Working the button on his hand-counter with one hand, Dmitry depressed the button on his Motorola handset with his other, saying, “Otpravitʹ v chetyrekh lyudey.” It meant, “Send in four more.”
In seconds, two leggy beauties strode through the door, turning and saying something to their friend before heading down the stairs. Then, suddenly, Dmitry’s cold, gray world brightened considerably. Because standing in the door of the Eastern Bloc, his bruised face illuminated in a gothic red shadow by the CCCP neon light, was the man who’d beaten Dmitry and taken his pistols.
Filthy and stinking, the man immediately placed both of his hands behind his head and, speaking English, said, “I come in peace and mean you no harm. In fact, I’m here to tell you something you and your associates will certainly want to hear.”
Dmitry hardly heard the words. Instead, he lurched from behind his small stand with a leather-wrapped sap. Though the American partially blocked the blow to his head, it was enough to knock him down.
And that made Dmitry happy.
* * *
Gage sat in an office chair, his hands still behind his head. His fall had been faked. The blow from the Russian had hurt, all right—hurt his left forearm, which is what Gage used to parry the blow. But, knowing he needed to let the suited ape be the hero, Gage had fallen, throwing his hands up as if asking for mercy. With the assistance of one of the colossal bouncers, the Russian had wrenched Gage’s arm behind his back, walking him down the stairs and, after striking the double doors with Gage’s face and body, into the pulsating disco.
As Gage had been shoved over the length of the long club, he looked to his left, to the bar where, just weeks before, Justina had poured him a beer.
The thought of her clamped on his heart.
He had been led through a brightly-lit rear hallway, then into a darkened office outfitted with cheap furniture and one laptop computer. That’s where he now sat. There was a floor safe in the corner and, on each wall, cheaply framed photographs of nude women, obviously taken by an amateur who thought he was a professional.
The big bouncer, after listening to Gage’s friend’s instructions, had taken his leave. Now it was just Gage and his Russian buddy, Dmitry, who happened to be aiming a Walther PP, made conspicuous by the curved ribbon logo, at Gage’s head.
“I had to buy gun after you steal my other two guns, you piece shit!” the Russian said, spitting on Gage’s face.
Wishing he could wipe the spittle from his nose and mouth, Gage pressed on. “I’m here today to pay you for those pistols.”
“Pay me?”
“I brought you the money for them. It’s in my back pocket,” Gage said, slowly lowering his right hand.
The Russian twisted the pistol gangster style. “Wait for Gennady!” he growled.
As if on cue, the office door banged open and in walked the one who must be Gennady. Gage recalled having seen him behind the club on the night he’d liberated Justina. Not overly tall, the man had a shaved head and his face, other than a lantern jaw, was unremarkable. It was his steroid-enhanced muscles, however, that were the man’s most noticeable asset. He wore a custom gray suit with a wide-collared, powder blue shirt, unbuttoned halfway down his stomach to reveal his numerous gold chains floating over his prison tattoos and rippling abs.
“This is man who robbed me of guns!” Dmitry yelled. “The one who kidnapped Justina from us!”
After murmuring something to Dmitry with what Gage felt was a note of disdain, the man named Gennady sneered at Gage.
“Vy govorite na russkom?” he asked.
Gage knew enough Russian phrases to know he’d just been asked if he spoke Russian. Keeping his unchallenging eyes down, Gage replied, “Only English, German, or Spanish.”
Gennady rubbed the stubble on his broad chin, poking his lips out as he nodded. Then, with that same hand, he open-handed Gage across his face. Having seen it coming, Gage turned his cheek as the blow struck. It hurt, but Gage had been prepared for some pain when he’d come up with this foolhardy scheme.
“That, pindos, was for first stepping foot in my club.” From his pocket he retrieved a chrome switchblade, flicking it open to reveal a long blade. “And the scar I’m going to leave across your face is for what you took from Dmitry, and me.” Gennady hitched his head to Dmitry. Dmitry moved behind Gage, grasping his wrists and tugging downward. It was an awkward position and one Gage would have a tough time resisting from.
