After setting the tote aside, Bianca read the name on the business card and softened her tone. "Please don't do this, Hector."
"Do what?" He shrugged and leaned against a corner of her desk, looking nonchalant. He forced a smile, but she knew better.
"The Asian woman deals in death. I have felt this more than once, nephew. I've met her before." Bianca touched Hector's arm when he rolled his eyes. "And her employer, Nicholas Charboneau, is much more dangerous. But that one with the green eyes, he scares me most. The Orixás have marked him. I hear their whispers. The evil may be too strong for him to overcome. Please don't get involved."
"You are a superstitious old woman." He leaned over to kiss her forehead, more eager to do what he intended. He pointed a finger at her. "Stay out of this."
"The spirits have spoken. Their whispers warn of evil and should not be ignored. Hector?" She cried out to her nephew, but the high-pitched tinkle of bells told her he had already left the store. He had no faith in the old ways. One day it might get him killed.
But Bianca had the power to intervene. With one hand, she clutched at her pearls. With the other, she grabbed a pen to make a list of what she would need. To summon the spirit, Ayza the Protector, she would need her most powerful magic.
The sun had dropped below the skyline, blazing liquid fire across the horizon. Neon lights competed with nature's show, a city getting its second wind. As beautiful as it was, he missed Chicago . . . and Raven. And to make matters worse, the stiffness in his body couldn't be ignored. He felt like crap. Lack of sleep and his narrow escape from the hit and run had taken their toll. Only thoughts of Raven made the pain tolerable. She had that effect on him, even across the world.
But when his thoughts drifted to Charboneau, Christian knew he was running out of options as he walked back to the hotel with Jasmine. Without the heft of the bag on his shoulder, the absence of it served to remind him how abysmal the day had gone.
Hoofing it gave him time to think, and he hoped the exercise would do him good. Since Jasmine hadn't said a word since the voodoo store, he assumed she felt the same until . . .
"You didn't let me do all the talking." Eyes forward, she kept the anger from her voice.
"Someone in the back storeroom was looking through the peephole."
"Yeah, I know."
Christian did a double take. Jasmine was full of surprises.
"Don't worry, little acorn. You played it right." She smiled, still not glancing his way.
Meandering like a shopper, she kept her eyes alert, even using the reflection in store windows to check behind them. She looked uneasy, a subtle nuance to her demeanor.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Don't know yet. I've had the feeling all day. Someone is tailing us, but they're too good to spot."
"You want to ditch 'em?" He kept his eyes straight ahead. "Out of principle?"
"No. We're heading back to the hotel. Let them feel in control . . . for now. When we need to shake them, we will." She smirked. "So what did you make of Hector?"
Christian gave her his point of view. The guy behind the register at Guia Do Espírito got a little testy after Jasmine dumped the dead snake and the Macumba gear on the counter. Who could blame him? Working retail brought out the worst in folks. And whoever kept their distance in the back stockroom certainly got his attention, but did the place warrant a return visit or a nighttime surveillance gig? He wasn't sure they had the time to spend on an operation that might not pan out. Hector didn't seem to know much.
Genotech Labs and Dr. Tyson Phillips were more likely candidates for pulling an all-nighter. Getting onto the grounds of the lab would be a major undertaking, with all the security, but maybe they didn't need to get inside the walls. Besides, if they got thrown in jail for trespassing, Charboneau would pay the price. Jasmine agreed with his assessment.
Yet he still needed a heads-up from a local, someone familiar with the tribes. By now Chief Zharan might have Duarte's surveillance recordings from the hotel. Maybe he would know Rodrigo Santo, the guy with the AK-47.
"So . . . you think we can trust Chief Zharan?" he asked Jasmine.
She stared at him, considering the question. To her credit, she didn't cut his throat for even thinking it. Sometimes, it was the little things that could perk a guy up.
"I am not a good one to ask about the trustworthy nature of anyone in law enforcement. Why?"
"We need a next step, and he may know Rodrigo Santo or whatever his real name is. Maybe Zharan can recommend someone who knows the local tribes." He shrugged. "And if Duarte had a line on Mr. AK-47, he would've already taken steps to bring him in for questioning or covered the guy's tracks. If we ask him right, Zharan might tell us which."
