Savage Truth

by Jack Hardin

  The footsteps continued and stopped beside him. Edward peered up to see a man. He wore cowboy boots, jeans, and wrap-around sunglasses. His tall frame blocked out a portion of the sun, sending a long shadow across Edward’s place on the sand. Before Edward could object, the man sat down beside him, opened Edward’s small ice chest, and removed a can of Miller Lite. The man popped the top, set it to his lips, and took a long draw.

  The man was less than three inches from Edward—uncomfortably close. Edward leaned away and stared at the man incredulously. “Excuse me,” he said. “Can I help you with something?”

  The man held up the beer can and nodded to it. “Already did. It’s been a long day and this… this just hit the spot.” He took another sip, which turned into a full-on chug. He finished it and then let out a long, happy sigh before smacking his lips.

  Edward could almost physically feel his proper English sensibilities getting trampled on. “I beg your pardon. Would you please leave? This is most inappropriate!”

  A thin black band ran across the man’s forehead from under the sunglasses. Edward couldn’t see behind the polarized lens, but he thought that maybe the man was wearing an eyepatch.

  Ignoring him, the man asked, “How are you enjoying the vacation, Edward?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I’ve had my eye”—he chuckled at that—“on you for a few weeks now. Edward.”

  In spite of the Caribbean heat, a thin chill began to run down Edward’s sunburned arms. “Me? What do you mean?”

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I suppose vacations make folks hard of hearing. I said I need you to do something for me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “Surely you have the wrong person. I’m here on holiday.”

  “Yes. You are, aren’t you?”

  When Edward was fourteen years old, on one particularly chilly London afternoon, he left school at the bell and, instead of going straight to an empty home, diverted to a local park where he found an empty table. There he opened a book that had fully consumed him for the past two days, a book he couldn't pry from beneath his nose nor his imagination: Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Even now, he could still hear the rustle of dry leaves across the grass and feel the cool air on his cheeks, see the gray blanket of empty clouds overhead. He was fourteen, but if you would have asked anyone at random to guess his age, they would have said he was eleven, perhaps even ten. As yet, neither his testosterone nor his pituitary had kicked in. And it would be another six months before it did.

  And so there he was, reading, immersed in Crusoe and Friday’s attack on the natives when someone slipped onto the bench seat beside him. Right beside him; the young boy could feel a press of the man’s weight against the side of his arm and thigh. Edward had looked up to see a gray-haired man with a deeply seamed face and cold eyes that were grayer than the clouds drifting above the treetops.

  The old man sat there unmoving, his silent presence full of malice and intent, his stale breath wheezing through a crooked nose.

  Edward had forgotten all about the native tied up in the canoe, and his throat was suddenly so thick that he found he couldn’t speak. And he was too scared to move, as though if he made one wrong move—or any move at all—it would be the end. So, staring at the table top, he waited for the man to speak, or to do something.

  But then, from across the park, Edward heard his name called. He looked across the grass and past the trees to see Boris Starner heading in his direction. Beside him, the old man tensed. Edward took the unexpected appearance of his best friend as the opportunity he needed. Leaving Crusoe and Friday and his book bag behind, he darted for it, bolting off the seat and away from the table. The man had snatched at him greedily, his fingers grasping the bottom hem of Edward’s jacket. But Edward had been too fast. He shot across the park to his friend without ever looking back.

  He never did find another copy of the book to finish it; he hadn’t wanted to. Robinson Crusoe would only and ever remind him of the ghastly, vulnerable way he felt sitting on that bench with that wicked man sitting beside him.

  And now, almost thirty years later, Edward had never experienced the intimidation, the dreadful sense of being completely and utterly helpless, as he had that day.

  Until now.

  There was something about this man’s presence, his insouciant demeanor, his lack of manners while still maintaining a glib air of politeness, and the easy way that he helped himself to Edward’s small stash of beer that made him, once again, come to believe that he was in the presence of unfeigned evil.

  He swallowed on a dry throat and asked, “What is it you want me to do?”

  “I went by your office in Rotterdam. And imagine my surprise when I heard that you were on ‘holiday.’ So it took me a little bit of digging around to find you. But, glory to God, I did. Here you are. And imagine my surprise when I discovered that your current location is actually a blessing. It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump from another meeting on my calendar.”

  The man looked over at Edward and winked happily. “But then you asked me what I needed from you, right?”

  “Y—yes.” Edward cringed at the stutter. But he couldn’t help it. He felt like a little child again. Completely helpless.

  “Nigel Davies said you could get a job done for me.”

  “Nigel?” Edward balked. “No—no I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. And I—I told Nigel that, too. Was very clear about that. I put all that behind me. Months ago.”

  “Well, then I guess it is your lucky day. It would appear that the fates have conspired to put you back in action. You can’t say no to the fates, Edward. That would be blasphemy.”

  “No!” Edward said disbelievingly, shaking his head as if he had just been informed that the needle on his 401K had moved to zero. “No. Whatever it is you want me to do, I’m not doing it. I—I’m sorry, but you’ve wasted your time.”

  The man tilted his head back and used it to point toward the parking lot. “Have a lookie back there, Edward.”

