Just as her hands gripped the pistol, she heard a quick scrape of footsteps, then felt a mighty, thudding blow on the crown of her head.
The last sensation Justina had was her chin striking the concrete.
* * *
Once Gage and the man called Sven had quickly outlined their plan—a very good plan, in Gage’s eyes—Amancio arrived back at the cabin with the first aid box, handing it to Gage.
“Are you sure you’re willing to do this?” Gage asked Sven.
“What can they do to me?”
“Put you in jail,” Gage replied with a firm nod. “Or kill you.”
“Well, Mister Hartline, I’ve already lived a full life. And with Señora Moreno’s help and influence on my side, I’m willing to take my chances.”
“Any other time I might try to talk you out of it, sir, but there’s simply no time.” Gage rushed Angelines to the only bathroom in the cabin. Carrying the large first-aid box, he led her inside and closed the door.
“No time for modesty. Take off all your clothes, and I mean everything.”
She eyed him for a moment before she complied, removing her blouse and bra as he released the pressure dressing. Gage heard her let out a small cry but that was all.
“You okay?” he asked, keeping his eyes diverted as he turned on the shower.
“Just don’t look at my ass.”
“What?”
“I hate it.”
He shook his head, having no clue what she was talking about.
“I feel lightheaded,” she said, grasping the counter.
“And you probably will for a while. Trust me, I’ve had a similar injury before and I know it’s no picnic.” He pointed to the shower. “Put all your clothes beside the toilet in that corner and get in the shower. We’re going to have to soap each other’s backs because we have to get every trace of our current scent off of our bodies.” Glanced at her watch. “We need to leave here in about three minutes. Get in now.”
Keeping his eyes on her leg wound as she removed all of her clothes, he viewed both the entry and exit wound, thankful the wound was as clean as it was. The exit portion was slightly larger and marked by a few strings of shredded skin and muscle fiber. The deep red of early clotting surrounded both wounds. The shower would wash much of the clotting away, but Gage would fix that afterward.
Angelines stepped into the water. She made a sharp hissing sound as the water coursed over her leg wound.
“That’ll pass,” Gage said, quickly stripping down and climbing in with her. He grabbed Justina’s shampoo and dumped half the bottle over Angelines’ head, then his own. “Rub that in good, then take that soap and get it everywhere on your body, even on your wound.”
Gage turned the other way, hurriedly soaping his hair, his face, his ears, his chest, his stomach, legs, feet—every piece of his body he could reach. “You okay?” he asked, working soap under his arms.
“It still burns, but, yeah,” came her reply. He then felt her hands on his back, soaping his shoulder blades and the center of his back, moving downward. Eyes burning, he told her to turn around, following her lead as he soaped her backside. After sticking his face and head under the stream of water, Gage took one step out of the shower and grabbed the mouthwash from the counter, taking a massive mouthful from it and swishing. He suffered a brief coughing fit before handing the bottle to Angelines.
“Swish that around and go so far as to actually drink a little bit,” he said, eyes watering. As she did, he rinsed himself, climbing over the tub wall and quickly drying himself. Angelines exited next.
“Whatever you do, do not touch our old clothes. Stay clear of them.”
Angelines’ leg was marked by diluted blood streaming down her leg after the clots had given way. Gage opened the door and tugged in the stack of clean clothes, segregating them into two piles. Once she’d dried herself, he ripped open a bag of clotting powder, just like he’d used in prison, and pushed globs of the powder into her entry and exit wounds. Again she hissed as she closed her eyes, tilting her head back to the ceiling. Gage then wrapped her leg with an elastic bandage and told her to get dressed as fast as she could.
