“Kill him,” Arthur whispered, then dropped the oxygen back into place over his nose and mouth.
“Who? The operative, or the driver?”
Arthur raised his hand at the mention of the driver.
“That might not be so easy. He’s in police headquarters in Montevideo, being held without bail. It’s not like we can waltz in there and–”
Arthur’s voice grew stronger as he lifted the mask. “I. Said. Kill. Him.” Arthur over-enunciating each syllable was as effective as rifle shots.
“Very well. It’s likely to be quite expensive. Perhaps we should–”
“I don’t care.” Arthur fixed the mask back into place and then closed his eyes. The meeting was over.
Standish tried not to smirk.
“We’re not price-sensitive on tying this up so nothing can be traced back. But it would appear that this is as much your problem as it is ours, so I would expect that you will share the burden, given that it’s a direct result of your team’s failure,” Standish said softly.
Sloan glared at him but bit his tongue.
“I understand and agree. These were some of our best men. I’m still trying to understand how this happened. The woman had help. That’s obvious. So the question is, who, and what’s his role in all of this? As it is, the intelligence we got was incomplete – intelligence that was provided by your side. Before you start laying this entirely at my feet, I’d suggest that you think about how we learned about the attorney and banker in the first place, and consider any holes in the dossier you gave us. Because it completely missed a mystery man who could neutralize a whole team without breaking a sweat,” Sloan finished.
Standish understood that Sloan was playing to an audience of one, and didn’t argue. It wasn’t his money anyway, so his interest was more in seeming to be attending to Arthur’s best interests than anything. He’d dragged Sloan through the coals and done all that could be expected, so his role in the elaborately choreographed ritual was over. At least until Sloan left, when he could expect a multi-hour harangue from Arthur demanding he be exterminated.
“Very well. We will look at our sources and try to figure out what, if any, errors or omissions there were. But one final question. What is the plan moving forward about the woman? This ‘Jet’?” Standish demanded.
“We’re flying in a new group of specialists, and working on picking up her scent. But we have no promising leads at this point, other than the older woman and the child. While that may seem like a lot, in truth it isn’t. Uruguay has three and a half million people. And it’s a largely cash economy, so much of the commerce is done off the books. Much like Argentina. Which means we can’t track her easily, if at all. Unlike the United States, many of the inhabitants don’t use or have credit cards, so there’s no transaction trail to follow. What I’m trying to say is that with only her name, it’s a shot in the dark.”
“But surely the child poses an opportunity.”
“Yes and no. There are a lot of toddlers in that region of the world. And don’t forget they’ve gone to ground with this Jet’s help, and she knows the game. We have the condo staked out, and the police are looking for them, but there’s only so much they can do – she’s only wanted for routine questioning. The doorman wasn’t sure who was in the building, so there’s a low probability of the old woman being scooped up if she’s hiding. Which I think it’s safe to assume she is.”
“What about the bank account?”
“There’s been no further activity on it. And of course, the banker is dead, so our ability to gather more information is, er, limited.”
“Did you have to kill him?” Standish asked.
“Yes. Don’t second guess me. He was a loose end we couldn’t have hanging out there,” Sloan snapped. He was starting to get annoyed, answering to Standish with his insolent tone. He took a deep breath and exhaled evenly. “Now, if there isn’t anything else…”
Standish looked over at Arthur, who raised his hand off the bed and then dropped it, indicating that the meeting was concluded. Standish moved to the door and opened it, gesturing to Sloan.
When they were back downstairs, Sloan turned to Standish. “It’s going to cost a lot. And I mean a lot.”
“Fortunately, he has a lot. You heard the nice man. Kill him,” Standish said, then walked Sloan to the door. “Now, speaking of not wanting to take bullets for anyone, I’m going to have to go back upstairs into that oven and listen to him demand your head, and talk him down. It’s going to be a very unpleasant few hours.”
“I’ll owe you one.”
“You owe me more than one. He’s degrading, slowly but surely, and his answer to everything lately is, ‘Kill them.’ Half the population of D.C. would be dead if I didn’t talk him out of it.”
“Well, that’s not such a bad idea, but hey, I get it. I’ll find a way to express my gratitude.”
“Do that.”
Sloan was pensive as he walked down the stairs to his car. Standish was getting too big for his britches. He’d become a liability at some point; but for now, he played a useful role in keeping Arthur in line.
Sloan slid into the back seat and adjusted the air-conditioning vent so that it was blowing on his face. The bedroom’s warm humidity always put him in a lousy mood. Arthur was getting to a point where he was becoming too erratic to be a decent client. Sloan had made huge amounts of money working with the man, but everything ended eventually, and as Arthur’s condition worsened, he was going to become more of a risk.
At some point soon, he would probably have to pull the plug on Arthur.
Which, if it had been Sloan in Arthur’s shoes, he would have thanked him for.
Sloan shuddered involuntarily at the thought of being sentenced to living the remainder of his life in agony. He would never understand why Arthur didn’t just load up a syringe with too much morphine and drift off into oblivion. Anything would be better than what he was going through.
