Gilded Agony

by K. A. Merikan

  Miguel nodded at Mark from his seat in front of Domenico’s desk.

  Dom led the way downstairs. The group of men who would physically deal with the cargo already awaited them by the vehicles, but as soon as Domenico, Mark, and Miguel started the engine of their black SUV, the two empty trucks and several vans followed.

  The road into town was regularly cleaned, but at times the asphalt was still covered by grime and mud. The recent days had been fortunate in that respect, and the column of vehicles traveled through El Encanto undisturbed.

  The port was livelier than usual, since a passenger boat had recently arrived, and between all the people returning home, visiting someone, and coming on business, the tourists always stood out like poppy seeds in a bowl of sugar. Almost exclusively traveling in groups, those amateurs of the ‘true Amazonia’ (whatever the hell that meant), with their backpacks, colorful clothes, and bodies sweaty from a journey in less-than-ideal conditions, could be a bother. Not because Domenico minded their money fueling many of his businesses, but because they had cameras and more often than not, lacked the sense of self-preservation, secure in their illusory first-world safety.

  He put on sunglasses and a white panama hat before exiting the car and leading the way along the lively stalls offering food and various goods. The spectacle he made, walking through the town that was his in all but name, was yet another part of this business. The people needed to see that Toro didn’t have to get his own hands dirty, because there was a crowd of a dozen ready to fulfill his every wish. They needed to see that he was in a position of power despite openly living with a man. They needed to see Miguel’s towering presence at Domenico’s side, his dark eyes searching the crowd, ready to reach for the rifle he had on him at all times.

  This was what power looked like.

  Back when Domenico worked for the Villanis, he thought he was close to the top—the best assassin in the business, valued for his talents and experience—and yet one word from the Don had been enough to send him cowering, because that was the reality of an organization built on seniority and name. What Domenico had now went far beyond the value of his skills. His men respected him, he offered work to the local people, even charity when he was feeling generous. His word meant everything in this town.

  And yet it wasn’t his home.

  Because of the swarm of tourists that spilled all over the port and town center Domenico decided to wait for the weapon shipment upstream, where he and his men wouldn’t be disturbed by anyone. The boat was late, and attempts at communication had failed so far, but it was something that happened often enough for everyone to wait while attempting to contact the crew every now and again.

  Once the professional bond with Moreno had been established two years back, business had run like clockwork, leaving both Santo happy with his new buyer, and the Caiman pleased with a fresh supply of guns from China. This was yet another routine pickup, even though the total worth of the cargo was way higher than usual, to satisfy a personal conflict of Moreno’s. It wasn’t Domenico’s business to ask where and against whom the bullets would fly, but he supposed it was something fairly important, since the weapons were worth close to five million.

  Just in time for Christmas.

  “Seth really went for it with the scissors,” Mark said out of the blue, probably out of boredom, as he stood next to Domenico, smoking a cigarette.

  Domenico shrugged, instantly reminded of the bizarre situation earlier. “A bit. How long do you want yours, Miguel?” he asked, looking at the serious face close by.

  Miguel frowned, and the skulls tattooed above one of his eyebrows danced. His braid now reached well below his shoulder blades, and reminded Domenico of a thick bullwhip. “Haven’t thought about it.”

  Mark ran his fingers through the curls that barely reached below his ears. “I’m growing mine out, but it feels like it’s taking forever.”

  Miguel cocked his head to the side. “It’s a mess, Mark.”

  “Yeah, yours will make you look like Louis XIV when it’s long,” Domenico added with a sharp laugh.

  Mark groaned and pressed the brown locks down on the sides of his head, but they bounced right back. “So unfair.”

  “Life’s not fair,” Miguel said, and his negativity only spurred Mark on.

  “Oh yeah? I wonder what you’d do if someone cut your braid.”

  Miguel shrugged. “I’d kill them. But I wouldn’t be crying over the hair. Everything dies at some point.”

