“Have you anything to say?” the guard asked.
“Just trying to sleep,” Gage said, making his voice slack in a poor acting job.
“Good, good,” the guard said. “My friend, El Toro, told me to tell you to sleep well, important man. He said you will have something for him tomorrow morning by nine. And nine will come soon. So, roll over now, puta, and go back to sleep.”
Gage stared at the man.
“Roll over,” the guard said, an edge in his voice.
Reluctantly, Gage rolled over. The guard’s feet scraped once, making Gage hope he was taking his leave.
And please, mister, don’t look at that wall outlet because I—
His thoughts were cut short by the brief slicing of air. And, in that fraction of a second, Gage’s experienced ears knew exactly what was coming. The sound was made by the baton. The ripping air was loud enough, and of enough duration, that Gage knew the guard had taken a mighty swat, not unlike a clean-up hitter swinging for the fences. Still, in that tedious fraction of a second, Gage ruefully wondered where the guard was aiming. If it was a head strike, it might be fatal. A body blow would certainly break ribs. He thought about the wounds on his back and shoulder, knowing such a blow would rip them—
The baton thudded home, making Gage growl in pain.
But he remained mostly still.
Let it burn, Gage. Let it burn. Take it as further tax for this foolhardy job you accepted.
Footsteps shuffling idly away, and whistling, followed by, “Sleep well, princess.” The door slammed, the bolt shot, and Gage was left with a searing kidney.
And relief.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A lake breeze whispered through the evergreens, bringing with it the smells of the lake’s sulfury water mingled with the fragrant scent of the hillside Aleppo pines. Crickets chirped at a near-deafening volume but, at the same time, the sound didn’t seem too loud or out of place. It was the chorus of summertime in the country.
Justina was quite full, having enjoyed a sumptuous meal of salad, shrimp, fresh vegetables, and rice, at Señora Moreno’s cozy home. Señora Moreno had sautéed nearly everything in heavy enamel cookware. The food had been liberally spiced and, though the extreme amount of spices Justina had seen go into the dishes worried her, the dinner wound up being delicious. In fact, though they’d spent nearly every evening together, it was Señora Moreno’s finest culinary creation to date.
And that was saying something.
Justina’s cabin was only a kilometer from Señora Moreno’s. Oh, how good would a cigarette taste right now, she thought, her feet scraping along the gravel road. No. I told him I would quit. I haven’t broken down once. Each day without a cigarette is a victory. To yield now would only invite the habit back.
She recalled her final night with Gage, and the way he’d squeezed her so tightly. She’d hardly been able to breathe but, at the same time, it had been heaven. The mere thought of Gage’s pleasant presence provided a stab of melancholy to Justina’s stroll, making her realize how intense her short time with him had been. She touched her stomach through her thin top, remembering his powerful hands, marked by their rough skin, and how he would hold her to him as he slept, their bodies entwined but providing complete comfort for slumber.
Tears arrived like uninvited guests. She wiped her face, glumly kicking at stones, coming around the bend to see the sparse indoor lights of her cabin ahead. She’d forgotten to leave the porch light on. Moments later, when she arrived on the darkened porch, she briefly wished she’d not left the comfy confines of Señora Moreno’s home. For the past two hours they’d done nothing but talk. They talked about life. About their families. And after hearing much more about Señora Moreno’s late daughter, they talked about Gage. And talking about it, in someone else’s presence, had made Justina feel almost as if Gage had been there, living the story with her.
But now, all that awaited her was the cold loneliness of the cabin. The quiet bed. The lifeless kitchen. She thought back to her life in Lloret, living in a filthy bay with a host of other women. But even there, though she’d hated it at the time, at least she’d had companionship, grating as it often was.
“Be inside, Gage,” she whispered, pushing the glinting silver key into the lock. “Surprise me and be inside, ready to hug me and shower me with kisses.”
A turn of the key.
A click of the knob.
The smells of her new life.
She’d left a few lights on in the bedroom, casting amber light into the sitting room.
The cabin was deathly silent.
Justina was all alone.
Surprising even herself, she screamed out his name.
* * *
Gage did ultimately vomit, twice, turning on the lamp to inspect the vomitus for blood. Though he didn’t want to, he made himself urinate, wincing from the pain. Again, no blood. He knew, however, that a kidney strike like the one he’d taken could take hours, or days even, to show itself in the form of an infection.
Again playing for the cameras, Gage staggered back to his bed, imagining the guard watching him on closed circuit, laughing with his buddies. Fat little prick. Gage pulled the blanket up and switched off the lamp. He waited five minutes before painfully creeping back to the outlet, phone in hand, back to the strip of light.
This time, despite the biting of stiff copper wires into his flesh, he twisted each one tightly, checking to make sure all were secure enough to remain fast in a tug. Lifting the telephone, Gage tapped the switch hook three times and held the phone to his ear.
Dial tone!
