“You heard each other’s voices. Leave it, or you wait until it’s all over before speaking with her again.”
Garza held Matt back as Rheese went off to the counter.
Rheese bought their tickets, opting for a stop in the Philippines to avoid potential detainment in Australia. Though Jimmy hadn’t been able to dig up any news, it was a safe bet that Turner’s pilot had been discovered and had told his tale to the authorities. Rheese and company’s fake passports would allow them to evade detection only so long.
EIGHT
Tuni’s shoulders rose up with a jolt, as if trying to cover her ears since her hands could not. She hadn’t heard a real gunshot since she was a small child, but that had to be the sound which came from the living room of the hotel bungalow. Before that, a double crash: something striking the entry door, and then the door smashing into the wall.
She kept her face buried in the bed’s soft comforter, telling herself to look, to get up. But she argued with herself that she had to be silent, that everything would be okay if she was silent. People would forget she was here. Right. In the seeming eternity before she heard another sound, she tried to imagine what had happened. Certainly not police, because there were no words, no “Hands up!” shouted before firing. And was the gunshot from her guard, Raúl, or from whoever kicked in the door?
“Miss St. James?” said a deep male voice with an accent. Arabic, perhaps?
“Are you awake?”
Tuni turned on her side and looked down past her feet to the doorway. A tall, light-brown-skinned man stood there, wearing a concerned expression. His hair was trimmed short, and his features looked North African or Arabic.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Who are you?” It was the only thing she could think of to say.
“My name is Abel Turay. I’m with Interpol.” He flashed a badge. “May I remove your handcuffs?”
She didn’t know why, but she hesitated before answering, “Yes.”
He disappeared behind her. She felt the cuffs jostle. One came off, then the other. He helped her up by the elbow, but she didn’t want to be touched—certainly not by some stranger who had just shot someone.
“He’s . . .” She nodded toward the living room. “He’s dead?”
“Oh, no, no, ma’am. Beanbag gun, to the forehead. He’s knocked out right now, but not for long.”
“What?” She stood up off the bed but felt light-headed and sat back down to steady herself. “So he’s . . . he can—”
“I took his gun, ma’am. You are in shock, I think. We should get you out of here right away.”
Tuni stood up again, holding her hands out for balance as if walking a tightrope. She looked at his face, her eyes poring over it as if trying to understand it, to decipher its features. It was a kind face, almost cherubic, with pale gray-green eyes. “Interpol? That’s police, right? Why wouldn’t you just arrest him? Are you . . . are you alone?”
“Ah, no jurisdiction here, Miss St. James. And no, I have two men with me. One is covering us outside to ensure no one else comes. The other is watching your captor out there. I will explain everything to you, but I insist we leave right now. Is there anything I can carry for you?”
Tuni’s head began to clear. Things were making slightly more sense. She looked around the room and down the hall into the luxurious master bathroom.
“My phone,” she said. “I need my phone . . . my charger. Can I . . . do I have time to grab my clothes and things?”
“Quickly, please. We already retrieved your phone and charger from the kitchen.”
She ran to the mirrored closet door, slid it open, grabbed her suitcase, and saw that Matt’s was gone. She filled her suitcase from the dresser, then rolled it, half-open, into the bathroom, where she scooped the entire counter of makeup and toiletries into it with one arm.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He walked to the doorway ahead of her, stopped, and poked his head out.
“Still clear, Isaiah?” he said.
A voice from the other room replied, “Still clear.”
“Abel, is it?” Tuni said.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied as they hurried across the room to where the splintered front door lay on the entryway floor.
Tuni peered back and saw the other officer standing by the couch, gun in hand. On the floor, jutting from behind the couch, she could see Raúl’s limp legs sticking out.
“Is Matthew safe?” she asked. “Did you guys get him yet?”
“No, ma’am, not yet. Sorry, ma’am. We will talk about all these things. Let’s go.”
“But this arsehole probably knows where he is. You aren’t going to interrogate him?”
