11. Lorenzo
lorenzo
Solomon
I usually have a better plan going into situations like this. But alas, I don't. The best I've got right now is "fuck shit up; don't die; try not to outright kill anyone."
This shit was a hell of a lot easier when I didn't have to worry about killing people. I mean, my whole job was to eliminate problematic motherfuckers, violently and messily.
I'm pressed up against the side of a hangar. Inez’s jet is about two hundred yards away, maybe closer to three hundred. Around the corner to my left, a lot of dudes with guns; around the corner to my right? A lot more dudes with guns.
Another dude with a gun is on a rooftop, but I trust Scar to have that under control. There are more dudes with more guns hiding in the area as well; I’m not sure where, but I have to assume they’re there somewhere.
The plan, then, is to cause a ruckus, draw out all the dudes with guns, and do violent shit to them until Inez can get clear.
Pretty thin, as far as plans go.
I check my mag for the third time in thirty seconds, pat my pockets for the spares, and make sure my sidearm is secure at my back.
Ready...
Go.
I roll out around the corner and drop to one knee. They don't see me because they're focused on the jet. Check left, check right. A quick headcount shows eleven targets, which I can see from here.
Pull back, hit the charging handle, draw in a deep breath.
Let's dance, motherfuckers.
Roll out right, pop off single rounds, putting them through kneecaps—one, two, three, four.
Pull back.
CRACK! The Dragunov speaks.
I cross to the other side and inch forward, lean out and aim down the iron sights. BAMBAMBAM! Best I can do is high torso shots, putting the rounds through shoulders and hopefully not any major organs. This time, gunfire follows me, and rounds whizz, snap, buzz, and ping off the wall near my face. I jerk back with a muttered string of curses—one of those was so close I felt it buzz past the tip of my nose.
I fall back to my previously prepared position: a stolen tractor-trailer full of luggage that I parked across the space between the buildings. I take cover behind the tractor itself and wait for a slow thirty count.
Pop up and check my sight lines: here they come.
CRACK! The Dragunov barks again, and I hear a shout. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Gunfire follows the cracking of the big rifle, and I glance up at where I know she's positioned: the shots are going in her general direction but are nowhere near her exact location.
I wish we had comms.
I pop up again after ten seconds and lay down a long burst of suppressive fire. Most of it goes over their heads or wide by design—they drop and fall back, which is when I hit the deck and fire beneath the luggage tractor, hitting ankles, calves, and thighs.
One of them spies me as he's hauled back by a friend, pointing at my location and shouting in Spanish.
Weaponsfire fills the air with chattering, rattling, and barking, and sparks fly as the rounds hit the tractor, whining as they ricochet off the ground.
The Dragunov cracks again, a slow series of probing shots. I pop up and drop a mark with a round to the gut—lethal if untreated, but fuck me, this is a full-on gunfight and we're hideously outnumbered; what the fuck am I supposed to do? Tickle them?
I hear a truck engine—an ex-military Humvee rolls to a stop in the opening between hangars, a fifty cal gunner drawing a bead on my location.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," I grumble. "Not good."
A fifty cal at this distance will rip through this little tractor like it’s made of fucking paper. Hoping Scar can get a shot on him before he can tear me to shreds, I suck in a sharp breath, figuratively cross my fingers, and pop up, spraying several bursts in the direction of the Humvee.
CRACKCRACKCRACCRACKCRACK! The big fifty-cal opens up, and the luggage explodes in a cloud of shredded clothing and pieces of suitcase; the rounds go high, but they begin walking down toward me.
Time to fucking go.
CRACK!
Right as I'm about to make my exit and regroup, Scar takes out the gunner. Switching plans, I decide to pursue a reckless and probably idiotic idea: take the Humvee.
I sprint for it. The driver's door swings open and a tango hits his knee and brings an M4 carbine to his shoulder, firing at me; his rounds slice high and wide. I bring my rifle to my shoulder and put a round through his left shoulder and another through his right hand. He drops, yelling and cursing in Spanish. Two more targets emerge from the vehicle, but the Dragunov sprays their brains across the tarmac before they can even get their guns to bear.