After murmuring a litany of thanks, Gage squeezed his eyes shut, recalling the numbers to the prepaid wireless phone he and Justina purchased on his last full day. A few numbers into the dialing sequence he heard something that sounded like a fast busy signal. Slow down, Gage. He hung up then pressed nine, listening as the dial tone blipped before it went back to normal. He dialed the number again, waiting…waiting, finally hearing a low, steady buzz that represented the Spanish phone line’s connection. After two rings he smacked the floor when an automated message answered, telling him in computer-generated español that the number he’d dialed was long distance and could he please try the number again. He did, hoping the prison’s phone system would accept the long distance call. It didn’t, and this time he received a different message.
Thankful that he’d memorized the toll-free access number, he dialed it followed by his calling card number. Gage listened, punching his leg when the nice woman informed him that he had only two minutes remaining and asked if he would he like to purchase more time.
No! No! No! That’s why you never wait to recharge your calling card, Gage. Damn it!
Gage had memorized a host of numbers, but he’d never memorized the damned number to his own low-limit Visa card and now here he was, with two measly minutes to get his point across.
He pressed “1” to put the call through, listening to the ringing, listening…listening…voice mail. “Are you frigging kidding me?” he mouthed. He repeated the process again, getting voice mail after going through the maddening series of numbers. A third time, same result.
His lower back throbbing, his mouth parched, Gage stood in the dark room, wanting to yell. Instead, he stretched. Stretched his neck. Stretched his back—pain. Put each hand, one at a time, between his shoulder blades and tugged on his elbows to give his triceps a good stretch. Stretched his quads and, leaning against the wall, his calves. Feeling about one percent better, he squatted to his makeshift phone, almost laughing at the impotency of having a phone in jail but no way to use it.
For the third time he dialed the numbers, fighting the urge to break something when the operator told him he had only one minute remaining. He’d burned up the other minute listening, each time, to the blasted voice mail message.
Shit.
Hoping the AT&T computer kept track of minute fractions he stabbed the number “1,” steadying himself as he prepar
ed for the voice mail.
But this time, to his gleeful surprise, a groggy Justina answered.
Gage spoke at machine-gun pace. “Justina, listen to me and don’t talk. We have one-minute, and that’s it. First, no matter what happens, don’t call this number. Don’t call it and don’t speak to anyone other than who I tell you to, okay?”
“Gage, what in the world are you—”
“Justina!” he barked. “I’m sorry to be short but there’s no time. Listen, the man in the government—Acusador Redon, from Barcelona—double-crossed me. I need you to go to the American Consulate General there and tell them everything, Justina. Tell them everything you know and tell them I’m being held ransom here, okay? Tell them to call Colonel Hunter, too.”
“What? You mean you’re not coming home in the next few—”
“Just tell me what I said!”
“Acusador Redon in Barcelona double-crossed you. Go to the American Consulate and tell them everything. Call Colonel Hunter, too.”
“Leave now. Get rid of this phone, too, because I don’t want anyone tracking you. Leave now and find someplace safe and hole up until morning, but get away from that cabin and go tomorrow, as quickly as you can.”
“Okay, Gage,” she answered, voice trembling.
“Also, Justina, make sure you leave the remaining money in the cabin with one of my pistols. Take a little to Barcelona, just what you need, but—”
The line clicked, followed by the friendly AT&T computer operator informing Gage that, if he wanted to continue, he would need to pay the piper.
Flattening himself on the cold concrete floor, Gage lay there, staring up into the darkness. Then, futilely, he tried to make a collect call to Justina. The operator, a nice enough lady, came back and gently told him that doing such a thing wasn’t possible to a prepaid cellular and the phone he was trying to call was definitely a prepaid cellular.
It was all Gage could do not to yell.
Justina is smart. She’ll do her part.
After calming himself, he repeated the process, informing another operator that he’d like to make a collect call to the United States, to Colonel Hunter. To Gage’s surprise, the operator put the call through. Gage listened to the ringing and to the brief conversation as Hunter accepted the charges. When the operator clicked off, Hunter became immediately terse, the way he always did when during periods of high stress.
“Where are you?”
“Still in Berga, sir. I’ve been double-crossed.”
“No shit. I never got your paperwork and then I started getting pieces of intel from all the hooks I’d put in the water.”
“Listen, sir, I’m on an unsecure line that could be compromised any second. I need you to get me out or I’m going to have to do something drastic that probably won’t end well.”
“That’s the problem, son. I’ve been trying for a full week to get you out. No one’ll do a damned thing to help.”
The room suddenly became cold. “Explain that, sir.”
“When I didn’t get your paperwork, I called my guy there, the one who gave me the intel on that lawyer, Redon. My guy confirmed you got sent up to Berga. He did some digging and couldn’t find shit about you being undercover.”
“Wouldn’t that kind of thing be compartmentalized?” Gage asked, more hopeful than confident.
“It would, but he knows the lady who heads up their Audiencia Nacional. She pulled every scrap on you. There was nothing but papers showing you as a normal murderer. Then she pulled all the undercovers in Spanish prisons, even the ones that had just been filed. Nothing there either.” Hunter cleared his throat. “We didn’t connect you to Redon, with her, however. I was concerned that, if the wrong people got wind of it, doing that might get you killed. Since then, my guy there has called in every marker he’s owed and no one has near enough juice to even get your case reviewed.”
