by Haris Orkin
Johnson picked up a pair of binoculars and tried to get a closer look. “Who the hell are these guys?” Cordero shook his head.
The blades of the helicopter began to spin, faster and faster, kicking up dust as it rose into the air and headed east into the Mojave Desert.
Johnson grabbed a handset and called in on the radio. “We have possible multiple homicides at 775 Arbor Drive in Palmdale. I’m requesting police back up and EMTs.”
“Is the suspect still on the premises?” asked the female dispatcher.
“We don’t know,” Johnson snapped. “Just get those EMTs here!”
Cordero leaped from the van, gun in hand. Johnson climbed out and drew his weapon as well. “Come on,” Cordero said and he started running towards the McMansion. Johnson followed a few steps behind him.
When they reached the front walkway, the house exploded. The shockwave blew both men off their feet. They hit the ground hard as burning bits of building rained down.
They were already miles away and the roar of the main rotor was deafening, but the sound of the blast was unmistakable. Flynn glanced back to see the fire rising into the sky. What was left of the house was engulfed in flames, a bright, blazing bonfire illuminating an otherwise dark desert floor. Sancho was speechless, but not Dulcie.
“They can’t let us go now,” she said. “We’re witnesses.” She was only seven feet away from her captors, but the chopper was so loud, only Flynn and Sancho could hear her.
“Witnesses to what?” Sancho asked, his voice frantic with fear. “What did we see? We didn’t see nothing. When we left they were still alive! Right?”
Flynn smiled grimly and watched as the fire consuming Kursky’s pride and joy grew smaller and smaller.
Chapter Seventeen
The New River flows north from Mexicali, directly into the Salton Sea. It is considered the most polluted river in North America. That pollution, combined with the fertilizer runoff from surrounding farms, has coated the sea in a thick layer of algae, resulting in the demise of countless fish, suffocated by the lack of oxygen. The thousands of dead tilapia create an unbelievable stench. Pelicans eat the diseased fish and die and their rotting carcasses contribute to the odious aroma of death. In the summer, when the temperature rises above one hundred and ten, the place looks, feels, and smells like hell on Earth. From seven thousand feet up, however, the Salton Sea can be a beautiful sight.
Sancho, Dulcie and Flynn watched as the sun rose in the east, reflecting red off the Salton Sea. The helicopter soared over the vast expanse of water and, if Sancho hadn’t been in fear for his life, he would have enjoyed the view. He winced at the stench when it finally reached his nostrils. Dulcie held her nose. Mendoza looked depressed. Flynn, however, seemed to be having a wonderful time. There was a half-smile on his face as he watched the passing landscape and for some reason that pissed Sancho off to no end.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” shouted Dulcie. Only Flynn and Sancho could hear her.
“That’s the Salton Sea, so we’re probably heading to Mexico,” Flynn said.
“Baja?” Sancho asked.
Flynn nodded.
Rows and rows of ten-story tall wind turbines covered the hills near the border, the propellers spinning and generating power. They looked like space-age windmills; sleek and white and spinning in perfect unison. Sancho watched as they passed over them. He glanced at Flynn. He looked haggard, older, and not nearly so happy-go-lucky. The half-grin was gone. Sancho saw uncertainty now. Anxiety. Maybe even doubt. Flynn looked tired. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. There was stubble on his face and his eyes were rimmed red. Dulcie had dozed off, her head on Flynn’s chest, lulled to sleep by the roar of the chopper blades. Sancho closed his eyes. Adrenaline could only keep pumping for so long. He was crashing and he knew it. He longed for the oblivion of sleep and it wasn’t long before he had his wish.
When Sancho opened his eyes, a jolt of panic shot through him. The helicopter was heading directly into the side of a mountain. Sancho couldn’t hear himself scream over the din of the rotor reverberating off the wall of solid rock. Sancho squeezed his eyelids shut and braced for the collision. It would all be over soon. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t over at all. He opened one eye and then the other and saw that they’d crested the top of the mountain and were swooping down towards an amazing sight.
