He sensed something familiar about the man, perhaps someone he should know, someone from long ago. Then he felt another presence.
"May I ask what you're doing here?" Rodriguez recognized the voice of one of the nurses.
"I'm Doctor Orlich. I'm here to see this patient."
“I don't recall your name on our staff bulletins."
"I'm filling in. Short notice."
Rodriguez felt the weight of the bag near his feet as the man set it down. He heard the rasp of a zipper.
"What are you doing?" the nurse asked.
"The patient requires an injection." The white-haired man took something from the bag, a vial of liquid. He reached again and withdrew a syringe.
The nurse picked up the chart at the foot of his bed and began reading it. "I don't see where Doctor Logan prescribed an injection."
"I spoke with Dr. Logan half an hour ago. He said the patient has been restless."
“There is no Dr. Logan," the nurse said. "I made up the name. The patient's physician is Dr. Reiner."
"And you have outsmarted yourself." The man dropped the syringe onto the bed and grabbed the nurse with both hands. She tried to call out, but managed only muffled sounds. The man had his left hand on her mouth, holding her tight. With his right hand he reached for the syringe and plunged it into her neck.
The nurse went limp and he laid her on the floor. Rodriguez couldn't see the woman, but could hear her thrashing as if suffering a seizure or heart attack.
He felt helpless. He couldn't sit up, could barely move. Then he remembered the pistol. Darcy had pushed it under the left side of the pillow. His left hand lay at his waist. Struggling mightily, he moved it upwards three inches.
The nurse stopped thrashing and the stillness of death permeated the room. The man reached into his black medical bag and withdrew a second syringe. He lifted the vial.
Six more inches. Rodriguez struggled for inches, each movement of his hand a gargantuan accomplishment.
The white-haired man held the vial and syringe toward the ceiling. He drew the plunger back and filled the hypodermic with the liquid that sent the nurse into convulsions.
Three inches more.
Rodriguez worried whether he could lift the pistol once he reached it. It was light, a Beretta. He had fired thousands of rounds with this particular type of weapon. He knew the weight, the feel, the location of the safety, the exact amount of force to use on the trigger.
The white-haired man held the syringe toward the door and checked its contents. He turned and approached the bed, the syringe in front of him.
Rodriguez thrust his hand up, and under the pillow.
There it was.
If the white-haired man had noticed Rodriguez’s movement in the darkness, he gave no indication. He reached with one hand and pulled off the covers, exposing Rodriguez’s body. He bent down, and pulled up Rodriguez’s hospital gown.
Summoning every bit of strength, Rodriguez pulled the Beretta from beneath the pillow and thrust it forward. The white-haired man looked up, his face going blank as he saw the gun. His eyes widened as the Beretta fired.
"You bastard," the man stammered. He staggered backward, hand to his right shoulder. He regained his balance and moved forward, the deadly hypodermic now in his left hand. The wound had slowed him, but he came closer just the same. Rodriguez recognized there was nothing more he could do, no way he could lift the gun again. Three feet from the bed, the man stumbled and fell forward, sprawling face down, the top of his head hitting Rodriguez’s leg.
Dead? No.
The man fought his way back up, lifting himself on his elbows, then fell again.
It wasn't until he tried a second time: face straining, holding himself high, then collapsing on the bed, that Rodriguez knew the man with the snow white hair wasn't going to get up.
Not now or ever.
The syringe had lodged in his throat.
***
When the bullet first hit the white-haired man, he knew instinctively the wound in his shoulder was not fatal. A lifetime on the streets, killing, wounding and being wounded taught him enough to know he would recover.
But he hadn't counted on tripping over the dead nurse's leg and falling against the bed. As he struggled to raise himself and felt the sudden sensation of pain rush through his chest, he realized immediately what had happened. He knew that, for him, the fight had ended.
Mendoza and Lobo. Lobo and Mendoza. The team dissolved in a single awkward move.
Lobo lay dying; now it was up to Mendoza.
He knew the Monster would not fail.
93
1:07 a.m.
