To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  Xavier’s words rang in his mind: You’re being set up. You’re being set up. You’re being set up.

  Tossing the bank book back on his desk, Redon lifted the cigarette, pulling fiercely on it before he finished his drink, three full shots’ worth, allowing it to sear his mouth and throat and burn like a hot coal in his belly.

  Leaving his coat in the office, Redon slipped the bank book in his back pocket, buttoning it. From one of his desk drawers, underneath a cream folder, he produced the diminutive pistol, known as a “Baby Browning.” At .25 caliber, and small enough to be concealed in the palm of one’s hand, pistols like this had long since been made illegal. He tipped the slide, making certain it was loaded.

  Wishing for another whiskey, but thinking better of it, Redon slipped his feet back into his loafers, taking the keys to his Mercedes and easing into the hallway from his direct door. Springs of sweat erupted on the back of his neck as he tuned his ears for noises. When he heard none, he moved into the stairwell, a concrete and metal affair, heading downward, peering around the railing to check each landing before making the turn. With each step he wondered, “Where the hell is Xavier Zambrano?”

  Earlier, after evacuating the hotel room, Redon had called Xavier back no less than six times. The mobster had not once answered. Clearing his calendar, because there was no way he might have focused, Redon spent the afternoon trying to decide if the old woman’s offer had been genuine. Did Xavier intervene because he knew the money he so desperately sought was slipping from his grip? But, if so, then who was the girl? Was she somehow working with the old woman? And how did Xavier know about any of it?

  “If only that prick would explain things,” Redon whispered at the bottom of the stairs, pausing to gather himself. Xavier’s silence was the worst omen. When a man like him goes silent, it often means one thing.

  Or, maybe he’s just occupied, Redon reasoned.

  He knew he’d find out very soon. The door to the stairs opened into the narrow alleyway that fed into the Carrer de Pau Claris. If it was going to happen, Redon didn’t think Xavier would suspect that he might take the stairs.

  Do not underestimate him!

  Regardless, Redon would bet eighty percent of the money represented in his bank book that the killing would take place at his Mercedes, parked in the reserved space on the street garage’s second floor.

  But that won’t happen, because I’m going to take a taxi.

  Or maybe he’s waiting outside.

  This was the critical moment.

  Redon removed the Baby Browning, easing the door open, metal on metal, stepping into the grit of the shaded alleyway that ran northeast to southwest. Other than a feral cat, staring at him with indignation as his caza de ratas had been rudely interrupted, there was no one.

  Relieved, but still concealing the pistol by his side, Redon tiptoed to the Carrer de Pau Claris, looking both ways. He angled his head, peering across the street into the dark second level of the garage, trying to make out his car. He spotted it. There seemed to be no abnormal activity there, or here on the street.

  As they had done earlier, the beautiful Jacaranda trees swayed and undulated. The weather was warm and pleasant. The smell of the blooms, and of calamari, soothed his nostrils. The afternoon was quite agreeable. Optimism descended upon Cortez Redon.

  Despite the sudden feelings of positivity, until he was able to gain some clarity from Xavier, Redon did not plan on driving his car, nor did he plan to go home. Instead, he would take a taxi, unannounced, to Sofia’s apartment over on Barcelona’s famed Bogatell Beach. Sofia was Italian, in her early twenties, an incredibly expensive prostitute. Her apartment was sumptuous, her services exclusive—and exquisite. Even with the five-thousand euro price for a full evening, plus another thousand if she had to break an appointment that was already set, Redon could release his tension from earlier and sleep safe with the knowledge that his location was unknown.

  He’d brought his phone with him, but had turned it off and removed the battery. And now, stepping up the sidewalk of Carrer de Pau Claris, his office slowly disappearing behind him, Redon relaxed because, ahead of him on Barcelona’s busy Avinguda Diagonal, he would find solace in a taxi, and would be relieving himself inside the leggy young Italian within the hour.