Perhaps there was something he was missing, but he didn’t think so. Arthur seemed to be clinging to life with a tenacity that surprised everyone, even if it was torture. His obsession with rooting out his enemies and crushing them at any cost kept him alive, along with maintaining a position in the game he’d been playing his entire adult life.
Venom seemed to be keeping him going, waking up every day, continuing even though he was in unimaginable pain.
Maybe it wasn’t that hard to figure out after all.
Arthur was probably just too damned mean to die.
Chapter 20
Dawn was breaking as Jet and Alan reached Buenos Aires, and the great city was stirring to life, its inhabitants rousing themselves in preparation for another grueling day. The streets were just beginning to see the traffic the metropolis was notorious for, and early delivery trucks jockeyed for position with taxis and partygoers just leaving the discos as morning light flooded the city.
The drive had been every bit as bad as Jet expected, with lousy roads and the occasional animal standing in the middle of the highway slowing their progress as they drove south. Alan had been silent most of the trip, and as they drew closer to Buenos Aires she’d caught him dozing.
Jet pulled up to the imposing façade of the Alvear Palace Hotel, and a valet ran down the steps to get their door, a second young man rushing to carry their bags up to the reception area as they entered the lobby – a reminder of bygone elegance, everything reeking of opulence, gold leaf and columns framing antique tapestries and elaborate artwork. The hotel was one of the stately edifices in a city known for its European architecture, and it took its job as a flagship of refined style seriously, catering to the well-heeled, a veritable who’s who of diplomats, captains of industry, and the idle rich.
Jet and Alan gratefully followed the bellman to the bank of elevators, where gold doors glided open to whisk them skyward to their room. The suite itself was stunning, all French revival furniture that would have been at home in the most elegant residences in Paris. After t
ipping the bellman generously, Jet threw herself onto the embroidered cover of the king-sized bed with a happy sigh.
“Tell me this isn’t a welcome change after the dumps we’ve been in for the last few days!” she exclaimed.
“Very nice. I just wish I was awake enough to be more impressed. I’m beat. Can we hit it for a few hours? Recharge the batteries?”
“You’re singing my tune. I’m pretty worked.”
“I’ll bet. You want first dibs on the bathroom? I want to take a shower. Get the river water off me.”
She slid her legs to the edge of the bed and stood up, then moved to her bag and unzipped it. “Would you put the cash in the room safe? It said online that they had oversized boxes.”
“Sure. But you better hurry up, or I’ll be asleep by the time you make it out.”
She pulled some clothes out of the suitcase and disappeared into the bathroom as Alan secured the money and then turned on the television. The Argentine news stations were still featuring the ferry atrocity as their lead story, vying for prominence with coverage of an upcoming soccer match against their hated rival Brazil.
Jet was in and out within ten minutes, and emerged wearing a tank top and her running shorts. Alan grunted as he stood and handed her the remote, and then went into the bathroom to rinse off. When he came out, his wet hair standing on end, she smiled and shut off the television.
“Now that’s a bathroom! I could move into this place,” Alan announced.
“It’s pretty nice, isn’t it? But at five hundred dollars a night, it could add up quickly.”
“Nonsense. Only the best for you, my dear,” Alan said gallantly, and then plopped down next to where she was reclining against a couple of overstuffed pillows.
“At least you’ve got your priorities straight,” she teased, and then switched off her bedside lamp. The heavy brocade curtains blocked all the light from outside as well as any noise from the street, and after Alan slipped under the covers he was snoring quietly within seconds of shutting off his lamp.
Four hours later, he stirred, and then rolled over and studied Jet’s face in the gloom. She looked so serene and at peace. Young. It was impossible to believe all the hardship she’d been through, but he knew her story well. His heart went out to her. What his brother had done – the choice he’d made to keep Hannah a secret, even from her – was reprehensible, and he didn’t see how she had gotten over the betrayal. But she had. She was resilient; one of the many qualities about her that captivated him.
Alan brushed a lock of her hair off her face, and her nose crinkled as she slumbered. He got up and padded to the bathroom, where he caught a glimpse of his reflection. Hesitating, he scowled at himself. It had been a hell of a week. From Yemen to Moscow to L.A. and then Uruguay. The terrorist bio-attack, the ferry explosion, the hit team, the river crossing. He’d survived worse, but it was still a record for him, and the worst wasn’t over, he knew. He had no idea what they were going to be walking into in Washington, but he was pretty sure that whatever it was wouldn’t be good.
Alan inspected his square jaw and confident eyes, and then turned on the tap and splashed cool water on his face. They had at least a few days to decompress before they left Buenos Aires, so perhaps they’d be able to relax a little. He was quite sure that Jet was torn inside over leaving Hannah, and God knows she could use a break – her week had been almost as bad as his.
He reached out and lifted one of the thick, heavy towels from the rack and dried his face, and then turned the light off and opened the door to the bedroom. Maybe he could get another couple of hours of rest, he thought, and then Jet’s arms were around his neck and she was pressing herself against him, kissing him with her incredible mouth, her scent intoxicating. She moaned, a small sound of hunger, challenge, and surrender; they fell together on the bed, and all thoughts of the future faded as there was only her, her passion ablaze, her need as relentless as his.