  Domenico smirked, but the large boat emerging from beyond the river bend caught his attention. “There it is.”

  Several of the men approached the wooden platform where the vessel was to moor. They had ropes ready and watched its approach, which seemed overly careful, slow as if its pilot didn’t have much experience with this kind of maneuvering. Domenico promised himself he’d call the idiots who chose someone with inadequate skills to pilot a boat containing a shipment worth five million dollars, but his thoughts dispersed when the hull passed in front of him through the middle of the river.

  Frost bit into his bones when he realized he couldn’t hear the engine.

  There was nobody to be seen aboard either.

  “Fuck.”

  Mark understood him without words, and was already rushing to the pier where one of their motor boats was moored.

  “It could be a trap,” Miguel said, following Mark and Domenico into the small boat. Behind them, men were hurrying into other vessels, their shouting scratching the back of Domenico’s skull as he followed the drifting boat with his gaze.

  “No shit. Where the hell are they?” growled Domenico, pulling out his Beretta as he sank to one knee before the motor started. Within seconds, Mark steered it toward the transport boat that—what was now abundantly clear—carried on downstream like a huge and pricey toy lost by a forgetful child.

  Thousands of thoughts trailed through Domenico’s head. He didn’t even notice when the wind snatched his hat and tossed it into the murky water. With the spray of droplets still cooling his face, he grabbed the rusty ladder attached to the side of the boat as soon as he could reach it.

  The rough metal scraped his palms, but he climbed on the deck without a second’s thought. The first thing he saw aboard was blood. Already thickened to a dark puddle, the sight of it made his guts twist with anxiety, but he walked on, followed by Mark. It wasn’t dead bodies that he was afraid of seeing. It was what their presence would mean.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, but this was no time for checking who the message was from. His skin stuck to the clothes on his body, and the heat was choking as he surveyed the empty deck before pointing his gun toward the open trapdoor close to the cabin entrance. Stairs led below, and he wanted to signal Mark that he would not wait any longer for backup, itching to find out how fucked they were. But truth was that a cold feeling had already settled in his stomach at the realization that the state of the boat could only mean one thing.

  Dom held his weapon ready as he descended into the darkness below deck. He breathed in the damp air that resided in the hold, but when he switched on the light, the glaring emptiness of the cargo space told him all he needed to know.

  The shipment was gone.

  The blood in his veins felt lukewarm as he paced the empty room that still held the lingering smell of metal and oil. He stared at the bare walls in disbelief.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  The sound of the engine coming to life had him pointing his gun toward the noise, as if the low buzz meant the presence of something that could grind him into a pulp. The fright only lasted a moment. Seconds later, he heard the voices of his men, and the sound of feet drumming above his head. Eventually, someone’s head loomed in the open trapdoor above.

  “Mr. Toro, you need to see this,” shouted one of his underbosses before disappearing from sight again.

  Domenico took one deep breath. Two. Three. Only then did he find the strength to rush back into the light that now swarmed wit
h people examining traces of blood near the edges of the deck where the bodies of the crew must have been tossed into the water, and bullet holes.

  Mark stood right by him with a gun in hand, waiting for orders.

  “There’s a survivor!” Miguel yelled from the front of the boat.

  Domenico’s head throbbed with fury. Who could have possibly dared to steal something of Toro’s? He was known in the area as a man who took no prisoners and who’d brought down his predecessor like a guillotine. This must have been someone desperate, brainless, or with balls of steel. Possibly all three.

  The men parted like the Red Sea before Moses the moment Domenico emerged from the hold, his gaze trailing across the tunnel created between sweaty bodies. “Don’t go downstairs, and wear gloves. Use the ones you had for moving the boxes,” he yelled on the way to the bow. Maybe they could use fingerprints to identify the thieves with the help of local police. It was a long shot, but not impossible.

  The wind blew into Domenico’s face as the boat made a slow turn to head back toward the port, but all Domenico could see was Miguel’s muscular bulk and a pair of bare feet sticking out from behind him. There was a red spray on the hull, but as Domenico approached, the survivor’s toes twitched.

