Authors: James Patterson,Andrew Gross
ANDIE WAS JUMPY as she turned the key to the hotel room door. Cavello barely gave her time to catch a breath. “Let me,” he whispered, close to her ear.
He took the keys out of her hand and, a second later, pushed her up against the wall inside, pressing his body hard against hers. He put his tongue into her mouth.
Andie almost gagged.
Then Cavello had his hand underneath her T-shirt, pawing at her breasts.
Oh, God. This was Dominic Cavello. He was Jarrod’s killer.
Andie closed her eyes, then felt his hand slowly slide down her stomach, slipping underneath her panties.
“You’re all hot.” Cavello pulled away, grinning luridly.
“Yeah. Let’s not rush this, though, Frank. We have all the time in the world.”
He pulled her denim jacket off, tossed it on the floor. “You know
the second
I saw you I wanted this to happen. I wanted to take you right in that store.”
“Does that mean the trip to the ranch is off?” Andie said, trying to be cute.
Cavello laughed again, pulling her in to him, cupping his hands over her breasts again. She wanted to kill him right now.
“I need a couple of seconds.” Andie gasped.
“Not right now.” He pulled her T-shirt up, started licking her breasts and shoulders. He began to grind against her thigh. Then he ripped her bra off in a violent tug and started fondling her bare breasts.
“Please, I need a second,” she said. “The bathroom.”
Cavello looked into her eyes. “You don’t want to back out now?”
“Who’s backing out?” Andie tried to laugh, but Cavello grabbed her by the wrist and flung her onto the bed. He seemed out of control. She tried to calm herself, but she was thinking of the knife. She slid herself up to the pillow, where it was hidden. She’d cut through that melon. She could cut Cavello.
Cavello thrust himself between her legs. He was trying to get her jeans off.
“Slower,” Andie said, pretending to help him, shuffling back until the pillow was under her head. She reached behind, feeling for the blade. She stretched out, pretending to enjoy Cavello undressing her. She prayed that Nick would come through the door.
Where was he?
She felt the handle of the knife under the pillow. She had to get him a little closer. She fixed her eyes on Cavello’s neck—the spot where Nick taught her to plunge the blade.
“What’s the name of your ship?” Cavello said, startling her.
“What? E-excuse me?” she stammered.
“The name of your ship, Alicia.” He had her wrists pinned. She couldn’t move. “The one to Antarctica.”
Andie froze. She stared back into his eyes. Her heart thumped as she struggled for an answer.
“Nothing goes out this time of year. They leave in the spring, not winter,” Cavello said. “You’re a fox, Alicia.” He dug one hand into her throat. “But now I think it’s time you tell me who the hell you are.”
THEY’D BEEN UP THERE for seven minutes. I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. It didn’t matter that the bodyguard in the Adidas warm-up was smoking a cigarette in front of the hotel entrance. Or that the other one, with the shaved head and mustache, had followed Cavello and Andie inside.
I had to go in.
Los Pelicanos wasn’t exactly a five-star. It was sleepy and quiet, with a tiny lobby and a single clerk behind the desk. A cramped three-person elevator served its five floors.
I went around back to a small alleyway. I couldn’t chance going into the lobby. Above me, there was an old fire escape, the kind with the lowest platform hanging from the second floor. I jumped, latched onto a grate, and yanked myself up. The window facing me opened to what looked like a hallway. But the window was locked.
I cocked my elbow back and hit the pane. Shards of glass shattered all over the floor. I squeezed my hands through the splintered pane and lifted the frame. The window rose. Then I ducked inside the hallway, the Glock in my hand.
In front of me was the elevator landing and a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors. That’s where Andie was, on three. I made my way up the stairs.
I stopped on the third-floor landing. I saw Shaved Head leaning against the wall. He had his back turned to me and was gazing out a hallway window.
I rushed him—and he must have heard me coming. In a frantic motion, he fumbled for his gun.
I flattened the muzzle of my weapon against his jacket and jerked the trigger, twice. The retort convulsed him, the sound muffled against his body. He slumped against the wall, his hand still grasping for his gun. He slowly slid down as his eyes rolled back. A crimson stain spread out on his shirt.