I skid to a stop, yank the yowling driver out of the way, and throw myself behind the wheel. I slam the door closed, catching the driver with the corner of the door. It's still idling, which is good news. These Humvees don't start with a simple turn of a key—it's more complicated than that. I gun the engine, and the gunner thuds to the ground as the huge, heavy vehicle lurches forward. I pull it around and head for Inez's jet; the door opens downward as I approach, becoming stairs.
Immediately, gunfire rattles, and rounds plink off the side of the jet; a muzzle burst from inside returns fire. I hear Scarlett's rifle cracking steadily. They've realized the Humvee is no longer theirs—this deduction is made courtesy of the deafening barrage of rounds dinging and smacking off the doors and bulletproof glass.
I whip around to a stop at the stairs, pull the trans out of gear, shove open my door, and put down suppressive fire. It sort of works—more so because of Scarlett, though. Her rounds drop targets every time. Not a single bullet misses. Headshot, headshot, headshot. The wicked accuracy puts the targets under cover long enough for Inez to make it off the jet and into the Humvee.
"GO!" She shouts at me. " LET'S GO, LET'S GO !"
I slide behind the wheel and gun it, the Humvee echoing with the metallic thunder of ricocheting bullets.
I swing between buildings, and the clink and rattle of bullets hitting us stop all at once. The Humvee blasts out from between hangars, coming face to face with two pickups parked nose-to-nose across the road, blocking our way forward.
"Got it," Inez says, scrambling over the seats into the rear and taking the fifty cal.
It's deafening, shaking thunder rolls, and I don't bother even slowing down. "HOLD ON!" I shout.
The fifty cal erases the soldiers from existence in a pink spray, and we smash through the trucks, knocking them aside easily while we barely slow.
Inez stays on the fifty as we barrel down the roadway running behind the row of hangars; I make the turn that takes us toward the parking garage where Scarlett is positioned. The fifty belches and the whole Humvee shakes with the recoil; Inez knows what she's doing, that's for damn sure. She fires in steady bursts, taking her time and aiming. I both hear and feel rounds plinking and zinging off the vehicle.
Inez snarls in pain at one point, a pissed-off cry.
"You good?"
"Good," she calls back. "Creased my arm."
Fucking weird—I'm in a gunfight with Inez . Who had that on their bingo card for this year? Not me.
One more turn, and we screech to a halt behind the garage. I'd originally intended to pile us all into the little pickup, but plans changed.
A minute later, the front passenger door opens and Scarlett hops in, red-faced, sweaty, panting. Her face is peppered with red dots: a round hit a little too close, spraying her face with shards of concrete.
"Okay, baby?" I ask, glancing at her.
She grins. "Five by five, hotshot. You?"
"Dandy." I glance back. "Inez? How you holdin’ up?"
“I’ll be better when we put distance between us and this entire situation."
"I meant physically."
"Fine. Just drive."
"Not exactly incognito in this big bitch, boss," I say.
"I'm well aware. Plans have been laid. For now, just get out of here. I'll stay up here and make sure we are not pursued."
Scarlett glances at me, eyebrow arched. "Plans have been laid?"
I just laugh. "It's how she is. But that said, this is a side of her I've never seen. I heard her tell my brother Saxon that her background is wetwork, but this is the first I’ve seen it."
"Well, she's a deadeye with that fifty, I'll tell you that for free," Scarlett says. "Never seen anything like it."
I smash through a chain-link fence and we jounce over a curb and onto a service road.
"Slow down, Solomon," Inez calls, sliding down from the gunner position. I slow to an inconspicuous thirty miles per hour. "Turn right here."
We’re in the maintenance crew staging area—luggage tractors and jet tugs in need of service are parked everywhere, and a row of parked landscaping trucks line the far end of the lot. Crew members mill around doing various jobs and few of them pay attention to us even when we brake to a screeching halt in the middle of the repair yard.
