“You need to come to the infirmary,” an authoritarian voice said in Spanish.
Gage opened his eyes, seeing one of the two guards from earlier, his mouth twisted into a smirk.
“I’m fine,” Gage replied.
“You’re not fine,” the guard said, motioning with his baton. “I know what happened. Let’s go.”
“I’m fine,” Gage said. “Please, let me be.”
“Yeah, piss off, Guevo,” Salvador barked.
The guard snorted before turning and walking away.
Gage moved his right arm under his head, rotating his eyes to Salvador. “So, did I receive the standard welcome?”
Rummaging around on his bookshelf, Salvador retrieved a box of toothpicks and placed a fresh one in his mouth, massaging his jaw as he did so. “That was your first test. The Sementals are very small in number here. But the others will now know that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that everyone is now talking about you. And it will be a source of great status to be the one who kills you.”
Well, that’s just great. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
“But I think you will be left alone today,” Salvador ruminated. “Although that’s by no means certain.”
Gage reminded himself of the phrase he planned to adopt as his mantra here: One hour at a time.
* * *
The first twenty-four hours of Gage’s incarceration were marked by increasing pain and little rest. Somehow Gage managed to shuffle to the evening meal, noting the curious, often malevolent, stares as he took his tray of food and sat alone, unable to eat a bite due to his lack of appetite—and not aided by the food’s vomit-like odor. There was still no sign of Cesar and, especially due to his current condition, Gage knew it would be far too obvious if he began overtly looking for him. No incidents followed and Gage rested on his bunk for the balance of the night, having to endure numerous stories from Salvador, most having to do with his children and his passion for kung fu.
Eventually, mercifully, Salvador fell asleep.
During the previous decade, Gage had experienced more seismic shifts than most people experience in a full lifetime. The accident on Crete. The abrupt scuttling of Colonel Hunter’s team. A permanent move overseas. Losing Monika, followed by the business with the Glaives. As a guard walked by, whistling annoyingly while people were trying to sleep, Gage closed his eyes and remembered the cool air of the Catalonian forest, as Justina lay below him, her cheeks flushed as they completed their spur-of-the-moment show of affection for one another. She’d rubbed her soft hands up and down his triceps, whispering that she would wait on him if he promised that he would come back to her. When he made his vow, she pulled him to her, locking her legs tightly around him, and held on for what felt like dear life. Her grasp wasn’t sexual—it was emotional. Purely emotional.
That was three days ago. Three days. And now I’m in prison, on day frigging one, with stab wounds in my body and seven-hundred days to go.
Justina…
Not a man prone to regret, Gage felt the despondent, rusty stab of the disgusting emotion. He imagined what it would have been like if he and Justina had blown off this ridiculous job and taken the train to Germany, back to the land he knew so well. There was no longer any heat from the incident with the Glaives. The only thing that had kept him away from his beloved Germany had been the pain of Monika’s death. But, had he been able to stomach going back, he could have called Colonel Hunter, along with others he knew, and put out the word that he was in business again. Justina spoke a little German, and her English was good. Had they settled in the right place, Gage had no doubt he could have talked to some of the local American military and helped her get a job at a PX or BX. Their existence would have been simple, lean when Gage wasn’t working.
But they’d have been together, and he certainly wouldn’t be nursing these damned stab wounds.
Torturing himself even more, he imagined their evenings in a dingy little rental flat, eating inexpensive food followed by hours of lovemaking while good music played in the background. Maybe, during the summer months when the light lingered to nearly midnight, they would have walked to one of the thousands of hilltop castles that dot the German landscape, exploring its ruins and scaring each other at every opportunity, laughing so hard no noise would even escape their—
Stop it, dammit.
You’re wounded and showing loathsome weakness. He took two deep, back-splitting breaths. You’re not in Germany, Gage, because you took Navarro’s money. Your intentions were, and are, good. You made the decision, it was all you, now deal with it. Sleep and, tomorrow when you wake up, stop acting like a pussy and do what you’ve been paid to do.
Work hard.
Don’t let up.
And be ruthless.
His real self was a welcome presence in Gage’s mind. He managed a few fitful bouts of slumber, but mainly lay there sweating in his pain. His mind, however, remained hard throughout the night. And it pleased him.
Chapter Fourteen
Cercs, Spain
At Eastern Bloc, especially when the season was in full swing, Justina often lost track of what day it was. With everyone in Lloret for vacation, and her receiving no days off, the days of the week were meaningless. To Justina every day seemed a weekday while, to the teeming revelers, every night was Saturday night. And now, in the tedium of the lonely lakeside cabin, for a completely different set of reasons, she’d again lost track of the days. As she planted summer flowers in two weathered window boxes, she tried to recall exactly which day it was, thinking to herself that, for some reason, today felt like a Thursday.
Gage had left yesterday. She was now one day closer to having him back.
The air was thick with humidity and, despite the cloudless azure sky, Justina predicted afternoon showers in the next few hours based on what had happened on the previous days. As she gently pressed the rich potting soil around the hibiscus, hoping the flowers would waterfall from the boxes as the summer lolled on, a squeaking sound startled her. She turned, using her forearm to push wisps of hair from her sweaty face, seeing Señora Moreno on an ancient, three-wheeled bike.
