Authors: Chuck Driskell
Then
she was gone.
Xavier
slapped her thigh affectionately, coming to a standing position.
As he lifted the nurse’s light body from the
floor, he noticed the Polish woman, Justina, eyeing him through slit eyes.
“Go
to sleep,” Xavier commanded, flipping off the light in the cupboard and pulling
the door shut.
He
carried the slight nurse to the hall closet, stuffing her inside, thoroughly
disgusted when her bowels released due to the pressure of her contortion.
Hoping to contain the smell, Xavier wet a
towel and jammed it against the outer base of the door.
Then, from the kitchen, he looped a piece of
string around the resident dinner bell, hanging it on the doorknob of the
storeroom.
Using
his cell phone, Xavier touched redial for Acusador Cortez Redon.
“That
little shit better use every bit of his influence to find Gage Hartline.”
Cocked
an eyebrow.
“And my money.”
* * *
Something
happened while Angelines drove the small pickup truck westward across the
sunset-splashed city of Barcelona.
Though it had been hitting him in waves over the past day, Gage’s fear
for Justina uncorked, constricting his optical nerves in a cousin to his old PTSD
headaches.
This headache wasn’t
completely debilitating—but it was quite painful.
And while Barcelona was streaked with the low
afternoon sun, to Gage it flamed red, worsening his headache with every
second.
Redon
was still in the floorboard, his protestations having quieted after Gage
stomped on him a few times.
Now the
lawyer was curled into a modified fetal position, whimpering occasionally,
surrendered to his fate.
Unable to speak
with a great deal of coherence, Gage motioned Angelines to follow the road by
the Llobregat River.
She followed the
river inland for ten kilometers, as the city abruptly gave way to a pastoral
setting, with rows and rows of plantings beside the curving waterway.
At
a rural bridge crossing, Gage asked Angelines to slow, having her turn down a
dusty access road that led to the river’s edge.
There, at the base of a low bridge, a good ten feet below the road and
completely hidden, Gage held his left hand up to stop her.
“What
are we going to—”
Her
query was cut off because Gage was already out of the truck.
He thrust both hands back in, grasping
Redon’s lapels and yanking him from the truck so hard that Redon’s forehead
snagged on a protruding screw head at the bottom of the dashboard, ripping it open
and leaving the acusador squealing like a pig.
“My
kidney’s about to rupture!
My head is
splitting!
I’ve got stab wounds!
Acid burns!”
Gage’s rant continued as he dragged the howling little man down to the
coffee-colored water, his actions concealed by the looming bridge.
Above them, the radial sound of car and truck
tires on the steel grate-work drowned out the acusador’s screamed protests and
impassioned cries for help.
Dropping
down into the knee-deep water just below the bank, Gage twisted the acusador so
his back was against the grass and mud, and then he began to beat the man.
First
blow: straight right to the mouth.
Finger-width gash on the upper lip and two teeth knocked loose.
Second
blow: left hook into Redon’s right ear.
No visible damage other than a stunned reaction.
Third
blow: another straight right, directly into the acusador’s pristine Gallic
nose.
Nose visibly broken afterward,
replete with running blood and red snot bubbles.
Fourth,
and final, blow: left cross to left eyebrow.
Deep fissure of a cut on the sharp brow line, matching the lip cut in
severity.
Through
it all, the acusador had blubbered legal protestations, as if a bailiff might
rush in to save him.
Finished punching
him, Gage dunked the lawyer into the waters of the Llobregat, silencing the
acusador’s remonstrations.
Now, other
than the traffic, all that could be heard was bubbling and thrashing.
As
he held the crooked little man under, Gage turned to Angelines, who was
watching him in horror.
“Let
him up!” she screamed.
“You’ll kill
him.”
Gage
continued the hold for ten more seconds, then lifted Redon, his bloody, split
maw a rictus of sucking air.
“He’s
alive,” Gage said monotone, thrusting him under again.
The
thrashing continued.
Foaming water.
Churning.
It had all the frenzy of a crocodile attack.
Defeating
the car sounds, the splashing, and Angelines’ objections, was a smooth female
voice from the recesses of Gage’s mind.
The accent wasn’t American; it was indistinct.
It could have been Justina, could have been
Monika, he couldn’t tell—but the words, and their meaning, were clear enough:
Let him up, Gage.
No more killing.
It
might have been the only thing that saved the acusador, and since the voice
belonged to a woman Gage loved, though he didn’t know which one, he obeyed.
Still
holding the lawyer’s soaked lapels, Gage jerked him from the river’s silt.
He hoisted Redon onto the dusty bank, leaving
him flat on his back.
