Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  Baltasar threw himself into his armchair and ran his hands through his hair. “Fortunately, Anibal arrived before the Romanians could finish the job.” He looked up and found his niece’s eyes. “You saved my son.”

  It was as close to an apology as Luisa was ever likely to hear. But it put her back in her uncle’s good graces. At least until the next time he remembered she was a woman, Jenn thought cynically. It was enough for Luisa, though, who knelt beside him and took his hand. Jenn couldn’t decide if that was weakness or strength. The old boss pulled her close.

  “Those Romanian dogs tried to kill Fernando.”

  “Then we hit them,” Luisa said without hesitation. “Drive them from Quarteira and back into the sea.”

  “That won’t save the shipment.”

  “It doesn’t make any difference now,” Luisa said. “Perhaps we will get lucky before the deadline, but we can’t afford to hope. We must assume the shipment is lost.”

  “Then we are lost. The cartel will come.”

  “Yes, they will come. But why?” Luisa asked.

  “Retribution for losing their shipment.”

  “No, they will come to find our replacements. All they care about is their money. They need business to resume as quickly as possible.”

  “It amounts to the same thing for us.”

  “Not necessarily,” Luisa said, making her case to her uncle. “What if, when they come, there is no one left to replace us? If they’re forced to start from scratch, it will cost them time and money to reproduce what you have built. What if we give them no choice but to make a deal with us?”

  “But the shipment?”

  “They will require us to make reparations. No doubt it will be painful, perhaps even crippling for a time, but they will have no choice but to continue as before. That is all that matters. That we go on.”

  “Can it be done?” Baltasar asked.

  “Only if there are no other options available to them when they arrive.”

  Baltasar realized what she was suggesting. “What about them?” He gestured to the two lieutenants.

  Luisa drew her gun smoothly, trained it on the floor. From where Silva and Peres sat, they couldn’t see what she’d done. Perhaps that was why they didn’t fully grasp the precariousness of the moment. They sat there in their seats like boys waiting to see the principal, neither offering more than mild protestations of loyalty. It wouldn’t have made any difference, though. No one named Alves or Mata was listening anymore. Luisa looked from her uncle to the lieutenants and back again. Asking the question. He looked steadily at his niece. When he nodded, it was no more than a single degree. One degree was all she needed.

  Luisa shot the lieutenants where they sat. One bullet apiece. It happened with such speed that they barely had time to put up their hands. The first died instantly, but the second fell from his seat and began to crawl toward the window and the ocean. Luisa followed him unhurriedly while he sobbed and bled. She did not miss a second time.

  The gunfire drew guards, who burst in with weapons drawn. All were Baltasar’s men, in theory, but some worked directly for the lieutenants. At the sight of the two dead men, they stumbled to a halt as they absorbed what had happened. Shock and anger stiffened them, but Luisa headed off their emotions before they could coalesce into any kind of coherent impulse. She appealed directly to them. Gun down at her side. Assuring them they would not be harmed if they surrendered their weapons.

  “These men are traitors,” she said, gesturing to the dead lieutenants. “But we will know none of you are involved if you show loyalty now. Place your weapons on the ground. Do it now. Otherwise, you will never see your wives and children again.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. War appeared poised to break out in Baltasar’s own living room. Then one of the men knelt slowly and placed his gun at his feet. He stood and showed Luisa his palms. That capitulation set off a chain reaction among the men, who one by one followed his example.

  “Thank you, my friends,” Luisa said and ordered them removed.

  Jenn couldn’t take her eyes off the two dead men. How utterly screwed were she and George? It worried her that neither Baltasar nor Luisa seemed particularly concerned that Jenn and George had seen them kill two men. But then it wasn’t any harder to dispose of four bodies than two. She reckoned they were about to learn how close Baltasar and George really were.

  Luisa turned to her uncle, gun still in hand.

  “Anibal?” she asked.

  “No, he was the first to join me. He’s been loyal from the beginning,” Baltasar said.