She pursed her lips and nodded. Neon lights and a dying sun reflected off the sunglasses she still wore. "It's worth a shot."
Christian pulled out Chief Zharan's business card from his wallet and placed the call. With a hand stuffed into his pocket and the other holding the phone, he leaned against a brick storefront on the street. Jasmine paced in front of him, eyes alert.
Zharan answered on the second ring. "Chief Zharan."
"This is Christian Delacorte."
"Yes, Mr. Delacorte. Please, what can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if you'd seen the hotel surveillance on the Charboneau kidnapping yet."
"Yes, I've reviewed it. How can I help?" Strong and self-assured, the chief's voice gave him comfort.
Jasmine crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes, trying to read Christian's reaction to what the chief had to say.
"It's my understanding that a man named Rodrigo Santo worked at the hotel and may have been one of the men who kidnapped Charboneau. Do you know this man?"
"No, I'm sorry. I don't."
"I doubt that Santo is his real name, but was Captain Duarte searching for him?"
Silence. Christian heard Zharan sigh on the phone. Jasmine started to pace again.
"Unfortunately, Captain Duarte had not pursued the matter. I'm sure he would have eventually, but rest assured, I have issued a bulletin for Santo. I will get to the bottom of this very soon."
The chief covered for Duarte like any good supervisor would, but he did not lie. Instead, he focused on the positive of the investigation moving forward. Christian respected him for that.
"Santo may have connections to a local tribe. Can you suggest someone who might know the area natives? I'd like to speak to them."
Jasmine turned and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Christian's reaction.
"Are you sure you want to do that, Mr. Delacorte? These tribes can live in remote areas, and generally would not tolerate being accused of kidnapping. I'm concerned for your safety."
"I appreciate that, Chief, but I have to do something. If you don't want to get involved, I understand. I can pursue this on my own."
It took a while for the man to answer. Christian didn't want to alienate him, but he'd follow this lead whether he got Zharan's endorsement or not.
"Actually, Mr. Delacorte, I do commend your perseverance. But my task force has already made several inquiries. I don't want to get your hopes up, but we've narrowed down some possibilities. Please don't do anything until you hear what I have to say."
Zharan shared what he had so far. The details were sketchy, but the new lead gave him hope. Finally.
"I'll call you tomorrow at your hotel when my men have something. We're working through the night." Zharan cleared his throat. "And Mr. Delacorte? Please know that I intend to oversee this investigation myself. Nothing will happen without me knowing about it."
"I appreciate that, Chief Zharan. Thank you." Christian ended the call.
Despite the good news of a fresh lead, he felt his belly twist into a tight knot. If Zharan hadn't taken Captain Duarte off the case, they would have been back to square one. Precious time had slipped through their fingers—all because of Duarte's clever stall tactics. Christian wondered if the captain had been paid to look the other way or was involved up to his eyeballs with a much larger pay out.
With a long waiting game ahead, he needed something to fill the void or he'd go stir crazy. He glared through Jasmine, not really seeing her.
"Zharan's working through the night. I think we oughta do the same. I've got an idea."
Military Police Headquarters
Duarte's office
With his door locked and only minimal lighting, Captain Duarte sat at his desk. Only a skeleton crew worked the night shift in the detective's bullpen outside his office. He didn't want anyone else to know he stayed behind, with other things on his mind.
His jaw tight, Duarte pulled off the headset and stopped the recording. The telephone conversation between the American and his chief still played in his head.
The chief was building a case against him. No surprise. He had seen it coming long before today. But with Christian Delacorte knowing about Rodrigo Santo's role in the kidnapping, Chief Zharan would be forced to act. The American had tipped the first domino, leaving him no way out.
Damn it!
From here on things would get . . . complicated. With all the stealth and patience of a snake in tall grass, he would bide his time before he struck.
Timing would be everything.
"You were warned, Christian Delacorte," he whispered as he picked up the phone to make a call. "You can't say I never warned you."
