But at the same time, it all moved too quickly for her to think through. That wasn’t how it usually worked. Usually she knew what to do before she understood all the options, the answer glaring like a forty-foot billboard in her face. Today, thinking felt like trying to read Sanskrit on a roller coaster. Nausea spilled up her throat. This was Sebastião’s fault. Her feelings for him making the right answer suddenly wrong. Muddying the water. Not caring had its tactical advantages.
“What is it?” George asked.
“They have Sebastião,” she said.
“Hand Anibal your gun, Jenn,” Baltasar said.
“Wait,” she pleaded, playing for time she wasn’t going to get.
“Do it,” Baltasar said into the phone.
In a blur too fast for her eye to follow, the golf club vanished and then whipped down into the knee. Sebastião’s leg buckled sideways, his entire body arching silently as the pain hunted for a way out.
Jenn felt the cold grip of the gun in her hand. Improbably, it was still holstered but seemed determined to jump out and do the talking for her. She ran her tongue across the fake front teeth that had replaced the two she’d swallowed in Afghanistan along with a quart of her own blood. She knew one thing, though:
Baltasar was wrong.
She would clear her holster.
She could see it. Two in Baltasar, move, two for Anibal. If she wasn’t dead by then, Fernando could kiss his ass good-bye as well. It wouldn’t give Sebastião his knee back, but—
George closed his hand around her wrist. It felt like a cork going back into a bottle, and it stopped her from finishing her thought, or from acting on it. She took a breath, then another.
“Let go of me,” she said to George.
“You sure?” he asked.
“I’m good.” That was the furthest thing from what she was; she only meant that the urge to go out in a hail of bullets had temporarily passed. George took his hand off her wrist, and she thrust the tablet into it so he could see for himself. With two fingers, Jenn drew her gun and held it out to Anibal. He darted forward and took it with all the confidence of a rat smelling a trap.
George looked at the tablet and then up at Baltasar. “What have you done?”
“The Algarve comes first, George. It always has. Sebastião understands that.”
“Is that what understanding looks like?”
“Today it does.”
“What happens now?” Jenn asked.
“Now you call your friends,” Baltasar said. “Tell them to meet us at Fresco Mar.”
“And nothing else will happen to Sebastião?”
“Of course not,” Baltasar said. “I love that boy.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Most of the customers ate breakfast outside in the morning sunshine. The restaurant was one of eight on this block, and competition was fierce. A young Portuguese man with a bright smile stood on the sidewalk with menus, hoping to wrangle tourists inside. His task was complicated by the table of British men laughing uproariously and telling tall tales about the drunken Irish birds they’d come this close to shagging the night before. None wore shirts, and their sunburned bellies rippled like dancing hams. They were enjoying the second beer of the morning along with their eggs.
Gibson thought about sending them another round. A small price to pay for such effective tourist repellant. The restaurant was well away from the beach, but this was still Albufeira; the fewer eyes looking this way the better. To be on the safe side, Gibson lurked at a table just inside the threshold of the restaurant. It was cool and dark in a peaceful sort of way. He kept his cap pulled low and his eyes on his breakfast.
He felt guilty eating while Jenn and George were off risking their lives meeting with Baltasar, but he’d rationalized that he couldn’t just sit there for hours without ordering. The moment the food had arrived, he’d wolfed it down hungrily. He’d been beyond famished. It had taken a second full breakfast to really take the edge off. Now he was nursing a cup of coffee and watching his phone.
Hendricks had dropped Gibson off at the restaurant before moving into his position overlooking the beach. His role was to spot for Jenn and George during the meet with Baltasar; Gibson was the triggerman. If they gave the signal or things went sideways, Hendricks would relay word to detonate. Gibson spun his phone idly on his closed laptop. Blowing up the shipment was only a last resort. It would likely get Jenn and George killed. They all knew that. But a deterrent only deterred if the other side believed you crazy enough to follow through. And if the other side wasn’t crazy enough to test your resolve.
His phone vibrated under his hand. He put down his coffee and took a steadying breath before lifting his palm a few inches like a gambler shielding his hole cards from prying eyes. It was a text from Hendricks.
