A sturdy pair of Russian handcuffs bound Redon to the steering wheel of the battered pickup. Once Redon had begun laboring to breathe, he’d decided to try to be constructive rather than give up. Upon sliding his loafers off, he lowered himself into the floorboard, probing under the seats with his bare feet. Using his feet as pincers, he removed all manner of items. But the most important item was the tool he’d just transferred to his hindered hands.
A screwdriver.
After popping the horn cover off with the screwdriver, he had just enough slack in the cuffs to turn the screws that held the steering wheel fast.
It was a tedious job, but Redon was highly motivated. He had no desire to be around when the beach meeting ended. Though, if pressed, he hoped Xavier Zambrano prevailed. But, after all that had transpired, neither party was very palatable to Redon. If it were up to him, they all should die.
But what motivated Cortez Redon the most was what was hidden behind the seat of the old truck.
That item, a sheaf of A4 linen paper, was his nirvana.
* * *
“Here he comes,” Angelines said.
“Alone.”
“Yeah, so it appears.” Her tone changed. “Gage, are you reading me over all this wind and surf?”
“I’ve had you the entire time,” he replied. “We’re banking hard, circling so I can use the scope. Do you hear the airplane?”
“The surf and wind are way too loud.”
“Good. I can see the body moving in your direction. Is it Xavier?”
“Yes,” Angelines answered.
“Good,” Gage replied. “Make sure you stand to the south, facing the north.”
“That’s how we’re set up,” Angelines said.
“Almost show time,” Gage said. “Once I pop this door, communication is over. Dmitry, do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Straight back from the boardwalk they walked out on, directly across the street, is a restaurant with four umbrellas out front. I cannot make out colors on the scope, but if you walked straight off the boardwalk, you’d eventually walk into the restaurant.”
“I’ve got it,” Dmitry answered.
“On top of that building, pressed up against the façade, is a nice warm body. I’m guessing he’s holding a three-oh-eight, or something similar. Stay back because I bet that sniper has a thermal scope like this one and as soon as your warm body is exposed he’s got you.”
“He not see me,” Dmitry said. “Anyone else?”
“Xavier put two live bodies on the bench by his car. I hope to God that’s my two girls. Otherwise, there’s not another warm soul that I can find,” Gage answered. “Keep in mind, he could have others out there.”
“But you don’t see any?” Dmitry asked.
“If they’re under cover, I won’t.”
“He’s about to reach the boardwalk,” Angelines interjected.
“Turn in,” Gage could be heard saying to Arturo. “Okay, gang, I’m outta here. E.T.A. on the beach is about two to three minutes. Dmitry, wait until you see whether I make contact or not, then take your man out. You should have time because Xavier is going to want confirmation of the bearer bonds. Angelines, did you bring them?”
“We brought one on top of a stack of plain paper. The rest are in the truck with the cash.”
“Where’s Redon?”
“Handcuffed to the truck.”
There was a pause.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“Problem?”
“Doesn’t matter. There’s no time. I’m on my way.”
“Be careful, Gage,” Angelines said. She was greeted with a burst of static followed by silence. As she turned her head, deftly slipping the Bluetooth device into her pocket, Xavier turned left on the boardwalk, holding both arms out to his side to demonstrate that he wasn’t carrying a weapon in his hand.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Arturo’s repaired jump door worked as designed. Gage climbed out and stepped down to the diamond-plate section of steel affixed to the wheel strut of the Cessna 182. He glanced inside, seeing his fellow soldier, Arturo, faintly illuminated by the Cessna’s blue cockpit lights. Arturo saluted Gage, following it with a thumbs-up. Gage nodded his thanks, then let go of the wing strut, falling to the earth as he arched his back.