Inez hops out first, beelining to a middle-aged man wearing khakis, a white button down, a tie, and a bright yellow hi-vis vest with a hard hat; he's on the phone, gesticulating angrily. Inez walks right up to him, snatches the phone from his hand, ends the calls, and speaks to him. The man tries to argue, but only once. Something Inez says stops him cold—he nods, backing away. Maybe it was just that icy look she gets—that'll stop anyone in their tracks.
He points at a newer pickup, a model not available in the US—it has a magnetic decal on the side announcing it as a telecom company truck. Inez climbs behind the wheel and brings the truck beside the Humvee.
Scar and I scramble out; Scarlett takes the back seat, leaving me to take the front.
A few seconds later, we're gone. Five minutes after that, we're off the airport grounds, passing a long line of police cars flashing lights and sirens on the way to the airport.
Glancing behind us, I see no sign of pursuit.
"Looks like we're clear for now," I say.
"Well done," Inez says, not looking at me.
Her jaw is tight, the corners of her eyes crinkled with tension. I scan her—the so-called "scratch" is actually a deep gouge along the outside of her right bicep, and it's bleeding profusely.
"Inez, dammit," I mutter. "That needs attention."
“So attend it," she says, her voice back to her usual cold, dry, rattlesnake rasp.
I rummage through the glove box and center console and find a small med kit and a wad of carryout napkins. I dab the worst of the blood away with the napkin, apply a liberal glop of AAA cream, and then tape bandages over the wound.
That done, I give my boss another once over.
She's about my age, maybe a little older—mid-thirties or so. Latin American origin, with long black hair in a thick braid down her back, wearing a black cap. Short-sleeve black shirt, black BDU pants, combat boots, tactical gloves.
I've never really looked at Inez, not really. I've only ever seen her as my boss, a figure of authority. She tends to come, give orders, and leave. But now, I see her in a new light.
She's beautiful. Sharp, angular, symmetrical facial features, and bright black eyes radiating lethal energy. A puckered round hole divots the side of her neck near her collar.
Not thinking, I touch the bullet scar. "That one had your name on it."
A pistol appears by magic, the barrel touching my jaw. "Do… not …touch me. Ever. Got it?"
I hold my hands up. "My bad. Sorry—I'm sorry. Won’t happen again, boss."
The pistol vanishes. Her jaw ticks, and she glances at me. "We all have our hangups. Being touched is one of mine. Do not do it, please." As close to an explanation and apology as I'm gonna get, I realize.
"All good. Shoulda known better, boss. Sorry."
She lets out a soft breath. "It is fine."
We drive in silence for a while—she's heading in-city, taking a direct route as if she knows exactly where she's going and how to get there.
"So, we have a plan?" I ask.
She nods. "We do."
"Care to enlighten us?"
"Not at this time." She glances in the rearview mirror. "Scarlett Gutierrez, I am Inez. I am glad to meet you."
Scarlett leans forward between the seats. "Nice to meet you too, Inez."
"We have an additional problem," Inez says.
"And that is?" I prompt.
"Lash volunteered to come find you." She sighs. "I was not entirely truthful with the others about your situation. I told them it was CIA-related. Lash left to find you, and we have not heard from him since."
I groan. "Well, shit. Last known location?"
"On a jet somewhere between Las Vegas and Rio de Janeiro," she answers. "Jean-Paul reports that his jet, which Lash was riding in, vanished from radar somewhere over Mexico. There have been no reports of crashes, and it has not reappeared."
"Who the fuck is Jean-Paul?" I ask.
Inez rubs her face. "Someone connected to Silas. All three of you Cabots encountered...difficulties at the same time. Silas and Saxon both had to face the ghosts of their pasts via The Syndicate."
"Shit. They good?"
She nods. "All is well, now. Things were interesting for a while, with all three of you gone at the same time.”
"They turn up with women?"
"Indeed. Seems to be a running theme," she says, glancing at Scarlett over her shoulder.
