Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “I got it.”

  “It’s like watching a toddler drive stick.”

  “I got it,” Gibson said.

  “So, my turn. Why’d I have to cover for you back there?”

  Gibson considered how to answer the question and decided to pose one of his own instead. “Let me ask you this. Anything I tell you, you’re going to tell George, right?”

  “That’s how it works, Vaughn.”

  “And then George talks to Baltasar . . .”

  Hendricks’s eyes narrowed and his expression soured. “Listen to me, you little shit, George is—”

  Anibal interrupted with a piercing whistle and gestured impatiently toward the hotel. Hendricks tried to buy himself a minute, but Anibal strode over to get to the bottom of the delay.

  “We’re not done here,” Hendricks told Gibson and walked toward Anibal with an apologetic grin.

  The sixth floor of the Mariana Hotel was only accessible by key card. Fernando was the floor’s only permanent resident and frequently its only occupant. He lived in a palatial suite fronting the ocean that had been renovated to meet his exacting tastes. The remaining rooms on the sixth floor were available only to an exclusive clientele hand-selected by Fernando himself, most of them close, personal friends. From what Gibson could tell, Fernando had nothing but close, personal friends, and a lot of them.

  Gibson had been to a few of Fernando’s famous sixth-floor parties, but they weren’t his scene. He enjoyed the people-watching but went home when the clothes started coming off. He didn’t have anything against orgies, in theory, but in real life they smacked of people trying to convince themselves they were having a good time.

  Gibson smelled the cordite even before the elevator reached the sixth floor. Anibal did as well and stepped to the side and drew his gun as the doors opened. Across from the elevator, a man sat slumped in an armchair. He’d been dead only a few minutes, and his shirt gleamed wet with blood. His weapon still dangled undrawn in its shoulder holster. The dead man had a strangely excited expression, as if he’d guessed the twist in a movie before anyone else and was only waiting to see if he was right. His partner had died second and didn’t have a face, much less an expression. A gun lay near his outstretched hand.

  Tomas paled at the carnage, his tough-guy act draining away along with the blood from his face. He dropped to one knee and vomited into the corner of the elevator. Probably missed his shotgun, Gibson thought unkindly. Anibal hissed at him to compose himself, but the boy remained in a crouch. Gibson couldn’t fault him. What did it say about them that they didn’t have the same reaction to death?

  The elevator doors began to close.

  Anibal put out a hand to stop them and stood there, frozen with indecision. The doors began to rock back and forth, trying stubbornly to close. Gibson gestured emphatically for Anibal to let them return to the lobby for reinforcements.

  Anibal shook his head. “Fernando,” he said and pointed down the hall.

  “Fernando’s up here?” Gibson asked.

  Anibal nodded grimly. There could be no waiting for help. If Anibal stood back while Fernando was killed, Baltasar would skin him. There was no other choice for him. Anibal inched forward to glance around the corner. No one shot him in the head, so that was a net win. He pushed the button for the lobby and gestured for Gibson and Hendricks to stay in the elevator. Then he made a dash for the far wall at the junction of the corridor and elevator vestibule.

  The life expectancy of a single man trying to clear a hallway was brief and bloody. Judging by the resignation on Anibal’s face, he knew it. Gibson looked expectantly at Hendricks, who nodded wearily and reached out to block the elevator doors.

  “I thought you didn’t want to get involved,” Hendricks said.

  “And I thought you hated this guy.”

  “I can’t stand by while this guy gets himself killed,” Hendricks said. “Even if he is a prick.”

  “I will never understand you.”

  “Right back at you.” They followed Anibal, arming themselves with the dead men’s guns. Behind them, the elevator closed, taking Tomas down to the lobby. Anibal glanced back at them with a mixture of surprise and contempt. The guns in their hands presented an ethical dilemma, but he didn’t protest. He had a better chance of making it to the end of the hall alive with them than without them. They all knew it. Didn’t mean Anibal had to like it, and the scowl on his face communicated his displeasure at fate for giving him no better option than to trust this pair to watch his back.

