“Why do you allow it?”
“Los Leones run things here. They did. They do. They will. And had I, or any of the guards, tried to stop the killing of Cesar, it would invite certain death.”
“So you can stop a rape, but not a killing?”
She shook her head. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“If fear rules your life, then you don’t need to be a prison warden,” Gage said, disgust dripping from every word.
“Understand this: given my broad powers here at Berga, if I decide to send you back out in that bay, you’re dead inside of ten minutes.” She tilted her chin up, waiting for him to respond.
Gage was emotionless.
“Rather than do that, I’d like to propose a deal, Mister Hartline.”
Gage sucked on his teeth, viewing her paintings.
“Mister Hartline…did you hear me?”
He ignored her.
“I said I have a proposition.”
“Listen, lady…my proposition is for you to open the doors and let me walk out. Now. Even if Navarro was double-crossed, there is official paperwork on me, filed in the U.S., stating that I was hired by the Spanish government to be placed into Berga as an undercover agent.”
She shook her head. “That won’t work, for two reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“First, if I allow you to make contact with the U.S., it’s me who will die.”
“How will anyone know?”
“Los Leones now have a bounty on you, Mister Hartline. I’m the only person keeping you alive. It was me who had you thrown into that dark cell, thereby protecting you.”
“Why?”
“While Los Leones may be vicious, they’re not very bright.” She gave Gage a tight smile. “They know you were paid a large sum of money. If you can produce that money, I might be able to bargain your life with it.”
Given the tenor of the conversation leading up to this point, this demand wasn’t at all surprising to Gage. He believed every word. He also believed her choice of words, using “might,” was key. She might be able to bargain his life.
Yeah, sure.
Once she had the money, he’d be getting a necktie to match Cesar’s.
“If I don’t agree?” he asked.
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Mister Hartline.” She gestured toward the main bay. “I’ll send you out to the floor with word that you won’t cut a deal. Then I’ll come back in here and have a mineral water as I polish a monthly report that goes to the Bureau of Prisons. I may squeeze in a workout on my elliptical and, by that time, my chief of guards will bring me one of the little pink notes I’m so familiar with. It will detail your tragic, and gruesome, death.”
Gage pressed his hands over his face and back through his still-damp hair. “That all sounds real tidy, but there’s one thing I don’t think you’re considering, capitana, and that’s the official state paperwork I was given. Regardless of what I have been paid, my person in the U.S. is going to get suspicious when I don’t call on time. We created a system—they will be expecting to hear from me.”
“Please, go on.”
“When my paperwork is shown to the U.S. State Department, they’ll split this place open like a cheap tin can to get me out. And with the U.S. holding those papers, you know what’ll happen if you let these animals kill me before I’m released. Your entire flow of money will come to a halt because you’ll have CNN, the BBC, and every other news organization crawling all over this place, not to mention the United States State Department. And then, when they crack the corruption—and, believe me, they will—it’ll be you who will be in prison, fending off the inmates who want to meet you for all sorts of reasons.”
“All true.”
Gage stared.
“If it were to play out as you said.”
Gage made no response.
“But it won’t.”
It was a struggle for Gage to make no response.
“Remember when I said there were two reasons your proposition was flawed?”
He arched his brows.
Capitana de la Mancha walked back around her desk and opened the center drawer. When she did, Gage noted the bluing of another handgun in a larger frame and caliber. Filing the desk gun to memory, he watched as she produced a rigid overnight envelope, marked by thin bills of lading dangling and crinkling as she waved it.
Holy shit.
“Mister Hartline, is this the paperwork you thought was filed in the U.S.?” She tossed the heavy envelope to him, the hanging bills of lading fluttering loudly as it spun.
Gage caught it, immediately ripping open the pull tab. Noting the shake of his hands, he tugged the sheaf of papers from the inside, studying his hand-written note on top, running his hand over the back of the paper as he felt the indentations from his own pen.
“Acusador Redon, wily little snake he is, had all outbound shipments tracked and this was pulled for him by someone at the shipping company.” She frowned. “He also knows you didn’t email or fax these papers because the dirty American on his payroll, some Air Force general, the same one who tracked your satellite phone conversation, used your own country’s imperialistic power to monitor all electronic transmissions outbound from Spain to the U.S. Of the millions of communications that occurred in the few days between the two countries, those documents were not part of them.”
“Sonofabitch,” Gage breathed.
“You’re in check, Mister Hartline, and you have only one move available.”
Lifting his eyes, Gage thought about his phone conversation with Colonel Hunter, and Justina’s knowledge that he was here. So, at the very least, two people knew he was here. He’d need to somehow get to his cell and call as soon as he could get a signal with the—
Breaking his train of thought was his compact satellite phone being wagged across the desk. She’d pulled it from the other pocket of her lab coat. “You’re recalling the people who you told you were coming here, and you’re thinking of calling them. But it’s going to be hard without this,” she teased, shaking the phone back and forth.
Staring down at his lap, Gage took steady breaths, allowing the situation, the wretched situation, to sink in. Justina, a Polish national who probably didn’t even have a visa, wouldn’t be able to create any pressure. And Colonel Hunter, despite his considerable pull, didn’t have a clue that Gage was in any distress. For all he knew, Gage was going into this situation long-term. Gage had promised to reach out when he could—but there was no timeframe.
