To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  “The captain keeps the cash.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The captain, de la Mancha, keeps the cash. You get the bonds. I get my women. Redon goes back to work. I could give a shit what you and him do afterward.”

  “How much cash is there for her to—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hartline barked. “She keeps the cash. Not negotiable. And in about eight hours, at zero-four-hundred on the button, you will stand on the beach of Tossa de Mar, near where you killed our friend, Ernesto Navarro.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Xavier said. “Don’t think you’re going to set the meeting for—”

  There was a click. The line went dead.

  Xavier’s testicles lurched to the back of his throat.

  He was motionless for a moment, eventually swigging the remainder of the Heineken.

  He’ll call back.

  Five minutes passed. No call.

  Closing his eyes, Xavier redialed. The phone was answered and he could hear Acusador Redon pleading in the background. After a moment Redon came on line. “Do not push him! He’s ready to walk.”

  “Even without his women?” Xavier said, angry at himself for his entreating tone but unable to contain it as it left his mouth.

  There was a shuffling sound before the American came back on, his voice steely. “I know all about leverage, you piece of trash.”

  “You’d be willing to let your women die?”

  “And you’d be willing to live every day of your life in fear of me slitting your throat?” the American countered.

  Wide-eyed, Xavier stared at the phone. He truly despised this Hartline. Somehow, Xavier had to flip the odds while managing to ensnare Navarro’s fortune. For now, however, Xavier knew he had to pretend to be complicit. Gritting his teeth, he said, “I apologize. Please proceed.”

  “Zero-four-hundred, you walk out on Tossa de Mar beach, all the way to the water’s edge, directly in front of the long boardwalk. Know where I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be right there, ankles in the water, or I walk. You will wear no shoes and no shirt, and you’d better not have a weapon on you or you’ll wind up feeding the sharks as the sun comes up. Bring both women and I’ll give you the bonds.”

  “Please, may I ask a question?”

  “What?”

  “What’s to prevent you from killing me?”

  “That’s the point. It keeps you honest.”

  “I will not do an exchange this way because I trust you no more than you trust me.”

  “Then I guess you won’t get your money, you prick.”

  Xavier squeezed his eyes shut, expecting the American to hang up again. But he didn’t. Slowly, Xavier opened his eyes, feeling the pendulum swinging his way. Was the American blustering?

  After clearing his throat, Xavier said, “You’re aware of mutually assured destruction?”

  Silence.

  “Because, if I show up unarmed, you can knife me quietly and leave with everything.”

  “That’s right.”

  Recalling a Monaco poker game he’d once participated in, one with a one-million euro buy-in for each player, Xavier still regretted what had caused him to lose. He’d made it to the final two but lost his chip advantage before losing everything two hands later. Xavier had found out the next morning (after beating the winner with a cricket bat) that, on the critical hand, the man had been bluffing with only a pair of fives. But, because such cash was at stake, Xavier had been wound too tight. Although he’d simply stolen the man’s winnings (and left him for dead,) Xavier vowed to never be bluffed again.

  “So, these conditions are the only way you will meet?” Xavier asked.

  “That’s right,” the American replied.

  Xavier hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Gage heard the click.

  Xavier Zambrano had hung up.

  “Shit.”

  “You pushed him too hard!” Redon said, lowering his bloody t-shirt from his mouth.

  Gage glared at the dishonest attorney until Redon lowered his eyes. Angelines was sitting in the passenger seat of the pickup truck, her hand on her wounded leg. Gage walked to her. “Think he’ll call back?”

  “I don’t know how he operates. But he has so much power that I can’t imagine it’s worth it to him to meet you straight up if he thinks he might die—even for that much money.”

  “I negotiate for a living and he was dying to meet you!” Redon chastised. “But your demand was unreasonable. And now he will not call back, and those two women are dead due to your stubbornness.”

