by L. T. Ryan
“Hangover and a late flight,” Jack said. “What’s your excuse?”
I laughed loudly. A few heads turned, but no one paid us any attention. They turned back to their food and drinks.
Thorne shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
I leaned over my arm toward the guy. “You know, you’re drawing more attention to yourself wearing sunglasses inside than if we got up on the table and started dancing.”
“It wouldn’t hold your weight, big man,” Jack said. “Sorry to break it to you.”
I twisted my face into mock offense. “Whatever could you mean, Jack?”
Thorne sighed and took off his glasses, folding them up and placing them on the table in front of him. “You know, I thought meeting the infamous Jack Noble and Riley Logan would be a bit more climactic. Don’t meet your heroes, I guess.”
“Aw, Bear.” Jack placed a hand over his heart. “We have fans.”
The waitress chose that time to finally bring me my parmesan. She looked the new guy up and down, seemed unimpressed. “Should I bring out another plate?”
“Nah,” Jack said. “Our buddy here was just stopping by to say a quick hi. He won’t be staying.”
Thorne clenched his jaw and looked between me and Jack, but he didn’t say anything. He stood up and unzipped his jacket. He wasn’t stupid enough to try something in public, but both of us kept an eye on Thorne’s movements just in case. Jack had a habit of getting under people’s skin.
“Bathroom?” Thorne asked the waitress, laying his jacket down on the table.
“Back through here.” She led him away.
“Where the hell does Frank get these guys?” Jack asked.
“Probably the same place he got you.” My gaze swept around the pub once, noting the man drinking at the bar watching us from the mirror, as well as the guy who was still smoking outside, still leaning against the same tree. He brought his fist up to his mouth in a fake yawn and looked away. I reached for the jacket and pulled it onto my lap, feeling the weight of an envelope drop into my hand. I tucked it into my own coat pocket and swung Thorne’s jacket around the back of his chair.
Jack pushed his plate to the middle of the table and watched as I pulled out enough cash to cover the meal and a decent tip. I led us out, passing the red-haired man and ignoring the way he stared daggers at us. It seemed we weren’t popular with any of Frank’s men these days.
Jack gave the guy across the street a mock salute and then tossed on a pair of sunglasses.
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. “Did you steal those from Thorne?”
“Borrow, big man,” Jack said. “I borrowed them from our new friend.”
“Borrowing implies the intention of returning them.”
“Oh, I absolutely have every intention of returning them,” Jack said. “I can’t wait to see our new friend Thorne again. He seems like a fun guy.”
“You could use a little less fun, Jack,” I said. “How’s that hangover treating you?”
“Cured,” Jack said.
“Told you the pizza would be good.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Still good though.”
“Where are we heading?” Jack pointed at my jacket.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope, sliding the papers out halfway and skimming the dossier. “Take a guess.”
“Argentina,” Jack said immediately. “Rogue military faction.”
“You owe me a beer.” I handed him the papers. “Costa Rica. Corrupt politician.”
Chapter Three
March 23, 2006
I stared out across the beach, watching the waves roll in at a steady rhythm that kept time with my heartbeat. I took a pull from my bottle, barely tasting the light beer as I allowed the sound of the ocean to overtake my thoughts and relax me.
Frank’s dossier was straight to the point. We were in Costa Rica to deal with a corrupt politician named Thomas Goddard. Goddard had developed a habit of visiting the country to take care of his various cartel dealings in person. He’d visit at least once a quarter, sometimes more, and stay up to two weeks at a time. Tax dollars hard at work. Some misdoings were overlooked. But Goddard was drawing too much attention to himself, and the price of making a mistake like that was death.
Jack and I were tasked with executing the punishment.
Javier Torres, a long-time intelligence agent in Costa Rica, was our point of contact for the operation. He knew Goddard’s comings and goings, and would be the man to set us up for the job. Intel, weapons, cover ups. He’d assist in every way. We’d be meeting him later that day to get more information.
A peal of laughter broke my concentration. I glanced over my shoulder and across the open-air bar to where Jack stood talking to one of the locals. She was tall, maybe five foot eight or so, with bronze skin and dark eyes and hair to match. She had one hand on Jack’s chest, and he had one hand on her waist. The other tucked a strand of windblown hair behind her ear.
The woman leaned forward and whispered something into Jack’s ear, then kissed him on the cheek and sauntered away. Jack stood, admiring after her for a long moment before jogging back over to me with a grin on his face.
“Where’s your phone?” Jack asked.
“What?”
“Your phone, your phone,” Jack said, waving for me to hurry up. “Before I forget her number.”
“Quit messing around, man.” I lifted my bottle to my mouth before realizing I had already drained the last drop. I gave up and placed my phone on the table where he snatched it up. “We’ve got to meet Javier in two hours.”
“We might have time.” Jack sat down and looked past me to where the woman had walked off.
“Remember the last time you had some fun?” I signaled for the check. “We need to stay on top of this one.”
“I plan to.” A smile spread across his face. When I didn’t laugh, he shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “All right, then. Where’re we heading?”
