No One Lives Forever

by Jordan Dane

  Bile rose in Christian's belly. He didn't want to think about Charboneau's role in all this. Research of this magnitude took time and money. What was his father's blueprint for implementation? How did he plan to take advantage of genetic engineering? Most of all, he wondered how he could so easily believe Charboneau was guilty.

  As they were escorted out, Christian whispered to his questionable comrade, "Thanks for the teamwork back there. You're a real gem."

  "And the fragile male ego rears its head once more." Jasmine flashed her best Mona Lisa smile and another wink. "We got what we came for."

  Christian did a double take, catching her subtle gesture. "We? Lady, you put a whole new emphasis on the 'me' in the word team. I'm not exactly feeling the love here."

  "Oh, but you will."

  Jasmine had something to share, but would she? And if she did, how much could he trust? The start of a festering headache took hold, along with a growing soreness to his shoulders. With Duarte waiting, and no likely moment for a private conversation with Jasmine, he'd have to put off getting his answers.

  He hated being in the dark, in more ways than one.

  Military Police Headquarters,

  State of Mato Grasso

  Downtown Cuiabá

  From his taxi window at a busy intersection, Christian spied police headquarters up ahead, a glass and stone building. Given all the history in this town, the structure was modern and relatively uninspired. Not much to look at, except for the impressive palm trees and fountains in the median of a bustling boulevard.

  At the curb, he paid off the cabbie. Getting out of the vehicle took effort. His body ached from head to toe. Jasmine made a beeline for the entrance, but Christian's mind was elsewhere when he caught up to her. Soon he'd be staring into a set of dark eyes— eyes that bristled with a capacity for danger. Captain Duarte would require special handling. Christian believed when negotiating with a hungry, unpredictable beast, it was best not to look like a side of beef.

  He'd consider it a moral victory if he walked away with all his original body parts.

  "Let me do all the talking," he said to Jasmine, like that was an issue. The Asian beauty made the Terminator look neighborly and downright chatty.

  "By all means. I'd rather not be blamed for tightening the noose around your neck." She smiled. Sometimes Jasmine had all the charm of a croc swallowing a baby antelope whole.

  At the first floor security kiosk, they showed ID and signed into the building. Directed to the second floor, they wore visitor badges clipped to their collars. Captain Duarte had a corner office to the far right of the detectives' bullpen, off the bank of elevators. Even crossing international borders, some things went without saying—the universal language of police work never changed.

  Christian knocked on the man's open door.

  "Glad to see you are prompt, Mr. Delacorte." The captain did not extend his hand, only waved them to take a seat.

  As usual, Jasmine did not respond well to cordiality. She donned her cloak of invisibility and melded into her surroundings like a slithering chameleon in self-preservation mode. She chose to stay mobile.

  "Do I get points for cutting our lab tour short?" He broke the ice with a lame attempt at humor as he sat down, trying to hide his wince of pain. Duarte barely sneered, so he went for round two. "I love what you've done to the place. Real cozy."

  Bare bones and no frills, Duarte's office gave no hint of the man he was. No family photos. Nothing personal. The unpretentious room held a fatigue green metal desk with oak veneer, a matching bookshelf and credenza, and a few chairs. The sparse decor made the furniture showroom at Ikea look ostentatious and overdone.

  "I prefer things . . . simple," Duarte said. "I don't often get my way."

  Christian raised an eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe."

  "Just as I find it hard to believe a visitor to my country does not register a formal complaint after he is very nearly killed on the streets of my town. Why did you not report the incident, Mr. Delacorte?"

  Playing hard ball already; the man had no patience for idle chitchat.

  "It wasn't a big deal." He shrugged.

  "All evidence to the contrary. The bruises on your body say otherwise."

  Christian considered the man seated behind the desk. Did Duarte exert control to force his cooperation, or did the man have an affinity for interference? What was his agenda?

  "I didn't get a good look at the license plate or the car. Filing a report would've been a waste of time. And we don't have much of that."