Dr. Phillips slipped away from dinner with his family to take the call in his study, pretending it pertained to a situation at the lab. He knew he might need the excuse later, something to rell his wife when he would leave in the middle of the night. Phillips hoped it wouldn't come to that, but his luck had been flushed down the toilet long ago.
He reported what happened on the tour with the Americans.
"I'm telling you, Delacorte's going to be trouble. He asked way too many questions. Good questions. And Jasmine gave me the creeps. She stared at me like I was food." Dr. Phillips gripped the phone, trying to mask his unsteady nerves. "I think they know what's going on."
"They know nothing." The man didn't hide his perverse amusement. "Don't ever play poker, my friend. You wouldn't be good at it."
"This isn't a game. I don't want—"
"I don't care what you want or don't want."
Venom. Pure venom.
"I have everything under control. It would be in your best interest if you remembered I'm the one in charge now."
Phillips shut his eyes. He was afraid to ask the question on his mind, but he had to know. "Are we still on for tonight? I think we ought to lay low for a while. At least until this is all over."
Even as he said the words, he knew what
all over
meant. Charboneau would be dead and his living torment would be worse. His new partner lived in Cuiabá, way too close for comfort.
Phillips had no doubt Charboneau was deadly, but at least the man had a certain civility. He knew the game of manipulation and how to play it, a much more tolerable bullet to the head. But the man on the phone wasn't encumbered by courtesy of any kind. Phillips had traded his seat in the frying pan for one in the fires of hell.
The silence on the phone made him swallow, hard. He waited for the man's answer.
"I have no interest in what you think, Doctor." A sickening throaty chuckle sent chills along the doctor's skin. "I've got Delacorte and his friend under surveillance. Focus on your end and you'll have nothing to worry about. Give my regards to your lovely wife."
The line went dead, but the man's threat came across loud and clear. Fear gripped the doctor's throat, the strain amassing to overload. If he made a mistake now, his family would pay the price. He knew he was in a no-win scenario.
But if presented with an opportunity to be free of all this, would he be man enough to take that chance?
Hard to tell how many tailed them. After comparing notes from earlier in the day, Christian and Jasmine knew it had to be more than one or two guys. Whenever they got a fix on a face, the target would blend into the crowd and they assumed someone new took his place. They had to start all over again, searching the crowds for familiar faces from place to place. No doubt about it, whoever pulled surveillance over the last few days knew what they were doing.
But would their surveillance setup handle what Christian had planned?
Leaving the hotel once again, he walked with Jasmine, a repeat of their first night in Cuiabá, out for dinner. They strolled down the main drag in front of the hotel as if they had the whole evening and weren't in a rush. Nearing a busy intersection, the light changed. Dressed in dark attire to blend in, they stood on the street corner amidst other pedestrians. Christian stared straight ahead but directed his comment to Jasmine on the sly.
"You know what to do?"
"Yeah, I'll meet you as agreed, but keep in mind .. ." She glanced toward him, issuing a personal challenge he knew would come. ". .. if one of us doesn't make it, I'm going it alone."
One of us? Christian smirked at the implication. Obviously, Jasmine planned not to fail.
"Don't you worry about me." He grinned. "We'll see who gets there first."
As the light changed, Christian took off left against traffic and Jasmine went straight, hiding within the crowd. Being shorter and with dark hair, she would blend in. He dodged traffic and picked up his pace after crossing the street, then immediately ducked into a crowded restaurant with dim lighting. He had seen the cafe earlier on his walk from the Macumba store. With only furtive glances over his shoulder, he quickened his steps as he pushed through the dinner crowd, careful not to make a scene.
Catching the eye of a waitress, he asked as he kept moving, "You got a back way out?"
Christian followed where the young woman pointed and skipped through a hallway by the kitchen and out the back. Now he faced an alley, dark and murky. To his right, it led to traffic. To the left, it looked like a dead end, branching off in another direction. He didn't want to make a mistake and get boxed in. He jogged toward traffic and hailed a cab. No hesitation.
"Just drive," he ordered after slipping inside the taxi.
Crouching low in the backseat, he turned to catch a glimpse of a man running out of the alley, dressed like a local in nondescript casual clothes. The guy looked both ways, unsure which way to go. His frustration showed. Christian smiled and turned to face forward, staying low so he wouldn't make a good target.