“The mountains.”
* * *
I rented an older white Range Rover that took us slowly but steadily up to the peak of a nearby mountain. The road was narrow and winding and once we had to scrape by an oncoming car to get through a narrow pass. Considering the Rover was already pretty banged up, I figured the car company was used to visitors making similar mountain treks.
But no visitors would make the trip to Javier’s office. By the time we reached the cinder block building the road was nothing more than a couple of pencil-thin slits of dirt in overgrown grass. The air was so thin that both of us had a little trouble breathing.
Jack lifted his sunglasses to the top of his head and stared across the gravel lot to the building. “Homey.”
I grunted in agreement. The building was nothing more than concrete block and a steel door. It would have looked abandoned and forlorn had there not been a couple late model sedans parked out front. Still, the building sucked the vibrancy out of the lush jungle surrounding it.
“This place doesn’t exactly boost morale,” I said. “Guess not many workplaces do, though.”
“We just supposed to wait?” Jack checked his side mirror. Javier was an asset, but that didn’t give us an excuse to get complacent.
No sooner had I nodded my head than the door clanged open and Javier strolled out to meet us. He was a lean man, in his mid-30s, with flecks of grey in his hair. He was wearing a tailored dark-blue suit. His while collared shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, and he’d forgone the tie today. He looked calm as he stepped up to our vehicle, pausing a moment to scan the trees around us. Then Javier’s gaze settled back on the two of us, sizing us up before he nodded his head.
Jack and I exited the Land Rover at the same time and followed Javier as he turned and walked back into the building. Jack checked over his shoulder one more time and appeared to be satisfied that we weren’t being watched from the surrounding forest. I kept my eyes on the back of Javier’s head until we were th
rough the door and into the main entryway.
It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the dim, artificial lighting inside. The entryway was bare bones, with only a simple metal desk in one corner and a single padded chair in the other.
“Don’t get many visitors, huh?” Jack said.
“We try to avoid them, yes.” Javier paused at the secretary’s desk. His accent was light.
I took note of the receptionist, an older woman with dyed red hair. She had to have been in her mid-50s, and looked like she was still living in that era. Her hair was done up in a beehive, her nails were long and painted crimson, and she wore a string of pearls above a turquoise dress that showed off her ample cleavage. I wondered how long she had worked there, and who she was trying to impress.
The woman didn’t bother looking up when the three of us passed. When Javier spoke to her in rapid-fire Spanish, she pulled out a pen and a pad of paper and began to take notes. She nodded her head once, twice, three times, and by the time Javier was done speaking, she had a page full of notes and her fingers were already flying over the keyboard.
Jack looked over at me, knowing I understood every word Javier had said. I shook my head subtly. It wasn’t anything important. A light was out in one of the offices and there was a leaky faucet in the men’s bathroom.
Javier led us down the spiraling set of stairs. Bringing up the rear, I took note of the way Javier moved, the way he set his shoulders and carried himself. His body language stayed neutral, calm even. I wasn’t sure why I was looking for signs that this thing would go sideways. By all accounts, it was a pretty straight forward op.
When we hit the first platform and ventured out into the office space below the reception area, I realized how big the facility was. That’s what was great about a place like this. The entrance was a single room with two points of egress—the main door and the staircase down to the next level. If there was any trouble, the receptionist would alert those below, who could easily defend their office space by trapping any intruders in the staircase.
The hallway stretched before us. My eyes finally adjusted to the light. It also helped that the fluorescence down here was much brighter. The only windows to the rooms that dotted the hallway on each side were a sliver of glass set into the doors, each of which had their own keypad. Javier walked us past a dozen before we turned a corner, only to find a dozen more in either direction.
“Jesus,” Jack muttered. Then he raised his voice. “How big is this place?”
“Big enough.” Javier stopped in front of a door seemingly at random and punched in a ten-digit code. He blocked our view with his body. The keypad was silent. There was no way we could guess the numbers from the sound alone.
We followed him inside a spacious office. He flipped a switch on the wall and overhead lights flickered to life. The room was surrounded by concrete, and there were no windows, but the rich oak desk and a couple of plump red chairs with a matching carpet made it feel less cold than the rest of the floor. Maybe all the rooms looked like this. They kept it that way for the sanity of their agents.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” I said.
Javier nodded. “Please, sit. Let us begin.”
Jack and I sat down, sinking into the chairs with a sigh. The trip in the Rover had been a bumpy one, and Javier’s office was warm and comfortable. Felt like a cave. I realized how tired I was for the first time all day.
I sat up straighter in the chair. If I wasn’t careful, I’d probably fall asleep. “What have you got for us, Javier?”