The woman’s clothes were Justina’s, taken from the bedroom. The shirt was from Eastern Bloc, a t-shirt, along with a pair of athletic shorts. Señora Moreno’s men had also provided her with a pair of women’s running shoes, although Gage was pretty sure they weren’t Justina’s based on the size. As Gage handed the shoes over, Angelines, sitting on the closed toilet, grabbed Gage’s arms, pulling him to her as she locked her mouth on his. Instinctively, Gage let it happen for just a moment—one or two seconds—as her tongue probed his mouth. He pulled back, stunned, knowing nothing else to do but look at her watch and inform her they had only thirty seconds.
He donned his own clothes that, thankfully, Justina had laundered and kept for him: old blue jeans, his favorite black utility shirt, and his running shoes. With both of them dressed, he yanked the door open, finding Sven and Amancio standing to the side.
“Are you sure about this?” Gage asked.
Sven dangled a set of keys attached to a miniature orange lifebuoy. “She’s already full of fuel. There’s a compass onboard. Just follow the reservoir due east. With the spring rains the dam has been on full release, and the river is swollen so you shouldn’t have any impassable areas clear to the Llobregat.” He handed Gage a cell phone. “Señora Moreno’s number is first on the speed dial. I’ve been calling,” he said with a worried shake of his head.
“No answer?”
“No.”
“We’ll keep trying.”
“You won’t have coverage on the river. And there’s one other thing.”
“We’ve really got to go,” Gage protested.
Sven told Gage about the bearer bonds. “They’re in a cardboard box, already on the boat.”
Gage was speechless.
“Señora Moreno insisted that, if you showed up, you take those bonds.”
“Why?”
“She said they would be yours to use if need be. I honestly don’t know more than that.”
“Thank you for everything.” Gage grabbed Angelines by the hand and burst from the rear door of the cabin. She was moving better with the tight leg wrap—the jog to the waiting boat took less than a minute.
Gage helped her onboard before climbing behind the controls of the combo fishing and recreational boat. As he turned the key and powered up the Yamaha 115, he estimated the boat as a 17-footer with a low draft due to the tri-hull design. After carving a tight turn on the turquoise water, he headed due east under the cover of the shore trees. Gage spoke over the engine, telling Angelines to stand behind him and keep an eye out for the chopper.
She lingered beside him for a few seconds, grasping his left hand and squeezing it. “I’m sorry for kissing you earlier, Gage. I…I…”
“Let me know if you see that helicopter,” he said abruptly, easing around a protruding dock. “The farther we get from here, the better. And guzzle some water. With all that blood you’ve lost, you need fluid. Give me one, too,” he said, motioning to the sack of cold bottled water Sven had placed in the boat.
She handed him a bottle. “Gage, look at me.”
There were a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses wedged into the nook of the console—a nice pair of Smith’s. Gage wiped them on his shirt and donned them, staring forward as he kept the bow ten feet from the water’s edge.
“Gage,” she persisted.
“Pretty busy here,” he said, eyes still ahead as he swigged the water.
As was her habit with him, especially when having a serious conversation, she switched to English. “Gage, I haven’t been treated well by a man in years. It’s partly my own fault. Years ago, after another failed relationship, I became bitter, and that’s when I began to let things occur around me. Illegal things.”
He turned his head and hitched his thumb backward. “I really need your eyes scanning the sky for that helicopt
er.”
“I’m going to say this, damn it, whether you like it or not.”
Gage edged the throttle back slightly, lowering the speed to twenty kilometers per hour as the waterway began to narrow, giving way to a wide, flat river.
“I told you that the things I allowed to happen in Berga would have happened anyway and, even though I know what I did was wrong, I still do believe that.”
He kept his eyes ahead.
“I came up through the ranks in the prison system doing things the right way, and outworking everyone else. That’s how I became a captain at such an early age.” She quickly scanned the sky. “I was in a relationship and I had a child just after I was awarded Berga.” Her chest rose and fell as she took a large breath. “One afternoon, while I thought my mother was watching my son, a prisoner went through all the proper channels by requesting to see me.”
Gage turned for a moment.