“Wait, Gennady,” Gage grunted through the pain. “Just listen to me for one minute.”
The Russian was pulling down so hard on Gage’s arms that Gage feared his shoulders might dislocate. Gennady jabbed Gage’s already sore forehead above his temple, obviously getting ready to give Gage a diagonal face slash—a mark of a thief in Russia.
“Why would I have come back?” Gage yelled as the blade pierced his thick hide of skin on his forehead, beginning to slowly scrape downward. “I’ve brought you something!”
The sound of the blade grinding against skull was worse than fingers on a chalkboard.
“Millions of euro!” Gage added.
Though Gage couldn’t tell from his wrenched-backward position, Gennady had only cut a few centimeters of Gage’s forehead. The Russian stopped cutting, straightening and telling Dmitry to ease up.
With the tip of the blade aimed at Gage’s eye, Gennady said, “You’ve got ten seconds, pindos.”
“Have you heard of Los Leones?” Gage asked, a steady trickle of blood running through his right eyebrow.
“What about Los Leones?”
“I’m meeting their top man tonight, in an isolated spot.”
No response.
“Don’t you get it?” Gage asked. “Their man, Xavier Zambrano, could easily be taken down or even captured at this meeting.”
Gennday listened to this impassively, shrugging afterward as he curled his lip. “So?”
“Xavier Zambrano is everything to Los Leones. They’re struggling to take over Los Soldados, Ernesto Navarro’s operation.” Gage arched his eyebrows. “Navarro was just killed. You know that, right?”
“What is meaning of this?”
Gage spaced out his words. “Los Leones is shaky and has poor leadership. If you take Zambrano down, assuming you import enough muscle, you could potentially assume Los Leones’ position in Spain.”
“Why you telling me this?”
“Because I have a problem with Los Leones and Xavier Zambrano. But I have no problem with you.”
Gennady lowered the switchblade and rubbed his whiskers. “You think killing Zambrano will end Los Leones? I knew you were stupid for robbing from the brotherhood—now I think you’re just crazy.” Again he hitched his head at Dmitry, who yanked down on Gage’s wrists.
“Argh!” Gage grunted, recalling what Ernesto Navarro had initially told him. “Listen to me! Los Leones are broke! They have no money!”
“So what?” Gennady asked, holding the knife over Gage’s forehead.
“They can’t go on without the money I have in my possession. If you have the money, you can demand Los Leones fall in behind you.”
Gennady was straddling Gage on the chair, having touched the blade of the knife into the wound again. “What money?”
The pressure on his wrists eased slightly. “Told you…argh…I’ve got damn near a million in euro, in loose cash. That’s why I am meeting Xavier tonight. He thinks the money is his.”
Gennady pressed down on the blade as if he were trying to bore a hole in Gage’s skull. “Why he thinks it’s his?”
“Because Zambrano has something I want,” Gage growled through clenched teeth.
“What he has?”
“Justina, the Polish woman who used to work for you!”
Gennady pulled back, cocking his eyebrow. Amusement darted over his face. “This cannot be true.”
After a few deep breaths Gage said, “Well, it is.”
“You came here today, knowing you’d be beaten, for poor Polish g
irl?”
“Yes,” Gage answered earnestly. “I came for her, and her alone.”
Still amused, as if he were listening to a child spinning fantastic lies, Gennady’s iron chest hitched in a chuckle as he glanced back at Dmitry. “A million euro?”
“Reach down and get a wad of it from my back pocket.”
Gennady lifted his chin. As the pressure on his right hand was released, Gage leaned forward so Dmitry could retrieve the wad from his back pocket. He slid the money out, handing it to Gennady. It was still banded, though Gage had used a few bills earlier.
“That’s payment for the guns.”
