She understood that she was focusing on Buckley to avoid dealing with Draven’s transformation. To have the man she had spent the most incredible hours of her life with go from lover to…whatever he’d become was more than she could handle right now.
She told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Hadn’t he gone from a gentle, careful and unhurried lover to a fierce, rough and demanding one in the space of an afternoon? That she had reveled in both was something else she couldn’t deal with at the moment, in the face of this conversion.
“What are you doing?” Marly asked him, her voice tiny.
“Ending this,” he said, and Marly reacted to the changed voice just as Grace had, drawing back slightly.
At last Grace regained her voice, although she guessed it sounded much like her daughter’s had. “Where are you going?”
Draven looked at her then. She thought she saw a brief flicker of something warmer in that icy gaze, but it was gone so swiftly she couldn’t be sure. But his next word, short and deadly, blasted the thought out of her mind.
“Hunting.”
It was a few minutes after Draven was gone that, as if he felt he should say something, Buckley spoke.
“He really is the best.”
“I’m sure he is,” Grace muttered.
“Don’t worry about him. He may be hunting a bad guy, but I’d back Mr. Draven against any five men you could come up with.”
She didn’t like the fact that her state of mind had become so obvious. And she certainly didn’t want what had happened between them to become known until she’d had a chance to work through her roiling emotions.
Especially in front of her too-young, impressionable daughter.
“I’m not worried,” she said.
How big a lie that was she wasn’t certain. She knew his reputation, and now that she’d seen him in hunting mode, she had to believe it was well earned. But he had given her that phone. To use if he didn’t come back.
To use if he was killed.
She fought back the shiver that threatened to ripple through her. She told herself she really shouldn’t worry. He knew what he was doing. Hadn’t his metamorphosis from lover to predator shocked her into speechlessness?
“He looked…scary,” Marly said, still in that tiny voice. “I’ve never seen him look like that.”
“It’s part of why he’s so good at what he does,” Buckley said to the girl. “The people he goes up against see just what you did. And they think twice. Some of them just give up without a fight, after seeing that look.”
All Grace could think about was what it had taken in his life to put that look in his eyes.
She’d never felt so tangled up inside. Her memories of this afternoon were colliding with the man she’d seen leave here. She wasn’t sure if the two could ever be reconciled. Wasn’t even sure she wanted to reconcile them.
But how would she feel if he didn’t come back? If something went fatally wrong?
Her mind shied away from that. She told herself he wouldn’t be chief of Redstone Security if he made mistakes. That he was capable of handling anything that came along. He was capable of taking care of himself. Capable of resolving any situation. John Draven could handle anything.
While she didn’t know if she was capable of handling the simple fact that, fool that she was, she might be in love with him.
Draven tossed the coiled metal line over the ten-foot wood barricade, tugged until the hook on the end grabbed and held. Hand over hand he walked up the wall, then gripped the top and pulled himself up. He checked the other side, picked a spot just big enough behind a hibiscus covered with pink blooms, and went over. He landed with little more than a faint thud, and continued down into a crouch behind the shrub in one smooth movement.
He waited, listening. He’d watched the compound from the roof of an abandoned building a quarter mile away, using one of Redstone Technology’s latest compact spotting scopes. The house and three outbuildings—one of them probably a meth lab or something, he guessed—stood just where the island started to narrow toward the point at the north end. The sandbar that extended out from the point curved toward the mainland and disappeared into the turquoise water a couple of hundred yards out.
He’d observed for a couple of hours, noting that there didn’t appear to be any guard dogs, and timing the intervals at which he saw any movement of people outside and along the tall wooden barricade that had been built around the five or so acres surrounding the sprawling two-story house.
His next step had been to switch on the infrared feature on the scope, to look for signs of an alarm system. Nothing registered. When he got close enough, he did a physical inspection, again looking for any sign of an alarm. He still found nothing. So either they had something so new he didn’t know about it yet, or they weren’t worried. Without arrogance, he guessed it was the latter; Redstone usually came up with the cutting-edge stuff, and he was one of the first to know about it.
He timed his arrival at the spot he’d chosen at an unpatrolled moment. He crouched and waited. Saw and heard nothing.
He began to work his way toward the house. Some effort had been made to keep the area clear of undergrowth, but in this tropical place it was a full-time job to just stay even. He was thankful for that, because it offered enough cover for him to make it to the edge of the ornately landscaped area around the glistening pool without being spotted. After that, it didn’t matter.
He emerged from the still-wild area into the formal part of the yard, designed by, in his view, somebody with too much money and too little taste. But he had learned early on that it was wise to learn as much as possible about your adversary, and what they chose to live with was information that contributed to that goal. So he studied the garden anyway.
Ornate statuary was everywhere, including several religious icons he found more than a little ironic given that they were gracing the property of a drug dealer. He strolled past a gilded statue of a pudgy cherub with a bow and some tiny arrows that he supposed was supposed to be Cupid, which stood a few feet away from a Madonna that was even more ornate.