“Those will be pretty if you see that they get enough sun,” Señora Moreno said, climbing off the wheeled machine and reaching into its wire basket, retrieving a covered picnic basket. Her plump little hand pulled back the red cloth to display a trove of delicious-looking food. “Might I entice you into taking a break?”
“Sure,” Justina answered, dropping her soiled gloves and wiping her face and hands with a wad of paper towels.
After a wonderful lunch of salad, a shrimp dish, and a lemony flan desert, they sat in the rocking chairs on the back porch, drinking something called tinto de verano, essentially red wine mixed with lemonade.
“This is often enjoyed by the poor here in Spain, much simpler than the sangria we’re so famous for,” the older woman said. “But it reminds me of my past, and summers, and the early days with Mateo.”
“He was your husband?”
“Oh my, yes,” she said gaily, her mind clearly hearkening back. “A fine man…the finest. He worked in a tire factory until his thirty-second birthday and that’s when he threw down his gloves in disgust and, on a whim, we picked up and moved here. They’d just dammed the river and we used our savings to purchase a parcel of land on what would eventually be the new reservoir.” Señora Moreno glowed, rocking steadily as she allowed a brief silence to settle in, as if they were eating a fine meal and she wanted to make certain Justina enjoyed each bite.
“The lake there, I remember when it was just a small river down in the valley. We watched it rise about one meter every two or three weeks.”
Justina stared at the broad expanse of water, unsuccessfully trying to picture a craggy valley in its place.
Still staring back into her past, Señora Moreno said, “People told Mateo that no one wanted to live on a manmade la
ke, and that the south of Spain was the place to invest our pittance. But Mateo, in his patient, Catholic way, would just nod politely and continue making his plans. Two years later, he had finally built our cabin…built it by hand. Up until then, we’d been living in a shack in town.”
She looked at Justina. “I remember the exact moment that I walked in our cabin. Mateo had been fanatical about never letting me in before. I remember the smells of creosote and fresh paint—and I remember his smell, his glorious smell, permeating the place.” She turned her head back to the distance, back to the memory. “Oh, how we loved that cabin. Then, as the reservoir filled to its higher levels, when it really looked like a lake, people began to arrive. Mateo divided our land and sold three lots. He used that money to buy more land…and so on.”
“Did you tear down your cabin?”
“Oh, no, darling. We just added on to it. When you come in my home, the first rooms are still a part of the old cabin. Same wood, same floor, same ceiling, all laid down by my Mateo.”
A bird zipped past the porch. Señora Moreno stopped rocking and made a slight shushing sound. The bird landed in a nearby scrubby tree, its head quizzically darting left and right. It was green, distinguished because of its long curved beak, with notes of white and orange around the head. Suddenly it lurched into the air, tumbling then fluttering, an insect trapped at the tip of its beak. Then it was gone, off to lunch in private.
“A bee-eater,” Señora Moreno said. “One of my favorites and the first I’ve spotted this year. They winter in Africa, you know.” She let out a contented breath. “Summer’s here, my dear.”
Justina sipped her drink, finding it a tad harsh, guessing that it was probably an acquired taste or a bit heavy on the Tempranillo. “And your Mateo, his business here grew?”
“Yes, dear. I became involved after the cabin was built.” She stopped rocking, leaning over and conspiratorially whispering, “I’d never had one whit of business experience. Back then, Circs was controlled by the local parish priest. He was a good man but had grown too used to the locals fawning over him. Power can do that, even to good people.”
“I can imagine.”
“Once I straightened him out, made him see things my way, made him understand that things could be better here if he’d fall in behind me, things were just grand.” The Spanish lady rested her hands on one another. “Soon after, I opened a mercantile in Cercs—very, very busy in-season and steady through the winter due to the workers from the dam and the power plant. I quickly learned what to stock in the different seasons. That led to another shop, then a petrol station while Mateo built cabins. When those sold, we hired others to help us run things while we speculated on real estate. Mateo always gave me equal voice…such a fine man.”
“Señora Moreno, your husband…”
“Seventeen years ago, darling. Automobile accident, but the coroner felt he actually died of a heart attack beforehand. He’d had heart troubles for years.” She spoke of his death in the flat, practiced manner of someone who’d found peace and maintained it by not dwelling on the details of the tragedy.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine, dear. I was blessed to have him for the time I did.”
“Has there been anyone else since then?”
“No,” Señora Moreno answered with a firm shake of her head. “He was the one man for me.”
There was a bout of silence, marked only by the occasional thumping of the rocking chairs.
“As I told you, this cabin was to be my daughter’s.”
“I remember,” Justina said, afraid to pry.
“Her name was Isabel—she died in Madrid, while at university. Spinal meningitis.”
Justina reached across the small table and touched Señora Moreno’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“Years ago, after Mateo died, I lamented not having more children. But I found peace, and decided to live my life on my terms.”
“Good for you.”