  “This isn’t the beginning. It’s the end. The cartel would certainly consider him a viable replacement. This is the wrong time for sentiment.”

  “He just saved my son. I will not reward him with a bullet. Not unless he gives us reason.”

  “The hijacking happened in his territory. Isn’t that reason enough?”

  That was their prompt to remember George and Jenn. Baltasar studied them somberly like a doctor searching for the right way to deliver bad news. Luisa stood beside him, waiting for his diagnosis. Jenn had a bad feeling that the cure would hurt worse than the disease.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Baltasar said.

  Jenn didn’t care for that word. Witness.

  “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” George said. “It reminds me of that morning in Tavira. Remember?”

  Baltasar nodded somberly. “As if I could forget. Almost twenty years now, and I still see their faces.”

  “I see them as well,” George said. “But I’ve never spoken of it.”

  “That was a hard day.”

  “True, but the tide turned for you as a result.”

  “It gave me no pleasure.”

  “And that is why I respect you and keep your secrets.”

  “You’ve always been a good friend,” Baltasar said and seemed to noticed Luisa for the first time. He gestured for her to holster her weapon.

  “Tio?” she said.

  “It’s all right. George and I understand each other.”

  After spending the day in her company, Jenn was getting to know Luisa’s expressions. Luisa didn’t like the answer, and had more to say, but the gun disappeared from sight.

  “What do you think?” Baltasar asked George, meaning the two dead men.

  “I think that we are not cartel material,” George said, reminding Baltasar and Luisa that if the Mexicans went looking for their replacements, the Americans weren’t viable replacements.

  Baltasar laughed as if George had told a good joke. “No, I suppose not.”

  George said nothing.

  “It had to be done,” Baltasar said, meaning Silva and Peres. “And there is so much left to do if we are to survive this.”

  “Hard choices, without question,” George said, neutral as a Swiss mountain.

  “So, what do you say? Will you help me now before the cartel comes? As you did once before? They cannot see us as weak, and I could use your vision. I fear I have lost perspective, and no one sees the big picture quite like George Abe.”

  “I’ll help you make the peace, my friend, but I can’t help you wage a war.”

  “War is now the only option.”

  “Then the answer is no.”

  Jenn held her breath. She hoped George knew what he was doing. Turning Baltasar down was risky. George and Baltasar liked to dress things up in a civilized veneer, but only moments ago, Baltasar had been contemplating whether to add their bodies to the pile. It wasn’t too late for second thoughts. Baltasar shifted forward in his seat. He looked none too happy. Jenn had never wanted a gun more in her life.

  Baltasar said, “The Romanians started it the moment they took my shipment.”

  “You don’t even know if it was the Romanians.”

  “It makes no difference now,” Luisa said. “They can’t be allowed to remain. The war is begun.”

  “It’s not a war until you retaliate,” George said.

&
nbsp; “And if I don’t?” said Baltasar. “What do you think they will think then?”

  “That you are weak,” George said. “But others have thought the same in the past. That has its advantages too.”

  “You don’t understand the cartels. They don’t care for chess. They’d prefer to burn the board and play a different game.”

  “Then you really don’t want my help. I don’t know how to play that game.”

  Baltasar sighed in disappointment. Luisa had the gun in her hand again.

  Jenn didn’t remember her drawing it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The brutality of the attack at the Mariana Hotel had shaken everyone. It was a tight-knit organization, a family affair that extended far beyond the Alves clan. Everyone knew the men who had died. It took hard-won experience to know how to respond. Experience that Baltasar Alves’s people sorely lacked after almost two decades of peace. Gibson could see it on their faces. The anger and the accompanying frustration that came from having nowhere to put it. Gibson and Hendricks did their best to stay out of the way. They didn’t belong here now, and eventually, if given no one else to focus on, the men’s anger would settle on them.