“So everything Redon said was lip service.”
“There’s more.”
“Navarro,” Gage said flatly.
“You know what happened?”
“I do. And yesterday I watched the local gang here give the son a Colombian necktie.”
“Have they connected you with him?”
“Oh, yeah. They want the money I was paid or they’re going to kill me, too. For the moment, that cash is all that’s keeping me alive.” Gage let that sink in. “But I know as soon as I hand over the money, they’re going to kill me, regardless.”
“Sounds bleak. I think I’d better call in a marker with my senator friend.”
“There’s no time,” Gage said. “That’ll take days and I don’t have days.”
“Are you suggesting a bust-out?”
“That’s my only prayer.”
“Finding operators willing to do that, in hours and not days, is probably impossible and, if not, would take more money than either of us ever dreamed.”
“I’m working on a plan,” Gage said, massaging his tired eyes. “There’s a bent-screw here.”
“Guard?”
“The warden.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, sir. She’s been coerced by this gang, Los Leones, for years. Got in bed with them. Took their money. I think I’ve managed to convince her that she’ll wind up dead if she hangs around.”
“Will she help?”
“We’re going to find out soon.”
“How soon?”
Gage told him about El Toro’s deadline.
“You’re in a damned two-out-pickle, ain’t you? What can I do?”
“For now, not much. Just keep the phone on you.”
“I’m sorry about all this, son. As soon as I heard who the originator was, I shoulda hung up the damned phone.”
“I’m the dumbass who took the job.”
“Give me an update ASAP.”
“There’s one other thing, sir.”
“What’s that?”
“I had a satellite phone. Someone traced it. And Navarro swore it wasn’t anyone in the Spanish government.”
“When was this?”
“Two days ago. That’s what burned Navarro. Someone had to have major pull to track that signal, sir.”
“I’ll look into it.”
After hanging up, Gage remained on the cold concrete floor, despondent. His kidney felt like a swollen grapefruit, the area around it radiating heat. Finally he stood, stretching as best as he could manage.
Think.
So many questions came to him. Surely Redon couldn’t have faked trial paperwork. And what about the man he was accused of murdering in Melilla? An investigation would expose the fallacies in all of this.
You’re forgetting something, Gage. All this stuff is true, but unless you can figure it all out before your nine A.M. meeting with El Toro, worrying over it’s like pissing in the wind.
He’d have to trust that Justina would come through. Rather than waste time feeling sorry for himself, he decided to get to work. First, he disconnected the phone, reaffixing the wall plate but leaving the screws a tad loose, just in case. He hid the phone in the cushions of the sofa before going to the small refrigerator. After unplugging it, he carried it to the scant light by the door.
The back was covered in a template-cut sheet of soft, bendable aluminum. Behind that aluminum was the coil, loaded with refrigerant.
Useful items.
* * *
Monte Carlo, Monaco
It was past two in the morning when Xavier got the call. He was on the launch, nearing his yacht, planning to take an overnight night cruise to Italy. Tomorrow he would romance the don’s daughter, hoping the illicit liaison would get his blood moving.
The water, roiled by a passing storm, was choppy, making the launch’s ride loud and rough. The sky was now clear, the flower moon casting the water in purple light. Xavier pressed his phone against his head with his finger in his other ear, barely able to hear his persnickety financial man, Theo Garcia. Xavier told Theo to wait as they reached the y
acht, the pilot taking a line from the captain and sidling to the deck at the stern.
“Good evening,” the sleep-frosted Greek captain mumbled to Xavier once he’d climbed aboard. The captain was wearing his bathrobe topped by his crooked hat.
“Keep everything quiet,” Xavier commanded, stepping into the saloon.
“Speak, Theo.”
“We have no money at all,” Theo said, his tone accusatory.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been telling you for weeks. Our spending is outpacing our income. When I paid off the parties involved in the satellite phone, and then you went and blew nearly a half-million dollars in Monaco, money that the casino took straight from the bank, and put a huge yacht rental on your bank line of credit, it stripped away all of our cash and strained what remaining credit we do have. All I’m doing now is fending off bankers.”
“What about cash from Los Soldados?” Xavier asked, massaging the bridge of his nose. “That’s surely coming in now.”
“No, it’s not,” Theo replied, raising his voice. “That could take weeks…months, even. Your lieutenants are pushing, but they’re being pushed back. We’ve got wars in the streets trying to take over their operations while you’re off playing baccarat!”
“My Leones are capable, you little shit. They’ll handle it.”
“We don’t have time. We need cash now.”
“Well, what about Navarro’s cash reserves? Have you found them?”
“I’ve been through everything,” Theo snapped. “And I’ve got accountants combing the records we’ve found. We’re finding nothing. It was probably all in his brain and your moronic Leones killed him before getting the information.”
“Impossible. Surely there are records of where his money is.”
“It’s not impossible, it’s brilliant. And our organization is a huge mouth to feed. For months we’ve been struggling along, taking in money as fast as we can spend it. Now we’re dry and, until we collect from the people who owe us, we have no cash.”
Several notions struck Xavier at the same time. “Theo, what if I produce a million euro, in cash? Would that get us by?”
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