  Tomorrow he could revisit this unpleasantness. And, perhaps, he might hear from the older woman again. A tedious tightrope navigation, but that’s my specialty. Having escaped the area of likely ambush, Redon allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.

  All this worry over nothing. Xavier knows I’m close to the money, the greedy bastard. He’s just trying to spook me.

  Redon’s smile disappeared when, just before the intersection at Carrer de Mallorca, a large man burst from a dilapidated pickup truck and, before Redon could lift the mini Browning, punched him square in his face. Rather than watch Redon tumble to the ground, the man grasped the diminutive attorney and tossed him into the truck’s floorboard.

  When the man crammed himself into the passenger seat, crushing Redon’s petite body further into the uncomfortable floor space, Redon spied a woman he recognized, driving the truck. She was cursing like a Marseilles sailor, complaining about vicious motherfucking pain in her leg.

  The man above him, somehow, had the Baby Browning in his hand, now aiming it at Redon’s face. “Remember me?” he asked in English.

  Due to the circumstances, it took Redon a moment to make the connection. Had he been able to properly breathe, he might have sucked in a sharp breath. Despite his contorted predicament, it all came to him. She was the captain—the very crooked captain—from Berga Prison. And the man was the American hired by Ernesto Navarro to protect his shit of a son.

  Redon recalled the American’s limited dossier—he was a highly-trained killer.

  Joder!

  All the worry over Xavier had made Redon forget his numerous other adversaries.

  Contorted like an unwilling gymnast in Le Cirque, he clenched his eyes shut, dealing with numerous discomforts over the balance of a twenty-minute ride.

  * * *

  It was obvious the drug—its trade name was Amylobarbitone, known on the street as “parlador”—was beginning to lose its effectiveness with the Polish girl. She’d spoken to Xavier for thirty full minutes, answering his questions in a zombie-like monotone, but with palpable frankness. Now, however, he could see minor tells as he continued to question her, although he felt he’d already learned all he could.

  In summary, she told him the prisoner at Berga, Gage Hartline, had contacted her last night. He was somehow escaping the bonds of the prison and needed Navarro’s fee money for a payoff of some sort. The Polish girl had said she’d left the money in a cabin near the Baells Reservoir. Upon hearing this, Xavier checked his messages. There was one message and six missed calls from that little shit Redon. There were three additional messages from Luis, the wily old lieutenant who oversaw the Contratos end of his business. Each of the messages dealt with the prison break. The second message informed Xavier that El Toro had been gravely wounded in the bust-out. But it was Luis’s third message that sent a shiver of rage through Xavier’s body. Luis had learned more about the prison break, discovering that the federal police were looking for the American, Hartline. He’d escaped with the captain of the prison, Angelines de la Mancha.

  While the police first thought her to be a hostage, they now believed that she was complicit.

  That insolent whore.

  Xavier recalled what he knew about de la Mancha. He knew that his associates had blackmailed her at first, but she’d become a willing accomplice over time. She’d allowed Los Leones the run of that prison and, in return, had taken hundreds of thousands of euro in exchange for her cooperation.

  She also knew where all the bodies were buried, certainly possessing the knowledge to sink two dozen ranking Leones.

  And maybe me along with them.

  Xavier turned his mind to Cesar Navarro. Once he’d been killed, the Americ
an would have felt urgency to get out of Berga. He’d have soon found out that Redon was in on things, so that avenue of release was no good. Then, with nowhere else to turn, he’d go to the money-grubbing captain.

  I’ve got a deal for you, capitana. I’ll pay you a million euro of Navarro’s money and, in return, you bust me out.

  Xavier grudgingly admitted that it was a good plan.

  But that’s my damned money! As is the rest of Navarro’s money, whenever I find it.

  While Xavier was a criminal and not classically educated, he was remarkably prescient. Mind racing, he studied the drugged Polish woman, weighing his options. His first inclination—one of anger—was to gut both her and the old bat.

  But they had more to give. He didn’t know what it was, but his senses told him he’d missed something. He eyed the pretty woman for a moment. Then he turned to the old woman.