“Thomas Goddard.” Javier pulled a file from his desk and opened it up in front of him. “He is a senator in the United States government who visits Costa Rica several times a year. While he is here, his schedule is fairly routine.” He held out his hand and tilted it side to side. “He eats breakfast and lunch at the same times and same places each day. He is usually accompanied by a contact, but if he does not have a meeting that day, he is accompanied by a woman. Some of them show up more regularly than others. He doesn’t seem to have a favorite among them. Dinner is more of a social event, where he is joined by several high-profile Costa Rican politicians or actors. This usually occurs around nine, again at the same restaurant each night. Oddly enough, he often stays in a condo suite in town even though he owns a place further away. This, I’m sure, is not known by many people.”
Javier handed me the folder so I could scout the restaurants in question and check out their locations in relation to one another. The senator didn’t stray far within the city limits of San José, at least not during mealtimes.
“What about when he’s not eating?” I passed the folder to Jack.
“During the day, he is either near a beach or secreted away to meet with his cartel contacts.”
“Near a beach?” Jack asked, looking up. “Working on his tan?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Javier’s lips twitched, perhaps the closest he could get to a smile. But then his demeanor became neutral again. “But don’t underestimate Goddard. He is cunning and dangerous and has no remorse. Even when he’s not the one who pulls the trigger, he is usually the person behind it.”
Chapter Four
Thomas Goddard’s alarm clock went off at five in the morning every day, even on weekends. He never used the snooze and he never laid in bed after he turned his alarm off. He hit the button, and five seconds later his feet hit the ground. Goddard stretched with a couple sun salutations, freeing the last remnants of sleep from his mind.
Then he went to work.
Goddard enjoyed routine. He liked to know what to expect and he liked the feeling of accomplishment when he checked each item off his mental to-do list. Some people didn’t understand his rigid behavior, but they couldn’t argue with the results. It had gotten him to where he is today—a seat in the Senate. Not to mention the almost monthly trips to Costa Rica.
By the time Goddard had completed his workout it was only a few minutes past six. He took the stairs back up to his room where he showered and dressed for the day. Sitting down at the table in his suite, his assistant placed The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, and The New York Times in front of him, along with a hot cup of dark roast coffee. Dark roast for the flavor and slightly reduced caffeine.
“Thank you, Jordan.” Goddard sipped from the mug, enjoying the way the hot liquid warmed his throat and stomach. He didn’t indulge in much, but coffee was one exception. Women were another. “What’s the news?”
“Not much today, sir,” Jordan said. He already had his PDA out and was scrolling through his notes. “Jeffries is still stalling on the pipeline, though Winston and Vega have come around. The Canadians are still hesitant, but I’ve heard that the appropriate incentives are being offered.”
“Good, good.” Goddard absorbed the information, but allowed his mind to focus on the papers in front of him. “Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Call me just before seven,” Goddard said.
“Yes, sir.” Jordan turned on his heel to leave.
Goddard finished up the New York Times just as his phone rang. He told Jordan to meet him down in the lobby in five, though he suspected his assistant was already waiting there. Jordan wasn’t much for conversation, not that he minded, but he was an excellent employee. He was never late, he often anticipated Goddard’s needs before he voiced them, and most importantly, he never asked questions. He was a young man, much younger than Goddard, but he suspected Jordan grew up in a household that had required him to mature quickly. Whatever happened there, it was to Goddard’s benefit.
Goddard, his assistant, and his small security detail swept into Café Flores and sat at their usual table, which was always reserved for the senator when he was in town. The staff knew him to be a steady customer who was not to be disturbed during his meals unless he signaled for them. And if they kept up with his demands in a timely manner, he would tip them more than they’d make the rest of t
he day combined.
Señor Vasquez was waiting patiently at the table when they arrived. He stood up and shook the senator’s hand, nodded to Jordan, and swept a careful eye across the three men in Goddard’s security detail. Satisfied that none of them were itching to reach for their concealed weapons, Vasquez sat down and waited for Goddard to speak first.
Goddard nodded to his guards, who left the café after one final look across all the patrons. Jordan retreated to another table, still within earshot, but well enough away to not be intrusive.
A waitress came by with two cups of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast for Goddard. When she asked Vasquez what he’d like to eat, he shook his head.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Señor,” Goddard said, scooping his eggs onto his toast. “You should eat something.”
“You pay too much attention to cereal commercials,” Vasquez said. “It’s all a big lie, you know. Anyway, coffee is fine for me.” Vasquez’s accent was light—a product of growing up in Florida. He had been a former lieutenant for the Miami-Dade police. Now he was a private investigator who had his hands in a surprising amount of dealings. Former police officers always made the best investigators. They had the training, the contacts, and the instinct to get their guys. Throw in ambition and a strong love of family, like Vasquez had, and that line between right and wrong blurred just enough to make him useful to Goddard.
“Very well,” Goddard said, as the waitress walked away. She would have no other tables to wait on this morning, ensuring they received the best service. “How are your grandchildren? Jasmine and Rafael, if I remember correctly?”
“Yes, sir,” Vasquez said. “Very well. Jasmine turns ten tomorrow.”
“Ten!” Goddard exclaimed. He was genuinely delighted. His grandchildren were another one of his indulgences. “My Rachel is closing in on eight now. She’s terrified of turning ten. Thinks she’ll be a completely different person.”
