Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Shweisser had played his cards in the best fashion he could. He’d survived years longer than many who found themselves involved with the Colombian cartels. He’d been mute, but all the while he’d been making careful notations on an encrypted disk. It was Shweisser’s decision to work both sides of the fence that had cost him his life. Once he started channeling information to the Rastano clan, his days were numbered. But Crandle was impressed by the man’s patience and cunning. And coming from someone like Irwin Crandle, that was quite a compliment.

  Crandle bundled the papers together and placed them in a file folder. It was late Wednesday night, and Bud Reid and Eduardo Garcia had left for the day. Crandle called their hotel and told them to check out and be at the airport in half an hour. Their usefulness in Texas was at an end. It was time to join Cathy Maxwell and Alexander Landry as they honed in on Eugene and Pablo. He called his pilot and told him to file a flight plan for Rochester. Then he shut off the computer and the lights. He locked the door behind him, and signed out at the front desk.

  He set the list of withdrawals and deposits from Pablo’s account in the Bahamas on the passenger seat in the car as he drove to the airport. At a red light he picked it up and perused it again. Money was moving all over the globe from this account, but over the years the balance had stayed rather static at twelve million dollars. There were credits and debits to banks in the United States, Canada, Switzerland, Caymans, Peru, Great Britain, Morocco, France and Germany. But with the influx of money from the numbered Swiss account, the balance was now almost twenty-three million dollars. One thing was certain; Pablo wasn’t in need of cash. But despite the wealth of information on the six-page report, it was not much help. Too many banks in too many countries were involved. Some may have been legitimate transfers to help with Pablo’s living expenses, others simply red herrings. It was impossible to tell which might lead to the man without a full forensic audit.

  He glanced down at the passenger side of the car. A small calendar he had been using to mark the approaching deadline sat open on the seat. Each day up until Wednesday, March 23 had a cross through it. He picked up a red pencil and drew two diagonal lines through the number 23. One more day was over. They were one day closer to Javier Rastano’s deadline.

  And right now, it didn’t look like they were going to make it.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The estate was dark, the only illumination from ground- level lights that delineated the pathways from the orchid beds. The moon was almost full, but obscured by low-lying cumulous clouds, and only a scattering of light penetrated through to the secluded grounds. An occasional toucan cawed, and monkeys skittered through the upper branches of the eucalyptus and mango trees. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, both inside and outside the twelve-foot walls.

  A solitary figure stole across the grass, moving quickly and with great stealth. Dressed in black and invisible against the dense foliage, Pedro reached the gardener’s shed at the far edge of the property. He waited for the patrol to pass, then slipped inside the small building and closed the door behind him. The smell of freshly cut grass was strong inside the shed. He felt his way through the darkness until he reached the workbench covered with lawnmower blades and oily rags. He was extremely cautious; a cut on his hand from one of the blades would require an explanation the next morning at breakfast. An explanation that could never stand up to close scrutiny. Any mistake now would be fatal. He knew it, and sweat started to bead on his face. Finally, his hand closed on the object he was searching for. He lifted the receiver and dialed.

  Eugene answered on the third ring, and Pedro whispered into the phone. “I can only talk for a minute.”

  “Is everything okay?” Eugene asked.

  “Things are tense here, Eugene. Don’t call me, no matter what. Rastano has the phone. He’s watching the incoming numbers. And he’s already killed Luis, the other boxer.”

  “Christ. You okay?”

  “I’m all right, but calling out is next to impossible. The only phone line I trust is in the gardener’s shed at the far end of the property, and there are guards everywhere.”

  “Any sign of Julie and Shiara?”

  “No, but I’m going to have a better look around tomorrow. I can only see so much at once or Rastano will get suspicious. How are you doing?”

  “I’m in Rochester, New York. Pablo lives near here somewhere. I’m getting close, Pedro.”

  “Good news. I’ve got to go. Don’t call, Eugene, or I’m a dead man.”

  “Don’t worry, Pedro. We’ll get together, you, me and the women, in a couple of days.”

  “You got it, my friend.” Pedro quietly slipped the phone into its cradle and moved carefully to the door. He started to open it, but stopped when he heard a noise just outside. He crouched down fast, then raised his head and brought his eyes just over the frame holding the window in place. As quickly as he had raised his head, he lowered it. Outside the door, only inches from where he knelt, was one of Rastano’s guards. The odor of cigarette smoke drifted on the still night air and tickled his nostrils. He gently rubbed his nose to keep from sneezing. If the guard was sneaking a cigarette, he would be five minutes or more and Pedro knew his muscles would be cramping by that time if he wasn’t in a more comfortable position. He lowered himself to the floor, then concentrated on keeping his heart rate low and his breathing deep and silent.

  Five minutes passed with only a modicum of activity or noise from the other side of the door. Pedro began to wonder what was happening. Was the man simply smoking a cigarette, or was he waiting for additional personnel? Maybe they had passed the shed, heard him talking and one of the team had gone for backup. If that was the case, his only chance was to whip open the door, snap the man’s neck, dump the body and get back to the house. But Rastano would immediately suspect him. Then there was a slight noise from the other side of the door and the sound of receding footsteps, almost imperceptible on the soft earth.