"Miss James, what a surprise. To paraphrase one of your American authors, the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated."
"C. J., what the hell?" Ken’s words trailed off. He began walking toward Rathmore.
"Stay there."
Cunningham stopped in his tracks. "C. J., what about these DVDs?"
"Miss James is correct." The yellow glare from the emergency lights reflected off the round lenses of Rathmore's glasses making it impossible to see his eyes and creating an appearance more sinister than the gun he pointed.
Ken turned to me. "I swear, Darcy, I had nothing to do with these DVDs. With you and Higgins gone, I’ve had to run the account. Rathmore asked me to store the discs where they wouldn't be found. But I had no idea..."
"No," Rathmore said. "You were the perfect dupe."
I asked, "Who are you? Who do you work for? Mendoza?"
A hollow laugh. “I am Mendoza."
A chill ran through me. "But the photograph of Mendoza the police uncovered resembles Robert Bacalla."
"Ah, the unfortunate photograph. The only one ever taken of either of us. The face is indeed the man you refer to as Robert Bacalla. In my country he is known as Lobo."
"But the authorities say Mendoza assassinated that government official."
"Yes. Lobo was there to cover my exit. In the picture I stood out of sight, directly behind him.
“Now I will ask the questions." Mendoza motioned to the pistol. "It is imperative you provide the correct answers."
Ken raised a clenched fist. "I'll be damned if I do another thing for you, Rathmore...Mendoza, or whatever the hell your name is."
The pistol in Mendoza's hand barked, and Ken fell to the floor. He rolled over screaming, holding his left knee with both hands.
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"I repeat: I will ask the questions...and shoot again and again if the answers are not correct."
I’d had enough of the bastard. "You're going to kill us anyway."
"Perhaps. But there are ways to die. Death can be quick, or you can beg me to end your pain.
"Now, who besides yourselves is aware of the message on the discs? And please think carefully before you answer; I will make it very unpleasant if you lie."
My head reeled. I couldn’t block out the sounds Ken made, moaning with pain as he rolled on the cement floor. No one knew we were here, and I was the only one with the information Mendoza wanted.
If I gave him the names, the others -- Higgins, Carter, Kaminski and Rodriguez would die along with Ken and me. The conspiracy would go undetected, and Mendoza and his people would control the government of the United States. Major cities plagued by drugs and drug-related crime just a few years ago would slip back into the morass. Somehow I had to deal with the pain. I couldn't let that happen.
"The names, please." Mendoza motioned with the pistol.
Cunningham glared, his face a mask of pain, fear and anger. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The gun barked again and Cunningham let out another yelp, this time clutching his right knee.
"Ken!" I cried. I couldn’t help it, I couldn't bear seeing my friend suffer. "Ken, I'm so sorry." Immediately, I regretted letting Rathmore see my weakness.
"Mr. Cunningham apparently doesn't have the answers. But, Miss James, I know you do." Mendoza mov
ed to Ken’s writhing form on the floor. "I’ll give you five seconds to tell me what I want to know, or the next bullet ends his life."
"Don't tell him, Darcy. Don't..." Ken fell over, passed out from pain and shock.
Baaammm!
I jumped as the explosion of a gunshot echoed through the empty room. It took a second to recognize it hadn't come from Mendoza's weapon.
Mendoza reacted with the spring of a jungle animal. Suddenly behind me, his arm reached around my throat, using me as a shield between him and the doorway fifty feet away.
"Whoever you are, give up your weapon and show yourself, or the woman dies.”
Seconds passed. A gun came sliding across the cement floor. A moment later Garry Kaminski materialized from the darkness, hands over his head.
Why the hell did he surrender? Our last chance lay in his coming back with more cops. "Get out of here!" I screamed.
"Come here,” Mendoza countered. "The woman dies in five seconds. One...two..."
Garry walked slowly toward us, stopping a few feet away. Mendoza recognized him immediately. My ex-husband had questioned him after Vince Caponi’s death.
