“Get on your knees,” the policeman ordered.
“That won’t be necessary, officer,” Soto protested.
“On your knees. Now. Hands behind your head.”
Something about the man’s voice bothered Soto. The tone. A sense of menace that was over and above the call of duty. Soto reluctantly complied, the damp pavement soaking through the knees of his trousers as the police neared with their assault rifles trained on him. He was about to speak again when the leader slammed his rifle stock into Soto’s face, breaking his nose and splitting his lip. A shriek of pain tore through his skull as blood splattered onto his starched white shirt and the night sky spun above him. His vision was fading to black as he heard the man’s mocking words, as if from the end of a long tunnel, taunting him as he crumpled to the ground.
“You shouldn’t have resisted arrest. Right, boys?”
Chapter 7
Leonid waited impatiently in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt Hotel in Santiago, glancing at his watch every few minutes as he watched the cool staff glide back and forth across the expansive floor like skaters on a rink of polished granite slabs. He’d come to Chile to broaden his chances of locating his quarry. After the debacle south of Mendoza, there had been no sign of the woman, and between his contact with the intelligence service there and his men still on the ground in Mendoza, he felt he had western Argentina covered.
The border-crossing stations had been put on alert following the incident at the roadblock, so he was confident she couldn’t make it to Paraguay or Chile now. But there had been latency between the order and its implementation, which left a few hours when she could have slipped through. He thought it unlikely, but he wasn’t in the business to play the odds – he would only see his millions if he performed.
His Argentine contact had given him information on the two largest crime organizations in Chile, which between the two of them controlled the entire country. He’d tried to get in touch with the Soto group but so far hadn’t heard back, and now he waited for the representative of the Verdugos to appear. His associate in the GRU had put him in touch with the Agencia Nacional de Inteligencia de Chile, Chile’s equivalent of the CIA, and he’d been able to circulate the image of the woman with the promise that it would make it to all immigration checkpoints. But, as with most things in South America, his confidence level wasn’t high that anyone would follow through, so he’d decided to enlist the help of the criminal syndicates in order to increase his chances of a hit.
Antonio Verdugo was the number two man in his family’s organization, with his father, Franco, the head. Franco apparently stuck to Valparaíso, leaving Santiago to his son, and it was the son who was running late. Leonid forced himself to relax and told himself that the pace here was different, that even a half hour late was still considered on time, and that he shouldn’t draw any conclusions from the crime lord’s tardiness.
A tall young man neared him carrying a small leather-bound book. Leonid’s pulse quickened.
“Would you like to see the cocktail menu, sir?” the man asked, first in Spanish and then in English.
“No.” Leonid waved him away, teeth grinding at the false alarm.
A fleshy man wearing a black windbreaker, his head shaped like a bulldog’s, approached.
“Señor Ross?” he asked, his voice a smoky rasp.
“Yes,” Leonid said. He was using a fake name as he always did when on a mission. He’d picked Ross at random.
“Please. You come with me, sí?”
Leonid stood. “Lead the way,” he said, his English about as good as the thug’s.
“Bueno.”
They pushed through the hotel entrance to where a white Lincoln Navigator sat at the curb. His escort swung the rear door open, and Leonid found himself facing a man in his early thirties, his black hair slicked straight back, the two-hundred-dollar silk shirt and ten-thousand-dollar watch out of place given his ratty torn jeans and scuffed combat boots.
The bulldog nodded at Leonid. “Raise your hands.”
Leonid debated whether to comply, and shrugged. The search was perfunctory. Leonid wasn’t armed or wired.
The young man nodded. “Sorry about that. Purely precautionary, I assure you. Come. Sit. I understand you want to see me?” he said, his English quite good.
Leonid climbed in next to the man. The vehicle was moving before Leonid had his seatbelt on. “Yes. I understand you control the port and a large piece of Santiago.”
“I’m working on all of Chile. But for your purposes, sure, that’s right. What do you need?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Ah. Do you have a photo?”
