Reckless (11 page)

“You actually think Peña will discuss this rationally?” Carlos says. “Let me tell you what would happen if you arranged a meeting with all of the families. Peña would show up, except he’d do so in a bomber. That man is nothing but an opportunist.”

“Maybe,” Ivan says. “What else are we supposed to do? I don’t want to see us behaving like savages on the account of Peña.”

“Relax,” Diego says. “I have a perfectly good plan. We’ll discuss it tonight over dinner. I only wanted to show you two how dire this situation is. Peña has gone after me the hardest simply because I’m the largest producer. But he’ll burn all of your fields, as well. So if you think a five or ten percent hit to your inventory is bad just wait until it is ninety percent.”

I’m stunned by what I hear. We suspected there was a power struggle going on in the cocaine trade, but I don’t think anyone knew how serious it was. If I don’t stop Diego, there could be an all-out war. And drug wars aren’t fought on soccer fields or faraway deserts. They’re waged on the streets, and the bloodshed too often includes innocent people.

We land a few hours later at the Rafael Núñez International Airport in Cartagena, Colombia.
 

Diego commands a small yacht to Tierra Bomba Island.
 

We sail past the populated section of the island and settle into a small cove with dense forests and the most spectacular mansion I’ve ever seen. The contemporary home displays large, open windows.
 

There’s no reason for privacy out here. No one is around.

Diego rotates the helm, angling the yacht toward the wooden dock. Attendants wait at the edge. They secure the yacht, mooring rope to the cleats.

We step off the boat.
 

My legs feel wobbly as I first step onto the dock. When my head settles, we start for the shore.

Diego thanks the attendants and tells them to have dinner ready soon.
 

They nod and run ahead of us.
 

A tall attendant with dark, beady eyes remains at Diego’s side.

“Caroline, I’d like you to meet Santos,” Diego says. “Santos is my personal bodyguard while in Colombia. He also oversees my home on the island and my attendants here.”

“It is a pleasure, ma’am,” he says, extending a hand.

I return the greeting.

The beach is filled with white sand that’s obviously imported. Farther down, the shore is desolate and craggy. I notice a large shed away from the house that’s close to the beach, about a hundred feet down from the dock. Not knowing what’s inside, I make a mental note of it.

We cross over the sand along a wooden walkway and enter through the rear of the home. As we pass through the kitchen and hall, I look for any landlines, computers, or tablets that might help me contact Nick and José. I don’t see anything yet.

Diego shows me to my room on the second floor.

“I thought you’d be more comfortable with your own room. I’m right next door.”

On the bed, there’s a black mini dress with a keyhole top. I pick it up. “This is quite the sexy outfit.”

I don’t know how I’ll keep my breasts inside it without using tape.

“We’re going dancing tonight in the city. I know a place just off the shore in Cartagena. It will be just the two of us. Ivan has some bad debts to collect on the island and is bringing along Carlos to help.” Diego smiles. “Carlos is very good at collecting debts.”

So I’ve heard.

“Can I take a shower before we leave? I’ve been running around all day and my feet are killing me.”

“Certainly. The bathroom should be stocked with everything you need. If not, let me know and we can make a stop while we’re in the city.” He touches my hair. “I want you to be happy, Caroline. I want you to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

While Diego has been kind to me, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the pig being fattened for some kind of impending slaughter. I may not have the knife with me, but the CIA trained me well enough in martial arts for me to hold my own.
 

Not that it matters much. All the kicking and fancy scraping doesn’t do you much good when your opponent has lots of friends with lots of guns.

“I’m going to freshen up myself,” Diego says. “Then I have to give Ivan and Carlos keys to the jeep.”

I start the bath and undress, splashing water on the tape until the bonds loosen enough to pull them away. The mic and recording device can go. They’re useless now anyway.
 

I stash them both far under the mattress in the center of the bed. I’ve already gotten a good amount recorded. If the conversation on the plane won’t hold up in court then I don’t think anything else they say will. I need hard evidence now—the kind of evidence I think is sitting in that shed.
 

I go to the bathroom window.
 

The shed is a large stone structure about the size of three garages with a flat roof. There aren’t any windows. From my vantage point, the only entrance appears to be a steel door.
 

The question is how to get inside. I don’t need hunches. If I’m going to sneak out in the middle of the night, I want to be sure.
 

Then I see it.
 

There’s a hatch along the roof. It’s probably locked, but I doubt it’s as hard to break open as the steel door. Several trees have grown in close around the building. With some effort, I could probably climb up a tree and drop from one of the over-hanging branches.

I shake my head. This is ludicrous. How am I going to sneak out of the compound, break into the shed, and get back inside without being noticed?
 

My heart drums at the thought alone.
 

I push the idea out of my mind as I go to the tub.
 

The water feels so refreshing after everything I’ve been through that part of me wants to take a nap. I could stay here forever and be Diego’s girlfriend. I laugh, though it isn’t any more outlandish than trying to sneak around without Diego or his security noticing. I’m faced with two possible avenues that are both risky and insane. The only difference is that one of them ends with a life of luxury and a handsome man.

I finish the bath and dress.
 

There’s no makeup lying around, so I go with a truly natural look. I’m actually kind of relieved. Without José’s assistance, I’d look like a mess, which might draw suspicions as to how I appeared so well put together beforehand.
 

The shoes I came in don’t match the dress. Since Diego plans to take me shopping, I’m not worried.

I go down the hall to find him.
 

His bedroom door is shut.
 

I knock.

“Come in!”

I open the door.
 

Diego is out of the shower and naked.
 

I stare at his broad shoulders, his ridged abs and the biggest cock I’ve ever seen in the flesh.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a strangled voice, looking away.

“I don’t mind. Nudity isn’t that big of a deal to me.”

