To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  “You got I.D., pardner?”

  “Yes, sir. In that rental car over there.”

  “Mind if I have a look in the car?”

  “No, sir. But you’re going to find something in there.”

  “What’s that, pard?”

  “My pack.”

  “What’s in your pack?”

  “A package of money.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen grand, cash.”

  The sergeant arched his eyebrows. “Okay, pard, am I going to find anything else?”

  Thankful they’d not brought their own weapons for the contract job, Gage said, “It’s a rental and I haven’t been through it, so I can’t speak for anything other than what’s in my pack.”

  Another deputy stood with Gage while the sergeant walked across the lot to Rudy’s and went through the rental. He came back with the small dark pack, placing it at Gage’s feet.

  “Your I.D. in there?”

  “Front pocket.”

  The sergeant retrieved the I.D. “Gage Nils Hartline of Hope Mills, North Carolina.” He looked up. “Where’s Hope Mills, pard?”

  “Fayetteville,” Gage said.

  The sergeant, eyeing the I.D., began to walk away. Suddenly, he stopped, coming back, scrutinizing Gage. “When I call this driver’s license in, what am I going to learn, Mister Hartline?”

  “Nothing, sir. No record at all,” Gage answered earnestly.

  “What sorta job you do?”

  “I’m a contractor.”

  “You currently employed?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well if you ain’t employed, pard, where’d the wad of cash come from?”

  “I did a side job.”

  “Where, and for whom?”

  Gage took a moment before answering. “To be honest, I don’t know who it was for, and I don’t know exactly where we were. South of here, but that’s all I know.”

  “Mexico?”

  “It might have been, sir.”

  The sergeant was visibly displeased. He turned to the deputy next to Gage. “They already run the first two to the M.C.J.?”

  “Yes, sir. The other two’s over at the ambulances still gettin’ ‘valuated.”

  “Go over there and check on ‘em, Murphy. If they don’t need to be admitted, get ‘em hauled up to the jail. I’ll be along directly.”

  When the deputy had taken his leave, the statuesque sergeant removed a tin of Copenhagen, seating a massive pinch between his cheek and gum. He opened the front door of the patrol car, coming back with a Styrofoam cup and spitting into it. He lowered his voice, saying, “Mister Hartline, the Fiends might be skinny punks, but they’re well acquainted with violence. And judging by the three witnesses I talked to, you ran through ‘em like a twister through a slat barn.”

  Gage shrugged. “I had the drop on them.”

  “On two of ‘em. Then, based on what I heard, you had a dime-store Rossi .32 aimed at you and still managed to extinguish two more gang-bangers.”

  “Pricks ruined my barbecue dinner.”

  The sergeant smiled with eyes only. “You were in Rudy’s?”

  “Finishing my meal. I had a few bites left.” Gage shrugged again. “They pissed me off. That was the first good meal I’d had in a week.”

  The sergeant briefly glanced to the east. “Fayetteville’s right there at Fort Bragg.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Home of the Airborne, Special Forces, Delta, and probably more retired and mothballed mercenaries than any place on this here planet earth.”

  Gage said nothing.

  The statuesque sergeant grinned at Gage, the brown of the snuff marring an otherwise gleaming set of teeth. “I was infantry and a Ranger, ninety to ninety-five, Mister Hartline. Korea then Fort Campbell, Special Troops Battalion, in the hundred-and-first. Spent a good bit of time in Bosnia with all types of you boys from Bragg.” He spat and took a step closer. “I suppose you don’t wanna hang around and make statements, do you, pard?”

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry, sir.”

  “Thought so.” He turned Gage and un-cuffed him. “I’m gonna forget about the fifteen grand. Somehow I got a feelin’ you ain’t plannin’ on filing that on your comin’ taxes.” The dark-skinned sergeant aimed his muscular arm to Interstate 35. “See that strip of asphalt right there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want your butt on it. And, if you’ll please high-tail it outta my county, Mister Hartline, I got all kinda stuff to do tonight. For starters, I gotta get the surveillance video and make sure my buddy in ops can obscure a rental car’s license plate. Then I gotta go by my jail and make sure some of my friends on the wrong side of the bars know just what those four shits did here tonight. You with me?”