Once the acusador
had his breath, he began to cry, wailing loudly.
Redon reminded Gage of the proverbial
neighborhood bully once he’d finally met his match, taking a vicious and
humiliating ass-whipping from the new kid on the block and not having a clue of
how to react to total defeat with some measure of decorum.
Gage
pulled himself up, staggering to Angelines as his fury melted away.
“Get ready to leave.”
“Don’t
kill him, Gage,” she pleaded.
He
pointed to the truck.
She complied.
By
the time Gage took a knee by the acusador, the Spaniard’s cries had reduced to
whimpers.
“No mas,”
the pathetic man sniveled.
“No
mas, por favor!”
“Stop
your crying,” Gage said, curling his lip.
“Wh-wh-what
are you going to do to me?”
“Before
you tell me what I want to know, I’m going to make you a promise.”
Redon
began to gingerly touch his facial cuts.
“Look
at me,” Gage said.
When Redon did, Gage
spoke calmly but firmly.
“If you
cooperate with me, Redon, I
will
allow you to live.
If you lie to me, or
clam up, you’re going back in that river and you’re not coming up.”
Raising his eyebrows, Gage waited for
acknowledgement.
“I
will do anything you say.
Anything.”
“Later,
Redon, when your little pains and fears subside, if you try to take legal
action against me, or try to tip off your gangster buddies, I swear to you
above all I hold sacred, that the piss-ant beating you just took will seem
enjoyable next to what I will do to you.
I will make it my life’s final mission to pay you back, and to do it as
painfully as I can dream.”
Gage gripped
the man’s jaw, squeezing it.
“Because,
Acusador
Cortez Redon, in my eyes
there’s nothing worse than a man who is supposed to serve the people that,
instead, steals from them and makes their lives collectively more
dangerous.
It would give me great joy to
kill your ass over the most tortuous week imaginable.”
Gage
let that sink in for a moment.
“Do you
believe me?”
Redon
nodded, vigorously.
And Gage was sure he
smelled fresh piss.
He stood, placing
his hands on his hips.
“Did
you receive a visit from a tall Polish girl and an older Spanish woman today?”
Redon’s
eyes grew wide.
“Yes.”
“Where
did you see them?”
“Near
where you grabbed me, in a café.”
“What
happened?”
Despite
the stress of the situation, Redon concisely exposited the story about Señora
Moreno and Navarro’s money.
Then he
explained that he didn’t know they were together, and told Gage about going to
the hotel with the Polish girl.
Trying
to make sense of what he’d just heard, and guessing correctly that it was a
two-pronged setup, Gage grasped Redon’s wet tie and dirty-water-stained white shirt,
twisting it.
“Where are they now?”
“I
truly don’t know.”
“Tell
me what happened.”
“When
we got up to the hotel room, when the girl was in the bathroom, I received a
call.”
“Who
called?”
A
visible swallow.
“A man named Xavier,
the head of Los Leones.”
“The
same man who you were secretly working for when you double-crossed Navarro?”
“Sí.”
“And
what did he tell you?”
“He
said I was being set up, so I ran away.”
“And
he snatched the girl and the woman?”
“I
don’t know that but, if you’re unable to reach them, I would presume he did.”
“Where
would he take them?”
“I
don’t know,” Redon answered immediately.
Making a fist, Gage pulled his right arm back as Redon cowered,
whimpering that he’d been calling Xavier all day long.
Angelines,
having been sitting in the passenger seat with the window open, stepped out
with Redon’s phone, an Android.
“What’s
the password?” she asked, wagging the phone.
“George
Town.”
He said it in English.
She
typed.
“Not working.”
Gage
pulled back again.
“It’s
two words!” Redon screamed.
“Upper-case
‘G’ and ‘T’: George-space-Town.”
She
tapped the words in, nodding as the screen lit up.
“You’ve received two calls,” she said,
handing Redon the phone.
Squinting
his eyes, Redon nodded enthusiastically.
“They were from him.”
“Message?”
Gage asked.
“No.
Never.
He expects me to answer.
He
doesn’t leave messages.”
“If
I let you call him…”
“I
will behave as if my very life depends on my cooperation.”
“It
does.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Xavier
stood on the balcony, eyeing the distant, darkening Mediterranean.
He knew that many people of varying authority
could possibly be looking for his three “houseguests.”
A plan in mind, he went inside, methodically
searching all their clothing, finding no cellular phones or anything that could
be emitting a signal.
That done, he
searched the nurse’s purse, discovering an older Blackberry, which he disabled
by removing the battery.
Satisfied
that the most recent parlador injection had at least thirty more minutes of
effectiveness, he took the inner stairs down to the enclosed garage, inspecting
the Volvo.