I raced down the hallway to 304. I held back at the door for a second; then I heard a gasp—
Andie.
“YOU KILLED MY SON!”
Cavello’s eyes bulged as he tried to make sense of what she said. Then recognition spread across his face. He reached for the dog tag Andie always kept around her neck. It had Jarrod’s birthday on it.
“You’re from the trial! You’re the one whose kid was on the bus!”
“You pig!” Andie tried to twist out of his grasp, but Cavello held her tight.
“You’ll like this,” he said. “I wanted to do you all through the trial. Right in the jury box.”
Suddenly the hotel room door crashed open. Cavello spun around.
“Get off her!” Nick yelled as he stepped into the room, his gun leveled at Cavello.
The strangest look came over the gangster’s face. He was shocked at first, staring at the gun muzzle. But then he couldn’t hold back an incredulous grin. “
Nicky Smiles.
”
“You told me to come and find you. So I did.”
“You’ve been wasting your talents, Nicky. All these years, working for the FBI.” He looked at Andie. “And you. You lost out on a really good time.”
Without a word, Andie punched his face as hard as she could. “A good time? I had to keep from throwing up.
You killed my little boy!
”
“Well, that really stings, Alicia, or whatever your name is. Tell me, Nick, is this little rendezvous official? How’d you find me?”
Cavello rose from the bed, rubbing his jaw and moving it around.
“El Fin del Mundo. This is it. Remlikov sold you out.”
“Remlikov?” Cavello squinted. “Who’s that?”
“
Nordeshenko,
” Nick said. “You got a lot to pay for, Dom.”
“Yeah, well I figure I got time. The extradition treaties don’t move so fast down here. Not to imply I’m not totally humbled—you guys coming all the way down here to take me back.”
Nick stared at him coldly. “What makes you think anyone came down here to take you back?”
The color in Cavello’s face began to drain. “You’re a federal agent, Pellisante.”
“Actually, not anymore. What do you think of that?”
Cavello sniffed. “Well, waddaya know. I’m impressed, Nicky Smiles.”
In a swift motion, Cavello took the small writing desk by the window and hurled it.
Nick fired. The bullet tore into Cavello’s shoulder.
Nick jumped back as the desk crashed against the wall. Cavello made a leap for the window, hitting it with his clenched fists. He crashed through the glass.
Both Nick and Andie ran to the broken window. They saw Cavello writhing on the ground, three stories below. Then he started to rise. He struggled to his feet, clutching his shoulder. And he began to stagger away.
I BOUNDED DOWN the stairway at the end of the hall, two steps at a time. Then I remembered Cavello’s other bodyguard. He was still guarding the hotel entrance, and that was a problem.
I came to a stop on the second floor. The elevator was there. I reached in and pushed the button for the lobby, sending it on its way. Then I backtracked and crept along the staircase, following the clanking elevator down.
I waited for the doors to open to the lobby.
The second I heard the elevator rattle to a stop, I stepped out, my pistol drawn.
Cavello’s bodyguard must have heard the commotion upstairs because he had his semiautomatic pistol trained on the opening doors. He heard a noise and spun toward me. I squeezed, popping two rounds into the logo on his mint-green warm-up, blowing him back into the empty elevator car. Then I ran out the front door.
Outside the hotel there was no sign of Cavello.
I took off in the direction of the harbor, back toward the Bar Ideal, where the Range Rovers were parked.
As I turned into the square I saw Cavello. He was limping toward the cars, getting close.
With a glance back, Cavello pulled himself up into the lead Range Rover and started the engine. He jerked it into reverse, did a three-point turn, smashing into a street sign and sending a few onlookers jumping out of the way.
I ran over to my Land Cruiser, which was parked across the square. I pulled out after him. I knew that if he got to his ranch, he was lost to me. At best, there’d be months of red tape and diplomatic protocol, and a lot of explaining about my involvement.
Besides, I hadn’t come down here to see him put on trial a third time.
Cavello gunned the Range Rover through the town streets, careening around tight curves, flying through any stop signs and red lights. I followed a few car lengths behind.
