To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  It was now exactly 9:00 A.M.

  Angelines lifted the phone, telling her guard that, after sending El Toro in, he should assemble all available guards in the main bay in full riot gear. She stared at the ceiling as she listened. “Because I said so!” she yelled back. “I’ve got good intel that something’s about to happen. Don’t say anything to El Toro, either. Just wait about thirty seconds and send him in. Then make the call. Got it?” She listened, giving Gage a tight smile. “Good.” She hung up.

  Gage immediately poured each soda bottle a quarter full with the drain cleaner. Moving as fast as he could manage, he capped them both, doing all he could not to shake the bottles as he placed them inside the overnight bag.

  This was the tedious part.

  Leaving the bag unzipped, he rushed across the office, placing the bag in one of the desk chairs.

  The clock now showed 9:02 A.M.

  C’mon, Salvador!

  After a moment, the door buzzed and El Toro strutted through. The guard, talking urgently on his radio, closed the door behind him. Then the outer door could be heard closing. Gage was standing to the right, near the window, behind the sofa. His hands were in front of the sofa’s back rest, the handcuffs around his wrists, appearing locked. Angelines was beside the back door, at the far end of the room.

  El Toro swaggered across the floor, evil-eyeing Gage and stopping fifteen feet from the bag where his money supposedly sat.

  He wasn’t close enough.

  Gage had capped the bottles just a few moments before. The seconds ticked in his mind…13, 14, 15…

  El Toro reached behind his back, producing Angelines’ .44 AutoMag, distinctive due to its long vent-rib barrel. He aimed it at Gage’s head, point-blank range.

  “I have your money,” Gage said.

  “I asked Viejes about visitors,” El Toro replied, saying the words toward Angelines. “And I was told there weren’t any, other than that skinny shit Semental.”

  “La capitana got the money from my friend on her way in,” Gage said, hitching his head at Angelines.

  Lowering the pistol a fraction, El Toro’s animal eyes flicked across the room. “You didn’t tell me nothin’ ‘bout no off-site meeting, bitch.”

  “I-I-I didn’t know about it yesterday,” she stammered.

  Get it together, Angelines!...32, 33, 34…

  “Mmm-hmm,” El Toro mused. “Bet you went back to the aposento last night and let this marieta do you, didn’t you.” He turned to Gage.

  “Què diu el meu gust xufa agrada?”

  Knowing it was an insult but having no time for Catalan translations, Gage spoke Spanish as he said, “Can you just take your money so I can leave here? I don’t want any more trouble from you and your friends.”

  “I don’t want any more trouble,” El Toro mocked in a feigned little girl voice. He narrowed his eyes. “Where’s the money?”

  ...50, 51, 52…

  Please let Salvador’s bombs explode first!

  Again Gage hitched his head, this time to the coral-colored bag on the guest chair. “As you’ll see inside that bag, the money is in small, unmarked bills.”

  As if his street-smarts sensed that something was wrong, El Toro stood motionless. Only his eyes moved to the bag. He sucked on his teeth, curling his lip to show a flash of gold. “Get the bag for me.”

  Taking care to keep the loose handcuffs pressed against his body (so they wouldn’t clatter to the floor) Gage started to move.

  The pistol came straight up as El Toro said, “Not you, marieta.” The pistol traversed to Angelines. “You.”

  …58, 59, 60!

  Gage could see Angelines trying to stifle her panic. “Sancho,” she protested meekly. “I was standing back here by the door in case you were, well…in case you were going to do something to our prisoner.”

  “Oh, I’m going to do something to him if my money is not in that bag.” He twisted the pistol, holding his aim on her as he screamed, “Now get the damned bag, bitch!” Spittle flew from his mouth, a thin line of saliva hanging from his snarling lower lip as he stood there huffing.

  Gage turned to Angelines as he worked the conundrum in his mind. The aluminum chips were thicker than anything Gage had ever worked with. In fact, he’d been trained with standard aluminum foil, only a fraction of the thickness of the refrigerator’s soft aluminum. How long?