  “In lock step,” Gage replied.

  “Then I gotta tell a prosecutor and maybe a judge that some white knight took down four of our local Fiends and didn’t hang around long enough for us to collar him. They ain’t gonna wanna believe me but, when I tell it, it’s gonna sound like the truth.”

  “Thank you,” Gage said.

  The sergeant extended his hand, giving Gage’s a powerful shake. “Good to meet you, Mister Hartline.”

  “You, too.”

  The sergeant handed Gage his telescoping blackjack. “Slip that back in your pocket.”

  Gage did.

  “You still here?”

  “Negative,” Gage replied, lifting his pack and accepting his North Carolina driver’s license. Rather than obey the sergeant and go straight to his car, he risked the man’s ire as he walked to the side of the service station where the young man’s mother was nervously smoking a cigarette, speaking to a female officer. Using her walker, the mother stood, bear-hugging Gage as if she’d known him her entire life. While she nearly broke Gage’s neck with her hug, Gage was happy to see her son, sitting placidly on the curb, eating peanuts and drinking his soda. He appeared fine.

  Gage chatted with the mother for a moment, learning that they’d come to Waco to visit Baylor University.

  “We’ve never had a college graduate in our family,” the mother said, eyes welling with tears as she looked over at her son.

  “Is Baylor offering him a full-ride?” Gage asked.

  “Not quite,” she answered, worry in her eyes, her lip quivering. “But he’s got a number of schools offering him quite a bit. He’s worked so hard.”

  Gage sensed a greater need. He reached into his pack and removed a small portion of the money, leaving it in the bag. Then he placed the remainder of the money bundle in her hand. “This is for you and your son,” he whispered. “Maybe it will be enough to put his tuition over the top, wherever he decides to go.”

  The mother was too stunned to react and Gage didn’t wait around for a reply. He hurried back to his rental car, waving at the sergeant who was standing in the same spot, scowling at Gage. The Impala’s tires squealed as Gage rocketed from the Waco gas station, aiming the GM product north toward the yet unseen bright lights of Dallas-Fort Worth, wondering if he could make it on the amount of fuel he still had remaining.

  He was low on cash, too, he reflected. Good thing Colonel Hunter had another job lined up.

  Big green. Life-changing green.

  As Texas roared by, Gage Hartline settled back into the seat, giving a small salute as the sign told him he was leaving McLennan County.

  Despite the deep laceration on his elbow, he’d enjoyed his brief time there.

  Chapter Two

  Barcelona, Spain

  The wedding took place among Barcelona’s high society and, primarily because of his handsome appearance and impeccable wardrobe, Xavier Zambrano fit right in. Only the wedding director and the mortified mother of the bride wondered how Xavier got an invitation. But they didn’t dare ask him. They knew better.

  Since it was a semi-formal afternoon wedding, Xavier nearly stole the show with his fashionably-late entrance. His shoulder-length black hair shone, swept bac
k majestically. His face, with a beard of short stubble, was deeply bronzed. Contrasting with his dark hair and tan skin, Xavier’s white teeth sparkled as he flashed his dazzling, store-bought smile at the guests when he was shown to his requested position just behind the family of the groom. Xavier wore an immaculately-tailored, cream color linen suit. Rounding out his expensive wardrobe were supple, handmade Italian loafers and a dazzling Breitling diver’s watch. He could have easily graced the cover of any Barcelonan fashion magazine.

  Save for the tattoo of a smoking revolver on the left side of his neck.

  Ahead of Xavier, escorted by one of the groomsmen, was a younger woman, Xavier’s date, no more than twenty and sufficiently beautiful enough to demand every male guest’s unwavering attention. She was tall and lithe, standing apart from the Spanish crowd due to her natural blonde hair and ice blue eyes. She wore an arresting pink dress that clung to every undulation of her nubile body. Though what she did, according to wedding etiquette, was quite rude, she beamed at the guests when she shooed them down the pew, affording her and Xavier two prime seats, at the center aisle and just behind the family of the groom.

