Page 28 of Taunting Tarran
‘Hmm,’ I nod. ‘Not quite the luxury the adverts promised?’ I laugh, the sound hollow, forced.
My companion watches me, his gaze expectant, almost sympathetic. ‘Headed somewhere special?’ he asks.
‘No,’ my eyes fixed on the seat in front of me. ‘Well, yes.’
He waits, the silence stretching between us like a taut wire. ‘Not the chatty type, then?’ he mumbles.
I smile faintly, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, and gesture to the others. ‘I’m with them.’
He nods, his expression unreadable, before extending a hand. His skin is thin, the veins raised like a map of roads. There’s something in his eyes - a flicker of understanding, of recognition. It makes my chest tighten. But I don’t take his hand.
‘I’m John.’
‘Tarran,’ I smile, reaching out to meet his handshake. ‘A pleasure.’
‘I’m escaping,’ he admits, his voice low and confessional.
Before I respond, the stewardess takes centre stage, her voice cutting through the cabin with practiced cadence. Fasten seatbelts, stow luggage, turn off electronics – her words wash over me. But John? He watches her intently, as if the instructions are a revelation.
‘What are you escaping? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Life. My family wants to put me in a home. But before that happens, I’ve got a “fuck-it” list that needs tickingoff.’ He pauses, the curl of his lip a sign of defiance. ‘I’ve seen what those places do to people. One day you’re making a new friend, the next, they’re wheeled out on a gurney. Did you know I could spend a year on a cruise – travel the world, meals included, with a doctor onboard – for less than it costs to stay in one of those so-called homes?’ he grins.
John shifts his gaze to the front of the aircraft as the engines roar to life. ‘Here we go,’ he whispers.
As we ascend my forehead presses to the window, watching the world shrink into insignificance. A few minutes into the flight, John’s snoring rumbles like a rusty chainsaw, drowning out the hum of the plane. With no one else to talk to, I think about Grandpa.
John stirs and mumbles, ‘Tarran?’ His eyes blink sluggishly, cloudy like a lizard basking under the sun.
‘Yes, John?’ I reply, keeping my tone flat.
‘If you ever find yourself in Chiva -’ he says.
‘Were you napping through my existential breakdown?’ I interrupt, raising a single eyebrow.
Unperturbed, he scratches his head and shrugs. ‘What can I say? I’m old.’
CHAPTER 16
THE PUNISHER
The road stretches on forever, each mile dragging like an eternity as Sal and I finally pass the weathered, old sign “Coto Privado”.It looms like a forgotten relic, marking the perimeter of the reserve on the outskirts of Pueblo Viejo.
Twenty more minutes to the compound. Twenty minutes too long.
The sight of it doesn’t surprise me when we arrive. Time hasn’t touched it; the place is frozen, just as I had left it all those years ago. The same stone walls, the same gates that creak like ghosts in the wind. It doesn’t interest me – it never has. It’s just another one of my father’s cold, calculated investments, handed to me like some twisted inheritance. But now it’s mine, whetherI want it or not.
The reserve sprawls across a patchwork of land owned by several families, tucked deep within the rural hills around Pueblo Viejo. It spans over a hundred and twenty hectares – isolated enough to keep wandering tourists at bay. Pueblo Viejo itself, with its cobblestone streets, whitewashed houses, and vibrant red-tiled roofs, remains untouched by the wave of tourism. Despite its rich history, woven with tales and legends of medieval knights and hidden treasures, it remains a quiet and almost forgotten gem.
The deeper we venture into the reserve, the heavier the air grows, filled with an unsettling silence that presses against my chest. Carlos steps out from the imposingmasia. The stone facade, draped in ivy like a shroud, looms ominously against the encroaching twilight.
‘Finalmente!’Carlos greets with open arms.
The creaking of themasia’sdoor shatters the stillness, and I feel compelled to follow him inside as if drawn by an invisible force.
Sal stands quietly in the corner like a silent shadow. He hasn’t said a word since we got off the plane, his stillness unsettling yet familiar. He’s always been good at making himself invisible, but his presence is a heavy reminder that this moment is unavoidable.
Carlos stands in front of me, the conversation twists and turns as we navigate the terms of the shipment with the Albanians, each word a subtle power play. But eventually, over a fewglasses of wine, the tension eases, replaced by an unspoken agreement. Sal nods, his posture relaxing ever so slightly.