He hoped Jasmine had the same kind of luck ... only not as quick.
After riding in the cab for nearly twenty minutes, he gave the cabbie directions to drop him six blocks from the sidewalk cafe they had coffee earlier in the day. They were to meet on the southeast corner. He kept to the shadows, avoiding storefronts and street lamps. He walked the block and ducked into alleyways and side streets to make sure he hadn't been followed. Now he sat on a concrete step leading to a subterranean basement of an older hotel. His head barely visible, he craned his neck to keep an eye out for Jasmine.
Just when he thought he'd won the challenge, and began to worry that she'd gotten into trouble, a red Fiat Grande Punto pulled to the curb near him. The windows were tinted. He couldn't see the driver. Christian tensed. His hand reached for the Glock 19 and pulled it from the holster when the passenger side window rolled down.
"What took you so long? I got bored waiting, so I grabbed us some wheels. You like?" Not waiting for an answer, Jasmine demanded, "Hurry up. Get in. We ride in style."
The woman was certifiably nuts. She would get them arrested yet. Holstering his weapon, Christian shook his head and darted for the car.
Hell, he had carryon luggage bigger than this damned Fiat.
At six-four, Christian had trouble getting into many vehicles. He yanked open the passenger door and shoved into the tight seat. Not wanting to call attention to the stolen Fiat, he didn't have a choice but to make it quick. He crammed into the front, his knees practically to his chin. Once inside, his head bumped the ceiling as he fidgeted to adjust the seat.
Jasmine couldn't hide her amusement.
"You see? Big is not always better." The words were out of her mouth before she had time to think. "On second thought, forget I said that."
"You did this on purpose," he complained, folded into the future piece of scrap metal like a glassy-eyed sardine. Jasmine didn't say a word. Her grin said it all.
Using only running lights for the last few miles, Jasmine drove the red Fiat with both hands on the wheel, using the curves in the road and the dense treeline to mask their approach to Genotech Labs. Without a full moon, the night closed in on Christian, pitch-black. The pale lights cast eerie shadows onto the road and the thick vegetation along it, playing tricks on the eyes. An animal darting into their path would cause serious damage. His companion leaned forward, peering through the windshield, searching the darkness for man and beast.
"We won't get much closer. I don't want to risk being heard. Sound carries out here," she reminded him. "I'm pulling over if I can find a good spot. We can walk the rest of the way."
"Works for me." Out of reflex, Christian reached for the gun in his holster. His elbow hit the door panel. "There's a dirt road to the right up here, just before the last bend. I remember it from our taxi ride."
He pointed, and Jasmine pulled onto the shoulder. The change in terrain caused the vehicle to lurch right and take a hard bump. Christian rammed his head into the ceiling.
"Hey, watch it." He ducked and shoved a hand onto the dash. "I'd like to make it out of this tin can in one piece . . . and without a brain tumor."
"Sorry." She pretended to care, but the smirk on her face told him otherwise. "You know, technically, you can't get a brain tumor from a little bump on the head," she mumbled loud enough for him to hear. "A concussion perhaps. Or maybe a little head-trauma-induced brain bleed."
Christian gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead, cursing himself for the lack of foresight to bring earplugs.
Jasmine followed a narrow dirt trail until she was satisfied the vehicle wouldn't be seen from the main road. She doused the lights, drove into the brush, and killed the engine. Christian flipped the switch for the interior lights so they wouldn't go on when the doors opened and jack with their adapting night vision. While he did, Jasmine reached into the backseat and pulled out her backpack. She unzipped a pocket and retrieved a small plastic bottle. When she opened the cap, the smell of it hit his nose in the tight quarters of the Fiat. Bug juice. The woman thought of everything.
"Put this on. You'll need it." She slathered it onto her face and exposed skin.
"I love the smell of DEET in the morning," he teased, doing his best Robert Duvall impersonation from
Apocalypse Now.
Jasmine gave him a sideways glance, clearly not a fan of movie trivia.
