by Jordan Dane
"No easy way out. Rappeling to the street from here would've drawn too much attention. And security cameras would've nailed 'em if they left by the front door. If they dropped from the roof, maybe they left the same way. What's on the back side of this building?"
"The hotel parking garage." She nodded. "So you figure they escaped to the garage rooftop, probably to a waiting vehicle?"
"It makes the most sense." He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. "And if the garage has surveillance, maybe . . ."
She grinned. "Perhaps Captain Duarte missed the security cameras in the garage. Now that's a notion with possibility. Good thinking, little acorn."
She caught him by surprise with the familiarity. In her mind, he was the acorn that hadn't fallen far from the imposing Charboneau tree, the spitting image of his father.
"You know I hate that name, don't you?" He fixed a stern expression to his face and folded his arms across his chest.
"Most assuredly. There are many ways to get a rise out of a man." She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, matching his stance. "Please don't deny me my fun."
He shook his head. "Lady, we haven't gotten to the fun part yet. Not by a long shot."
Dr. Tyson Phillips had gone to bed with his wife over an hour ago, knowing sleep would be a lost cause. His demons weren't that humane.
When Elizabeth's breathing settled to a steady pace, he rolled out of bed, shrugged into his robe, and nudged his feet into slippers in the dark. Guided by the dim nightlights along the upstairs hallway, he walked toward the bedrooms of his boy and girl. He touched a hand to each door, his way of grounding himself in reality. They were his world. His kids and his wife of sixteen years meant everything.
Too bad he hadn't realized it sooner. Guilt tugged at his heart.
He made his way to the study. After flipping on a desk lamp, he poured himself a glass of brandy from a crystal carafe on a console table, gulping down the first of many. With the decanter in one hand and a glass in the other, he wandered farther into the room filled with scholarly books and his credentials framed on the wall.
Raising a glass, he saluted the sham of his life.
"A man isn't a failure until he starts blaming someone else." He paraphrased an old quote that held more significance for him now. "Well, if you're looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror."
He slouched into the leather chair behind his desk and set the carafe in front of him.
When he was a younger man, he believed providing for his family meant material things. Money was power. But all that changed after he'd been downsized at the prestigious Biotech Industries back in the States. He felt like such a failure on all fronts—a stigma he couldn't outrun.
"You used to be bulletproof, Phillips." He downed another glass. "And oh, so gullible, you egotistical loser."
When presented with an escape to Brazil, it seemed like such a fresh start at first. Charboneau enticed him with the position of director at a notable genetics research facility in Cuiabá—Genotech Labs. It made him feel whole again. In the end, the man's flattery seduced him completely. Why didn't he question such a gift horse? Like being offered an apple in the Garden of Eden, he got suckered by bogus promises.
Soon after he'd moved, the cold reality hit. His feelings of impotence had been a beacon to Charboneau. Now he wished he'd never met the man.
"God, you fucked up everything." He torqued his jaw in frustration.
Every damned day, he lived like a king in this country, thriving in complete denial of his fraud. He perpetuated the lie in front of his wife and kids, knowing he was little more than a common criminal. In time, guilt softened his backbone and sapped his strength.
Now, he sat at his imported cherrywood desk in his extensive library, all the trappings of his life surrounding him. He stared at his reflection in the empty crystal snifter of brandy. His face warped with the thin coating of liquor on the glass. Failure had aged him, infused his blond hair with streaks of gray. Creases along his forehead and around his pale gray eyes had deepened with his inadequacies. Like The Picture of Dorian Gray, the sins of his life had taken their toll, producing a distorted vision of the truth.
And time had run out.
Along the far wall, a grandfather clock stroked the top of the hour. Slowly, his eyes searched for the cell phone sitting on his desktop. He waited for the call he knew would come. It had been prearranged.
Even still, when it chirped, the harsh sound made him nearly jump out of his skin, yanking him from his self-indulgence. He grappled for the phone and flipped it open in a rush, his hands trembling with the heat of too much alcohol. Before he uttered a word, a man's voice commanded his attention.
"She's back. And this time, the foreign woman has someone named Delacorte with her. He says that the woman is the reason he's here. He claims not to even know Charboneau . . . and that he has no link to the Chicago syndicate." The man's voice was low and furtive, his accent more pronounced than usual.
Gritting his teeth, Phillips condemned the man on the other end of the line. Yet he despised himself even more. He'd been tethered to the bastard for what felt like an eternity. No matter what happened now, he would deserve whatever fate held in store.
"Oh, and because he says so, you believe him? How nice." The doctor stood and paced the floor behind his desk. He found it more and more difficult to hide his disdain. One day his arrogance would get him killed. "You assured me that when she left she'd be arranging for the ransom. The money was supposed to be a distraction to get her out of town, but now she's back. And she's got company. Why is this man with her?"
"He says he's here to free Charboneau. And he's demanding proof of life or no payday. The arrogant bastard." A wicked chuckle told him the man found Delacorte's purpose to be a ridiculous endeavor. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hide the alarm filtering through his voice.