“Of course.” Leonid slid a glossy from his jacket pocket and handed it to Antonio, who studied it for several seconds before placing it on the seat between them.
“Girlfriend? Wife?”
“Hardly. Someone who has made my life difficult. I need to find her. I have reason to believe she’s in Chile.”
Antonio leaned forward and said something in Spanish to the driver, who grunted assent. Antonio sat back and fixed Leonid with a hard stare. “Chile is a big place.”
“I know. That’s why I’m willing to pay handsomely for her head.”
“Her head, huh? Sounds personal. What’s handsomely?”
“Half a million dollars.”
That got Antonio’s attention. His expression softened, and he raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of money.”
“I know. Dead or alive.”
“That’s an intriguing proposition. One I’m interested in. Do you mind if I circulate this to my organization?” he asked, tapping the photograph.
“Not at all. That’s why I brought it.”
“What do I need to know about her?”
“She’s extremely dangerous. Lethal, with or without weapons. Your men should not engage if at all possible. Rather, they should keep her in sight, and you should call me, any time of the day or night.”
“How will the funds be transferred?”
“Wire. I’ll do it from your bank’s offices once we’ve got her.”
Antonio smiled, reminding Leonid of a Komodo dragon. “How about a retainer?”
“It’s all or nothing. If you aren’t interested in a half million for a phone call, no hard feelings.”
“I’m just saying that spreading a little seed money around tends to heighten everyone’s motivation.”
“The terms aren’t negotiable.”
“I see. Fine. How do I reach you?”
Leonid handed him a slip of paper with an Argentine cell number on it. “I’ll be in town for several days. There is some urgency to this situation.”
Antonio slipped the number into his shirt pocket, and Leonid noted that his fingernails were manicured and coated with a veneer of clear polish. Antonio barked instructions to the driver, and they swung around at the next light, returning to the hotel.
“What else can you tell me about her besides that she’s dangerous?” Antonio asked.
“That’s all you need to know. I don’t have anything else that would be helpful.”
“Does she have a name?”
“She’s pro, so she won’t be using the same one any two days in a row.”
“Interesting. What did she do?”
Leonid considered a dozen answers before offering a scowl.
“Crossed the wrong person.”
~ ~ ~
Jet reached across the table and took Matt’s hand after dinner was cleared by the waiter, who’d promised them the bill shortly. Hannah’s lids were heavy as the hour grew late, and she looked ready to pass out after a bowl of buttered noodles and two glasses of lemonade. The hotel restaurant was small but clean, and they were one of only four tables that had been served since their arrival an hour and a half earlier – the pace was typically South American, which Jet was used to from living in Mendoza.
“So far this hasn’t been awful,” Jet said as she brushed a lock of hair out of Hann
ah’s eyes.
“Not a spider in sight,” Matt agreed.
“It seems like a relatively quiet town. A shame we can’t stay for a few days, although the hotel leaves something to be desired.” The building was older, two stories built around a central courtyard with a pool in the center and a parking lot in front. As far as she could tell, there were precious few guests staying the night, so they had the place almost to themselves.
“There’s nothing stopping us, although prudence would say the farther we are from Mendoza, the better. Have you given any thought to where you want to go next?” They’d spent the day discussing possible destinations. Matt had floated Costa Rica or Panama City, and Jet had whiled away several hours on the hotel lobby computer reading about their various high and low points.
“Panama City looks nice enough. Super developed. Like New York or Hong Kong. I don’t know why, but I was expecting jungle.”
“Costa Rica’s got all the jungle you could handle. Monkeys, toucans, snakes, the whole shooting match.” Matt ignored the dark look she shot him. “I’m good with either. It’s not like I haven’t done my jungle time in Laos…”
“The good news is they’re close to each other. So if we don’t like one, we can be in the other in a matter of hours.”
“And they’re both thousands of miles from anywhere.”
“Always a big plus when everyone on the planet’s out to get you.”