“Where is rest of money?” Gennady asked, moving forward.
“The cash I have is not for you. I’m offering you Xavier Zambrano. And, just so you know, Ernesto Navarro’s fortune is still hidden out there somewhere. If you can take the mantle in Spain, the spoils are yours.”
“I don’t believe you. This is trap.”
“Again I ask you, why would I come here otherwise?” Gage asked. “I didn’t come here to die. I came to make a deal with you.”
Gennady said something in Russian to Dmitry, who released Gage’s arms. Gennady eyed Gage. “You want us to kill Zambrano.”
“I don’t care what you do to him,” Gage answered. “But, in return for me delivering him to you, you must agree to do things my way. Because I just want to get my girls and leave.”
“Girls?”
“Yeah.”
Gennady depressed the button on his knife, and stashed his blade. “Explain, pindos.”
The three men met for twenty minutes.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tossa de Mar, Spain
It was 3:47 A.M. The breeze that had at first seemed cool now whipped with chilly fervor, combining with the dampness of the Mediterranean to seep into a person’s bones in minutes. Few lights burned in windows. Most of the illumination came from street lamps with the balance being cast down in electric blue by the waxing gibbous moon.
The seaside town’s lone night patrol idled by the beach strip, turning up the curving road that led back into the hills. Angelines watched this from the alleyway very near where Gage had first met Ernesto Navarro. When the car had passed, she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, the dangerous excitement of the situation making her tingle in her loins.
“Shouldn’t we be the first ones out there?” she asked.
“Unless they have sniper on rooftop.”
“I hope this goes to plan.”
He held his fingers scissored open for her cigarette, which he accepted and dragged deeply from. “Nothing ever goes like plan,” he replied, exhaling smoke and dropping the cigarette to the ground, twisting his boot on it. “But we’ll chance sniper. We don’t have choice.”
As he carried the cardboard box loaded with money and the alleged bearer bonds, Angelines led the way out onto the beach, limping heavily. She turned as she walked down the boardwalk, their feet scratching over scattered sand on the wooden planks. Her nervous perspiration added to her chill.
And the filmy, oversize white blouse she wore unbuttoned over her camisole was doing absolutely nothing to keep her warm.
It was, however, serving its purpose as it popped and furled with the southwesterly breeze.
* * *
Moments earlier, Xavier had parked the Mercedes on Passeig del Mar, between the Club Hotel Giverola and the Mediterranean Sea. Passeig del Mar was typically brightly lit, teeming with cheery restaurants and bars, each covered with the massive beer or cigarette umbrellas so typical of European cafés. But at this time of night the beachside resort was deserted, spooky even, except for the lights approaching from Xavier’s rear. He could see the reflection of dormant blue lights on top of the car and the policia markings on the hood.
“Don’t move,” he commanded the man beside him. His rear passengers were slumped down and sleeping, so Xavier and his partner sat perfectly still as the police car idled past, never once slowing. The car turned up the hill into the town, disappearing and marked only by the glow of its taillights, slowly fading to darkness.
Then, from the black rectangle of one of the pedestrian streets, two figures emerged. One was large and well-muscled, lugging a cardboard box. He fit the bill for the American, although he wore a dark watch cap pulled down over his hair. The other, wearing a bright white shirt, was female. She was limping. Xavier lifted the binoculars to his eyes, watching as the couple strode under the decorative street lamp that marked the strip. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Angelines de la Mancha, the captain from Berga. That’s who he thought it would be. Xavier couldn’t help but briefly recall the stories he’d heard about her, sexual stories, involving his prison chief, El Toro.
Why is she still with the American? What is there to gain? Is he screwing her? And, if so, what would he want with this Polish girl and the old woman?
He glanced back. The Polish girl, despite her haggard appearance, was beautiful. He could see why the American might want her. But why the old lady?
And what is Angelines de la Mancha’s angle?
“Do you see your friend?” Xavier asked the man in his passenger seat.