  Edward frowned and pivoted, pressing a hand into the sand for leverage. He scanned the lay of sand behind him. Two children were working on a sandcastle that wasn’t holding up well for lack of moisture. Farther to their right, an older couple were seated in their beach chairs under the shade of an umbrella; the man was reading, the woman snoring mildly under the brim of her straw hat. Farther up, beneath the shade of sturdy palms was the parking lot.

  But pulled lengthwise across a few empty parking spaces was a white Chevy Tahoe. The front windows were dark with tint. The rear window was down, however, and when Edward looked into the vehicle, he felt his arms turn to jelly.

  Rory was in the back seat, a white strip of cloth pulled tight around his mouth. He looked across the sand in wide-eyed horror and started to buck against his restraints as the window rolled up and the Tahoe pulled away.

  Edward suddenly located a mite of temporary courage. His head snapped back to the man. “Don’t you dare hurt—”

  “I’m not sure you’re in a position to threaten me, Eddie, old boy.” The man reached into the cooler and removed another can of beer. The metal tab clicked inward, and he took another long draw. “Not sure that I can approve of your selection. There’s actually a local brew that’s quite tasty. By the way, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. People, they have called me by a great many names over the years, some of them complimentary, most of them not. But my mother, she named me Joel. Joel Fagan.”

  “Please. Don’t hurt him.”

  “Eddie, old boy, I’ve never hurt so much as a fly.” He held up three fingers pressed together. “Scouts honor.”

  Edward looked back to where he had last seen the Tahoe. “What then?” he said. “What do you need?”

  Fagan stood up. “And that, dear sir, is the question of the hour. Come on. Let’s go get some aloe on that angry skin of yours, a
nd I’ll show you precisely what it is that I need.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It seems to be a cold fact of life that when you most want something to move quickly, the universe happily conspires against you, grinds the gears to a slow halt, and then engages the emergency brake, just for spite.

  After tracking down Mike Reddick’s computer hardware, consulting with Amy Jensen, and then meeting with Ellie at Pine Island, I finally had a solid target to go after—a very personal target—but then returned to Key Largo only to have the investigation lose all steam over the next two days.

  Fagan’s presence in Rotterdam and his ostensible interest in Lukana was still the only lead we had. He had yet to turn up anywhere else. After exiting the skyscraper, additional security footage had shown Fagan crossing the street into a local eatery. And then he vanished. Interpol was unable to find where he had come from before he entered the building and then lost all trace of him after.

  Ellie, her team, and I had been doing the only thing we could: examining Lukana’s employee list and searching for profiles that might reveal someone willing to manipulate some software code so that a shipping container could get into the proper channels: a prior record with the law, a large amount of consumer debt, recent purchases over and above what a typical software developer might typically buy, etc. If Fagan had gone to Rotterdam to meet personally with a software engineer who could do his bidding, then locating that individual was key for how we moved forward.

  Or for moving forward at all.

  Things on that front were progressing about as fast as an overfed manatee. Progress was being hindered by Interpol; we had to wait for them to get us legitimate access to the remainder of Lukana’s employee list. Right now we only had fifty of Lukana’s three hundred employees. And all of those checked out.

  It could be days before we had anything remotely substantial to move on, and even then there was no guarantee that we would actually find Fagan.

  But now that he was back in my orbit, I had no plans of stopping until I did.

  Fagan had sent someone to kill me. I’m of the breed who believes that if you want to kill a man, you’d better go do it yourself. You can pay someone to deliver a pizza, but paying them to deliver a bullet is strictly for cowards. I wasn’t going to relent until I put a bullet in his head or he was finally behind bars here in the U.S.

  I leaned back in my desk chair and rubbed the heels of my hands against my eyes. I yawned and stared out the window at the calm waters of the Gulf. I really did hate this part of the job. Beating the pavement and chasing down leads was what got me going. I wasn’t built for riding a desk, spending all day staring at a computer and skimming through personal files—that was for the birds.

  “You look like you’re having a blast.”

  I swiveled my chair around. Ted Callahan was standing in front of me. His khaki pants were about two inches too short, showing off his white socks underneath. He wore a sheepish look, as though he was concerned that he was bothering me.

  “You have ketchup on your collar.”

  “Huh?” He looked down, the skin around his neck folding as he tried to get a look.

  “Other side.”

  He brushed at it with his finger, but that only served to smear it. He tugged at the collar and took a few more swipes at it.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  He released the collar and pressed his thick glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “So, hey. Kathleen had asked me to look into who might have sent those guys to kill you.”

  “Harry Holt?”

  “Yeah. Him. I can’t find anything on him.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He must have ditched his cell phone. There hasn’t been a location on it in four days.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In Boca Raton.”

  “Have you been up there yet?”

  “Well, no. I was going to see what I could get done from here first.” He stared at me like he was looking for further direction.

  I swiveled my chair back toward my desk, slapped my laptop shut, and grabbed my keys. I stood up and crossed the room toward the stairwell.

  “Wait,” Callahan said. “Where are you going?”