Abel Turay stopped outside the doorless entryway, beside another man—also with a gun, and wearing a sport coat and khaki pants. Abel sighed. “Miss St. James, I understand you have a lot of questions, you are worried about your boyfriend, and have been afraid for your life these many days. But we have to leave this place now, and you have to trust me that everything will be answered and that we’re going to do our best to save Matthew.”
“And I have to go with you?” Tuni asked with an air of suspicion.
“Absolutely not,” he replied. “As I said, we have no jurisdiction here. My men and I will go on our way and continue our tasks, but if you do not wish to accompany me, I strongly encourage you to leave this hotel altogether and go straight to the airport. U.S. Customs can help you from there. I’ll give you my card so that I can answer your questions when you’re ready.”
He searched his coat pocket.
“Bollocks to that,” Tuni said. “Let’s go.” She stepped onto the smashed door and stopped. “Wait!” She released her suitcase handle and turned to run back in. The officer behind her held up his hands to stop her, but she cut left into the kitchen and saw the smooth gray stone atop the marble countertop where she had left it. She reached for it, paused, scanned the area, and grabbed a cloth napkin. After wrapping it up in the napkin, she tucked the rock into her front pocket and continued through the door.
Obviously relieved, Abel took her suitcase handle and strode up the wooden pier to the orchid-lined path, with Tuni at his heels and his two men close behind her.
In the living room of the suite, behind a leather couch, Raúl Solorzano lay bleeding on the brand-new carpet installed only three weeks ago. His blood trickled from the bullet’s entry wound above his left eyebrow as his glassy eyes stared across the darkening carpet.
NINE
Matt shifted restlessly in the SUV’s backseat. His neck and back hurt like hell. He had a ripping headache, his wrists were chafed and his hands cramping from the handcuffs, his eyes burned, his throat was dry, and his stomach cried out for a real meal. How much of the past few days had he spent on airplanes? He’d managed perhaps five hours’ sleep out of the past seventy-two. Desperation had begun to set in. At least he’d gotten to hear Tuni’s voice. She sounded more worried about him than about herself, so that was good, he supposed. He needed to hear more. See her face. Smell her . . . touch her skin . . . taste her mouth. She was truly perfect in every way. If all this were to end right now, she would have him fed, medicated, hydrated, and sleeping in a warm bed inside thirty minutes.
Rheese and his two bruisers were standing outside, lingering around the remote Petrobras gas station’s pay phone. Matt watched as the local passersby gawked at them. He supposed that this part of Medellín, Colombia, was a bit off the beaten tourist paths. Then again, was there any part of this country that got many tourists? The streets weren’t as dirty as he had expected, and the people weren’t walking around in rags, but it was very foreign, and Matt just wanted to be home. The one thing that made him feel better was that he knew a lot more Spanish than Ukrainian.
The muffled ring of a telephone made it through the closed windows, and G grabbed the pay phone’s receiver. Matt could hear nothing of the ensuing conversation.
* * *
Garza ans
wered. “¿Sí? Él está conmigo. Voy a traducir.”
“What’s happening?” Rheese demanded. “What’s he saying?”
“Just relax, Doctor,” Garza said. “He asked if you were here; I told him I would translate for you. We just talked about this. ¿Qué le dijiste? He wants to know how much we can pay him today.”
“Ninety thousand,” Rheese said. “Just tell him the ninety thousand.”
Z interrupted. “You don’t want to start lower? Let him talk you up?”
Rheese brushed him off and gestured for Garza to say it.
“Noventa mil dólares estadunidenses . . . He says that’s not enough. Es todo lo que tenemos hoy en día. I told him it’s all we have.”
“Tell him we can get him another fifty in the near future,” Rheese said.
“Podemos pagar otros cincuenta mil en un par de semanas . . . ¿Sí? . . . We have a deal. Hang on. He’s telling me where we need to go.”
Garza jotted down the directions as Rheese rubbed his hands together. They walked back to the SUV and got in.
* * *
“We have about thirty minutes to kill,” G said to the group. “Anyone else hungry? I saw a burger place down the street.”
