To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  Thirty-two minutes until the dogs are here…let’s be pessimistic and call it twenty.

  Using the pair of scissors from the first aid kit, Gage pulled the rear seatbelt out as far as he could get it, slicing it from both ends. He hurried back to Angelines, taking the cloth from her and cutting it in two, wadding it into two pieces.

  “Hold these directly on top of each wound.” He wound the seatbelt around her leg, threading it through the bar on the buckle to create tension. He eyed her. “You ready?”

  She nodded.

  He yanked.

  She gritted her teeth, wincing fiercely.

  Gage tugged on the pressure dressing, probing around it with his fingers. Satisfied, he pointed to her wrist, where she wore a fashionable runner’s watch. “Give me that watch.” He pressed a few buttons, finding the stopwatch feature, starting it.

  “The police will be here soon. I know you’re in pain, but I also know you’re a dedicated runner. Look at me!” he said, lifting her chin, grasping both of her hands. “Capitana…Angelines…this is what you’ve done all that running for. If you want to see your son, give him the life you talked about, then we have to haul some serious ass, okay? They’re going to bring dogs in here and we can forget all that bullshit about going through streams. We need to create distance. Do you understand?”

  Swallowing a few times, she nodded. He helped her to her feet. She pushed his hands away, testing her leg. Though she winced, she gave him a double thumbs-up.

  “Head that way,” he said, pointing north. When she did, he went back to the car to find her mobile phone. Unfortunately, it had been clipped by one of the bullets and lay in pieces in the passenger seat.

  Running, Gage caught up to Angelines. As they negotiated a thicket of briars, she asked where they were going.

  “We’re going to get the money.”

  “Then what?”

  Gage jerked her through the last section of briars and pushed her out in front. “Hopefully the consulate is working in our favor by now. Otherwise, I’ve got no frigging idea. Just keep moving and we’ll figure it out when we get there.”

  All things considered, they made good time.

  * * *

  Gage’s time estimate was remarkably accurate. Though the police chopper was actually a civilian helicopter, used only during rare emergencies, it was under the directive of the Policía de Manresa and, just as he’d hoped, they landed just outside the gates of the prison as they listened to the briefing from the shaken guards at Berga.

  Six policemen were marshaled in a small circle near the inner gate that Angelines had barreled through. No one questioned the head guard, a man named Pilopes, as he detailed a story that involved an American prisoner armed with a homemade bomb who managed to disarm several guards and gain access to a firearm.

  “Injuries?” the senior policeman, a detective from Manresa, asked.

  “Yes, several, one of them being a prisoner with smashed testicles.”

  That drew a host of raised eyebrows.

  When they’d first arrived, Pilopes had briefed the policemen on the situation, telling them that they suspected the American prisoner had taken their captain hostage, and that she was under duress as she’d driven the escape.

  “About the captain,” the senior man said, clearly puzzled. “How did she get her car all the way inside?”

  Pilopes nodded, a mirthless smile coming over his face. “This is exactly why I always warned her against such a thing. She insisted her car be allowed inside, for many years, so she wouldn’t have to walk from the parking area. She is a prima donna.”

  The senior policeman eyed the guard towers. “You were shooting from that tower?” he asked, pointing to the one near the busted outer gate.

  “Sí, jefe, our guard was.”

  “Even though your captain was in the car and you felt she was being held hostage?”

  There was a pause as the guards looked at one another. Finally, Pilopes said, “We were shooting at the tires.”

  “Did you hit any of them?”

  “Sí. One tire that we know of.”

  “Do you have the security video of them leaving?”

  Pilopes shook his head. “The bomb damaged our servers which are just outside of the captain’s office. The video may be intact but it will be some time before we know.”

