by Eric Dabbs
There was another man with them. In his thirties. Someone new. Someone not included in the dossiers he’d studied on the Trans-Atlantic flight. Must have been a recent addition to Coraco's team. The unidentified man, Carmen Sanchez, and the older real estate tycoon climbed out of the jeep and walked along the wooden quay toward the speedboat, which was rocking in the choppy surf.
What a fortunate turn of events.
Not only did they solidify his choice for a point of access later tonight, but their presence provided Alex a preview of his point of contact for the party. The lovely Carmen Sanchez.
13
As Alex swept the shoreline with the binoculars, the rod and reel started buzzing like a shrilling winch, unwinding the fishing line, the pole bowing over with the weight of a big catch. His attention shot to the bent over pole, and then back to the view provided by the binoculars. Coraco and the other man were looking his way, engaged in a serious debate. Carmen's gaze appeared puzzled, brows pinched, eyes squinted, drawing into focus.
Alex glanced at the rod and reel, started for it, winced, went back to the binoculars.
The spindle of fishing line whirled around and around, shrinking in size by the second as the creature on the hook raced for deeper water.
Alex grimaced, torn between the call of duty and the mystery of what he'd snagged beneath the waves. Something had to give. And it did. He hurried over, scooped up the pole and started reeling. If Coraco and his lover were heading out to sea for leisure purposes, nothing would be gained by stalking them.
In the midst of the struggle, Alex sensed the tide turning in his favor. The fish was big. Maybe a grouper or an amberjack...a tuna? But after playing tug of war for several minutes, inching the prize closer to the boat, the line slacked and the strain on the other end ceased.
"Huh?" He reeled in the hook and found the bait fish gone, stolen by a clever thief.
He wagged his head and sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead, realizing within seconds he needed to get back to work.
With the rod put away, Alex returned his concentration back to the dock. Alfred Coraco, the unidentified man, and Carmen Sanchez had vanished. Interestingly enough, the speedboat was still tied to the pier. Maybe a closer pass would reveal something he couldn't see from his present location?
Alex plopped down in the captain's chair, started the engine, and nudged the gas lever forward. In response, the boat gurgled, churning out a swirling froth of deep blue water mixed with white foam. He aimed a straight course for Coraco's pier.
He tugged left on the steering wheel, turning the boat's starboard side parallel to shore. A hundred yards away, a steady flow of waves rocked Coraco's agile vessel.
Alex's eyes followed the winding road leading up the back of the mountainside. Where had the three gone? Maybe they chose not to go out to sea because of the increasing size of the surf? Waves cresting at three feet could turn a weak stomach green, especially someone susceptible to motion sickness. Or maybe they saw him? Maybe he spooked them? They were looking his way earlier. Regardless, he'd found a good location to access Coraco's property.
He knew what time it was without having to look at his watch. Time to peel out before raising suspicions.
Alex set the boat back on a course for the harbor, and twenty minutes later, entered the shallow channel to the marina. As he slowed to avoid leaving a wake, he took a casual glimpse behind him.
And did a double take.
The white speedboat was on his tail. The same craft at Coraco's dock.
"Never liked having company," he uttered under his breath.
Alex punched the gas to full throttle, roaring by a boater on the way out, rocking the slim vessel, careening by him a little too close, and kicking up a spray of salt water. The man with thick black hair and a beard, cursed, shaking a fist in the air.
In response to his increase in speed, the trailing boat picked up the pace as well, closing the distance behind him in hot pursuit.
Alex reached the harbor and coasted to the docking spot, bumping the front of the boat against the pier with a reverberating collision. In a flash, he grabbed the binoculars, ripped the key from the ignition and tied the vessel to its piling. As he thundered down the wooden planks, he glanced back to see the pursuer closing in fast.
The speedboat found a docking place, and the man hopped over the gunwale to the pier and resumed the chase.
Alex glided behind the wheel of the Porsche and took off. He glanced back as the unidentified man yanked an unsuspecting motorist from a Volkswagen Jetta and took up pursuit.
He checked his rearview mirror. The man was still on his tail.
With his foot flooring the gas, Alex rounded a curve with ease, gunning the engine. The 911's tires gripped the asphalt, screeching in protest to the sudden acceleration.
His lead grew.
The car disappeared on the backside of a small hill. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw a clearing to his right. He mashed the brakes, geared into reverse, and zipped the Porsche backwards into a hidden drive smothered in trees and scraggly bushes.
A moment later, as expected, the Jetta screamed by and never wavered.
Breathing a sigh of relief after his narrow escape, Alex determined the gear he’d need for tonight's infiltration of Coraco's lair, and he knew exactly who to call to make the special delivery.
14
The partly cloudy day gave way to a clear starlit night with a quarter moon hanging low in the sky. Alex had to be extra cautious in the lunar light to avoid detection. He eased the Porsche 911 to a gentle halt near the sea bank about half a mile from Coraco's dock. The area was the last spot to park the car and still have access to the Mediterranean. Trees and vegetation provided adequate cover along the dirt trail leading to the sea, thickening into an obstructing mangle of limbs and briers close to the water's edge.