  It came as a relief when Tomas arrived to escort them out of the hotel. It certainly wasn’t the heroes’ send-off to which Hendricks felt entitled. They were disarmed brusquely and treated like potential threats. Zero appreciation for the risks they had taken on behalf of their boss’s son. Tomas had rediscovered his tough-guy posture and mistaken being given a task by Anibal for actual authority. He bossed the men around as if he were an old-time movie gangster and not a green recruit. His act didn’t play well with his vomit still stinking up the elevator. Hendricks waved his hand theatrically in front of his face at the smell. The men smirked. Apparently, the story had already gotten around. Tomas colored and fell silent.

  The elevator opened into the parking garage beneath the hotel. Tomas tossed Gibson a set of car keys and pointed to Fernando’s Porsche. Gibson smiled. He could imagine Fernando saying, “Not to keep. It just wouldn’t do to have my valiant rescuers sent home in a cab. It would ruin my story.” He had no doubt that Fernando’s story would turn hiding in a closet into a manly act of heroism. The man had a gift for self-promotion.

  Before Gibson could try out Fernando’s car, Hendricks plucked the keys out of his hand and slid behind the wheel.

  “Hey, I’ve never driven a Porsche before,” Gibson said.

  “All the more reason to leave it to the professionals.”

  Gibson rolled his eyes but got in the passenger side without argument. To be honest, he was interested to see Hendricks behind the wheel of a sports car. The ex-cop had taught at a tactical driving school in California and was the best driver that Gibson had ever been around. Riding with Hendricks was like gliding on air. He possessed an almost preternatural anticipation; even on the clogged streets of Albufeira, you felt no sense of acceleration or braking. You might even forget that you were in motion at all. Gibson sat back and enjoyed the ride.

  A call came in. Hendricks fished a phone out of his jacket pocket. It was Jenn. She did most of the talking, Hendricks most of the grunting. When he hung up, he broke the news to Gibson.

  “Baltasar just cut us loose.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “He’s going to war with the Romanians. Asked George to help with his little purge. When George declined, Baltasar kind of lost his shit and gave us twenty-four to clear out of Portugal. Apparently, it was a toss-up between that or a shallow grave. The man did not see the bright side of the hit on Fernando.”

  “Who told him it was a hit on Fernando?” Gibson said.

  “Anibal would be my guess. Probably so busy casting himself as the Portuguese John McClane that it would be the only conclusion Baltasar could reach. He’s gearing up for war with the Romanians. Sounds like Luisa’s leading the charge.”

  “What a clusterfuck this is turning out to be.”

  “People are gonna die, that’s just how it’ll go,” Hendricks said. “The way Anibal keeps stepping on my dick? Man is auditioning for something. Luisa too. No one wants to be caught without a seat when the music stops, that much I know.”

  Gibson frowned. Being ejected from Portugal didn’t work. It didn’t work at all. He still needed access to the cannery. No access meant no penetration test. No penetration test meant no hundred thousand. Money that would come in especially handy now that they had no choice but to resume their lives on the run.

  Hendricks eyed him. “What are you moping about? You got your wish. We’re out. Baltasar fired us. We’re on our own.”

  “Nothing,” Gibson said without conviction, too focused on how to get back into the cannery to lie convincingly. “I just—”

  “You just what?” Hendricks pulled the Porsche over to the side of the road and killed the engine. “Suddenly you want to stick around and help Baltasar? Out of the goodness of your heart? Is that it?”

  “It was an interesting challenge,” Gibson said, aware of how little sense he was making.

  Hendricks stared at him levelly.

  “What?” Gibson asked defensively.

  “I think it’s time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For you to tell me what’s up with the bag of euros stashed behind the dryer.”

  “Oh,” Gibson said lamely.

  “Yeah . . . ‘Oh.’”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I’m a detective. I detected.”

  Gibson studied Hendricks. “Does Jenn know?”