  Pedro waited a couple of long minutes, then chanced a glance out the window. Nothing. The man was gone. He pushed open the door and glanced down at the crushed cigarette butt on the edge of the path. Pedro sucked in the fresh night air and crossed himself. That had been close. Too close. He weaved back to the house using the patches of vegetation as cover. Two sets of armed guards were standing near the entrance, and he had to wait for almost twenty minutes until they moved off and the last fifty yards was clear. He sprinted across the open grass and into the house. It was deathly quiet inside the mansion. He slipped off his shoes, and crossed the tile floor in his socks. It took almost three heart-pounding minutes to reach his room. He checked around the room and was satisfied that no one had come in while he was out.

  He lay on his bed, breathing deeply. Two days and counting. Julie and Shiara were on the estate grounds somewhere. He just needed to find out where.

  But time was running short, and the danger was growing.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Eugene flipped the phone shut and let out a long breath. Rastano had the cell phone. That was the end of their communication, unless Pedro called him. He didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do. And from what Pedro had said, calling out from Rastano’s estate wasn’t easy. Eugene slipped the phone into his pocket and glanced back to where Ben and Andrew were hunched over the Quigley woman’s computer. He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty in the morning. He watched the two young men for another minute, then took a stroll about the house.

  It was a pale yellow two-story Victorian with elaborate lattice work and trim around the doors, windows and portico. A wraparound front porch, enclosed by ornate white spindles, sported wicker chairs and a tarnished brass table, despite the cool weather. The house was set back from the road on a large, well-treed lot that Eugene guessed was close to an acre. There was little to no traffic, the road a cul-de-sac with the Quigley house sharing the end of the street with two other large homes.

  Eugene paused at a recent picture of the owner. “Ol
d Lady” Quigley was not so old. She appeared to be in her forties and damn good looking. Three different degrees hung on one wall, a BSc, MSc, and PhD. An accomplished woman. He returned to the computer room and asked how things were going.

  “Here’s the list of registered guests during November and December of last year,” Andrew said, handing him three sheets of paper from the printer. “Ben’s just working on the DMV right now.”

  “How’s it going?” Eugene asked.

  “I need a coffee,” Ben said, looking up with bloodshot eyes.

  “I’ll make some,” Eugene said. He retreated to the kitchen, found the coffeemaker and filters and brewed a full pot. When it had stopped dripping, he took two cups back to the boys. “Coffee. What do you take in it?”

  “Black,” Ben said. “Oh, God, thank you.” He sipped on the dark roast, and smiled. “Next to beer and water, this stuff’s the best.”

  Andrew accepted his cup without the fanfare, and they both watched as Ben worked at hacking into the Department of Motor Vehicles. There was a firewall, which was expected, but whoever had built the primary firewall had installed a secondary firewall of a sort that was giving Ben trouble. He worked at it until almost five in the morning, then threw his hands up in despair. “Can’t get through it without some help.”

  “What sort of help?” Eugene asked.

  “I’ve got some programs at school that could probably break this, but that means coming back tomorrow night. There’s no way I can get them from FLCC, get back here and hack into the DMV before the whole neighborhood is up. In fact, we’d better go now or some early riser is going to see us leaving.”

  They left through the back door and walked the two blocks to where Bill was parked and waiting. “How was the hacking?” he asked, a hint of a smile on his face. He was enjoying the departure from his daily routine.

  “Great, but we have to go back tomorrow night,” Eugene said.

  “At five hundred a day, I’m still your man,” he said.

  They dropped Ben and Andrew off at their residence with the promise that the boys would be waiting for Eugene in the park just down from the dorms at one in the morning. Bill headed back to Henrietta to drop Eugene off at his motel. Eugene told him to go home, get some sleep and be back at two in the afternoon. He paid Bill the daily rate, got a thank you and a smile in return, then headed for bed. The last thought he had before crashing into a dreamless sleep was how lucky he had been so far in his search for Pablo.

  Luck. At least that seemed to be on his side right now.

  Chapter Forty-four

  They rose early, ate breakfast and were reading when the guards poked their heads in for the morning check. Julie glanced up, then looked back to her text. One of the men, an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder, took a quick tour of their apartment, then left without saying a word. The moment the door closed the two women were in motion.

  “Just see if you can get the screws started,” Julie said, as Shiara prepared to enter the air duct. Once you’ve got them turning, we’ll be able to get them out.”

  “Okay,” Shiara said, taking a deep breath and starting into the dark and narrow hole. “I’ll be as quick as possible.”

  “All right, honey. Just don’t cut yourself on the metal.”

  Shiara nodded, and was gone. She slithered into the duct and disappeared after a few feet, the darkness swallowing up the white soles on her running shoes. Julie replaced the grill, tightened one screw to keep it flush to the wall and went back to her reading. She stared at the page, but the words didn’t register. They melded together into a backdrop of black on white, meaningless and irrelevant. She was amazed at how few things in life were really important when the cards were on the table. If Javier Rastano was serious, and she had no doubt he was, she and Shiara had forty-eight hours to live. And faced with imminent death, she saw the whole picture more clearly than ever before in her life.