Once outside the car, they shut the doors, careful not to make a sound. Mosquitoes bombarded him in a thick swarm, but the bug juice kept most of them away.
"Stick to the treeline. Follow me." Jasmine gestured and led the way, shrugging into her backpack.
She traversed a gully, digging in her heels and leaning into the hill to keep her balance. Jasmine cut a path diagonally, then back down, heading for the valley floor. Christian followed, keeping the security
floodlights of the lab in his sights through the dense trees, an orientation point. In the dark, tree limbs and shrubs slapped his pant legs and arms. He couldn't avoid them. But as they crept closer, the sounds of the night muffled to deathlike stillness. Any noise they made drew attention from the nocturnal wildlife. He sensed their eyes on him, quietly watching.
Eventually the terrain leveled and Christian became aware of water nearby, a convergence of several tributaries. The swirling water captured the moonlight on its surface, giving shape and size to the streams. Jasmine headed for the water and veered left to follow its confluence. Heavy brush grabbed at his boots.
Suddenly, a shrill cry ripped through the night. Pitiful and agonizing. Then it stopped . . . dead. Thrashing of water followed. In a swell, other animals screeched and yowled, rippling through the hillside.
What the hell was that?
The sound sent adrenaline coursing through Christian's blood as he dropped to a knee. A primal reaction. He peered through murky shadows toward the noise. Caught in the bluish haze of night, a large caiman surged down the creek. A distant relation to the crocodile, the creature undulated beneath the surface of the water, dragging its prey from the bank. In seconds it was over.
In this place, death came silent and in the blink of an eye.
Jasmine knelt by his side and waited for the quiet to return. "Let's go," she whispered.
Being in a valley west of the lab gave them cover from the security lights that strafed the night sky, but the refuge wouldn't last long. They angled toward the side entrance to the lab's med clinic and clamored up a small hill on all fours, staying low. Halfway up, he and Jasmine stopped to listen.
Dense humidity and the close vegetation intensified the heat. Every scratch and cut on his body ached, inflamed. And to exacerbate the condition, his clothes clung to his skin, damp from perspiration. Sweat trailed from his forehead down the side of his face. More trickled down the small of his back. When he wiped the back of his hand across his face and mouth, he got a serious taste of bug repellent. Nasty stuff.
Satisfied they were alone, Jasmine pressed ahead. "Last push, slow and easy."
At the crest of a hill, she scrambled into a thicket and slipped out of her pack. Christian knew the woman came prepared for a small skirmish, but mostly he wanted the water she carried in her pouch.
After she tossed him a bottle, he downed a large swig, cooling his throat. Jasmine quenched her thirst with another one, then retrieved night vision binoculars and shifted her focus to the west entrance of the heavily guarded facility. She assessed the situation.
"Two men at the gate. Armed," Jasmine muttered. She passed the binoculars to him for a look. "More walking the grounds inside. Hard to tell how many."
Christian rolled onto his belly and checked out the layout for himself.
"We could be in for a long night." He knew this would be a long shot. But after today's tour, something didn't feel right about this place. He trusted his instincts.
An hour stretched into two. And Christian's headache had returned with a vengeance. After sweating away the bug repellent, they applied more. Just when Christian thought their efforts would be a lost cause, Jasmine punched him in the arm.
"We got company."
Headlights along the ridge flickered between the trees. The sound of a car approaching carried through the night. It turned into the main entrance to Genotech and made the switchbacks, heading into the valley. Dust kicked up in its red taillights.
On cue, the guards looked like they expected company. They raised their weapons and stood aside as the gate slowly opened. Obviously, they waited for someone they knew. Dressed in a white lab coat, Dr. Phillips joined them and paced, looking at his watch. A familiar gesture.
"He's working late," Christian whispered, binoculars up. "No rest for the wicked."
A dark sedan pulled into the light and stopped at the guard station. From the shadows in the vehicle, Christian saw more than one man, but not much else. Phillips leaned down to speak to the driver. The doctor gestured for him to pull ahead. After the car parked, two men in suits got out of the front seat. Christian caught a glimmer off the belt of one of the men when his suit coat opened. A badge reflected the light. The men were . . .