Theo was quiet for a moment. “For a week or two. Provided our regular income remains the same, and there are no more unusual or excessive expenditures, it would definitely put us back on our feet.”
Xavier ignored the veiled barb about expenditures. “Regarding Navarro’s cash hoard…do you think Cortez Redon would have any ideas about it?”
A sharp laugh. “If I had to guess, I would imagine he’s spending his every waking moment looking for it.”
Xavier smiled, because he agreed. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, thumbing the phone off. He stepped back into the night air, finding the captain leaning against the rail, his chin bobbing as he tried to stay awake.
Xavier moved toe-to-toe with the man and demanded to know what the yacht’s top speed was.
“Well,” the captain said, smacking his lips, “that depends on a number of factors that could include—”
Xavier slapped the captain across the face. The older man staggered to the rail while his captain’s hat rolled away like a crooked wagon wheel. His lower lip trembling, the Greek straightened, his shock outweighed by his humiliation.
“I asked you what the top speed was,” Xavier demanded in a razor voice. “From right here, right now, to the Spanish port at Roses.”
Mouth opening and closing like an oxygen-starved fish, the captain finally managed to say, “Thirty-two knots on glass. With the chop, between twenty-five and thirty knots.”
“Very well,” Xavier said, his tone changing to polite as he flashed his teeth. “See how easy that was? Now, set a speed course and don’t waste a single second. And I will be awakened when we are precisely one hour away from Roses.”
“Of course, señor,” the shaken captain said, dipping his head.
“Go.”
Moments later, as the yacht roared to life, Xavier pondered what his actions should be on the morrow.
Do I go to Berga and claim my million? Or do I trust that whore de la Mancha and, instead, travel to Barcelona, and have a tête-à-tête with Acusador Cortez Redon?
His mind awash in a multitude of thoughts, the decision didn’t come to Xavier. Trying to clear his head, he walked belowships, finding the low-ceilinged crew cabin containing the bunk-style beds.
With no consideration at all, he flipped on the harsh overhead light, listening to the immediate protests from the women until they realized who it was who had illuminated the room.
The smell of the sleeping women aroused him, spent as he was. And there, starboard side, second bunk, lay the object of his desire, her large tits unbound inside her long t-shirt. He held his hand before her, satisfied over her radiance at once again being chosen. He pulled her lightly and she emerged from the bed, a flash of her pink underwear providing him further rigidity.
As the remaining crew whispered frantically behind them, Xavier led her astern, back to where he’d just dressed down the captain. There, over the same rail the captain had used for balance, Xavier took the young crewmember, their sounds drowned out by the churning twin screws making maximum turns to the southwest.
The copulation didn’t take long. When finished, it was well into the night. Xavier kissed the girl gently on her lips, telling her to come and sleep next to him. He instructed her to bring him a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a bottle of water. Once he’d brushed his teeth at bedside, he asked her to use a warm washcloth to wash his penis. That done, he climbed under the covers, telling her to shower quietly and climb in bed with him.
“And sometime tonight, as I sleep, take me into your mouth but do not wake me.”
Her face was troubled as she stood before him, nude, holding a towel for her shower. “Don’t wake you, señor?” she asked in her cob-rough peasant Spanish.
“Yes, my dear, don’t wake me. Because a good blowjob while a man sleeps means a dream of the finest sort. Remember that when you’re someday married and, if you really want to get to your husband, surprise him with it, but later do tell him where you learned the trick.”
Feeling magnanimous, Xavier slid under the silken sheets and was asleep in minutes.
That night, two hours before he was awakened by the petrified Greek captain, Xavier had the sweetest of dreams.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bright, stinging light. And an instant headache.
Gage squinted, groaning as he came to his feet despite the bowel-watering pain from his kidney. But, despite his stab wounds and bruises, getting up fast was his trademark—he would continue to do it as long as he was able. To him, it wasn’t unlike the theory of jumping into a cold swimming pool. Why deal with the series of shocks one takes when slowly entering the water? Might as well jump right in and get it over with.
After the phone calls, Gage had “worked” in the relative dark for what he guessed was at least two more hours, maybe three. He’d then gotten about four hours of sleep and, although he was fatigued, he was strangely heartened over what might happen on this day. Because, if all went well, he’d be leaving Berga. And if Justina came through for him, with the consulate’s help, he might have a chance to clear his name and leave the country unmolested. Possibly with the money.
Wearing only his underwear, he padded around the small apartment, viewing each of the items he’d worked with, seeing nothing that appeared out of the ordinary. Satisfied, he went back into the bedroom area, stripping his skivvies and taking a shower behind the waxy curtain. Once dressed, he sat on the covered cushion, waiting on the prison’s excuse for breakfast.
Perhaps tomorrow I can have a cup of strong coffee, he thought in a rare moment of indulgence. He knew that such hope, even over small things, can provide a person extra degrees of motivation.
And I will enjoy my coffee with Justina.
