Reviving Izabel (16 page)

Victor sighs and I watch as his shoulders relax. He gives in and says, “First of all, he’s not the target and I’ve no intention in killing him. We need Costa to
find
the target, Edgar Velazco, a Venezuelan gang leader responsible for the murders of sixteen American, British and Canadian citizens in the last year. They were abducted in Rio de Janeiro and several other major tourist cities in South America. He has a three-million-dollar price tag on his head, but he’s nearly impossible to find.”

“Would be easy to find,” Fredrik chimes in, “if he ever left the slums of Venezuela. Reminds me of Bin Laden when he was hiding out in the mountains with a large group of terrorists and a family of goats for company. People like us, clearly not natives of the country, are too easy to spot.”

“Velazco is in some ways like Javier Ruiz was,” Victor adds.

I look up from the photo of Andre Costa upon hearing Javier’s name. I hadn’t realized I was even looking at the photo all that time.

“Sounds like Velazco is a step higher on the criminal scale than Javier ever was,” I say.

“Yes, he is,” Victor confirms. “Javier’s operations were small compared to Velazco. His are spread out over six countries and he’s responsible for the murders of one hundred sixty-nine tourists to-date, including women and children.”

“And that’s just the number recorded,” Fredrik says. “There’s no telling how high that number really goes.”

“So who’s the client?” I ask, though I really don’t expect either of them to give up that kind of information so easily.

“Anderson Winehardt, a wealthy man out of Boston,” Victor says. “His son was one of those murdered tourists.”

Still struck by shock that he gave up the name of the client so freely, it takes me a moment to get my questions back in order.

I hop up and sit down on a nearby wooden crate, letting my legs dangle over the side.

“Why did you tell me his name?” I ask.

“If you’re in this with us,” Victor says, “you’re in it all the way.”

“Thanks,” I say, still unsure about it. I’m wondering if at any moment he’s going to say that he was just messing with my head like Fredrik had done earlier.

But then I think of the Order and how old and intricate it is and I find myself with more questions than answers.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “How can you do hits at all anymore, especially ones like
this
, when you’ve got the Order looking for you? Wouldn’t Vonnegut, hell even
Niklas
, know about a hit on someone bigger than Javier was?”

“It’s possible they know about it,” Victor says. “But that doesn’t point me out as being the one commissioned to carry it out. There are twenty-two private organizations like the Order in the United States alone, in addition to the unknown number of private contractors like me. Neither Vonnegut nor Niklas would ever suspect I’d continue to work like this after leaving the Order and knowing there’s a bounty on my head.”

“You’re hiding in plain sight,” I say.

“I suppose you can say that,” Victor says.

“But how do you get clients?” I ask. “I mean…didn’t Vonnegut take care of all that when you worked for the Order?”

“He did,” Victor says with a nod. “But I have been doing this all my life. I know people. I’ve met clients that not even Vonnegut has ever met face-to-face, the upside to being the one in the field. I have just as many, if not more connections than Vonnegut himself has.”

I let out a troubled breath and shake my head. “Well, I think having so many connections, all made through the Order in some way, can be an equally dangerous thing. Aren’t you worried someone might tip Vonnegut or Niklas off?”

“I think about that every day,” he answers. “It is why I must choose my clients wisely, why I must be very careful, testing anyone and everyone who crosses my path. Sarai, you never know who might betray you until it’s too late.”

