Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  “No, but I will be,” Hendricks said, accelerating.

  The yellow car maintained its cushion like it was attached to an invisible string. When he took his foot off the gas, the yellow car fell back. The dance went on for a few miles.

  “I’m sure,” Hendricks said. “Which side do you want them on?”

  “This side, if it works out.” She and George rolled down their windows. “But I’ll manage,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt and shifting around to test the most comfortable and effective firing positions. “George, if they wind up on our right, I’ll need you to get down in the seat well.”

  “I’ll be ready,” he said and unbuckled his own seat belt.

  Gibson marveled at the transformation. Six months of rust falling away in an instant. The old Jenn emerging—alert, poised. Her clear eyes taking it all in, missing nothing.

  Hendricks slowed as they approached a roundabout. It had no traffic lights, and right-of-way belonged to the car already in the circle. Hendricks let the yellow car come up on their bumper before accelerating out in front of a minivan that had to slam on its brakes to avoid a collision. It honked angrily in protest. The yellow car tried to follow, but the minivan wasn’t having it and edged ahead stubbornly, daring the yellow car to hit it.

  “Hold on,” Hendricks said as the Fiat leapt into the circle. It skidded into the turn, the back drifting away while the front tires clung stubbornly to the inside lane. Instead of using that momentum to launch the Fiat out of the circle, Hendricks held its orbit and let it slingshot them around the circle back toward the yellow car.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Gibson said.

  “Well, if I was driving a Porsche, I could outrun them,” Hendricks said bitterly. “But no, you got me tooling around Portugal in a fucking Fiat.”

  The yellow car had finally gotten itself into the circle just as Hendricks roared up behind them. Hendricks tried to take the inside lane, but the yellow car swerved sharply to cut them off. Hendricks grinned in the dark, cocking the wheel back the other way. The Fiat swung wide and beat the yellow car to the outside. Jenn braced herself as they came up alongside. She fired twice, paused, then fired twice more. Both tires on the right side of the yellow car exploded. It fishtailed wildly and went into a spin, crossing three lanes and going broadside into an ancient stone wall. The wall won.

  Gibson had to crane his head back to see it, though, because they were already past the circle and accelerating away smoothly by the time the yellow car came to a rest in a cloud of dust and burnt rubber.

  They drove on in silence, Gibson’s ears ringing from the gunfire. Jenn fastened her seat belt and switched magazines. Gibson watched the road behind them but saw no one keeping pace. Hendricks made a series of random turns, killed the lights, and pulled off behind an abandoned house with a partially collapsed roof. Graffiti covered the walls. They sat there in the dark and waited. Gibson worked his jaw to coax hearing back into his ears.

  “How the hell did they find us?” Hendricks demanded. “We just stole this damn car.”

  “Could be a tracker in our go-bags,” Gibson suggested. “And everyone needs to power off their phones.”

  “Great,” Hendricks said. “That’s great.”

  Jenn said, “Maybe this is just their home turf, and they have more eyes than we know about.”

  “I think the more pressing issue is not how they found us but why they were looking for us at all,” George said.

  “They must know we went back to the cannery,” Hendricks said. “Shit.”

  “Well, they were going to know that sooner or later,” Gibson said.

  “Would have been nice to be the one to tell Baltasar, though,” George said. “There are a lot of ways to interpret what we’ve done. Most of them bad.”

  “Don’t expect we’ll be getting the benefit of the doubt,” Hendricks said.

  “Silva and Peres sure didn’t,” Jenn said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Guarda Nacional Republicana was already on the scene. Crimson road flares closed the outside lane of the circle while an officer directed traffic around the accident with brusque, efficient hand motions. Desperate tire marks showed where the yellow car had spun out of control and slammed into a low stone wall. A miracle no one had died. Its occupants sat handcuffed against the car in the dirt.

  Anibal leapt from his car even before Tomas brought it to a complete stop. He strode purposefully over to the most senior officer to make clear who was now in charge.