  Duarte stared at him. His black eyes looked like bottomless pits.

  "And I suppose you hoped the blood sacrifice of a chicken would bring good fortune in your search?"

  How many times would he hear that question in a lifetime? Count 'em, one.

  He knew he had to give Duarte something. He broke down and shared what he could about the Macumba house warming on their balcony last night, but he held back a choice tidbit or two. Their next stop, to the voodoo peddler, to see Bianca Salvador, was his lead to keep. And he wouldn't mention the contents of the carryon bag at his feet or the digital photos captured on his cell phone. Until he figured out whose side the man was on, Duarte didn't need to know everything.

  "So, Captain, you have any ideas on who might think a poisonous snake makes a good key to the city?"

  "Placing a curse on Mr. Charboneau after the fact seems a waste of time, don't you think? Perhaps the scare tactic was directed at you and your delightful companion. A message to mind your own business."

  Jasmine stopped her pacing. She drilled her eyes on Duarte. Clearly, the man brought out the best in her. If looks dealt a mortal blow, Duarte would have been sporting a garrote necktie, his throat severed by a lethal wire.

  "That's what I thought too, but I find it hard to believe kidnappers would tamper with their meal ticket." Christian offered his theory. "Usually ransom money is the main driver for an abduction, but whoever is behind this thing is sending mixed messages, like they don't care about the payoff."

  "I've witnessed families of victims take different approaches to recovering their loved ones, to pay or not to pay. I am not offering advice, but I've seen a severed ear or finger put things in perspective."

  "I appreciate your ... sensitivity." Christian scowled, leaning forward in his chair. "Forgive me if I don't wait for body parts to show up on my doorstep."

  "I'm not suggesting—" Duarte stopped and slouched back in his seat, making the brown vinyl crinkle. He pulled something from his desk drawer. "You asked if any proof of life evidence had been received. Well, this arrived an hour ago."

  The captain dropped a plastic bag onto his desk. It contained a Polaroid photo and a white envelope, the photo of a man holding a newspaper. When it landed in front of Christian, he recognized the face. His father, Nicholas Charboneau. He looked gaunt, his clothes rumpled and his skin smeared with grime and sweat. Before Christian picked up the bagged photo, Jasmine beat him to it. She held it close, in both hands, as if it were fragile.

  "Did you see who left it?" she whispered, not taking her eyes off the Polaroid. "I can't see the date clearly. Did you recognize the headline?"

  "The paper was yesterday's. And unfortunately, a small boy dropped it off before anyone questioned him. It came inside a sealed envelope. It's unlikely we will find the child, but even if we did, he probably couldn't tell us much."

  How convenient. He had asked about proof of life when he first met the captain on the ride from the airport. Now this photo arrived, materializing out of thin air. His skepticism tainted anything Duarte had to say.

  "He's in some kind of jail cell, but with the shadows and the poor quality of the photo, we can't determine much else. And we found no fingerprints on the photo or the envelope." Duarte leaned forward in his chair. "If it's any consolation, it does confirm he's alive. More news than what we had before."

  "I'd like to know what you've been doing to find him." Christian gritted his teeth
, holding back his anger.

  Second thoughts and instinct stopped him from showing the photos of Rodrigo Santo. Why didn't he trust the captain? If Duarte was covering for Santo, Christian would be stepping into the middle of the conspiracy without knowing the players. And having the photo would only bring up questions on how they'd acquired it. No, at this point he had no faith in Captain Duarte. And with his abrupt change in attitude, Christian's true colors showed.

  "What leads do you have, Captain?"

  Before Duarte replied, a booming voice came from behind him. Jasmine turned her attention to the newcomer, her expression unreadable.

  "And if I were in your shoes, I would want to know the answer to that question myself."

  Duarte glared at the intruder standing at his door. Tall and well groomed, a man in an expensive suit extended his hand, walking toward Christian. He stood, grimacing with pain as he knocked out all the kinks.

