A Dangerous Affair (16 page)

In less than three years, he'd emerged from the rubble of a Wall Street layoff to achieve unprecedented success. In three days, he'd negotiate the deal of the century and secure his position of power as the self-proclaimed CEO of a legitimate holding company laundering millions through private investment accounts.

"Don't be such a downer," he told the three-hundred-pound gorilla seated across from him. Leeland filled a second glass and pushed it toward the heavy-set bodyguard with a bald head, a diamond stud earring, and a canvas of tribal tattoos circumnavigating his bulging biceps.

"I don't drink," the bodyguard said in a grave voice. He carried a pair of Smith & Wesson SW99s in a leather shoulder rig decked out with magazines of hollow-point .45s.

Leeland downed the second glass himself. "For five grand a week you should squawk like a fucking chicken if I tell you to. My success is our success. I wouldn't be here without your help." He powered down the tinted window and tossed the empty bottle on the street. Then he pressed the chauffer intercom and said, "Turn at the flashing light."

The limousine scrubbed speed and hung a right at the three-way yellow, its tires crunching shrubs and fallen branches along the soggy road pummeled by an isolated thunderstorm. At the opposite end, the road opened to a pitch black clearing where an empty aircraft hangar sat near a private runway barely visible at night.

The bodyguard cocked his head back and forth. Tendons cracked and popped inside his massive neck. "They're late."

"They'll be here," said Leeland.

The bodyguard checked his watch. "It's too quiet."

"We're on private property in the middle of jumbuck nowhere. It's supposed to be quiet."

The limousine parked inside the hangar and the lights were killed.

Leeland dialed his cell phone and reached his wife's voicemail. "Hey, baby," he said. "Our flight's delayed. Give the kids a hug for me. I'll see you when I'm back." He popped the cork on another bottle of Crystal. Foam drizzled down the glass and onto his lap. He turned to his minion. "Get me a towel."

The bodyguard tossed a hand cloth at his boss and opened the door to get out. "I need a smoke."

Leeland dabbed the cloth on his lap. "Don't go far." He poured his glass and set the bottle in the chiller. The party was over, but the night was young. A victim of his own temptation, he maintained a separate life on the road, fed by his desire for constant female attention and the lavish accoutrements his empire afforded him.

He opened a cocaine vial from his blazer pocket and snorted from the tip of his manicured pinky nail. The instant high jacked his energy level. Long on revelry and short on sleep, the bump kept him alert and on edge.

Minutes passed.

The plane's delay clouded his head with paranoia. His patience waned. Everything was taking too long. Way too long. He'd doled out a lot of cash to secure reliable transportation. Transportation that failed to arrive on time.
No one in a cartel family would stand for this treatment,
he thought.
Why should I?

He checked his watch.

The
what ifs
began to freefall.

Was I followed? Who else knew about the destination? Did I pick the wrong hangar? Why did Dutch leave the limo for a smoke? And what the fuck's taking so long?

He pulled out a converted TEC-9 from a gym bag and tapped the chauffer window with the muzzle. "Stay here."

Dirt crunched under Leland's boots outside the limo. The smell of burned tobacco lingered in the humid air as he stepped over a pair of wheel chocks beside a grease stain embedded in the cracked concrete floor. An engine hoist stood inside a small workshop with a rolling tool chest and a pair of hundred gallon fuel drums. A chain and pulley hung from the rafters.

Leeland checked the empty runway and doubled back toward the hangar's makeshift waiting room. He kicked the door open and charged inside, restraining his trigger finger from unleashing the TEC-9's fury. A big screen television, wet bar, and plush leather chairs occupied the otherwise empty space. A chain and padlock secured the emergency exit.

The sound of footsteps brought him full circle to the workspace with the hundred gallon drums. He panned the submachine gun and signaled for the limo driver to stay put.

A shadow moved on the corrugated steel wall behind him.

A metallic clink made him jump.

"Jesus Christ!" he shouted at his bodyguard. "You scared the shit out of me!"

The bodyguard stowed his gold lighter and blew smoke. "Take it easy with that—"

"I nearly blew your fucking head off," Leeland vented. He brushed a grease smear on his coat sleeve. "Let's get the hell out of here."

The limo revved loudly and sped away in reverse, leaving a patch of burned rubber in its tracks.

Greeted with the sound of police sirens, the bodyguard pulled the pair of .45s from his shoulder rig and fired at the flashing blue lights outside the hangar.

A deputy sheriff rammed the runaway limo while a second patrol car screeched to a stop. Cops scurried for cover like roaches in an all-night diner. Flash-bang grenades bounced inside the hangar and exploded.

Leeland fired a long burst from the thirty-six-round clip, stitching holes in the car blocking his exit.

The bodyguard ran sideways and shot at anything that moved. Bullets ricocheted through plumes of caustic smoke drifting through the lethal mêlée. Empty brass clanged against the floor.

Leeland fired wildly, hitting everything but the human targets in front of him. "Kill them all!" he shouted without any inclination of how badly the odds played out. He ran toward the back room and slammed the door behind him. He propped a chair to block the entrance and turned his attention to the emergency exit.

He emptied the TEC-9 at the padlock and rammed his body at the exit door. He tossed the weapon and sprinted for the dense tree line a hundred yards from the hangar.