  “Fishing,” I said. “I’m going fishing.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The heels of his cowboy boots clicked hard across the pine surface of the dock as he hummed the tune to Aerosmith’s “Janie’s Got A Gun” and continued to make his way to the bungalow at the end. The Caribbean sun was unrelenting, beading his forehead, his neck, and temples with sweat.

  The bungalow was an overwater style, mounted on hidden pilings and perched only a few feet above calm, bright water that was as clear as gin. A navy blue curtain hung across the front doorway, blocking any view of the inside. And speaking of guns, two Latino men stood on either side of the doorway with semi-automatic rifles gripped in solid hands.

  Joel Fagan stopped humming and smiled at both men. “Hola. I am here to meet with your bossman. Is he around?”

  “You are Fagan?” one of them asked.

  “Yessir.”

  “Hold out your arms.” Fagan did as he was told. One of the men stepped up and patted him down.

  “Hey, now. Careful down there.”

  The guard stood back up and motioned to a bamboo chair sitting on the edge of the dock. “He is in a meeting. Have a seat. He will be with you when he’s done.”

  Joel settled into the chair and started to wish that he had asked for the meeting to be earlier in the day. An easy breeze was blowing off the water, but it wasn’t strong enough to curtail the heat.

  After several minutes the navy curtain shuddered and then moved to the side as a stocky Caucasian man emerged. He had broad shoulders and thick forearms; his face was square graying auburn hair was cut short underneath a black fedora. He wore cargo shorts and a white, short-sleeved, button-down shirt with red dolphins scattered across it. He nodded a silent greeting to Fagan as he walked by and headed for the private beach fifty meters down the dock.

  “Hey!” A guard was motioning to him. “Come.”

  Fagan got to his feet and stepped past the curtain. The cool shade of the interior was welcome. The dried palm fronds that formed the roof were visible from beneath, and wood bladed fans oscillated from sturdy rafters. A step down led to the main seating area. The bungalow had no back wall; the only thing visible in that direction was a vast expanse of azure water.

  Fagan took the step down to the main seating area. Two couches faced each other, and two additional guards flanked them.

  Rafael Félix wore cream-colored shorts and a red shirt that was open four buttons down, revealing an ample carpet of chest hair and a silver chain that glistened in the bright sun reflecting off the water. His dark black hair held a high shine, and a brilliant gold watch adorned his left wrist. He was sitting on the far couch and did not bother to get up.

  “Joel. Have a seat.”

  Fagan took the couch across from the cartel leader and motioned with his chin toward the doorway. “Who was that?” Fagan asked. “The guy in the fedora?”

  “His name is Ringo. An old associate who buys much of my cocaine. He stepped away from the business for a while. But he is back now, as I always knew he would be.” Félix’s eyes were two black pools of glassy coal. He surveyed Fagan. “I am interested to know if you have everything in order? If not, I can make arrangements with someone else.”

  “No need for that,” Fagan said quickly. “It took me a little longer than I expected, but I’ve worked out all the kinks. Your guns left from the Port of Abidjan five days ago and will dock not far from here on Friday. Then they will be transferred to a separate freighter and taken into Veracruz.”

  “What was the problem? You had told me prior to this that I could expect them in Mexico over one week ago.”

  “Like I said, I ran into an issue at the sending port. With all these new security systems it’s gotten harder to move thing
s like I’m selling and you’re buying.” Fagan smiled. “But I’ve just recruited special talent to ensure that there are no issues going forward.”

  “I am glad to hear that. Joel, perhaps you are not aware that I personally know Roman Baxter.”

  Fagan had not been aware of this. “Yes. I know that.”

  “I know that you chose to move weapons for Roman some time ago and that you thought it might be a good idea to use cheaper shipping methods.”

  “Look, Rafael, I—”

  “Mr. Félix.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I would prefer for you to address me as Mr. Félix. Only my wife uses my first name.”

  “Of course.” Fagan swallowed and tried to mask his newfound irritation. “Mr. Félix, I am fully committed to doing this right. You’ll have what you paid for. The shipment will be in Veracruz a week from tomorrow. And I’ve made sure that there is a little something extra

  “Like what?”

  “Five RPGs.”

  Félix nodded but appeared unimpressed. “Just make sure it gets to Veracruz on time.”

  “You have my word.”

  Fagan thought he was about to be dismissed when Félix tossed an unexpected question in his direction.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your eye,” Félix said more loudly and jammed a finger toward his own eye. “What happened to it?”

  It had been a long time since Fagan had been asked that. In the early days, he used to get the question quite a lot. But now he quickly drew on the answer he had always provided. “A training exercise gone wrong, I’m afraid. It was a long time ago.”

  “When you were with the CIA?”

  Fagan held Félix’s gaze.

  Félix smiled flatly. “I know who you used to work for. Please do not think I engage at this level without first vetting those I choose to do business with.”

  Fagan spread his hands and gave a plastic smile of his own. “I have nothing to hide.”

  A door opened behind Félix, and a lady wearing a slim yellow bikini appeared from a bedroom. She was voluptuous, toned, with golden skin and hair black as night that fell down around her breasts. It was all Fagan could to pull his gaze from her. He coughed instead. The lady stopped near Félix, who quickly rose to his feet and planted an eager kiss on her mouth.