Outside in 5. Piece of shit green Peugeot.
Better than an order to detonate, but it didn’t tell Gibson much. Even though he understood the wisdom of the plan, he hated being the safest of the four. He’d put them in this position, so the risks should be his, not theirs. Not knowing what was happening down on the beach was unbearable. It felt like being assigned to a missile silo, contact with the outside world cut off, hoping not to get the call that the war had begun. He texted back asking Hendricks for an update. No reply.
He packed the laptop into his messenger bag, left money for the bill, and went out into the sunshine. The British table had finished breakfast and were taking turns slapping each other on their sunburned backs to see who could leave the biggest handprint. A lanky, pockmarked blond with a sunken chest and a Manchester United tattoo on his shoulder looked to be the unexpected champion. He had broad paddles for hands and wound up like Juan Marichal pitching strike three.
His next victim was built like an enormous concrete pylon. Gibson couldn’t tell where his head ended and his body began, but the pylon had to weigh at least three hundred pounds. He looked intent on proving himself more of a man than his friends. He straddled his chair bravely, presenting the vast terrain of his raw, peeling, Nagasaki back as target. “Ken ye no hit hard, ye wee nob?” he taunted, taking a sloppy drink. The table cheered, but the lanky blond, standing behind him, glared down with payback eyes. He set his feet and lined up his attack. Gibson got the distinct feeling the two men had history going back to grade school.
A two-door, algae-green Peugeot pulled up to the curb. Hendricks hadn’t done it justice. It was little more than a ball of crumpled tinfoil with wheels. Gibson lifted the long strap of his messenger bag over his neck and hurried out to the car. As luck would have it, that gave him a box seat to witness Juan Marichal bring the heat.
The slap thundered up and down the street, flat and wet like a tuna hitting pavement from twenty stories. A rude, affronting silence followed, lasting perhaps a full second. It took that long for news of the war crime to travel from the pylon’s outraged back to his confused, belligerent cerebellum. He dropped his beer and let out a primordial shriek—he had impressive range for a man that size.
Everything on the street stopped. Heads turned to see who was dying. Everyone watched the enormous sunburned man writhe and holler. Everyone except for the pair of men on the sidewalk who were staring at him, not the howling Brit. Gibson didn’t recognize them, but they clearly knew who he was. Already moving toward him. Gibson kept his eyes from glancing toward the Peugeot. The two men hadn’t made Hendricks yet, and Gibson wanted to keep it that way. No sense in both of them going down. He turned and ran back into the restaurant. The men gave chase.
Gibson danced through the maze of tables and chairs inside the restaurant. At the kitchen door, he collided with a waitress coming out from behind the bar. Impressively, she managed not to drop her tray while simultaneously cursing him in Portuguese. The manager told him he couldn’t go back there. Gibson apologized but didn’t stop. As he spun off the waitress, he saw the two men chasing him had closed the distance, flinging tables out of their way as they came.
Gibson backed
through the swinging door into the cramped kitchen. The strap of his messenger bag caught on a random hook protruding from the wall. It brought him to a sudden, inauspicious halt. His legs kicked out from under him, and his momentum sent him sprawling across the floor. The cooks stopped to stare and laugh at what they assumed was another drunk tourist lost on the way to the bathroom. Shouting from the restaurant got Gibson moving again. He found his feet, put his cap back on, and disentangled the messenger bag from the hook.
No longer amused by his intrusion, the cooks slapped and hit him as he tried to force his way through. The last chef grabbed a pot off the range and swung it at him. Gibson blocked the pot with his forearm, feeling it burn. Baked beans flew everywhere, further enraging the cooks, and reminding Gibson how much he hated English breakfasts. A rack of knives caught his eye, but by the time it occurred to Gibson to take one, he was already at the back door. The two men chasing him burst into the kitchen. The time to go was now.
