Chapter 2 OKSANA #2
It started last night, in my hotel room—thankfully, after my well-deserved shower and a peek at the files on Nicholas Conti that Grigori sent me. I was so absorbed in it that I nearly missed the quiet knock on the door. Yorvi gave me a nervous once-over. "You were looking for me?"
I let him in and asked him to translate the recording I made. He translated the call line by line, his voice flattening as the meaning sharpened, making him even more nervous.
The bottom line was:
Nico was still alive and in the hands of the Mexicans. At La Cueva del Jaguar, an isolated, cartel-controlled mine in the Sierra in Mexico. A place where people disappeared quietly.
Yorvi barely finished translating before the hallway outside erupted. Gunfire shattered the doorframe, and splinters exploded inward. He went down hard, his blood spraying across the cheap carpet. I didn’t stay to see if he was dead. I was sure Valverde’s men wouldn't miss twice.
My only choice was to go out the window.
Three stories down stood a dumpster I had repositioned to that spot for this exact scenario.
The dumpster smelled like rot and old fish, and I landed hard.
The impact knocked the wind out of me, and pain bloomed through my ribs.
It wasn't one of my most elegant escapes and hurt my pride, but I was alive and well enough to get out of the dumpster while shots were being fired at me from above.
I didn't wait for Valverde's men to track me and made a run for it through the escape route I had scouted out my first night here.
A motorcycle—bought upon arrival and stashed around the corner—made for a quick getaway to a secondary location.
All it took to get into Mexican airspace after that was a quick search, a few thousand dollars in bribes, and patience. A plane already scheduled to run from Venezuela to Mexico—officially hauling industrial materials, unofficially stuffed with heroin—was the perfect disguise.
I ditched the pilot and showed up when the groundcrew needed someone who didn’t ask questions and was vouched for by one of Aurelio’s lieutenants—our tech team helped with that part.
The cover won’t hold long, but it doesn’t have to. Only long enough to reach the mine. Long enough to find Nico. Long enough to decide what comes next.
I roll my shoulders, easing the kink in my neck, then pull the headset down and dial Grigori.
"Da, Malishka—yes, little one." He's the only one who gets away with calling me that.
"Grisha," I respond, calling him in turn by the nickname he hates. "I found out that Nico is alive and that they moved him from Caracas to a place in Mexico. I'm on my way now."
There is nothing for a heartbeat. Then Grigori exhales slowly. He doesn't ask me if I’m alright, he knows better, but I am. My pride took a little bruising, but I'm building it back up. "Listen, Valverde knew I was there and that I've been watching him. "
"Blyad." The Russian word crawls through my ear like smoke. I keep my eyes on the horizon, flat and endless, the ridges of the mountains cutting the world in half. "Does he know who you are?"
I hate to admit this, but he is the Pakhan; he needs all the information. "I don't know. But whoever tipped him off would have probably told him that, too. And the only people who knew I was there are ours."
"If you've been compromised…" He doesn't need to finish.
"I'll get to the bottom of this," I promise.
"I'll look into my end," he vows, and then he says something he hasn't said in a long time, "Be careful, Malishka, it feels like a storm is coming. A big one."
As if on cue, the plane jerks through a pocket of turbulence, startling me, and a metallic shudder rattles my teeth. Shit. I grip the yoke and steady the bird.
"Yeah," I agree, taking the little pocket for an omen. We disconnect and the yoke bucks once, hard, then settles under my palms. A few minutes later, I let out a hiss through my teeth as I eye the thin strip of dirt carved out of scrub on the ground where I’m meant to land.
The Cessna kisses down with more attitude than grace and rattles to a stop beside a rusting fuel drum and a pickup with a mismatched door.
Heat hits me like a wet slap when I climb out.
Two men step from the shade of the shack, dressed in baseball caps, cheap sunglasses, and boots that have seen too many bad ideas.
Kalashnikov machine guns are slung over their shoulders, and handguns are strapped to their thighs.
One is wiry with a coyote smile; the other’s belly presses against his belt like it’s trying to escape.
On said belt, a set of keys jingles with every move he makes.
"You’re not El Gordo Luis," Belly says in Spanish. Or at least I think it's what he says.