The situation was perilous.
“It’s all quite simple, Mister Hartline. Acusador Redon already told Los Leones that you were advanced a million euro. Now, where is the money?”
Fists balled, head down, Gage ground his hands against the other.
“Hey!” she snapped, finally losing her cool. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He looked up. This time she asked it slowly, her painted lips readable even without the sound. “Gage—Hartline, where—is—the—money?”
“I’d have to make a phone call.”
“We’ll call for you.”
He rubbed his face. “Capitana, if I can produce that money, who is to say I won’t be killed upon its delivery?”
She shrugged. “There’s no guarantee.”
“So, why do it?”
“You want to live, don’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes, thinking the situation through. The call he mentioned was a call to Justina, of course. As soon as that call was made, he’d instantly endanger her along with himself. The vivid picture of Cesar’s bloody Colombian necktie burst forth in his mind, stark and chilling. Again he thought of Justina, waiting tables for Russian mobsters and now sitting alone in a cabin, loyally waiting on him to return.
A cold dagger of pain pierced him as he hearkened back to that rainy Frankfurt night when Monika was ripped from this earth.
He thought of Monika’s smile.
He remembered watching movies on her s
ofa, the two of them entwined as one.
And now she’s gone. Murdered.
Not again.
Not again.
De la Mancha said he had only one move—and she was correct. Gage licked his lips and swallowed a few times to wet his mouth. He shifted in the seat, joining eyes with Capitana de la Mancha. He shook his head once, resolutely, and made his reply loud and clear.
“No.”
She tilted her head. “Pardon?”
He repeated himself.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
Gage crossed his arms, setting his chin, making sure the corners of his mouth ticked upward. “No means no, in English, Spanish and Catalan. I can do it in German, French, Russian, Italian, Portuguese, and probably a few others, but I’d need some time to think on it.”
She straightened, the mirth of her face replaced by anger. “You stupid, macho bastard! Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you out in that bay?”
“No. I’m thinking about what they’ll do to you.”
“Idiot!” she snapped. “You hand over that money and pray they spare you.”
“Not happening.”
“There is no other answer here, Hartline, other than compliance!”
He smirked. “Look at you.”
“What?”
Gage nodded knowingly. “You’re scared.”
“They will torture you for that amount of money, Hartline. It will be worse than anything you could ever dream.”
“Tell them to have at it. I’ll die before I give up the money. That’s my guarantee.” He pointed at her, making his grin menacing. “Try me.”
There was a lengthy period of silence that made him feel better—for now—about the decision he’d made. When de la Mancha finally spoke, her tone was reasonable.
“I honestly don’t think they’ll kill you if you pay. Especially if you insist that you sent another copy of this paperwork by…say…courier. Los Leones may be savages, but they don’t want to make an enemy of the U.S.”
“You’re wrong,” Gage said. “They will kill me because they know, if they release me, I’m more dangerous to them than the U.S. is. The U.S. will play by the rules to avenge all of this—I won’t.”
A torrent of emotions flashed through her expressive face, ending with exasperation. “And what if I can broker some sort of deal?”
“Why do you care so much?” Gage asked, narrowing his eyes. “I know you’re getting a cut, but is there something more?”
“I’m scared, cabrón! I was vulnerable when I took this job and they took advantage of that. Every day of my life, I wonder if I, or my family, will be murdered due to some misstep I’ve made.” Her eyes welled with tears. “And if you don’t get them that money...”
She wept.
“So I was right?”
“You have to give up that money,” she mumbled, a tissue over her eyes.
Gage didn’t respond.
* * *
Monte Carlo, Monaco
The complimentary drink, a Bombay Sapphire gin with a splash of tonic and extra lime, was placed on the subtly-branded casino coaster next to Xavier’s right arm. It was daytime on the French Riviera and, despite his presence at the highest minimum Baccarat table, Xavier’s time there had already grown boring. He’d had his fill of fine meals and certainly enjoyed his romps with beautiful, store-bought women. He’d gambled away nearly a quarter-of-a-million euro but, especially without that little shit Garcia around, even such a loss wasn’t enough to get his blood moving.
Was this how life was going to be now that he’d toppled Navarro? Was it going to be a struggle to find something to get him off?
He already knew he could have damn near any woman he wanted. And killing didn’t do it anymore—oh, sure, the occasional murder was a useful tool, but Xavier wasn’t a savage.
Sonofabitch, he realized, the realization hitting him again…I’m done. There’s nothing left to conquer.
“Monsier?” the croupier asked, gesturing to Xavier’s cards. Xavier stared at a king and a 3 in this thousand-euro hand.
He nodded.
The bank was showing a jack and a four, meaning a third card was coming for the bank as well.