Out of breath and out of immediate danger, he glanced over his shoulder to glimpse at the chaos he'd abandoned. He ventured deeper into the woods before a round from a silenced .22 pierced his thigh muscle and lodged inside his femur.

Leeland dropped to the ground and pressed his hand on the burning wound. He crawled sideways on his good leg, pawing at the dirt with his free hand, his pants soaked in urine.

"Your flight's been canceled," said Blanchart, who emerged from the darkness wearing night vision goggles and a backpack with a folding shovel.

"Who are you?" Leeland asked.

Blanchart removed the goggles and let his eyes adjust to the natural moonlight. He compared the photo from his pocket to the suspect on the ground. "You're a hard man to find."

"I need a doctor!" cried Leeland. His heart raced from the drugs and adrenaline in his system.

"You need a lesson." Blanchart waited for the sound of gunfire to subside. He kept his radio on mute. "You've been stepping on my product," he said. He pressed his boot on Leland's leg. "Who do you work for?"

"Nobody."

"I need a name."

"Fuck you!" Leeland hissed, the initial pain from the gunshot obscured by the mixture of alcohol and cocaine in his system. "You're a dead man. I'll kill your wife. I'll kill your children. I'll kill your fucking dog."

Blanchart shot him in the kneecap.

This time the pain dropped a bomb on Leeland Marks as if an ax split his leg in half.

"I need a name," said Blanchart.

Leeland cowered at the base of a tree, his leg on fire from the bullet lodged between his bone and tendons. "I want a lawyer!"

"That ship's sailed. I can't help you unless you let me."

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Blanchart aimed the silencer at Leland's good leg.

"Who hired you?" Leeland asked in desperation. "Whatever they're paying you I'll double it. I'll triple it!"

"I need a name."

"There
is
no fucking name," Leeland cried. "I run the operation myself."

Blanchart fired at Leland's other kneecap.

Leeland moaned in agony, his body incapacitated from strategically-placed shots to his lower limbs. "He'll kill my family if I talk. I have a wife and kids. I'll give you everything I have. Twenty million dollars. Cash."

Blanchart knelt down beside his victim and pressed the silenced muzzle to Leland's groin. "I need a name."

"Uri Costa... He—he financed the operation. He has Columbian connections."

"Where is he?"

"He works out of LA. I never met him face to face. That's all I know. I swear..."

Blanchart aimed the gun at Leland's head. "What else?"

"That's it..."

"Give me your right hand," said Blanchart.

"What for?"

Blanchart pressed the muzzle at Leland's temple. "Give me your hand."

Leeland let go of his wounded knee and extended a shaky arm to Blanchart.

Blanchart grabbed the arm and twisted sharply to lock the joints in a straight position. With control of the limb, he slid the gun in his holster and said, "Hold still." He retrieved a pair of pruning shears from his zipper pocket and pressed the scissor blades to the base of Leland's thumb. He squeezed hard to snip off the manicured digit in one chomp.

Leeland screamed in agony.

"Almost there," said Blanchart. He touched the blades to the base of the index finger and clamped down again, lopping the digit like a piece of dried kindling.

Leeland screamed as he clutched his three-finger hand. "You said... You said you'd help me."

Blanchart pressed the muzzle to Leland's forehead and pulled the trigger twice. "I just did."

Chapter 22

Josh rummaged through his mobile home closet filled with stacks of
Playboy
,
Rolling Stone
, and
Popular Science
magazines. He skimmed the cover of
Playboy's
Girls Next Door
edition and tossed it in a separate pile. Issues of
Rolling Stone
found a home on the top shelf with his hidden DVD collection. Back issues of
Popular Science
found a home in the trash. "I've got more
Playboy
in this closet than Hugh Hefner," he said out loud.

"That's not a bad thing," said Lloyd, hovering uncomfortably in the background with his pride on hold.

"It is if Sheila finds them," said Josh. "She hates
Playboy
. She says the girls always make her look fat. I keep telling her it's not what you have or don't have, it's how you use what God gave you." He dug through an old box for a pair of jeans with a hole in the knee. "These might be long, but they'll probably fit you in the waist."

"Thanks," said Lloyd with a mix of gratitude and humility. "I really appreciate it. If you have any old shirts I can wear, I'll take those too."

Josh sniffed a wrinkled Metallic concert shirt. "This smells like rotten ass but it's still good. I thought I had more clothes in here, but Sheila must have donated them. The rest of this crap is hers." He poked around the back of the closet and tossed a pair of balled-up maternity panties at Lloyd. "Why don't you try these on for size?"

Lloyd tossed the panties back. "Why don't I try them around your head?" He stuffed the jeans and shirt in an old backpack. "You and Sheila have a good thing going."

"It works for us," said Josh. "I never thought I'd be a dad to someone else's kid."

"I never thought I'd be digging in your closet for old clothes."

Josh lit a cigarette and blew smoke. "Don't sweat it. Just help me clean this place up before Sheila gets back."

"I'll run the vacuum," Lloyd offered.

Josh pointed down the hall. "It's in the other closet, outside the bathroom."

Lloyd found the Hoover upright sandwiched between a mop bucket and a set of golf clubs. He lifted the vacuum by a broken handle and bumped his arm against the shelf above his shoulder. The force knocked boxes of junk on the floor, spilling books, sneakers, card games, and a Chinese-made .38 special.

Josh scooped the gun away.