He smiled. “Out to get me. Which, again…” Matt had raised the possibility of separating from Jet, at least for a while – since Tara had been after him, not her. Jet had shot that option down and refused to discuss it further. She’d almost lost him twice now and wasn’t going to allow him out of her sight.
“We cut the head off that snake. The stones are gone – or at least, yours are, and they don’t know about mine – so if they keep after you, it will be out of spite,” she pointed out.
“I don’t see that happening. These guys are criminals. It isn’t personal. They wanted their money back. The chances of that happening got scattered all over the streets of Buenos Aires, so now there’s no reason to allocate resources to a global manhunt. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’d put a bullet in me in a second if they thought it convenient…”
“So you need to make it inconvenient. Very inconvenient.”
“I’m certain that any heat will die down. They took their best shot and got body bags in return. I just need to be careful from here on out.”
Jet nodded as the check arrived. “We. We need to be careful,” she corrected.
“Never argue with a lady.”
Chapter 8
Los Andes, Chile
A booming cumbia beat thumped from overhead speakers as dancers bumped and ground on the floor, multicolored lights washing over them. The young women wore skintight jeans that hugged every contour, and the men were decked out in their weekend best. A DJ worked the booth, exhorting the crowd to more lascivious moves between sips of champagne and yips when he spotted a particularly noteworthy example of the female form to admire.
One wall featured a floor-to-ceiling glittering mural featuring ponies in disco apparel toasting and dancing, the mares bashful or coquettish and the stallions universally debonair. The club was the largest night spot in Los Andes, a rural town that owed its fortunes to agriculture, and El Caballo Loco was always jammed with the region’s young and celebratory. Tonight was no exception, although it was still early and the floor was only a third full. That would change as the clock struck midnight, and the party would continue until the wee hours, fueled by alcohol and hope as well as the cocaine and methamphetamines the Sotos marketed to the locals.
Rodrigo Soto led his brother, Alejandro, to a booth near the DJ station. After high-fiving the MC, he flipped the reserved sign flat on the table and sat down hard on the burgundy cushions. Alejandro followed suit, and a hostess hurried over to take their order. The Sotos owned the club, and while Gaspar’s two sons usually stayed in Santiago for their partying, whenever they were in town they stopped in and expected to be treated like royalty.
Rodrigo ordered a bottle of Gray Goose in a bucket of ice and a pitcher of orange juice. Alejandro eyed the talent with a bored ennui; the country girls weren’t as interesting to him as those from the nation’s capital, who were more worldly in every way. Rodrigo elbowed him to call his attention to a pair of stunning brunettes, to whom he offered a dazzling smile as he ran his fingers through his long, thick black hair. One of the women, no more than twenty, returned his smile, and when the server appeared with the bottle, he held it up and motioned for them to come over. Alejandro rolled his eyes but played along with his younger brother’s flirtation, their two years of age difference barely discernible in their early-thirties faces.
Rodrigo fumbled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one with a gold lighter as the girls approached, all cinnamon skin and neon smiles, swaying hips and endless legs. After introductions were made and drinks were poured, Rodrigo toasted with his three fingers of vodka on the rocks, head bobbing to the beat. Two barrel-chested bodyguards with stub necks stood like stone lions near the door, eyes roving over the crowd, hands folded in front of them, their suits incongruent with the simpler garb of the young crowd. The larger of the pair sauntered over and took up position next to the sound booth.
Alejandro stood three inches taller than his brother and was the older of the siblings. His combed-back wavy hair, equine nose, and regal bearing together with his immaculate Armani black silk blazer and polar-white shirt lent him the air of a diplomat. Rodrigo’s profile was chiseled, but his chin was weaker than Alejandro’s, and his look radiated more arrogance than justified superiority. His charcoal jacket was expensive but formless, the sleeves pushed up on his forearms to better display his gym-toned physique and tribal tattoos. The women seemed suitably impressed with them both, though. Rodrigo downed his drink in moments before pouring himself and his new friends another. Alejandro declined a second, his screwdriver only half finished.