  “Fine, then.” The senior man turned to the police. “Until we gain benefit from the Mossos d’Esquadra, which could be another hour, I want both cars to head north while we go by air. If we can spot their car, we’ll direct you from our view.” He pointed to a truck that had stopped outside the fence. “That’s Manuel and his dogs. In case the American has bailed out—and it’s quite possible since the tire was allegedly shot—you make sure his truck stays with you.”

  There were only a few questions, which the detective answered as they walked to their respective vehicles. He stopped them as he motioned the pilot to rev up the chopper.

  “If you see the American and can get a clean shot, kill him.”

  Chopper lifting off, the Catalonian posse set out after an American murderer supposedly named Gregory Harris.

  * * *

  Following his sense of direction and the topography, Gage had plowed straight north to the Baells Reservoir. Though he’d felt inclined to offer Angelines assistance, he made the decision to let fear be her motivator. So, instead of constantly waiting on her, he pressed forward, making her push beyond the boundaries of her pain tolerance.

  They arrived at Señora Moreno’s lakeside empire nearly a kilometer west of Justina’s cabin. Rather than take the gravel road that led around the lake, Gage followed the road from a distance of a hundred meters, finally stopping when the cabin was in sight. Angelines soon moved beside him, sucking great quantities of air and gently massaging her leg above the pressure dressing.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked, happy to see that her nose had stopped bleeding.

  “It hurts like hell,” she snapped.

  “Well…you’re still alive. That’s the cabin where the money is,” he said, pointing.

  “Is that her car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can we take it?”

  “Let me think about that,” he said, peering into the sky through breaks in the trees.

  “Or why don’t we just get the money, then do something to throw off our scent? Then we could break into one of the other cabins and wait out the search.”

  “No way,” he said. “That wouldn’t work. They’d have us inside of an…shhh!” he suddenly hissed, raising his hand.

  The sound was growing, alternating through the high pines. It was the familiar whomp-whomp-whomp thudding of a helicopter’s blades beating the air.

  “They found the car. Damn! Come on,” he said, crossing the gravel road without reluctance. Gage stepped up the two wooden steps and, hardly slowing, planted his guard’s boot on the doorknob, shattering the doorframe as the door thudded inward.

  Gage stepped inside, finding a note sitting on top of a sealed cardboard box. As he lifted the note, he heard Angelines let out a scream.

  Gage turned, finding an aged man brandishing what looked like an awful lot like an old M14, aimed squarely at his face. Behind the man stood another man, aiming a beautiful side-by-side shotgun at Angelines.

  “Qui diables és vostè?” the man with the rifle growled at Gage. It meant, “Who the devil are you?”

  * * *

  The hotel room was consistent with the Martel chain. Clean and modern, with lots of chrome and angles, it held the faint smell of detergent, probably from the linens. Justina felt repulsed by the little man’s rancid coffee breath and obnoxious roaming fingers. At the front desk, as the clerk’s eyes were diverted while he prepared the electronic key, Redon had clasped Justina’s breast before leading her hand down to his own inadequate rigidity. It had been all she could do to force a smile.

  Now, finally in the room, despite the heavy thump of her heart, Justina knew her action
s had to be perfect. Tolerating one more kiss as he fumbled with the zipper on her tight skirt, she finally disentangled herself from his hands and, stepping backward, told him to get undressed.

  “Where are you going?” he panted.

  “I’ve got to do one little thing in the restroom. When I come out, the fun begins,” she said, feigning ecstasy as she watched him kick off his wee loafers while his hands quickly unbuttoned his shirt.

  Justina stepped into the restroom and pushed the door shut, pulling out her mobile phone. Señora Moreno had texted her several times. Her first message was one of triumph, informing Justina that Redon had bought the bearer bonds story: hook, line, and sinker.

  Then Justina read the following message:

  It’s your decision J. R fell hard for my angle. Not sure you should even go thru with plan B with that little perverted weasel. Let me know.

