Debris Line (Gibson Vaughn)

by Matthew Fitzsimmons

  When the men at the pickup truck went back to what they were doing, Gibson realized they’d caught a lucky break with the time of day. The angle of the sun, and the way it reflected off the windshield, made it impossible to see inside the Porsche. That bought them a moment to assess the situation in relative safety. No one saw any weapons. That was something. But they were still outnumbered, and for all they knew the cab of the pickup might have an arsenal inside. Still, the Porsche had provided a Trojan-horse edge that should give them advantage enough if they used it right.

  A cheer went up from among the men, who slapped the hood of the pickup and pointed up at the top of the nearest building. Smoke curled out of slats in the roof, growing thicker and darker by the second. In another minute, a black cloud began to billow from a second building. Somewhere a window exploded and fire rippled out, licking up the corrugated siding of the third building.

  Gibson understood now. The men at the pickup were the demolition crew. There to scrub any evidence and close up shop, permanently. At Fresco Mar, Fernando had told Gibson that the children were being moved ahead of schedule. Had that been another lie? Were they inside, being cleaned up too? His stomach pitched horribly at the thought. Hendricks had the same idea and was out of the car before either George or Gibson could stop him. George didn’t move as fast as he used to but did his best to follow. Gibson, pinned in the back seat, could only watch helplessly.

  The men, expecting Fernando Alves, gaped in confusion at the African American man walking sternly toward them. Hendricks raised his gun and shouted for them to freeze—in English.

  It didn’t inspire the desired result.

  Instead, the men shouted in alarm and scrambled for the pickup. Hendricks put three bullets through the windshield. That seemed to help overcome the language barrier, and the men stopped where they were.

  “Give me a reason,” Hendricks said. “Give me a goddamn reason.”

  George came up alongside and translated from Hendricks to Portuguese. Hands floated up into the air. Behind them, the three buildings burned angry and hot, and a plume of smoke rose into the sky that would be seen for fifty miles.

  Speed was such a relative thing. Gibson had ridden in planes traveling five hundred miles an hour and slept like a baby. He’d flown in helicopters screaming over treetops while daydreaming about home. But there was something about doing 220 on a Portuguese highway that really brought the reality of pure speed into harsh perspective. Gibson waited for a caption to float across his eyeline, warning him not to attempt this, that the driver was a professional on a closed course. Except this highway was anything but closed, and the sound of the wind as they passed other vehicles felt like a collision inside the fragile sports car. If anyone but Hendricks had been behind the wheel, Gibson would have started drawing up his will.

  The children hadn’t been inside when the fires started. Fernando had been telling the truth about that much. They were being transported in a motor coach. Hundreds like it choked the roads in the summer months, bringing tourists to and from the Algarve. The bus they were looking for was silver and green, and it had an hour head start. Its route had it traveling east on the A22 until it crossed into Spain. At Seville it would merge onto one of two major highways and make its way north to the French border.

  None of the men from the pickup truck knew which major Spanish highway, though. They’d sworn on their mother’s lives that Fernando had been careful not to share that information with them. Hendricks had worked them pretty hard without getting anything else out of them, and Gibson had been inclined to believe them—that kind of secrecy sounded like Fernando. Hence the breakneck drive across the Algarve. They had to catch the bus before it reached Seville. To keep the men from alerting the bus, Hendricks had emptied his gun into the engine block of the pickup truck. Back in the Porsche, George had powered off the phones they’d confiscated from the men. After a few miles, he began slipping them through a crack in the window, letting them shatter on the pavement.

  At the Spanish border, they caught up to the bus, which was keeping just below the speed limit, no doubt to avoid attracting attention. Hendricks took his foot off the gas and let their momentum bring them up alongside the bus. It raised the philosophical question of how to stop a fifty-ton bus with a fifteen-hundred-pound Porsche. All the scenarios Gibson envisioned ended with the Porsche being scraped off the highway with a spatula. He suggested shooting out the wheels, but Hendricks thought that would put the kids at one hell of a risk.

