Page 54 of Vice
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IN MOTION
The last thing I want to do right now is get ready for a party. I didn’t bring smart clothes with me, and most of what I did bring was torn to shit by Harrison and his men. So a suit and tie? I highly doubt they have a tailor down on Orellana village, and I’m not all that great at producing designer clothes out of thin fucking air. I should have kept the suit I wore when I flew here from Mexico, but I didn’t know I’d be needing it again, and carrying it around in a backpack would have fucked it up anyway.
I’ve made peace with the idea that I’m going to have to wear the casual clothes I’ve been wandering around the forest in for the past month, when I come back to my room and find a black garment bag laid out on my bed for me. I stand there and look at it for a while. I shouldn’t be surprised that Fernando thought of this. He asked me to help Harrison with security for the event, so he wants me looking my best, no doubt. I’d rail against this, make a point of wearing my ripped jeans and stained t-shirt just to be an asshole, but I need to blend in. If my plans are going to come to fruition, I need to disappear in a crowd. The rich bastards who have flocked to the Villalobos estate from far and wide are going to notice a guy in fucked-up civvies way more than they’ll notice another tall dude with designer stubble, in a designer suit, gliding around with a glass of champagne in his hand.
I open the garment bag, and the smell of freshly woven and cut fabric hits me. No hand-me-downs here; this is a brand new suit, and it’s fucking beautiful. It’s black as pitch, and the material is the finest money can buy. Shame it’s going to be covered in blood by the time the night is over.
******
Music floods the vast hallways and reception rooms of the Villalobos mansion, subtle notes resonating against delicate glass ornaments and cut crystal chandeliers, making them sing. There were so many “guests” at the house already, but as the night draws in the place grows busier and busier, people arriving by the carload. Ocho shuttles back and forth in the Patriot or the Humvee, driving down the mountain to collect more visitors, opening doors and escorting both men and women into the house. He’s still wearing his headphones, the sound of Jurassic 5 thumping out of the tinny speakers loud enough that it can be heard over the chatter and bubble of conversation that fills the front foyer. I’m surprised Fernando hasn’t told Ocho to make himself scarce. He cuts a fairly ragged figure in his sweat stained khaki shirt and faded gray combat pants, his boots battered and worn almost to the point of destruction, but Fernando has him running around all over the place in preparation for the party’s commencement, apparently unfazed by his man’s appearance.
I stand at the foot of the stairs, observing everyone, watching, committing the face of each new person to memory. I’m shocked by how normal everyone looks. How young and attractive. And the women are just point blank confusing to me. They seem kind-natured and soft spoken. In some cases, they’re downright sweet and retiring. It makes no sense that they would come here all the way from another country (most of them are American or even European), knowing what kind of party this is. It makes my skin crawl.
The earpiece Fernando gave me when I came downstairs an hour ago has made me invisible. People take one look at me, see the coiled wire running from my ear down the back of my shirt, along with the small radio attached to my hip, and it’s as though I suddenly don’t exist. I’m a piece of the furniture, off limits and therefore of no interest. Great news for me. Harrison’s fuming that I’m included as a part of his staff this evening. He made it clear I should stay the fuck away from him and just mind my own damned business when I asked him where he would like me, which is also good for me. If the guests aren’t paying attention to me, and Harrison wants me to steer clear of him and his men, then this should be a fucking cakewalk. My plans should go off without a hitch, and boy are they spectacular fucking plans.
First: I need to get my gun back from Harrison. I spent a long time stewing on this, and then I realized that I don’t really need to get my gun back from Harrison. I just need to procure a gun, it doesn’t matter who it belongs to, and I already have my sights set on a prize. Art, one of the guys who helped hold me down in my room the first night I arrived at the estate has been positioned by the kitchen door, making sure people don’t accidentally wander out of bounds into sections of the house they shouldn’t be in. I have a score to settle with the motherfucker. I aim on making him hurt for the part he played in attacking me in my fucking sleep like a coward.
Once I have his gun, I can then implement the second stage of my plan: creating a diversion. I’ve already figured out that part; it’s going to be too fucking easy, not to mention ironic, and I can’t wait to see the look on Fernando’s face when shit begins to go sideways. It’s going to be goddamn perfect.
I haven’t told Natalia what’s going to happen. She needs to be just as surprised, if not a little panicked, just like everyone else. She knows to be ready, though, and she’s carrying her serrated knife with her, just in case anyone gives her any trouble.
