Payoff

by Douglas Corleone

  I didn’t even bother slowing down. As I neared him, he drew a pistol, aimed it at my chest. I placed my hands up, palms out, so that they were about level with my shoulders.

  He spit out something threatening in Spanish, then cocked the hammer.

  With my left hand I swiftly grabbed his right forearm, pushed it away from his body so that the barrel was no longer facing me. At the same time I rotated my right shoulder back and spun around so that I was almost standing beside him. Maintaining control of his arm with my left, I grasped the pistol with my right. With my right hand wrapped tightly around the muzzle, I rotated the pistol in his hand so that he was holding the gun on himself.

  I dared him to fire.

  When he didn’t fire, I ripped the pistol out of his hand, heard the crack of his index finger as it caught in the trigger guard.

  As he screamed, I swung around behind him, turning the weapon in my hand. Then with the butt of the gun, I struck him hard on the back of his head, and he crumpled.

  I pocketed his pistol, looked around. Just as I’d suspected, no one even turned toward his scream. Not their problem.

  I rolled his unconscious body under the van, out of sight.

  Then I started up the broken cobblestone alleyway after the men who had Mariana.

  Chapter 44

  I caught sight of the crew just as they were leading Mariana down a steep set of cement stairs. One of the men looked back but I ducked behind a wall just in time. I waited a moment, then stole a glance. The man was apparently tasked with guarding the stairwell.

  I could hear Mariana’s voice in my ear but it faded the farther she descended. I couldn’t very well wait here. I’d have to deal with this second sentinel, and fast.

  Behind the tall reddish pillars across the courtyard, I glimpsed movement. There was my ticket, and he was crossing this way. A man of the cloth. I didn’t need the man so much, but the cloth would come in pretty damn handy.

  I stood flat against the wall and waited. There was no way to know whether the monks were involved in any way with this criminal organization, but I decided I wasn’t going to afford them the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, it wasn’t as though I were going to kill the clergyman. At worst, he’d wake with a rotten headache.

  Now I had a decision to make. I could use an air choke, which would temporarily cut off the air to the monk’s lungs and heart. Problem was, rendering him unconscious could take as long as three minutes. The clock was ticking. So I decided to go with the riskier but quicker blood choke, temporarily cutting off the blood to the brain by applying pressure to his carotid artery.

  I grabbed him soon as he stepped past me.

  Within eight seconds he was out cold and as silent as, well, a Byzantine monk.

  I removed his hooded black robe and threw it on over my clothes. The robe fell down to my ankles. I slipped the hood over my head and stepped out into the sunny courtyard.

  I folded my hands and kept them in front of me, waist-high. I hung my head as though in deep thought, perhaps praying.

  As I approached the man at the top of the stairs, he hardly gave notice. When he finally did turn in my direction, I delivered a single blow to his nose. His head snapped back, struck the wall; then his body leaned to the right and went over the stairs. He tumbled down a baker’s dozen before coming to a stop, his face all bloody, his left arm bent back in the wrong direction.

  I grimaced. I hadn’t intended for him to pull a Father Damien.

  I started down the steps. Checked his pulse. Fortunately, unlike Damien Karras, this guy was going to make it. No broken neck, just a badly fractured arm.

  I left him there and continued down the stairs.

  Mariana’s voice slowly returned to my ear, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Head down, the black hood pulled low, I crept along the wall of a tunnel that seemed to be leading me closer to the signal.

  I reached a small wooden door and propped myself against the wall just next to it.

  I was further relieved to hear that Estefan was still trying to impress Mariana with his English.

  “We have clothes for you to wear this first time,” he was telling her. “In the future, you are to purchase your own. Dress neither like a pauper nor a princess. You want to remain as unnoticeable as possible.” He paused. “Of course, your natural beauty, nothing can be done about.”

  “What are those for?” Mariana said.

  “Relax, dear. They are just scissors.”

  My right hand instinctively moved toward my gun.

  “What for?” she said.

  “Javier here will cut the fingers off latex gloves and use the fingers to wrap the merchandise in.” He uttered something to Javier in Spanish, then said, “See, Mariana?”

  “That looks rather large.”

  “We will dip it in milk. That will make the pellet easier to swallow.”

  “How many pellets will I have to carry?”

  “The first time, only fifty or so. Once you arrive in the States, you will be provided laxatives so that the pellets pass swiftly.”

  “What are those?”

  “These? They are only grapes. Before we make our first attempt with a pellet, we shall practice with these grapes. Now, dear, lean your head back, open your mouth wide, and relax the throat.”

  We hadn’t anticipated any practice. We’d agreed that Mariana would try to extract the information before she was asked to swallow anything—but we assumed she’d be swallowing the balloons only.

  “I can do this,” she said.

  I didn’t know whether she was speaking to him or trying to get the message to me. She may have been telling me not to come in, to wait: I can handle a couple grapes.

  It was a difficult decision but I waited. There was always the code—Gabriel García Márquez.

  I heard her gag reflex kick in and I nearly kicked in the door.

  But then Mariana seemed to recover. “I am all right,” she said between coughs. “Just give me a minute or two.”