  “He said they wore green balaclavas,” Miguel said grimly, and Domenico frowned at the text spray-painted onto the grimy metal.

  STOP MURDER

  One glance at the traces of fighting and death made his brain do a rewind, but he was called right back into reality when the survivor let out a deep cough. Dom stepped closer and faced their only witness. With his back resting against a huge bundle of rope, the man was in a half-sitting position, gawking at Domenico while he fought for breath, wheezing through the blood that had likely flooded his lungs. Damp red stains stuck his T-shirt to his chest, and yet he didn’t ask for help, knowing it was too late. Domenico vaguely recognized him as one of the people who often came to El Encanto with supplies.

  Blood trickled out of the man’s lips when he coughed again, trying to speak. “The L-ungs, he whispered in English before his body went into spasms.

  Domenico stepped closer. “Fuck, he can’t breathe.”

  “I know what he means,” Mark said from behind Domenico’s back. “It’s that crazy eco- warrior group that recently set up camp in the area. They call cutting out the rainforest ‘murder’.”

  The injured man nodded frantically, but his face was becoming gray, and he clutched at his chest, opening his mouth like a fish thrown on land.

  Domenico balled his hands into fists. It was their one witness. The only one. “Fuck. Anyone here knows what to do with him?” He knew lots about first aid, but he was no surgeon.

  Miguel shook his head.

  “Should I call Dr. Quincy?” Mark asked, already pulling out his phone, but it didn’t seem there was a point. The thread of information was slipping from Domenico’s hands, and when the man stilled, Domenico gave a loud yell and kicked the hull so hard the thud resonated in the eerie silence that ensued.

  “Fucking hell. I’m gonna skin whoever did this!”

  Miguel sighed and shut the dead man’s eyes before rising to his feet. “Why would eco activists need military-grade weaponry? There were bazookas in that hold.”

  Mark lit himself a cigarette and didn’t protest when Domenico snatched one as well.

  “It’s not on their official agenda, but just last month, a group of Lungs members—”

  Domenico growled. “Why the fuck are they called ‘lungs’? Is that some kind of stupid abbreviation?”

  Mark cleared his throat. “Rainforest. ‘Lungs of the planet’ and all that…”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

  Mark went on. “Yeah, so I know someone local whose brother’s a member. Last month a group of American Lungs activists stormed the HQ of a big chemical company in Texas. Several people were shot. It was on the news.”

  Domenico took a deep breath, barely controlling the urge to smash the first head within reach. “And where around here will I find those Lungs?”

  Miguel shrugged. “Someone must know. We can ask around, along the river.”

  Mark nodded. “I will ask that guy about his brother.”

  Domenico was about to answer when his phone once again buzzed in the front pocket of his pants. With sweat beading on his forehead, he pulled it out, only to see yet another message from Seth. Wasn’t it obvious that he was too busy to answer? Five million dollars’ worth of guns had gone missing, and all Seth cared about was if Dom had any preference in terms of dinner.

  Since nothing could change before they reached the port again, he typed a short message to get that over with and stuffed the cell back where it belonged.

  “That’s disappointing, Mr. Toro,” Raul Moreno said in his usual calm, reptilian tone. Only tonight it wasn’t just unpleasant to listen to. Tonight, Domenico felt like that one time when he hadn’t managed to catch up with his mark and needed to report that to Dino Villani.

  His stomach was a bundle of knots. He hadn’t eaten all day, and had traveled by boat, trying to scavenge any information about the whereabouts of the Lungs. No one would tell him anything. The only thing he’d found was a dead body floating in shallow water upstream from El Encanto.

  Not a trace of the five-million dollar shipment.

  “Mr. Moreno, I assure you I am doing everything in my power to find the guilty party. And when that happens, I will personally deliver those people to your caimans, along with the weapons.”

