Tug (Irreparable 3)

I don’t, and that fear has me charging down the stairs into the living room. The room spins in circles around me as I listen for Javier’s voice. The house is completely silent other than my heart pounding in my ears and my teeth chattering. I wince when I bite my tongue, tasting blood. As I bring the phone to my ear, ready to surrender to Eduardo and tell him he can have whatever he wants as long as he gives me back my son, I hear a laugh. A laugh so pure and beautiful I sob into the phone. Javier’s laugh. I look through the slider and find Javier with Drew and Tori on the beach, playing.

“Yes, I know where my son is,” I say, out of breath.

“But you weren’t sure for a moment. You felt doubt. That feeling is never going to go away, especially now that I know where you live, and where you work. I’m coming for you, bitch.”

I feel like vomiting, but I keep my voice calm. “I won’t let you hurt him.”

“I’ll do whatever I want, and there is nothing you can do to stop me.” I stagger around in a circle with my fingers pressed to my lips, expecting to hear that he’s on his way, or worse close by. His next sentence is intended to intimidate me, but it thrills me, so much so I almost laugh. “You’ll have to leave Mexico eventually, and I’ll be ready when you do.”

I knew he wouldn’t come here. He’d never risk getting caught. He’d be deported and tried for international crimes, and he’s nothing more than a scared coward, hiding behind his gang. His threat means I can’t bury Papa in Watsonville, but at least I know my baby boy’s safe.

I should call Maria and share my plans, but I know she’ll try to talk me out of going. The jet is fueled and ready when I arrive at the airport. In just under three hours, the plane touches down in Monterrey, Mexico. I turn on my phone and see all the missed calls and texts. Without reading them, I send Maria a text telling her I’ll be home tonight and shut of my phone.

After I secure a car, I drive the winding roads up the Mitras Mountains and into the affluent neighborhoods nestled away in the rocky slopes of northwest Monterrey. Small communities of Mexico’s elite — drug lords, modern-day pimps, and city officials — living the high life while much of the country starves, many of them living in poverty, depending on a government that has no intention of saving them.

I roll up slowly to a home surrounded entirely by ten-foo

t high stucco walls. The guard tower extending ten feet above the walls is my first indicator I have the right address.

I’ve dealt with shady people since taking over Gibson Capital. Men with unexplainable wealth and reach, of questionable character, but those men needed my services and weren’t threatening. The closer I get to the gate, the more I doubt my decision to come here, but I have to protect Maria and Javier. Today may end badly for me, but if I don’t try, things will end badly for all of us. The power Eduardo holds over Maria has to end, and, more importantly, he needs to suffer.

I turn into the driveway, stop at a call box, and push the button. The metal heated by the late afternoon sun burns my fingertip, a blister forms instantly. When a voice tells me to wait, I stare at the wrought-iron gate, expecting it to open. A man on a golf cart approaches from the other side.

The cart stops short of the gate, its driver getting out watching me as the gate opens. He wears dark jeans and an army brown T-shirt. A thick jet black beard covers most of his face, and I think he looks more like a Middle Eastern terrorist, than a Mexican—well terrorist. The gate opens fully, and as he comes to my open window, he asks. “Qué es lo que quieres?”

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Torrente,” I answer in English, testing to see if he understands me.

“Who the fuck are you? How’d you get this address?”

Apparently he speaks English clearly, although with a thick Spanish accent.

“My name is Aidan Hunter. I’m an American businessman, and I have some important information for Mr. Torrente.”

“He’s not interested.”

And here’s where I get brave and put my life on the line to save my girl. “He has a thief in his organization. I think it would interest him very much.”

“Does this thief have a name?”

“Eduardo Montez.”

“Stay here.”

He trudges away from the car, talking into his phone, rocks and sand crunching loudly under the weight of his black combat boots. After a couple of minutes, he hangs up and returns to the window. “Come with me, Mr. Hunter. Leave the car here.”

When I step out, he whirls me around and slams me into the hood of the car. His hands move over every pocket and search under my clothing, the process thorough and completely emasculating. I don’t try to fight him or speak. I need these men to trust me.

He yanks on my arm, pulling me toward the golf cart. I sit in the passenger seat, and we drive through the trees to an expansive Spanish-style mansion. The man jerks me from the golf cart, keeping a firm grip on my arm as we enter the front door to an intimidating foyer with marble pillars and flooring. The room sparkles as sunshine beams through the windows, reflecting off hundreds of tiny glass squares strung from an enormous chandelier above my head.

“Wait here.” The authoritative tone he uses stops me in my tracks.

My eyes move from side to side. The walls are adorned with an impressive collection of artwork. The sale of one painting could feed a small country. I stare at one in particular. Although I don’t recognize the artist, the quality is exceptional. It’s of a woman holding a tiny infant, shrouded in a soft pink blanket, the artist capturing the miraculous moment in the mother’s expression to perfection.

“Do you like it?” a deep voice asks from behind me.

I turn toward the voice, taken aback by the man before me. He’s distinguished and professional. I don’t know what I expected—white suit, silk shirt, shiny shoes, and gold chains, maybe. His tailored suit is charcoal grey with thin pin-stripes, his dress shirt, crisp white cotton, unbuttoned at the top and without a tie. The dark hair covering his head is cut close and his face is cleanly shaven. He could be any one of thousands of reputable businessmen. But he’s not. He’s the leader of the largest drug cartel in Mexico and someone who would kill me without thinking twice.

“It’s exquisite,” I answer his question with regard to the painting.