  He nodded at Angelines.

  …72, 73, 74…

  Though her first step showed hesitation, she got herself moving, coming up behind her desk, around it, and confidently grasping the overnight bag. Gage held his breath as she gave the bag a few good shakes, then slung it at El Toro.

  Good girl!

  The bag thudded at the prisoner’s feet.

  * * *

  In the main bay, as the prisoners were trudging back to their cells, the guards were huddled in the center, grumping that there appeared to be no sign of a riot whatsoever.

  “This has got to be another of that stupid bitch’s drills,” one of the guards said.

  “Yeah, but did you see who she summoned right before?”

  “Who?”

  “El Toro. Maybe she sent us out here so we wouldn’t hear her moaning.”

  “I dunno. Rumor is he forces himself on her. Something about Los Leones killing her son if she doesn’t cooperate.”

  “Man, I bet that’s some good stuff. Got an ass that won’t quit!”

  “El Toro better not hear you talking about his ass like that.”

  Laughter all around, followed by more bitching.

  As the group of guards chuckled, three explosions rocked the building from the second terrace, followed by large clouds of acrid white smoke.

  “Holy shit!” the lead guard said, lowering his riot mask.

  Chaos reigned as the guards thundered as one unit to the second floor.

  Fights broke out.

  Burning toilet paper descended like confetti.

  To a man, every prisoner yelled and screamed and raised general hell.

  Salvador the Semental had come through.

  * * *

  Back in the office, just after the bag had landed at El Toro’s feet, a thud in the direction of the main bay made everyone turn. It was followed by another. And another.

  Then the phone rang.

  …80, 81, 82…

  “The hell was all that?” El Toro yelled.

  “There’s construction on the new roof,” Angelines said dismissively.

  As the phone continued to ring, El Toro turned his eyes back to the bag at his feet. Despite his rage from a moment before, the toss of the bag clearly surprised the man who was used to having his way with the prison’s captain. Then, as his mind came back to the impudence she’d shown, he adjusted the pistol on Angelines and said, “Who the hell do you think you—”

  BOOM!

  Despite the office’s cavernous size, the explosion was cataclysmic inside its enclosed walls.

  Of course, creating a hydrogen bottle bomb from aluminum mixed with a potassium hydroxide-based drain cleaner was an imperfect science. The drain cleaner was the first variable. Gage had no way of knowing its makeup other than the active ingredient that had been printed on the bottle. He’d assumed, since it was a commercial brand, that it might have had a higher concentration of potassium hydroxide than something a person could buy off the shelf—and perhaps it did.

  The second major variable was the aluminum. What was its purity? He’d trained with aluminum foil—would the density of the aluminum change the reaction time? Had he made the chips too large? Too small?

  And the third was the bottles. How thick were they? And did he mix in enough of the drain cleaner for the amount of aluminum he’d used? Also, did the amount of oxygen count? Here in Berga, if Gage remembered correctly, the altitude was around 2,400 feet. He’d done his bomb training just above sea level.

  All things considered, with the numerous variables in play, it had taken about twenty-five seconds longer than Gage
had expected. But, in the end, the desired result was the same.

  Thankfully.

  One thing Gage did know, however, since the explosions were created from only pressurized plastic, followed by a reaction with the highly-oxygenated air, they would likely not be fatal, even to a person standing at ground zero. And especially a healthy, well-built human being like El Toro. But, as Gage also knew, even a single bottle’s explosion had concussive effects—double with two bottles.

  Instinctively, Gage had dropped behind the sofa during the explosions, avoiding most of the collateral residue. Ears ringing, he lurched a second later, finding El Toro writhing on the floor ten feet from where he’d stood. The chemically-charged smoke burned Gage’s eyes. After a few seconds of searching, and despite the stinging, he found the AutoMag.

  In one fluid movement he checked the handgun’s operational status, finding it locked and loaded. Gage aimed it at the squirming El Toro, his hands clawing his eyes as he alternated between yelps and moans. Using the three-and-a-half pound pistol like a hammer, Gage brought it down on top of El Toro’s head. Twice.