  “Honk,” George said. “Just honk.”

  Hendricks pulled level with the driver and got his attention with the horn. George rolled down his window just far enough that he could stick his hand out and point for the bus to pull over. To everyone’s surprise but George’s, the bus did just that. The power of Fernando’s red Porsche appeared to know no bounds. Hendricks pulled over and then backed up until his bumper almost kissed the front of the bus. It wouldn’t stop a bus, but it might buy them a few seconds if the driver got antsy.

  The bus door swung open. Two men stepped down and ambled up to the Porsche. They looked confused and shook their heads in irritation at this unscheduled stop. At the car, one squatted down and rapped on George’s window, asking in German what the hell was going on. George slid the window open and put a gun in his face. The man’s mouth snapped open and closed. An inarticulate warble rose out of his throat as he lost his balance and fell backward into the dirt.

  His companion wheeled away and dashed for the bus, shouting as he ran. George tried to follow, but his door only opened as far as the fallen man’s forehead, which absorbed the impact with a dull thwack. Hendricks was up and out on his side of the car. He put his thumb and pinkie in his mouth and whistled. The fleeing man looked back, and Hendricks shot him, catching him in the shoulder. Remarkably, the man didn’t fall but spun like a top, then threw himself forward into the bus, his legs scrabbling in the dirt to push himself the rest of the way inside.

  From the back seat, Gibson felt the Porsche shudder violently, then lurch forward. The bus driver was trying to make a getaway. The impact threw George out of his seat and into the dirt. Hendricks, who was circling the front of the car, was tossed onto the hood, where he rolled once and fell off onto the shoulder.

  Frantically, Gibson tried to climb out of the back seat. In his mind, the bus would ride up the back of the Porsche and flatten it like a pancake. Out the window, he saw Hendricks yelling. Gibson squeezed himself between the two front seats, learning how toothpaste must feel. He fell forward as the bus began to accelerate, driving the Porsche before it, and he struggled in the tight confines to roll over so he could jump out before the bus picked up too much speed. His foot caught in the steering wheel, and he kicked at it, trying to free himself. Then, as suddenly as it began, the bus shuddered, air brakes hissing, and came to a gentle stop, half in and half out of traffic.

  Gibson rolled out of the car and flopped onto his back like a sailor gratefully reaching dry land after a shipwreck. He crab-walked a safe distance away before standing up. He wanted to be well out of harm’s way if the bus started moving again. He looked back down the highway, surveying the damage. All told, the bus had taken him for one hell of a joyride. Bits and pieces of Porsche littered the road as if the bus had eaten, digested, and shat it out. He spotted George limping and Hendricks running in his direction. They were perhaps a hundred yards away. But if they hadn’t stopped the bus, what had?

  In answer to his question, a man tumbled out of the bus and landed hard on the ground at the foot of the stairs. Gibson took a step toward him when a cheer went up from inside the bus. Young boys and girls began streaming out. They’d taken matters into their hands and stopped the bus on their own. For so many reasons, that was the coolest thing Gibson had ever seen. He wished he shared a common language with them so he could tell them how proud he was, but it didn’t look as if they needed his encouragement.

  He leaned against Fernando’s ruined car and watched the childr
en dance in the sunshine. How long had it been since they’d been outside? Their joy was infectious. When George and Hendricks arrived, the children cheered and circled them. Hendricks was grinning like a damn fool. Who could blame him? It was a beautiful sight. Gibson felt better than he had in . . . he couldn’t remember how long. The only thing to improve it would be if Jenn were here to see it too.

  A boy who might be Kamal raised his hands to the sky in thanks. Gibson looked up as well. He saw it then. Perhaps fifty feet up—a familiar black drone hovering above the bus. It waggled its wings at Gibson. Hello, I see you. Then it buzzed away to the south.

