Hearts On Fire (The Santiago Trilogy Book 3)

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “I’ve been biding my time, Santiago. When Petrov told me you were coming over without your men tonight, it provided us with the perfect opportunity.”

  “He never suspected?”

  “Not for one moment. He was a trusting fool.”

  I think of all the times Petrov has been double-crossed these past few weeks. At every turn he’s lost good men: Amsterdam, Morocco…

  Joseph was onto Viktor after Sevastien’s party and I should have listened.

  “Why the training camp in North Africa? What are you up to, you sick fuck?”

  He swings my chair around with an evil grin on his face. “Why don't you take a seat again, señor, and I might just fill you in…”

  34

  Eve

  ‘Only in the darkness can you see the stars.’

  I’m curled up on a wafer-thin mattress in a prison cell, staring at this quote that someone carved into the dirty gray wall next to me. It’s by Martin Luther King, I think, but I only see Dante in his words. The stars in my husband’s darkness stud the black like bullet holes, and they’ve been burning even brighter since Tanzania. That night I showed him I was his equal in every way, and then I had to go and ruin it all by making the worst decision of my life. I was so consumed with seeking out the truth that I risked everything, and I lost.

  Will he forgive me?

  My hand drifts down to my belly and I find myself whispering apologies to my unborn baby. Once he or she is born, Dante will raise this child, maybe with Sofía’s help if she ever comes back to the island. I’ve made that decision already. He’ll give them so much more than I ever could, stuck inside a place like this.

  Will they forgive me?

  Would I forgive, if the situation were reversed?

  The sins of our parents slash deep into our lives, no matter how much we try and mitigate the fallout, and both Dante and I can testify to that. My father’s betrayal is like a festering wound inside my heart. It keeps bleeding out whenever I think about the look in his eyes after I admitted murdering Emilio Santiago. That was his moment of false redemption. His get out of jail free card, whatever the cost to his daughter. He pushed and pushed, knowing I’d let something slip. Now I’ve helped secure him immunity from a crime that is far worse than mine.

  His final words consume me the most, though:

  “I did what they told me to, I thought what they told me to feel. They were in complete control when it came to you, not me. That’s the way it’s always been, ever since you were a little girl…”

  So many shocking subtexts spring to mind. I know exactly what he was mixed up in, and the horrors of what I’ve witnessed paint nightmarish pictures when I close my eyes. Was I abused in some way? Was it so bad that I’ve blocked it out? Is this what is causing my flashbacks?

  Tears start trickling down my cheeks. I’ve had five hours to reflect on every moment that transpired in the diner tonight and it’s still a chessboard with missing pieces. I can't wrap my head around Agent Peters’ motives. Was he lying about Petrov being his father to keep his cover? The man plays every angle for himself. He’s a spinning dial, with no fixed loyalty. All he cares about is justice for his sister, and he’ll play any hand to get it.

  Why my father, though?

  Agent Peters hates the trafficking ring as much as we do. He has a vested interest in seeing it destroyed. My father was up to his eyes with Sevastien so why is he being allowed to walk free? I wasn’t arrested to serve justice. I was arrested as a pawn in a greater game. The FBI Agent could have taken Dante into custody at gunpoint two weeks ago, but he didn’t...

  A metal bolt is yanked back. A stern-looking correctional officer appears in my doorway like a grim, dark shadow and starts barking orders at me.

  “Get up! Room Three.”

  I scrabble to my feet, unsure of what is expected of me. I don’t look like an inmate yet. I’m still wearing my black and white shift dress from Nairobi but the colors are muted with dirt and tears. An officer took pity on me earlier and chucked a blanket on my bed to keep me warm. I allow it to slip from my shoulders as I move toward the door, and now the frigid air from the hallway is scraping at my skin and causing a rash of goose bumps.

  I move slowly as I’m led away from my cell, my feet dragging, my body unbalanced by the strange weight of the cuffs around my wrists. Every inmate and correctional officer stops talking to turn and stare as we pass. I hear the name Santiago whispered in reverent and detested tones from both quarters. I try not to dwell on what the future holds for me in here, but I can tell straightaway that my surname will either be a prize or a liability.