  "Mr. Delacorte, my name is Chief Ricardo Zharan. I'm sorry for what has happened to Mr. Charboneau."

  The man already knew his name. Did everyone in this town get the memo on his arrival?

  "Pleased to meet you, Chief," he replied. Zharan had a firm grip.

  "And it is a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Lee." The police chief nodded in her direction. Without a word, Jasmine leaned an elbow against a bookshelf and nodded. She raised a finger in greeting, going all out. The woman knew how to conserve energy.

  Dressed in a dark navy suit, crisp white shirt, and a red power tie, Chief Zharan carried himself like a man of privilege, head held high and rock-solid eye contact. Seeing him on the street, Christian might have mistaken him for a politician or a successful movie actor. Charismatic. Confident. A head of thick dark hair grayed at his temples. And his strong jaw and white teeth projected a polished image.

  "Understand this, Mr. Delacorte. I will not tolerate such a travesty in my city."

  Apparently, Duarte had competition for control of Cuiabá. And by the looks of him, the good captain didn't appreciate the opposition from his boss.

  Zharan continued, "It is despicable. I have formed a special task force to work with your American consulate, coordinating the rescue efforts. Captain Duarte has agreed to turn over his files to me, along with the evidence he's gathered thus far."

  The chief's sideways glance toward his police captain sent a clear message to Christian. Zharan was taking charge and Duarte resented it. Nothing like getting your manhood whacked in front of an audience.

  "And furthermore, I plan to match your reward offer for any information leading to the arrest of all those involved."

  "I'm more interested in getting Mr. Charboneau back alive."

  "Yes, of course. That goes without saying." The chief grinned, white teeth setting off dark olive skin. "Do you have a card? I will be in touch, of course."

  After Christian handed the man his business card, the chief gave one of his own.

  "Call me anytime ... for any reason." Zharan gave a quick dismissive look toward Duarte and left the room. The silence in his wake was deafening.

  Although Jasmine kept quiet, her smug attitude spoke for her. She enjoyed the degrading show of disrespect Duarte just got from his superior, but Christian had never developed a fondness for gloating.

  "I hope you know I had nothing to do with that." He didn't know what to make of this sudden turn of events. No point alienating Duarte.

  "I have survived many chiefs, Mr. Delacorte. And I am still here. This one has ambition for politics . . . and other things. One way or another, he will not stay long."

  "And what ambitions do you have, Captain?" Christian couldn't resist asking the question.

  The man narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. "As I have said, I am a simple man. What I want does not concern you."

  "I hope not, Captain Duarte. For both our sakes, I hope that's true."

  With Jasmine on his heels, Christian left Duarte's office, feeling the weight of tension in his chest. His shoulders and neck felt like crap. Charboneau's case had escalated into the hands of the military police chief, with a hefty bump in reward money. He should have been satisfied for the added attention to his father's case. Instead, he felt adrift in a strong current, being pulled out to sea. A familiar sensation these days.

  Had the police chief taken over too late? Or worse, was Zharan only an image-conscious figurehead without clout—more buff than stuff? And if Duarte had a secret agenda, would he sabotage Zharan's investigation?

  All things considered, his short-fused mission to save his father's life had grown hair. And he didn't need the added complication.

  "Come on. I could use some caffeine," he declared as he headed for the elevators with Jasmine. In his best Ricky Ricardo impersonation, he added, "And you have some 'splainin' to do, Lucy."

  Christian picked a sidewalk cafe down the street from Guia Do Espírito, their next stop. With the carryon bag at his feet under the shade of the table, he indulged in a jolt of espresso and a sweet roll as he watched the comings and goings of the voodoo store and listened to Jasmine.

  "That clinic was not in operation the last time Nicky and I came." She sipped her tea. Her eyes hid behind dark glasses. "I'm guessing, but I don't think Nicky knew of its existence."

  "But you're only his bodyguard. How would you know that?" He smiled.

  He had no proof, but he suspected she glared at him from under her sunglasses. No way she'd answer his sarcastic attempt to get a rise out of her.