  Gibson’s phone vibrated in his pocket. The message cut right to the chase:

  Don’t make us come looking for you in Morocco. We want that report.

  So much for his good feeling.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Jenn pulled the Audi up to the front door. Sebastião’s garage was underground, and she didn’t want him climbing any more stairs than absolutely necessary. The knee was already a purple you only saw in a sunset sky over certain kinds of industrial accidents. After leaving Baltasar’s estate, she’d begged to take him to the hospital, but he’d refused. Home. Please, he’d said over and over, his face turned to the window. The harder he fought to hide the heartbreak in his voice, the closer it brought her to tears of her own. She didn’t like that invulnerable men made vulnerable might be her kryptonite.

  “We’re here,” she said but got no reply.

  She went around and opened his door. Sebastião lay back on the fully reclined passenger seat, his battered leg stretched out like a broken wing. Supporting his ankle with both hands, Jenn guided the foot onto the ground. Arm around her shoulder, he hoisted himself into a standing position. The pain made his eyes water, and his brow knitted in concentration. She heard a near-silent groan from somewhere deep in his chest.

  Together they limped into the house. He took one look at the staircase up to his bedroom and suggested the pool instead. Out on the lanai, Jenn eased him into a lounge chair and elevated the leg with pillows from the house. She brought ice for his knee and raised an umbrella for shade.

  “All better,” he said.

  “How is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head. His playing days were over. Walking without a limp would be the priority now, and he knew it. He just wasn’t ready to think about it yet. There would be plenty of time for that in the days and weeks ahead. Still, she knew how much he loved the game, and the thought that it was over was hard for her to bear.

  “I’m so sorry. I should have—”

  Sebastião took her hand and held it firmly. When he spoke, his voice was full of anger, but low and serious. “You saved my life. This is not your fault. Tell me you understand that.”

  She told him she understood. He pretended he believed her. Kissed the back of her hand, rubbed it against his cheek, and told her again. She freed her hand and asked if she could bring him anything. Something to eat. He shook his head at the notion.

  “Champagne. Bring us a bottle of champagne. The good stuff.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “The end,” Sebastião said. “And a beginning.”

  In the kitchen, she knelt to open the wine refrigerator. Before meeting Sebastião, she wouldn’t have thought anyone could need eighteen bottles of chilled Dom Pérignon. The only champagne he would drink, although she secretly doubted he knew the difference. On the bottom shelf of the refrigerator were three bottles of Dom Pérignon 2004 rosé that he saved for special occasions. The good stuff. At two hundred and fifty a bottle, it ought to be.

  Tomorrow, if Sebastião was still in a stubborn mood, she would threaten to call Luisa. Sebastião usually steered clear of crossing Luisa. It would be a bluff, though. Between getting the shipment away on schedule and corralling the renegade factions that had splintered off since Baltasar’s death, Luisa had problems of her own. But Jenn had a feeling she would solve them. The way Luisa had won over the men at Baltasar’s house had been inspired. If she could make it through the next forty-eight hours, then Luisa and the Algarve stood a chance.

  Before Jenn had left to take Sebastião home, Luisa had let her know that a busload of hungry children had been delivered to Fresco Mar—another tangled mess for Luisa to unravel. But she was already on top of it and appeared to have every intention of honoring their deal. That meant George, Dan, and Gibson were on the way to the boat by now. Getting ready to depart for North Africa. Jenn felt bad for ghosting the way she had. It wasn’t her finest moment. Dan would get over it, of course, but Gibson would hold a mean grudge. She didn’t want to leave things that way and thought briefly about calling to say good-bye while their phones still worked.

  Instead, she chose a bottle of champagne, placed it on the counter, and took down two flutes from a cabinet. Then she peeled the tinfoil away from the wire cage over the cork but didn’t open the bottle. Sebastião liked to do that himself. He could take the cork off with his hand so smoothly that it hardly made a sound, water vapor smoking from the mouth of the bottle. Then he would wink and bestow the cork upon her like a trophy.