  I’m shown into a small, windowless room with a table and two chairs situated in the middle like a cold steel centrepiece.

  “Take a seat,” barks the voice again. “He’ll be with you shortly.”

  Who will?

  The heavy door slams shut behind me with no further explanation. I blink at my new surroundings and then do as I’m told. I’m not waiting long. I rise to my feet as soon as the bolt slides back again.

  “Sit down, Mrs Santiago, I’ll keep this brief.” Agent Peters comes barrelling into the room with two cheap suits and scowls trailing in his wake. For once, he seems to have checked his composure by the door. He looks wired – tie askew, crisp white shirt untucked, perfect hair out of place… He throws a manila folder down onto the table in front of me, I’d forgotten about his manila folders, and proceeds to chuck a ballpoint next to it. “Open it and sign.”

  I glance at the folder and then back at his face. “What am I signing? Do I need a lawyer present?”

  “Confirmation of your release,” he says tersely. “No lawyer necessary. All charges have been dropped.”

  “What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “When? How?”

  “Do it please, Eve. Time is of the essence.”

  “But… I don't understand?” The fairground of my life is working overtime tonight. I’m spinning so damn hard I can’t catch my breath.

  He narrows his green, cat-like eyes at me and suddenly I know. There’s only one man in the world with enough power, money and authority to turn this whole sorry saga around to his advantage.

  Dante.

  35

  Dante – Afghanistan 2002

  We spend the rest of the night hatching a plan and it falls into place pretty quickly. That’s the thing about life in captivity, you can spot a routine a mile off, and ours is no different. We’ve learned to anticipate the first round of torture the moment the trucks leave mid-morning for target practice or a recruitment drive, or whatever the fuck terrorists do all day. That’s when the camp relies on a skeleton crew who will be easy to overcome. If we can take care of the three assholes assigned to us first...

  The next day they barge into our tiny cell like they always do, brandishing their guns and making a fuck load of noise, but we’re ready and waiting this time. We’re on our feet, positioned at opposite sides of the room. It’s going to take every ounce of strength I have to get this right. Shanking three grown men with a rusty blade is an endurance at the best of times, but doing it with a busted knee and a broken arm is going to take precision, skill and luck. I hold Joseph’s eye briefly as we count back from five in our heads, and then I begin…

  I have the first guard’s throat ripped out before he can raise his gun. The others turn to wrestle the knife out of my hand, but two expert arcs later and they’re gurgling and bleeding out all over the floor. Within a minute they’re dead.

  “Holy shit,” murmurs Joseph, staring down at the mess I’ve made. “You weren’t dicking around, were you? You really are a Santiago.”

  “Get the weapons,” I tell him, picking up the nearest machine gun. I don't even notice the bodies. They don't exist to me anymore.

  “Teach me how to do that.”

  I catch his gaze again and see the dawning light of a new respect in his eyes. “Maybe one day.” I mean it too. It wouldn’t take much to tip him into the same darkness th
at governs my soul.

  We kill everyone in our path. As suspected, it’s not a heavy death toll, which is just as well. After three weeks of daily torture, our stamina levels are running on empty.

  In room after dusty room we come across boxes of weapons stamped with the colors of Joseph’s country. It’s all high-grade stuff too: subs, grenade launchers, carbines… The terror cell that captured us are well funded and well-connected, which makes me even more determined to get the hell out of here and expose them before they target their next victims. Every life I save is for Isabella. I don't do it to save my soul. I couldn’t give a fuck about that. My murder wouldn’t be quite so selective if I didn’t see her face in every innocent. Gabriela sends me photographs and I replay the news from her letters in my head every night. They’ve made a new life for themselves in the capital, Bogotá, a city that’s far, far away from my father’s house.

  Joseph limps next door as I hunt for a radio or cell, or anything we could use to contact the base. It’s not long before I hear him shouting out my name.