"What? How can we do that now? You said—" Phillips stopped, trying to regain his composure. His head throbbed with a mounting pain. "We're in way over our heads. I didn't sign on for this. Charboneau is one thing, but now—"
"Don't panic. Believe me, Delacorte will find out how dangerous a path he walks. I have a grand welcome planned."
"Oh, just great." He spat his reply before he could stop himself. Closing his eyes, he waited for the response he knew would come.
"You know what's at stake, you pompous ass. And you're not going to fuck this up . . . not when we're so close to pulling this thing off." Uncharacteristic humor tinged his voice. "Besides, one little Polaroid and we might even get them to wire the ransom to the Swiss account. Pure gravy."
"I thought you weren't interested in the money."
"I'm not. A million dollars is nothing by comparison. Yet for a man who grew up with so little, I find money hard to ignore. In the end, if they don't pay, it won't matter. I've got bigger plans." His tone grew adamant with a familiar resentment. "Charboneau's an outsider. He had no right to rape my country. If anyone has the privilege of doing that, it is me."
Rape was rape, no matter who performed the despicable act. The subtlety of this concept in exploitation missed the mark with his partner in crime. Phillips felt the blood rushing through his system. The heat of it flushed his face. Slowing his breathing, he collapsed into the leather chair once again, defeat in his voice.
"I just wanna stop the killing."
Again a vulgar cackle erupted from the phone.
The man's sinister laugh mocked his plea. The sound made his skin crawl. "Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience, not after what you and Charboneau tried to do. There's only been one change since this whole thing began. You've got a new benefactor, that is all."
This time his voice hushed to a macabre whisper. "And your old backer is not going home, except in a box ... if they even find the body."
The room closed in on him, the eerie gloom suffocating him. Would the killing ever stop? How had he gotten sucked into this quagmire of corruption?
&n
bsp; "Oh, God, please don't remind me." He pressed his fingers to the side of his head, trying to squelch the migraine he knew would be inevitable. "I just can't—"
"You can ... and you will." Cruelty shaded the man's voice. He knew the sound well. Then a repeated threat churned beneath the surface, like the many caimans and piranhas in the Paraguay River of the Pantanal, ready to strike with razor sharp teeth. "How is your lovely family, by the way? I hope they are in good health . . . and will remain so."
He wouldn't have to wait for the torment of hell. Hell's fire was on the other end of the line. "Please . . . you've got nothing to worry about. We still have a deal. Just leave my family out of this." He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool stillness of his home.
"Nothing would please me more. Stick to the plan. These Americans have nothing, but it will not stop them from visiting the clinic . . . from wanting to speak to you."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Look, if they become a nuisance, I'll take care of everything. I've got surveillance on them now. Remember, this is my turf. Are we clear?"
"Yes, I—" The dial tone interrupted him. The man had already hung up, not waiting for his answer—so cocksure he knew what it would be.
"Time for phase two." Christian stood at Jasmine's bedroom door and gestured with a wave of his hand. At the small of his back, under his shirt, he carried a Glock 19 that Jasmine had held for him in her black duffel. "You're coming with me."
He interrupted her as she hung a blouse in the closet, emptying her suitcase. By the looks of things, the woman donated her fair share of dollars to the bottomless coffers of designers everywhere. And Lord only knew what she stashed in her bags to appease the more lethal side of her nature. Killer couture at its best.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"I'll know it when I see it. How do you feel about fishing?" He knew she'd hate his cryptic response. The woman liked being in charge. Christian smiled as he ushered her to the door of the suite, under protest.
"I'd sooner go bowling."
The image of Jasmine in rented shoes, hoisting a Brunswick in one hand and a cold brew in the other, almost made him laugh out loud.
"You know, I might pay good money to see you wage war on tenpins. But no, I've gotta see what fifty thousand in green might buy us. Stir things up."
To make sure no one bugged the rooms undetected, the woman had set up surveillance with hidden cameras rigged for motion before unpacking her clothes. Given all the high-tech equipment inside the room, he felt sure they'd know if the suite had been tampered with once they returned. But just in case, he stopped outside the hallway door for one last measure.
"Ow." Jasmine turned around, looking appalled. Rubbing her scalp, she turned to face him. "What the hell are you doing?"
He held a strand of her hair and dangled it in front of her face, fighting a smirk. Some tough assassin.
She grimaced. "With all the surveillance gear I've got set up in the room, what good will that do?"
Curiosity replaced annoyance as she watched him hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob and make use of her personal donation to their added security. He wedged the single strand of hair into the crack of the door, above their heads. A small piece hung barely visible.
"An early warning system ... of sorts."
"I would've expected something a little more high-tech from a guy with your background."
"Nothing wrong with a low-tech advance warning to give us an edge. After all, if it's good enough for MacGyver, it's good enough for me. What I could've done if I had a gum wrapper and a toothpick."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow.
"No." Christian headed down the corridor.
The woman had no sense of humor.
As they left the main lobby, heading for the street, Christian made a point to catch the eye of the clerk who'd checked them into the hotel earlier. A seed had definitely been planted with the man whose eyes burned Christian's back as he left the hotel.
They grabbed a quick bite at a local street cafe, then killed an hour walking the dark streets of Cuiabá, getting familiar with the city.