We made it to the east road out of Ushuaia—then he accelerated, going seventy, eighty, in the direction of his ranch. I picked up speed behind him. He passed a slow-moving truck, gunning for the narrow space between it and an oncoming bus, loudly honking its horn. Cavello didn’t move out of the way. The bus driver hit the brakes. Cavello jerked the car back in its lane, missing the bus by inches.
I passed the truck, doing everything I could to keep the Land Cruiser on the narrow, weather-beaten road. The speedometer climbed. We both got up to about 160 kilometers, close to a hundred miles an hour. I could make out the back of Cavello’s head, checking me in the rearview mirror as I closed on him. His Range Rover began swerving. Once or twice I thought it was going to fly off the road.
Suddenly Cavello’s window went down. I saw a semiautomatic.
I slammed on the brakes as bullets ricocheted off the Land Cruiser. I hunched low over the steering wheel.
Up ahead, I spotted a road sign, and a road approaching on the right. D
AWSON
G
LACIER
. I hit the gas one more time, making up distance. Then I plowed into Cavello at full speed!
The Range Rover shot forward and spun. This time he couldn’t control it. He hit the brakes, screeching into a hundred-and-eighty-degree spin. I thought he was going to roll over, and hoped he would. The Range Rover somehow righted itself and clung perilously to the shoulder, dust and gravel billowing everywhere.
I pulled forward and slammed my brakes, too. When I came to a stop I was blocking him. Our eyes met.
Cavello’s only way out was into the canyon. He sent a spray of bullets my way. Then he took off up the road.
You’re mine.
IT WAS A ROCKY, unpaved mountain road, barely wide enough for a single vehicle. If we didn’t have SUVs, neither of us would have been able to stay on it for a hundred yards.
And it was starting to climb higher.
I pursued Cavello, my head nearly bouncing against the roof. I didn’t know if he knew where he was heading. But I sure didn’t, and I didn’t like the idea of this ominous-sounding glacier ahead and the unknown terrain. The canyon walls rose above us, overhanging and steep. Cavello’s vehicle sped ahead. It was hard to make up distance. Every time I hit a bump or a dip, I clung to the steering wheel as if it were a life preserver.
The land had the look of a primordial world. Vegetation dwindled down to nothing. Ahead, gleaming, snow-capped peaks came into view. Frozen cataracts hugged icy cliffs overhead. It was surreal.
We were going fifty or sixty, careering over huge bumps and dips. Any second, either of us could blow a tire and be dead because of it. Cavello fishtailed perilously around turns, scraping boulders and branches.
I had to end this.
Cavello slid around another turn, and I floored the accelerator, ramming his back end. The Range Rover swerved, trying to hold the turn—then its wheels sputtered wildly into a gully.
The Range Rover rolled over, then landed upright in a cloud of dust. I slammed on my brakes and jumped out with my gun ready. I didn’t see any movement, and it looked bad.
Suddenly, the passenger door creaked open. I couldn’t believe it! Cavello, with a bullet in his shoulder, along with whatever other injuries he’d just sustained, crawled out of the vehicle. He was still holding the gun, and he sprayed a barrage of bullets my way. I moved behind the SUV as bullets pummeled the Land Cruiser, shooting out windows. He kept firing until the magazine was empty.
I called out to him. “End of the world, Dom—for you.”
I STARTED TOWARD HIM, and Cavello began to hobble up the slope toward the ice field, limping horribly. What was with this guy?
“It’s pay-up time, Dom. You remember Manny Oliva? Ed Sinclair?” I yelled, and my voice echoed.
He continued to claw his way up the slope, falling back, righting himself, grabbing at rocks and loose gravel. I kept up, maybe thirty yards behind.
Over a ledge ahead of us was a massive block of ice. It was thirty feet tall—and vast—clinging to the valley walls between two mountains. It was breathtaking. Could’ve sunk a thousand
Titanic
s, and Cavello was headed toward it.
He started to slide and fall. This time he cried out in pain.
“How about Ralphie’s sister, Dom? Remember her? How about that little girl, the one you burned? What was she, a year old?”
Cavello backed up against an ice-filled crevasse that was maybe twenty feet deep. There was nowhere else to go.
He turned and faced me. “So what do you want now? You want me to kneel and beg? You want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He mocked me and everything I stood for, believed in.