  “Dante, get in here!”

  Lying unconscious on the floor is another soldier from the M-ATV crash. His left leg is stuck out at an angle that suggests a severe fracture or two and his face is pulp and bone. I can't even distinguish his nose and eyes sockets anymore.

  “He alive?” I say, stumbling over to them.

  He checks his pulse and nods. “Just.”

  “I thought we were the only survivors?”

  “We might be soon if we don't get this guy to a hospital.”

  All of a sudden he moves his hand and groans.

  “Can you hear me, soldier?” I lean over, one hand on the wall to balance. Crouching isn't an option with a shattered kneecap.

  “I’m sorry.” The words are so faint we nearly miss them.

  “Stay with us, soldier,” I say briskly. “Help is on its way.” There are times for lies, and this is one of them.

  “Gave up the base, our security measures, everything...sorry.”

  Fuck. Still, his shame is hard to hear when it’s coming from a face as beaten as his. “Go easy on yourself, soldier,” I tell him, taking Joseph to one side.

  “That’s what all the gear is for next door. They’re stockpiling. Attack is imminent."

  “What d’ya want to do about it?”

  But he already has his answer from the gleam in my eye. Here’s another one for you, Isabella.

  “Dante, we’re three busted soldiers who can barely walk or hold a gun,” he says calmly, trying to reason with me. “It’s fucking suicide.”

  “Maybe so,” I say, eyeing up the dying soldier on the floor again. “Then again, one of them is me…”

  36

  Dante

  “So, how’s this going to play out?” I ask Sevastien, leaning back in the chair and crossing one ankle over my knee. When the shit hits the fan, I tend to project a whole lot of apathy. It’s a force shield I engage, right before I unleash hell. “Shall I expect a bullet now, or is this going to be a long, drawn-out, lingering death? I’d be happy to offer Viktor a few torture method tips… I remember his weren’t particularly effective when it came to Luka Ivanov last month.” I shoot the Russian a cold smile that earns me two razor-sharp daggers in return. “Then again, if he was working for you, that’s probably the reason why.”

  Viktor responds with a furious Russian diatribe – eyes flashing, arms flailing, the whole shebang. So, switching allegiances was a recent event then…

  "You're a dead man, Santiago."

  “Temper, temper,” I say pleasantly. That’s the other thing I do when my back is up against the wall. I try and antagonize the men pointing a gun at me as much as possible. It’s a trait I’ve learned from Rick Sanders over the years.

  Rick.

  He’s the only man who knows where I am. How long do I have before he comes looking for me? One problem. The last time I saw him he was half a bottle of Jack down, and disappearing into a room with two whores, so he’s a wildcard at best.

  Think Dante. There’s no way I’m dying at the hands of the same cunt who murdered Isabella. I won’t resign Eve and my unborn child to a fate worse than death.

  “So?” I prompt, bringing myself back to the room. “Long-drawn out, or quick and simple?”

  Sevastien laughs and leans back against his dead brother’s desk. “After all the trouble you’ve caused me in the last seven months, Santiago, I’m planning to savor this. Then, I’m going to ensure that your wife is treated appropriately in whichever penitentiary she finds herself in for the next twenty-five years. She won’t be nearly so pretty with matching scars running down her cheeks. And don’t worry about your imminent new arrival either. We’ll take good care of it. My clients do so enjoy Santiago offspring… Your firstborn was one of my most requested.”

  Red-hot bile rises up in my throat like a burning funeral pyre, but I keep my disinterest locked in place. My mask was picked up and dusted off the moment Sevastien put a bullet in his brother’s head. Settle in for the ride, Dante. Our mutual antagonism is going to be a bubbling spa of shit.

  “Talk to me about Morocco. And while we’re at it, I want a drink.” Authority drips from my words like a shaken bottle of Louis Roederer. I’ll always be top alpha in a room, no matter who’s pointing a gun at me.