A Moorish castle perched on a rocky promontory overlooking the Sea of Cortez. The massive brick and stone structure had turrets and towers, spires and parapets. Sancho thought it was a strange sight to see on the coast of Baja; like something out of a medieval fairy tale.
“What the hell?” Sancho asked.
“The lair of our nemesis I imagine,” Flynn mused. “Now we’re finally getting somewhere.”
Dulcie yawned and opened her eyes as the helicopter landed on a helipad in a courtyard in the center of the castle. A cadre of dangerous looking men with automatic weapons awaited the chopper’s arrival. They looked like pirates, squinting into the dust kicked up by the chopper.
Mendoza climbed out first, followed by the pilot. The last man in the copter pushed out Flynn, Dulcie, and Sancho. The thugs surrounded them and devoured Dulcie with their hungry eyes. James offered her a smile full of bravado and held out his arm. She took it gratefully. They followed Mendoza into the castle, their footsteps echoing between the high stone walls.
Flynn watched as two tall wooden doors, carved in an intricate Moorish design, opened wide. Mendoza led the little parade into a marble-floored foyer. He looked up to high, ornate ceilings, decorated with carved wood and gold leaf. The walls were constructed of huge blocks of smooth stone. A massive wrought-iron candelabra chandelier hung down from above. The light bulbs were shaped like candles and burned with a flickering reddish flame. He glanced at two gleaming suits of conquistador armor that stood on either side of the door. Both had breastplates adorned with brass lions. One empty suit held a double-edge great sword. The other was posed with a tall halberd; a battle-axe topped with a vicious-looking spike.
Flynn sized-up the weapons, but didn’t glance at them directly. Instead he pretended to admire the dazzling twenty-five-foot-tall stained-glass window; a royal crest with castles and lions, intertwined with roses. Opposite the window was a long winding staircase that led to a second floor.
At the top of the staircase stood a tall, lean man with a receding hair-line. The hair that remained was black and thick and shot with gray. He wore a well-cut Versace suit that emphasized his wide shoulders. His eyes were dark and twinkled with humor or anger or maybe both. The man looked at Sancho and Dulcie and then rested his eyes on Flynn. He studied him carefully, and then glanced at Mendoza. “Is that him?”
Mendoza nodded.
Flynn offered the man a charming smile and said, “Mr. Goolardo, I presume.”
“And you are?”
“Flynn. James Flynn.”
“Welcome to my humble home, Mr. Flynn.” Goolardo moved gracefully as he made his way down the spiral staircase to greet them.
“It’s a Spanish castle, is it not?” Flynn queried. “Modeled on the Alcazar of Segovia?”
“Indeed,” Goolardo said, delighted by Flynn’s observation.
Mendoza, Dulcie, and Sancho looked at Flynn with astonishment as he went on to explain, “The Alcazar of Segovia was built by Muslims in the eighth century. It was the favorite residence of the kings of Castile and each monarch put their mark on it. Isn’t this where Queen Isabella married King Ferdinand the Second?”
“Correct,” Goolardo agreed, his smile growing wider.
Flynn looked at Dulcie to see she was staring at him in stunned wonderment. “The Alcazar is where Columbus asked Queen Isabella to fund his expedition to the New World.”
Goolardo turned to Mendoza. “It appears that our guest is very well informed.” Goolardo now looked at Flynn. “What else do you know, Mr. Flynn?” Flynn smiled cryptically and the humorous twinkle left Goolardo’s eye.
“You want me to take them down to the dungeon?” asked Mendoza. “See what I can find out?”
For the first time since Sancho met the man, Mendoza showed a flicker of enthusiasm. Dulcie blanched at the mention of the word dungeon. Flynn laughed. “You want to put me on the rack, Mr. Mendoza? Perhaps fit me for an iron maiden?”
“I hardly think that’s necessary,” Goolardo said.
“And not very hospitable,” offered Flynn.
“I agree.” Goolardo chuckled.
“In fact,” Flynn said. “You have yet to offer us any refreshments.”
Goolardo laughed again. “Well, why don’t you join me then? You’ve had a long journey. Do you enjoy daiquiris?” Mendoza looked perturbed. Goolardo caught the dark look. “Mr. Mendoza, do you have a problem with daiquiris?”