  He was a ridiculous man. She smiled and looked around at his house. It was quite the life he led. Sebastião Coval—he of the three-sink bathroom and bottomless champagne. A life he wanted to share with her. It was a miracle. No more running. The chance to breathe and to live. It wasn’t a life she’d ever imagined for herself. Dream weddings and happily ever afters didn’t run in her family. For the first time in a long time, she felt lucky. Leaning against the counter, she allowed herself a moment to daydream about the future. Would they really live in Salzburg? It didn’t matter to her. Whatever he wanted. After all, beggars couldn’t be choosers . . . She stifled a sob that came out of nowhere like a rogue wave, dark and miles wide.

  It had been a long time since she’d cried, but she sensed that if she started now, it would be hell stopping again. She gripped the counter’s edge and took short, hitched breaths, fighting for control. Her shoulders shook violently once before she was able to swallow it all down. Lock it back in the place that she kept the things she couldn’t kill. She dried her eyes, dabbing at the corners so she didn’t look like a raccoon. Then she fixed a smile on her face, took the glasses, the champagne, and went out to say good-bye to Sebastião.

  He smiled back at her and held out a hand for the champagne. Struggling into a sitting position, he opened it with a flourish, sending the cork arcing into the pool. Champagne flowed onto the lanai, and he hurried to pour two glasses before spilling any more.

  “What a waste,” he said, shaking champagne off his hands and licking his fingers. “Remind me never to do that again.”

  He held out a glass to her. His shoulders sagged slightly. Watching him, the smile had slipped from her face. She saw that he knew.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She thought—Because I have nothing, and if I stay, I will rely on you for everything. Money. Safety. Because nothing lasts forever, and my life would depend on you never getting tired of me. We will never be equals, and I can’t live that way. Dependent. Deferring to you. Afraid to rock the boat. You will come to despise me for it. While I come to resent you.

  She said, “Because it’s not safe. For either of us.”

  “We can figure all that out.”

  “Can we? Look at your knee.”

  “That wasn’t your fault,” he said. “I told you that.”

  “Haven’t you noticed the way people around me wind up beaten to a pulp?”

  “Is it Gibson?” he asked.

  “This has nothing to do with him.”

  Sebastião sighed and looked away before he said, “I’m sorry that I did not let you know how I felt sooner.”

  “Neither of us is any good at that.”

  He laughed. “No, I suppose not.”

  “I feel the same way,” she said, dancing around the word neither of them had ever said to the other.

  “Then stay.”


  “I can’t. Not now, not like this.”

  He thought about it while he searched her eyes. “Perhaps in the future, things will be different.”

  “Sebastião . . . ,” she said, not knowing what to say to that.

  He held up his glass. “A toast.” Somehow there wasn’t a trace of bitterness in his voice. What an unexpected man he had turned out to be. “To the future.”

  She touched her glass to his and watched him drink his glass dry. What was she doing? She put the glass to her lips but did no more than smell the bubbles. For the first time in months, the thought of drinking made her sick.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  João showed the time to George Abe. They would really want to get under way soon. One hundred and twenty-five nautical miles separated Olhão and Tangier. A minimum twelve hours of travel time, which didn’t include finding a quiet place for the Americans to go ashore. João didn’t know the coast of North Africa, so that would take time too. If they waited much longer, they would arrive after dawn and lose the cover of darkness.

  “How soon?” George asked.

  João shrugged apologetically. “Now, senhor.”

  George said that he understood and patted him on the arm appreciatively.

  They left the wheelhouse and went out on deck of the Alexandria. The sun sparkled across the water of the harbor. The man George called Daniel sat on the coaming, chain-smoking. He hadn’t moved in an hour, gazing away across the harbor toward Fresco Mar Internacional with a tired scowl that wore him like an old and familiar friend. The two men exchanged a look, Daniel asking a question with his eyes. George nodded reluctantly. A decision was reached. Daniel stood and flicked his cigarette into the water.