MORTAL COILS (52 page)

The
front door slowly swung open. The sunlight made them all blink, Robert
included.

The
banditos turned—even drunk they realized something was wrong. That door had
been bolted. It shouldn’t have just opened like that . . . at least, not
without getting kicked off its hinges.

Standing
in the doorway was an American tourist in a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts,
flip-flops, and a ridiculous straw hat.

“Buenos
tardes,” the man slurred. He stumbled in and let the door slam behind him.

He
flopped onto the bar and pounded his fist. “Bartender, cervezas y tequila!” He
reached into his pockets and pulled out fistfuls of twenty-dollar bills.

When
no bartender showed, the man shrugged, reached behind the bar, and grabbed a
bottle of Cuervo and a shot glass.

He
turned to the banditos, staggered, and fell into their group.

They
shoved him—he struggled between them, accidentally bumping his elbows into
their ribs.

“A
thousand pardons. Have a drink on me, amigos.” He dropped a few more crumpled
bills on the counter.

The
stranger then staggered to Robert’s table.

The
banditos laughed, scooped the money off the counter, and decided to watch what
this rich American fool would do next before they pulled his arms out of their
sockets.

“Good
afternoon, Robert,” the man said, perfectly sober, as he settled in opposite
Robert. “How are you?”

The
man before Robert changed his name as often as other men changed their clothes.
He had been called at various times the Big Bad Wolf, Loki Sly Boots, Hernandez
del Moro, or just plain Hermes—but they were all his boss, Mr. Henry Mimes.

Robert
wasn’t exactly sure how he did stuff like this—finding him during his off hours
and opening bolted doors from the other side. And why in the world if he’d
wanted to talk to him hadn’t he just used his cell phone?

All
he knew for sure was that Mr. Mimes was good at finding things . . . especially
trouble.

“Do
you need to be driven anywhere this afternoon, sir?” Robert asked.

Robert
kept one eye on the banditos, who whispered among themselves. Although he
seemed to amuse them, this American tourist complicated their plans. Rich
Americans tended to, also like hyenas, travel in packs.

Mr.
Mimes glanced at the salt scattered on the table. “Reminiscing? A habit I try
not to indulge. It leads to moroseness, which is on my list of distasteful
behaviors next to nose-picking and crying at weddings.” He flashed Robert a
smile and tapped the dot that represented Istanbul. “Do you know what I liked
about you most when we first met?”

“No,
sir.”

“Unlike
most art thieves, you didn’t melt your treasures for the gold. You always took
the risk to sell them intact.”

Robert
shrugged. “They were too pretty to break.”

Mr.
Mimes’s gaze wandered to Theresa, who stood in the corner. She clutched a stack
of menus to her chest, watching the banditos watching them.

“There
are too few lovely objects in this world,” Mr. Mimes said. “I agree, they
should be protected.”

One
of the banditos moved to the cantina door, inspecting the dead bolt and
confirming it was still thrown. He looked extremely confused. He turned to his
pack and they discussed this. One of them made the sign of the cross. The
oldest, largest bandito, however, slapped him in the face for such
superstitious nonsense.

“I
hate to interrupt whatever you are up to,” Mr. Mimes said with a careless wave
of his hand, “but I thought it time we had a chat about your future.”

Future
wasn’t a word that Marcus had ever used when talking about this job. Something
more than a driving assignment was on Mr. Mimes’s mind today. Robert had a
nasty feeling it might be something worse than his about to be getting shot by
drunken drug dealers, too.

“I
don’t understand, sir.”

“Do
you like working for me?” Mr. Mimes’s smile was still there, but his eyes had
hardened.

Robert
was about to reflexively answer yes, but hesitated. Mr. Mimes had asked a
serious question, so Robert would carefully consider how he really felt.

There
were downsides to being a Driver for Henry Mimes. Missions were often high
risk. You had to operate without the assistance of, and sometimes on the wrong
side of, the law. And as Marcus had pointed out, their boss was part of a
League of Immortals, who were unstable and always lethal, sometimes even to the
hired help.

But
this job had plenty of upsides, too. Robert could ride anywhere he wanted on
his time off. He’d been taught a dozen languages. He had an expense account
most Fortune 500 CEOs couldn’t even dream of.

Pretty
good for a sixteen-year-old high-school dropout.

Most
important, though, there was the adventure. He was never bored.

“Working
for you might shorten my life span,” Robert finally said, “but at least I have
a life worth living.”

Mr.
Mimes brightened and squeezed Robert’s shoulder. “My dear boy, I couldn’t have
said it better. Well then, I have a new mission for you—a secret one involving
a pretty girl. I want you to get to know her and help her if you can.”

“A
spy deal?” Robert asked, intrigued. He felt something hard and cold solidify in
his gut as he understood what Mr. Mimes was asking. “You mean Fiona Post.”

Mr.
Mimes raised an eyebrow. “Did our dear departed Mr. Welmann teach you to read
minds?”