  Gage tilted his head back, massaging the bridge of his nose. The sun had just dipped below the western mountains, dragging behind it a blanket of cool air from the Mediterranean. As he looked up, watching the line of aircraft on their downwind leg into El Prat airport over by the coast, Gage saw one small aircraft in the pattern, a Cessna Caravan. Larger than the plane they had flown on earlier, the single-engine aircraft was still diminutive in comparison to the other jet aircraft setting up in the pattern.

  The brilliant bloom of a distant idea burst from a corner of Gage’s mind. He continued to eye the Caravan, flying quickly to keep up with the commercial traffic.

  This could work.

  Gage turned to Redon. “Get in the truck between her and me.” He looked at Angelines. “If he twitches, shoot him in the stomach with the AutoMag.”

  Stepping away from the noise of the bridge, Gage dug into his pocket, retrieving the business card given to him by Arturo the jump pilot. Using Redon’s phone, Gage dialed Arturo, initially thanking him for the ride and the use of the truck before asking Arturo a detailed set of questions. He listened to all of Arturo’s responses, satisfied with all of them but the final objection.

  “With your transponder off, assuming you drop from radar afterward, how would they know?”

  “They probably wouldn’t,” Arturo admitted.

  “Would you reconsider if I offered you one-hundred-thousand euro in unmarked bills?”

  Arturo chortled a rueful laugh. “My friend…”

  “If you do your part correctly, I will not get you burned. You have that on my word as a fellow soldier. I will die before I give up your name.”

  The speaker crackled as Arturo blew out a hard breath. “You’re serious?”

  “I am. I can’t go to the authorities on this one, my friend…but if I don’t act now, innocent people will die.”

  “Entiendo. When can you be here?”

  “Tonight, but I’m not exactly sure what time yet. We’ll call you when we’re on the way. I’m still in Barcelona and I need to make a very important stop on the way to your D.Z.”

  “I can’t get caught,” Arturo said. “My life’s been nothing but clean living since I retired from El Grupo.”

  “Just drop below radar until you land. No one will know and I will never tell.”

  Arturo grew silent for a moment. “I’m in.”

  “Thank you. Call you in a bit.” Gage hung up and jogged to the truck, praying that Zambrano hadn’t harmed the women. He wheeled the pickup into a spinning turn on the dusty access road.

  “Where are we going?” Angelines asked.

  “I have a plan,” Gage said, wheeling the old truck into a 180-turn.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Gage motored to the north, following the signs to the AP-7, known as the Autopista del Mediterráneo, running the length of Spain’s eastern shore. He merged onto the busy highway, headed to the northeast.

  “What’s the plan?” Angelines asked.

  “We’re headed to Lloret de Mar, first. There’s a pharmacy next to where we’re going, unless my brain is playing tricks on me. I’ll get something for your pain.”

  “What about Xavier?”

  “I’m getting ready to call him.” Gage took a number of deep breaths.

  This was the big moment.

  He touched Xavier’s number. Predictably, Xavier didn’t answer the firs
t time. Without hesitation, Gage called again. And again.

  “What?” Xavier yelled after picking up on Gage’s third try.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Gage said, “You apologized earlier, now it’s my turn. I’m sorry and, as a tactician, you’re correct to refuse my demand. You shouldn’t be expected to agree to an unprotected meeting.”

  “I’m pleased that you’re at least intelligent enough to realize that,” Xavier stated coldly.

  “Are the ladies still alive?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Don’t hurt them.”

  “Then don’t make stupid demands.”

  “Understood. How about this? We meet in the same place, at Tossa. You bring the women—I bring the bonds.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ll have someone with me. A woman.”

  “De la Mancha.”

  “And she’s wounded, Xavier. A threat to no one.”

  “I want a backup man, also.”

  “No.”

  “No deal,” Xavier said.

  Gage relented. “One backup man, standing at a distance, and he better not have a rifle.”

  “Have no fear.”

  Gage knew Xavier wouldn’t honor these terms. But he had to act as if he trusted the man for this situation to come off.

  “So, we’re clear?” Gage asked. “Zero-four-hundred, at the water, armed but not carrying, one man in the distance.”

