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A fight club in West Caracass is his chosen haunt. One where ex-criminals brawl to death in an underground cage. I’ve heard of such matches only through the vilest rumors when it comes to the most powerful narcos. For their own amusement, they hire thugs to maim one another—when they’re not buying and selling women as commodities, that is.
The fact that Pedro even knows about this place is beyond me. He didn’t think to enlighten me, either. Neither did he explain where he got the red sports car I drove to this venue or who the owner of the silver business card I flash to the security guards is.
Rather than some isolated compound in the middle of nowhere, the address Pedro gave me leads to a sprawling gated complex near the upscale half of the city. The only entrance seems to be via a large garage and a set of metal double doors guarded by at least five armed men. Apparently, these events aren’t open to the public. Watchful eyes track my every move, and a stern-faced man frisks me before letting me through a metal barrier.
Once inside, I find a large, square arena that slopes toward a raised fighting ring in the center. It’s not quite the din of bloodshed I’d anticipated. It’s…classy, almost. Black walls and gray floors create a mysterious atmosphere, and well-dressed attendants circle around with trays of champagne.
One could almost forget the enormous silver cage looming over the heart of the room. At the base of it lies a rubber mat perfect for repelling bloodstains and the like. Rows of leather chairs line four levels, each increasing in height from the main floor with steps leading down to the bottom.
Feeling out of place, I move blindly, taking everything in through a wide-eyed gaze. More people have entered, jostling beside me, and before I know it, I’m in a sea of strangers.
They aren’t the ordinary crowd. In fact, they aren’t even the type of people found in the strip clubs owned by the men who organize these events. Their tailored suits cast an allure typically found in some exclusive country club.
A rush of adrenaline quickens my pulse and moistens my palms with sweat. I feel as if I am stepping into a den of lions. Or, in this case, hungry jaguars.
Yet, oddly enough, the king feline is nowhere to be found.
Mingle,Pedro had warned me.Don’t get caught lurking. Force a smile and speak to any and everyone. Make an impression and seem as if any man in this arena could be your prey. In this dress, you might be able to somewhat make up for your general lack of sex appeal.
The bastard had a point. The black, skintight one-piece he gave me stands out in this crowd for all the wrong reasons. With low-cut necklines and dangerously high skirts, most women here try to show as much skin as possible. I even receive questioning glances as I pass, but not because my dress is out-of-style.
I am a walking contradiction. This ensemble is conservative, and yet somehownot. Black material hugs my curves, and the design sports long sleeves that end just past my wrists. A scooped neckline teases the barest hint of cleavage and serves as the most daring attribute about me.
Basically, I look like a naughty Halloween version of a nun, sans piety.
Wearing it at all was an act of faith in Pedro’s expertise. I would probably choose something red if I were to devise an outfit that would catch Jaguar’s attention. Something with a slit up to my hoo-ha and a neckline equally risqué. The skimpiest clothes make men drool, after all.
Pedro’s insight, however, I trust more than my own.Stick to the script,he warned before I left.It sounds dramatic, Pita, but your life depends on it. This is no game.
The impact of his words has only begun to sink in. All at once, the air becomes colder, and the room grows silent in what feels like an orchestrated moment. Then, as if on cue, an entourage of people enter the arena, and I can hear Pedro’s voice whispering,Showtime.
I know of Julian Domingas. Everyone unfortunate enough to rub shoulders with the lower dregs of society does. Rumor and myth are the bread and butter of those in the cartels. They thrive on fear and on gravitas.
Despite the infamy, I’ve never seen him in person. I don’t even know what he looks like. Spotting an imposing figure leading the well-dressed newcomers, I stiffen in anticipation. Could he be Julian Domingas himself? My impression of him is hard to describe.
It’s not a particularly good one.
When viewed from a distance, the man more than lives up to the myth. He’s beautiful but in a jagged sense. The way volcanoes can be beautiful, bathed in hot lava and spewing destruction into the world. As he approaches, my entire body tenses in ways I don’t expect. It’s primal. Instinctive. Also... Sexual.
I blame abstinence for that—it has been too long since I’ve been with anyone, let alone someone who oozes danger. Logic cannot always prevail over biology, and in this case, I’m outmatched.
Julian Domingas exudes an intensity I have never encountered before. Even Braulio lacks this specific kind ofje ne sais quoi.He wears a black shirt with short sleeves that reveal the vivid tattoos spanning his left arm. Although he opted for dark-wash jeans instead of the expensive suit his peers prefer, he somehow seems the most regal of them all. A tribal chieftain, taking charge of a disparate arrangement of allies.
Pedro’s warnings take on a new significance. My old friend was right—Jaguar is a new breed of animal. My only consolation is that most men are beasts. Monsters.
The main weakness of such a creature? Willing prey.
Trying to remember Pedro’s script, I square my shoulders. According to him, I shouldn’t approach Jaguar directly and throw myself at his feet as my first move. I need to mingle first, so I do, keeping to the outskirts of the crowd.
To stall for time, I inspect more of the arena. It’s nicer than some movie theaters. Hell, it’s nicer than my apartment building on the lower west side. The floors may be concrete, but burnished silver lighting makes the metal of the inner cage sparkle. Were we here under different circumstances, one might think this could be the stage of some elaborate abstract performance ofCirque du Soleil.
The purpose of this venue becomes painfully apparent as the lights dim further and the players take their places around the arena.
Violence. Pomp and circumstance. Mayhem.
Jaguar and his entourage are at the center of it all, in the seats closest to the ground floor. He has at least three women on his arm, all scantily dressed and sensually beautiful. Arm candies. Although Pedro has been laid more than I have, I immediately doubt his approach.
Confidence is a fragile thing in the world of excess money and dangerous power. From what I could garner on the grapevine, Braulio’s plane leaves in exactly eight hours, and I’m no closer to stopping him. I still have to convince Jaguar to do something, should I even manage to catch his eye.