  Justina removed one of Gage’s silver pistols from her bag, eyeing it. The plan had been, obviously, to entrap the acusador. But, as Señora Moreno had written, this secondary plan was no longer necessary. Just being near Redon disgusted Justina to her soul but, since she had him here, she might consider stringing him along before making an excuse to leave. Then, if things went awry in Plan A, at least she’d have an open line to him.

  Sneering at her reflection, repulsed by the thought, Justina made the decision to proceed with caution. Before things got too physical she would stop. She would tell Redon that she felt immoral, and that she knew he was married. That way she could send him back to his office with a set of blue balls and, if Señora Moreno thought it necessary, she could call him later in the day with the excuse that she changed her mind.

  Tucking the pistol back in her purse, she gripped the door handle. Here we go. Yuck. Sucking in a great breath, she flung the door open, turning to the right, looking for the spritely lawyer.

  But there was a problem.

  Redon wasn’t on the bed.

  Justina skittered to a stop, wheeling around, expecting to be tackled.

  No one.

  She moved beyond the simple bed, which was actually two singles pushed together in the European manner, checking the floor in the blind spot.

  Not there.

  She jerked at the drapes. Yanked open the closet.

  Redon was nowhere to be found.

  Feeling panicked, she ran back to the door and flipped the hasp to lock it.

  Then, her immediate fear subsiding, she crossed the room and pressed her face to the glass, peering down three stories to the street and sidewalk. After ten seconds Justina watched as Acusador Redon emerged from the hotel, hurrying out of sight, headed in the direction of his office.

  Dejected, Justina trudged back to the bathroom, lifting her phone to call Señora Moreno. Just as she began dialing the numbers, the phone beeped. It was a text.

  Just saw acusador. Running scared back to his building. Glad you blew him off! Come down and we will get ready for Plan A. :)

  Tilting her head back to the ceiling, Justina felt the tension slide away from her body like wet, heavy clothing. At least she’d tried. Who knows, maybe her sudden sexual interest spooked Redon. Although he was crooked, he certainly wasn’t stupid. He had to know he wasn’t much to look at, and must have come to the realization that this liaison was too good to be true. Once she’d gone into the bathroom, his paranoia had probably spiked—and with good reason.

  It’s over now.

  Justina stretched, working out the tension from her shoulders and back. She took a long swig from the room’s three-euro bottle of water, compliments of Cortez Redon’s Visa, and exited the room.

  Padding down the long hallway, Justina considered how magnanimous a person Señora Moreno was. Here Justina was, a companion of only a few weeks, and this lady was willing to risk a large chunk of her fortune just to help her.

  Someday, I will find a way to pay her back.

  Life was positively full of wonderful surprises.

  Justina waited on the elevator, watching as it lingered at another floor. After a full minute, feeling the sudden craving for a cigarette, she pushed through the steel doorway to the stairwell, eager to get back to the garage where she’d left the Volvo.

  She had no idea of the welcome she was about to receive.

  Chapter Thirty

  The man aiming the rifle at Gage had to have been at least seventy. His eyes were cold and unflinching. He was waiting on Gage’s reply.

  Calmly and slowly, Gage replied in Spanish. “I do not speak Catalan.”

  “Who are you?” the old man asked, his Spanish oddly accented.

  “The woman who lives here, Justina—I’m her boyfriend. We rented this cabin together.”

  “Justina’s boyfriend is in prison. Señora told me all about it.”

  “I was in prison. I’m here for my money.”

  The man didn’t respond. Gage looked beyond him as Angelines adjusted her position, grunting from the pain.

  “This one’s shot in the leg,” the other man said.

  Gage’s captor briefly turned his head. He brought his eyes back to Gage. “Tell me what happened.”

  “My name is Gage Hartline,” Gage replied. “I was hired by Ernesto Navarro to protect his son in Berga Prison. He used people in the government to insert me, and paid me a great deal of money. Once there, I was double-crossed by a host of collaborators and this morning I escaped with this lady’s help.”