With his proposal unanimously accepted, the four of them ate quickly and got back on the road. Matt felt a bit better physically, though he still longed for painkillers and sleep.
An hour later, Z stopped the SUV at the end of a washboarded, potholed road. An old chain-link fence blocked off a large, patchy grass field with weeded-over basketball courts and boarded-up buildings that clearly had once been a school. Beyond the field, a forested hill rose up and melded into the mountain range that encircled the valley of Medellín. All four sat in the vehicle, surveying the scene.
“This shit is dangerous,” Z said. “Who says this ain’t a cartel setup?”
“This man has nothing to with any of that nonsense,” Rheese said. “He’s only here on a brief business trip and heads back to Cuba this evening. What possible connection would he have to the drug cartels?”
“You don’t know nothin’ ’bout this stuff, Doctor,” Z said. “In jolly old England you ain’t gotta worry about yer family gettin’ snatched, what you say to who, who’s friends with what guy. It’s real life out here, homes.”
“He’s right to be concerned, Doctor,” G said. “We have no weapons, no surveillance, and a single exit path. It’s odd for a visiting businessman to propose this kind of spot for a sale.”
“Rubbish! It’s precisely because he’s a businessman and doesn’t want to be seen engaging in a large transaction such as this! I would want to go somewhere discreet as well.”
Z leaned over to G and said, “Look at that hill, bro. That shit could be crawlin’ with snipers, guerrillas—you name it. He say to actually come onto the field?”
“Yeah. He said part of the fence would be open.”
“Right over there,” Matt said, pointing to a spot where, indeed, the chain-link fencing had been cut and spread wide enough for a vehicle to drive through. Multiple tire tracks marked the pathway.
“This is bullshit, man,” Z said. Then he perked up. “Hey, Doctor, if yer so confident this shit’s all cool, why don’t you walk out there on yer own, do the deal, and come back?”
“Well, I suppose I could—it’s just, the Spanish, you know . . .”
G interrupted. “Hold on. He doesn’t have to do that.” He gave Z a stern look. “We’re all getting out. I’ll go with you, Doctor, to do the deal. Matthew, you’ll stay behind that line of trees at the east end of the field. Fan—um, Z—you’re our spotter. I want you on the west end, concealed in one of those buildings. From there, you can watch the hill and the car.”
“Why the car?” Rheese asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about,” G said. “Just don’t want anyone hanging around it. We’re in Medellín—cars have a strange habit of blowing up if you don’t keep an eye on them.”
Rheese opened up the plastic shopping bag and transferred the cash from his attaché case.
“What if he didn’t come alone?” Z asked. “He say he was comin’ alone?”
“He didn’t say. But if he has one or two people with him for protection, it’s understandable. This is a lot of money and an expensive item we’re talking about.”
They got out of the vehicle, and Z lifted open the hatch, grabbed a pair of binoculars from a backpack, and casually walked off down the road. Rheese, Matt, and G walked along the fence to the opening and stepped through. They continued along the inside of the fence until it ended at the line of tall trees and shrubs that bordered the former schoolyard. G led Matt into the overgrown vegetation, stopping at a short palm tree with long, spreading fronds that hung almost to the ground. G tried to break off one of the spiky fronds, but it was too strong.
“Turn around,” he said, and Matt complied. Unlocking one of the handcuffs, G pulled Matt to the palm and recuffed his hands in front of him, around the base of the frond. He took another look at the sharp spikes and, apparently, decided there was no way Matt could rip his way free without skewering his arms, chest, and probably his face in the process.
“Sit tight and keep quiet,” he said. “Oh, and if you see anybody coming from that way”—he nodded toward the deepening woods to the east—”it’s probably in your best interest to scream like hell for us to come running.” G trotted off.
Matt looked into the thick growth where G had pointed, and wondered if someone might actually come sneaking up from there. The whole scene had a quality of unreality: he was a witness to some kind of shady deal in the middle of Colombia, in danger of being kidnapped from his kidnappers. He’d heard all sorts of stories about people being snatched and held for ransom, or just showing up headless a few days or years later. He didn’t appreciate Z’s Colombian necktie business, but he liked it even less standing in the middle of Colombia!