“Mateo and Isabel are together now,” the older woman beamed. “Receiving their reward in heaven.” Before Justina could say anything, Señora Moreno turned to her. “As I said, you remind me of her. You have a quiet spirit about you, just like she did.”
“That’s so nice of you to say. I’m honored.”
The placid face returned as Señora Moreno resumed her rocking. “Now I get my pleasure by going to church, running the business, and moments like this.”
Justina tasted the drink again, feeling a tad awkward but not knowing what else to say.
“And what of you and your squire, my dear…is he the man for you?”
Feeling sudden heat in her cheeks, Justina nodded and said, “I truly hope so.”
Señora Moreno placed her drink on the wicker table between them. She tucked one of her legs up underneath her and turned her body to Justina. “Well, if that’s the case, dear, then why don’t you tell me the truth about him?”
Feeling her eyes blinking spasmodically, Justina stammered, “Señora Moreno…I…I…”
“I know a false story when I hear one and, until today, I decided to let it be. But beautiful young Polish women don’t usually show up here at the foot of the Pyrenees with quiet American men nearly twice their age to stay anonymously, hidden away, for a long period.” She reached across the small table and touched Justina’s arm, briefly closing her eyes as she said, “He’s married, isn’t he? He was here for work, paid you some flattering attention, you two got involved, and he told you he’d go home and cut all the strings.” Señora Moreno pulled in an audible breath. “They’re snakes, dear. Cunning and alluring, but snakes the whole lot of them. It’s just how they were created. And, I can tell you from my own experience as an attractive young lady, all he’ll do is come back a few more times and take what he wants before—”
“He’s not married,” Justina said, bursting out with good-natured laughter.
Señora Moreno tapped her lip with her index finger. “You’re sure? Older gentlemen, in their prime, can make you believe all sorts of things.”
“Positive.”
She showed the palm of her left hand. “Wait. Don’t tell me. I’m old and lonely and such a mystery as your handsome American is spice to my daily monotony.” Narrowing her eyes, she stared off into the woods, taking a moment before she said, “He’s gone away on a job of some sort. Something different…”
Unsure of what to tell Señora Moreno but feeling very close to her after the stories of her husband and daughter, Justina said, “Yes, he has.”
“And he has money, but he works with his hands…I could tell by how rough they were.” She spoke the words in the affirmative, but added a slight lilt at the ends of her sentences to indicate the possible presence of a query.
“He does work with his hands.”
“And has money?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“He had money when I met him, dear.”
“Yes, but he doesn’t typically have money.”
Señora Moreno’s face lit up. “Ah, a windfall. He’s into something quite illegal, isn’t he? Something afoul—sinful.” She spoke without censure, actually sounding quite gleeful at the revelation. “Don’t worry yourself, dear. The secret is quite safe with me. All humans have their peccadilloes. I just knew there was something illicit about him...” She looked away, her round face alight. “And he’s such a handsome devil. I can see how you would readily invite him into your—”
Justina cut her off. “He’s not a criminal, Señora.”
The elder lady opened her hands. “Then, pray tell, please just tell me what in the world the nature of your relationship is. Start at the beginning, speak slowly, and leave nothing out. I want all the juicy details.”
Tugging at her earring, Justina smiled nervously. “I can’t do that, Señora. We agreed that I’d keep everything to myself.”
“Look at me, dear,” Señora Moreno cajoled. “This is my seventy-second year on this earth. I have two men who work for me and
both avoid me at all costs...it’s not that they hate me, but I think they find me old, irascible, unpleasant on the eyes and difficult to please. My tenants are now all set for the summer—and all very boring—and my television shows are wrapping up their seasons. So now all I’m left with are reruns, my books, the arriving summer birds and my two old cats, one of whom seems to be on his last legs.” She tilted her head. “So humor an old woman. If this is a secret, it’s safe with me. I want to treasure the friendship of a beautiful young lady. And her telling me her story will do nothing harmful to her, or her beau, but it will add a firm foundation of trusting in another.”
After letting out a long breath, Justina took a large quaff of the tinto de verano, finding it more palatable as the ice had melted and diluted its strength. “His name is Gage, Señora, and we only met a few weeks ago. I was in Lloret, working for the season at a horrible job, when he arrived at the bar one afternoon. I didn’t know him at the time.”
“Go on,” Señora Moreno said reverently.
“Initially, our meeting was quite odd. More odd was what he did to my abusive boss.”
“Abusive?”
“Not physically. I worked with other Polish girls—they treated all of us like slaves.”
“And what did your Gage do to this boss?”
“He came into the bar during the day. A few minutes after he came in, he knocked my boss to the floor and…” Justina told Señora Moreno the entire story of their first day, up to Gage’s liberating her in the back alley.
When Justina came to the portion of the story about their first night alone together, in Gage’s Lloret hotel, Señora Moreno again stopped her with a raised hand. “This is just grand, dear and, please, do go on. But when you get to the romantic parts…” she crossed herself, “…you know, the sex, do definitely be detailed, my dear. All I’m left with are memories so, perhaps, I can enjoy the interludes vicariously through you. Mateo and I used to do the most wonderful things on afternoons such as this, but now…” she said wistfully, her voice trailing off.
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