Yet more of an obstacle…the abruptly transforming landscape surrounding Coraco's estate. The countryside grew steep until it catapulted up into an imposing mountain ridge.
Alex fastened a leather holster over his black fatigues, eased the Glock into its slot, and thumbed the strap to secure the pistol in place. At the bank, the Zodiac inflatable awaited him, as he requested from Wes, with the scuba gear and climbing rope stowed away inside.
He donned the gear and pushed the Zodiac into the water, floating over mild ripples, the water splashing lightly against the raft. One pull of the crank cord and the engine sputtered to life.
He maneuvered the craft halfway to the dock—about a quarter of a mile journey—located a small outcropping in the dark and tied off to a rock. He stabbed the kill switch, cutting the buzzing motor to silence as not to arouse suspicion, and submerged beneath the water decked out in scuba gear.
Gliding through the black sea, he kept a check on the moonlight in order to maintain course. He took his time and made it to the dock without incident. Once on land, he shed the dry suit that protected his clothes and padded up the gravel roadway under the cover of night.
Coraco's estate lay at the crest of the mountainside. A large metal building consumed a fair portion of land about eighty to ninety yards away...guarded by a number of armed men. The guards patrolled the area outside a pair of open garage doors. Several high windows offered hope of access, two of which were propped open at the bottom, hinged at the top, likely for ventilation purposes.
Alex inched forward, rope and grappling hook gripped tight in his right hand...but before he broke the clearing, he froze, stock-still. A security camera was pointed in his direction. He nestled back into the thicket, melting into the darkness. He'd need another approach. Angling to his right, he moved around the property in the tree line until he faced the rear of the warehouse. The unguarded backside had two cameras, each lens positioned near the center of the building, aiming back to each end.
He bolted from his hiding spot, darting for the rear of the building, splitting the camera viewpoints, the soles of his dive boots thundering through th
e fresh dew on the manicured lawn. He raced toward the building, his gaze shifting from the path ahead of him, up to another propped open window out of view of the security cameras. At the last second, he gave the climbing rope and grappling hook, a whirl, and hurtled it over the roof top.
The hook thumped against the roof, the business end digging into a piece of metal trim work, the sound hopefully masked by the three air conditioner units humming outside.
Alex jerked on the line to make sure it would hold, and started climbing, using the rubber soles of his boots to gain traction on the side of the building. He stopped two stories above the ground. Visible through the window, the guards appeared again, standing next to the open garage doors in the front. Below his vantage point, a catwalk came into view—his ticket in—but he had to wait for one of the guards to turn his back to him.
Inside, two work trucks were parked next to a pair of boats. One of the slender crafts was the white speedboat that chased him earlier in the day. Also, nearby, a white moving van. Obviously, white was a reoccurring theme. Alex’s objective: find out if Coraco's operation was as pure as the tycoon's fleet of white vehicles, and his tailored white suit.
15
The warehouse building stood two stories high, a cavernous space from floor to ceiling. With a view from the elevated window—to Alex's right—a set of lower floor rooms appeared to be several offices. Along the inner walls, grated metal walkways ran along the perimeter of the entire complex, connecting to the top of the office section, the above portion serving as storage space for a variety of boxes, items draped with dust cloths, and pallets loaded down with odds and ends from unknown machinery.
Fortunately, the catwalk ran underneath the window, and there appeared to be only one access door to the enclosed section of offices.
Alex stuck a leg through the opening and eased inside, his body skimming over the window sill, only the slightest friction of his clothes grazing over the metal. He ducked under a handrail and lowered his feet to the grated catwalk. Without pause, he swung a leg over the railing and dropped to the concrete floor below.
The guards still had their backs turned as he shuffled behind one of the work trucks and then over to the speedboat.
Shoes clacked on the concrete floor.
Alex rolled under the boat, his shoulders tumbling over the floor, barely a sound, as a man appeared a few feet away wearing a lab coat. The man passed close enough to the boat that, for the time being, only afforded Alex a view of his black loafers and the hem of his dark slacks resting on top of his lace-less shoes.
The man stopped between the truck and the boat. "It is late. We are calling it night, da."
An additional pair of lab coats came into view, only for an instant, a man and a woman, joining their apparent leader. With the group so close to him, shoes were all Alex could see from his position on the floor.
"You will be back tomorrow, sí?" a new voice asked, coming from further away, but approaching.
"Yes, comrade. Job will be complete in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.
"Señor Coraco will be pleased."
“I am certain that he will be.”
Without another word, the lab workers departed through the open garage door in the front of the building.
The introduction of Russians to the mix gave Alex a slight sense of what the Cold War must have been like during the reign of the Soviet Union. Fortunately, after the workers left, the guards settled back into a routine of keeping an eye on the front entrance.
Alex seized the opportunity, crawling from beneath the boat and rushing across the floor to the door that led to the office space. Inside, he found rooms on each side of the darkened corridor...and another door at the end of the hall.
A silent call urged him forward.
He placed a hand on the doorknob. Locked. Expected that. After all, a black square of a box hung to the right of the entrance. A badge scanner. Maybe? No. Someone could easily steal a keycard and gain access to whatever was hidden behind the door.