“They had Jordi, Gage. They had my son. The prisoner didn’t prove it, didn’t show me pictures…he just told me, and I knew by that man’s dead, soulless eyes that he was telling the truth.”
“What happened?” Gage asked flatly, maneuvering the boat to the left around a bifurcation buoy, choosing the secondary channel due to the boat’s light draft.
As the massive looming hills slid by, Angelines dropped into the seat next to him, rubbing her leg above the bandage. “Their demand was simple. If I allowed them free reign in Berga, they’d leave my son alone and they’d begin to compensate me.”
“If you didn’t?”
She covered her mouth, shaking her head as if she couldn’t say it.
“So, if you didn’t comply, their people on the outside would kill him?”
She nodded.
“But over time, your guards became corrupt, too, and all that extra money Los Leones afforded you became far too rewarding to throw away by reporting them.”
Eyes glistening, she looked up at him. “I kissed you, Gage, because I desperately want to be normal again, and that’s how you’ve treated me. Though I don’t expect you to understand, just a week ago I was fine with being a corrupt prison official. But when you made that suggestion about the money, it was as if the sun came up on the black night that’s my life.” She wiped her eyes. “It all came clear.”
“Well, that may be clear, but our situation here isn’t.”
“Thank you, Gage, for treating me the way you have.”
He nodded, then checked the sky behind the boat. “If you really want to be normal again, capitana, sit your ass—which looks fine to me, by the way—on the rear deck and keep your eyes out for that helicopter.”
She stood, pulling his head to the side and giving him a wet kiss on the cheek.
While pleased with her seemingly genuine transformation, Gage’s mind was occupied with two things: escaping, and wondering what sort of stunt Justina and Señora Moreno had tried to pull on Cortez Redon.
* * *
The hounds followed the scent straight to the cabin, howling indignant protests at the locked front door. After several bangs on the door and no answer, the trailing police knocked the door in, tactically entering with pistols outstretched. The two hounds followed, slobbering and wailing, momentarily confused by the sudden change in environment. One took considerable notice of the bathroom. A policeman checked the shower, yelling that it was wet. The other hound pawed at the back door as its handler yelled that they needed to keep going.
Behind the cabin, both dogs quickly picked up on the scent, headed west, past the dam and toward the town of Cercs. As the posse pressed on, they radioed to their rapidly gathering brethren, telling them to continue setting their roadblocks, but to keep a keen eye out in the direction of Cercs.
After scanning the lake, the police in the chopper raced ahead of the hounds, trying to spot the two runners before they acquired transportation.
Nearly the entire posse, guided by the sensitive noses of the two hounds, focused their attention westward.
While Gage and Angelines were now fifteen kilometers in the opposite direction, headed to the east.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lloret de Mar, Spain
Music.
It was classical, heavy on the piano, an orchestra following a virtuoso pianist of some sort. A concerto…
Justina blinked her eyes, seeing blobs of blurred nothingness as she worked her mouth, running her tongue over her upper and lower teeth, taking inventory, finally finding the one that was broken. It was one of her top rear teeth, second from the back if her tongue’s probing was accurate. She wanted to touch it but her hands seemed to be restrained behind her, though she didn’t feel like her tugging was generating much in the way of force.
The pain on top of her head was easily matched by the pain of her chin and jaw. Fortunately the broken tooth didn’t seem to be affecting any nerves. But her headache and an impending feeling of nausea began to come to the forefront with every beat of her heart.
Thump-thump, went her heart.
A hitched breath and several swallows.
Thump-thump.
More swallows, mouth all wet.
Thump-thump.
Vomitus—explosive vomitus.
Justina retched for a full minute, ending with dry heaves. She leaned back in the chair, sucking in great quantities of air as the blue of the sky began to come clear. Suddenly, cold water splashed all over her legs as what felt like a hose squirted around her feet. She looked to her left, seeing a tall man, the hose in one hand, a beer dangling casually in the other. He was aiming the hose’s spray around her feet.