The DJ changed songs, and the new beat pulsed on the floor with fresh urgency. The throng squealed with glee as the hypnotic groove hit its stride. Half the dancers were singing along with the gangsta lyrics; the town was about as far from the Brooklyn hood as you could get, and yet the words were familiar to everyone. Rodrigo knocked back his second drink as he finished another cigarette and leaned into his brother, one eye on the ladies, who were fluffing their hair and smiling for all they were worth.
“I’m going to hit the can. Keep them entertained for me, will you?”
Alejandro nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Rodrigo stood and, after whispering something in the ear of one of the girls, weaved to the restrooms in the rear of the club like a seaman on a pitching deck. Alejandro grinned at the girls, who were becoming more alluring with each swallow of his high-octane drink. The nearest girl was bouncing on the cushions to the beat, and after another swig of liquid courage, she reached over and took Alejandro’s hand to pull him onto the dance floor. He wasn’t in the dancing mood, but his resolve melted when he saw the look in her eye.
A half-dozen men burst through the entry, knocking the bouncers aside. The bodyguard by the DJ booth responded like lightning and had his Glock pistol out within a second of seeing the distinctive shape of guns in the hands of the intruders.
Gunfire erupted. The girl who’d been trying to coax Alejandro onto the dance floor jerked as slugs thudded into her. Screams rang through the club from the panicked crowd, and the DJ jerked the volume down and dove for the floor. Alejandro whipped out his Desert Eagle .45 from beneath his jacket as he overturned the table for cover and fired four shots, hitting two of the gunmen. The nearby bodyguard also fired rapidly at the shooters, but a round slammed into his chest, and he tumbled backward, still squeezing the trigger, hitting random dancers running for cover. A hail of bullets smacked into the heavy wooden table, sending chunks of wood flying. Thankfully none penetrated it, and Alejandro loosed
another four shots at the doorway.
The bodyguard by the entry blew off the back of the nearest assailant’s head. With four of the six gunmen down, the remaining two hesitated as more shooters forced their way through the club doors. Pandemonium reigned inside, the partygoers now cringing wherever they could hide. Bodies littered the dance floor, which was slick with fresh blood.
The club lights went dark, the only illumination muzzle flashes. Alejandro edged along the booth and ducked into the corridor that led to the bathrooms – and the rear exit. Two bodies bumped into him, jostling him as they stumbled along in search of cover, but Alejandro ignored them as his eyes adjusted to the pitch black of the hallway. The shooting receded behind him, and then he reached the heavy steel exit door. He manhandled it open, pistol clutched in front of him, ready for anything. There in the dark was Rodrigo in his silver Land Rover, his face drawn, his eyes startled.
Alejandro pulled open the passenger door and screamed as he climbed in. “Get out of here. Now.”
Rodrigo mashed the accelerator and the powerful vehicle lunged forward with a roar. “What the hell happened? What was that?” he demanded, visibly shaken.
“Has to be the Verdugos. Bastards. It’s a bloodbath.”
“Are you hit?”
“No. But it’s a miracle. How about you?”
“I heard the shooting as I was coming out of the john. Didn’t seem to be a good idea to go back in.”
“You’re lucky. They were loaded for bear.” Alejandro described the scene in the club. Rodrigo took a hard left and watched the rearview mirror for any signs of pursuit. “Let me have your cell,” Alejandro said. “Mine was on the table. It’s history now.”
Rodrigo dug his phone out of his pocket and handed it to his brother, who called their father, Gaspar. His heart sank when the call went to voice mail. “Shit.”
He dialed another number, and the same thing happened. When he got lucky on the third ring, Hector, Gaspar’s most trusted lieutenant, sounded worried. “We’ve been getting reports that your dad was arrested at the restaurant, but we haven’t been able to confirm it. None of our contacts with the police are answering their phones. Not a good sign.”
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