A thumbprint scanner. Bingo.
Alex reached out to touch it to verify his suspicions but froze an inch away. Not a wise idea. An unidentified print would likely trigger an alarm.
An inner sense of dread overwhelmed him as he contemplated what was on the other side of the door. He considered the guards. The security system. The lab workers. Russians.
A sinking feeling hit him. He wouldn't be able to find out tonight. The door signaled the end of the line for the moment, and the foreseeable future, unless he could figure out a way around the security system. Hmmm. Where there’s a will...there’s always a crafty remedy to any problem.
Alex turned to leave, and happened to glance up on the way out and caught a glimpse of a return vent for an air conditioning unit positioned halfway down the hall. The new discovery sparked an idea for the possibility of a later visit.
He cracked the exit door ajar. The guards were still up front, unaware of his presence.
Alex eyed the speedboat and the elevated portion of the catwalk. He paused, waiting for the right moment to make his move and then darted for the work truck, clambering up on the hood, then onto the roof of the vehicle. He pulled himself up and onto the catwalk.
The heel of his boot dinged on the lower side rail...loud enough to draw the attention of the guards down below...and the undesired aim of an AK-47 by the man closest to him.
"Alto!" the guard yelled and squeezed the trigger.
Magnified inside the enclosed warehouse, machine gun fire exploded like a cannon in Alex's ears.
Bullets ricocheted off the catwalk, the redirected shots pinging off the steel rails and grated flooring. Alex threw his shoulder into the propped open window, pushing the frame up and out with a grunt, all the while, latching onto the rope still hanging from the roof. As his body fell through the opening, more rounds shattered the window, showering his neck and cheek with splintered shards. He squeezed the rope with an iron-clad grip, halting his downward momentum with a jerk. His legs swung wildly away from the building before slamming back against the exterior wall.
Oriented, he scaled down the metal siding, handholds shifting one over the other, rapid breaths fleeing his lungs, grunts escaping his lips. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he raced off in a sprint for the dock.
Glass crashed behind him. Alex whipped his head back for a quick glance. A guard raked an AK-47 over the ruined window frame, clearing a spot for his barrel to rest.
Nearing the tree line, he pushed his legs to the burning point, summoning every muscle in his body to run faster. Automatic gunfire ripped up the ground beneath his feet. A round whizzed by his face. But at full speed, he downed the hillside, angling through the limbs and brush, and found the road winding down to the dock. At the bottom of the hill—the sound of rallying guards in the background—Alex reached the pier and dove into the white capping water, the raft waiting for him, after a healthy swim, to take him to his ride.
16
The next day, Alex pulled on a button-up shirt and snapped a silver Rolex onto his wrist. He never placed a major priority on the finer things in life. Growing up, he always felt better about himself if he was helping people. It gave him a sense of purpose. When he was a teenager, he remembered volunteering to clean up after a tornado tore through his rural community. One summer, he helped build houses for those less fortunate. It felt like a calling. A higher purpose. That's what he believed he was doing now, serving his country, laying his life on the line for a cause greater than himself.
He had to admit: the money, the clothes, and the cars were a pretty nice part of the job. But he needed to keep his guard up and not allow those things to cloud his vision and purpose...to rid the world of evil men who sought to instill fear in the hearts of the innocent. So far, he had nothing solid on Coraco, but he had a gut feeling the real estate tycoon was hiding something sinister.
Alex wore a pair of khaki pants and a dark dress coat over the pressed white shirt as he
cruised the coastal motorway N340 that led to Malaga. The Porsche 911 hugged the tight curves with extreme precision. It was Friday. With the party later tonight, he decided he wanted get to know his nemesis on a more personal level.
Wes had performed a bit of espionage himself by passing along some valuable information. Coraco was having lunch in Malaga at an upscale restaurant, called the La Domingo. This was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.
At the front entrance, Alex eased the 911 next to Coraco's Rolls Royce under the covered double-drive watching the billionaire and his lover, Carmen Sanchez, get out of the piece of art on wheels. The valet took the keys and moved the Rolls to the parking lot as Alfred Coraco and Carmen passed in front of him and entered the restaurant.
Coraco sported his usual white business suit, while Carmen fashioned a spaghetti strapped dress, clinging to her figure, red and silky. Alex bit his bottom lip, wondering what a woman like that saw in an old man with slick gray hair and a wrinkled brow. Money, of course.
Alex exited the Porsche and dropped the keys into the valet's hand.
The place was for big spenders.
Outdoors, the restaurant’s center piece displayed a towering water fountain which sent sprays twenty feet into the air. Verdant bushes accented the rich walnut timbers of the entrance. Stucco walls added to the feel of the lavish establishment.
Alex strolled through the double doors and knew immediately he'd be dishing out a lot of dough. In the lobby, the maitre’d, decked out in a black tux and bow tie, looked him up and down from behind a small podium.
"Your name, Señor?" The man brushed a hand through a crop of thinning brown hair.
"Preston...Alex Preston," he answered with a wry smile.
The attendant scoured the reservation list. A moment of silence passed.