“No,
sir. But with everything that’s happened the last few days . . . who else?”

“Marcus
said you could sometimes see to the heart of the matter. She is something
special, is she not?”

A
girl that could quick-talk a monster alligator into being her friend? And
barely batting an eye as she and her brother related the tale, handing him the
thirty-pound iron spike she’d pulled from the creature?

“Yeah,
she’s something,” Robert said. “But I’m not allowed to ‘get to know’ anyone
even potentially in the League.”

“I
would never ask you to break the rules,” Mr. Mimes said, feigning offense.
“That would be wrong. But if you were to break the rules on your own, well,
that would be something I could have not foreseen . . . nor be blamed for.”

Robert
swallowed. He got the gist of this. If it went bad, Mr. Mimes was throwing him
to the Council as a sacrificial lamb.

He’d
read how the Council punished rule breakers. One guy got his liver (and a bunch
of other stuff) torn out every day for a thousand years by some bird—then the
organs would grow back . . . just in time to get ripped out the next day.

And
the Council had liked that guy.

“Yes,”
Mr. Mimes said as if reading Robert’s thoughts. “The Council does love their
rules.”

“But—”
Robert started.

Mr.
Mimes held up a finger, indicating silence. “One moment. There is a bit of
unpleasantness to deal with.”

Robert
had, if only for a few seconds, forgotten the banditos, but he saw them now as
they stood and faced him.

Robert
tried to stay cool. He couldn’t afford a shaking hand now. He’d only get a shot
or two off before they returned fire.

The
banditos grinned as they reached for their pistols.

Mr.
Mimes set a hand on Robert’s hand and shook his head. “Let them try,” he
whispered.

Robert
reluctantly overcame his instinct for self-preservation; Mr. Mimes had given
him a direct order. And weighing the two parties—understated Mr. Mimes or eight
armed killers—Robert knew who was more dangerous.

The
banditos’ fumbled as they grabbed at empty holsters.

With
a clatter Mr. Mimes dropped a double armful of pistols onto the table.

Their
drunken smiles evaporated.

Robert
remembered how Mr. Mimes had bumped into each of them. He must’ve lifted their
weapons.

But
eight guns? And not one of them had felt a thing? That was a world-class bit of
pickpocketry.

“Marcus
was always saying that you had a Lancelot complex,” Mr. Mimes whispered to
Robert. “Charging to the defense of damsels in distress. I definitely approve.”

Mr.
Mimes plucked up a snub-nosed .38 and shot the largest bandito in the stomach.

The
man crashed into the barstools, clutching his midsection.

Mr.
Mimes waived the gun at the others. “Vamos, perros.”

The
banditos, now utterly sober, went slack-jawed and wide-eyed at this American
who had shot their boss. Four of them knelt as if to carry him off.

Mr.
Mimes shot two more rounds through the roof of the cantina. “Leave him . . . or
join him.”

The
banditos moved, almost breaking down the door as they fumbled with the bolt.

As
Cadillacs screeched out of the driveway, Mr. Mimes turned to Theresa. “Call the
policía, señorita. There is a reward for the one I shot—more alive than dead—so
hurry.”

“Sí,
señor.” Theresa disappeared into the kitchen.

“Now,
where were we?” Mr. Mimes set the pistol down. “Ah, yes, the lovely Miss Fiona
Post, our damsel in the greatest distress of all. I am merely suggesting that
you do what you would do anyway: get close to her and help her survive the last
two trials. But also listen and learn what happens within her immediate
family.”

He
was right. Robert did want to help Fiona, but there were rules . . . and more
than that, punishment for breaking the rules. It was too much to risk.

“I
sense equivocation,” Mr. Mimes said. “So let me put your mind at ease. I know
you have already broken the rules: letting her and her brother know what to
take into the sewers.”

“How
did you—” Robert shut his mouth.

How
did he know? Well, for one thing Robert’s reaction had just told him he was
right. Second, Mr. Mimes just knew things—the same way he walked through bolted
doors, sped across the world in a few hours, or stole the guns from eight
banditos right under their noses.

Marcus’s
voice echoed in Robert’s mind: You start thinking of them as people—that’s
dangerous.

Theresa
and three men came from the kitchen to examine the bleeding bandito leader. The
men with her had been beaten and tied up. They wanted some revenge, but Theresa
restrained them and explained about the reward.

She
then brought Robert and Mr. Mimes their beers and thanked them again and again.

“Con
mucho gusto,” Mr. Mimes told her. “When you see your mother, tell her the Old
Coyote sends his affections.”41

She
gave Mr. Mimes a curious look, nodded, and left them.

“Well,
Robert? What shall it be? Danger, intrigue, and romance? Or ordinary driving
jobs for the rest of your simple, dull life?”

Robert
grabbed his beer and took a long pull. “I need a raise.”

“And
you shall have it when this is over. A promotion and a long vacation as well, I
promise.”

“How
do I start?”