~ ~ ~
Jet dozed in Alan’s arms, spent, dizzy from the intensity of their lovemaking. She snuggled against him and sighed contentedly, the tension that had been strangling her suddenly gone. He shifted at her touch but didn’t wake up. She tried to fall back asleep, but her mind wouldn’t let her. It had been so long since she’d been with anyone that she’d almost forgotten how good it could be, but another part of her felt…odd. Not bad or in any way guilty, but also not like she only wanted to melt into Alan’s embrace. Perhaps that feeling would never happen again – the one she’d treasured with David.
Why did she have to complicate things with memories of his brother David now, of all times? He’d betrayed her, destroyed her faith in him. Part of her hated him. As well it should.
But it was undeniable that another part missed what they had shared. It had been special. She’d known it at the time, and knew it now.
It was unfair to compare the two. That wasn’t what she was doing. But there was a core of her, deep inside, that wished, for only a split second, that David hadn’t died and that they’d somehow figured their lives out, patched things up, and gone on to be a family – admittedly, a highly dysfunctional one, but a family nonetheless.
Jet stirred and pulled away from Alan, his soft breath still on her shoulder, and she opened her eyes and looked around the room. It was still dark as night inside, a tribute to the density of the curtains, and she had to check her watch to verify the time. It was five o’clock. They’d spent most of the day in the room, and she realized with a start that she hadn’t spoken to Magdalena all day.
A stray tear ran down from the corner of her eye, and she rubbed it away on the pillow. Why was she getting so emotional? It was unlike her. Perhaps the memories of David had resurrected some conflicted feelings – feelings she could do without. Alan was a good man and an honest one, from what she knew. That she could allow his lying, controlling brother to intrude at a moment of happiness like this was probably proof of how screwed up she was, she thought grimly. A therapist could retire on what went on in her head. Of course, then she’d have to kill him, but still.
She slipped out of the bed and went to her purse, then collected her clothes from the floor before easing the bathroom door open and inching inside. Magdalena’s new cell rang four times, and then her distinctive voice answered.
“Hola.”
“Hola, Magdalena. How is everything?”
“Good. Nothing earth-shattering to report. Hannah’s bored out of her mind, but we found a playground three blocks away and she met some new friends, and we agreed to meet up tomorrow for some play time.”
“That’s great. I’m glad you’re getting along well.”
“No problems. And we’ve found a few more restaurants, so nobody’s starving to death. All in all, everything’s fine.”
“I’m so glad. Is she there? Can I talk to her?”
“She’s napping. Do you want me to wake her up?”
Jet felt a tug. Hannah, sleeping happily, oblivious to the drama surrounding her. “No, let her sleep. I’ll call either later this evening, or tomorrow. Do you need anything?”
“Not that I can think of. Like I said. Everything is going well, and we’re getting along fine.”
“I hope to be back soon, Magdalena. I appreciate your helping me out and taking care of her.”
“There’s no chance of your…of this man who is after you finding us, is there?” Magdalena asked.
“None at all. You’re safe. Just keep a low profile, and everything will sort itself out. I can’t say anything more, but you can trust me on this. I won’t let anything hurt either of you.”
Magdalena sounded tentatively reassured, and after a few more minutes of small talk, Jet signed off. The decision to move them to the boonies had proved a good one. They were completely off the radar, and safe.
Her thoughts turned to their predicament. Alan’s passport would be there in another day, and then they could sneak into the U.S. and find out who was trying to kill her and why. She’d done as much research
as she could on the private security company while online, but there wasn’t a lot of information available. The CEO, Jim Sloan, was reclusive and avoided the press, and because there were no public filings, her searches had shown up precious little other than that the company provided contractors in conflict areas, like Iraq, as well as handling private security matters domestically. Nordhaver had been founded two decades ago by Sloan, who had the reputation as a control freak – which went with the territory, she knew from David. Beyond that, the organization was a black box, and she had no visibility into it other than that its operatives had shown up at the condo with murder on their minds.
Jet peered at the phone screen and thumbed through the numbers until she found the one she was looking for, and then dialed it, waiting until a man’s deep voice answered. She explained what she needed and he assured her that he could help, and then gave her brief instructions. She was to fly to Tijuana and contact him once there, and he would arrange for the trip into the United States. He named the price, which was higher than she had hoped, but she wasn’t in the mood to negotiate. Fifty grand would get them both to California, and from there they’d be on their own.
Jet dropped the phone into her purse and turned on the shower, pausing to study herself in the mirror. She didn’t look any different, but she didn’t feel completely herself. Too many unknowns, she supposed, as she stepped under the warm spray and reached for the bar of herbal soap.
One way or another she would figure out what was going on and put an end to it. She’d had enough of being separated from her daughter, and she’d be damned if she would let anything keep them apart. Hannah deserved better than to have to hide in motel rooms, wondering where her mother was. Jet lathered her hair with some citrus shampoo and rinsed the excess off her face, enjoying the sensation of the stream of water on her taut skin as she thought about her daughter and what was to come. Hannah was innocent, and yet her life had been one of constant uprooting to evade danger. That had to end.
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 14