And what were the terms of his son’s sentence?
What if Gage decided, at any point, that the job wasn’t working? How could he get out and how quickly could that be done?
What if something happened to the son that was beyond Gage’s limits of control?
Did Navarro have any other people on the inside?
How exactly would Navarro’s contacts “send” Gage to prison? Would Gage assume an identity? Who else was in on the job—who were the contacts on the inside?
There were a hundred more questions. More so than any other job he’d ever been offered—in fact, nothing had come close.
All the more reason not to take it.
But, Gage thought, I’ve never been offered such money.
He turned and walked to the southwest. Lloret’s castle, flaming tangerine in the morning sunrise, loomed before him, guarding the crescent beach just like Tossa’s, both built on the elevated stone headland. The sun was battling the cottony gray clouds for air superiority, enjoying an eastern breakthrough as rich morning light filtered from the castle to where Gage walked. Being here, back in Europe, with thousands of dollars to his name and an attractive, mysterious girl in his bed assaulted Gage with a sudden balminess of tranquility.
Water surrounded Gage’s ankles as he walked, continuing to categorize his questions but doing so without much fervor. Because, despite the feelings of goodwill, he knew there was no way in cold hell he was accepting the inane proposition from Navarro. Perhaps he could help in some other way, something he would be pleased to provide. And hopefully Navarro would compensate him handsomely for it.
But Gage Hartline was not voluntarily sending himself to prison.
Chapter Six
The hotel room was empty. Gage stood in the doorway, eyeing the unmade bed. Down the hallway, the maid’s cart could be heard creaking along. In the other direction, a door opened and shut, followed by the sounds of a man and a woman. They passed by, a young tourist couple, laughing as they spoke Dutch about their beach day and all it would hold.
But Justina, Gage’s Polish fancy, was gone.
Damn.
He stepped into the unlocked room, pushing the door shut behind him. She had slid the balcony door closed, the still of the room trapping her sweet scent. Gage breathed it in deeply, laying back on the bed and resting his hands behind his head as he stared at the dingy ceiling that had once been white. Whatever thought process he’d had going was shattered now, his mind awash in the memory of the Polish woman he had shared his sleep with. Like so many who’ve lived under loose captivity, probably knowing nothing else, institutionalized in essence, she’d almost certainly fled back to her captors. Gage could only imagine the retribution she would receive—or maybe was receiving at this very moment—for the humiliation he had caused the night before.
Closing his eyes, he shook his head back and forth—he would not go back to the Eastern Bloc again. She’d made her decision and his going back would invite real trouble for all involved.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
As he was biting his inner cheek to the point of drawing blood, he heard a metallic click. The door opened.
Justina.
“Going back to sleep?” she asked, crossing her arms and giving him an impish smile.
“Where were you?”
“Breakfast. I was hungry and they were getting ready to stop serving.” She tapped the sign on the back of the door, smiling as she said, “See…it says right here in Spanish and English, breakfast is served from…”
Gage propped up on his elbows, captivated by her vision. He’d only seen her at night and in the dark of the Eastern Bloc. There was something about her, an imperfection that set her apart from the porcelain doll women who made millions by modeling. And whatever that imperfection was, though he couldn’t put a finger on it, made her more beautiful, more real in his eyes. He was completely taken with her and he sounded like a schoolboy as he stammered, “I th-th-thought you had to show a key to be allowed entry to breakfast.”
“I told the man I was with you in this room,” she replied, sitting next to Gage on the bed. “He let me eat and it was probably the best meal I’ve had since I’ve been in Lloret.” Justina lowered herself beside him and, like the night before, she and Gage lay very close. After a fifteen minute stretch of quiet, Gage spoke.
“I’ve got something very important to do today, and a big decision to make.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t really say.”
“In Lloret?”
“No.”
“Can I come with you?”
He shook his head. “I have to go alone.”
He felt her tense. “Where will you go?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“When?”
“Later this afternoon.”
“Leave for good?”
“No,” he answered, patting her hand. “Just for a while—probably just a few hours.”
“After that?”
Gage glanced at her. “I’ll come back to you. Maybe we can have dinner, tonight.”
She ran her hand through his hair, in the same way she’d done the day before, when instructed by her Russian “boss”. But this time she looked upon Gage with warmth, the way a man enjoys being viewed, making his chest swell to the point of separating cartilage.
After another gulf in the conversation, Justina said, “I cannot thank you enough. Yes, I’m still scared about what I will do, and how I will get home, but I am like a bird freed from a cage. It feels good, despite all the questions I have inside.”
“Well, relax,” Gage said in a reassuring tone. “I’ve got a little money to get by for a while. Let’s just enjoy our day.”
“I don’t want your money. That’s not why I asked you to help me.”
“I know that,” Gage replied. “Again, just for today, let’s not think about things.”
“But you said you have a big decision to make today.”
“I can set it aside until I have to leave. There are things about the decision that I don’t know yet.” He rolled over to face her. “A fun day. Deal?”
She smiled at him. “Let’s go to the beach.”