  "You saw something in those med charts. Talk to me."

  She kept her silence for a long time. Finally, she said, "You raised a good point at the lab. Maybe we haven't seen everything going on there, only what they allowed us to see. With the focus of that clinic on pregnant mothers, especially the young ones or women unable to afford good health care, it makes me wonder. They could be conducting illegal embryonic and fetal stem cell research without the consent of these women, not to mention what they might be doing with the discarded umbilical cords. How would that poor young girl know any better?"

  "I'm taking a wild guess here, but you're not a doctor, are you?"

  Nothing about Jasmine would have surprised him at this point.

  "I know enough. Hear me out." She leaned closer, elbows on the table, and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one overheard. "When you said other backers of this facility may be behind Nicky's abduction, it made me think. Someone is operating in the shadows, escalating the research with this clinic and its so-called humanitarian efforts. With all the advanced technology at the lab and an abundance of human tissue to harvest, the opportunity may be too tempting to pass up. And like your Raven, I do not believe in coincidence."

  Hearing Raven's name sent a sharp pang of guilt through Christian. He missed her. He took a deep breath to purge his system of her memory, for now.

  "Don't try and convince me your precious Nicky is an innocent pawn in all this. You may be right about someone operating on the side and dealing him out, but Charboneau is just as guilty of raping and pillaging this country and its people. Don't whitewash his involvement." He had a growing headache and Jasmine wasn't making things easier.

  "I knew you wouldn't understand." For an instant anger swept her face—biting like a winter chill over Lake Michigan—then it was gone. "If Nicky knew they were conducting research on women and babies, he wouldn't condone it. Some lines should never be crossed."

  This coming from an assassin?

  "What kind of research, Jasmine?"

  She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms, unwilling to betray him. Christian shook his head and stared across the street. His father lived in a strange world, one with double standards. He made his money off peddling addiction, a vile soul-robbing commodity. And yet, according to Jasmine, he would defend a pregnant teen?

  As if she read his mind, Jasmine said, "Please, do not judge him. You know nothing. I am here to save Nicky's life. If you've changed your mind about helping, I can and will do this alone." In a d
istant voice, she added, "I have to."

  Christian searched for her eyes beneath the dark shades, looking for some semblance of humanity. He only saw his own reflection. Being on the wrong side of this fight could get him killed. And yet, he wouldn't turn his back on his father. If they were lucky enough to find Charboneau and free him, he would worry about the morality of his decision later. Right now he had a job to do.

  "I'm still in, but you better be telling me the truth. You hold back now and both of us could get killed. Whoever is behind this thing has invested big bucks. And they won't stop at killing to protect their investment."

  She nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

  "Let's go." Christian left money on the table for a tip and started to stand, unraveling his aching muscles. Jasmine reached for his arm. She had his attention.

  "You asked me before—" She stopped. "I do love Nicky, but he doesn't know. You have to understand I'm walking a fine line to protect his interests. Now, I'm asking you to trust me."

  Ay, there's the rub. His very action of following her to Brazil demonstrated some level of faith, but she had to earn his trust. And so far she'd shown no aptitude for the task.

  "I could ask the same of you, but we both know how that would turn out." He hit home with a double barrel shot, dead center.

  Jasmine heaved a sigh and looked toward Guia Do Espirito, resigned to losing her small verbal skirmish with him. "Let's go. We are burning daytime."

  He grabbed his carryon bag and followed her to the voodoo store, walking off a fresh limp. From weird science to black magic, his day kept getting better.

  He didn't have the heart to correct Jasmine's bastardized version of the old saying "burning daylight." Sometimes a guy had to know when to quit. He only hoped that when it came time to let go of his obsession with the tragedies of his past, he'd be able to do it.

  CHAPTER 11

  Late afternoon

  Downtown Cuiabá

  "So what's it mean . . . the name on the store?" Christian asked. He winced as he flexed his aching shoulders. And Brazil's heat had inflamed his abrasions and bruises.