—Shit! — Juandi exclaimed, jumping out of bed—. The food, is going to burn!
He ran out naked from the room and Rachel heard him jump along the wooden steps, which complained as he went by. A few seconds later he heard a curse, followed by a noise of pots. She burst into laughter, imagining the giant naked man jumping between the stoves, and she knew that he loved him.
Chapter 38
He could not stay in the closet, he was clearly visible since he could not close the door but going out with that maniac on the porch was practically a suicide. He just had to turn his head to one side and he could be dead.
On the other hand, he must do something soon, for Jurgen's cries had gone from terrible shrieks of pain, to muffled sobs, and Jonás knew that the German had little left.
He poked his head slowly and saw the man still in the same place, lighting another cigarette and covering the light breeze that had been raised with his hand. He took advantage of the moment and left the pantry at full speed, praying that the Italian did not look in his direction. When he reached the doors that separated the kitchen from the living room he was petrified. They were closed, and through the smoked glass you could clearly see the figure of Chacón and Jurgen sitting on a chair. He could not break in there without being discovered —and possibly killed by the old man— but he could not retrace his steps and enter in the kitchen again, as the other guy would surely discover it. He started sweating, scared, and looking for any other alternative, but there were no more loopholes there. He could only go back or move forward and risk. His heart was pumping hard in his chest, and he felt the pressure of that anxiety rise in a hot ball down his throat and struggle to get out of his body. He imagined that this was exactly what was called "throw the heart by the mouth". His restlessness increased when he heard the porch slide close and saw how the Italian, inside the kitchen, was busy to fit one of the windows that had been trapped in the rail. He tried to flee, but there were no options left. In just a few seconds they would discover him, and the possibilities of the German and his own would vanish in a stroke, so he decided to do the only thing he could think of. He opened the doors of the room and, without even looking, rammed his head down like a fighting bull. He felt the impact on the crown, which hit something hard and sharp, but did not stop. Adrenaline pushed him like a supercharged fuel engine, and though he saw scarlet droplets fall from the tip of his nose, he felt no pain. He laid the old man on the ground and hit him in the face without even looking where his fists hit. He only wanted to hurt, little he cared where to do it. He knew he was going to die, that in a few seconds the other man would come from behind and put a bullet in the back of his neck, but he did not care anymore. All the rage and frustration for his grandfather, his father and himself flowed as if it were a river descending runaway in its flow, unstoppable by many branches and trunks that were in its way. He heard muffled sounds behind him and prepared for the shot, but what happened momentarily knocked him out. A face fell to the floor next to him, hitting hard with the parquet flooring. Immediately, hands grabbed him by the shoulders and hoisted him up. He found himself hitting the air and sobbing when Jurgen's bloody face appeared in front of him.
—Jones, we must leave! —he shouted in despair.
Before even knowing what had happened, he found himself being dragged through the kitchen and noticing the breeze and the evening that was extinguished on the horizon over his damp face.
—We must head for the tents! —Jurgen roared—. It's the only chance we must escape!
Jonah lived what happened next as if he was in a dream in which details were missing. He saw himself jumping from the porch to the hot sand by the scorching sun of the day and running towards a sea of white cloths that fluttered in the wind. At some point they had to reach the land where the beach became a swarm of tourists, because he was dragged between white walls of cloth without knowing where he was going. Jurgen ran ahead and held him by the arm in order not to separate in that labyrinth of tents and fires. At one point, the German abruptly changed his career and pushed Jonás into a small ocher-colored tent. Seconds later, he lay down beside him and gestured with a finger to keep quiet. Jonás later thought —as incredible as it seemed to be—, that he had fallen asleep in there, because the next thing he remembered was sitting on the side of a huge bonfire and listening to notes that came from a Spanish guitar next to a drunken crowd with alcohol and party.
****
She had been watching from the prudent distance that had been dictated by the reason and the academy books, but she could not help feeling some impatience for not knowing what was happening inside the house. The microphones placed just a few hours before gave her a pretty good idea of the situation, but the moment they stopped issuing sentences to burst into shouts and blows, it no longer made sense to remain with the helmets and waiting. Her idea from the beginning had been not to intervene until it was necessary, but the situation had gone out of control and she had to do something if she did not want to lose her position in the operation.
She deployed two of her men to the back of the house and left them waiting. Then he took two more with her and surrounded the front garden. When she was about to break into the house, she received information on his right earphone that made her to vary the tactic. She retired immediately and advanced crouching until she reached the edge of the promenade. From there she could recognize her two clearly visible men, running across the white sand that had already begun to be tinged with darkness. Uniformed in black, they showed more than a bug in a bucket of milk, so she ordered them to continue following the seafront, where the shadows had already won the game in daylight. She herself followed that line, but not before giving instructions to her two companions to stay at home and follow in all its two occupants, but without acting.