The back of the restaurant opened into an alley. Gibson looked left and right, neither way a dead end, and chose left, running for it. Behind him, the restaurant door crashed open. Voices yelled for him to stop. Gibson broke into a sprint, or at least the best version of a sprint he could manage on his swollen ankle. Advanced hobbling might have been a more honest description. It was a hundred yards to the street. Eighty. Seventy. He could see people. Perhaps he could blend in and disappear. If he could make it in time, which he couldn’t. Anyway, it was a terrible plan. He hoped they wanted him alive and didn’t just shoot him in the back.
Behind him—a thump, a scream, and a crash. Then a second set of rolling thuds. Gibson didn’t look back and pushed himself to run faster. He didn’t. A car came up on his heels, honking. Gibson hugged the wall, and the green Peugeot pulled alongside. Hendricks had circled the block and plowed down Baltasar’s men. One had been thrown against a dumpster. The other had rolled up and over the hood and lay motionless in the alley.
The Peugeot wrenched to a stop. It didn’t look any the worse for wear, or maybe it was more accurate to say that it couldn’t look any the worse for wear.
Gibson got in and said, “I take it Baltasar didn’t go for the deal?”
“What gave it away?” Hendricks said and stepped on the gas before Gibson could shut his door. They shot up the alley. The Peugeot at least had more pep than the Fiat, but even with the seat all the way back, Gibson’s knees were still crammed against the dashboard. As a car thief, Hendricks was nothing if not a bargain hunter. The Peugeot turned out of the alley onto the street, merging with traffic, and immediately slowed to a normal speed.
“Roll your window down and put your arm on the sill,” Hendricks said.
Gibson did as he was told, doing his best to look casual even though he still had enough adrenaline in his system to launch a satellite.
“Why the hell didn’t he take the deal? It was a good trade,” Gibson said.
“I do not know. Guess it wasn’t as straightforward as you thought.”
“I thought . . . ?” Gibson didn’t like the direction Hendricks was heading with that.
“All I’m saying is we’re on the wrong side of George’s fifty-fifty. Baltasar has them. I saw Jenn surrender her weapon.”
“She did what?” Gibson said. That didn’t sound like the Jenn Charles he knew. “What happened down on that beach?”
“Wish I knew.”
“George didn’t give the signal?”
“Did you get a call from me?” Hendricks said irritably. “Then no, he didn’t.”
“We should have had ears on them,” Gibson said.
“We should have a lot of things. For this kind of operation? Come on, man, this is Gilligan’s Island. We’re making shit out of coconuts here. Got one gun between the four of us.” Hendricks corrected himself. “Had one gun. All I know is Baltasar’s calling the plays now.”
“So, what does he want?”
“He wants his shipment. So that means you.”
“Where are Jenn and George now? Do we know?”
“Headed for Fresco Mar.”
“And Baltasar will be there?” Gibson asked.
Hendricks shot him a dirty look. “You’re going all Rain Man on me again, aren’t you? Yeah, he wants us to meet him there in an hour. Or else.”
“Or else what?” Gibson said.
“Man, what do you think?” Hendricks said. “Time for that good plan B.”
“Yeah.”
“So . . . ? Do we have one?”
“Part of one,” Gibson admitted.
Hendricks grimaced. “Is that like part of a condom?”
“It’s gonna have to do.”
Hendricks yanked hard on the steering wheel. The little car skidded off the road and into the parking lot of a gas station. They stopped hard beside one of the pumps.
“What is wrong with you?” Hendricks said. “Why you always so fired up to get yourself killed? I’m not saying we don’t meet him—I want those kids freed as bad as you—but we go in without a solid plan, we’re all gonna get ground into sardine pâté.”
Gibson didn’t have a solid plan; he had part of a condom. He got out of the car.
“Where’re you going?” Hendricks asked.
“I got to hit the head. I had about six cups of coffee waiting for you.”
Hendricks shot him a dirty look. “You ate?”
“What else was I supposed to do in a restaurant?”
“I am starving here, and you’re eating breakfast.”
Gibson held up two fingers. “Two, actually.”
“That is not cool.”
Gibson handed him the bacon and toast that he’d wrapped in a napkin. It was a little the worse for wear, but Hendricks wasn’t complaining.