I leave it at that and let them both continue to brief me on the mission.

~~~

It’s after ten p.m. and I’m dressed like a slutty, rich socialite, donning a short, thin ivory and pink dress with frilly layers that lay loosely four inches above my knees. Six-inch pink platform heels make me as tall as Victor. My long hair lays freely over both shoulders, moved away from my breasts which are pushed up by a cute pink, lacy bra that shows through the fabric of the dress. After the thirty-minute makeup session, I topped everything off with a few expensive rings and bracelets and two pumps of perfume, one in the hollow of my neck, the other rubbed between my wrists. Fredrik told me that I stink, just before Victor and I left the warehouse to go into the city. I can’t say that I disagree with him. I’ve never liked perfume, but tonight I feel like the situation calls for it.

Victor pulls the car into a small parking lot of a red-brick school across the street from CC’s Community Coffee House.

“Corner of Bourbon and St. Philip,” he says pointing down the street so that I could get a good look at our surroundings. “I’ll be waiting here. Remember, the bar is small, dark and often packed. It might be difficult to spot him, but you don’t want to appear as though you’re searching for someone and risk—”

“I can pull this off,” I interrupt before he goes into another spiel about what I should and shouldn’t do and how careful I should be. I lean across the seat and kiss him lightly on the mouth. “Have a little faith in me.”

He smiles weakly. For a moment as he gazes into my eyes, I feel the urge to straddle his lap in the driver’s seat and kiss him ravenously. But I snap out of it, knowing I have a job to do.

I open the car door and step out into the darkness, shutting it behind me and leaning over into the window.

“I’ll be fine,” I say and adjust the tiny wire I’m wearing, positioned strategically within the cloth of my bra right between my breasts. “Just promise me,” I go on, “that you won’t interfere unless I directly ask for your help.”

He nods, but I’m not satisfied with that.

“Victor?” I say in a demanding tone.

He puts up both hands. “All right. I promise. I won’t interfere.”

“I’m not doing this to prove anything to you. I’m doing it because I want to and because I know I can. If I prove something to you along the way, then I guess it’s just an added bonus. But that’s
not
why I’m doing it.” I need him to understand this, to understand that I’m not only doing this to be with him, but because it’s truly what I want for my life.

He nods again. “I know.”

I leave him in the car and go toward the sidewalk, allowing the dim lights from the surrounding buildings to guide my way down the dark street. Despite the late hour, I’m never alone as there are dozens of people walking past on both sides of the street. I slip through a group of people on the sidewalk in front of the school fanning themselves with cardboard cutouts of a skull, all listening to a guide talk about the building. Finally, I cross the street and head into the tiny, tightly-packed bar on the corner and instantly shed the façade of the girl I used to be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sarai

The moment I enter the building, I’m consumed by darkness. The space is lit only by candles spread throughout in random places: on tables and set along the walls and on the rock fireplace in the center of the room. The bar is so full that most people are shoulder to shoulder as they make their way to and from, and there’s not a single empty seat anywhere as far as I can see. I pass up a full table accompanied by a group of chatty people and make my way through the crowd slowly. I’m overdressed, despite wearing so little. I’m likely one of few girls in the whole place who isn’t dressed in more laid back clothes and trying to walk on tall heels through the dark in a place I’ve clearly never been before. I look exactly like a tourist here for a weekend of partying. Precisely how I intended to look. Andre Costa likes a party. And he likes the girls. But apparently he hones right in on the ones who are new in town and who act like they just rolled out of the Stupid Truck.

I walk straight to the bar and order a Dos Equis, presenting the hot young bartender with my fake I.D. and a glossy-eyed smile.

The bartender looks back and forth between me and the driver’s license. “I suppose you’re old enough.” He smiles at me and places the card back into my fingers. I slip it down into my little black purse.

“How long are you in New Orleans?” he asks as he removes the cap from my beer and sets the bottle down in front of me. He’s sexy, with short dark hair, tousled in the front, and dark blue eyes that peer at me amid a rounded baby-face.

I blush and lower my eyes, taking a quick sip.

“Am I that obvious?” I ask, letting my eyelashes sweep my cheeks momentarily.

His smile broadens and I notice his gaze move from my face downward toward my breasts. But he doesn’t let his eyes linger so long that it’s a turn-off.

Knowing I’m only a tourist was pretty obvious to both of us, so he doesn’t bother to answer my question.

