Against All Enemies mm-1 Page 11

  Still, the human atrocities committed by both groups helped Moore keep it all in perspective.

  He flipped quickly through some of the crime-scene photos of Mexican Federal Police lying in blood pools, some brutally gunned down, others with their throats slit. He paused to stare at two dozen immigrants who’d had their heads chopped off, their headless bodies piled up inside an old shed, the heads now missing and nowhere to be found. One sicario was crucified outside his house, the cross set on fire so that his father and other family members could watch him burn.

  The cartels’ brutality knew no bounds, and Moore had a sneaking suspicion that his bosses had bigger plans for him than they’d originally suggested. Everyone’s worst nightmare was for this violence to find its way across the border. It was only a matter of time.

  He checked his phone and stared at the three e-mails from Leslie Hollander. The first was a request to let her know when he’d be back in Kabul. The second was a question about whether or not he’d received her e-mail.

  The third was a question about why he was ignoring her, and said that if he replied she’d set up another session in which she would, as she carefully put it, fuck him until he was walking bowlegged like a cowboy.

  Leslie worked in the press office of the public-affairs department of the U.S. Embassy, first assigned to the embassy in Islamabad and then to the one in Kabul. She was twenty-seven years old, very lean, with dark hair and glasses. At first glance, Moore had dismissed her as an uptight geek whose virginity would remain intact until some pale-faced overweight accountant (the male version of her) came along and wrested it from her after a two-hour argument in which the process of sex was analyzed and discussed, the position agreed on, the act both clinical and upsetting to both.

  But, dear God, once the glasses and the blouse came off, Ms. Hollander revealed the remarkable contradiction between her appearance and what really lurked in her heart. Moore was overwhelmed by their sexual escapades when he could escape to the city for a weekend and stay with her; however, he already knew the ending of this movie, and the screenwriter had run out of ideas: Guy tells girl job is too important and he must break off their relationship. Guy has to leave town for work, doesn’t know when he’ll return. This will never work out.

  Interestingly enough, he’d explained all of that to her during their first dinner together, that he needed her as a source of information and that if anything came out of that, then they could explore the possibilities, but his career at the moment prevented any long-term or serious relationship.

  “Okay,” she’d said.

  Moore had nearly choked on his beer.

  “Do you think I’m a slut?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I am.”

  He’d smirked. “No, you just know how to manipulate men.”

  “How am I doing?”

  “Very well, but you don’t have to work so hard.”

  “Hey, man, look where we are. Not one of the top ten places to have fun, right? Not the happiest place on earth. So it’s up to us. We bring the fun.”

  It was that positive attitude on life coupled with her sense of humor that made her seem much more mature and utterly attractive to Moore. But the credits were rolling. The popcorn bag was empty. The lights were coming on, and their good thing was over. Should he just tell her that in an e-mail, the way he had at least two women before her? He wasn’t sure. He felt like he owed her more than that. Some of them were quick flings. And a brief note had been enough. He always took the blame. Always said it wasn’t fair to them. He’d go a year without a relationship, even resort to paying for sex because the efficiency and convenience were exactly what a man like him needed. And then, once in a while, a Leslie would come along and make him second-guess everything.

  He dialed her at work and held his breath as the phone rang.

  “Hey, stud,” she said. “No satellite service? You see, I’m trying to let you off here. Feed you an excuse …”

  “I got your e-mails. Sorry I didn’t get back.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the airport, getting ready to get on a plane.”

  “To where? The place you can’t tell me?”

  “Leslie, they’re pulling me out of here. I really don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Not funny.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  Silence.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “So, uh, was this sudden? Did you know about it? We could’ve gotten together. You didn’t let me say good-bye.”

  “You know I’ve been out of town. There wouldn’t have been any time. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, this sucks.”

  “I know.”

  “Maybe I’ll just quit my job and follow you around.”

  He almost smiled. “You’re not a stalker.”

  “Really? I guess you’re right. So what am I supposed to do now?”

  “We’ll stay in touch.”

  A moment of awkward silence, just the hum from the connection. Moore’s shoulders drew together …and then it was more difficult to breathe.

  He closed his eyes and heard her cry in his head: “Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”

  “I think I was starting to fall in love with you,” she blurted out, her voice cracking.

  “No, you weren’t. Look, we were just in it for the fun. You wanted it that way. And I told you this day would come. But you’re right. It sucks. Big-time.” He softened his tone. “I want to stay in touch. But it’s up to you. If it hurts too much, then okay, I respect that. You can do better than me, anyway. Get somebody younger, with fewer obligations.”

  “Yeah, whatever. We played with fire and we got burned. But it felt so good along the way.”

  “You know, I’m not sure I can do this again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Say good-bye, I guess.”

  “No more relationships for you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, remember how you told me I was helping you with the nightmares? When I told you the stories of when I was in college while you were trying to fall asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t forget that, okay?”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “I hope you can sleep,” she said.

