The Heist

Burnside guessed he could have been one of the two masked men on the plane.
    There was a slight breeze, and with it came the stench of rot and decay, like an outhouse on fire. The smell was so strong that Burnside took another glance around, looking for the source, afraid he might spot it.
    The living room of the house was open to the patio and the pool. A man sat at a poolside table eating a very thick, very rare steak. There was a glass pitcher of ice-cold sangria, filled with fruit. The pitcher was beaded with condensation. The man wore sunglasses with blue lenses, a pair of dark-denim designer skinny jeans, a Gucci belt, K-Swiss classic high-top sneakers, and an explosively colorful T-shirt covered with sparkles, studs, and roaring lions. He looked like he was auditioning for a part in a Mexican version of
Jersey Shore
.
    Burnside stood in front of the table for a long moment, watching the man eat his steak and sip his sangria.
    “Welcome to Mexico, Mr. Burnside,” the man said, setting down his knife and fork. The steak was so pink it was almost throbbing. “Do you know who I am?”
    Burnside shook his head. The man sounded like Ricardo Montalban doing a bad Al Pacino imitation, or vice versa.
    “I am Diego de Boriga, one of the founding members of the Vibora cartel. The man behind you is Char, named for his skin, which is black as charcoal, like his soul. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does it is with his gun. You will never forget what he says, because you will be dead.”
    Kate and Nick were upstairs in a soundproof bedroom, sitting side by side in front of a bank of monitors that carried live feeds from cameras located all over the property.
    “Omigod,” Kate said. “That made absolutely no sense! And ‘Char’? Boyd just named Tom after his skin color and his soul? Are you freaking kidding me? Didn’t you give Boyd a script?”
    “Boyd isn’t great at following a script,” Nick said.
    “You have to talk to him. He can’t just go off saying ridiculousthings. He’s ruining the whole setup. And what’s with that accent? I half expected Boyd to say ‘Welcome to Fantasy Island.’ If I was in Burnside’s flip-flops right now, I’d be laughing my ass off.”
    “You also said Burnside would never be fooled by the mannequins in the guard tower.”
    “What are you going to do when the sun isn’t in his eyes when he’s looking at it?”
    “The sun will always will be in his eyes whenever we let him into the yard. Remember,
we’re
directing the show.”
    She tapped the onscreen image of Boyd. “Does
he
know that?”
    “He’s a Vibora?” Burnside asked, tipping his head toward Char.
    “Char is a hired gun, and the only man I trust,” Diego said. “That is because his only loyalty is to money.”
    “What happens if someone comes along and offers him more to kill you than what you’re paying him for his protection?”
    “Then I am dead,” Diego said.
    Burnside looked over his shoulder at Char. “How much are you making?”
    Char didn’t answer.
    Diego laughed. “Are you going to make him a better offer?”
    “I might.”
    “Even if you could, and Char accepted, and assuming he could kill all the other men patrolling this compound, you are in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert. A man who killed a Vibora leader would not get very far.” Diego stood up and ambled into the living room. Burnside followed, shadowed closely by Char. “Have you noticed that delicate scent in the air, carried in the morning breeze?”
    Delicate?
Burnside thought. No amount of flowers and tropicallandscaping could mask the stink of rot, which he’d first noticed walking over from the stockade. “It’s awful.”
    Diego took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I find the fragrance invigorating.”
    “What is the smell coming from?”
    Diego strolled to an oil painting over the mantelpiece that depicted a large flower in bloom, its single-stem inflorescence wrapped in an enormous, flowing white–and–lime green petal that was a deep, rich purple on its furrowed inner folds.
    “This is the
Amorphophallus titanium
, found naturally only in the rain forest of Sumatra. It blooms for only two days at a time, and rarely in its forty-year lifespan. When it blooms, it’s a gloriously beautiful sight, as you can see, but the fragrance it emits, likened to that of a herd of decomposing elephants in a swamp of excrement, has earned it the nickname ‘the corpse flower.’ ”
    “That’s what I’m