  Fernando watched from the cool comfort of his Porsche—Gibson had been considerate enough to leave the keys in the center console. The rituals when dealing with the GNR were endlessly fascinating to him. Although the GNR had been eager to take Baltasar’s deal and had profited handsomely from it both financially and politically, they nevertheless found the arrangement distasteful. Everyone had to bend over backward to maintain the illusion that it was the GNR who still gave the orders. That required a time-consuming choreography—everything phrased as a question rather than a command, which the GNR then took time to consider. To Fernando, it was an unnecessary courtship—money had already traded hands, and it ought to be clear by now who would be loosening their belts and grabbing their ankles.

  Anibal was in no mood for romance. He cut off the officer before the dance had even begun. The disregard of protocol didn’t sit well with the officer, who attempted vainly to remind Anibal of how things worked. It went poorly.

  With a snarl of contempt, Anibal gestured to Baltasar’s sedan and read the officer an operatic riot act. Realizing who was inside the sedan, the officer wilted and fell over himself trying to answer Anibal’s questions. Fernando enjoyed the predictable reversal. When Anibal was satisfied, he demanded that the officer release the prisoners. Grudgingly, they uncuffed his men and retreated back into their vehicles, peeling out, sirens wailing plaintively. Announcing their authority to the disinterested night.

  When the GNR was gone, the two men followed Anibal sheepishly to Baltasar’s sedan. Fernando joined them to hear what had happened. He was torn. Part of him felt his interests were best served here at his father’s side where he could spin any unfavorable reports. But another part of him knew that he was shackled as long as he was under his father’s watchful eye. Wouldn’t he be more effective on his own? A lot hung on that calculation.

  Both of his father’s men were badly shaken from the accident and swayed on their feet like stalks of dying grass. One had blood in his hair that had dripped down the left side of his face. Baltasar did not invite any of them into his car, so they all stood next to the open window while telling their story in faulty stereo. The gist of it was that they had followed the blue Fiat at a respectful distance as they’d been ordered. When they’d come to the traffic circle, the Americans had ambushed them, unprovoked, shooting out their tires and sending them into the wall.

  “The Americans are armed?” Fernando asked, sensing an opportunity. “How did they get guns?”

  The question hung between the men like a glass tumbling to the ground just out of reach. Baltasar dismissed the two men to see to their injuries. The men made their apologies and backed away. When they were alone, Anibal echoed the question: Why were the Americans armed?

  Baltasar had the look of a man who had made a wrong turn and saw no safe place to turn around. Despite the mounting evidence, openly suggesting that George Abe had betrayed him had been off-limits up until now. Fernando’s father clung to the notion that this had to be a misunderstanding, but now the Americans were shooting at his men. Fernando didn’t know their intentions yet, but whatever Gibson knew, or thought he knew, his father was becoming less and less likely to listen. Fernando appreciated that they were doing his work for him.

  Even so, he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. The Americans had been heading west. Olhão was to the west. The warehouse was to the west. He had no proof, but Fernando felt in his gut that he knew their destination. He still didn’t know why. He had to
o many leaks and too few fingers to plug them all. When the Americans made their move, his father couldn’t still be on the fence about George Abe. He’d hoped that his father would say it first, but time was against him. It was a dangerous play, but he didn’t see any other way forward.

  “The attack at the hotel,” Fernando said. “Was I really the target?”

  That caught Anibal and Baltasar’s attention.

  “Who else could it be?” Anibal asked.

  “Who was Gibson Vaughn on the way to see?” Fernando said. He let the implications of that sink in.

  “The American asked to see Dani Coelho,” Anibal said. “But why go through the charade if he intended to kill him?”

  “How did the attackers find Coelho at the hotel? Someone had to tell them,” Fernando said. “We hid Coelho there only this morning.”

  “You think it was Vaughn?” Anibal asked.