Obviously not.
 

He wraps a towel around his waist and tells me I can turn around.

“You look really pretty,” he says. “I knew you’d look great in that dress.”

“Thanks. You have a good eye for women’s fashion.”

He drops the towel and puts on a tight pair of boxers. “Yeah, if the coffee business doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll go into women’s fashion. Chicks will pay a lot of money for the right attire.”

I watch him slip into a navy suit and slick back his dark hair. If I didn’t know who Diego was, I might mistake him for a young executive.

He sets down the brush. “Ready to go?”
 

“Si, señor.”

10

Diego takes me to shopping at the Mall Plaza El Castillo. Even though I only need a few outfits, he insists I buy everything I like. The yacht has been turned into a freight hauler as the interior is stuffed with shopping bags. When I joke with Diego that it will take us a year to remove all of the tags, he reminds me that’s what assistants are for.
 

He calls them assistants, and while I suppose that’s true, they also act as armed guards. When we’re in public, each is armed with a Beretta 92 FS tucked into their waist, leaving the ARX-160s in the yacht. Their heads constantly shift around like a bunch of paranoids, drawing attention to us.

I don’t get the sense of anything threatening while we’re out. Diego is treated like a beloved politician wherever he goes. People shake his hand; mothers run up to him and ask if their children can be photographed with him. At one store, the owner refuses payment even after we clean out half the store.

By evening, we end up at a local hotspot along the beach with Spanish music blasting all the way to the end of the block. Several patrons rush out to shake Diego’s hand and offer him hugs.
 

I shouldn’t be so shocked.
 

I’m coming at this from an American perspective. Back home, guys like Diego are the scum of the earth, flooding the world with addictive substances that corrupt children and threaten society. Here he’s flooding the people with special-works projects that are educating children and sustaining society.

A private booth in the corner of the club is cleared for Diego and me. Drinks are served. The waiter offers a bow and a wide smile to us. We enjoy our drinks until the music shifts to an allegro.

Diego insists I follow him to the dance floor.
 

“This is a Galeron Llanero song,” Diego shouts over the music. “That means we do a torbellino dance.”

“What’s a torbellino?”

“It means whirlwind. Just watch the others and follow my hands. I’ll guide you.”

The dance is impossible in the mini dress. The other women have on flamenco dresses that allow them to lift the ruffles to each side. Still, I find myself laughing as Diego leads me through each of the dance’s movements. Observers on the side of the dance floor clap to the beat and cheer us on. The men all join hands and begin to twirl as the women dance at the edges, forming a wheel. We break apart into individual pairs again and the dance picks up speed.

“This is the joropo!” Diego shouts. “Hold on!”

Diego taps his feet like a wizard. I can’t keep up. This is
Saturday Night Fever
Colombian style. I step on his feet and almost take a spill when my legs entangle with his. A small girl that’s no more than six or seven asks if she can cut in. I gladly surrender my spot.
 

I go back to the table, clapping as I watch.
 

The girl is tiny, yet she moves faster than I could ever hope to. Diego twirls her around, tapping his feet in a tempest of footwork. He burns up the dance floor, twirling and tapping.
 

The song finally ends and everyone claps and drums their hands against the tables. Diego proclaims the little girl as being the best dancer in Colombia.
 

She runs back to her parents with glee.

Diego returns to our table.

“That was very sweet of you,” I say. “She’ll never forget the time when she danced with Diego Martinez.”

He’s still trying to catch his breath. “She will be a star one day. I can always tell.”

“Where did you learn to move like that? It was crazy. You were so fast.”

“I haven’t done that since I was a teenager. When I was running around the streets of Medellin, there were two ways to a girl’s heart: money and dancing. I was a very poor boy so money was out of the question.
 

“I stole a full-length mirror and practiced everyday in the alleyway. When I got good enough, I went to a club. I was only sixteen, so I had to sneak in. I did the classical joropo dance, but the older boys were better than me.
 

“However, I had a secret weapon. This was 1983, mind you, and Michael Jackson had just performed the moonwalk for the first time. I loved that move and practiced it until I had blisters on my feet. So when it came time for the last round of the competition, BOOM!” Diego slaps his hands together and slides his feet against the floor. “I did the moonwalk just like Michael and won the only trophy of my life.”

“Can you still do the moonwalk?”

“No, these days I do the moonshuffle.”
 

I laugh.
 

Diego leans in close to my ear. “But I have learned other moves. Are you still a proper girl, Ms. Davis?”

His hand slides up my leg. I don’t push it away. There’s no wire on me. Nick and José are far away. No one is watching me except for Diego, and he’s not the man they think he is.
 

I lean in and kiss him.
 

His lips are just as I remembered them. When his head moves away, I can barely breathe.

We don’t stay at the dance club for long.

***

After a quick ride across the bay, kissing and grabbing each other the entire way, we enter the bedroom, two silhouettes against the moonlight. He doesn’t rip off my clothes or throw me against the bed. With gentle hands, he lays me against the mattress and pulls the dress over my head.
 

My nerves tingle and jolt as he kisses my neck. Cheeks flush and my breath quickens so fast I can barely keep up.

With trembling hands, I unbutton his shirt and kiss the wiry hair along his chest. He sheds the rest of his clothing and kisses my stomach, drawing my panties down my thighs and over my feet.

My heart pounds.
 

None of this makes sense. I only know that I can’t resist him. I’ve gone too far; I’m in too deep. I’ll probably be dead or in prison by next week, but tonight I have Diego Martinez to myself.
 

He runs his hands through my hair. The touch of his fingers along my scalp alone creates such heightened sensations that I shiver all over.
 

“I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you standing in the courtyard,” he says. “Stay with me Caroline, and you’ll never be alone or need to feel afraid. I can give you everything you want.”