  “Yes. And I will bring your women.”

  “I will have the bonds and the lawyer.”

  Xavier clicked off.

  Gage rubbed his face with his free hand before handing the phone to Angelines. “Turn off the phone’s radio.”

  As she did, she asked, “Why are we going to Lloret, of all places?”

  Gage was silent.

  “Did you hear me? Why Lloret?”

  Gage jarred, turning to her. “There’s someone there I need to see.”

  As night fell, and the blackness of the Mediterranean to the east beckoned their rendezvous with Xavier, the old pickup puttered on, growing closer to Lloret de Mar.

  * * *

  Xavier held the phone in his hand, his mind racing. What was he not seeing? What was the angle?

  Because Tossa was perfect, absolutely perfect—for Xavier.

  A crescent beach. Several hundred meters of flat sand with no obstructions. Plenty of beachside buildings to place a sniper.

  And, since Tossa wasn’t a party town, the entire population would be asleep.

  This was going to be too easy.

  Xavier began thumbing through his contacts. He knew just who to call.

  * * *

  Lloret de Mar, Spain

  The anxious crowd numbered at least fifty people, packed five-deep inside the velvet ropes. Confined like sheep in a pen, they breathed the universal scent of urban center dance clubs: the overblown aroma of cologne and perfume, mingled with liquor, cigarettes, and pheromones. The revelers shared a common agenda: drink, have fun, and get raucously laid by daybreak.

  Gage visited the pharmacy first. Thankful that he didn’t need a prescription in Spain, he purchased over-the-counter antibiotics for his kidney, taking a dry double dose in front of the cashier. He then carried a large bottle of Espidifen, Spanish Advil, power bars and water bottles to the pickup truck parked on a dark street behind the rows of brightly lit buildings. Angelines was doing fine, holding the acusador at bay. Gage told her to wait an hour.

  “If I’m not back by then, take the money and disappear.”

  “How?”

  “No idea,” he answered honestly, walking back to the lights of the main thoroughfare.

  Gage knew getting in was going to take some effort once he saw the mob outside of the club Eastern Bloc. Typical of clubs like this one, a large bouncer stood on the small elevated stoop, meaty hands clasped in front of him, ready to unleash an ass-whipping on anyone who got out of line.

  As Gage lingered in the distance, he watched as two women finally exited the club. The man inside spoke by radio to the large bouncer who then perused the waiting crowd. Rather than accept the three cheesy club-maven males at the front of the horde, the bouncer called a couple forward, both of them striking—especially the woman. As the crowd jeered his choice, the couple waited as red bands were taped around their wrists by the man just inside the door. That done, the other bouncer, this one outside the ropes, admitted two more people inside the ropes.

  Moving to his left, Gage could see inside the doors to the bright red stairwell. Sitting where he had been when Gage first met him was his Russian friend in the gaudy burgundy suit. This was Gage’s “priyatel,” the one he’d relieved of the two pistols.

  There was no way to get to the stairwell without going through the crowd and, to do that, Gage would have to increase his odds somehow. He turned, watching the people on the busy sidewalk until he noticed two women who certainly had the assets to pull off his plan. Gage stopped them, not surprised at the way they recoiled. Today had been a very long day and he had no illusions about his appearance. His forehead was still bruised. There were cuts on his face and, worst of all, he could smell himself. The old Army saying was, “If you can smell yourself, everyone else smelled you two days ago.”

  “We have no money,” one of the girls immediately said in broken Spanish.

  They think I’m a panhandler.

  Gage smiled, hoping he could later share this story with Justina. In the time he’d known her, he found her sense of humor irresistible.

  “I don’t want your money,” Gage said to the young women, speaking English as he produced a crisp hundred euro bill from his back pocket, taken from the stash in the cardboard box. “I want to pay you for a favor.”

  “We’re not like that,” the other girl said, screwing up her face.

  “This money is yours if you simply get me into that club,” he said, pointing to the Eastern Bloc.

  The taller of the two eyed him narrowly. “What do we have to do inside?”