“The beach?”
“Yes.” Her face ignited with whimsy as she bounced from the bed, clasping her hands in front of her. “Let’s do like all these rich people do and go to the beach and eat lunch at a seaside café and sun ourselves and play in the water and look at other people and admire the pretty ones and make faces at the ones that should be wearing more clothes. I’ve come here for four years and have never had a single day at the beach.” She leaned forward, grasping him and shaking him as she sang, “Please! Please! Please! A day at the beach! A day at the beach!”
Gage couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s a date, yes?” she asked.
Who could say no?
They went downstairs together. Gage gave Justina money to find swimsuits and towels. After paying for an extra night, just to have the benefit of the room for the afternoon, he used the phone in an adjacent hotel to call Valentin on the number Navarro had provided.
His meeting at Navarro’s casita was set for six-thirty in the evening. Gage would meet Valentin at six.
And, as it now seemed, he would arrive with a fresh suntan.
* * *
For three hours on the sun-drenched beach, Gage Hartline was twenty years old again. Crossing his mind, however, were Justina’s former employers. He had no appetite to run across a group of pissed-off, armed Russians, especially when he was only equipped with swim trunks and sunblock. When he asked her if they would look for her, Justina told him that the crowded beach was the best place for them to be. She was adamant that, despite her absence, everyone involved with Eastern Bloc was either sleeping or preparing for their day. And the last place they would ever look for their runaway Pole would be the main stretch of Lloret de Mar beach—if they even looked at all.
Gage and Justina chose a spot in the
center of the action. The temperatures in late May were typically mild and sometimes cool. But on this day, like an unexpected gift, the temperature had soared to nearly 30 degrees Celsius, mid-80s in Fahrenheit, bringing out oodles of tourists and a great many locals.
The beach was splashed with color from bathing suits, towels, coolers, toys, beach balls, and rental equipment. A parasail carried two shrieking tourists out every fifteen minutes, always drawing oohs and ahs from the crowd upon launch, and the occasional sharp cries when the tourists landed a tad hard in the sand.
Summer had arrived.
Once they’d had lunch, Justina took Gage by the hand and led him into the chilly water. They splashed and romped in the waves, with Gage quickly determining his new friend was a competent swimmer.
“How did you learn to swim so well?” he asked.
“We grew up near a lake. The water was cold but since we grew up poor, the lake was free entertainment.” Justina winced as she touched the gash on his elbow.
“What happened here?”
“I cut myself at a gas station in Texas.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not as much as what I cut it on.”
Shrugging, she moved in front of him. “Throw me.”
“Throw you?”
“Can you do it?”
Gage took a great breath, squatting under the water after a wave passed. Digging his feet into the sand, he motioned her over. Justina backed her rear end into his hands and, with a hydraulic burst, Gage launched from the Mediterranean floor, sending her into a three-quarter forward somersault. She came up coughing and laughing and, after many more tries, they perfected the technique, managing to give her a full flip out of the water time and time again. With Gage eventually exhausted they moved beyond the waves, finding a sandbar that allowed them to stand shoulder-deep in the water, well out beyond most of the swimmers.
“I’m beat,” Gage said, taking a great breath.
“Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No, I’m just getting old.”
“You’re far from old,” she said, rubbing his shoulder as the water lapped against it. “What’s the meaning of your tattoo?” she asked. It was his sole tattoo, the image of Themis, Greek goddess of justice, depicted with an arming sword in one hand and scales in another.
“Just something my friends and I decorated ourselves with back when I was in the military.”
“Scales and a sword?” she asked, continuing to trace her finger on his skin.
“Justice can occur in many forms,” Gage answered, trying to sound mild about it. “What about you?”
“What about me?” she asked.
“Any tattoos?”
“Not yet,” she laughed. Then she asked, “Why did you change the subject?”
“That tattoo represents a part of me that I would never change, but the memories are not all good. Make sense?”
“More than you know.”
Suddenly, she playfully clawed at his torso, lowering her head partially into the sea, viewing him through slit eyes. She prowled side to side like a crocodile and he could tell by the lines of her face that she was smiling below the turquoise seawater. Suddenly she lurched forward, grasping his shoulders and locking her legs around him.
Their kiss was instinctual.
Gage placed his arms around her back, holding her tightly, opening his mouth and enjoying the moment for what it was. As they kissed, moving their heads side to side, he parried a sharp attack of Monika-related sadness by reminding himself that he was completely justified in an innocent kiss.
When their coupling resolved itself he continued to hold her close and asked her a question that had been bugging him since he’d first met her:
“Do they abuse you?”
“Przepraszam?” she asked, cocking her head in a manner that told him that “przepraszam” meant “excuse me?”
“The Russians…do they abuse you?”
“No,” she replied. “We come here voluntarily.”
“Not just physically…” He chewed on his lower lip. “Do they require that you…”
“Have sex with them?” she asked eyes wide.
“Yes, that.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I wouldn’t come here if they did. Thankfully, they think we are trash. The Russians have so much money that they only date the tourist girls and never, ever a Pole.”
