mobility was nice to talk about to the masses, but not something that people at his level ever really took seriously. The pie was only so big. Why share it with folks who did not share your values?
Your vision for the future?
Your fraternity affiliation?
What most people didn’t understand was that it was the risk-takers who made America great. It was said that the rich had captured nearly all the wealth and all of the income generated over the last decade or so. Well, Lampert thought, they should. It was right and just. The only thing wrong with income inequality was that it wasn’t unequal enough.
The 99.9 percenters were sheep and stuck right where they should be. They were the players to be named later. There were billions and billions of them and they looked exactly the same. The 0.1 percenters deserved everything because they were the elites. They were special. They moved the world to new heights.
And it didn’t deter Lampert in the least that he was acting on the wrong side of the law. Peo- pie wanted whores and drugs and slave laborers. Thus there was a need.
He was simply fulfilling that need. Nothing more, nothing less. Like cigarette manufacturers, pom sites, fast food outlets, and casinos fed people’s desires and addictions. That simple model had driven business success for all of recorded history.
Find a need and fill it as hard as you can.
Ten minutes later he checked his watch again and looked out the window. It was growing dark. That was good.
An hour later he heard the thump-thump.
He rose and looked out the window. The lights of the chopper were drawing closer, coming in from the Gulf where a boat larger than the one Lampert was on lay at anchor.
A few minutes later he felt the wheels of the bird come to rest on the helipad at the aft of the yacht. The chopper powered down and he could envision but not hear over the sounds of the engine the doors of the aircraft opening and then thunking closed.
He sat back down in his chair, put his fingers together, and waited, counting off the seconds in his head.
The door to his office opened and the person came in, escorted by a member of Lampert’s security team.
With a curt nod Lampert dismissed the guard, who closed the door behind him.
The visitor was around five-eight and strongly built, with a head that was too large by half for even his muscular frame.
There was a lot contained in that overly big head, Lampert knew.
The man was dressed all in black. His shoes had blocky heels to push his height up as much as possible.
It was enlightening, thought Lampert, that a man that powerful still felt compelled to artificially inflate his stature.
He nodded at Lampert and sat down across from him.
“Good trip?” asked Lampert.
The man flicked a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit up without asking whether it was permitted or not.
Lampert would not have questioned the man’s decision to smoke on his floating palace.
Peter Lampert did not fear many people.
The man sitting across from him was one whom he did fear.
“A trip that ends safely at one’s destination is, de facto, a good trip,” said the other man in an accent that showed that English was not his primary language.
“Things are going well,” said Lampert.
“Things could be better,” said the man as he exhaled smoke and watched it float toward the elaborately carved ceiling.
“Things could always be better,” replied Lampert, leaning forward a bit in his chair.
The other man tapped his cigarette ash against the arm of his chair, letting it fall to the carpet.
Lampert did not object or even react to this.
“Things could be better,” said the man again. “For example, there have been a number of killings in Paradise. The police are investigating. Your car was bombed. Again, the police are investigating.” He stopped talking and stared across the width of the desk.
Lampert’s expression didn’t change. “Steps had to be taken. The fallout is what it is. The investigations will lead nowhere.” He might be afraid of the man, but he could not show that fear. And Lampert could debate a point with the best of them.
“Your opinion that the investigation will not go anywhere,” said the man, studying him closely as he bent the fired match between his two fingers.
“My educated opinion based on conditions on the ground.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I don’t believe that I am.”
“But if you are?”
“There will be consequences.”
“Of course there will be. For you.”
“Then I have every incentive to make sure I’m right.”
The man eased a bit to the left, making the leather seat squeak. “Moving on. It’s getting more difficult to acquire product. The price has to go up. You’ll send this down the line.”
“How much?”
“Ten percent for now. As a base. Add five percent for each category above base.”
“Meaning a twenty percent increase for the top tier?”
“Yes.”
“That’s steep.”
“It could be more. But I’m a reasonable man.” “I’ll have to eat some of that.”
The man looked around at the luxurious interior of the yacht. “I think you’ll be just fine.”
“I’m sure I will.”
“So long as your educated opinion turns out to be right. Money isn’t everything.”
Lampert smiled. “I would disagree with you there. Money is everything, because it leads to everything else of value.”
“Would you like to visit my boat? I have a new submarine. It can hold over thirty people. The marine life here is quite fascinating.”
“I would like to, but demands here will prevent me.”
Lampert was thinking, I don’t actually want to become part of the marine life.
The man rose. “Someone who blows up Bentleys and disappears like a wisp of smoke is someone who is formidable. It was a message.”
“Yes, it was. Perhaps more directly than you know.”
“And you have the answer?”
“Working on it as we speak.”
“A small measure of advice?”
Lampert looked up at him expectantly. “I’d love to hear it.”
“Smoke often evidences a large fire that can burn out of control.” He paused and put out his cigarette on the surface of Lampert’s forty-thou- sand-dollar custom-built desk. “So work faster.” The next moment he was gone.
Like a wisp of smoke blown out to sea.
CHAPTER 64
Mecho lifted his head slightly out of the water and watched the chopper lift off from the helipad and head south out to sea.
He turned on his back and used small strokes of his hands to propel him closer to the boat.
There was security on the main deck and two men on the pier holding MP5S. However, they had no one in the water. That was a large breach in security. But then again the sharks would be out now.
And while Lampert paid well, he apparently didn’t pay that well.
Mecho drew close enough to the boat to touch its hull on the starboard side. He looked out to sea where the lights of the chopper were still visible.
From land and with the aid of binoculars he had caught a glimpse of the man who had first climbed off and then climbed back on the bird.
Mecho had known instantly who he was.