Knees in the breeze…
As Gage arched, he came face to earth as the relative wind—somewhat slow during the Cessna’s mild 80 knot “jump run”—decreased. Coming face to earth, going through an altitude of 6,000 feet above sea level, Gage oriented himself as his body reached terminal velocity. He reached back to his harness, his hand immediately finding the hacky sack. With a solid tug he liberated the attached pilot chute and tossed it to his right, feeling a series of jerks as the collapsible preliminary chute yanked the high-performance, zero-porosity main chute from the form-fitting Javelin Odyssey container. After a planned “snivel,” the parachute, a Stiletto 150, fully opened. Gage collapsed the slider and re-oriented himself, grasping both steering toggles.
Regarding his position over the earth, he was approximately 500 meters northeast of the Tossa de Mar boardwalk. There was plenty of light to see what was happening on the beach. And the tall, lean figure of Xavier Zambrano was just reaching Angelines and Gennady. Gage checked his altitude—just above 4,000 feet—he was right on schedule.
Thinking about the one practice jump he’d made ninety minutes earlier, and his numerous mistakes, Gage began to S-turn his way to the rendezvous site, reminding himself to leave sufficient altitude for the high-performance turn he planned.
As the Stiletto rocketed forward, managing plenty of forward speed under Gage’s “suited” 220 pounds, he went through his final preparations, setting aside his worry over Señora Moreno and, of course, Justina.
When he turned to the north, to do a penetration check into the wind, Gage estimated fifty seconds to impact.
* * *
“Angelines de la Mancha,” Xavier sang out as he approached through the sugary portion of the sand. “Fancy seeing you here.” His tone was one of long lost friends.
Feeling the need to respond, even though she knew he was trying to put her on the defensive, and knowing she needed to buy some time for Gage, Angelines made her reply cutting. “I’m finished, Zambrano. Finished with you. Finished with that animal, El Toro. Finished with Berga. When I saw what you did to Navarro’s son, and learned that you were behind a dozen other killings in my prison, I washed my hands of it.”
“Just blind all those years,” he sang.
Xavier stopped a few meters away, standing west of their position. He surveyed Gennady, who he thought was Gage. “And look at this big fellow. You’ve no doubt been enjoying him, Angelines, but I hope he knows how many of my Leones you’ve spread those legs of yours for. That’s quite a busy crotch you have.”
Feeling her cheeks flush, Angelines looked down at her blouse, making sure her arms weren’t preventing its loose tails from whipping with the wind. Before she could stop herself, she looked up into the sky, wondering where Gage was.
Xavier followed her eyes, his own going up into the sky as he smiled broadly. “A beautiful evening, isn’t it?” He looked at Gennady. “I understand you didn’t care for Berga, or my men.”
“Correct,” Gennady answered mechanically. He put his foot behind the cardboard box, sliding it toward Xavier.
“I take it that’s my bonds,” Xavier said.
“Before you get the bonds,” Angelines said, “you’ve got to turn over the two women.”
Xavier’s smile still broad, he turned to Gennady. “Do you always let this cunt do your talking for you, gilipollas?”
Gennady stepped over the cardboard box, walking toward Xavier.
“Stop!” Angelines yelled.
Xavier stood his ground, his arms open wide as if he welcomed the challenge.
“Come back over here,” she said. “Fighting will get us nowhere to
night.” Then, from the corner of her eye, she was aware of a quick flashing, not unlike a bat passing in front of a floodlight. But it had been heading away from her. With a slight turn of her head, she could see the black shadow of the parachute zipping to the north.
“Show me the bonds,” Xavier commanded.
Angelines knelt down, putting her hand on the box.
“Do it slowly,” Xavier warned, licking his lips.
* * *
Gage had no time to check his tritium-based altimeter. From this point on, it was all about instinct and snap judgment as he raced past the threshold over which the three people stood. He was pulling down on both front risers, making the canopy’s angle of attack even steeper, creating highway-like forward speed for the canopy as the buildings to the left, especially a tall hotel, began to rise up to his level.
And in a moment, the real fun would begin.
Just before initiating his riser turn, he remembered the location of the two bodies next to the car Xavier had exited. Gage looked in that direction, his ten o’clock, momentarily surprised to see the distinctly tall silhouette of Justina staggering down the street, toward the boardwalk.