  Shiara and Miguel were everything in her life. Her children were the heart and soul of her very being, and without them she doubted she could continue. For certain, if either were taken from her, her life would never be the same. She would protect Shiara with her life, of that she had no doubt. And Eugene, her husband, her lover, her best friend. She knew he was working nonstop to satisfy Javier Rastano’s demands. Julie was aware of her husband’s abilities under pressure and had confidence that he could do the impossible. He wouldn’t fail them; he couldn’t.

  She focused on the text, and one passage jumped off the page at her. She read it again and again, finding strength in the simplicity of the words.

  “Dark moments are short corridors leading to sunlit rooms,” she spoke the words aloud. And in that moment, she knew that if they did go down, they would go down fighting.

  Javier walked briskly to the phone, and answered with a simple, “Yes?”

  “The team has fractured,” the voice said. “Some are still in El Paso, some in Rochester. Eugene has disappeared.”

  “How?” Rastano asked.

  “He left El Paso sometime Tuesday night. He’s in Rochester, New York.”

  “What’s he doing there?” Javier asked.

  “He met with Mario Correa. We don’t know where or when or what they talked about. And we don’t know where he is right now.”

  “Where are you?” Rastano asked.

  “It doesn’t matter where I am,” the voice snapped back. “It’s enough that I call and keep you in the loop.”

  “Okay, okay. Anything else?”

  “Sure, lots. But none of it’s of any concern to you. Except, perhaps, that your name came up in passing. It’s now common knowledge that you have Eugene’s wife and daughter.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Javier said. “They can’t touch me.”

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when the team finds Eugene.” The line went dead.

  Javier replaced the receiver and walked back through the house to the patio. Pedro was just leaving the house on his way to the pool and they exchanged greetings. The boxer was talented, and he hoped that Luis had been the rat and that he wouldn’t have to kill Pedro. For a fighter, he was good looking and articulate, two things the American media honed in on. And if the American public liked Pedro, then the chances of a title match at some point were a real possibility. Pedro had the moves in the ring; his footwork, his punches and his cerebral approach to the bout. But none of that would matter if he was in league with Eugenio Escobar. Pedro would simply be another corpse littering the streets of San Salvador.

  Javier sat at the table and toyed with a glass of lemonade. A few new orchids had sprouted, but that brought him no pleasure today. The deadline for Eugenio to dig Pablo out of the woodwork was fast approaching with no success to date. He would have to kill the women, that was certain. If he failed to follow through on his threat, his reputation as a man true to his word would be destroyed. And that image was one that he had carefully nurtured his entire adult life. He decided on six o’clock Saturday evening as the time for their execution if the account number wasn’t in his hand. He glanced at his watch and did the math.

  Fifty-five hours. Time was running out on Eugenio.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Landry and Maxwell ate lunch at Braddock Bay Restaurant, which was actually on the banks of Salmon Creek, not Braddock Bay. The fare was beef and seafood and their table had an excellent view of the narrow waterway leading to Lake Ontario. They hit the restaurant at quarter to twelve and by the time their meals were being served every table was full, and it was noisy. That suited them just fine, in case someone was trying to listen in.

  Alexander Landry cut into his steak, and said, “I can’t believe we didn’t get one hit from the rental cars or taxis. How did he get out of the airport?”

  “He may have taken a cab to the city center and the driver just didn’t recognize him. Eugene doesn’t exactly stand out in a crowd. His skin is white for a Colombian, and his English is perfect.”

  “I suppose. There is
that one cabbie who’s taking a couple of days off. We haven’t talked to him yet.”

  Cathy studied her notes. “Bulbinder Chadi. He lives in Hilton, close to here. We could pay him a visit after lunch if you want.”

  “If nothing else turns up, we’ll stop by,” Landry sipped on his Pepsi, and glanced around the crowded restaurant. It was decorated with historical pieces and pictures and had a warm, rustic feel to it. He liked it, and the food was good. “How close do you think Eugene is to finding Pablo?”

  Cathy shrugged. “God only knows. But I’m willing to bet Mario Correa wanted to meet Eugene in Rochester because Pablo is nearby. That’s what my gut is saying.”

  “When do you want to call Crandle?” Landry asked.

  “After lunch,” Cathy said. She fiddled with her food for a minute, then set her fork on the side of her plate. “If we’re closing in, he knows we’re here.”

  Landry finished chewing his steak and nodded. “I would think so.”

  “And he’ll know who is after him. He’ll know it’s us, Alexander.”

  “Probably. Why?”

  Cathy Maxwell was silent for a minute, gazing over Salmon Creek and the wetlands beyond. Finally she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number. When the other party answered, she said, “Darren, get yourself and the kids out of the house. Go somewhere safe. I don’t care where, and I don’t want to know. Just do it. And do it now.”

  Landry could hear a muffled response but couldn’t make out the words.

  “No, Darren. I mean right now. Within the hour.” Again, there was a response, but this time she simply said, “Bye,” and hung up.

  She locked eyes with the DEA agent across the table. “It’s not going to happen again, Alexander. My parents are dead. I’ll do what’s necessary to keep my family safe.”