  “Nothing,” Gage said openly. “I just need to get in. You can take the money and leave if you like.”

  The girls, Irish if Gage heard their accents correctly, looked at one another and shrugged.

  Putting his arms around both girls’ trim waistlines, Gage led them to the outer rope, pushing his way through the crowd of men, ignoring protests and threats directed at him in at least five languages. The massive bouncer, charged with letting people into the inner circle, cocked a bushy eyebrow at the trio, nodding once as he unclipped the rope, allowing them access to the inner circle.

  Once in, Gage leaned to the one on his right, the taller one, a striking redhead with expressive blue eyes. “Now you walk up and get the big bouncer at the door to let us in. Stick this in his palm,” Gage said, handing her a folded fifty euro bill. He stood with her friend, keeping her close to prevent her from getting crushed by the energetic mob as he viewed the other Irish woman push her way forward, in the way only beautiful women can get away with. At the door, she stood next to the bouncer, speaking in his ear while she pressed the money in his hand.

  The bouncer looked at his palm, a grin forming on his face as he nodded.

  C’mon Igor, do it. That’s got to be a night’s pay for you.

  “Igor” wagged his finger at the crowd, saying something to Gage’s new friend. She pointed directly at Gage and her friend. Breathing a sigh of relief, combing his ragged hair with his fingers, Gage allowed the other Irish woman to push forward, walking behind her to conceal his filthy clothing.

  Finally, upon reaching the platform, the bouncer instructed them to stand next to him. He spoke English, saying, “Next three people come out, you go in, yes?”

  The girls stood by the bouncer as Gage stood behind them, concealing himself.

  He dreaded what was coming.

  * * *

  The Russian in the burgundy suit was named Dmitry, a former prisoner in Moscow and now just another thug in the globally-mushrooming Ispanskiy c
rime syndicate. Things had not been going very well for Dmitry in Spain, especially after the beating he’d taken at the hands of a stranger several weeks before. His boss, a ruthless sort named Gennady, had beaten him further over the incident, citing his own embarrassment at his top club man being so easily taken down by what he called a “pussy westerner.” The two pistols that were stolen had been issued to Dmitry upon his arrival to Spain. Due to their loss, Dmitry had to pay Gennady back from his own paycheck, and Gennady’s appraisal of the Star pistols was at least six times what they were really worth.

  Though he was a lowly soldier in the Ispanskiy syndicate, Dmitry had aspirations, too. Toward the end of his stretch in the infamous Butyrka prison, he’d been told about the position here in Spain, eagerly seeking it after hearing of its glorious nature, endearing himself to one of the mob bosses by beating collections and obscene interest out of several other prisoners.

  Like so many things in life, Dmitry later learned this Spain-based job wasn’t near as glamorous as they’d made it sound. He’d had no idea that he would wind up a glorified babysitter for a dozen Polish swine. He was also never told he would work seven days a week, fourteen hours a day, for six months out of the year. Sure, since arriving, he’d had his share of women, but one gets tired of vacationing club girls with their disgusting white-crusted nostrils.

  Dmitry dreamed of his own club, operated by his own decisions. He’d have an office just above the dance floor, hidden behind a strip of mirrored windows. He would arrive each evening around nine, greeting his regulars warmly and going straight upstairs to read the numbers on yesterday’s take. By midnight he would choose the girl he wanted, having his bouncers retrieve her and bring her to his well-appointed office, full of chrome and leather. Then, once he’d had his fill, Dmitry would finish off the night by walking the floor, thanking the biggest spenders with a free round on the house.

  Anything but this, sitting here in a stuffy, stinking stairwell, putting on wrist bands and using a hand-counter to satisfy the corrupt Lloret de Mar fire marshal.

  His droning thoughts were interrupted as two couples ascended the stairs, speaking in British accents as they made fun of the “trashy Russkie crowd” in the club. A year ago Dmitry might have threatened them; now he simply didn’t have the energy and, honestly, could give a shit what they thought.