I hold out a ten to pay for the drink, but he brushes the gesture away.

“This one’s on me,” he says. “Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks.” I take my drink from the bar just as two girls, probably on their fifth beer of the night, push their way through the room nearly knocking me over in the process.

I just barely hold onto my beer, the liquid sloshing out over the rim as I attempt to steady it.

“Damn, watch it,” I say, but neither of the drunks hear me with the place being so noisy.

As I’m turning my back to them and the bar, I start scanning the area again, sipping on my beer and gently moving my hips as I walk as if I’m only enjoying the music and not looking for anyone. I walk around the rock fireplace and toward the back where the area splits off into two directions. There’s another bar to my right with a couple more tables and a dead end. Left appears to lead back outside to a patio of sorts. I start to head left when I spot Andre Costa sitting at a table in a dark corner of the dead-end area, flanked by girls on either side of him and two other men, all enjoying drinks and conversation.

Those two girls with him are gorgeous, much prettier than me. At first I’m worried about my ability to draw his attention, but then I remember what Izel, Javier Ruiz’s vile sister, taught me a long time ago:

“You’re hopeless. A hopeless American puta,” Izel said that day, dragging a comb harshly through my knotted hair, pulling it just to hear me whimper. “I don’t know why Javier keeps you around. You’re like a stupid virgin, except you’re a whore.”

She pulled on the comb harder, yanking my neck back so forcefully that I cried out in pain. But I didn’t say anything. I was afraid of her then, afraid of what she’d do to me for talking back to her. It was bad enough the things she did to me just for hating me, when she and I were alone and I didn’t have Javier’s protection.

“You have to look good next to my brother,” she said. “You have to make the men want to dream of touching you. You have to get their attention over every other girl in the room.” She yanked on my hair again. I bit down on my lip as tears streamed down my cheeks. “I don’t know why I’m helping you. I should just let you fuck it all up so Javier will get rid of you. Feed you to the dogs.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” I finally spoke.

I felt a white-hot sting to the side of my face and heard the thick, cool plastic of the comb slap against my cheekbone.

“Shut up! Stupid puta! I hate you because I can! Now listen to me. When you go in there tonight on my brother’s arm, you better do everything I’ve ever told you. Six months I’ve suffered having to teach you how to seduce a man! Six fucking months of my life wasted. You better get it right. If you fuck up and Javier punishes me, I’ll slit your throat in your sleep and blame it on one of the girls. Comprendes?!”

I nodded nervously.

“Now what did I tell you is key?” She shook my shoulders from behind. “Answer me!”

“Eye contact,” I said.

“And what’s the right way?”

“The skirting of the eye,” I answered more quickly. “Shy and not desperate.”

“Sí. You want the men to feel as though you’re fresh meat, that you haven’t already been passed around to a hundred men. You want to appear coy and inexperienced, not as though you’re a seasoned whore looking for a good time. Only old women do that. And how long do you give him your attention?”

“Two seconds,” I said.

Izel turned me around to face her, my shoulders gripped tightly beneath her hands, her long red fingernails pinching my skin. “Sí, Sarai. Two seconds and look away. The longer you look, the more desperate you appear. Make him come to you.”

As much as I hated Izel, I have to admit that I learned a lot from her. But back then I was being trained to seduce rich men only to make them want me. Javier would never sell me or allow another man to touch me. I was his arm trophy, the girl who represented all of the girls sold under Javier. I was the one the men saw first, the most beautiful and the most enigmatic. I was the poster child, the one used to show off Javier’s business. And it worked. The men couldn’t have me, but after spending ten minutes in a room with me while I put all of Izel’s lessons to use, the men wanted the next best thing. And buying from the same ‘batch’ of girls that I had been ‘bred’ from was, in their minds, the only way to get it.

But tonight, with Andre Costa, only half of Izel’s teachings will come into play. Costa isn’t here looking for a submissive girl to take home and put a collar on. Costa is just a young, horny criminal, so the part of her lessons I’ll be using tonight go only as far as the eye contact.

I position my purse underneath my arm and stand against the wall in Costa’s line of sight. I let five full minutes pass while I drink my beer and pretend to enjoy the music funneling from a piano before I decide to make eye contact. I know he has looked over at me at least twice in the five minutes I’ve been standing here. I could feel his eyes on me. But the black-haired girl sitting on his left has done well to keep most of his attention.