* * *
Having driven into Berga through the three gates, breaking what were surely numerous government rules but not giving a damn—the same way she hadn’t given a damn since having been given the keys to the place—Capitana de la Mancha eased her Opel Insignia, the nicest auto she dared own, up the ramp to the same garage door Gage’s prisoner transport van had entered not even two weeks before. When Guillermo, the normal morning guard, flipped the switch, the door slid up, allowing her to drive in. She drove across the large warehouse to a mini-garage of sorts, created by a structure of stacked boxes in the back corner of the massive room. It was just past 7:00 A.M. She was almost two hours earlier than normal.
De la Mancha’s heels were a tad taller than her usual footware. She was nicely dressed in a dove-grey skirt suit with a cream blouse. Carrying her requisite planner and iPad, she smartly walked to her office, managing to appear composed while her mind raced.
It raced because last night she’d made a number of plans. Her first call, of course, was to her mother. Bitch. After a brief shouting match, followed by Angelines’ familiar, tired threats to reveal a few secrets about good old mama, she finally convinced the former mistress-cum-blackmailer to grab only her essentials, to collect Jordi from the local fútbol field, and to drive the two of them in her car to Girona, Spain.
“Find a large car lot somewhere, back the car in, remove your tags, and leave the car there. Then walk to a hotel that’s nowhere near the car, and pay cash for a room. Use your old skills, mama, and sweet talk your way into a hotel room without revealing your identity,” Angelines had said, struggling to be patient.
“Why?”
“Because we’re leaving.”
“Who is?”
“The three of us.”
“Leaving to go where?”
“Doesn’t matter where. We’re going far away, and it’s for good. You, of all people, should be thrilled to hear this.”
“And what on earth do I tell Jordi?”
“Just tell him I will explain everything. And take his mobile phone away the second you see him. Destroy it.”
“Who’s financing this?”
“I am.”
“Where did you get the money, Angelines?” She only called her daughter by her ful
l name in times of high stress, or distrust.
“I’ve been saving.”
“Not enough to take us away like this.” Her mother’s tone turned skeptical. “And you sound scared. Something happened.”
“Never you mind.”
“Well,” her mother had said, her voice turning syrupy sly, “how much money are we talking?”
“It’s enough, mother. Enough for me to escort you two away from this place. Enough, added to my other savings, for me not to have to work for a while. Enough to get to know my son, really know him, before it’s too late.”
“I see,” she said coldly. “You want to spend time with him but not your own mother.”
Typical mama—a rainbow of emotions in just one conversation. “I’m taking you with me, aren’t I?”
“Yes, but you’ve got me removing my plates,” her mother said knowingly. “Meaning you stole the money.”
“You know, mama, whether I did or didn’t, you’re one to talk. All those years I watched papa drinking himself to death, wailing through nightmares in the middle of the night, defeated. When I was young, I thought you were working a night job and his sorrow was from missing you. I had no idea that, all along, you were out blackmailing local politicians with your pimp boyfriend.”
“I paid your way through college,” her mother said sharply.
“Yes, mama, you did. And now I will pay your way to a new life.”
Angelines had hung up the phone—then completely broken down. She’d had all she could take and she couldn’t imagine having to spend more than a day with her mother.
In her weakened state, she’d even pondered leaving Spain all alone. Maybe she could find a way to continue to send the checks to her mother. Maybe once she set up the new life she could come back for Jordi. Maybe she’d even be able to—
Her thoughts had been chopped off by an icy realization: Such a plan would never work. If I disappear with their money, Los Leones will go directly to mama and Jordi. Go to them and butcher them.
Gulping her wine, she pushed the conversation from her mind and consulted her iPad, having already identified where she wanted to go. From Zurich, once her banking was done, they would make their way to Athens.
Athens, as her searches revealed, was highly corrupt. She’d found a website devoted to pirating and, for a highly developed global city, Athens was a favorite for criminals in search of sanctuary. Once she left Berga, going anywhere was a risk—but staying in Spain, even in hiding, would be far more dangerous. And, once in Athens, Angelines would somehow have to find new identification for her and her family. The pirating website listed a restaurant in Kolonaki, reputedly owned by the largest mob in the Athens underworld. One person wrote of it: With enough money, a person can dine at the restaurant and, after a discreet inquiry, purchase anything they desire, to include murder, followed by dessert.
Then, with fresh identifications, they would travel to Indonesia. Angelines planned to stay there for at least a year, getting to know her family again as they planned their new lives.
So, last night’s work done, on this, an early morning of her most fateful day, Capitana Angelines de la Mancha flipped on the lights to her office. She stood there, in the hidden rear doorway, feeling the heavy rise and fall of her chest.
In that room, still left over from the brutality she’d received yesterday, she smelled the sour scent of El Toro, distinctly mingled with the sweat of her own fear.
With a shaking, aching left hand, she removed her cigarettes and lighter. As she stood in the doorway, the cigarette calmed her nerves. She smoked it all the way to the filter, crossing the room and crushing it out.
“Last day,” she breathed to the empty office. “Last day.”