Right away he noticed a
large, purple handbag and, inside, a wallet and a cell phone.
The phone was cheap, of the prepaid
variety.
Since he couldn’t determine a
way to eliminate its signal, he removed the battery.
Xavier set it aside, eyeing the dormant GPS
on the dash of the Volvo.
Could this still be sending out a
signal?
He
recalled something about a radio advertisement, describing a person whose car
had been stolen, and the overly-cheery operator finding it due to the car’s
global positioning system.
Of course,
the advertisement failed to mention the car-jacker’s vow for revenge against
the car owner, or the crooked judge, or the beating the car-jacker put on the
engine and transmission while trying to escape.
No matter, Xavier located an adjustable wrench and, after popping the
hood, disconnected the grease-coated red cable leading to the battery.
Ascending
the stairs, Xavier checked the door to the storeroom.
It was closed and he could hear no
movement.
As he pondered his next move,
his own phone buzzed on the counter.
He
eyed the phone number, recognizing it as Cortez Redon’s cell phone.
“Where
the hell have you been?” Xavier snapped.
“I’m
sorry, but it’s been a very interesting afternoon.”
Knowing
he had no room to talk, Xavier admonished Redon anyway.
“How could you be so stupid, so cock-driven
to get lured to a hotel room by some slut you don’t even know, with all you and
I have on the line?”
“I
realize that now,” Redon said in a contrite voice.
“And
what did the old woman talk to you about in the café?”
“That’s
why I’m calling.
She offered money.”
“I
know about the bearer bonds.
Do you have
them?”
“No,
Xavier.
The man who
kidnapped
me has the bonds.”
Xavier
didn’t respond for a moment.
He padded
through the house, walking outside, collapsing into one of the patio chairs as
Redon repeated his name.
“Xavier,
are you still there?”
Leaning
his head back to the growing dusk, Xavier calculated the situation and said,
“If he kidnapped you, and now you’re calling me, it can only mean that he wants
his women.”
“That
is exactly what he wants.”
“Wait
a moment,” Xavier said, concentrating.
With Navarro’s organization at his disposal, despite the current cash
crunch, Xavier felt confident Los Leones could pull through in their current
state.
Rather than bargain with this
American prick, he could order his entire organization to hunt this man—hunt
him and kill him.
Xavier gave himself a
one-in-three chance of finding him before the dawn.
Besides,
the old woman in that storeroom was loaded.
With a deft hand, Xavier might be able to extract her wealth
instead.
He lifted the phone.
“Tell
your American I said to fuck off.
And he
can gut you for all I care, Cortez.”
“There’s
more to it than that,” Redon said, his voice shaking.
“I
told you I know about the money
and
the bearer bonds.”
“Not
that.”
“What
then?”
“Angelines
de la Mancha, from Berga, is with him.
If you don’t bargain with him, he said they’re going to the American
Embassy.
They’re going to expose Berga,
and expose you.”
Redon lowered his
voice.
“And they’re going to take me
with them.
It will be bad for you, Xavier.
While you may rule Catalonia, such pressure
from the United States would force Spain to crush Los Leones, despite all the
government officials on your payroll.”
“You
would turn on me?”
“Yes.
I will.”
Xavier
stood and walked inside, trembling in his rage.
Breathe, Xavier, breathe
.
He
took another beer from the refrigerator, biting off the top and taking a long draught.
“Are
you still there?” Redon asked.
“I
think the American is a desperate liar.
And that cunt from Berga, too.
There’s no way in hell they’ll admit what they’ve done.
They’ll go to jail.”
“No.
They’ll be cutting a deal to bring down
Spain’s most brutal gang.
We all
will.
And we’ll get immunity,
Xavier.
While you’ll get hunted down.”
“You’re
somewhere with this American’s pistol aimed at your nose,
mariquita
.
Like I should
believe you.”
“It’s
the truth and it will make for great news and publicity for a country that
makes its living from tourism.”
From
somewhere in the corner of his mind, Theo Garcia demanded that Xavier cut a
deal and get that damned money.
Xavier
rubbed his temples…
Swallow your pride, Xavier.
Swallow your pride and meet the
American.
You can make the deal and
still deceive him.
You’ll get your
money, thereby satisfying Garcia and solidifying Los Leones.
Then you can kill the American, de la Mancha,
and that little prick, Redon.
Then, when the coffers are full,
rent another yacht and head to Italy.
It
made sense.
Xavier
idly glanced at the supply closet, wishing he hadn’t overdosed his nurse
friend.
After this call he was going to
require an intense release.
“Fine,”
Xavier finally said.