  The perturbed guests seemed ready to protest before noticing Xavier’s neck tattoo. Upon seeing it, they hastily made room, forcing smiles as they did.

  To Xavier, his date was of less consequence than the eight-thousand euro watch on his wrist. She was an accessory, who would be used for his personal amusement, and deviation, later in the evening or, if the mood struck him, at the reception a bit later. Seated, the procession beginning, his date allowed her hand to roam, squeezing Xavier before he gripped her wrist, moving her hand back to her own lap.

  “Not in church,” he whispered primly, straightening as wealthy young groomsmen—Spaniards educated in places like Cambridge, Heidelberg, and Yale—filed in, each murmuring some private joke to the groom as they passed by to take their predetermined spot.

  As he would later at the reception, Xavier merrily made eyes with the other guests, as if this delightful ceremony warmed his tender heart. The truth was, deep inside Xavier, he desperately desired to belong. Raised in a hovel, he’d eventually learned how to associate among the affluent ruling class. Sure, he’d killed men with his bare hands. Yes, he’d watched as men were held down and forcibly sodomized as punishment for their actions. Xavier had even once bitten off a man’s nose (though he’d used his original teeth, not the lovely new veneers that had cost him a small fortune.)

  Even if Xavier didn’t have the conspicuous tattoo; even with the dashing figure he cut in a crowd of dashing figures; and despite his massive German automobile and the model-worthy woman on his arm; if a discerning member of society were to study him closely, they would discover the flaws in mere minutes. Such scrutiny has occurred since the beginning of high society, to those who are into that sort of thing: a new member is welcomed to the country club, because they have the kind of wealth that’s the first, and most important, membership requirement. Once a person is among society, however, some forgotten little detail can easily out them as a mere commoner. Maybe it’s their spouse, or a shirttail relative they’d rather not claim. Or perhaps they wind up drunk at a social gathering, groping women in their nether regions. Sometimes it’s simply cursing or displaying the lewd and lascivious behavior that separates mere mortals from the pillars of society.

  And, somehow, though he did desire to belong, Xavier also enjoyed the slight disconnect that would often occur when he interfaced at societal events such as this. Older women in their late fifties, wearing sparkling sequin gowns that showed the tops of their tired, age-spotted bosoms, would spot him from afar, standing tall and proud, looking every bit the part of a famous actor from the distance. Xavier delighted in the fact that his mere presence probably made their hearts race, remembering their glory days as they took a quick, contemptuous glance at their white-haired husbands, droning on about tedious golf or dreary yachting. The older women, high on champagne and the glamour of the gathering, wanted to believe they had one last good affair in them, dreaming of having their suety legs wrapped around this dashingly dangerous man in the trappings of an exclusive hotel room.

  When the older women approached him, Xavier relished in their reaction upon noticing the tattoo. Sometimes they were already speaking to him when it caught their eyes. Most of the women turned tail upon seeing the tattoo, making some silly excuse to quickly evacuate. But some, the brave ones, lingered.

  Xavier had had more than his share.

  So, although a part of him desired to be a feted member of society, Xavier was comfortable enough to merely enjoy the whiff of society he received when at power-rich functions such as this wedding. And, two hours later at the exclusive Paulau Nacional reception, after dining on sumptuous lobster mated perfectly with rice pilaf, haricots verts, and highly acidic Picapoll wine from Catalonia, Xavier sent his date to mingle after he made eye contact with an associate. Summoning the man, Xavier hitched his head.

  The associate placed his plate on a table, said something to his wife—she was at least twenty years his junior, and well-kept—then walked through the crowd and passed through the rear doors. Thirty seconds later Xavier followed, finding an ornate hall marked by high arches and lighted oil paintings. He could hear the nervous flicking of what sounded like a Zippo and, after thirty paces, found Amando standing in an alcove off to the right, staring at an interior garden through a floor-to-ceiling window.