* * *
Gage Hartline stood as keys jingled in the door. He figured it was the guard coming back to retrieve the food tray. He’d choked down the foul-tasting meal because he knew the nourishment might serve him well later. But his visitor was not a guard. Instead, Capitana de la Mancha, looking quite alluring today, and without her trademark lab coat, stood in the doorway. She jangled a pair of handcuffs, twirling her finger so he might turn around. Gage obeyed, placing his hands behind him as the cuffs were clicked shut, though not overly tightly.
“Please, sit,” she said. He did, on the protective coverlet, perched forward to keep pressure off his wrists.
“I want you to listen to me before you speak,” she said. “Do you understand?”
“That’s fine, but what about the cameras in here?”
“They’re off,” she said dismissively. “The only guard that has access is the one with my assistant, and he’s not here yet.”
“Understood.”
“I’ve decided to do as you suggested. And I think you’re right—it’s the only way you could possibly survive Los Leones.” Hands clasped behind her back, she began to pace. “There are two sizeable problems, however. The first is the question of how to physically get you out of the prison.”
“The second?”
“My involvement.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will help you, but it needs to appear that I’m your hostage.”
Gage was silent.
“That way, in case you’re caught in the escape, I can deny involvement.”
“Crafty,” Gage said in a low voice, simultaneously trying to keep the cuffs from jangling.
“It’s the only way I will participate and, therefore, your only hope of getting out of here.”
“I suppose you still want the money?” he asked.
She snorted.
“All right, well, how about the million-euro question? How the hell do we get out of here, with you as my hostage?”
“We have to get all available guards in the main bay. That will leave us with only the warehouse guard, and the tower guards to deal with.” She crossed her arms. “And El Toro.”
“What about El Toro?” Gage asked, focusing on the furtive actions taking place behind his back. Upper notch until it seats, then slow, strong pressure in the direction of travel.
“It was all I could do to buy you the night in this aposento. He wanted to meet with you yesterday, but I was able to hold him off until this morning.”
“Yeah, I heard about the meeting at nine.”
“How?”
“Your little pear-shaped guard came in last night and brought me a message from Mister Toro. I think he ruptured my kidney with his frigging baton.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, mumbling something to herself.
“Regarding that asshole, El Toro, we need to leave before his deadline.”
“No,” she said, her voice firm.
“No?”
“Before we leave here, Hartline, you’re going to kill El Toro for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s the critical link between our actions and Los Leones. With him dead, the resulting confusion in Los Leones will buy us time.”
“Why don’t we just leave now? We’ll have a few hours’ head start.”
“I can’t get you out of here without a reason,” she snapped. “We need chaos and confusion and, as part of it, El Toro will wind up dead.”
“A riot.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have thoughts on how to start one?”
“Of course I do. I’ve been here a long time, remember?”
“Can you do it without El Toro’s knowledge?”
“That’s going to be the trick.”
Gage turned his eyes in the direction of the main bay. “I may be able to help with that. We’ll come back to it.” He tilted his head. “About El Toro…”
De la Mancha’s lips parted.
“Why do you really want him dead?” Gage asked, making his tone skeptical.
No response.
“There’s more,” Gage said, nodding knowingly.
Tears welled in her eyes.
“Why, capitana?”
She s
queezed her eyes shut. “I want him gone. I want to sleep at night knowing he’s no longer of this earth.”
“What’s he done to you?”
Her hands over her face, she shuddered, shaking her head.
It was obvious that whatever her reasons happened to be, and Gage had a powerful hunch about those reasons, they were deeply personal. In an effort to settle her, he moved on. “So, back to the plan, we create a riot and I supposedly kill El Toro—then what?”
It took a few moments before she composed herself, finally saying, “You and I escape in my car.”
“Your car?”
“Yes. It’s parked in the warehouse where you first came in.”
“How do you manage to drive your car into a prison?”
“I’m in charge and, besides, I’ve always done it.”
“Do they search your car on the way out?”
“Never.”
“Even if there’s a riot?”
“If I’m cool and collected, no one would dare question me.”
“Is your car parked out in the middle of the warehouse?”
She shook her head. “Parked at one end, obscured by boxes.”
“Why is it obscured?”
“Because, whenever we have inspectors, even though they’re paid off by Los Leones, we can’t have my car parked out in the open warehouse. When we tour them through, my car is parked in such a way that they can’t see it.”
Gage screwed up his face. “So, even though they’re paid off, you still hide your car?”
“It’s the way things are done, okay? Rules are broken, but we’re discreet about it.”
“Fine, whatever. Do you have a trunk?”
“Yes.”
“How many eyes will we pass between here and your car?”
“None, if we can generate a riot.”
Okay, other side now. Slowly, no big movements…there’s no rush.
“Tell me exactly what happens when you get in your car to leave,” he said. “Exactly. Leave nothing out.”
She did, going over every detail from her backing out, to waiting for the garage door, to passing through the heavily-fortified inner gate and the final pass-through at the narrow rear gate of the facility.
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