No shit, Sherlock. Do I look six feet and three hundred pounds?
"He didn’t make it," I answer in English, flat, bored. "I’m his replacement."
They trade a string of fast words, from which I only pick up a few—avión, reemplazo, Valverde—enough to know I need a tutor. I file it under: later.
"Why would they send a gringa as a replacement?" Coyote asks in broken English.
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because I was the only one handy who could fly that piece of trash." I point at the plane.
Belly eyes me suspiciously, then nods at Coyote to check the plane. The scrawny one vanishes, and I light a cigarette, looking bored and trying to ignore the way Belly is eyeing my breasts, which are unfortunately visible even through the oversized dress I picked up.
"Está todo aquí, jefe." Coyote cries from the cargo hold. I roll my eyes meaningfully at Belly.
He nods at me, "Vámonos."
I pretend to protest, but that was the plan all along: being taken to their lair, where I should be able to find Nico. If he's still alive. "Hold on, that's not the plan. Give me my money, and I'm out of here."
"We have to unload the plane, gringa, you want to stand out here in the heat and watch?" Belly informs me, and just then, several trucks come down the road in a gust of dust.
"Fine, but you’d better have a beer," I grumble, shouldering my bag and following Belly into his Jeep.
My pistol is a quiet, reassuring weight hidden underneath the cotton of my oversized dress.
Coyote gets into the driver's seat, and we pull off the strip, spreading a cloud of dust behind us in a dirty ribbon.
The mountain road climbs fast, then turns mean.
Switchbacks chew at the tires. Coyote drives one-handed, texting with the other, while the radio burbles out banda music interspersed with a DJ's voice who is laughing too hard and talking too loud.
For a moment, I contemplate shooting them all, including the radio, but that would only complicate my mission, so I resign myself to the torture for a little while longer and watch the world in slivers through the dirty window.
All I see are goat trails, a woman hanging laundry like flags of surrender, and the silver seam of a river cut so low it looks like a scar.
The ridgelines stack into each other until the horizon is a line of broken teeth.
I mark the distances; a ten-minute drive translates to an hour and a half on foot, maybe two if you’re bleeding.
"?Hablas Espanol?" Belly asks without turning.
"Enough to land a plane," I reply. He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard today. It probably is.
We crest a rise, and there it is—La Cueva del Jaguar—the mine’s mouth is nothing but a black coin set into the hillside, and a corrugated metal outbuilding squats beside it like a doghouse for a monster.
Two pickups idle near the cave. A third is at the far fence line, bed bristling with men who pretend rifles make them gods.
"Let's get your payment and a beer, eh, gringa?"
"Whatever you say, jefe, lead the way." I keep my tone bored and follow him. He shrugs. That’s the plan anyway. He thinks it’s his.
They lead me past a sagging chain-link gate and a Virgin statue with chipped paint.
I bow my head out of habit. I've long ago stopped practicing religion and make a note of the guard who pretends not to watch me. Inside, the heat retreats some, but the cave’s dampness threatens to drown me.
The mine swallows all the light but repays in echoes that bounce off the high walls.
My skin prickles in warning as I count the many men up front and note the abundance of guns.
It makes sense, though. The plane I flew in is packed with heroin from Caracas.
All these men here are going to take it to places like Mexico City and across the border.
We reach a steel door where a man with a crooked nose and a better rifle looks me over like I’m a crate he doesn’t trust.
"Teléfono," he says, tapping his pocket. I hand him a decoy with a cracked screen. He grunts, pockets it, and pushes the door open. He doesn't frisk me. Macho asshole.
We pass a row of alcoves retrofitted into cages, containing the most pitiful sight of men, women, and children of all races. All of them are filled to the brim, except one, which only holds one person. I don’t check if it's Nico. Not yet. I walk like a woman who sees nothing but a paycheck.
The tunnel narrows. The light worsens. The air tastes like old pennies and bad decisions.
A hand closes around my elbow, too familiar, too confident.
I let my shoulder roll, break the grip at the thumb, and step aside just enough to become a problem.
My elbow finds ribs. My palm finds a face.
Crooked Nose goes down on his knees for a few seconds, glaring at me.
"Careful," I murmur. "I bruise easily."
They laugh. They always do, right up until they don’t.