"So, Jean-Paul is…”
"Someone at the top of the Syndicate. Silas and his...paramour, I suppose we can call her...created some changes at the top of the pyramid within the Syndicate. Jean-Paul was impressed, and he's a hard man to impress." Inez flips her braid back over her shoulder with a flick of her head.
"So we gotta find Lash, too?" I ask.
"Jean-Paul claims he can find a location for the jet; it will just take some time—he has to get the original designer, Valentine Roth, to authorize a trace of the black box."
"They can trace black boxes, now?"
"This one they can. The jet was...experimental, with a lot of very advanced technology."
Scarlett chimes in. "I've heard of him—that Roth guy. Billionaire, owns, like, half the world. He and that robotics guru, Xavier Badd, are working on some kind of new device for exploring hostile environments like Venus and places like that."
"Valentine Roth has fingers a lot of pies," Inez answers. "He is a close associate of our employer."
I frown. “He is? He knows him? Like personally?"
She nods. "Indeed."
"Interesting." I hesitate. "So...Inez."
She shakes her head. "Not now, Solomon. That little scrum at the airport was just a shot across the bow. They want me alive, so they let us go."
"Didn't feel like they let us go."
"They have military-grade hardware, Solomon. They could have put a Stinger up our tailpipe."
"Smacks of cartel," I surmise.
She sighs. "I promised you answers. I will keep that promise. For now, we need to get to my contact."
"Your contact?"
"A ghost from a former life. One of the few humans outside of you seven and our employer whom I legitimately trust. His name is Lorenzo." I notice the way her shoulders go tense, the way her jaw tightens and her eyes harden, go distant; she’s got history with this Lorenzo.
I feel Scarlett's hand on my arm, and I twist to look at her; she gives me a minute headshake—don't bring it up.
Inez, however, doesn't miss a trick. Her lips twitch in something very nearly like a smirk. "Yes, I have...a personal connection to Lorenzo. Things might be somewhat awkward, but that is my worry, not yours."
"It's almost like you're a real person," I say, chuckling. "Smiling, sharing info, having personal connections and shit. Welcome to Earth."
Her head twists slowly to level a blank stare at me. "And what, may I ask, does that mean?"
I sigh. "Inez, it's not exactly classified intel that you're...aloof."
Her brow furrows. "Aloof?"
"Yeah, aloof at best. You've been our only point of contact with the outside world since the day we all took the brand and swore the oath, yet you've consistently been...inaccessible at best, as a person." I hold up my hands. "I know, I know—you're a superior officer, for all intents and purposes, not our friend. But you've given us precisely zero insight into who you are. As a group, we accept that. You're reliable, loyal, dedicated, and highly skilled. But as a human, you're a total void to us."
Her fist twists on the steering wheel, and her jaw works. Her eyes scan restlessly, checking mirrors and blind spots, rooftops, intersections, doorways—constantly assessing threats.
"I have had my reasons, Solomon."
I look at her. "We know. Trust me, we, of all people, understand that. But..." I sigh. "Never mind. Not my place."
Inez glances at me. "Speak freely, Solomon."
I look back at Scar, but she just shrugs—this one is all me. "Well, first, call me Sol. Second, what I was gonna say is that we understand the separation between us—between you and us guys. You're the big boss's second in command. We're all soldiers—we all understand the chain of command. But at the end of the day, we're not military anymore. We trust you because you've proven yourself to us. You show up when we need you. You provide what we need, which is a big fuckin' deal for us, Inez—we have no contact with the world outside the club. You're it. But it's hard to fully trust you when we don't fuckin’ know you. Not a goddamn thing. You have our files. You know every last fuckin' thing about us, personally, professionally, and medically. You know our deepest, darkest secrets. You've seen each of us at our worst. We don't even know your last goddamned name. We can live without knowing the first thing about the guy who employs us, the guy who saved our lives and gave us a new lease on life. But you're our handler, Inez. Our liaison. We've all felt like we need a little more from you, personally. You don't need to be our best friend. You don't need to get trashed with us if that's not your thing. But you need to come down from your mountain once in a while and show us you're an actual fucking person."