  It wasn’t a long hallway, but it took forever to work their way down its length. Anibal was overly cautious, pausing at every half sound as if hearing the word of God. It chafed at Gibson’s Marine training, which preached aggression. Caution was good to a point, but it could get you killed in situations like this. Anibal stopped again, hugging the wall and using a doorframe for cover. No, thank you. Gibson knelt in the center of the corridor instead. Bullets had a nasty habit of skating along walls until finding somewhere soft to call home.

  At the bend, they found a third body. It looked like he had been caught by surprise but had fought back at almost point-blank range. He had emptied his gun wildly into the far wall. Hitting nothing. Not a damn thing. The only blood belonged to the dead man. Gibson found that unnerving. Whoever had attacked the hotel had moved like ghosts. The question now was whether they’d gotten what they’d come for and left, or whether they were still haunting the halls of the sixth floor.

  Twenty feet down from the bend, a pair of legs jutted out from an open door. One ankle was crossed casually over the other, and because there were no obvious signs of violence, it was tempting to imagine that whoever it was had needed a quick rest.

  Anibal stared at the legs as if contemplating a lost Michelangelo. Gibson had had enough art appreciation for one day. At this rate, it would take another three days to cover the remaining twenty feet. Taking the lead, he moved quickly to the doorway. Hendricks came up on his six, tapped him on the shoulder to let him know he was moving past him, and crossed the open doorway. When he felt Anibal kneel immediately behind him, Gibson moved in a wide, lateral arc until he could see into the room.

  It was a grisly tableau.

  The legs looked a lot less peaceful from this perspective. At the back of the hotel room, yet another body lay crumpled at the foot of a desk. That brought the total to five. Gibson gave Hendricks a nod, and the ex-cop slipped into the room. Gibson followed on his shoulder, and together they moved across the space. Anibal brought up the rear and looked around in dismay. Someone had carved a dreadful path through the sixth floor of the Mariana Hotel. There was no sign of Fernando Alves.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a hit,” Hendricks said. “Maybe they snatched him.”

  Whatever hope Anibal might have taken from not finding Fernando among the bodies drained away. While some people found the silver lining in any situation, Hendricks saw only the rusted zipper.

  Anibal walked back into the hall to make a call. Hendricks lit a cigarette and stood between the two bodies, studying the room.

  “Hendricks,” Gibson said. “Come on.”

  “What? These boys ain’t gonna die of cancer.” Hendricks stepped carefully around the hotel room, eyes down like he was a sapper clearing a minefield. Gibson saw him shifting into cop mode, so he left him to it and went back out to the hall while Anibal headed toward the elevator for privacy. At the other end of the hall, an emergency exit sign flickered. Curious, Gibson walked down to the fire door and stood in the stairwell, listening. The only sound he heard was his own breathing. The attackers were long gone. Like ghosts.

  Why the hell would Dol5 hit the hotel? The paint store and the bomb in the boat captain’s luggage made a certain kind of sense, but this was a massacre. And to what end? Had they taken Fernando Alves alive to keep his father off-balance?

  Gibson walked back toward the room to see if Hendricks had figured out what was bothering him. A thud from inside the nearby maintenance closet
startled him. He flinched hard, swinging his gun up in the direction of the sound. If he’d had his finger on the trigger, he would have put a round through the door.

  Flattening himself against the wall, Gibson steadied his breathing. Maybe the attackers hadn’t fled. Maybe they were spread out, hiding in closets and nearby rooms, looking to take out any first responders. He turned the doorknob. Gently. Gently. When the latch clicked, he gave the door a tug and pulled his hand back, letting the door swing open on its own.

  “I have a gun,” a voice said from the closet.

  “Prove it,” Gibson said.

  “Gibson?” the voice said.

  “Fernando?”

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Gibson glanced inside. Fernando was crouched in the corner behind a housekeeping cart loaded with sheets and towels. He stood up sheepishly, showed his empty hands, and stepped out into the hall. He was still wearing his tuxedo. It had seen better days.