"Turn to the wall, Sergeant Kaminski. Spread your arms and legs." Mendoza pushed me away and faced Garry, now spread-eagled against the cement wall.
"I have heard police often carry a second weapon." Keeping a discreet distance behind my ex-husband Mendoza leaned in, running his hand up and down Garry’s sleeves, and around his middle. He found nothing.
Mendoza kneeled and ran his hand down one leg, then the other. He smiled as he felt Garry’s right ankle. Lifting the pant leg, he pulled a small pistol from the ankle holster.
"You policeman aren't so smart." He looked at me: "What is your connection to Sergeant Kaminski? You referred to him by his first name."
"I don't have to answer that, you bastard." If this man was going to kill us all, he sure as hell wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
"That woman is my former wife," Garry said suddenly. "Don't kill her. And please...please...don't kill me."
Garry? Whining? This from the tough cop I had been married to?
"So this is the kind of policeman you have in Detroit." Mendoza sneered. "Cowards."
"Don't shoot. Please don't shoot."
"Look, he's pissing his pants." Mendoza laughed and I saw a dark spot forming at the crotch of Garry's light chino trousers.
In the past, I sometimes wondered what went through the minds of people in the moment they realized they were about to die. Now I knew. A feeling of sheer terror. No pictures of my life flashing before my eyes. Instead, my heart pounded wildly in my chest, my throat felt dry and tight, like someone choking me.
"My pants. I'm peeing my pants." I felt sorry for my ex-husband. I once looked to the man as a hero, and now his reaction was making things worse. I felt terrified for myself, and embarrassed for him. The cops he worked with always talked about his nerve under fire.
As Garry unbuckled his belt, Mendoza reveled in the display.
"I can't stand the wet." Garry now unbuttoned his trousers.
"He's performing a strip for us," Mendoza said.
Garry’s pants hung around his knees, and he reached into his under shorts. I had the horrible thought he would pull them off as well.
"He's going to take out his...his business."
"Here's my business." Garry’s voice no longer a whine, but a growl. He yanked a pistol from his under shorts and fired it directly into Mendoza's face.
The bullet slammed through Mendoza's right cheek. As he fell, he managed to lift his gun and shoot.
To my horror I saw the last bullet Mendoza would ever fire had struck home. Garry fell backward, a spot of blood expanding rapidly across his white shirt.
"Garry! Garry!" I cried, running to him as he crumpled onto the cement floor.
Too late. He couldn't hear me.
EPILOGUE
A cool January breeze meandered across warm white sand, carrying welcome relief to tourists baking on the ocean side of the Xanadu Hotel.
The breeze found Darcy lying on a towel, face to the sun and eyes closed, wondering why everyone didn't spend January in the Bahamas. Here winter refused to intrude on crystal clear waters, sandy white beaches and warm moonlit evenings. Here waves could be heard stroking the shore every evening from a tenth story bedroom window. And words like cold and snow were as distant as the events of October.
The wedding had come off smashingly, and it would be another week before they were expected back at Adams & Benson.
The agency had taken over all American Vehicle Corporation business as of January first, and with Ken Cunningham still recuperating, the transition hadn’t gone particularly smoothly. But Baron Nichols could handle it.
Getting the business had meant good and bad news for Nichols. The good news: he finally got his wish to head up an AVC creative team. He’d been appointed creative supervisor on Advancer sport utility and AVC pickups. The bad news, at least for him: he reported to Darcy James. She had been promoted to vice president, creative director, over the entire AVC account.
More good news: with the drug cartels’ plot exposed and the truth behind the murders known, she and Higgins were looked upon as heroes, a major turnaround from October.
It had taken time for the evidence to reach the proper authorities, and for those in power to act. In fact, it hadn’t happened soon enough.
Niles VanBuhler’s election to the nation’s highest office shocked political pundits who had given him no chance six months earlier. But the surprise of his election was nothing next to the shock that came days afterward when VanBuhler’s deception was disclosed and he went from being hailed to jailed, as a traitor. He and running mate Reed Conley were currently free on bond and managing to stay clear of the national spotlight. It would be months before a trial date was even set. Darcy felt sorry for Conley, a former Congressman from North Carolina, who may have been innocent of any wrongdoing.