  “Who else?” Fernando was curious to see if Anibal would work with him or try to counter his theory. “How many times did he demand to meet with Coelho?”

  “Too many,” Baltasar said. He’d been silent up until now, but was sitting forward, deep in thought. Fernando grinned inwardly. His father had taken the bait, leading the conversation rather than following Fernando’s bread crumbs. The wheels were turning now. All he had to do was keep the gears well oiled.

  “So they went through the charade of helping Anibal clear the hotel, knowing the attackers were already gone,” Fernando said. “I feel foolish for lending them my Porsche.”

  Anibal nodded in agreement, obviously happy to support any theory that didn’t make him a suspect. “It was Hendricks who found the receipt on the can. He led us into the ambush at the paint shop. Putting himself above suspicion.”

  “Could the Americans really be behind it?” Fernando asked, pretending to play devil’s advocate now that the idea had taken root. “They don’t seem capable of such a thing.”

  “I know what they look like,” Baltasar said. “But they are more formidable than they appear. Trust me on this.”

  “Yes, Pai,” Fernando said, voice dripping with respect.

  Anibal agreed with Baltasar. “Our operation has worked smoothly for more than fifteen years. Then six months after they arrive, this happens? It is quite a coincidence.”

  “So has this been the Americans’ game all along, or did they hatch the plan after they arrived here?” Fernando asked.

  “Does it matter?” Anibal said.

  Baltasar’s phone rang. He looked at the number, frowned to himself, and answered. “Hello, George. We were just discussing you.”

  Right on schedule, Fernando thought to himself grimly. Now the game got serious. He strained to hear the other side of the conversation, but the passing traffic drowned it out.

  “Yes,” Baltasar said. “I’m there now. Both men are alive.” The tinted window of the sedan slid closed, cutting Baltasar off midsentence. It left Fernando and Anibal to stare uneasily at their own reflections. Fernando had always wondered what it felt like to be one of those poor bastards stuck waiting in line outside of his nightclubs. Now he knew.

  Anibal glanced at Fernando, who arched a sympathetic eyebrow his way. Fernando didn’t know which of them Baltasar didn’t trust to listen in to his conversation. Most likely both, but the fear in Anibal’s face told Fernando that Anibal didn’t think he was long for this world.

  Good. That left him in desperate need of an ally. A port to ride out the storm. Anibal would latch on to the first friendly hand extended to him. Fernando would offer that hand. As it turned out, he was in the market for an ally himself. He had an errand to run and needed Anibal to keep tabs on his father while he was gone. Fernando liked the symmetry of it. Anibal had been with his father from the beginning. How appropriate if he were there for the beginning of Baltasar’s son’s rule too.

  Together they would remake the Algarve.

  “We should talk again,” Fernando said.

  Anibal nodded with all the enthusiasm of a patient agreeing to an experimental, untested surgery that would either save or kill him.

  Fernando winked at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  George hung up the call and powered off his phone.

  “How did he sound?” Jenn asked.

  “Remarkably civil and reasonable.”

  That raised Jenn’s eyebrow about four degrees above top dead center. “Even after I shot up his men’s car?”

  “Exactly,” George replied. “And he agreed to a meeting—our time, our location, our conditions. No strings attached.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” Hendricks said.

  “No. No, it is not,” George agreed.

  The four of them sat in the dark of the car, brooding over the implications. The irony was that their plan depended on Baltasar to be reasonable, but it was reasonable that he be angry. That he wasn’t, or was hiding it, gave them all cause for concern.

  “Gibson, how certain are you that you can detonate remotely?” George asked.

  “Ninety-five percent.”

  “What would get us to one hundred?” Hendricks muttered.

  “You trust a car you’ve never driven?”

  Hendricks acknowledged the truth of the statement with a drawn-out curse.

  Gibson said, “I didn’t build their gear. Won’t be one hundred until after I detonate.”