“Still not cool,” Hendricks said. “What’s that on your shirt?”
Gibson looked down. “Baked beans.” Apparently, he hadn’t completely escaped the blast radius of the cook’s pot.
“Oh,” Hendricks said as if that required no further explanation. “Get me a Coke.”
In the bathroom, Gibson scrubbed the baked beans off his shirt with a wet paper towel. A solitary bean fell out of his beard. Gibson picked it up to look at it, then dropped it back into the sink. It was a bean. Nothing special about it. He ran cold water over the burn on his forearm and gave his ankle a once-over to confirm it was still attached. It gave him time to work the situation over in his head. Baltasar hadn’t taken the deal, and now he had Jenn and George. He’d think he had the upper hand. Good. Let him think it.
Gibson bought a Coke from the cashier and went out to the pumps, where Hendricks was meticulously cleaning the car’s windows and topping off the gas tank. There was something on his mind.
“Look, I got to ask,” Hendricks said. “Your mind is clear, right? This isn’t some suicide by gangster thing? ’Cause if this is some kind of kamikaze thing, I’m not getting in the plane.”
“I don’t want to die,” Gibson said. He needed to reassure Hendricks, but it was a relief to realize that it was also the truth. “I just can’t leave these kids. The second I saw them, I knew I’d do what I had to do.”
Hendricks didn’t look exactly happy, but he looked less unhappy. “So, if it comes down to it, what’s your priority? Our lives or the kids?”
“What’s yours?”
“That it not come down to that,” Hendricks said. “But that may be wishful thinking.”
“Yeah,” Gibson said. Neither one had answered the question. Neither one had an answer. All they’d done was acknowledge the tightrope they were walking.
“If it does, though . . . I just want the chance to make up my own mind. Know what I’m saying? Can you do that for me?” Hendricks screwed the cap back onto the gas tank and hung up the pump handle. They got back into the car. Hendricks turned the engine over.
“I’ll try, but what if you had to make up your mind right now?” Gibson asked. “May not be time later.”
Hendricks pulled the car
away from the pumps and rolled to a stop at the street corner. Gibson could see him thinking it through. When a break in traffic came, he turned west in the direction of Fresco Mar.
“Then I guess you better tell me about plan B before we get there.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Fresco Mar looked much as Jenn remembered it. The paint cans had been removed, a little more trash had accumulated around the improvised security desk, but the monument to Mexican industriousness still dominated the warehouse like a solitary, unclimbable mountain on an otherwise dreary and empty plain.
George, not moving fast enough for the guard’s liking, caught a hard shove in the back. He stumbled forward, losing his balance, but Jenn caught him by the elbow, helping him to keep his feet. She spun back to suggest the guard try that with her, but George pulled her away and quietly urged her to let it go.
The golf club came down on Sebastião’s knee, his back arching in agony. It had been playing on a loop in her mind ever since the beach. Made letting anything go a tall order, but she acknowledged grudgingly that this wasn’t the time. That didn’t stop her from adding the guard to the running tally of people who would answer for their choices if the opportunity presented itself.
After the furnace of the Portuguese sun, the chill inside Fresco Mar had felt refreshing. Only for the first few minutes, though; the cold was already working its way into their bones. George stood shivering, arms folded tightly against himself. The temperature didn’t agree with Baltasar either, who gave orders for the refrigeration to be shut off. One of the guards trotted away to find the controls while Anibal helped his boss on with a heavy coat emblazoned with a Fresco Mar logo. Together the two men walked to the edge of the yellow circle to survey the shipment. It was the first time Baltasar was seeing it firsthand, so Anibal took care pointing out the explosives and cameras.
The two men stood there a long time, locked in intense discussion. Jenn couldn’t make it out, but it was clear that Baltasar was suggesting the same ideas that they’d considered and rejected yesterday. Anibal’s body language was of a man trying to applaud his boss’s ingenuity while delicately explaining why it wouldn’t work. Being a sycophant must burn a lot of calories, Jenn thought. It would have been comical had the stakes not been so high.
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