He watched as G and Rheese walked deeper into the field and then stopped. G pointed to something outside Matt’s field of vision, and a second later came the sound of an approaching engine. From the other side of the field, an old, weathered Honda sedan appeared. It stopped a short distance from Rheese and G, and as Rheese took a few cautious steps back, four men got out. One, shorter and better dressed than the others, hung back by the car while his companions approached Rheese and G, spoke for a minute, then patted them both down. One of the men motioned for the short one to come forward.
Matt leaned out from the palm to try to see where Z had gone, but he could see only part of the old school buildings through the nearby trees. He tried to bend the frond to get a better view and felt something prick his wrist through his shirtsleeve. It was one of the long spikes jutting in a row, like sawfish teeth, from the base of the frond. He rotated his arms around and pinched the spike to see if he could break it. It was too hard to do with his fingers, but he got one into a link of the handcuff chain, twisted, and snapped it right off.
He glanced out and saw Rheese talking to the short, well-dressed man. He decided to break off some more spikes around where his wrists were, to avoid further pokes, and within a couple of minutes, he had broken off all the spikes on one whole side of the frond. He took another look out at the field. Rheese was looking closely at something in his hand. G leaned over and was inspecting it, too. Rheese nodded, and G handed the plastic bag of cash to the short guy, who reached in and made a cursory count, waved, and turned to go.
Suddenly, a loud whistle came from the buildings. G turned around toward the sound, then spun all the way around to scan the area. He grabbed Rheese, tucking him under his arm, and rushed him back toward the fence. The short man and his friends also lit out running, and jumped into their car.
Matt couldn’t tell what was happening, only that it couldn’t be good. He searched all around him for anything suspicious, keeping a keen eye on the woods to his right. His shoes crunched the dead foliage beneath him. He couldn’t see Rheese or G anymore, and there was no sign of Z. The
Honda had disappeared from sight, its revving engine fading in the distance. Matt turned back to the palm frond. He needed to get himself free. He continued twisting with the chain links until he had the whole shaft free of spikes. Now there was just the broad, leafy end—still sharp at the edges, but nothing that would hurt too much. Opening his arms as wide as the cuffs would permit, he eased his way along the frond, turning his face aside so that the turtleneck took the brunt of the scratching from the rigid leaves. He made it past the widest part, took another couple of steps, and felt the feathery tip pull through as the frond shot back up to its normal position. He was free—from the palm, at least.
He pushed deeper into the wooded area, toward the neighborhood they had driven through on the way in. As he walked, he could see slivers of backyards and houses between the trees. Behind him, he could see or hear no pursuers. He continued until the wild area ended and he found himself behind a row of run-down houses. Children played in a backyard, laughing and throwing green guavas at each other.
With no idea what he was doing, where he might go, or whom to ask for help, Matt began to wonder whether he had made a terrible mistake. But now that he was free, he couldn’t imagine surrendering himself. No, he needed to find a phone so he could call the police in Tahiti and tell them about Tuni. But what if she ended up in a standoff, her guard’s arm around her neck, and a gun to her head? Could he trust the cops on a French tourist island to know how to handle that kind of situation?
* * *
Solorzano ran through the jungle, dodging around spiny palms and vaulting rotting logs. He had clearly seen the reflection from the hill. His first thought: a sniper—perhaps accompanied by a whole squad of guerrillas. But standing hidden inside the school’s gardening shed, he had peered through a ventilation grate with the binoculars and spotted the actual source of the flash: one black man holding a big camera with a telephoto lens. Solorzano had whistled to alert Garza before taking off into the woods.
Hurdling another downed tree and rounding a thicket of low growth, he caught a glimpse of Garza and Rheese running back out through the broken fence, toward the rental SUV. The engine whine of the seller’s vehicle had already disappeared back up the forest road.
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 7