Irony, he thought, wasn’t a strong enough word.
He reached the flagstone deck around the lagoon-style pool. Drugs still paid well, obviously. He glanced at the house, and the tall, spacious windows on the wall facing away from the coast of Belize and looking at the open sea.
Off to one side, parked on a gravel area, he saw several vehicles, most of them showing the wear and tear of the tropical climate. The fancy wheels he assumed were around must be safely tucked in the large garage he could just see the corner of.
As he went a little farther, he was able to see the last car in the row. He stopped, staring at it. Checked the license plate.
It was the car he’d seen speeding away from the construction site. And the license was not the one registered to Caribe Merchants, but rather the one St. John had told him came back registered to a deceased man.
Had his gut been wrong? Had it truly been el mercader all along?
His brain, already in high gear, processed the idea quickly, and he realized it didn’t make any difference, he would still be here, handling it the same way.
He stepped out onto the patio and considered the deck furniture that was nearly as elaborate as the statuary had been, chose the least obnoxious lounge of the group. He sat on the edge, glad it was less uncomfortable than it looked.
He swung around to stretch out on the lounge, crossing his feet casually at the ankles.
He relaxed and waited for el mercader to notice he was here.
Chapter 19
When the guards finally spotted him, they were so startled that it clearly took them a moment to believe what they were seeing. Draven had interlaced his fingers behind his head as he relaxed on the lounge, making it clear he had no plans to reach for any weapon he might have. It was a gamble, but he was counting on curiosity to keep him alive.
The first thing the men did was draw down on him. That t
old him their boss didn’t believe in taking chances. The fact that they didn’t shoot him on sight told him el mercader didn’t believe in shooting first and asking questions later. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start with.
One of the men spoke into a two-way radio while the other did a perfunctory pat-down search. He found the weapon at the small of Draven’s back. Draven didn’t wince even inwardly. The two-inch .38 was still strapped to his leg and the Ka-bar knife with the high-carbon, seven-inch blade was still tucked into his boot.
But he also noticed the faintest tinge of purple on the man’s hands. Between the presence of the car and the remnants of the dye, he knew this was the man who’d tripped the alarm.
He was escorted rather forcefully into the house. And there he got his second surprise. He’d expected the interior of the house to reflect the same gaudy taste as the outside, but instead it had a completely different feel. The décor was expensive, light colors that emphasized the balminess of the climate and sturdy pieces of furniture that anchored the whole without weighing it down, a classic island effect.
Classic, and classier, was his first thought. The juxtaposition of the outside and inside was startling. And as he was escorted through the house, he wasn’t sure what this difference added to his assessment of el mercader.
They shoved him into a room that for all the world looked like an English library, complete with dark green walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. They tossed the Glock onto the huge, cherrywood desk, in front of the man who sat in the leather executive-type chair. And Draven had to reassess yet again.
He knew what the average person’s image of a Central American drug dealer was. Slick, dripping in gold jewelry, dressed in expensive clothes, whatever the stereotype was, el mercader didn’t fit it. He didn’t fit the tacky display outside, either.
Nor, Draven had realized with the first words out of the man’s mouth, was he Central American. Draven got most of what he spat out angrily to the two guards, chewing them out for letting him get so far, because it was said in that Americanized combination of Spanish and English known as Spanglish, used mostly by people who had grown up speaking both. And if the near-blond color of his hair was any indicator, his heritage was at least partly on the English-speaking side.
The two men left hastily the moment their boss released them. Draven took a seat in a chair opposite the desk without being asked, and noted that while the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly, he said nothing.
“So,” Draven said as if he were visiting the new home of a friend, “when did you change decorators?”
The brows lowered as el mercader blinked. “What?”
“Inside. Did it used to look like the outside?”
The man drew back slightly. His expression was an odd one, hard to interpret, but Draven thought he saw the faintest twitch at one corner of his mouth, as if he were trying not to smile or chuckle.
“Yes,” the man said. “But it left with the woman who produced it. My ex-wife is off to turn some other man’s home into a nightmare.”
It was, as he’d guessed, the voice of a native English speaker. And a well-spoken one at that.
“Good choice,” Draven said, and again saw the mouth twitch. But any trace of amusement vanished as the man leaned back in his chair, looking across at Draven.
“You better have a good reason for being here, pendejo.”
Draven ignored the last insulting word, thinking instead that it was interesting that the first question wasn’t “Who are you?” There was only one reasonable assumption to make, and that was that the man already knew who he was.
“I think so,” Draven said mildly.
He waited, letting the silence spin out. He held the man’s gaze steadily, knowing it was becoming a contest of who would break first. And knowing it wouldn’t be him; he’d done this too many times, with men tougher than this one, men who could afford but wouldn’t allow themselves this kind of luxury, for fear it would soften them.
El mercader broke.