“I knew that would be coming,” he said in Spanish. “Your friend woke up ten minutes ago and did the same thing, although yours was much more impressive. A triple dose of painkillers, unless you’re used to it, will make anyone sick.” He curled his finger. “Come on…come with me.”
The man walked to Justina, gently helping her up. Dreamily, she looked around, realizing she was on an elevated deck and could see the deep blue of the ocean, nearly melding into the monochromatic azure sky. He led her inside. The sudden cool upon passing through the threshold meant the home she was entering was air-conditioned—the mark of excess wealth in temperate northern Spain.
Realizing that her faculties were returning, Justina resisted and began to scream. The man chuckled, easily turning her and pushing her onto a sofa. Sitting across from her, holding a pink towel to her face, was Señora Moreno. She looked much older and lowered the towel long enough to curse the man.
What Justina saw took her breath.
Señora Moreno had been sliced open from the left opening of her mouth to her earlobe. It was a ghastly image. Justina covered her own mouth with her hand, stifling a scream. The man, still casually swigging his beer, moved a plastic pail across the floor with his foot.
“If you feel sick again, precious, I’d suggest you use that bucket.”
“Why did you do that to her face?”
After considering Señora Moreno for a moment, he shrugged and spoke mildly. “Not my finest moment, for sure. I don’t like harming women, even old ones, but I won’t hesitate to do so when it comes to my own ascension.”
He moved to Señora Moreno, touching her hand and lowering the towel. “She’ll need to be sewn up soon. I’ve never seen this wound having been done on only one side—it’s usually done on both sides. Though I’ve never known someone to die from the full wound—it’s known, among other things, as a Glasgow grin—I’ve heard that dehydration can be a problem.” He moved Señora Moreno’s now unkempt hair back, like a loving caregiver might. “Would you like to try some water, m’lady?”
“Que te jodan,” she whispered in an injury-modulated voice.
“Suit yourself.” His amusement faded when he looked at Justina. “I’m going to give you a few more minutes to wake up. By that time, one of my friends should be here and we’re all going to have a little chat.”
As he spoke, Justina got a better look at him. Tall and
lean, yet muscular, he had an angular, chiseled face. His beard was black, flecked by only a few hairs of gray, and his tan was rich and fresh. His odd, pleasant accent and his expensive casual clothing would typically make such a man seem harmless, and even refined—but she sensed an underlying trashiness to him. It bubbled just under his surface, escaping his polished veneer here and there. When he turned away, Justina glimpsed a brief flash of a tattoo on the man’s neck as his long hair swept to the side.
It was the tattoo of a smoking revolver.
Los Leones.
The man walked away, tossing the beer into a garbage can and retrieving another. He walked to the stereo, increasing the volume to a blaring level.
Justina knew she couldn’t yell above the music without alerting the man. Making her mouth movements pronounced, she mimed the words to Señora Moreno: “Is he after the money?”
Señora Moreno nodded.
“Your money?”
She shook her head.
“Navarro’s money?”
A pronounced nod.
Just as Justina was preparing her next question—had Gage escaped?—a deep bell could be heard over the music. She watched as the man turned down the volume, crossing the room. “That must be my friend. You’ll like her, I promise.”
Turning around on the sofa, Justina watched as the man opened the door, admitting a small, thin woman with very short hair. He closed the door behind her, then passionately kissed her as his hands freely roamed her body.
Justina could see that the woman carried a small leather bag.
When their fervent kiss was finished, the man led her into the sitting area by her hand. Now that Justina could see her well, she realized with an odd spike of recognizance that she’d seen this woman before—on numerous occasions at Eastern Bloc. The woman was probably in her late twenties with a striking narrow face and full lips. Her head was shaved on the sides though the top was somewhat sculpted, giving her a trendy appearance, as if she were a pop star. Emerging from the woman’s black t-shirt Justina could see numerous tattoos. She was obviously going for the anarchistic look.
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