  The room was silent for a few moments; then she asked, “Do the other girls have so much trouble swallowing these in the beginning?”

  “It depends,” Estefan said.

  “On what exactly?”

  Javier muttered something crude in Spanish, and he and Estefan laughed heartily.

  “Yes,” Estefan said, still cracking up. “It depends mostly on their level of experience.”

  Mariana feigned a bit of laughter herself, then said, “When will I get to meet these other girls?”

  There was a lengthy hesitation and I readied myself. There were at least two men inside. Two, if one of the men who’d exited the van was Javier. At least three, if Javier was already here when they arrived.

  “Darío,” Estefan said, “get me some water.”

  That cleared things up somewhat. Now I knew there were at least three.

  I had to assume all of them would be armed. I didn’t know the layout of the place, which created a terrible disadvantage for me. I’d told Mariana to duck for cover but I couldn’t rule out Estefan or one of the others using her as a human shield.

  “Why do you wish to meet the girls?” Estefan said to Mariana.

  “I would like to ask them what to expect when I reach Philadelphia.”

  “Relax. We will tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Do all the girls receive the same amount of pay?”

  She was trying to find out if any of the girls worked against their will, but I highly doubted Estefan would provide the relevant answers.

  “Do you think I am not paying you enough?” he said.

  “I am just—how you say?—curious.”

  “Well, you would do well to remember, Mariana, that curiosity killed the pussycat.”

  The men in the room became hysterical again, and I tried to distinguish their laughter. I was pretty sure now that there were only three and that Estefan was closest to Mariana. The others were considerably farther away. Which meant I’d ha
ve to take Estefan out first.

  “What you should be concerned with, Mariana, is only these pellets. Watch Javier. Make sure he wraps them well. If one were to open in your stomach, terrible things would happen. You would die. And if you died, I would lose a lot of money.”

  It seemed clear that Estefan intended to evade any questions about the other girls, so I’d have to go in, neutralize the threats, and keep at least one man alive.

  “Open your mouth,” Estefan said. “I am just going to spray this mixture of analgesic and water. It will lubricate and numb your throat so that you do not gag. Then I will give you pills to slow your digestion. After you take those pills, we will practice some more with the grapes before we begin with the pellets.”

  “And after the pellets?”

  “Once you swallow the pellets, you will lie down and Javier will manipulate their positioning in your stomach so that it looks as though your uterus has expanded, as opposed to just your belly.”

  Estefan would be holding the spray bottle in his hand, but he’d be standing too close to her for me to get a safe shot off. I’d told Mariana that if she couldn’t get the information to wait until everyone was far enough away from her so that she could gain cover, then signal me with the code.

  I listened to the mist.

  Removed the Glock 20.

  Felt my heart pounding hard in my chest under the heavy black robe.

  “Tell to me,” Mariana said. “What should I do if I get stopped at the airport?”

  “You will not get stopped. Just act natural and do not tremble and you will be fine.”

  “But if I am not fine?”

  “There will be several girls boarding your flight at the same time. If one gets stopped, then the others pass through.” Estefan’s voice was filling with impatience. “Now, are you ready to practice with the grapes?”

  “Just one more question.”

  He sighed, reined himself in. “What is this last question?”

  “Will I be able to bring a book with me on the plane?”

  Estefan chuckled. “Don’t be silly. Of course you may have a book on the plane.”

  I moved directly in front of the door and lifted my leg. Aimed for the spot just below the knob.

  “Good,” she said. “Because I would very much like to read One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márq—”

  Chapter 45

  By all rights, kicking in that door should have been my final act in life.

  Cut to black.

  Wait sixty seconds.

  Roll the credits.

  I stood about as much of a chance as Tony Soprano getting out of that diner alive, with his onion rings intact.

  Javier reacted as fast as any federal agent I’d ever known. Standing only a few feet from the door—a major miscalculation on my part—he raised a sawed-off shotgun. With his arm fully extended, the shotgun’s barrel was less than six inches from my right temple.

  I had no chance to defend against it. My Glock was aimed at Estefan, who was already reaching for his own gun. I knew then that I had fucked up. Badly. Once I was dead, they would kill Mariana, and Olivia Trenton would be gone for good.

  But for Darío.

  When I entered, his own weapon was already raised. In fact, he had already fired. It was as though he’d moved on the phrase “Gabriel García Márquez,” same as I had. Maybe even at One Hundred Years of Solitude.

  Darío’s bullet nearly sliced Javier’s head in half. It was so fast, Javier hadn’t even managed to slip his finger around the trigger of his sawed-off shotgun.

  I fired the Glock at Estefan, aiming for his right shoulder. The bullet spun him around and caused him to drop his weapon.

  From the corner of my eye, I’d seen Mariana dive for cover. So it was just Darío and me, mano a mano.

  Had Darío simply missed his target? Javier had been standing so close to me, it was impossible to tell.

  Nevertheless, I swung the Glock in Darío’s direction and hesitated for half a second.

  That half second was enough time for Darío to shout, “D-E-A.”

  Slowly and simultaneously, we lowered our weapons. I kicked Estefan’s gun clear, then asked Mariana whether she was all right.