At first Christian chose well-lit avenues and crowded thoroughfares. Not hard to find. Even with the late hour, many of the downtown boulevards thrived with action. Along streets lined with palm trees, scooters dodged small sedans and engines revved to a high whine as they blew exhaust into the muggy air. High heels clacked fast on cement sidewalks, accompanied by the low steady rhythm of their male companions, lounge lizards making the rounds bar to bar. Jazz music wafted sultry in the night air, competing with the seductive beat of the samba.
The city had its own tempo. And although traffic fumes and smells hung heavy, an underlying primitive scent refused to be denied. On the edge of civilization, the great rain forest endured, a piece of its heart carved out by man. Christian sensed the wilderness on the outskirts of Cuiabá, and the restless sensation he wanted to forget returned.
"You've grown quiet." Jasmine broke the silence. "I understand the demons that haunt you. In that way, we have much in common. More than you know."
Death was nothing to have in common. Not with her. He had no need to make a connection with Jasmine. He didn't want to like her ... or need to. And he had no faith in the glimpse of humanity she shared with him now, even if there was more to her story.
"There's only one thing we have in common. Let's stay focused on that, shall we?"
If she'd been hurt by his remark, she never let it show. Her face remained a blank slate as she said, "Yes, for Nicky."
The damned heat had finally gotten to him, and his manners were the first to go. At least, that's what he told himself, but he didn't feel the need to apologize.
Instead, with great deliberation, he strolled through landscaped parks and stuck to the shadows. Not a wise move for the average tourist, but if anyone followed them, he wanted to draw them out. They walked for another thirty minutes. Still nothing.
Strike one. Self-doubt flashed through his brain as slick as a fastball over home plate.
After stopping to admire far too many monuments and statues, he finally broke the silence. "Damn it. Thought the reward would pay off, get us a lead, but no one's tailing us."
"Or perhaps you and I have met our match. Skilled pursuers could still be out there, besting us." She narrowed her eyes.
"There you go, looking on the bright side again." He kept his eyes vigilant. "Quit tryin' to cheer me up."
"Ah, I forget. The male ego is easily bruised. Forgive my rudeness." With his glare, she winked without humor. "Don't worry. Your plan still might work, and your instincts were solid."
"You're just pissed 'cause the reward wasn't your idea." He smirked as she slipped her arm in his.
"You might have a point," Jasmine conceded without a fight. "Let's head back to the hotel. Something might turn up there. Besides, is it not wise for the fisherman to remain patient?"
"I thought you didn't know much about the sport?"
"Yes, but when luring men, I am an expert."
He arched an eyebrow at his companion. "Good point."
Jasmine's single strand of hair still dangled from the suite door undisturbed. A good news, bad news scenario. Good news, his low-tech advance warning system worked. But when it came to bad news, his heart sank. No one had broken into their hotel suite using the front door.
A strange thing to wish for. Strike two. Damn it.
Christian pulled the Glock 19 from the waistband of his jeans, hiding it from the hotel security cameras in the hallway as he entered the suite, Jasmine at his back. In silence, they split up and searched the rooms, weapons in hand. His heart pumped with adrenaline, the muscles in his arms tense. When they found nothing out of place, Jasmine checked her surveillance equipment. The only motion recorded had been them.
Strike three.
But as he exchanged a look of disappointment with his companion, someth
ing caught his eye. Over her shoulder, a light flickered behind drawn sheers.
"What the hell?"
He recognized the danger. It hit the pit of his stomach in a rush, forced him to move.
"Fire ... on the balcony." He jerked his head, calling to Jasmine as he rushed by her.
Christian ran to the French doors and threw them open, but stopped dead when his eyes found the source of the flame. Even in the stifling heat, a chill raced across his skin. The hair on his neck stood on end. What the hell had his father been into?
CHAPTER 7
For the first time since Christian met her, Jasmine looked baffled, but she covered it up with a heaping dose of sarcasm.
"I never knew the devil made house calls."
"Apparently so." Christian glared down at the unsettling sight. He'd never been confronted by something like this.
The entire balcony had been converted into a bizarre religious rite. Flickering black candles melted into broken liquor bottles circling an altar made of old bones, sticks, and frayed hemp. A dead chicken, throat slit, bled into a sticky pool that seeped through the crevices of the tile. Blood spatter marred the pristine white balustrade, but most of it had been doused onto what looked like a human skull. Its jawbone gaped open and black eye sockets stared in accusation.
The smell of old death.
"How quaint. Perhaps we should tell housekeeping we prefer a simple mint on our pillows."
Jasmine had an edge to her voice, but her attempt at humor didn't dispel her uneasiness.
"This doesn't look like any goodwill gesture, more like . . . foul play." His chicken pun didn't fare any better. Christian leaned closer, careful not to disturb the scene. "What's this? Do you recognize where this was taken?"
A newspaper clipping of Charboneau had his head cut and pinned to a doll made from straw and burlap. Blood from the chicken covered the likeness. And three small wooden skewers impaled the effigy. Although he wasn't an expert, it didn't take a genius to recognize black magic.