She lets out a short, sharp breath. "I shall require time to consider what you've told me...Sol. That's all I can give you at this time—I hear you, and I'll consider what you've said." She glances at the cheap Timex on her left wrist. "We're late. Lorenzo will be waiting."
We're downtown, passing by a stadium of some kind. She pulls into a parking garage and heads down to a far back corner. A battered, dirty, mud-caked, dented, rusty FJ40 is backed into a parking spot; as we approach, the driver's door opens, and a tall, broad-shouldered man rises from the vehicle. He leans back in and retrieves an HK MP5SD and a khaki military rucksack—which is heavy, judging by the way he swings it onto his right shoulder.
I assess him as he approaches our vehicle. Six-three or six-four, he's in his late thirties, with messy, longish jet-black hair under a battered red-and-white ballcap bearing some obscure Brazilian logo. He's densely muscled, and he moves with the confident, predatory grace of an operator. He's wearing faded, dirty blue jeans and a plain gray crewneck T-shirt with dusty, battered black combat boots. he has a sidearm strapped low on his right thigh. He wears a short, neat beard framing a hard jawline, and his eyes are deep and dark and restless. Objectively speaking, he's a helluva good-looking dude, oozing lethal capability.
He jerks open the rear passenger door, and Scarlett scoots to sit behind Inez; Lorenzo tosses his gear in and goes to the hatch of the old Toyota. He pulls out four black tac vests, tosses them into the bed of the truck, and then a huge, heavy black duffel bag that also goes into the bed. Then he slides behind my seat and shuts the door.
He lets out a sigh and then leans forward onto the console and touches Inez's shoulder, murmuring to her in Portuguese: “It has been a long time, Sophia. You look...quite well."
Inez's eyes flick to me, and she sighs, jaw ticking. "My name is Inez." She says this in English.
Lorenzo nods and then shrugs, his head tipping to one side. "As you wish. But to me, you will always be Sophia. Sophia Bruna Santos de Silva."
Inez rests her forehead on the steering wheel, shoulders slumping. She speaks without picking her head up. "You are a terrible listener, Ren. I'm already regretting the decision to contact you." This is in Portuguese.
Lorenzo just chuckles. "You mean your friends don't know Sophia?"
"They barely know Inez."
"Inez doesn't exist."
"Neither does fucking Sophia ,” she snaps in English, whirling to glare at him.
I’ve never heard Inez curse, raise her voice, or show any kind of emotion. To say I'm stunned would be a massive understatement.
Lorenzo sits back, shifting his HK into a more comfortable position. "I'll call you whatever you wish to be called, Inez, but I will not pretend our history doesn't exist. You asked for my help. Well, here I am. I told you many, many years ago that I would always answer if you called, no matter what. I keep my promises. But you cannot ask me to pretend twenty years of history doesn’t fucking exist." This, too, is in Portuguese.
Inez picks her head up and squares her shoulders. "I'm not asking you to pretend anything."
I turn in the seat and extend a hand to Lorenzo. "I'm Solomon Cabot. This is Scarla Gutierrez. Thanks for joining us." I say this in Portuguese.
His eyes widen in surprise—my Portuguese is nearly as good as his and Inez's, and I assume it's their native tongue, judging by the way they both lapse in and out of it.
He shakes my hand. "Glad to meet you, Solomon." He shakes Scarlett's hand, then. "And you, Scarla. That's an interesting, and accurate, nickname, I must admit." This is all in English. He addresses Inez, then. "We need to get out of Bogotá. This place is fucked."
Inez nods and starts back up toward street level. "Where?"
"Anywhere that's not fucking Colombia. Quito, Lima, Santiago, shit, Sao Paulo."
Inez snorts. "We need real options, Ren. I have a man missing. Mercado has half his fucking organization after me, and they used him—" a head jerk in my direction "as bait. I can't just board a plane, and neither can they."
