EPILOGUE
epilogue: the energy of hate
Inez
Everything hurts, but I welcome the pain. It centers me, focuses me, motivates me. Fuels my fury and energizes my hate.
I have the windows down, letting the wind buffet me as I haul ass toward Texas. No music, no podcast or audiobook to pass the time, just me and my thoughts, stewing in my rage.
Rafael Sousa.
Flashes of what I endured at his hands sear through my mind. Beatings. Being shocked by car batteries attached to jumper cables, the alligator jaws clamped on sensitive skin. Sleep deprivation. Starvation. Sound assault—a hideously obnoxious old-timey commercial jingle for a long-defunct baking soda played on repeat at a deafening volume for hours upon hours.
I told the men the truth—Rafael never raped me, nor did his men. But they did…other things.
I can't go there. My fury is already boiling over, and if I dwell on that, I'm liable to go into a blind, murderous rage. Innocent people will get hurt—I know myself well enough to know that I am in a very, very dangerous mood.
My phone rings, so I roll up the windows and answer the call—the infotainment system of the G-Wagen automatically routes the call to the car’s audio system and microphones.
"Inez." The voice is deep, smooth, cultured and refined, authoritative.
"Still fine," I snap. "I don't need you checking in on me every hour…sir."
"And yet, here we are."
I sigh. "Indeed, sir. Here we are."
"You should not be alone right now, Inez." The voice is almost affectionate.
"I am past any danger from a concussion. I had one, but it wasn't too bad. I'm well enough now, sir."
"Do you know where Lorenzo took them?"
"No. On purpose. I have to assume my calls are being monitored. Or his."
"The encryption app should take care of that."
"He's using a cheap flip phone burner. It won't support it. I use it but I'm still not trusting any details to a phone call, no matter how well encrypted."
“So, where are you going?"
"Texas. He'll have left me some kind of note or clue. I know where he was. I'll find him."
"And Rafael?"
I let out a snarling sigh. "Working on that. First order of business is hooking up with Lorenzo."
"I'd have thought you'd done that part already, Inez." The voice goes light, teasing.
"Not going there with you, sir."
"No sense of humor."
I suppress a snarky reply. "Not at the moment, no."
"How are the men?"
"Settling in. Happy to be home and not happy to be left out."
"You should have brought one or two of them with you.”
"I can't. I have to deal with this myself."
"No, Inez, you don't."
"Yes, sir, I do."
"Did you discuss the next phase of Club Sin and the Broken Arrows with the men?"
"No. I told them changes were coming. I have to finish this, sir. That's the only thing that matters to me right now.”
A heavy sigh. "I understand that."
"I suppose you would, sir."
"Just…come home alive and in one piece. That's an order, Sophia de Silva." He has never used my full, real name.
It's a little disconcerting.
"What will you do, sir? After this."
A moment of silence. "I'm not certain. Perhaps…well, best I keep my conjectures to myself for now, I think. We’ll discuss the future of Club Sin and the Broken Arrows when you return. The only thing I know for certain is that whatever happens, you will be at the fore. You are important to me, Sophia."
"And you to me…sir." The one hard and fast rule is to never, ever speak his name over any phone line, even encrypted.
The dead aren't supposed to make phone calls, after all.
"Very well. I am satisfied that you are lucid and coherent. But you must be smart. If you push your body beyond its limits, you'll be no good to anyone."
"I understand, sir. I'll be careful."
"See that you are. You are irreplaceable, you know."
"He could come after you, sir. It's not outside the realm of possibility. I think he knows of you, but not exactly who you are, or were. My point is you need to be on guard as well."
His laugh is predatory. Vicious. "I almost hope he tries."
I snort. "Honestly, sir, me too."
"We will speak again later, Inez."
"Yes sir. Goodbye."
He doesn't respond, as is his way—just hangs up.
I roll the windows back down and hang my hand out the window. I rip the hat off my head and pull the elastic band out of my hair, letting the wind flutter it every which way. I'll regret it later when I have to comb the snarls out, but for now, I need the tactile sensation of the wind in my hair.
