Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(43)

“And just how would you plan to do that?” Joaquin is detracting from the obvious—because he and I, as far as I know, are the only people in this room who know the truth.

“If you kill them,” I begin, on the fourth step, “there’s nothing going to stop me from killing you—unless you kill me. And if you kill me,” I say, on the fifth step, “or harm me in any way, your brother will have your head.”

He’s beginning to lose focus; he swallows, and nervously licks the dryness from his lips; he rounds his chin; his nostrils flare. “M-My brother? I don’t think you understand—”

“Javier Ruiz is alive and well,” I say, not just to Joaquin, but to everyone else in the theatre. “And I know this because I am the one who didn’t kill him that day. I am the one he went after himself, because I am the one he loved.”

Cesara gasps behind me on the theatre floor; a flurry of voices carries overs the room.

“Who are you?” Joaquin asks, probably already knowing inside who I am.

I take the final step and stand before him on the stage; then I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and whisper apologies to Victor in my heart.

“I’m the only person in this room as famous as Leo Moreno was. My name is Sarai. I was once called La Princesa. And I demand you let them go, and get word to Javier that I’m here.”

“What the fuck is she talking about, Joaquin?” Cesara snaps; her eyes dart between him and me.

“Is she who she says she is?!” someone from the crowd shouts.

“She’s a liar!” someone else puts in.

“Javier Ruiz is dead!” shouts a man.

“La Princesa? The woman who took Ruiz down? I can’t believe it!”

I have everyone’s attention, but the one that interests me most is Iosif Veselov; even he looks mildly shocked. And to my own shock, Iosif steps away from his table; his tall, looming Russian form approaching the stage. No…don’t do this now; don’t make this impossible for me.

“I vill pay ten million dollarrrs forrr prrrincess.”

Even I gasp.

“My apologies, Mr. Veselov,” Joaquin begins—forces himself to say, “but…the truth is”—he pauses, licking the dryness from his lips again; tiny beads of sweat have formed upon his forehead—“the truth is that if this woman is who she says she is, then my brother will want her alive.” It took everything in him to say it.

Cesara’s mouth practically hits the floor at his confession; her head darts from Joaquin to me; her eyes filled with a shockwave of disbelief. And betrayal. And heartbreak. And…vengeance? For a moment, she can’t speak; she just stands there, waiting, trying to get the wheel inside her head moving again.

Iosif’s broad shoulders rise and fall; I halfway expect him to argue, even threaten Joaquin—after all, whether he’s Vonnegut or just Iosif, he is technically still the most powerful man in this room, even more-so than Joaquin Ruiz, event planner, and shadow-dwelling brother.

“I-I-I need to excuse myself,” Dante says from his table; he hurries toward the nearest exit with a handkerchief over his mouth, and his other arm crossing his midsection.

I feel Frances Lockhart’s eyes on me; I look at her long enough to see how confused she appears. But she’s no longer crying, and if I saved only her life tonight, at least I can feel good about that.

The audience wants answers, and they continue to shout at Joaquin: “Where is Javier Ruiz?!”

“What of El Segador?!”

“I’ll pay one million for El Segador!”

“One-point-five million for El Segador!”

“Where the fuck is Javier Ruiz?!”

“TWO MILLION FOR EL SEGADOR!”

Two buyers—one woman and one man—get into a shouting match, briefly drawing the attention of the crowd.

“What do you need him for?” the man asks the woman with a sneer. “A sex slave?”—he laughs—“He’d kill you before he ever fucked you.”

The woman snarls. “And you? You think someone like him will be forced to fight again?”

“Three million dollars for El Segador and Naeva Brun!” another man shouts. He turns to the crowd, smiling smugly. “She’s how to control El Segador!”

Amid all the shouting, I look over and see Iosif exiting the theatre; his burly form pushes through the crowd, his bodyguards on all sides of him. And just where are you going, Vonnegut? I can’t lose him—but I have no choice. At least I have a lead. A name. A face.

Joaquin’s voice piercing the microphone, drowns all others out: “None of them will be sold!” he announces. “Now, due to…unexpected circumstances, the auction is ending early tonight! I thank you all for coming, and I do hope to see you again in six months! Goodnight!” He repeats everything in Spanish.

Some buyers grumble their protest, but most leave their tables with whispers and stares, all shuffling toward the exits with a plethora of exciting news that is sure to spread all over Mexico in under twenty-four hours. Javier Ruiz is alive! Leo Moreno is alive! Naeva Brun was there! La Princesa came back! Oh, such headlines!

In an eerie display, as the crowd thins, Jorge Ramierz’s body is left on the theatre floor in a pool of blood, and no one looks at it much less acts to move it.