As the croupier went to the shoe, Xavier could feel his phone vibrating inside his jacket. He ignored it, glancing around the half-empty casino, pondering what to do next. Earlier in the day he’d briefly flirted with changing his yachting plans, thinking of crossing the Ligurian Sea to La Spezia, in Italy. He possessed a few arm’s length La Cosa Nostra contacts there and, on his last visit, had secretly bedded the local don’s seventeen-year-old daughter. Unquenchable and deliciously curious about the taboo, she’d clawed his chest upon his leaving, vowing to Xavier that he could take her anytime he pleased, even after her papa had pledged her hand.
“A good way to get killed,” Xavier whispered to himself, remembering Camilo and the lobster cracker. He glanced down to see a 3, a loser, as the croupier slid the stack of chips away. The phone buzzed again.
“Joder,” Xavier muttered, retrieving his phone with one hand as he waved his other hand over the table. Once he was beyond the red velvet rope, he glanced at the number, not immediately recognizing it.
“Yeah?”
“Señor, this is El Toro. I was told to call you directly.”
“Right,” Xavier said, using his curt “don’t waste my time” tone of voice with his underling. “I told him to have you call me. Speak.”
“Well, señor, it is an honor to finally talk with you after so long,” El Toro said with annoying and highly obsequious gravitas.
“Skip the dramatic salutations and just bring me up to speed. I’m quite busy.” Xavier winked at a bikini-clad woman who was passing by with her male companion, headed from the pool to the elevators.
“The son is gone, señor.”
“Then it’s done,” Xavier said with finality, his thumb preparing to end the call.
“Please, wait, señor, there’s one other thing.”
“Hurry,” Xavier snapped, focusing on the derriere of a lady who’d just taken a seat at his baccarat table.
“Señor, it’s the American, the most recent one who was brought in, the one who we took the signal from.”
“Yeah?”
“Señor, under advisement from my superior, we are to make him believe that we’re willing to cut a deal with him.”
“I heard about this. I want the warden to get the money.”
Xavier motioned to the croupier to play the hand without him and ascended the carpeted stairs, looking at the rear pool and the assemblage of hot-tubs arranged in a pattern. There were a number of oiled women sunning themselves and suddenly he didn’t feel quite as jaded with his vacation.
“Señor, should we trust her to handle this?”
“She knows what will happen if she screws up.”
“Yes, but I have never truly—”
“I already told Vasco this,” Xavier said, cutting him off. “Do it my way.”
“Of course, señor. It will be done. And it has been good to—”
Xavier clicked the phone off as El Toro was speaking. He headed back to his table, deciding that he would play another hand or two before donning his swim trunks and bathing in the sun.
The sight of the thong bikinis had gotten his blood moving.
Chapter Twenty
There had only been a brief gap of time since Gage had told Capitana de la Mancha that he would not make a call to retrieve the money. Since then, she’d done a poor job in remaining calm, crossing the room to a wet bar, running water in a tumbler and guzzling it so fast a stream ran down her neck and into her blouse, temporarily marking it with a dark stain. She must not have feared him rushing her because she showed him her back, muttering curses in Catalan.
While her attention was diverted, Gage flirted with the idea of diving for the other handgun, the one in her drawer. Unfortunately, there were too many holes in such a reckless plan and, even if it were load
ed and he could spirit it out without getting shot beforehand, how would he get away from Berga? Sure, he might be able to hold Capitana de la Mancha hostage long enough to get a news crew here to hear the truth, but getting from where he was to that point would be prohibitively difficult.
Added to that, he wasn’t in the U.S. anymore. While Spain is an advanced and cultured country, he had no idea how their news organizations worked—to them, he’d likely be just another crazed murderer spouting off on fanatical discourses about corruption in the Spanish justice system. Certainly Acusador Redon would arrive on the scene, calmly pronouncing Gage as a lunatic, showing manufactured evidence of his murdering a man in Africa (almost certainly at a time when Gage had no alibi,) condemning the United States and its elitist attitude, and saying this was one Yank that wasn’t going to get away.
C’mon, Gage. You’ll probably not get this audience again. This may be your only chance. What is her weakness?
As his mind raced, he eyed the phone on the table next to where he sat. A single unit, wafer-flat, it was probably chosen due to its inconspicuous profile. A wired phone, it was nothing more than a one-piece handset with a single switch hook button, gravity-aided when seated on a flat surface, and the keypad between the transmitter and the receiver. Gage eyed the outlet on the floor, sprouting with several plugs and cable jacks like one seen below a conference room table.
De la Mancha’s back was still turned.
After another moment, she stalked back to her desk, the pistol trained on him as she remained standing. “I walked away to see if you might make a move. Kudos to you for at least having some sense.”
An idea was coming to him.
De la Mancha tapped her telephone. “I don’t want to send you back out to the prison population. So, will you please stop fencing with me and get that damned money here?”
“I already gave you my answer.”
“Look, I promise to do all I can to protect you if you pick up that phone and get the money, now.”
“Just send me out to the main bay so we can all get on with it,” Gage replied.
Capitana de la Mancha, for the third time, sat behind her desk, collapsing into her chair. She placed the pistol on her blotter and rested her head in her hands. It was the picture of a person in distress. Gage could tell that she’d never have thought that he might turn the deal down. What sane person would, especially after seeing what those animals did to Cesar? And when he did decline the offer, she had no idea how to react.
To The Lions - 02 Page 25