When Anabel crossed the tangle of tent’s fabrics minutes later, her mind was already plotting the alternative plan and concluding that she had made a mistake in trusting that those two murderers would facilitate her work. Chacón was clearly a torturous psychopath, and Mauro, what to speak of the Italian, who was one of those who possess a brain that begins and ends in the charger of his Beretta.
She caught a glimpse of Jurgen and the Spanish among a drunken crowd singing among the volatile sparks of a bonfire, and her pulse became regulated. That could finally finish as she had planned, although the path was different from the initial one. Scanning among the tourists, Anabel could not but grant a vote of respect for those two, whom she considered mere wealthy civilians. Jurgen had surprised her with a strength she never thought he possessed, but the Spaniard, Ulloa's son, had demonstrated everything that his late father lacked; the initiative and an enviable response’s capacity. For a few seconds she thought that maybe he could be useful, that she could join him to his group of ... but she discarded it almost immediately. After that operation, the covert missions and intrigues between governments were over. She would spend what was left of her life burning money with another name and another life. When the loudspeaker embedded in his right ear began to crack again, he changed frequency and ordered his men to stay close to Jurgen and the Spanish; she hurried back down the walk to the German's house.
****
His lip burned, and he had partially lost sight through his right eye, which had already begun to swell. He watched at Mauro's body —unconscious still on the floor and with a gap in his head— and wished to kill him right there. He did not understand how that could have happened to a man like him. With the years of experience that he had accumulated behind his back and had been defeated by a womanish German and a brat. He felt a rage inside that threatened to overflow, but the pain of the wounds on his face — and that of the bullet that Mauro had put him in Spain — brought him back to reality. With the fight the points of the wound in the arm had come loose, and a crimson stain dyed the sleeve of his white linen shirt.
When he began to get up from the sofa to trace the path that they had to follow at that moment, the do
or of the room opened. He put himself on guard and put his hand on the revolver, but before he could act he was face to face with a middle-aged woman smiling at him escorted by two thugs with semiautomatics ready to be used.
—Dear Billy— she snapped, smiling—. I think we should talk. Do you want a beer?
****
The roast was excellent, and although he never thought he could feel any appetite at that moment, he devoured the piece of meat like a true caveman. Jurgen at his side did the same.
—What happened in there? — Jonás asked between bites.
—That crazy man wanted to kill me— the German said elusively.
—He wanted to kill us both— he clarified—. But he also he wanted something more.
—Yes— the German touched the pendant, which was still on his neck—. Although I do not have it so clear.
—How is that?
—That dude, that Billy the kid —in his eyes there was dread—. He didn’t want only the pen drive, he wanted to hurt myself too.
They were silent for a few seconds, cradled by the ballads and chants of the tourists, who had formed a circle around the guitarist.
—You know? I wanted to tell him— admitted Jurgen—. I wanted to give him the pendant, tell him where I keep the album, but every time I tried to speak that psychopath silenced me with a blow.
In his face there were showed the signs of a brutal beating, and Jonás had also noticed that he was limping a lot on his right leg.
—As I told you, I'm not a brave man, Jonás— he lowered his eyes, embarrassed—. I wish I was, but it's not like that. I wanted to give him the damn pen driver and get this over with, but Chacon just wanted that agony to last longer. He was enjoying it Jonás, he enjoyed hitting myself and didn’t want that to end, he didn’t want me to confess soon and ruin the fun.
—He's a murderer— he hissed angrily.
—It's more than that— said the German—. He is a sadist. To be a murderer you just need to kill, it does not mean that you should like it, but this guy savors the moment before doing it, feeds with it.
—We must do something Jurgen— Jonás said with a determination he did not feel—. If that animal gets the pendant that you carry, only God knows what could happen.
—I'll tell you— he said—. He will kill us, after having tortured us, and will immediately finance any action that ends with so many other people. People like that, just plan things to satisfy their destructive craving.
—We need to find a phone— Jonás remembered. I must call some friends.
—Yes, I must also make a call— answered the German after having thought it for a while.
Chapter 39
—I’m not moving from here— the old man challenged—. But if you want an appointment with pleasure we will arrange it for another day.
—Come on, Chacon— smiled Anabel friendly—. We have certain "issues" to deal with.
—It seems very good to me— he pointed with the gun barrel to the two men who remained behind her, unalterable. Order your gorillas to go out to smoke and we chat here that it is cooler.
She let out a laugh and indicated her men to go outside. Both looked at each other indecisively, reluctant to leave their boss alone.
—Come on, it's okay— the woman declared, seeing their hesitation. Mr. Chacón is a man of word. Besides, if something happens to me, you riddle him, and I don’t think he wants to die so young.
Chacón received the veiled irony with a smile. He liked that woman. When the two men left, they both took a seat on the sofa on which some little scarlet droplets had fallen, and none of them had noticed it.