  El Toro was knocked unconscious.

  “Make the call!” Gage yelled to Angelines, satisfied when he heard her radio Viejes, her personal guard that was usually stationed in her outer office. Though Gage’s ears were ringing, he could hear Viejes reporting the riot situation. Angelines told him to disentangle himself and come to her office, ASAP.

  Gage touched the “A” alarm on the keypad. He situated Angelines before taking up a blind spot to the side of the main door. Then, pistol ready, he waited.

  Concentrate.

  “Don’t kill him, Hartline,” Angelines said. “Viejes is a decent man.”

  Concentrate.

  He’s going to see the broken door, and probably some of the smoke. He’s going to come in heavy.

  But don’t kill him.

  Gage wiped his palms, one at a time, on his shirt.

  Finally, the partially ruptured door was yanked open and, with no effort at being tactical, the big guard from outside clamored through, his pistol straight out in front of him.

  Though he didn’t think about it as he aimed and squeezed, Gage had aimed at Nicky Arnaud in the same manner a year-and-a-half before. The large bullet from the AutoMag impacted the guard’s Sig Sauer just forward of the rear sight. Gage couldn’t imagine the pain of the tightly held pistol being yanked from a person’s hands with such force. He did get treated to a good visual, however, as the guard was thrown as if he’d been clinging to a ski rope attached to an accelerating boat. He went down in a heap, howling and rolling, clutching his broken hands to his large belly.

  Gage lurched and, like before, brought the butt of the pistol smashing down on the side of the guard’s head, silencing him. Gage’s shocked eardrums had recovered enough so that he heard the klaxon alarm from the pressed “A” button.

  Standing and turning, he witnessed Angelines running to him from the rear of the office. Her eyes were rheumy, her face was wet, and she was marked by a small cut on her forehead. She opened her hands, as if wanting instruction.

  “Make the next call!”

  Angelines lifted the radio and asked for a status report. After listening, she told her guards to make sure all prisoners were secure—every last one—and to get a headcount. She also insisted that the riot not be reported outside of the prison walls.

  “This is our problem! We will handle it in-house.” Angelines shoved the radio into her waist band and looked at Gage. “We’ve got about five minutes.”

  Gage struck the still unconscious El Toro again, seeing him twitch as a result. Then Gage dragged the guard to the bathroom, stripping him and zip-tying his hands and feet, shutting him inside the toilet room. Three minutes had passed before he arrived back in the office to find El Toro awake on the floor, Angelines standing behind him.

  She’d zip-tied his hands and feet. El Toro writhed, staring at Gage as he yelled, “You’re a dead man!”

  Gage produced the needle nose pliers from his cargo pocket and rolled El Toro to his stomach. Sitting on El Toro’s bound arms, Gage grasped El Toro’s hand, burrowing the needle nose pliers underneath his left middle finger’s nail.

  El Toro’s shrieks rose above the blaring klaxon alarm.

  Twisting the pliers, Gage denailed El Toro’s finger while struggling to hold him in place.

  “What was your plan?” Gage asked, leaning down to his ear. “Tell me now or all nine of your nasty fingernails are coming out.”

  “No!”

  “Tell me!”

  “I was just going to get your money,” El Toro grunted. “I was going to get it and let you go.”

  Taking all of ten seconds, Gage removed the left thumbnail next, estimating that it took twice as much twisting force. There was considerably more blood with the thumbnail.

  “Ayeeee!”

  “The plan?”

  “Okay…okay…once I had the money, I woulda killed you,” El Toro sobbed. “That was the plan.”

  “Who was the money for?”

  “For Xavier,” El Toro said, sounding surprised that Gage didn’t already know.

  “Xavier’s the head of Los Leones,” Angelines added. “Hurry, Gage!”

  From all Angelines had said, and from his own research, Gage certainly knew about Xavier Zambrano. “And is Xavier nearby, waiting on the money?”

