"Don't give up on her, Lorenzo," he says, after a few moments of sipping in relatively companionable silence—as companionable as it can be when you are both in shadow. "She needs you. She loves you. She just…doesn't know how."
"It sounds like you know her well," I say, instead of answering his statement.
"I do. As well as anyone can, perhaps. She was the first, you know."
"First what?"
I see a long arm slide through shadows, gesturing in an expansive sweep. "All of this. The Broken Arrows. She was the first."
"I don't know much about it. There is a brand. They cannot kill. They live here. They're all operators."
"It's not important at the moment," he says. “Only that I have known Inez for many years. We built this together, she and I."
"You love her." It's not a question.
A long pause—the longest yet. "Yes. As…a sister, perhaps. Not as you love her."
"She is difficult to love."
A bark of laughter. “Yes, that is very true. But you must not give up."
"Give up? Senhor, I do not know your name. I don't care what it is. But if you know Inez as well as you say, then you at least knowofme. And if you know anything about me at all, you know I will not give up on that woman. Not ever. I have loved her since I was eighteen years old. I have loved her across the years in which I thought she was dead. I have fought for her. I have bled for her and killed for her."
Another lengthy silence, broken by the sounds of sipping and swallowing.
"Those women down there. They've all been through hell. Worse than hell."
"I sensed as much. The one named Naomi in particular."
"Indeed." His accent is impossible to define. There is a vaguely Eastern European hint to it, at times. Other times, it is almost accentless—educated, sophisticated, articulate, and blank of origin.
"Rafael and Pugli must not be allowed to harm them."
"I would die first."
"Good. But better you lived. Inez needs your love."
"Getting her to let me is proving difficult, as I said. And with reason, as I'm sure you're aware."
"Quite aware. Those reasons are exactly why she needs you."
"You say nothing I do not already know."
"Sometimes the obvious bears stating."
A digital chime cuts through the moment—it sounded like it came from a watch. A small swath of light illuminates sharp, hard, masculine features and dark, quick eyes. "They approach." Those eyes find me. "Go. Toro, Taj, and Fonz will assist."
I toss back the last swallow of the syrupy scotch. "And you?"
"I will be tracking our quarry. I came to meet you in person. A man who could claim the heart of Sophia Silva de Santos? I had to see you with my own eyes."
"Your name? Since you know mine?"
A pause; I hear him swallow, the hollow echo of a breath captured in the bottom of a raised glass. "My name is Jakob."
5
THE SCENT OF DEATH, CORDITE, AND BLOOD