“You are Redstone,” he said, in the tone of someone expecting to surprise his listener. Since he’d already deduced the man knew who he was, Draven was easily able to keep any flicker of expression off his face, and out of his voice.
“And you are el mercader.”
This time the twitch broke through to a grin. “Now that we have that clear, I repeat, why are you here?”
“To find out who is hiding behind the nickname.”
The grin vanished. El mercader tensed, and Draven made ready to move quickly if he had to. But he continued speaking, as if he’d noticed nothing.
“And to learn if he is the one I have to stop.”
The man’s expression went from antagonism to curiosity in the space of a moment. “Most,” he said, “have already decided that.”
So, as Draven had figured, he knew that he was the prime suspect. “I’m not convinced,” he said.
The man leaned forward, looking at Draven intently. “Why?”
“Because you’re the most obvious.”
“Sometimes the obvious is the truth.”
“Sometimes,” Draven agreed.
“What makes you think that is not true this time?”
“Thinking has nothing to do with it.”
“Ah. I appreciate a man who trusts his instincts.” El mercader leaned back in his chair, smiling now. “No, I am not the one you need to stop.”
Draven believed him. There was always the chance he was misjudging, and he wasn’t one hundred per cent confident in what his gut was telling him these days, but he had little choice but to trust it once again.
“If that’s the case, then perhaps I should tell you your men need a little more practice. Or perhaps a little more…motivation.”
The man behind the desk frowned. “What do you mean?”
Draven held up his hands, palm out, to show his peaceful intent. Then he lifted one foot to his other knee and pulled out his knife and set it on the edge of the desk. El mercader swore, loudly.
But when Draven switched feet and pulled out the small, .38 revolver, the man leapt to his feet. Draven’s Spanish was better than adequate, but even he couldn’t follow the string of furious words that followed. After another moment el mercader sat back down. Draven didn’t envy the two men who were going to bear the brunt of their boss’s wrath.
But the action had done what he hoped, removed the man’s last doubts about his sincerity at this moment. After a moment spent calming down, the man returned to the matter at hand. He continued as if nothing had happened. So he could, Draven noted, compartmentalize, even when angry. A good sign for what he was here to propose.
“I have no interest in your little airstrip,” el mercader said. “I do no business here.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“It is a smart man who keeps his home clean.”
“And it is a smart man in your business whose real name is still unknown.”
A small smile returned at the acknowledgment, or perhaps at the admission that Draven had tried and failed to learn who he was.
“My secret is satisfaction,” el mercader said. “I am happy where I am, with my little corner. I protect what I have, but I don’t need to expand. I don’t trespass on anyone else’s turf.”
“A smart man,” Draven repeated, continuing to play to the man’s obviously strong ego. He’d do what he had to to put an end to this. “Smart enough to see a good deal when it’s offered.”
The man looked startled, then amused, and finally interested. “What kind of deal would Redstone possibly want to make with me? I find it hard to believe they are interested in my business.”
“Not yet,” Draven said.
One brow shot upward. “I see.”
Draven suspected that he did. He himself knew that eventually, when Redstone began operations, he’d have to take the man down. Cleaning up such problems was another side benefit of having Redstone come to your part of the world. They only got involved if it impact
ed Redstone directly, but if they did, the problem was inevitably solved.
Draven leaned back in his own chair, rested his elbows on the plush arms and steepled his fingers in front of him. “How has life been lately?”
That twist of the lips again. “Annoying,” el mercader said. “The esteemed Sergeant Espinoza harassing my people, Mayor Remington writing editorials accusing me, myself being followed whenever I leave the grounds.”
“Very annoying,” Draven agreed.
“I am tired of taking the blame for your troubles. There is enough I am guilty of, without taking the rap for things I haven’t done.”
Draven nodded. He’d been hoping for just that mindset.
“Then I will tell you that your immediate future can be improved.”
The man looked thoughtful. Draven doubted he’d missed the implication that his long-term future was another matter, but he’d obviously decided that was to be dealt with when the time came.
“You know the locals. Do you have any suspicions on who might be involved?” Draven asked.
“I have some ideas, yes. You have a plan?”
“Yes.”
The man behind the desk studied him intently once more. Draven stayed silent, knowing it was now in his court.
“Talk,” el mercader finally said.
Draven talked.
Grace finally stopped pacing, only because the bruises were beginning to make themselves felt. When she started to limp because her hip was aching where the beam had come down on her, she finally sat down.
“Are you all right?”
Marly’s voice was more concerned than Grace could recall in recent memory. When Nick had come to the motor home to check on Grace, he had inadvertently let out more details of the explosion than Grace would have told her daughter, especially about how close she had come to being killed. The girl had been a bit clingy ever since.
It was the opposite of how she’d been after the earthquake, when she’d seemed to pull away and to want little to do with her mother or even acknowledge what had happened. Grace wondered what had caused the change, but welcomed it. She hoped it wasn’t just a temporary mood, as Marly’s so often seemed to be these days.
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