Anything to keep me in the present.
Anything to keep the past from rising up in me like vomit.
Anything to center me, so I don't fall back into that pit, where Father's men took their turns on me while I was chained to a cot.
I shake my head as those memories threaten to surge up and overtake me.
No.
That's over. Those men are all dead. Ironically, it was Rafael who killed them, and some days I'm grateful while other days I resent it, wishing I had the closure of killing them myself.
I turn my thoughts to Lorenzo. My heart leaps at the mere thought of him—desperation to be near him rifles through me.
I need him.
I hate it, but I do.
He is the one human being on this planet who truly knows me. Even my employer only knows certain parts of me. Lorenzo? He knows it all. He knows me inside and out. All my secrets.
He knows the shape of the nightmares that haunt my dreams, keeping me from restful slumber.
My hope is that by finally erasing Rafael from this earth I will finally know a measure of peace. I’ll be able to sleep at night.
Perhaps even find happiness.
With Lorenzo. If there is happiness for me on this earth, it will be with him. I just…I can't have that while Rafael lives.
I long to call Lorenzo. To hear his voice, just for a moment.
I wonder if he realizes how much he means to me, if he knows how totally he's woven into my being. I wonder if he knows I dream of him every night. That I have wept myself to sleep in the dark and solitude of my room, missing him. Craving him.
I press the accelerator, and the powerful SUV jumps forward. It's a twenty-some-hour drive from Las Vegas to Houston where Lorenzo last was, and I am lonely and in pain and angry and desperate. I should turn on the radio to distract myself, but I don't. I'm a masochistic like that—the pain and anger crystalize as I drive, become a single hard diamond at the center of me. Hour after hour, I fight my memories, my nightmares. And yet, with every hour and mile that passes, I feel myself drawing nearer and nearer to Lorenzo.
He's out there, alive, protecting my boy and the woman I chose to be his mother. I wish I could call him, hear his voice, get his advice, hear him tell me he loves me.
I dare not.
Instead, I drive faster, recklessly, illegally fast. Swerving around slower-moving cars, dodging oncoming traffic, and ignoring horns and middle fingers. At one point, I hear sirens behind me and see flashing lights—I pull off the freeway and lose them in a subdivision.
Back on the freeway, I floor the accelerator.
Four in the morning. Houston is quiet, only a few early risers on their way to work filling the roads. I follow the car's GPS to the address of the safe house—it's in a rambling, run-down, lower-middle-class suburb on the outskirts of the metropolitan area, a neighborhood of narrow, tree-lined roads, tiny ranch homes with yellowing postage stamp yards and 20-year-old cars in the driveways.
The safe house is a carbon copy of every other house on the street—a pale yellow ranch with faded shingles and a buckling walkway to the front door, green shutters on either side of the picture window, and wobbly wrought-iron railings on either side of the microscopic concrete steps.
No car in the driveway, and the detached garage is open and empty. I park in the driveway, and leave the car running with the fob in my pocket. The front door is slightly ajar, and I instantly recognize the scent of death.
I know he's not here—he got a message to me that they'd been attacked and were fine but relocating. But still, the scent of death sends panic whirling inside me. I draw my pistol, slip the suppressor from my right hip pocket and screw it on as I nudge open the door with my hip. The door opens into the living room—white walls, old, stained, wear-flattened beige carpet, sagging faux-leather couch and mismatched loveseat, and an easy chair. Aging flatscreen TV.
Blood spatters the walls next to the door, and a pair of bullet holes pock the wall—rounds that went through a skull and into the wall. More blood on the floor between the living room and kitchen—a giant pool of it half on the carpet in the living room and half on the warped laminate floor of the kitchen.
The wall separating the kitchen from the living room is dented on the kitchen side as if a big, heavy body had slammed into it. The sliding glass door to the back deck is shattered, the remaining shards stained with blood, which is pooled on the gray, weather-faded deck. An old, rusty, Weber kettle grill sits forgotten in one corner of the deck, the lid slightly askew—that niggles in my brain, but I leave it for later.
