“You’d let me go,” I said, trying to reason out his motives. “On the off chance I might do Montoya some harm before I died?”
“Precisely.”
“But if I’m not willing to take your challenge, then I’m not worthy of your protection.”
Which was pretty messed up, as I considered—he was saying I had to prove I was good enough for him to use as bait. Ramiro Escobar had a high opinion of himself. Then again, maybe he wanted to make sure I had the nerve to see the scheme through—that I wouldn’t turn on him halfway through and try to make a deal with Montoya, using him as the lure. Since I had no beef with Escobar—apart from his pulling me out of the car and drugging me, he’d proven himself a pretty good guy, for a cartel boss—I’d never do such a thing. Regardless, I had to admire such twisty thinking.
“I see we understand each other.”
I had a clear picture, all right. Now I just needed to decide what to do. To give myself time to think, I took two more pieces of ham, some cheese, and apple wedges. Escobar watched me eat, elegant in his white suit. I couldn’t help but imagine the pale linen spattered with blood, but it would be mine spilling out if I walked away.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I’m in. What am I supposed to do first?”
“You will be allowed to pick one person to help you. Only one. I will send men to secure this individual and deliver him or her to the starting point. There will be clues along the way as to what you need to be doing. Once you pass all three tests, I will return you to Texas.”
“Where we’ll take on Montoya together.”
It sounded like he was describing The Amazing Race. Great news for me, he loved mythology, strategy, and challenges straight out of reality television.
Escobar rose and padded over to his desk, where he lofted a sheaf of paper. Contracts, maybe. “Upon confirmation of his death, I’ll pay you one hundred K.”
That was nothing to him, but it nearly made me choke on my cheddar. “Whatever you’re having me do first, it must be worth something to you.”
“Some things,” he said, “are priceless.”
I’d heard that tone before. “You want me to retrieve some lost artifact. Then, once I’ve got it, you’re going to make me handle it, knowing it’s charged with hellacious shit.”
“I did say the final task would test your courage.”
I knew the drill now. Mental acuity amounted to locating the damn thing. Physical challenge would be the actual acquisition—and courage? Well, who wanted to touch a magickal item that caused mayhem and destruction? He wasn’t sending me to Calcutta to retrieve Mother Teresa’s thimble.
“So you did. Are you going to call your guy to check me out now?”
“As long as you’re willing.”
Oh, sure. I had all the power in this partnership. “Go for it.”
Escobar used the intercom this time, murmuring in Spanish. The gist was that he wanted Paolo to come to the study right away. I occupied myself with eating. There were tiny Belgian chocolates arranged artfully around the edge of the plate.
When Paolo appeared a few minutes later, I decided man was a stretch. The kid couldn’t be more than eighteen, slim and pretty, with caramel skin. He had doe eyes and long lashes, and I stopped worrying that his examination would be awful and invasive.
“Señorita Solomon,” he said, bowing over my hand.
When our fingers brushed, it threw a spark. My eyes met his in silent recognition. He was gifted, but it would be rude to inquire in case his boss didn’t know. I held my tongue.
“Ah,” Escobar said. He had noted it too, so apparently he was familiar with such things. “She is like you, it would seem.”
“I have brought two objects for you,” Paolo murmured. “One contains a charge that will tell you something about Señor Escobar that you could never otherwise know.”
So it was a test more than an examination. I wished he’d said so in the first place. Though perhaps Escobar’s English wasn’t so precise as I’d thought—he might have used examine as a not-quite-accurate synonym for test. I did that kind of thing in Spanish all the time.
The boy opened his palms, which were long and narrow. In his left hand he held a silver key—in his right, a gold ring. Most likely they wanted a show. Well, I was in no mood for theatrics, so I merely brushed my fingertips over each item. The key contained nothing, though it presumably unlocked something. That established, closing my eyes, I took the ring and curled my hand about it, accepting pain as the price of my gift, and let the images come.
When I opened my eyes, I was smiling. “Your first name isn’t Ramiro, and your mother loved you very much. That was her wedding ring.”
“What is my name?” Escobar asked, his voice gone hoarse with some emotion I was afraid to identify. His lean jaw clenched in expectation of my answer.
“Efraín,” I said softly. “Because you were second-born of twins, but your brother died when you were small, and you cannot bear to hear the name spoken because you miss him, even now.”
I had seen her writing their names in a baby book, each letter lovingly inscribed with near-calligraphic quality. Somehow I doubted the woman I had seen would be proud of the life her son had chosen. Escobar knew it too.
“You have a real gift,” Paolo declared.
As do you, I said with my eyes. But still, I would not ask. He should tell me, if he wanted to, but this was neither the place nor the time. Not with Escobar pacing like a tiger. When Paolo slipped out, I wanted to follow, but I hadn’t been dismissed.