  The old man licked his leathery lips, lowering the rifle which was, indeed, a beautifully maintained M14 with a shiny walnut stock. “And who is this lady?” he asked.

  “That’s the prison’s captain, sir.”

  “She helped you escape, or did you bring her captive?”

  “A little of both, sir.” Gage kept his hands up despite the fact the gentleman had allowed the M14 to hang down by his side. “I don’t want to get either of you in trouble, sir, so if you’re inclined to let us continue with our escape, I’d appreciate it. But our time is pressing. The police have a helicopter and I’m pretty sure the dogs will be on our scent soon, if they aren’t already.”

  The man narrowed his eyes at Gage. “Where will you go from here?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “You’re sure they’ll bring hounds?”

  “Still the best method, sir.”

  There was a bit of silence in the cabin, marked by the ticking of the mantel clock.

  “May we move?” Gage asked.

  “Señora Moreno, who is our boss by the way, accompanied your girlfriend to Barcelona.”

  Gage closed his eyes and slumped. “Thank God. Maybe the consul general can get the ambassador to intervene.”

  “They changed that plan. Didn’t go to the consulate.”

  “What?” Gage asked, searching each person’s eyes.

  “Against our advice, they went to Barcelona to entrap someone, so they could get a confession out of him.”

  “Who?”

  “All Señora said was that they were going to perform a little magic trick on someone she called the acusador.”

  Gage whipped his head to Angelines. Her eyes were wide. “Oh, madre mía!”

  “May I move?” Gage asked.

  “Anywhere you like.”

  Gage checked the time. “We’ve got about ten minutes. Do you have a first-aid kit and do you know where Justina left the keys to the car?”

  “You can use the car if you like,” the man answered, “but I have a better idea. Amancio, while I tell Mister Hartline about my idea, would you please go fetch the first-aid box?”

  As Amancio took his leave, Sven led Gage across the room, pointing down the hill. “That, my friend, is your best ticket out of here.”

  Gage stared at his new transportation, optimism descending upon him.

  Ask and ye shall receive.

  * * *

  Justina’s platform sandals made the narrow staircase tricky. She still managed the flights of stairs with good speed, hoping some light physical acti
vity would shuttle the disturbing memories of that little man’s probing fingers far, far away. She burst through the steel fire door at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring the simpering smile from the clerk at the counter. He probably thought she’d just turned a fast trick.

  Especially in this tight getup.

  Outside on the Carrer de Pau Claris, still fighting the craving for a cigarette, she couldn’t help but take in the beauty of the breathing blooms on the Jacaranda trees. The flowers made her think of Paris, and that caused her to wonder how Gage was doing. Surely he was sending for the money in an effort to pay his way out of Berga—that’s why he’d asked her to leave the money.

  Right?

  But why did he want her to leave one of the pistols?

  Please, let him be okay.

  Justina remembered Señora’s words: “Even if your Gage tries to escape, they catch people who escape from prison, dear. The best way we can help your man is by proving he wasn’t supposed to be in prison in the first place.”

  As Justina turned to head toward the parking garage, she considered Señora Moreno’s stance on how to leave things with the acusador: “While you’ll certainly want Redon to have to pay for what he’s done to Gage, we need to leave him a way out. Believe me, corrupt men like him cooperate best when they’ve got options. Corner them, and that’s when they get dangerous.”

  Justina entered the cool shadows of the garage, walking toward the Volvo. As she neared, she could see Señora Moreno’s darkened profile in the passenger seat.

  I guess I’m driving.

  When Justina came around to the driver’s side, she looked through the window. Señora Moreno was leaning back against the headrest. Her mouth was hanging slack, like a person sleeping in an upright seat on an airliner. As Justina narrowed her eyes, peering closely, she could see that Señora Moreno’s neck and mouth were crimson with blood.

  Feeling her pulse spike as alarms shrieked in her mind, Justina straightened, whirling, looking around the garage as her hand fumbled for the pistol in her purse.