To be honest, I’m not sure if Travis will keep his word. For all I know he’ll tell Big Jack everything that went down instead of what we told him to say: that I forced him into doing it. I’m hoping that’s all he says—that he had no choice. That I held a gun to his head. That he only did it for his family’s sake, and to save his own life. It’s the truth, anyway.
Minus Clark’s annoyed grunts, shifting on the leather, and sighs, we drive mostly in silence. For the most part, Patanza keeps her gaze ahead. I see her glance over her shoulder every once in a while, but not fully.
Maybe she trusts me a little. Maybe she doesn’t.
I don’t know. She’s become a lot harder to read lately.
I ride in the backseat for what feels like hours before we finally stop, reaching the same factory I saw before boarding Draco’s jet and flying to Los Cabos.
There is already a jet waiting there. Emilio parks the car and hops out, hustling toward it, where a man in a black cap and black suit is already standing.
They nod at each other and then Emilio points at the car.
“Get out,” Patanza orders, pushing her door open and stepping out.
Clark blows a heavy breath. “Here we go.”
Emilio jogs back, popping the trunk with the car’s key fob and taking out Clark’s bag and his guns. We follow Patanza to the jet, Emilio behind us, and board quickly.
She steps aside, letting us on first to sit.
I take a window seat, and Clark sits across from me, rubbing his face. His leg bounces as soon as he straps in, and then he grips the arms of the chair, knuckles turning white.
“I need to take a smoke before this jet takes off,” he tells Patanza.
“Too bad,” she mutters, slouching down in her seat. “Cigarettes are bad for you, anyway.”
Clark fists his hair. “Fucking bitch.”
She looks over at me. “Buckle up, Patrona.” She says the name with disgust, mocking it.
“Where are we going?” I ask in Spanish when the seatbelt is clipped.
Emilio takes the seat beside Patanza after tucking everything in the cabins above his head and then they both buckle in.
Meeting my eyes, Emilio says, “Puerto Vallarta.”
“What’s in Puerto Vallarta?” I question, still speaking his native language.
“A safe place,” Patanza responds. “So just shut up and ride.”
I ignore her, focusing on Emilio. “Will he be there?”
Emilio gives a slight shrug, eyes mellowing. “No se, Patrona.” I don’t know, Boss.
I sigh, slumping my body in the seat, staring out of the window as the wheels of the jet begin to roll.
The flight takes less than two hours.
After everything is collected from the bins, we follow Emilio off the jet and through the gates of the runway. This one isn’t private. There are many jets and people around, but they’re all minding their own business.
All of them seem rich, the men wearing expensive suits and sunglasses and the women wearing tight, silky dresses or blouses, red-bottomed heels and their hair styled to perfection, despite the dusty wind around them.
Emilio leads the way to a building. It’s like an airport, but much, much smaller and fewer security guards around. He bobs his head at one of them and they nod back before looking away.
He reaches another door and heads out. A white van is parked up front and he goes for it, swinging the back door open as a man in the driver seat steps out.
I know this man.
It’s Diego, one of his best guards.
He spots me and looks me over twice before murmuring, “Patrona.”
I nod back.
Apparently he told them to keep their respect. That’s good. I know how easy it would be to yank the authority right from under me.
Diego pulls the door open, and I walk forward, climbing inside. Clark starts to climb in, but Diego stops him with a firm hand to the chest.
“Hands up,” Diego orders.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Clark scoffs, but puts his hands on top of his head anyway. When Diego starts to pat him down, Clark says, “I’m annoyed as fuck, and no one wants to let the gringo take a fucking smoke break. Get too close, and I might bite your fucking face off.”
Diego keeps a solid face, nudging him when he’s done. “Get in the fucking van.”
Clark slides across the bench, sitting next to me. “I swear they’re testing me,” he grumbles.
“Be patient,” I murmur. “You’ll have your cigarettes soon. The Jefe doesn’t cut corners. You of all people should know this.”
“I know. I know. Just over this protocol shit.”
When all the doors are shut, the van peels off. We ride on cobblestone streets with the front windows down. I can smell the ocean before I can see it. A few minutes later, we’re riding on a quiet dirt road with a clear view of the sapphire water, the waves crashing to shore.