A week of political intrigue followed the election as the nation found itself without a President-elect. The Supreme Court resolved the issue with one of the most controversial decisions in its history. The Court voted five to four against a new election, awarding victory to David Nordstrum. Nordstrum had come within an eyelash of winning and few doubted he would have gained reelection had it not been for the cartel plot.
David Nordstrum's inauguration would take place just days from now. He called the cartels’ action an “act of terrorism” and intended to announce, with the cooperation of the other countries involved, the expansion of America’s war on drugs to include raids on cartel properties in Mexico and Central and South America.
The plot to guarantee VanBuhler's election had been a combination of genius and blind luck. Mendoza had carefully scripted the planting of subliminal messages, right up to importing the Russian expert; but discovering their candidate had a former college friend who headed a major advertising agency was pure good fortune. Once they uncovered Joe Adams' love for alcohol and gambling, the rest came easy.
VanBuhler arranged a weekend trip to the Bahamas, a friendly reunion of two old college buddies. Adams, delighted that his friend had named A & B to handle his advertising, took to the bait like a ravenous rainbow ravaging a fly. There followed a weekend of booze, broads and big time losses at the crap tables, courtesy of the Mexican connection. Gambling debts became the nail in Joe Adams' financial coffin that forced him to sell the agency his father had founded. The highest bidder, the British holding company Solomon & Solomon, turned out to be a laundering operation for Mexican drug money. Once the agency became the property of Solomon & Solomon, Bacalla, a.k.a. Lobo, took over as head of the VanBuhler team. The fact they had monitored agency telephones early explained a number of things. Intercepting Caponi's call to Darren Cato was one; pinpointing Darcy and Higgins' whereabouts in northern Michigan had been another. And once Bacalla learned of Darcy’s suspicions, he had her home telephone monitored as we
ll, overhearing the call that led to Manny Rodriguez’s savage beating.
Not everyone on the VanBuhler staff was privy to the plot. Mendoza hired advertising and political professionals to carry on the day-to-day business of electing a third-party candidate, providing an effective front for his henchmen’s activities.
But it was Kaminski who saved the day, and saved Darcy’s life. Darcy learned the story from the security guard who led Kaminski downstairs to where she and Cunningham were held by Mendoza. Kaminski had left Higgins and returned to Adams & Benson to arrest her. He found no one in the lobby except a clean-up crew and the night security guard. The guard told him no one remained upstairs.
Kaminski had a sudden inspiration; he asked the guard to play the last fifteen minutes of a disc from one of the lobby security cameras. When he played the action in fast-forward fashion there they were: Cunningham, then Darcy and finally C. J. Rathmore crossing the lobby and entering the basement stairwell.
The security guard led Kaminski into the basement and through the labyrinth of halls to the large room. They heard voices as they approached. Looking in, Kaminski saw Cunningham on the floor, blood bubbling from his leg, Mendoza pointing the gun at Darcy. Kaminski quickly dismissed the idea of taking a shot from where he stood, fifty feet away. He had seconds to piece a plan together.
The pressure of a full bladder made it difficult to concentrate. He had spent the earlier part of the evening drinking coffee in his car, and was paying the price. But the discomfort gave him an idea.
Knowing he might be searched for a second gun, he borrowed the security guard's weapon, placing it in his ankle holster. He shoved the tiny Beretta he carried in his ankle holster into the crotch of his underwear. It was a high-risk plan, but all he had. He prayed that Rathmore wouldn't go near his crotch when patting him down.
The plan worked, right up to the time Kaminski took a bullet in the chest.
"Hey, Darcy. You gonna lie there all day? It's almost noon...time for a Bahama Mama."
Darcy opened her eyes to see Rosie D standing over her. She sat up, one hand shading her eyes. "Where's Garry?"
"Over at the drink tent, where'd ya think? Sean's meeting the three of us there for lunch."
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