Fields' Guide to Abduction, - [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

as cold too. If I somehow got free, I didn’t imagine I’d find warm welcomes in the towns of Sinaloa.

Then came mountains. Lots of them. Rugged terrain.

I opened a bottle of water and made myself drink it.

I fought tears.

I cradled my swollen wrist in my lap.

The pilot circled a landing pad and dropped out of the sky.

The landing skids touched down.

The rotors slowed.

And the fear that had been nibbling at me took an enormous bite.

Why had the cartel gone to all this trouble? If they wanted me dead, they could have killed me on road from the resort. What did they want me from me?

The door to the helicopter opened and Javier Diaz smiled at me. “Welcome.”

My body froze. Ice cubes had more mobility.

That’s the only reason I didn’t scurry into a corner of the helicopter when he reached for my hand.

“I’m so glad you’re safe. I told Ignacio you were coming to visit and he has cut his trip short. He’ll be here in two days.” He held up two fingers and his smile broadened.

My vocal chords were frozen too.

Javier held my hand but he didn’t pull me out of the chopper. Instead he spoke slowly, gently, as if he were calming a spooked horse. “You were in terrible danger. You’re safe here.”

Here appeared to be a mountain top. I glanced past Javier. An enormous lemon-yellow hacienda looked down on the valleys below.

“That’s Ignacio’s house,” Javier crooned.

“Who’s Ignacio?” My voice, barely thawed, was hardly a whisper.

“Ignacio Quintero.”

The face of illegal drugs in Mexico. Pictures of him graced the evening news at least once a week.

My voice froze again.

“Shall we go inside? I’ve asked the chef to prepare a meal for us but it won’t be ready for another hour or so.” He squeezed my hand. “I can give you a tour. The house is spectacular.”

I’d expect nothing less from the biggest drug lord in the world.

I didn’t move.

Javier regarded me carefully. He took in the rip in the knee of my pants and the way I held my injured wrist. “Are you hurt?” Javier’s voice acquired a sharp edge. “I told those estúpidos you were precious. I told them to treat you better than they treat their mothers. Nothing was to happen to you.”

Those estúpidos had killed a man standing next to me. True, the man had held a gun to my ribs and harbored unspeakable intentions but I’d tripped on purpose. That made his death my fault. Those estúpidos had also bundled me on to a helicopter without a word as to my destination. No matter how many fresh hankies Grizzly offered, the eyes of those estúpidos had been filled with death.

Like Javier’s.

I shuddered.

“Come inside.” Javier pulled softly on my uninjured hand. “Please. We have a medic. And—” his gaze took in my light linen tunic and pants, with his free arm he waved at the surrounding mountains “—it gets chilly up here when the sun goes down. Let’s get you inside.”

I didn’t have much (any) choice.

I climbed down from the helicopter and got a better look at my surroundings. We were on the tallest mountain in the range. There was an enormous house and a tennis court and gardens and fountains and men with automatic rifles.

I shivered.

“You’re cold. Let’s get you inside. A coffee? A brandy? What will warm you up?” Javier was acting like an attentive host not a kidnapper.

“A ride back to Cabo.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Los Angeles?”

“Ignacio would never forgive me if he didn’t get a chance to meet you. This way.” He rested one hand on the small of my back and gently pushed me toward the house.

I allowed myself to be pushed.

We reached the front door and Javier opened it with a flourish.

Inside, a man with a ponderous mustache and an equally ponderous belly raced by. His cowboy boots slipped on the tile floor and he fell, whacking his knee.

“What are you doing?” Javier demanded.

“Consuela se escapo.”

Javier paled.

A second man, this one with a plaid shirt straining across his belly, ran through the foyer, the heels of his boots pounding against the tiles. His hair was wild. His eyes were wilder.

Who or what was Consuela that she could cause so much consternation? Were they running after or her or from her?

Javier manufactured a weak smile. “Ignacio keeps an amazing stable. Do you like horses? I’ll show them to you while they deal with Consuela.”

A third sicario, this one without a mustache (he made up for it with extra belly), dashed through the foyer and followed his comrades into the room to our right.

No way was I missing catching a glimpse of Consuela who could make Javier pale and sicarios dash around like scared children

“Consuela, tengo un regalo para ti.” The sicario version of baby-talk was a frightening thing. Especially when coming from a man made up of hard fat and dead eyes.

I stepped all the way into the house and looked to the right.

Consuela had disappeared into an enormous room filled with overstuffed couches, Spanish Colonial antiques, and a fireplace that could serve as a parking spot for a Mini-Cooper. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of my mother.

The artist had painted Chariss in a red off-the-shoulder gown. She wore a mantilla. Her expression was soft, and sweet, and kind. She stared lovingly out at the room.

Never before had art strayed so far from reality.

There was a flurry of movement in the corner where No-Mustache bent from the waist and held out his hand. “Toma.”

“Ay!” He jumped up and down and clutched his hand. His jaw worked. “Quiero matar a esa perra.”

I didn’t understand what he’d said, but I understood the tone. Things were looking bleak for Consuela.

Something spun past him. A dervish? A Tasmanian devil?

Javier stepped in front of me. “Really, you should see the stables. Ignacio breeds Aztecas. They are a cross between Andalusians and Quarter Horses. They are the national horse of Mexico. Very beautiful.” He took my arm and steered me toward the door.

I dug in my heels. “What is Consuela?”

“Just a dog.” His insouciant shrug was at odds with the chaos in the living room.

Plaid-Shirt lunged, missed, and fell into a side table. The exhaustive list of curses that escaped his lips suggested his hip had caught the table’s corner.

“Cállate, la estás asustando,” shouted the first sicario—the one with a mustache and a belly and a voice that could chill blood.

“What did he say?”

“He’s concerned the shouting is scaring Consuela.”

The men were the ones who looked scared.

The first sicario took charge. He pointed No-Mustache to one end of a massive couch and Plaid-Shirt to the other end. They had the dog cornered.

The first sicario leaned over the back as if he meant to snatch the dog from above.

The couch had other ideas. Unaccustomed to an oversized man leaning over its over-stuffed back, it tilted. For an instant, it balanced on two legs. Then it fell. With the man.

The crash shook the house.

“Consuela!” No-Mustache and Plaid-Shirt had no interest in the third man’s welfare. Horror filled their voices. “Consuela!”

Consuela darted out from underneath the couch, used its twin as a springboard, and landed on table whose centuries-old patina had heretofore not included claw marks.

Click, click, click.

Consuela paused at the opposite edge of the table, looked back at the fallen couch where No-Mustache and Plaid-Shirt were now attempting to extricate the third man, and (I swear this) snickered.

Then she spotted me.

She drew back her little lips, bared her little teeth, and snarled.

“We should go,” said Javier. “Now.”

“She’s a Chihuahua.”

“She’s a killer.”

I stared up at him. “Consuela the killer Chihuahua?”

“Sí.”

Consuela launched herself off the table and sprinted toward us.

Javier jumped in front of me, which might have seemed heroic if Consuela was a lion or a tiger or puma.

The little dog jumped higher than any reasonable person would believe. Her little mouth was open. Her little eyes were filled with evil intent.

If she’d had a trampoline to give her a bit more height, she’d have ripped out Javier’s throat. As it was, she ripped the breast pocket off his sport coat.

He caught her and held her far from his body.

She snarled and wriggled and snapped.

“This is Consuela.” He held her out so I could get a close look.

A little dog the color of warm sand glared at me, her gaze promising a bloody death.