Music floods the vast hallways and reception rooms of the Villalobos mansion, subtle notes resonating against delicate glass ornaments and cut crystal chandeliers, making them sing. There were so many “guests” at the house already, but as the night draws in the place grows busier and busier, people arriving by the carload. Ocho shuttles back and forth in the Patriot or the Humvee, driving down the mountain to collect more visitors, opening doors and escorting both men and women into the house. He’s still wearing his headphones, the sound of Jurassic 5 thumping out of the tinny speakers loud enough that it can be heard over the chatter and bubble of conversation that fills the front foyer. I’m surprised Fernando hasn’t told Ocho to make himself scarce. He cuts a fairly ragged figure in his sweat stained khaki shirt and faded gray combat pants, his boots battered and worn almost to the point of destruction, but Fernando has him running around all over the place in preparation for the party’s commencement, apparently unfazed by his man’s appearance.
I stand at the foot of the stairs, observing everyone, watching, committing the face of each new person to memory. I’m shocked by how normal everyone looks. How young and attractive. And the women are just point blank confusing to me. They seem kind-natured and soft spoken. In some cases, they’re downright sweet and retiring. It makes no sense that they would come here all the way from another country (most of them are American or even European), knowing what kind of party this is. It makes my skin crawl.
The earpiece Fernando gave me when I came downstairs an hour ago has made me invisible. People take one look at me, see the coiled wire running from my ear down the back of my shirt, along with the small radio attached to my hip, and it’s as though I suddenly don’t exist. I’m a piece of the furniture, off limits and therefore of no interest. Great news for me. Harrison’s fuming that I’m included as a part of his staff this evening. He made it clear I should stay the fuck away from him and just mind my own damned business when I asked him where he would like me, which is also good for me. If the guests aren’t paying attention to me, and Harrison wants me to steer clear of him and his men, then this should be a fucking cakewalk. My plans should go off without a hitch, and boy are they spectacular fucking plans.
First: I need to get my gun back from Harrison. I spent a long time stewing on this, and then I realized that I don’t really need to get my gun back from Harrison. I just need to procure a gun, it doesn’t matter who it belongs to, and I already have my sights set on a prize. Art, one of the guys who helped hold me down in my room the first night I arrived at the estate has been positioned by the kitchen door, making sure people don’t accidentally wander out of bounds into sections of the house they shouldn’t be in. I have a score to settle with the motherfucker. I aim on making him hurt for the part he played in attacking me in my fucking sleep like a coward.
Once I have his gun, I can then implement the second stage of my plan: creating a diversion. I’ve already figured out that part; it’s going to be too fucking easy, not to mention ironic, and I can’t wait to see the look on Fernando’s face when shit begins to go sideways. It’s going to be goddamn perfect.
I haven’t told Natalia what’s going to happen. She needs to be just as surprised, if not a little panicked, just like everyone else. She knows to be ready, though, and she’s carrying her serrated knife with her, just in case anyone gives her any trouble.
Waiters walk around with trays, overloaded with glasses of wine and tiny vol-au-vents, and everyone seems to be getting a little buzzed. It’s not until almost eight when Fernando signals to one of the waiters, who then proceeds to sound a small, polished copper gong that sits on a tiny table by the foot of the stairs. A silence falls over the crowd, and they all look up expectantly, awaiting what comes next.