  “Where’s your gun?” Gibson asked.

  Fernando made a pistol with his fingers. “Intimidated?”

  Gibson shook his head. “Are you all right? Were you shot?”

  “No, but look what the bastards did to my jacket.” Fernando held it open so Gibson could see the two holes beneath his left arm. Six inches. That was all that separated Fernando from life and death.

  Anibal came back around the corner, followed by Tomas and a half dozen men. He looked so relieved to see Fernando that Gibson thought he might break into song. The men circled Fernando like a protective detail while Anibal checked him for injuries.

  “You’re not shot,” Anibal announced.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We’re taking you to your suite.”

  Fernando protested that he was fine, but the phalanx of men hustled him away down the hall. Anibal led the way, barking orders to Tomas for a floor-by-floor sweep of the hotel. It left Hendricks and Gibson alone and forgotten among the bodies.

  “Housekeeping’s gonna need a raise.”

  Gibson stared after Fernando. “Whoever did this were pros. How the hell did they let Fernando get away?”

  “They weren’t after him.”

  “What do you mean? Of course they were after him. Look at this mess.”

  “Come on,” Hendricks said. “I’ll show you.” He led Gibson back into the suite, stepping over the body in the doorway like it was a puddle on a rainy day. “Look at each body. See a difference?”

  Gibson did—the body by the desk looked like it had been used for target practice. The torso was pulverized.

  Hendricks said, “There are five bodies from the elevator—where this started—to where we are standing now. The first four were all shot two, maybe three, times. Enough to put them down and no more. But not desk guy. Someone worked out their issues on him. This guy they wanted dead dead. It ended here, with him.”

  “Why?” Gibson asked. “Who is it?”

  “Given he’s unarmed? My guess is Dani Coelho.”

  Gibson finally caught on to the significance of what Hendricks was trying to show him. “Fernando wasn’t the target.”

  “The question is, why was Coelho?” Hendricks said. “And why now?”

  “What do you mean?” Gibson asked.

  “Someone knew we were coming.”

  That, Gibson had not considered.

  “On the bright side, it looks like you’re on the right track. Someone definitely did not want you talking to this guy.”

  If Fernando wasn’t the target, had Dol5 anticipated Gibson’s next move, taking out Dani Coelho before they could speak? If that was the case, then Dol5 wasn’t planning on making it easy for Gibson to complete the job they’d hired him to do. Five men were dead. Five. It made Gibson angry. That hadn’t been part of their deal. Although now Gibson realized he hadn’t understood the full extent of their arrangement. He’d been lulled into a false sense of security by the immature tone of Dol5. But they had almost killed Hendricks at the paint store and had been prepared to blow Jenn to hell until Gibson agreed to their terms. Looking around at the carnage in the hotel room, Gibson knew he couldn’t afford to take Dol5 lightly again.

  “How did they know?” Gibson asked rhetorically.

  “That’s our Final Jeopardy category, right there.”

  “Maybe our house is wired?” Gibson suggested. That was where they’d discussed coming here.

  “We only got brought into this thing this morning. I’m a pretty competent surveillance guy, but that would have been moving fast.”

  “So how?” Gibson asked.

  “I don’t know. Could be electronic. Or could be we just have a good old-fashioned snitch. One of Baltasar’s people. So best we don’t tell anyone until we’re certain.”

  “Well, you’re nothing but good news,” Gibson said.

  Hendricks smiled and lit yet another cigarette. “That’s me. A ray of goddamn sunshine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jenn had been in meetings like this in the CIA.

  Humiliation by debrief.

  She remembered being grilled for hours after an operation had gone pear-shaped. Her decisions dissected by bureaucrats who hadn’t set foot in the field in decades. She remembered the palpable condescension of their questions. The underlying assumption that nothing could ever be an accident. It was simply a matter of assigning blame. Why had she done this and not that, they would ask, as if the answer should have been obvious even without the benefit of hindsight.

  Everyone was an expert after the fact.

