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At the long table, the four men aim their weapons at my head.
On my left, the corrupt foreign aid worker says, “Don’t answer that.”
“Hello.” I pick up the call and press a finger over my mouth, shushing the protesting men. If any of them pulls the trigger, my brains will splatter all over the dark gray tapestry behind me. The fact they wouldn’t dare makes me adjust myself in my pants.
“Corrado.” Michela’s feminine voice caresses my senses. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I almost laugh at the angry faces of the grown men in front of me.
“How’s your day going?” she asks.
“It’s going my way. Yours?” I ask, and whisper to the men, “My wife is checking on me.”
The arms dealer on my right shakes his head, but while the guns are drawn, he’s not putting his down.
“Mine is going your way too, it seems,” she says, a subtle jab at my last-minute change of her job request with Evans. Last night, after the bust, he called in a favor for this meeting, and I called in mine with regards to my wife.
“Have you heard anything about my mom?”
“Not yet.” Maybe they called, but if they had, they would have left a message or called Michela. “How’s work?”
“Amazing. That’s why I’m calling, actually.” She clears her throat. “I’m wondering if you would like to have dinner with me tonight?”
“Say that again?” I heard her.
“I’m wondering if you would like to eat dinner. With me.”
“I would.”
“What time is good for you?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Please decide on the time.”
“Eight. And Michela?”
“Yes?”
“Use the card.” Unwilling to push these men any longer and truly risk my life, I hang up. “My phone is encrypted. Yours aren’t. This is why we have the no-electronics policy during meetings such as these.” I slide my phone out of reach on the table so everyone can see it’s off. “Where were we?”
The arms dealer puts away his piece. His partner, a short, thin woman in a sharp black suit, follows, along with one of the aid workers. The aid worker who told me not to answer my phone keeps his aimed.
Done playing, I seize his wrist and twist, causing him to drop the gun in front of me. When he reaches for it, I push it toward the arms dealer, who picks it up and aims at the worker.
With a palm at the back of the worker’s head, I slam his head on the wood and press his cheek against the surface.
“Don’t answer that?” I repeat what he said when my phone rang. “This is my table, in my hotel, and you are here at my mercy, begging me to solve your problems. Whatever I give you, you will take, and feel grateful it was my wife who called and put me in a merciful mood. Here’s what you’ll do. You will deliver the goods no later than the end of the month, every month. You will work with the dealers without exception, because it’s the only way they’ll let you bring in the medicine. There you have it. You get to live another day.” I release him. “Get out.”
The man leaves, and I sigh and crack my neck. “That’s settled, then.” I rub my shoulder and narrow my eyes. “Why are you all still here?”
The other worker reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a blue folder. Did I mention my utter dislike for blue folders? Most often, the regulatory bodies use blue as a color because most people like it, or at least don’t find it offensive. They even trust what’s inside it because of the color associated with the information.
But in reality, the folder should be red. Like fire. Don’t touch it, because once you do, you have to put it out, or it’ll burn you.
I open the damn thing, read, scrub my face, my jaw, think about how it would be easier to solve this if I bought his entire country. “You have until seven thirty. Start talking.”
Thirty minutes after nine, I walk into the apartment, and the moment I do, I stop.