Mendoza shook his head. He looked as spooked as Dulcie and Sancho did.
Goolardo offered the entourage a charming smile. “Let’s have our drinks in the throne room.”
As Francisco Goolardo led them forward, Flynn probed him. “Is that a Brazilian accent I detect?”
“Indeed, it is,” Goolardo admitted. “I was born in Brasilia, the son of Roma gypsies, the descendants of those driven out of Spain during the Inquisition. Gypsies were considered heretics and sorcerers and many were exiled to South America. My great, great, great, great grandfather was involved in the slave trade and smuggling and the selling of vices of all kinds. At least that was the family mythology. You see, I come from humble origins, Mr. Flynn. My father, a grifter and a pickpocket, was murdered when I was nine. My mother moved us to Rio, where she fell ill. Spinal meningitis. I lost her at ten and since then have been on my own.”
“Not an easy life.”
“At nineteen I was convicted of armed robbery and sent to Ilha Grande. It was during the years of the military dictatorship and common street thugs were often incarcerated with members of the guerrilla movement working to overthrow the government. That’s where I met my mentor, Emilio. He became a surrogate father to me, you see. He taught me how to read and how to think and, after six years in prison, I had the equivalent of a university education. I learned about economics and literature and science and politics. I learned how to turn a spoon into a knife and how to kill a man with my bare hands.”
“A renaissance man.”
Goolardo smiled and led them down another corridor. “Emilio taught me that the drug dealers in the slums were a perfect microcosm of capitalist society. That there was a pecking order and hierarchy just like in any other corporation. One year before I was released from prison, Emilio was beaten to death by a guard. He had become too popular among the prisoners and was fomenting dissent. That was something the warden would not tolerate. Upon my release, I tracked the guilty guard to his home, cut his throat, killed his wife, his mother, and his children.
“You were making a statement.”
“I was staking a claim. Over the next few years, I used everything Emilio taught me to revolutionize the drug trade in Rio. I was a revolutionary, fighting the status quo. I allied myself with the largest of the Mexican and Columbian drug cartels and made myself a millionaire many times over. On the tenth anniversary of Emilio’s death, the warden of Ilha Grande Penitentiary was found dead in his bed, decapitated. His head was nowhere to be found and never seen again.”
Flynn understood then that Goolardo’s Alcazar was a monument to himself. It proved to the world that he had worth. That he was someone to reckon with. Not some gypsy orphan, but a man of substance. A man of respect.
James sipped his cocktail and examined a huge detailed mural that dramatized the coronation of Queen Isabella the Catholic. Flynn, Dulcie, and Sancho were in a long dramatic room with stained glass windows depicting the Spanish kings. Precious oriental carpets covered the floor. At the head of the room sat two ornate thrones. One of them was occupied by Francisco Goolardo.
“Enjoying your daiquiri, Mr. Flynn?”
“Very refreshing.”
“Most of the men I deal with don’t have the knowledge or the breeding to appreciate the finer things.”
Mendoza looked insulted. He stood by the stained-glass window depicting the arrival of Columbus in the New World, sipped his cocktail and sulked.
“A daiquiri isn’t a proper daiquiri without Cuban rum,” Flynn said as he took another sip and glanced at Goolardo. “Five-year-old Añejo reserva?”
“Very good.”
Sancho looked at James with amazement. Mendoza rolled his eyes. Dulcie, however, wasn’t even listening. She was chugging her drink down, desperate to numb her brain with alcohol as the anxiety of crystal meth withdrawal crawled through her veins.
“We’ve enjoyed a cocktail and some pleasant conversation, but I still feel as if I don’t know anything about you, Mr. Flynn.”
“What is it you’d like to know?”
“Who are you and how is it you know about my plan?” Goolardo asked.
Flynn smirked and sipped on his daiquiri.
“You want me to ask him?” Mendoza said.
“I was hoping we wouldn’t have to resort to that sort of unpleasantness, but—”
“He’s an escaped mental patient,” Sancho blurted. “From City of Roses Psychiatric.” He felt horrible saying that in front of Flynn, but he felt he had no choice. “He thinks he’s some kind of…secret agent or something.”