Waiters walk around with trays, overloaded with glasses of wine and tiny vol-au-vents, and everyone seems to be getting a little buzzed. It’s not until almost eight when Fernando signals to one of the waiters, who then proceeds to sound a small, polished copper gong that sits on a tiny table by the foot of the stairs. A silence falls over the crowd, and they all look up expectantly, awaiting what comes next.
Limping slightly from the hammer blow Fernando dealt him the other night, Plato leads the group of men and women down the stairs, and a small sigh of anticipation runs through the crowd. Fernando’s Servicio are all dressed in white, from head to toe. The men wear pristine white suits, complete with white shirts and white ties, their hair either shaved close to their heads or slicked back with styling products. The women are all in white dresses or short white skirts, with revealing, low cut tops, their cleavages spilling over the tops of the material. Their makeup is immaculate, not a hair out of place. Strangely, they all look very calm. Flat, even. Their eyes are a little glassy as they follow each other down the stairs toward the awaiting crowd, and I get the sneaking suspicion that they’re all dosed and high as fuck right now. Seems like something Fernando would do—have his workforce drugged to be compliant and docile.
I curl my hands into fists, growling under my breath. Next to me, a tall guy leans against the wall with a dark-haired woman on his arm, both of them scanning over the Servicio, whispering to each other when they see someone they like.
Him: “The woman with the wavy blonde hair. Her tits are amazing.”
Her: “Oh god, yes. Her lips are to die for. I can’t wait to see your cock in her mouth.”
Him: “Fuck. This is crazy. I’m already hard.”
Her: “What about her? The girl with the white ribbon around her neck? Her ass is incredible. Picture me between her legs, eating her pussy, baby. Would you like that?”
Him: (Groaning) “Shit. I want to see that right now. Give me your hand. You have to see what this is doing to me.”
The woman smiles seductively, holding out her hand. The guy takes it and casually places it over his cock, squeezing so she can feel how hard he is. I have to look away.
Her: Baby…What about the guy at the front? He’s very handsome, don’t you think? Would you like to watch him fuck me? Would you like to be in my ass while he is fucking my pussy?
Him: Is he the one you want, my love?
Of course, they’re talking about Plato. He’s almost a head taller than everyone else. And I’m a dude, but I’m not fucking blind. I can see that he’s a handsome guy. Why else would Fernando have gone to the trouble of snatching him otherwise?
Plato’s gaze slips over me like he doesn’t even see me when he walks by. He’s holding hands with a slim dark-haired woman I haven’t seen before, and the two of them together, so perfectly manicured and turned out, look like Ken and Barbie dolls come to life.
“Welcome everyone!” A cry goes up from the other side of the foyer, and then Fernando is standing on a chair, tapping a fork against the side of his champagne glass. “Welcome, welcome. I am so glad you all could make it to this celebration at such short notice.”
I hadn’t even thought about that. Fernando announced the party three days ago, and all of these people have somehow managed to get here in time. These are the top one percent, though, the richest of the rich. They don’t have jobs to attend, and it’s unlikely they have families to care for, either. They probably all have private jets they can fuel up and fly off in whenever the fuck they want.
“I am pleased to see some familiar faces here this evening. I’m equally as pleased to be meeting many of you for the very first time. For those of you who are new to my household, please note, you are welcome to participate in any kind of sexual activity with my friends in white. All that I ask is that you are respectful and make sure you are not jumping the line ahead of another of my guests. We are all gentlemen and gentlewomen here at the Villalobos estate, and my friends are happy to accommodate all of you. They will be taking regular showers as the night progresses in order to maintain the height of cleanliness. All of the women in white are on birth control, so please feel free to ejaculate where you wish. Similarly, all of the men in white have had surgical procedures to ensure they are not capable of fathering children. If you would like for them to complete inside you, all you have to do is ask.”
I feel like I have razor blades underneath my fucking skin. He has to be fucking joking. He’s not only doping the Servicio, but he’s got the women on birth control? I suppose they’re no good to him if they get knocked up. And the guys have all had vasectomies? I’m itching to lose my shit. I’ve never been so furious in my entire life. This, from the man who happily discards dead bodies in open graves for the animals to pick over, though. Should I have expected anything more? Bile rises up the back of my throat, leaving a sour, acidic, bitter taste in my mouth.
This will all be over soon.