  “I hope so, too.”

  “I wish you would’ve told me what’s bothering you. Maybe I could’ve helped even more.”

  “That’s okay. I’m feeling much better now. Thanks for that.”

  “Thanks for the sex.”

  He chuckled under his breath. “You make it sound so dirty.”

  She breathed heavily into the phone and said, “It was.”

  “You’re a crazy bitch.”

  “You, too.”

  He hesitated. “I’ll talk to you soon. Take care.” He closed his eyes and broke the connection. I’ll talk to you soon. He wouldn’t. She knew that.

  Moore gritted his teeth. He should walk away from this gate and go back to her and haul her out of that job and quit his, and they could start a life together.

  And in six months he’d be bored out of his mind.

  And in eight months they’d be divorced and he’d be blaming her and hating himself all over again.

  The boarding announcement came. Moore stood with the other passengers and started halfheartedly toward the agent accepting their tickets.

  8 JORGE’S SHADOW

  Casa de Rojas

  Punta de Mita, Mexico

  The morning after the fund-raiser, Miguel took Sonia to the library before breakfast. He hadn’t intended to show her the room until after they’d eaten, but en route to the main kitchen they had passed by and she’d caught sight of several framed photographs on the wall and had asked if they could spend a few moments inside.

  The stone fireplace with great arch and black-ash burl mantel, along with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases constructed of more exotic hardwoods, took her brea
th away. Rolling ladders and tracks stood on each side of the room, and Sonia mounted one to take in all one thousand square feet.

  “Your father likes to read!” she cried, her gaze playing over the thousands of hardcover texts. No paperbacks. His father had insisted that all books in the library be hardcovers, many of them leather-bound.

  “Knowledge is power, right?” he replied with a grin.

  A small wet bar stood near the entrance, from where Jorge often served cognac produced by houses like Courvoisier, Delamain, Hardy, and Hennessy. Leather sofas and tiger-skin rugs imported from India formed an L-shaped seating area in the middle, with smaller islands of heavy leather recliners positioned around them. On several broad coffee tables sat magnifying glasses for reading and stacks of old Forbes magazines, dog-eared by his father. Beside them, the coasters stacked in their holders were inlaid with eighteen-karat gold.

  Sonia climbed down from the ladder and returned to one of the photographs that had caught her eye.

  “What was her name?”

  “Sofía.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “She was,” he said with a slight tremor, imagining what her funeral was like, the one he’d not been allowed to attend because it would have been “too traumatic for him.” He wished his father was aware of the guilt he suffered because he was on an airplane while others were paying their last respects to his mother. He’d cried all the way to Switzerland.

  The photograph of his mother had been taken on the beach in Punta de Mita, and, with an expanse of turquoise water sweeping out behind her, Miguel’s mother stood there in her black bikini, smiling broadly for the camera, looking like a glamorous movie star from another era.

  “My father loved this picture.”

  “And what about this one,” Sonia said, drifting over to a smaller photograph of father, mother, and baby wrapped in linen and silk. They stood before a sea of candles and stained glass and icons adorning the walls.

  “That’s my baptism. And the one over there is my first Holy Communion. Then my confirmation later on.”

  Sonia stared deeply at the pictures of his mother. “She looks like …I don’t know …She just looks strong.”

  “No one could tell my father what to do. No one but her. She was the boss. I don’t think I told you this, but one time we were in Cozumel on vacation, and she was snorkeling. We were looking at this sunken airplane, and she thought something bit her, and then we lost her and she almost drowned. We think she might’ve hit her head on some coral. My father went in after her, and he pulled her out and gave her mouth-to-mouth and she came around and spit up water, just like you see on TV.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. He saved her life.”

  “When she told him that, he just said, ‘No, you saved mine.’”

  “Your father is a romantic.”

  “That’s true. He told me that night that if she had died, he didn’t know what we’d do. He told me he’d be lost. A few months later they found the cancer. It was like the trip was a premonition or something, like God was trying to prepare us for what would happen. But it didn’t work.”

  “That’s just …I don’t know what to say …”

  He smiled weakly. “Let’s go eat.”

  They did, and their omelets with salsa, jack cheese, cumin, and garlic powder were prepared by his father’s private chef, Juan Carlos (aka J.C.), who’d said that Jorge had gone off to the beach for a run and a swim. Alexsi was at the pool, already into her third mimosa, according to J.C.

  When they were finished eating, Miguel showed Sonia their workout facility, which she remarked was better equipped than most five-star hotels. He said his father was very dedicated to fitness and did two hours per day, five days per week, with a personal trainer.

  “Only soccer for you?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Those metal weights are heavy.”

  She grinned, and they ventured on to the media room, with giant projection TV and seating for twenty-five.

