I doubt me telling her my name is suddenly going to make us best friends, but I give it to her anyway. “I’m Sam. Sam Garrett. And you are?”
“I am Natalia, and I am very pleased to meet you.” She walks straight for me, holding out her hand, ignoring the fact that I haven’t lowered my gun yet. For a split second her hand and the gun are level in the air, and I think she might try and grab it. But she doesn’t. She just smiles. Up close, her freckles are far more intense, and even more attractive. A rogue smile slips past my lips, and I lower the gun.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Natalia. Feel like telling your friends to lower their weapons now, too?”
Natalia with the freckles pouts, and then sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles—she’s pretty fucking good. I wince, angling my head away from the sharp sound. Seconds later, a single guy with an old Winchester rifle appears from the foliage. He’s much older than Natalia, maybe in his late forties, and he’s clearly Ecuadorian. Takes me a moment to figure out what he’s wearing on his head: a pair of retro headphones with foam cushions and red plastic headband. The closer he gets, the louder the music blasting out of his headphones gets—rap music. Specifically, Run DMC. His eyes are dark and impassive as they scan over me. He doesn’t say anything. He stands behind Natalia, one hand on the rifle, one hand on an actual bona fide Walkman, clipped to his belt at the hip.
“This is Ocho,” Natalia says. “He is my friend with the weapon.”
“Hmm. You really had me outnumbered, huh?”
“Yes,” she agrees. “Two to one. Now come, Sam Garrett. I’m sure my father is eager to meet you.”
“Your father?”
“Yes. He’s the reason you’re here, I assume? You want to buy coca? You want to fuck? That’s the only reason anyone ever comes to Orellana.”
CHAPTER THREE
FERNANDO
I expect to be hurried off toward some vehicle they have hidden somewhere, but instead Natalia walks off into the rainforest, head down watching where she steps. Ocho waits for me to follow after her, and then he takes up the rear, hand still resting lightly on his gun. The lyrics to “It’s Tricky” are booming out of his headphones, and the surreal nature of this moment hits me hard. I’m in fucking Ecuador, in the rainforest, following the hottest girl I’ve ever seen and her grumpy ’80s loving hip hop sharp shooter into god knows what kind of danger. And she thinks I want to buy coke, or to screw some prostitutes? Perfect. Just fucking perfect. So now I have to choose: when I meet her father, do I continue on with the rouse? Or do I just come out with it and ask him where the fuck my sister is and have done with it? I’m tired of waiting. I am over chasing my own goddamn tail down so many different rabbit holes.
It occurs to me, however, that a coke dealer front might not be such a bad thing. Asking about Laura straight out of the gate might get me killed. It’s probably better to wait it out. Chances are I might just see my sister with my own two eyes if I wait long enough, and then I can start killing people in order to get her the fuck out of here.
We walk through the rainforest for fifteen minutes, and then another ten. Your average person might be turned around by the time we reach the small, concrete bunker, almost completely hidden in the undergrowth, but I’m not all that average. Years of navigating by the position of the sun in the sky has taught me well; I can easily bolt and find my way back to the scrambler if I need to. I eye the metal hatch, planted square in the center of the rough cast concrete that in turn is set deep into the ground, and I quirk an eyebrow at Natalia, the beginnings of laughter building in the back of my throat.
“I don’t suppose you ever watched Lost, did you?” I ask.
She frowns, sighing heavily. “No, I never watched this. Is it important?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Good.” Bending down, she uses the butt of her knife to hammer on top of the steel hatch; the clanging sound rings out, loud and clear, reminding me of the popping, warped metal sound that submarines make when they’re rising from seriously deep water. Ocho turns his Walkman off and slides his headphones off his head, letting them rest around his neck. He still hasn’t said a word, and from the stubborn, flat look on his face I don’t really think that will be changing any time soon. Twenty seconds pass, and then the hatch flies open, revealing a young girl, early twenties, with a filter mask over her face. Aside from the mask, she’s completely and utterly naked. I try not to stare at her small but perfectly formed tits as she casts a mean eye over the three of us.