  “Well, then ninety-five will just have to do,” George conceded. “We can all agree that I should be the one to talk to Baltasar at the meet? I think it will go better coming from me.”

  Everyone could.

  “Jenn, is it too much to hope that you’ll let me go in alone?”

  “It is,” she said simply.

  George didn’t bother to argue. It would take an asteroid strike to keep her away. George laid out the bones of a plan, and the other three filled in the blanks. Or as many of the blanks as they could from inside a stolen Fiat behind an abandoned house. It made for an uninspiring command center.

  When they were as done as they were going to get, George gave them his bottom line. “I give us no better than a fifty-fifty chance. There are too many variables we can’t account for. Everyone willing to accept that?”

  “Fuck slavery,” Hendricks said.

  “Agreed,” Jenn said.

  No one asked Gibson. “Come on, it’s a no-brainer. We have his shipment. If he doesn’t get it back, the Mexican cartel he fronts for will clean house in the Algarve and start from scratch. Luisa told us as much. How can Baltasar not go for it?”

  George said, “Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But he is under enormous pressure. His back is already up against the wall, and we shouldn’t count on him to make rational decisions.”

  “So what happens if we’re on the wrong side of fifty?” Hendricks asked.

  “Plan B,” George said.

  “Which is?” Jenn asked.

  “I have no idea.” George paused. “But we should probably have one.”

  For some reason that struck Jenn as funny. An uncharacteristic snicker escaped from behind the fist she put to her lips. A moment later she was cackling. Hendricks tried to stifle himself, but Jenn had set off a chain reaction throughout the car. Soon they were all howling with laughter at the absurdity of the situation. It had been a long day and night, and none of them was thinking exactly clearly. Exhaustion had stamped itself across all their faces. The meeting with Baltasar was set for eight in the morning. George suggested adjourning for a few hours to get some sleep. They would still have time to come up with plan B after they got some rest. No one argued.

  Gibson volunteered to take first watch; he’d dozed on the way to Alcantarilha and felt decent. Hendricks handed him the gun and said to wake him up in a couple of hours, then disappeared into the abandoned house to find a flat surface to call a bed. George reclined the passenger seat of the Fiat and was asleep in a matter of seconds. Gibson left the back seat to Jenn and fished his laptop out of th
e trunk.

  He found a window at the front of the house with a view of the road. The panes had long ago been smashed, leaving little more than a rectangular gash in the house. Gibson found a three-legged chair. A stack of bricks made a passable fourth. He opened his laptop on the windowsill and scanned for available Wi-Fi networks. Not a damn thing. He shut his laptop and stared out at the dark road.

  “Some view,” Jenn said, straddling the windowsill, one leg in, one leg out of the house.

  “You should get some sleep.”

  “Caught a nap earlier. I’m good.” She stared out at the dark, empty road.

  “What’s up with you and Sebastião?” Gibson asked.

  She gave him a hard look. “How do you do that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s cool if it’s none of my—”

  “He asked me to marry him,” she said.

  Gibson had been prepared for a lot of different answers, but that left him speechless for a long minute. “When?”

  “Couple of hours ago.”

  “He asked you tonight?”

  “Nice timing, right?” she said with a sad laugh.

  “I didn’t know it was that serious.”

  “You and me both.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I had to go, and he lent me his car.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “No one knows how to break up anymore.”

  “I’m sorry I got you involved with this.”

  “No, you’re not,” Jenn said. “You wanted me involved, I’m involved. Don’t walk it back now. That would piss me off.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Anyway, I would have done the same thing.”

  He looked up at her silhouetted against the starlight. “So why’d you fight me so hard?”

  Jenn shrugged. “Habit?”

  They both laughed. Gibson felt very close to her in that moment. Now that they weren’t bullshitting each other anymore. He wished he knew the right thing to tell her and searched for words that would reflect all they’d been through together. Whatever those words were, he didn’t know them. Wasn’t sure he’d recognize them even if he did.