  That’s how it went for Luisa now. Baltasar sitting back in his leather armchair, listening to her cascading series of setbacks, slowly strumming the scar on his chest like the last string on a broken instrument. He interrupted frequently, breaking her train of thought to ask pointed, critical questions. Forcing her back over the same ground again and again. It was enough for Jenn to feel a sense of solidarity with Luisa and to wish that she had a silver lining to offer her uncle. For all their sakes.

  Off to the side, Silva and Peres listened to Luisa defend herself. Anibal’s seat was conspicuously empty.

  That was part of the problem.

  Baltasar had summoned Anibal the same as Luisa, but she had overruled her uncle and sent Anibal to chaperone Gibson Vaughn instead. As Luisa talked, Baltasar kept glancing toward the vacant seat—the symbol of her defiance—while his mood darkened. Luisa had managed day-to-day operations for the last five years, but Baltasar was still the boss. So, who actually called the shots? As Baltasar picked Luisa apart, Jenn could feel him reminding his niece that there was only one answer to that question.

  It was also meant as a reminder to his two lieutenants, who, truth be told, didn’t look very happy to be there. They sat silently like boys in church who weren’t about to allow the word of God into their hearts. It didn’t surprise Jenn. For most, loyalty lasted only as long as interests aligned. Baltasar looked vulnerable, so that meant he was vulnerable. The hijacking had weakened him. Hell, allowing the Romanians to remain in the Algarve two years ago had weakened him. It was a bad look for a crime boss, and Baltasar knew it.

  Jenn didn’t think the lieutenants were in open rebellion. Not yet. But that didn’t mean they weren’t weighing their options. Most likely, all three were communicating through back channels. They would be feeling out the others’ loyalty to Baltasar. None would want to be the first to broach the subject of a coup, but it was on their minds. Jenn could see it. They were already carving up the Algarve after the Mexican cartel had dealt with the Alves clan.

  Baltasar could see it too. The creeping doubt. Not knowing whom to trust, needing to trust someone, but aware that choosing wrong would be catastrophic. It meant no one was above suspicion. Not even Luisa. Had his niece grown tired of playing number two? Was she making her move? Was that why she’d sent Anibal away? To signal that she was open to the idea of change?

  Hence Baltasar’s cruel interrogation.

  “Stop.” Baltasar rubbed his forehead as th
ough the sound of Luisa’s voice was giving him a headache. “This is my fault. I’ve done this. Through negligence and arrogance. I thought I could step back and things would go on as they always have. That my reputation would be enough so I could put a woman in charge.” He looked at his niece. “What a fool I was. Once you take away the guard dog, sooner or later the thieves return to take what is yours.”

  Luisa looked stricken but bore her uncle’s insults stoically. Jenn had been on the receiving end of this kind of contempt too. Men never made mistakes because they were men. They made mistakes because they were stupid, incompetent, lazy—individual character flaws. But when a woman screwed up, it was a referendum on her entire gender. George Abe was the only boss she’d ever had who hadn’t treated her that way. She didn’t want to imagine how that would feel coming from him, but she could guess, looking at Luisa’s face. Not that Jenn was convinced that any of this had been her mistake.

  Then the call came in and everything went to hell.

  A nervous assistant interrupted to hand Baltasar a phone. He waved her away, but she held her ground and said it was Anibal. That piqued Baltasar’s curiosity. He put the phone to his ear. Whatever he heard got him up and out of his chair and pacing the room. He spoke in clipped, angry Portuguese. From what Jenn could glean, there had been an attack at the Mariana Hotel. Men had been shot and killed. She couldn’t tell whom or how many, but Gibson and Hendricks had been heading there. That was enough to give her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. If either of them had been hurt or killed . . . She didn’t like thinking about what came after that thought.

  Baltasar flung the phone away, sending it skipping over the tile floor. “My son,” he bellowed in Portuguese. “Someone tried to murder my son. In the middle of the afternoon. At his hotel.” His finger drifted accusingly to the two lieutenants, who shrank back into the couch. “If I discover you were involved or knew anything about this . . .” He trailed off, leaving the threat implied.