“Tell the American
we can make the trade.
The two women for
the money.
If anyone tries to go to the
embassy or the authorities, I promise a blood war that Spain has never before
seen.”
“Wait
a moment.”
It sounded as if Redon covered
the phone.
When he came back he said,
“He wants proof the two people are alive.”
“To
hell with him,” Xavier laughed.
“He will
never,
ever
, make demands to—”
“You better not hurt them, you
sonofabitch!”
The
voice that had just yelled was different, and in English.
It
was the American, Hartline.
Although
momentarily surprised, Xavier was experienced in making, and dealing with,
threats.
Rather than let it sound as if
it affected him, he made his voice silky as he said, “Your two conniving friends
are just fine and both resting comfortably.”
“Hear
me,” Hartline said, his voice suddenly calm.
“If you hurt those two women, I will destroy you.”
Xavier
thought he might keep going but he didn’t.
That was the sum total of his threats.
And the conciseness and tone actually made Xavier believe the
American—or, believe that he would die trying.
In some small way, he respected the man.
Unfortunately for the American, he wouldn’t be alive to mete out any
destruction.
Nevertheless, Xavier
appreciated such economy and coolness.
It made the threat seem far more ominous.
“Mister
Hartline, I am a businessman.
You have
my attorney, and my money.
And I have
your women.
Let’s don’t take the dark
road.
Let’s figure this out, and be done
with it.”
“The
captain keeps the cash.”
“Pardon?”
“The
captain, de la Mancha, keeps the cash.
You get the bonds.
I get my
women.
Redon goes back to work.
I could give a shit what you and him do
afterward.”
“How
much cash is there for her to—”
“Doesn’t
matter,” Hartline barked.
“She keeps the
cash.
Not negotiable.
And in about eight hours, at
zero-four-hundred on the button, you will stand on the beach of Tossa de Mar,
near where you killed our friend, Ernesto Navarro.”
“Whoa,
whoa, whoa,” Xavier said.
“Don’t think
you’re going to set the meeting for—”
There
was a click.
The line went dead.
Xavier’s
testicles lurched to the back of his throat.
He
was motionless for a moment, eventually swigging the remainder of the Heineken.
He’ll call back.
Five
minutes passed.
No call.
Closing
his eyes, Xavier redialed.
The phone was
answered and he could hear Acusador Redon pleading in the background.
After a moment Redon came on line.
“Do not push him!
He’s ready to walk.”
“Even
without his women?” Xavier said, angry at himself for his entreating tone but
unable to contain it as it left his mouth.
There
was a shuffling sound before the American came back on, his voice steely.
“I know all about leverage, you piece of
trash.”
“You’d
be willing to let your women die?”
“And
you’d be willing to live every day of your life in fear of me slitting your
throat?” the American countered.
Wide-eyed,
Xavier stared at the phone.
He truly
despised this Hartline.
Somehow, Xavier
had to flip the odds while managing to ensnare Navarro’s fortune.
For now, however, Xavier knew he had to
pretend to be complicit.
Gritting his
teeth, he said, “I apologize.
Please
proceed.”
“Zero-four-hundred,
you walk out on Tossa de Mar beach, all the way to the water’s edge, directly
in front of the long boardwalk.
Know
where I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Be
right there, ankles in the water, or I walk.
You will wear no shoes and no shirt, and you’d better not have a weapon
on you or you’ll wind up feeding the sharks as the sun comes up.
Bring both women and I’ll give you the
bonds.”
“Please,
may I ask a question?”
“What?”
“What’s
to prevent you from killing me?”
“That’s
the point.
It keeps you honest.”
“I
will not do an exchange this way because I trust you no more than you trust
me.”
“Then
I guess you won’t get your money, you prick.”
Xavier
squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the American to hang up again.
But he didn’t.
Slowly, Xavier opened his eyes, feeling the
pendulum swinging his way.
Was the
American blustering?
After
clearing his throat, Xavier said, “You’re aware of mutually assured
destruction?”
Silence.
“Because,
if I show up unarmed, you can knife me quietly and leave with everything.”
“That’s
right.”
Recalling
a Monaco poker game he’d once participated in, one with a one-million euro
buy-in for each player, Xavier still regretted what had caused him to
lose.
He’d made it to the final two but
lost his chip advantage before losing everything two hands later.
Xavier had found out the next morning (after
beating the winner with a cricket bat) that, on the critical hand, the man had
been bluffing with only a pair of fives.
But, because such cash was at stake, Xavier had been wound too
tight.
Although he’d simply stolen the
man’s winnings (and left him for dead,) Xavier vowed to never be bluffed again.