Ren toys with the fire selector switch of his rifle. "I have a place in San José.”
Inez pulls out into traffic and heads north. "And how do we get there from here?”
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Won’t be easy. My guy has a line into Mercado's comms, says he's pulling out all the stops for you. Mercado wants you alive, and he’ll stop at nothing to get you.”
“You are not telling me anything I don't know," Inez says; they've both switched to English. "Options, Lorenzo. It's why I called you."
“I can get us to Costa Rica if we can get out of Bogotá. Medellin would work. Quito would be better."
"They had military-grade hardware waiting for me at the airport," she says. “It got pretty spicy."
"Told you, darling—Mercado will stop at nothing to get you back."
Inez sighs deeply. “I’ll die first. I'll put a bullet in my own brain before I let him so much as lay eyes on me."
"Figured you would want to get him alone," Lorenzo says. “You…him…a knife.”
"I spent many years harboring a desire for revenge. I've moved on." She glances at me and then at Scarlett in the mirror. "Things are not going to get any easier, I'm afraid. I hope you're ready."
I put a fresh mag into my AK. "We've got your back, Inez."
She smiles at me, an almost soft look of gratitude. "I appreciate that. And I'm sorry, Solomon. I'm sorry my problems have caused you so much suffering. You too, Scarlett."
Scarlett just shrugs. "It got me Sol back. Worth it."
"Inez, can Lorenzo help us find Lash?" I ask.
Lorenzo frowns. "Find who?"
"My missing man, " Inez answers. “He was aboard a private jet from Las Vegas that went missing. A very unique, very expensive private jet belonging to a very, very dangerous individual."
"Anyone I've heard of?" he asks.
"Are you familiar with The Syndicate?"
"Yes."
"It belongs to one of the heads of that organization."
Lorenzo whistles. "Takes balls to fuck with them." He pulls a cell phone from his hip pocket. "I'll make some calls, put out some feelers."
“I would appreciate it," Inez says.
Lorenzo spends the next twenty minutes on the phone, switching from Portuguese to Spanish to English so rapidly and randomly that I can barely follow him. When he slides his phone away, he addresses Inez.
"I have my people looking into it."
“Thank you, Lorenzo." She hesitates, glances at him in the mirror, and then lets out a breath. "We have not discussed your payment."
Lorenzo snorts. “I will not accept your money. I am here for you ."
Inez doesn't answer for a moment. "My employer will insist."
Lorenzo shrugs. "His money I will take. But I do it for you, not for money."
Inez doesn't answer again. Her eyes are troubled—seeing ghosts.
Several minutes later, Lorenzo's phone rings. He answers it with a terse English “Yes?" Listens for a moment. "I see. Thank you." This is in Spanish. He leans forward to address Inez. "The Fifty and the Fifty-six are blocked off entirely. Our only option is to take the Forty south and try to swing north at Armenia."
"That's days out of the way," Inez says.
"Well, unless you have a Stinger hidden somewhere, it's the only option."
I frown at Inez. "When he says 'blocked off,” he means..."
Lorenzo answers. "I mean, Mercado can block off entire freeways. He knows we want out of Bogotá, and he's not making it easy."
"Then won't going south be playing right into his hands?" I ask.
Lorenzo shrugs. "Yes. But we are not equipped for the kind of fight that waits for us if we try any northward routes. We can go south or east."
"I guess I'm not following,” I say.
Inez lets out a sigh that's more of a growl than anything. "Mercado knows Lorenzo is with me. He knows you two are with me. He knows my contacts and Lorenzo's are mostly in Brazil, Colombia, and parts of Central America—he owns Venezuela, which is not an option, and he controls much of Brazil and Colombia, rendering those contacts of ours useless—they won't operate against Mercado, even for me."
"I think we need to know who this Mercado is," I say.
Inez runs her braid through her hand, pulling it forward over her shoulder to trail down her chest. "He's my husband."