  “I am fine,” she said breathlessly.

  Meanwhile, Darío was moving like a dart toward the front of the room. He checked his handiwork, then stepped over Javier and closed the door.

  “The other two men,” Darío said. “Where are they?”

  My heart raced. Had I just knocked one DEA agent unconscious and sent another tumbling down a dozen concrete stairs?

  “Out cold,” I said.

  “Good,” Darío said. “Then we have some time.”

  I released a sigh of relief. “Time for what?”

  He stared down at Estefan, who was holding his left hand tightly to the gunshot wound on his right shoulder, breathing heavily.

  “To get the information you need,” Darío said to me.

  He held out his hand. He had a mop of dark hair atop his head, a prominent scar trailing from his left ear to his jaw. “Emanuel Vega,” he said. “Bogotá Country Office.”

  I took his hand in mine. “Simon,” I said. “Simon Fisk.”

  * * *

  With Estefan seated on the floor, back against the wall, suffering, I thought of Emma Trenton and the hell she’d gone through the night of the home invasion, and it strengthened my resolve.

  Before we began our interrogation, I turned to Vega and asked, “Any chance more of Estefan’s confederates are on the way?”

  “I don’t think so, but Grey has set up a perimeter around the monastery nonetheless.”

  “This is an official operation, then?”

  Vega smiled conspiratorially. “This is Colombia. There is a very fine line between official and unofficial. Let’s just say, we will get creative when it comes time to prepare our reports.”

  I placed my hand firmly on his shoulder. “Thank you,” I told him. “You saved my life.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Vega shook his head. “Thank Grey,” he said as he turned away from me.

  It was only then that I realized why Grey had left me the listening devices. Only then did I determine who was in the dark Chevy Trooper outside the Changó nightclub in Cali, who was in the aqua blue minivan parked in front of the church across from the pool hall here in Bogotá. Mariana and I had never once truly been alone. Grey had been watching and listening like a guardian angel the entire time. I owed him a great deal of thanks, not to mention an apology.

  I turned to Vega. “How long have you been undercover with Estefan?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours, Simon. Estefan tried to throw all this together in a single day. He’s small-time. As far as I know, he’s never attempted to smuggle so much as a gram outside Colombia before today.”

  “I don’t understand. Why didn’t Grey call me off?”

  Vega pointed at the body near the door. “Estefan led us to Javier. He was the one we thought might have information on the girl you’re looking for. I didn’t want to kill him. But he was fast. I couldn’t risk anything less than a headshot, or you’d be dead.” He paused. “Then Grey would never have let me hear the end of it.”

  “So Estefan won’t be able to help us at all?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. He has connections. He supplies a number of young dealers in Bogotá. As we dismantled the major cartels and improved interdiction, more and more cocaine began circulating in Colombia’s major cities. It became cheaper and even more accessible, so more Colombians tried it, especially teens and preteens. They became hooked, and domestic demand rose to absurd levels. Small-time criminals like Estefan replaced the big-time drug lords.”

  It was essentially what Grey had told me. By trying to prevent cocaine from reaching the States, we’d inadvertently turned Colombia into one giant crack den.

  “So we are dealing with a new business model,” Vega said. “I suspect Javier over there got his product dir
ectly from the factories.”

  “And Estefan?”

  He turned and looked at the man sitting on the floor against the wall. The man I’d shot in the shoulder.

  Vega said, “We won’t know until we ask him.”

  I nodded. Said, “All right. Let’s get to it, then.”

  Chapter 46

  Estefan did indeed have intelligence on the whereabouts of Olivia Trenton. In fact, as Vega pressed his thumb into the gunshot wound on Estefan’s right shoulder, the Colombian drug pusher fed us more details about Olivia’s abduction than any of us ever expected.

  He didn’t know who had actually executed the home invasion and kidnapping in Calabasas, but Estefan did learn from Javier that it was a Panamanian mara that had passed Olivia onto the Colombians. In return, the Panamanians received a significant amount of product, which they would then ship through Mexico into the United States. Without having to pay wholesale, their profit margin would be 100 percent. Estefan estimated the Panamanian gang would make a few million dollars off the deal.

  Estefan didn’t know who had taken the eight and a half million dollars, but he had heard plenty of rumblings about it. The Colombians had threatened not to provide the cocaine to the Panamanians unless they explained exactly where the $8.5 million had gone. The Panamanians insisted they had nothing to do with the ransom. Whatever transpired, the Panamanians said, it had transpired in Los Angeles, not in Panama City.

  At first Estefan flat-out refused to tell us just who was involved here in Colombia.

  “They will kill me if I tell you,” he said.

  “I will kill you if you don’t,” I replied, removing the Glock from my waistband again.

  “You cannot,” Estefan insisted even as his face turned pale. “You are men of the law and not Colombian law. You are cowardly Americans. You will taunt me, you will torture me, but you will not kill me. You will turn me over to Colombian authorities or you will lose your cozy jobs.”

  Vega pressed his thumb deeper into Estefan’s wound. He waited for the Colombian’s screams to die out before saying, “Haven’t you heard anything about the United States over the past twelve years? Or have you been living under a fucking rock?”