Oh, no! Justina…please, just stay put.
But, by this point, there was no turning back. Gage released the right front riser and pulled the left riser down further. This snapped the Stiletto into a left turn, swinging Gage out in a straight plunge to the sands of Tossa de Mar. Then, with the toggles, as his speed neared that of free fall, Gage began to plane out.
His target was facing away from him, staring down at Angelines and the cardboard box.
As Gage was on his final approach, he heard a loud pop to his right. Something was wrong. It was too early for Dmitry to excise the shooter on top of the building.
Had Justina been shot?
Whatever had happened, it caused Xavier to turn and take a few steps to the side, meaning Gage had to adjust his approach.
Five seconds…
* * *
Fifteen seconds earlier, Angelines lifted the one genuine bearer bond from the prop sheaf in the cardboard box. “There,” she said. “Satisfied? Now let the two women go.”
Xavier eyed the bond as she held it up for him to view its authenticity. His grin was genuine, but grew malevolent. Then, he raised his hand to his hair. It was an odd, out-of-place gesture.
Several things happened in short order. Angelines saw a flash of light up at the main road. Then, behind her, where Gennady stood, came a wet, plunking sound. It sounded the way a mallet does when hitting a piece of meat.
Then she heard the rifle’s report.
Angelines turned, watching Gennady’s massive form tumble to the sand. He held both hands over his neck.
She turned back around, her mouth readying a protest, just as she heard the ripping of air. Almost instantly, a flash of black appeared and collided with Xavier. Xavier, as if tethered to a speeding truck, was immediately thrust fifty feet down the beach in a tumbling, Vitruvian man pose of flinging limbs and sand.
* * *
Justina didn’t know where she was going. She simply knew that she needed to move. As she’d staggered down the sidewalk, having no idea where she was, she witnessed a man lurch from an alcove and shoot another man on the sidewalk. In her muddy drug haze, she wasn’t even certain sure what she’d seen.
Am I dreaming?
Her mind was still muddled with swimmy visions of her captor…Xavier…and his tattooed nurse friend.
Did he kill her?
Yes…he injected her. Her breathing stopped.
My God, what has happened to me?
Her head slowly clearing, Justina stepped to her right, into a café’s courtyard, kneeling behind a fence. On all fours, she lifted her head, peering down the sidewalk.
The man that had been shot lay there, fifty feet away. He wasn’t moving. She lifted her head higher. A cold spike of recognition came to Justina, especially when she noticed the dead man’s ruby earrings.
Dmitry from Eastern Bloc.
“Get your head down,” came a whispered voice from behind her.
Had Justina not been drugged, she would have certainly screamed. Instead, she obeyed and turned. Directly behind her was a man in an athletic wheelchair. He had large, powerful arms and a bushy moustache. His hair was curly and long, held up by a sweatband, reminiscent of many soccer stars decades before.
“I remember you,” Justina whispered, her own voice sounding foreign to her. Despite all that had happened, she distinctly remembered having met this man when she and Gage had been in Tossa before. Before Gage accepted the job. Before the insanity.
“Why the hell are you out here, pretty lady?” the man whispered, ducking his head. “People are killing each other.”
“I don’t really know,” she murmured, slurring. “I was kidnapped.”
He adjusted his wheels to get a better look. “There’s one down on the sidewalk. Looks like he dropped a grenade, too. The guy who shot him moved up behind the sea wall. And I saw a shooter on the roof, up behind the facade. Do you know who’s who?”
“The man who was shot…I know him.”
Then, from the beach came a muffled thud followed by several distant yells. Both Justina and the man in the wheelchair whipped their heads to the sounds, seeing a rolling mass tumbling inside of what looked like a large, black sheet.
From the beach, a woman screamed Gage’s name.
“Gage is with me,” Justina whispered.
As commotion reigned on the beach, the sniper and the man who’d shot Dmitry began speaking urgently, doing nothing to conceal their voices. The man in the wheelchair cupped his ear, listening to them.
