, I suppose you are not. I suppose you cause so much trouble you cannot keep all the events separate.”
We’re out of the residential area now, driving back along the main strip.
“As you seem to be lost right now,” Javier Diaz says, “the trouble to which I am referring happened in Las Vegas.”
“The ranch.”
“Yes, the ranch.”
“You’re in charge of it.”
“Technically, no. My father and I have no legal ties to the place at all.”
“Of course not.”
Javier Diaz keeps staring out his window. “The man who was in charge of our Las Vegas operation, what you could call a manager, was becoming much too lax. He was skimming the money for security into his own pocket. And the men he had looking after the girls … well, if they were able to be taken out by you and you alone, what does it say about them?”
“They were under-trained.”
Javier smiles at his window. “Perhaps, yes. Regardless, the man in question has been dealt with. So have the rest of the men in that operation. We have been forced to relocate, find new girls, start from scratch. But, as I said, you have helped give us new perspective. And not just in Las Vegas, but in all our operations.”
“I’m glad I could be of some service.”
We are now on the expressway. The man in the passenger seat hasn’t moved an inch. The gun hasn’t either.
“Just so you know,” Javier says, “she did not die quickly.”
“Who?”
“Rosalina.” Shaking his head. “A pretty name for such an ugly whore.”
I close my eyes. Picture her striking Jerold over the head with the phone. Picture her cowering in the bathtub. Picture her standing beside the car while I loaded my weapons.
“You found her?”
“It wasn’t