“I don’t mean ‘date’. I mean, do they ever just use you to, you know…complete their temporary urges?”
“No. I tell you the truth. I have to take off my top at Eastern Bloc and let fat ugly men grab me and rub me, but that is the worst.” She unlocked her legs and stood on her own. “It’s bad, but not so bad, and I did come here voluntarily. I didn’t have to come back.”
“I just keep coming back to you saying that this year something changed.”
“I promise, nothing happened to me. I’m just tired of living a miserable life.”
Gage pulled his hands from the water, wetting his face. He eyed her for a bit, imagining the image of their mutual electricity rebounding in sharp bolts between them.
“Happier now?” she asked.
“Only if you’ve told me the truth.”
“Starting seven or eight years ago, I could have made my life much easier by selling myself.” Her face was stony, showing the type of tension he’d not yet seen from her. “But I have never done that. I don’t judge those who do but, for me, that’s never going to be option. And that is the truth.”
Gage found her hand under water, clasping it. “If I can support you, would you be willing to stay with me for a while?”
“I don’t mind earning my way.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t work. But, for now, until you find something, will you let me help you?”
“You mean this?”
“It would make me happy.”
Justina leapt to him, again locking her legs around him and kissing him. It was an emphatic, and pleasant, answer.
* * *
Swimming in the ocean just a short distance away was Xavier Zambrano. He’d actually taken notice of the nearby couple, recognizing the tall, wholesome blonde from somewhere, but unable to make the connection. Her friend, a rugged looking hombre with a few curious scars, was well-built and probably about Xavier’s age. There was something cold and knowing about the man and Xavier noticed him looking over more than once, measuring him. Xavier instantly hated him, half tempted to walk up to his own towel and retrieve his pistol. He could conceal the pistol with the towel, walk back down and gun the muscled asshole down right here in the surf.
But even Xavier had good sense. He was soon distracted by a clutch of topless post-teens frolicking in the waves. Eavesdropping on their conversation, Xavier learned that they were from the Netherlands. After his first swim, he boldly approached the young ladies and invited them to his villa for drinks after sunset. Surpassing his boldness, one of the young women asked him if he might have any cocaine at his villa.
“And if I do?”
“I’ll be your slave,” the woman answered, giggling but gnawing on her lower lip as she eyed him hungrily.
Xavier explained where they should rendezvous at the prescribed time. “My associate will meet you there and bring you to my villa.”
“We can just walk,” another of the young women said.
“I won’t hear of it,” he replied, winking before walking back to the water, feeling their eyes undressing him as he descended the mild slope of sand.
This was his second day at the sea. Terminally bored with his past two months in Barcelona, and being a man who liked to roam, Xavier had come north to Lloret, a seedy resort in the eyes of many Europeans, but a place where someone like Xavier could find innumerable distractions of the female variety—especially of the type who enjoyed some of his more peculiar proclivities.
He used a powerful free-style stroke to swim to the orange buoy that existed a kilometer out to sea. The chop was significant
, making his progress difficult at times. Xavier welcomed it. A strong swimmer, he preferred to be in the water year-round, always swimming outside despite the cold. It was but another mark of his manhood.
After rounding the buoy, he found that the return stroke was a bit easier, making the swim back to the beach pass more quickly. He paused at the sandbar on his way back, and that’s when he noticed the couple again. After appraising the tall blonde, he focused on her rugged date, cursing him by muttering the derogatory insult, “Gilipolas.”
Xavier completed his swim and exited the water, his muscles expanded by the spread of blood through their fibers. The group of Netherlanders were still sunning, all but one lying flat on their towels. The only one sitting up was the one who’d asked about cocaine. She’d been watching him and gave him a little wave, as if she wanted to make sure he’d made it back safely.
“I bet she’s got a nose like a vacuum cleaner,” Xavier said to Fausto, his longtime helper who awaited him at the edge of the surf with a thick towel.
“Pardon, señor?”
“The one in the middle,” Xavier replied, pointing. The young Dutch woman fluffed her towel as she joined her friends, supine in their collective sun worship. “She wants coke, and a lot of it. How much do we have?”
“I stashed it when we arrived, señor. There is plenty.”
“Good, good.” Xavier looked at his Breitling, then up at the sun as it was halfway down the western sky. In another hour it would fall behind the high-rises along the beachfront.
“I’m hungry,” Xavier abruptly stated. “I will eat this evening as I listen to the monthly reports.”
“What would you prefer, señor?”
Scowling at the thought, Xavier ran his hands back through his wet hair, as if such a decision was of momentous importance. Finally, resolutely, he said, “Hearty salad, lobster, drawn butter, broccoli, and some more of that bread I had last night.”
“Excellent, señor. I will see to it.” Fausto snapped a phone open and walked to Xavier’s bag, slipping it over his shoulder.
Xavier walked back to the group of young women, five of them, noting their omnipresent bikini line tattoos and belly button rings. “So, I will see all of you at eleven?”
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