  “What is this, a fucking bar?” snarls Viktor, who is hovering next to Sevastien. As far as I can see, there are only three other men in this room. I’m betting all of Petrov’s are dead. Five against one... After everything I’ve been through in the last thirty-eight years, I’m calling those odds favorable.

  Sevastien nods and smiles, his jade eyes catching flints of gray in the overhead lighting in the library. Nobody moves a muscle as he wanders over to a bookcase and starts pulling down various first editions before slotting them back into place. He does this slowly and methodically for at least five minutes before I yawn loudly.

  “May I have your knife please, Santiago?” he asks, his back still turned to me.

  “Which one?” I say idly. “The one at my ankle or the one that’s going to be lodged in your left eye socket in the next hour or so?”

  He laughs again. “Viktor, please relieve Santiago of his knife in the most uncomfortable way possible.”

  Ah shit.

  A split-second later, the huge Russian is smashing his fist into my jaw and sending me sprawling against the desk. Before I can stand, another one is smashing into the other side of my face. Pain ricochets up into my skull and the metallic taste of blood spills out of my mouth. I thought Joseph hit hard, but this guy’s made of steel.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, wiping my hand across my face and bringing it away, red. “Is that the best you can do?”

  Viktor grunts and smiles before my right eye socket is a ball of fire and I go down hard. Before I can kick him away, my jeans are being ripped up and my favorite knife forcibly taken.

  “You hit like a girl, dickhead.” Sprawled out across the floor, my whole face ablaze and a couple of minor bones broken, I can't stop laughing. It’s all bitter and twisted-up notes though, but that’s been the soundtrack of my life. I only introduced a tune when Eve walked into my life.

  Eve.

  “Can I have that drink now?” I drag myself up into a sitting position and wedge my back against the desk, spitting out the worst of the blood as I do.

  “Have you earned it yet?” Sevastien moves to stand over me with a lit cigarette in his hand, the smoke tendrils curling around his bony face. The lighting in the room has switched. It’s now giving him a backdrop, making his pale skin look even whiter and his jades as black as fucking coal. “I don’t believe you have… Not yet anyway. Viktor, would you please ensure that Dante is secured? We wouldn’t want any, ah, Emilio situations in this room tonight.”

  “My pleasure…”

  Double shit.

  Two men drag me to my feet by my arms and throw me back into the chair. The force jars my broken face and I erupt into Spa
nish – streams of violent words that split my composure in two. I’m still in the process of sticking it back together again when Viktor grabs my left hand and splays it out across the desk.

  “I heard this is a speciality of yours,” he says, lifting my knife.

  “You motherfucker!” I hiss and brace myself for what’s coming.

  The pain hits me like a fucking truck as my own knife drills down through the center of my hand and buries deep in the wood below. Damn, that’s a good torture method, I think wildly, as agony gluts my senses. I gasp out a couple of breaths to try and release the worst of it, but it doesn’t touch the surface.

  “If you hang out with the big boys, Dante Santiago,” murmurs Sevastien from somewhere behind me, “you have to expect a little rough play, once in a while.”

  I can't move. I can’t speak. My antagonism just left the fucking building. What the hell is wrong with me? I can withstand more than this… They did worse in that Taliban torture center. I owe it to my daughter. I owe it to Eve.

  “I think you’ve earned your drink now. Viktor, why don't you bring Señor Santiago an extra large Bourbon?”

  “I’d be delighted to,” he says, but I hear the smirk in his voice and I brace myself for a second time.

  He starts pouring a constant stream of alcohol onto my hand, the licks of burning, stinging flame trebling the agony as I fight back waves of nausea. My mind starts to stray as some sort of coping mechanism, and I find myself focussing on Eve again. She’s rarely from my thoughts, and if Sevastien’s bullet exits my skull later tonight like Petrov’s, she will be the last exquisite thing that I see.

  Viktor has stopped pouring liquid misery onto blinding pain now. He’s sipping from the bottle and swinging it tantalizingly in front of my face as I’m stuck to a goddamn desk.

  “How are your wife’s nightmares?” asks Sevastien suddenly.