  “More like a movie theater,” she remarked.

  He nodded. “Now I’m taking you to my favorite place in the entire house. He led her to a door, then down two flights of stairs and into the basement. They passed through a hall whose walls contained soundproofing material, and Miguel had to plug in a series of security codes on the electronic lock mounted on the next door. The door clicked open, and the lights ahead automatically flickered to cast reflections off a glistening white marble floor that unfurled for twenty meters. A rich black carpet divided the room in half, and on each side stood imposing metal display cases and display tables whose lights also switched on.

  “What is this? Some kind of museum?” she asked, stepping inside, her heels clicking across the marble.

  “This is my father’s weapons collection. Guns, swords, knives — he likes them all. See that door over there? Just inside is a shooting range. It’s pretty cool.”

  “Wow, look at this. He’s got some bows and arrows. Is that a crossbow?” She pointed to the weapon hanging from a peg.

  “Yeah, it’s, like, hundreds of years old or something. Come over here.”

  He led her down toward a table where more modern-day handguns and other assorted weapons were on display. There were AR-15 long guns, MP-5 submachine guns, AK-47s that his father called “goat horns,” along with dozens of other handguns, some inlaid with diamonds, plated in gold and silver, and engraved with the family name, collectibles that his father said should never be fired.

  “These are the ones we like to shoot,” he said, gesturing to a row of Berettas, Glocks, and Sig Sauer pistols. “Pick one.”

  “What?”

  He lifted his brows. “I said pick one.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Have you ever fired a gun?”

  “Of course not. Are you crazy? If my father found out …”

  “We won’t tell him.”

  She winced, bit her lip. So sexy. “Miguel, I don’t know about this. Won’t your father be upset?”

  “No way. We come down here all the time,” he lied. It’d been a few years since he’d engaged in target practice, but she didn’t have to know that.

  “Can we fire fake bullets, like in the movies?”

  “You’re scared?”

  “Sort of.”

  He pulled her in to his chest. “Don’t worry. Once you get that feeling of power in your hand, you’ll be addicted. It’s like a drug.”

  “I can think of something else I’d rather put in my hand.” She wriggled her brows.

  He shook his head. “Come on. We’re going to be badasses and shoot some guns.”

  She sighed and chose one of the Berettas. He picked a similar pistol, then crossed to a cabinet, worked the padlock there, and pulled out some of the magazines. He led her to the back door, plugged in the code, and they entered the range, again the lights automatically switching on. He took her to one of the shooting booths, where he loaded both of their pistols, then handed her the headphones and safety glasses.

  “Do I have to wear these?” she asked of the ear protection. “They’ll mess up my hair.”

  He started laughing. “What’s more important? Your hair or your hearing?”

  “All right …” She flinched and slowly donned the headphones.

  Once they were ready to shoot, he motioned that he’d go first and that she should really pay attention. He demonstrated how to hold the weapon, showed her the safety, and then he fired two rounds into the target, the shots going a little wide. He was rustier than he’d thought.

  Then they moved over to her shooting booth. He got behind her, breathing deeply into her hair, and taught her how to hold the pistol. Then, ever so gently, he released her, tapped her on the shoulder, then signaled that she should fire.

  She took two shots. Their targets were the silhouettes of men, the type used by military and law enforcement officers. She scored two perfect headshots.

  “Whoa!” he cried. “Look at that!”

  She g
lanced at him, dumbfounded. “Beginner’s luck, I guess! Let me try again.”

  She did, flinched, and didn’t even hit the target with her third shot.

  “Try again,” he urged her.

  She complied, but this time she closed her eyes and the shot actually hit his target.

  With a groan, she placed the gun on the small table in front of her, then wrung her hands. “The gun’s getting hot! And that hurt!”

  He took off his headphones and glasses, the stench of gunpowder heavy in the air. “Let me see your hand.” He took her palm in his own and worked his thumbs into her soft skin. Then she moved in close, wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and pulled herself tightly against him, rubbing her thigh against his crotch.

  At that point, she had him. And within three minutes they were on the floor. Her moans echoed throughout the range, and he kept putting a finger to his lips, frightened that his father might’ve returned from his run to search for them. Castillo would know they were down there. He knew everything and would report to Jorge; however, Castillo would remain discreet in regard to the exact nature of their visit to the shooting range.

  He suddenly broke away from her.

  She sat up and pouted. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, it’s me.”

  “Then we should talk?”

  “I don’t know …it’s just …the fund-raiser, all these people …You know everyone my father hires is afraid to get fired, so they kiss our asses. But do they really like us? Maybe they think we’re just a couple of fools. They pretend to respect us, pretend to honor us, when behind our backs they curse us.”

  “That’s not true. Think about what your father said last night. He’s a good man.”

  “But most men still fear him.”

  “Maybe you’re mixing up fear with respect.”