  “Smoking is not allowed in here,” Xavier said, curling his lip at the vile cigarette. “You might draw unwanted attention.”

  Amando Segura, a short, cultured-looking man with gray hair and puffy bags under his eyes nodded obediently, taking a quick drag before pressing the cigarette into a large plant. “Were you invited?”

  “I crashed the wedding just to see you, old friend.”

  “Bad news,” Amando said quietly, brushing a few stray ashes from his blue suit.

  As was his habit, Xavier combed both hands back through his mane of hair. He stared out into the gardens, pondering the “punishment” he might mete out if Amando’s news irritated him.

  “Did you hear me?” Amando demanded, cutting into Xavier’s train of thought.

  Xavier came back to the moment and smiled coldly at the man. “I fail to understand how a man in your position, who has had no success in regard to my proposal—that you readily accepted—finds himself annoyed at having to repeat himself.”

  “Please accept my apologies,” Amando quickly replied. “I’m simply frustrated that what you’ve paid me to do hasn’t come together.”

  A clock could be heard ticking as Xavier glared at the telecom executive. “I suppose ‘hasn’t come together’ is one way to put it. And your current analysis of the situation is?”

  “Are you one hundred percent certain he was receiving the call while he was near the resort of—”

  “He was near Cadaques, yes. And the time before, he was near Llafranc. And the time before that, Mataro. No question.”

  “Then there is only one answer, unless there’s a technology available that I’m not aware of, and I seriously doubt that.”

  Xavier arched his eyebrows, tapping his loafer.

  “As I’ve surmised before, Ernesto Navarro is using a satellite phone.”

  After running his tongue over his porcelain teeth, Xavier said, “A satellite phone.”

  “Indeed. He’s not using a landline or a tower-operated wireless phone. If he were, we would match the words being spoken from the other end. We’re able to do this with only a five second delay and, on each of the three occasions, we’ve had nothing close to a match nor have we received any cellular signal carrying that, or any type, of encrypted data.”

  “And what of the phones emanating from the prison?”

  Amando shook his head. “Nothing there either. They’re probably both sat-phones, and I want it noted that I already told you this after the previous two tries.”

  Though his birth Aragonese-Spanish
was cob rough, Xavier had spent so much time in London over the past five years that he’d purposefully developed a West End London accent on the tails of his spoken Spanish. He felt it added to his sense of refinement and, though it wasn’t his intention, made him seem less threatening.

  But at stressful times like this, he struggled not to fall back into his birth accent, tripping on pauses in his speaking the way a determined stutterer does when trying to get out an uninterrupted phrase. He pulled an audible, whistling breath into his Roman nose and asked, “Have you any suggestions for intercepting a satellite phone?”

  “No, Xavier. That technology is out of my sphere of influence.”

  Xavier eyed Amando through slits, hating every fiber of the executive’s diminutive being. “Then our business is done. You failed me.” He reached into his jacket pocket, removing the envelope containing 3,000 euro, proffering it. When Amando reached for it, Xavier allowed it to fall to the floor. Amando’s body jerked as he reflexively started to reach for it before stopping, raising his distrustful eyes to Xavier.

  “What?” Xavier asked with mock innocence. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Then get your money.”

  Amando bent to the envelope.

  Using a half-strength soccer kick, Xavier caught Amando in the jaw, knocking him back on his rear end. The executive sat there for a moment, inventorying his face with both hands, working his jaw before he pulled a piece of a tooth from his mouth. Xavier watched as Amando then held his head down, concealing his face as his body began to shudder and sniffing sounds could be heard.

  “Oh no,” Xavier muttered, looking to the heavens and laughing. “You’re crying? My God, man, how do you live with yourself?” More laughter. “One kick makes you weep like a woman? Actually, not even a woman. Just last week I watched a dainty little Austrian woman hold out against the working end of a cattle prod. They zapped her at least ten times and she never once cried.” Xavier tilted his head in an admissive manner. “She talked, eventually, but never cried. Gained my respect.”