I finish my examination of the house—more blood in the hallway. Empty bedrooms, drawers open as if the contents were thrown into a bag in a hurry. The bathroom door is closed. I open it, and the stench of death nearly bowls me over. The A/C is off and it's fucking hot. Bodies have been piled in the tub like cords of firewood—Rafael's mercenaries, eliminated by Lorenzo.
After my initial look-through is done, I go through more slowly, looking for clues as to where he may have gone.
Cabinets are empty. Nothing under the mattresses. Nothing in the fridge or freezer. Eventually, I go back to that grill out on the deck. It could have been bumped by someone, by a raccoon or the wind. But I doubt it. I go out and lift off the lid, sighing in relief. A glossy coupon flyer sits on the grate, advertising pizza specials for some mom-and-pop place in…I scan the flyer…
Austin.
I'm not sure how he managed to get a flyer from Austin to Houston, but I know without a doubt that it’s the message from Lorenzo.
I pick it up from the grate and examine it more closely. He has circled numbers and letters in various places on the flyer—a coded message telling me the address of the next safe house.
I just have to crack it.
I fold the flyer and put it in my back pocket, walk around the side of the house to my SUV, and drive back toward the freeway. But instead of getting on, I recognize my own exhaustion and make the smart decision to call it a day—I drove straight through from Vegas, stopping only for gas and drive-through, and that was six hours ago.
I pick up a pizza from a nearby place and take it with me as I check into a Red Roof Inn near the freeway ramp. I devour the pizza while working on Lorenzo's code.
When I finally crack it, I burn the flyer in the sink, memorize the Austin address, and then burn the notepad paper I'd written the address on while cracking it. A Google search tells me the new address is similar to this one—a nondescript little house in the suburbs of Austin.
The question is whether I'll reach them before Rafael's mercenaries do.
As much as I want to leave now, I know I need sleep, so I lay on the bed fully clothed, and draw on years of practice to fall asleep quickly.
I wake after a few hours of fitful sleep and get on the road, stopping for coffee and a breakfast burrito.
Three hours later, I arrive in Austin. The neighborhood is far from downtown, a quiet neighborhood, a bit more well-kept than Houston.
Scanning house numbers, I crawl slowly down the street, listening, watching.
I pass a shiny new Suburban parked outside one of the more run-down houses in the area—red flag number one.
The fit blonde woman pushing a stroller is red flag number two—I don't know why exactly, but my instincts don't like her, and I trust my instincts.
A flash of movement from a backyard is red flag number three—men in black tac gear carrying assault rifles.
"Fuck." I hit the single speed dial entry in my phone. It rings once, and he doesn’t speak. "Contact," I say in Spanish. "Multiple targets. Front and rear."
"I understand," he answers in Spanish. "We are ready."
I hang up, shove the phone in my back pocket, and park the SUV beneath a big spreading oak tree. Reach into the second row and grab my vest, shrug into it, hissing as my bruised and cracked ribs protest painfully. I clip my HK MP5K to my vest, shove spare mags in various places, secure my sidearm, suppressor off.
This will not be quiet or discreet.
This is going to be a firefight.
The woman with the stroller passes me, talking on the phone or pretending to. Pauses in front of a house a few doors down from where I'm parked. Bends over as if cooing at a baby I'm sure doesn’t exist.
Movement between houses.
A pickup truck squeals around a corner half a mile away, engine roaring as it speeds in this direction.
Looks like three or four in the back of the house, the woman, and the occupants of this truck—four or five more, max—eight or ten people.
Easy.
The truck screeches to a halt at an angle across the driveway on the sidewalk, inches from the woman and the stroller.
The woman reaches into the stroller, comes up with a tactical shotgun, and jogs for the front door.
Four men in black tac gear pile out of the truck, moving in pairs after the woman.
Go time.
By the time I reach the front door, the thunder and rattle-crackle of gunfire have shattered the early morning quiet.
I kick open the door and step into a bloody hellscape.