—Well? — Anabel asked—. How have you been?
—Little disagreements— he joked—. Nothing that cannot be solved with a bottle of wine and a cigar.
—Yeah, and this one? —she asked, pointing at Mauro, who was still unconscious.
—As you asked, wrapped for a gift.
Anabel looked at the body lying on the floor, and her face darkened.
—I also want the hundred million.
In her eyes shone a hardness that Chacón recognized from his days of police of the social brigade; the brightness of greed.
—The hundred million?
—Do not treat me like a fool— she said—. At this moment it is up to me that you leave this country alive or in a pine box. You know very well that I cannot go back to Argentina, much less to the intelligence services of any country. At this moment my face will be in the database of any agency as a traitor and surely ten more charges.
—And you want to disappear— he pointed out.
—I deserve it— she croaked—. I have been many years in this investigation, many efforts to keep the son of "Scarface" safe. Also, that was the deal I made with your partner.
—My partner?
—Did you think I was going to give you the position of Otto's son like that? — Anabel confirmed—. Gutiérrez promised me one hundred million for Jurgen and my pen drive.
Chacón understood everything more clearly. Herme's bastard had not entrusted all of that to a single card and he had played the ace he kept hidden under his sleeve. If Chacón failed, Anabel would fulfill her part. He felt a growing anger against his friend and a renewed interest in that woman, whom he had underestimated.
—My dear, I'm afraid you chose the wrong side.
She thought over it for a few seconds and smiled.
—I think you're right, but I'm working to change it.
At that moment the melody of a cell phone rang loudly, and the woman was startled. Chacon looked at her purse and made a dismissive gesture with her hand.
—Take it, don’t worry about me.
She did so. The face of surprise when she picked up was a clear indication that the call was totally unexpected. After a few seconds of contained talk, Anabel hung down.
—I don’t need you anymore— she snapped—. My men have Jurgen cornered, and Mauro is unconscious at my feet.
Chacon smiled again, this time accompanying the gesture with a negative head movement.
—You're right— he said. You could kill us both and stay with what Jurgen keeps.
—You aren’t making it difficult for me.
—I’m not trying it. I just want you to tell me what you are going to do when you find the German.
—Take him out where he has hidden what his father left him.
—And what are you going to do with that? — he asked—. I know you let that asshole of Ulloa steal your memory pen where the account numbers are kept. Without that you have nothing.
—What do you mean? If you are inventing something to save your life...
—I don’t need it, I've lived long enough— he said. What I mean is that a hundred million is just part of what Skorzeny hid, and to be honest, it is the part that interests us the least.
—Do you really want me to believe that one hundred million euros don’t matter to you? — she said mordacious.
—Honestly, I don’t care what you think— Chacon looked tired—. What I want you to understand is that what Jurgen keeps, is a pen drive with the codes to unlock the bank accounts that were in the pen drive that Ulloa stole from you.
She seemed to meditate, and after a while she fixed her eyes on the old man, who was watching her amused.
—Without the two pen drives you don’t have a shit.
—I could kill you and look for that pen drive alone— the woman said.
—Or work with me and keep those hundred million that Herme promised you— suggested the old man.
—Do you suggest an alliance?
The old man nodded, smiling.
—Look Chacón, I don’t give a shit about your crimes, your dictatorship or what the hell happens in that country of yours, but I want the money.
—All right —he said—. You help me get what Skorzeny stole and in exchange I promise you the hundred million— he pointed to Mauro, who was regaining consciousness—. And of course, you also keep
him.
The Italian stood up, and with a blurred vision he looked sideways at the woman and the old man.
—What the hell are you saying about me? — he searched for the Beretta in his waist, which had disappeared—. Ma si pensa che stai facendo...
The detonation was deafening in the small space, and the two men of Anabel entered with the weapons ready to use them, ready to shoot every living creature. The woman stopped them and ordered them to leave again. They looked incredulous at the man who was writhing in pain on the floor and at the old man with the cannon up of that huge revolver at Dirty Harry's style. A new gesture from their boss made them leave.
—As promised, wrapped in gift paper— he observed at Mauro with contempt, who was holding his knee screaming in pain—. So that you learn to trust me.
—Figlio di Puttana! — the Italian bellowed—. Stronzo di merda, you've broken my knee!
A puddle of blood that grew larger and larger spread beneath him and stained his suit pants.
—I'm just returning the favor to you— snapped the smiling old man—. One bullet for another.
—All right— the woman confirmed—. I think I can trust you.
She stood up, approached to the man who was writhing on the ground and gave him an intensive inspection.
—What are you looking at zoccola? — roared the Italian as he held in pain his broken knee. You must take me to a hospital!
—Do you know who I am? —she answered very seriously.
—What figa I’m going to know! —he moaned, mixing the languages very altered—. Un pezzo di merda.
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