  “Why are you helping her?”

  “She’s my daughter,” the old woman answered, slurring.

  “What?”

  “Not my real daughter, but my daughter just the same.”

  Xavier processed this. “What else have I missed?”

  “Missed?”

  “What facts should I know?”

  “My head is too muddled.”

  “How much money is in the box?” the nurse suddenly asked. Xavier, irritated, glared at her.

  The older woman twisted her head to the Polish woman. “Gage spent some…wasn’t it about a million euro less what he’d spent?”

  The Polish woman nodded.

  Xavier rolled his eyes. He knew how much money he was after. But just as he prepared a query along a much different line of questioning, the old woman said something that nearly caused his heart to seize.

  “Don’t forget…the million is just what’s in cash.”

  Xavier lifted his hand, preventing the nurse from responding. He was aware of his own pulse in three different zones of his body. After a few steadying breaths, he spoke. “What other monies are in that box?”

  “I wanted to help Justina’s beau. So I went into my safe and I removed my entire sheaf of bearer bonds.”

  “Bearer bonds?”

  “Yes. I’ve been saving them for years.”

  Xavier wasted no time. “What are they worth?”

  “As you know, they’re negotiable,” the older woman slurred, her tone matter-of-fact. “Their full face value is nearly seventeen million…U.S.”

  Time stopped. The world ceased its rotation. All the years of Xavier’s life flashed before his knowing eyes. His time as a grubby child, fighting his own siblings for an extra helping of rice in their filthy hovel. His early onset of puberty. The first girl he’d had, an eighteen year-old tramp who’d taken him all the way at Xavier’s ripe old age of twelve. He recalled his first gang initiation, when a street hood named Lupo had held Xavier’s head in a filthy toilet. Lupo had died for that only a week later. And after that, since that time, Xavier had climbed the Pyrenees of the underworld. All leading to this, the summit. Then, just as a flurry of white doves flittered out the open door, time started again.

  And, blaringly, joyously loud, the Vienna Philharmonic suddenly played Exultate Jubilate.

  Oh, what a moment!

  It took him a moment to regain his composure.

  “And these bearer bonds are with the cash her boyfriend was paid?” he asked.

  “Yes. A plain cardboard box. It has money, bonds, a gun and a note.”

  Xavier closed his eyes. “Tell me about the note.”

  The older woman blinked several times, tilting her head as the memory came to her. “We told him to use the money and bonds if need be, but to try to wait through today because we were going to Barcelona to trap Cortez Redon.”

  He turned to his nurse friend. “How much more of that parlador do you have?” he sang.

  “A large vial.”

  “If I give them another shot, will it be harmful?”

  She shrugged. “At that dose I don’t think it will harm them, per se. But it might make them lose consciousness.”

  “What if I administer that amount every hour?”

  She shook her head. “You’ll have to be careful stacking it like that. If it doesn’t wear all the way off and you continue to add more, they might stop breathing.”

  Xavier chewed on the inside of his cheek as he walked to the older woman, stroking her hair. “You’re sure about the bearer bonds?”

  “Quite.”

  “And how much money are you worth?” Xavier said, the notion suddenly occurring to him.

  “I don’t ever add it up.”

  “Then guess.”

  “Liquid?”

  “Altogether.”

  She made a humming sound, finally shrugging. “My mind is awash. With tied-up real estate, perhaps a hundred million. Liquid…about double the bearer bonds. Thirty million or so.”

  “Euro?”

  “Sí, querida.”

  “Does that include the bonds?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Given her condition, who knows if she’s accurate or not? But if she is, she’s got access to more than double the amount of those bearer bonds,” Xavier said, turning to the nurse and winking. “Worth keeping her alive over, for sure. And the girl is the ticket to the American.”

  Theo Garcia, you little worm, I may have just hit the mother lode.

  Xavier jabbed a finger past the kitchen. “The interior storeroom is where I want to keep them. We’ll handcuff them and bind their legs and feet.”