“He’s there.”
“You two better be as good as advertised.”
The man snapped his fingers and held out his hand. Xavier placed two banded stacks of money in his hand. “Stay by the beach wall until the shooting goes down, then clean it up.”
“I heard you earlier,” the mercenary said.
“Well, hear me again.”
The man exited the car, gently closing the door and low-crawling into a covered doorway next to the car. He’d come by earlier, smashing the light above the door. Now, standing there in the blackness, protected from above, the mercenary was virtually invisible.
Once he was in place, Xavier turned to the backseat. “Wake up!” he yelled, watching in the mirror as the two women started. Before leaving his rental home he’d injected them again, this time with only a half-dose of parlador. In fact, he’d kept them drugged all night, having given each woman a total of four injections since his nurse friend had perished.
Their arms were behind their backs, handcuffed. He turned around, watching as the two women blinked their eyes, the confusion of their drug-induced haze far too much to quickly blink away.
“You,” he said to Justina. “Sit up.” He pointed to the pair walking on the boardwalk. “Is that your boyfriend, Hartline, carrying the box?”
She leaned forward, her eyes dilated, a line of drool spilling from her open mouth. He again pointed to the boardwalk leading out to the beach, where the two darkening shadows walked.
“Tak,” was all she said, the answer coming in her native Polish as her head fell forward onto the seat.
Xavier lifted the small radio the mercenaries had given him and pressed the button. “How does the shot look?”
“Clean and easy,” the sniper answered.
“See anything unusual?”
“Only that the woman is limping.”
“He said she was wounded. Could be bullshit. See any weapons?”
“The man is very muscular and is packing under his shirt, backside. Amateur hour.”
“Have you seen anyone else?”
“Just the cop that just did a drive-by.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve peered at every nook and cranny with the thermal scope. There’s no one.”
“You’re sure about the shot?”
A momentary pause. “There’s a stiff breeze, about fifteen kilometers an hour and my range is a hundred and forty meters.”
“I don’t want statistics,” Xavier snapped. “Can you hit them?”
“Easy, pal…I’m explaining myself,” the second mercenary said. “Now, I’m confident I can be inside of a half-meter on my first shot. So, when you signal me, just make sure you take a step back. If I don’t kill him on the first shot, I will on the second, even if he runs.”
“Get the woma
n, too.”
“She’ll be the fun one, scrambling around while her boyfriend’s brains are all over her face.” The radio crackled. “But why not just shoot now?”
Xavier cursed. “I’ve got to verify that they have the bonds. Got it? Do—not—shoot until I touch my head.”
“Just know, when your right hand touches anything north of your neck, I’m sending lead downrange.”
“Make sure you finish these two women before the both of you disappear. You’ll get the balance of your money in the morning while the media converges on this slaughter.”
“Just remember,” one of the American mercenaries warned, “if you fuck us, you’ll be the one in our crosshairs.”
“How frightening,” Xavier said, monotone. “Just don’t miss.” He hung up and stepped from his Mercedes, opening the rear door and dragging the old woman out. After situating her on the adjacent park bench, looking out over the blackness of the ocean, he pulled Justina from the car, shushing her as she stirred.
When both women were safely situated on the bench, he stood beside them until they slumped into each other, unconscious again. Xavier nudged the rear door shut with his hip, checking the pistol in the right pocket of his charcoal gray Burberry waistcoat.
The couple had walked past the end of the boardwalk, out to the foamy edge of the surf.
“Seventeen million,” he privately sang as he strode forward. “Seventeen million followed by a decadent month in Mallorca.”
* * *
As the members of the treacherous liaison converged upon one another, Cortez Redon cried in the pickup truck. Wrapped around his head were several layers of thick duct tape, covering his mouth. It had restricted his breathing and, once the tears began, his nose began to get stuffy. Now, with each exhalation, pink snot bubbles burst outside his shattered nose as he struggled for breath.
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