“They’re trying to kill your friend.”
“Can you help?” Justina cried.
The man who’d been hiding behind the sea wall began running for the beach.
“Stay here,” the man in the wheelchair commanded. Then, keeping himself in the dark shadows, and making sure the umbrellas were between him and the sniper, he began rolling to where Dmitry had fallen.
* * *
Gage had purposefully landed downwind for greater speed and had impacted Xavier with both of his feet extended out in front of him. He’d kept his knees slightly bent but his closing speed had been tremendous, probably around fifty miles per hour. Thankfully the tall Spaniard was a moveable object. But, despite that fact, as Gage now clung to the man through the black of the crumpled Stiletto parachute, he could feel his own left leg, below the knee, popping and grinding.
It was a sensation known well to Gage—the grating of splintered bone against splintered bone.
After a few seconds—it felt like minutes—of scrambling in the murkiness of the parachute, Gage found the head of the gangster, still covered by the fabric. Gage wrapped the parachute’s low-profile lines around Xavier’s neck, choking him with one hand while hitting him with his other.
“Someone’s shooting!” Angelines yelled.
“Then get down!” Gage yelled back, struggling to maintain his hold.
In Gage’s weakened condition, and with his freshly broken leg, he didn’t have the strength or leverage to control Xavier. The Spaniard yanked Gage to the side, spinning him, giving Gage an unfortunate glimpse of his grotesquely broken leg—the one that appeared to have a new knee at mid-shin.
As Gage tumbled to the sand, Xavier burst from an opening in the parachute, a glinting blade in his hand.
“Gage!” Angelines screamed, grasping Xavier’s right hand before it could plunge downward. Holding the mobster’s arm, Angelines lurched forward, her mouth opened wide. Like a vampire, her clamping mouth found his neck, eliciting a screech from Xavier.
A hundred and fifty meters away, the sniper angled for a shot.
Worse, however, was the man on the ground, racing forward with an outstretched pistol.
* * *
They must be communicating by an open radio line, the man in the wheelchair realized. He knew this because the man on
the roof was openly speaking English, telling the one that had just jumped over the wall what he was seeing through his scope.
The man in the wheelchair reached down with his massive arm, finding the object that had rolled away from the dead Russian.
As he’d thought it was, indeed, a hand grenade. He took a quick glance at the grenade, appraising it as the same NATO variety grenade he’d been armed with in the Gulf.
After crossing himself, the man in the wheelchair, feeling as alive as he had since losing his legs in the Persian Gulf War, gripped the grenade in his right hand and pulled the pin. He let the spoon fall into his lap and counted to two. Then he lobbed the grenade over the massive umbrellas, listening with satisfaction as the half-kilo hand-bomb plunked on the roof.
There was a chirp of a shout—it was cut off by the explosion.
The man in the wheelchair watched with fascination as the sniper vaulted forward, briefly illuminated by the flash, tumbling onto the umbrellas below him. The man fell to the patio, his torn body silent and unmoving.
But more important to the man in the wheelchair was the rifle that tumbled down to the patio.
* * *
It was a primal scene. Angelines remained connected to Xavier like a snapping turtle. Despite his writhing, thankfully, she never let go. Back up at the street, a flash of light was soon followed by a calamitous boom. Gage instantly recognized it as a grenade report. Though his heart briefly sank as he feared for Justina, he saw the oncoming silhouette of a man, a pistol held out in front of him, zig-zagging in a fast crouch.
Gage tapped his chest, unaware of what had happened to the AutoMag in the collision. To his left, in the low surf, was Gennady. Blood bubbling from his mouth, Gennady unsteadily held a pistol outstretched. Despite the agony of his leg twisting over its splintered fracture, Gage propelled himself to Gennady’s outstretched hand by clawing the wet sand. He jerked the pistol from the Russian, whipping it around and firing the semi-automatic as fast as he could pull the trigger, unleashing four rounds at the rushing person. The man had been approaching in the manner of a person who wasn’t expecting to be fired upon. He was wrong.
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