  “They’ll need to lie down. Parlador makes a person unsteady and tired.”

  “Go get some things from one of the bedrooms. And bring the parlador and syringes.”

  Ten minutes later, after situating each wobbly woman on the pallet created by the nurse, Xavier checked their cuffs before tethering their arms together by a third set of cuffs. He instructed the nurse to give them another injection, agreeing that it be only three-quarters the amount from earlier.

  “Gennady,” Justina whispered as the nurse prepared her shot.

  Xavier was on the phone.

  The nurse leaned close. “What about Gennady?”

  “You’re his girlfriend.”

  The nurse glanced at Xavier before looking back. “So?”

  “I remember you.”

  “From Eastern Bloc?”

  “Yeah,” Justina breathed. “Help me.”

  The nurse checked Xavier again. “The best thing you can do is just do what he says. He’s not a bad person.”

  “He is,” Justina countered. “He’s going to kill us, and you too.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Xavier thundered. “Give her the damned shot.”

  The nurse plunged the needle into Justina’s arm. Unbeknownst to Xavier, she only gave her half of the parlador.

  “Now the old woman,” he said.

  Moments later, Xavier watched as the drug slowly went to work on both women. The older woman lay on her side, cradling the good side of her face on her arm, as if she were settling in for a pleasant slumber. Once both of his prisoners seemed fully sedated, he lifted a third needle from the plastic bag, handing it to the nurse.

  “Prepare one for yourself.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  Xavier stared at her.

  The nurse straightened, her expression changing to worry. “You’re serious.”

  “Indeed, lover girl. I’ve a number of things to do here, and they’re not for your eyes to see. When my associates arrive—very powerful men from the government—if you were to see them, they would want me to eliminate you.” He touched her face. “I don’t want that. I’m not that type of guy.”

  Rubbing his arm, she pressed her crotch over his thigh and said, “But you already know I don’t care about the things you do. The same goes for anyone you work with. I want to be trusted.”

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Xavier said soothingly. “But you need to comply imme
diately.”

  “Why can’t I just leave?”

  “I may need you later.”

  “For what?”

  He smiled reassuringly. “Your skills are invaluable and, before this night is over, additional injuries are possible. And the injuries may occur to people who I don’t want to die. So, please, fill a clean syringe so you can take a nice nap. You love drugs anyway, so I don’t see why you’re so concerned.”

  Worry still blanketing her face, the nurse pressed a new needle into the vial, extracting the same dosage she’d just drawn for the other two. “More,” he said coldly. “That was their second dose.”

  She complied and slid the robe aside, rubbing an alcohol wipe on her buttocks. “I’m too skinny for a shoulder injection,” she said, handing him the syringe and lying prone on the cushions next to the two drugged women. When he prepared to make the injection, she stopped him. “You saw me give them their shots…it was purposefully injected into the muscle. To heroin addicts it’s known as muscling, and it’s very important. When you stick the needle in, pull the plunger back to make sure no blood comes through. This much parlador given in a vein or artery would kill me if given all at once.”

  “But in the muscle it dissipates more slowly?”

  “Yes.”

  Xavier viewed her shapely rear-end, marked by a lower back tattoo of roses twirling around her delicious Venus dimples. Setting the syringe aside, he massaged her buttocks, briefly flirting with the idea of a quick denouement to their earlier copulation.

  “Mmmmm,” she moaned as he kneaded.

  He halted himself as the urgency of the situation came to the forefront. Seventeen million dollars in bearer bonds, plus a million euro in loose cash! Wanting to get this entire situation over with and get his money, Xavier straddled the nurse, watching as she toyed with his toes while he eyed the spot she’d wiped the alcohol on. Just to the inside of that area was a deep purple line—a thick vein.

  “Are you ready?”

  “If I have a headache later, I expect you to pamper me.”

  “Have no fear, my dear.”

  He held the needle above the dark vein line, pressing it in only a few millimeters.