Page 5 of Rogue Voice
Cruz walked over to a drinks cabinet in the corner and poured two generous glasses of a rich amber liquid from a glass decanter. As he handed one to Rogue, he exchanged a quick look with his two men, who quickly retreated out of the room.
“What’s that about?” Rogue asked, taking the glass.
“A man in my position can never be too careful,” Cruz said, making a show of taking a long sip. Rogue pulled the glass to his lips, smelling the rich, grainy notes. Just because he didn’t drink anymore, didn’t mean he wasn’t able to appreciate the smell of fine whisky. And this seemed to be very fine indeed.
“It’s not poisoned, I promise,” Cruz said. “This is a forty-eight-year-old Karuizawa single cask malt whisky, flown here straight from Japan. Each bottle retails for close to two hundredthousand dollars. I’d have to be an idiot to put poison inside. And I’m not an idiot.”
Rogue raised the glass to his lips and pretended to take a sip of the thick, oaky liquid. “A man in your position … It’s the second time you say that.” Cruz nodded, but didn’t say anything, so Rogue kept going. “I see things are going well for you, if you can afford this whisky. And this place.”
“It’s home,” Cruz said modestly, but puffed up a little at the compliment. “Things are going better than well. I’ve expanded the family business.”
Rogue chuckled darkly. “Is that what you call it now? Thefamily business?”
Cruz spread his hands grandly. The liquid sloshed in the glass held in his right hand. “When my brother died, it was a dark time, my friend. But it also provided an opportunity for … growth.”
Rogue took a step back and placed the glass on a corner of the heavy wooden desk. “Don’t say any more. I don’t want to hear it,” he blurted.
Cruz ignored Rogue’s agitation. “You sure you’re not going to finish that? That’s about twenty thousand dollars right there.”
“I want to go back to my hotel.”
“I have a few more questions to ask you first,” Cruz continued, smiling like a fox who’d found the keys to the henhouse.
Rogue sighed. “Ask your questions, Emiliano, and then take me back to Cartagena.”
“Always so direct. I have to say, I always liked you, Rogue. I remember you well—always on your computer. You didn’t know how to relax then, and it looks to me like things haven’t changed. So. Let’s do something. Take a walk around my beautiful hacienda. Breathe some fresh air. Rest in a comfortable room.We’ll eat dinner together tonight and talk after. I promise I will make it worth your while.”
It was couched like a suggestion, but Rogue knew it was anything but. Still, he pretended to consider it for one long instant before dipping his head in a sign of acquiescence.
“As you wish, Emiliano,” he said, letting a whiny note enter his voice. “But only until tonight.”
Smiling, Emiliano picked something off the floor and offered it to Rogue—his backpack. One of the thugs must have dropped it off before leaving.
2
Bea
Bea ducked quickly, hiding behind the dense potted plants lining the second-floor patio.
She’d convinced Julio, the head gardener, to let those plants grow thicker, arguing she loved looking out at them when she walked out of her room. If he saw through to her real motivation—that those plants provided her with a safe place to eavesdrop on her uncle—he didn’t let on.
Her heart hammered a staccato beat against her chest. She could have sworn the newcomer looked up right at those plants before he crossed the downstairs patio and disappeared into the staircase on the opposite side, following one of her uncle’s henchmen.
Like many haciendas, the house was designed around a spacious central patio. In most homes, the patio was usually aplace for leisure and recreation, the center of family life. Her uncle, of course, had ruined that as well, and instead dug up a pool that took up easily two thirds of the space, leaving only a narrow space for walking from one side of the patio to the other.
Bea sighed, hating the sight of that water. Her uncle didn’t even like swimming.
He destroyed the patio because he could. Just like he does with everything else he owns.
She wondered who the newcomer was. She’d only gotten a quick glimpse at him, but he didn’t seem like her uncle’s usual visitor. First of all, he wasn’t Colombian. And he didn’t seem American either. His English accent was broader, his vowels longer than usual. Suddenly, it struck her. She’d had a teacher who spoke like him once, back when her father was still alive. Back when she’d been allowed to go to school. The man was Australian. The thought made her shiver. Could her uncle’s empire be expanding in that direction as well?
Why is nobody stopping him? Don’t they realize?—
Bea put her hand to her mouth to stop herself from sobbing. Her uncle hated it when her face looked like she’d been crying.
She steeled herself. Her uncle wasn’t going to tell her anything about his visitor. If she wanted to know who this man was, and what he was doing here, she was going to have to figure it out for herself.
She wondered which room had been assigned to him. The house was arranged around the inner courtyard in the traditional fashion—with azona de día,or living area—on the ground floor, and two staircases on opposite corners of the house, both leading up to thezona de noche, or sleeping quarters. The rooms facing south were reserved for the master of the house and his family. Only two of those three bedrooms were occupied right now, one by her uncle and one by Bea.