  Raul sighed so deeply Domenico almost felt the moisture on his ear. “I will assume for now that there is no foul play going on, since we have had a good working arrangement going for so long now. It would be a shame for that to be damaged. I have a man who knows the jungle well. I’ll send him your way, and maybe he will be able to help in the search.”

  Something inside Domenico stilled, and he sank deeper into the seat of the car, frantically trying to keep himself from crushing the phone. That was it. No matter how well he did on his turf, there was still the top dog in Bogotá, with enough men to swarm Toro’s enterprise if he felt slighted. Everything Domenico had built, all the sacrifices he’d made would be for nothing if he were forced to take his family and run.

  “We do have a good thing going. And any help will be appreciated. When should I expect his arrival?”

  “I need to track him down, it will take a few days. Unless, of course, you manage to find the shipment yourself. How hard can it be to find a group of eco-terrorists?”

  Domenico swallowed that bitter pill but knew that the fiasco put him in no position to argue with Moreno. He hated it. He hated this necessity to kiss someone’s ass with all his being. Moreno didn’t deserve respect from a man who’d successfully avoided detection for years himself. But he couldn’t tell this to the damn Caiman.

  “We will be in touch,” he said in the end, stilling when Moreno hung up on him without a word.

  He dropped the phone into his lap and slammed his hands against the sides of the steering wheel repeatedly until his bones ached and there was nothing else for him to do but give up for the night. The truth was that he didn’t know the area very well, and the perspective of penetrating the jungle in search of some kind of some tree-hugging guerilla force without any clues seemed like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  A day that was supposed to be a bit of downtime before Christmas had turned into a nightmare instead. Now that he was heading home, it hit him how hungry he was on top of it all. There had been no time to focus on petty things like eating throughout this day from hell, so he’d learned to forget his bodily needs when necessary.

  Toro’s property was unusually silent, which meant the men had the good sense to not agitate him with parties and drinking. Too bad the birds didn’t get the memo. He left the car in the garage and headed toward the private villa where he lived with his family when he saw Mark approaching from its direction.

  “Do you need me?” Mark asked when th
ey were close, and Domenico noted the fresh change of clothes. “I’m heading out if you don’t.”

  Domenico exhaled and rubbed his forehead, happy that home wasn’t far away. “No. I need to take my mind off all this for a few hours. There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

  Mark hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something, but then gave Domenico a nod and passed him, walking off into the darkness.

  Domenico welcomed the privacy of their home with a deep breath of relief. He used the code to open first the gate made of thick bars, and then the wooden door, glad to finally be in his personal sanctuary. The moonlight licked the white walls of the facade upon Domenico’s approach, and he smiled when the colorful Christmas lights Seth had pinned around the windows caught his eye. The lamps inside were off, but he spotted a pale glow through the floor-length windows in the first floor. Seth must have decided to watch some movies while waiting for Domenico’s return. Just knowing that someone wanted him back was enough to ease the tension in Domenico a little bit, and he ran up to the door, entering the house with much less anger.

  “Husband?” he asked softly when he locked the door behind him.

  The smells of food mixed with gingerbread, only made him hungrier, but Seth was nowhere to be seen despite the TV being on in front of the sofa. Domenico looked around, and it could have been just the shittiness of this day, but a bad feeling clenched in his gut. Then again, if something were wrong, Mark would have told him.

  “Seth? Are you hiding from me? Come on out, my day’s been … tough,” he finished flatly, approaching the TV.

  But when he peered over the back of the sofa, he found Seth sleeping under a blanket. The sight would have been sweet if it wasn’t for the fact that the stench of alcohol coming off him was unmistakable and strong.

  It was as if all the energy left in Domenico after this hellish day seeped out of him at once, and he grabbed the back of the sofa to support himself. The sense of loss dawned on him when he took in more details of the room and saw the empty table. If Seth had prepared to surprise him with something nice, the table would have been set and ready. But there was nothing, just the two empty bottles of wine on the floor next to Seth’s sleeping form.