  “I don’t know!” El Toro shrieked.

  Believing there was nothing else to be gained from this thug, Gage slid the pliers into his back pocket. He grabbed Angelines’ shoulders, leaning close to her ear. “I know you wanted to kill him, but if we do that, it changes our status in the eyes of the authorities.”

  Her eyes blazed. “And what about Los Leones?”

  “They want us dead anyway.”

  Angelines took the pliers from Gage’s pocket. She yanked El Toro’s light prison pants down. And, to Gage’s shock, and satisfaction, she wrecked both of El Toro’s testicles.

  Before they departed, Angelines spit on the sobbing El Toro. And kicked him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Barcelona, Spain

  Cortez Redon’s office was located in a pleasant yet nondescript building on the Carrer de Pau Claris. The one-way street, lined with flowering Jacaranda trees, was dominated by apartments and office space over the street-level retail establishments. Hundreds of scooters and bicycles littered the available areas of the sidewalk, though no automobiles were permitted to be parked on the busy thoroughfare. This would work in Justina and Señora Moreno’s favor.

  Justina was now driving, circling the block as Señora Moreno settled into a street-facing chair in a modern café one block south of Redon’s office. She consulted her notepad, memorizing the key points she’d been told by her own attorney. Finally, when she was confident she knew what she wanted to say, she dialed Redon’s office number, touching her rosary and whispering a one-sentence prayer that he would be in today. The woman answering the phone sounded young.

  “Hello,” Señora Moreno said. “Acusador Redon, please.”

  “He’s in a meeting. May I take a message?”

  “No message, dear. Please interrupt his meeting and tell him I’d like to speak with him about Ernesto Navarro.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said with unconcealed irritation. “He is in a meeting. I can take a message.”

  “How long will his meeting last?”

  “A while. And he has more meetings immediately afterward.”

  “Then you must go tell him something for me, dear. I promise you, he will be upset if you don’t.”

  The young woman’s voice was even and deliberate. “Like I said, I can take a message.”

  “Understand this: my reason for calling is an emergencia for the acusador. Interrupt his meeting and watch his eyes when you give him my brief message.”

  There was a brief pause and an outbreath. “What message do you want me to give him?”

  “Please pull him asi
de so it’s private—no one should hear this but him. Tell him I’m in possession of a large amount of Ernesto Navarro’s wealth and, now that he’s dead, I need to speak to Cortez about what to do with the money.”

  “Ernesto Navarro, the dead gangster they talked about on the news?”

  “He was a businessman, too, dear.”

  The assistant sounded unimpressed but seemed to jot it down because she read it back to Señora Moreno, word for word.

  “That’s correct, dear. Please go tell him.”

  As she waited for Acusador Redon, Justina approached in the Volvo and Señora Moreno nodded and pointed to the sidewalk. She watched as Justina pulled the car all the way up onto the walkway, between two trees, in an area forbidden to vehicles of any type. Just as she’d been instructed, Justina exited and depressed the air valve on the back rear tire. A man on the sidewalk stopped and Señora Moreno watched as Justina shook her head and waved him on. Then, just as they’d planned, Justina dragged the scissor jack and assorted tools from the trunk, scattering them haphazardly around the flat tire. The stage was set and, just in time, Acusador Redon came on the line, sounding quite breathless.

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Is this Acusador Redon?” Señora Moreno asked in her professional voice.

  “Of course it is. Now who are you?”

  “I’m not willing to reveal my identity, yet.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, what’s all this nonsense about supposed money belonging to Ernesto Navarro?”

  “He rented a large mountain chalet from me, Cortez…may I call you Cortez?” When he didn’t respond she continued. “He rented it through a shell company for years and would come and go at the oddest times, only with his assistant. I knew who he was, of course, from the news, but never reported it since he paid handsomely in cashier’s checks, regular as clockwork.”

  Redon could be heard groaning before he spoke in an admonishing tone, saying, “So, he was your renter? That’s why you called me?”