Page 230 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

He nods and spits again. Then, without another word, he turns and leads me through his farm to a small shed about thirty yards from the main barn.

He unlocks the door and ushers me inside.

The moment we’re in, he closes the door, enshrouding us in partial darkness. The only light coming through is from the single square window on the other side of the shed.

I’m on guard. Out of habit, if nothing else.

The man thumps around and over to a long, narrow shelf space mounted on the wall, separated by a series of locked compartments.

“Cuál quieres?” Guillermo asks, clicking his teeth as though there is something stuck between them.

Esme and I have been practicing Spanish whenever I return from treks into town. I’ve gotten better, although she still says I sound Russian when I try to get my accent right.

“Something to shoot bears,” I lie. “And plenty of ammunition.”

“Bears?”

I nod. “Bears.” I don’t offer anything more than that.

He gives me a curious sideways glance. Then he shrugs and pops opens the first compartment. Inside are a pair of Colt 1911 pistols. They look old and worn.

“I have only this now. Next month, I get more.”

“I won’t be here next month,” I tell him. “I need a rifle now.”

He nods. Spits. Shuffles over to the next box and opens that one.

Inside is a scratched-up rifle that looks like it hasn’t been fired since Texas was its own country.

I grimace, but what choice do I have?

I look up at Guillermo, who hasn’t taken his eyes off my face. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, either.

“You’ve got ammunition?”

“Sí,” he says. He taps a wooden crate with the toe of his boot. The bullets inside rattle and clink.

I’m used to bigger, more powerful guns, but these will have to work. I might even be able to teach Esme how to use it.

But the moment the thought crosses my mind, I reject it. Esme won’t want to learn. Not after what happened with Mischa. She still wakes up in the night sometimes, sweating and muttering, “No, no, no.”

“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll take it. I was told you had burner phones, too?”

He nods. Not a man of many words, this Guillermo. But there is a cunning kind of intelligence behind his eyes.

We haggle over the price for a few minutes, mostly with grunts and nods. His price is higher than I would normally pay, but since I don’t have a lot of options, I settle with him quickly, grab my new gun and ammo along with the cell phone, and head back towards my car.

Guillermo falls into step beside me. “You just passing through?” he asks.

“That’s right.”

“Heard you come down to the village every other day,” he tells me. His English is suddenly much more fluid than it was when I first arrived. “Where exactly are you staying?”

“In a motel a few miles from town,” I lie smoothly.

“Ah,” Guillermo replies, his eyes growing more and more curious.

I pick up the pace and get to my car before he can ask any more questions. He stands at the mouth of the driveway, hands crossed over his pudgy belly, watching me the whole way I go.

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