Stiven Rojas.
Police around the world would pale at the name.
There had never been a successful prosecution of Rojas, though many had been attempted. But when witnesses, prosecutors, and even judges are slain during the course of a trial, convictions are exceedingly rare. He had given a whole new definition to the term “ruthless” and would make some of the world’s worst terrorists look innocuous by comparison.
He had started as an orphan on the streets of Cali and built himself into a cart
el chief of near mythic proportions. Despite his modest stature, men twice his size would drop to their knees at his approach. He would kill without warning or provocation. He was not simply a sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.
He was the sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.
But something had come along that even Rojas had not anticipated.
Rojas had watched his hemisphere’s drug pipeline into America move from his native Colombia to Mexico. But then he had adapted to a new business line. He would provide the mules to move the drugs throughout the United States. And along with that he would move other valuable product, namely prostitutes and slaves. Slaves in particular were the new growth market. Forget illegal immigrants. They expected to be free, and paid at least something. Slaves expected nothing. They just hoped not to die. Everything after that was a positive for them—not that there was much that was positive.
Rojas and Lampert were partners in the largest slave ring in the world. And they were poised to make it even larger.
Unless they were stopped.
Still in the water, Mecho moved down the starboard side of the ship. There was a line of portholes low enough for him to see in. He gripped one and pulled himself partially out of the water.
The room he was looking into was dark. And empty. He lowered himself back into the water and moved to the next window.
It was on the fourth porthole that he found something other than dark and empty.
Beatriz was still dressed in her maid’s uniform. She stood in one comer while Lampert sat at a table and ate his dinner. He ate slowly, chewing his food methodically. When he glanced at the bottle of wine within a few inches of his arm, Beatriz shot forward and refilled his glass.
As she bent slightly forward to do so Lam- pert’s hand slipped to her bottom and grabbed. She didn’t jerk or drop the bottle. She was apparently used to this treatment. She finished pouring the wine and retreated to the corner, her gaze downcast.
A minute later Lampert glanced at the basket of rolls.
Beatriz shot forward again, picked up one roll, broke it open, and used a small knife to butter it.
While she did this Lampert cupped her left breast with his hand and snaked his other hand under her skirt. As she buttered the roll Mecho could see her face. Bubbling just below the surface was anguish, coupled with a hatred that Mecho, in all his life, had rarely seen. He saw her hand tremble ever so slightly with the knife in it. He knew what she wanted to do. Even as Lampert stroked her she wanted to take the blade and stick it into his chest.
Mecho wondered why she didn’t do so.
Just do it, Beatrix!
Then he looked to the right and saw why she didn’t.
A man stood there with a gun pointed straight at Beatriz’s head.
She finished buttering the roll, placed it on Lampert’s bread plate, set the knife down, and once more retreated to the corner.
The man with the gun relaxed his stance and holstered his weapon.
Mecho sank back into the water.
Peter J. Lampert was not a man who took chances.
Mecho let the current pull him away from the yacht. When he was far enough away he struck out with long, powerful strokes.
And with every stroke he imagined plunging a knife into Lampert’s chest.
CHAPTER 65
Puller was driving fast.
Carson eyed him from the passenger seat.
“So where are we going now?”
“I need to see my lawyer,” Puller answered cryptically.
When they reached the street on which Griffin Mason had his law office, Puller parked the Tahoe at the curb about a hundred yards down from it. He reached into his duffel and pulled out his pair of night-vision optics and put them to his eyes. He trained them on Mason’s office.
Carson followed his gaze.
“Your lawyer?”
“Actually, my aunt’s lawyer. He’s handling her estate.”
“And how is Mason doing handling her estate?”
“Not so good.”
Puller eyed the other buildings on the street. They were all dark.
There was no car in Mason’s driveway. No lights on in the office.
“How do you feel about a little breaking and entering?” he asked.
“It’s a felony. That’s how I feel about it.” “Then you can wait here. I’ll be back shortly.” She grabbed his arm. “Puller, think about this. You don’t want to piss away your military career, do you?”
“What I want is to do right by my aunt. And that includes taking a hard whack at a creep who’s screwing her. And others.”
Carson sighed. “I’ll come. I can keep lookout.” “It wasn’t fair to ask you. You have a lot bigger career to lose than I do.”
“So don’t get caught. And if you do I’ll disavow all knowledge.”
“And I’ll back that statement up one hundred percent.”
“You’re damn right you will, soldier.”
A few moments later they were walking down the street. When they got to Mason’s place, Puller hooked a left and entered the man’s backyard. At the fence he told Carson to wait and keep watch.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” he said.
“Make sure it doesn’t.”
Mason had a security system, but one glance through the back-door window told Puller that it was not armed. The green light on the panel was lit.
Puller was surprised by this. Why have a security system if you didn’t use it?
The door lock was a deadbolt that took Puller only a few seconds to defeat using a pick gun from his duffel.
He opened the door and penlighted his way to the lawyer’s interior office.
It took him about thirty minutes to find what he was looking for.
Mason was meticulous in his recordkeeping.
A little too meticulous.
Puller looked at the pages he had brought with him, the inventory list Mason had given him about his aunt’s personal items. He checked it against the inventory list Mason had in the files.
It matched down to the last item.
He next searched for and found the inventory list for Cookie’s estate. He ran his gaze down it.
Puller saw what he knew he would see.
He put Cookie’s inventory list in his pocket along with his aunt’s. He shut the file drawer and looked around.
He thought about what the other estates attorney, Sheila Dowdy, had said.
Mason’s other car was an Aston Martin. He took expensive vacations. He had a big house.
It was all adding up, the pieces falling into place faster and easier than was normally the case.
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