  “Not unless you told her yourself.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go back to the house. I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Tell me everything here,” Hendricks said, staring straight ahead. “I don’t trust that house.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s make a deal. Just start talking, don’t treat me like an idiot for once, and I’ll let you know when you’re done.”

  Sounded fair to Gibson, so they sat in the Porsche while he told the whole story—getting grabbed at the café, the stash house, the odd videoconference, and the unexpected job offer. Gibson saw no reason to hold anything back now. Although the telling of it made him acutely aware of how preposterous it all sounded. The unvarnished truth sometimes had a way of coming out like a lie. It didn’t help that Hendricks listened without comment, his expression one of practiced boredom. A detective’s face.

  Gibson ended his story with Hendricks interrupting him in the shower. Hendricks nodded, but his expression still didn’t change.

  Gibson said, “That’s it. That’s everything.”

  “No, that’s just the what. Still nowhere near the why.”

  “The why what?”

  “Why you held out,” Hendricks said. “Planning on cutting us out?”

  “What?” Gibson said, genuinely offended. “No. That wasn’t it.”

  Hendricks grew impatient. “Then why? Because I’m not seeing it.”

  “Because it’s been time for us to move on. For a while now. Problem was, this place has been an easy paradise and nobody wanted to think about what came after. We’ve all gone soft.”

  “And after has arrived. I get it. Still doesn’t tell me why you held out on us. You made this play before Baltasar stamped our exit visas.”

  “The money gives us options. If we had to run, which now we do. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing it.”

  “You didn’t trust us? That what you’re saying?”

  Gibson shrugged. “It’s real nice here.”

  “Fuck you, boy.” Hendricks started the Porsche, then cut it again. “This the same shit you been pulling since Pennsylvania.”

  “To be honest, I didn’t need your help.”

  “Notice how that usually ends with me cutting you down from a rope?”

  “Funny you should mention that.”

  Hendricks swiveled slowly and shook his head sadly at Gibson. Like a man who knew he cou
ldn’t get out of the path of that train barreling down on him.

  “You know we could really use that money,” Gibson said.

  “And?” Hendricks said, making Gibson say it.

  “And I need your help.”

  “You want to go back to the cannery and get me shot.”

  “Possibly,” Gibson admitted.

  “How’re we even going to get in?”

  “I was thinking through the front gate.”

  “Baltasar fired our asses, remember?”

  “Yeah, but we only know that because Jenn called you.”

  Hendricks thought about it. “Tomas didn’t know shit, did he?”

  “You think we’d be in a Porsche right now if he did? I think Baltasar pitched a fit, told Jenn and George to get bent, but was too busy planning his war to actually pass word to his troops.”

  “So we roll up in his son’s Trojan Porsche like everything’s everything?”

  “Something like that,” Gibson said, then had a discouraging thought. “Shit. The keys. We forgot Dani Coelho’s keys.” Getting access to the server closet had been their whole reason for going to the Hotel Mariana, but in the chaos, he’d forgotten all about it.

  Hendricks produced a thick ring of keys from his pocket and tossed them to Gibson. “You mean these keys?”

  Gibson looked at them in disbelief. “How did you do that?”

  “I’m a detective,” Hendricks said, starting the car and throwing it in gear. “I detected.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Word of the attack at the hotel had already reached Fresco Mar Internacional. The guards at the gate met the Porsche with weapons ready. Gibson recognized the men from this morning, which was probably the only reason that they didn’t shoot on sight.

  A good first step.

  “They’ll wait ’til we get out so our blood doesn’t stain Fernando’s upholstery,” Hendricks said, cracking a tight smile.

  The guards asked them their business in Portuguese. At least that was Gibson’s best guess, based on their posture and tone. He really should have learned more of the language. Hendricks explained in English that they were there to examine the server closet. It didn’t translate, so Gibson did the most American thing he could think of and pointed at the cannery and said, “Server closet,” loudly and slowly. As if that had ever worked once in human history. Both sides tried again. The language barrier stretched and flexed but did not break.