Mendoza looked stunned. Goolardo raised an eyebrow. “A mental patient?”
Sancho nodded. “I’m an orderly there and he escaped, like, two days ago.”
Flynn stared at Sancho as if he were the escaped mental patient.
“How interesting,” Goolardo said as he drained the last of his daiquiri. “Is this true, Mr. Flynn?”
Sancho cut in. “He doesn’t know he’s crazy. He thinks he’s—”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Goolardo snapped. The menace in his voice was palpable. Sancho shut up as Goolardo smiled again, turning on his charm like a switch. “I was talking to Mr. Flynn.”
“Nice try, Sancho,” Flynn said. “But Mr. Goolardo is no idiot.”
“No, I am not,” Goolardo agreed. “If you’re going to concoct some sort of story, I’d appreciate something a little more believable.”
“Sancho’s still in training,” Flynn said. “He doesn’t yet know that half-truths make the best lies.”
“Indeed,” Goolardo said as he put his hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “This man penetrated my organization, uncovered a top secret covert operation, and you want me to believe he’s an escaped lunatic?” Goolardo laughed. Mendoza looked irritated. Dulcie was on her third daiquiri. “He’s obviously a man of substance. Accomplished. Experienced.” Goolardo addressed Flynn directly now. “I’d rather not have to turn you over to a man like Mendoza, but that is exactly what I will be forced to do if you continue to refuse to confide in me. Mendoza is crude, but very effective. Eventually he will get you to talk. He always does. By then you and your friends will have met a very sad end.”
“I suppose there’s no reason not to tell you what I know,” Flynn replied. “My guess is your plan is about mind control.”
Goolardo’s eyes widened with surprise. “Go on.”
“And if you’re going to be controlling minds, why not control the minds of men who can give you what you want.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
Sancho was stunned. “He’s right? Are you serious?”
“How do you know about this?” Goolardo probed.
“It’s my job to know,” Flynn said.
“And to stop me.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry, my friend, but it’s too late. In less than twenty-four hours the ten richest men in the world will be in my thrall.”
Flynn’s eyes lit up as he connected the dots. “Angel Island.” Flynn smiled, nodding. “Randall Beckner’s private resort. On a clear day, you can probably see it from this Alcazar’s highest tower. It’s in the Sea of Cortez and every year Beckner hosts a r
etreat for the world’s ten richest men. Tycoons meet to exchange ideas, make deals—”
“And collude to continue the oppression of the working man,” Goolardo said.
“So, you’re a socialist like your mentor?” Flynn raised a surprised eyebrow.
“I’m an enlightened capitalist. I believe in social responsibility and a more equitable distribution of wealth. Pure socialism doesn’t work. People need incentive. They need to be rewarded. Otherwise you end up with what happened in the former Soviet Union.”
“And that’s why you’re taking control of them?” Flynn posited. “To distribute the wealth from them to you?”
Goolardo laughed. “Give me more credit than that, Mr. Flynn.”
“You’re kidnapping them?” Sancho was still a little confused.
“He’s doing much more than that,” Flynn said.
“That ransom for those vatos has gotta be—”
“Nothing,” Flynn continued. “Compared to what Mr. Goolardo will make when the stock market crashes on the news of their disappearance.”
“Very good, Mr. Flynn. Yes, my entire fortune is poised to take advantage of the market’s downturn.”
“You’re short selling all the stock and then once it drops, you’ll buy low and when you release the tycoons…”
“The market will rise…”
“And you’ll make…”
“Billions.”
“Brilliant,” Flynn said.
Goolardo smiled with pride. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet someone who understands. I do believe that fate has finally handed me an adversary worthy of my talents. I’m just sorry that our dance couldn’t have lasted a bit longer.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Mendoza mumbled as he grabbed Flynn by the arm.
“I agree,” Flynn replied. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to see your plan in action. It’s always entertaining to watch a master at work, no matter what the endeavor.”
Goolardo continued to grin. “You know, I do believe Mr. Flynn has a point. I’m thinking perhaps he and his friends should stay as our guests for at least a little while longer.”