Takedown (An Alexandra Poe Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  “Somehow I don’t think so. Shall we?”

  She pushed the door wide and they stepped into a foyer and a living room very similar to theirs, except for three significant differences: It was a corner suite, had only one bedroom, and was a complete dump. Furniture was overturned, room service trays held piles of dirty dishes, empty beer and liquor bottles were strewn about, clothing hung off barstools and lamps, a broken acoustic guitar stuck out from under the sofa, the wall-mounted television monitor had cracked glass, bath towels were piled in a corner, and the overall stink rivaled the Quarantine Road landfill back in Baltimore.

  Warlock sniffed. “Tell me that isn’t dead body I’m smelling.”

  They heard a very loud snore coming from beyond the bedroom doorway.

  “Not dead yet,” Alex said, “but definitely circling the drain.”

  They crossed to the bedroom, peered inside, and saw a very naked rock star sprawled faceup across a king-sized bed, clutching a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal.

  Warlock gestured, keeping his voice low. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present the Liam Bellamy in its natural habitat. Don’t get too close or it’s liable to impregnate you.”

  Alex eyed him flatly. “You do know you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are, right?”

  “Now you’re just being cruel.”

  “Uh-huh. So what’s the plan, here?”

  Warlock gestured to the wall behind the bed. “Freddy’s suite is beyond that wall.” He indicated an air-conditioning duct up near the ceiling. “Looks as if I was right about the ventilation system, which means I’ll need to find the crawl space into the ducts, which I assume is somewhere around here.” He nodded toward an open doorway. “Maybe the loo.”

  “Okay,” Alex said. “Go do your thing. I’ll stay here and babysit in case our boy from Liverpool beats the odds and wakes up.”

  “And if he does?”

  “I guess I’ll have to improvise.”

  CHAPTER 13

  FREDERIC FAVREAU WAS not a patient man.

  He knew this about himself and attributed it to his upbringing in a home for wayward youths in Newark, New Jersey. He had always tried to adjust accordingly, but there was only so much abuse he could take before his true nature took over.

  He was dangerously close to reaching that point with Reinhard Beck, and he hadn’t even met the man. What he had hoped would be a simple transaction via the phone and encrypted e-mail had turned into what could only be characterized as an elaborate, time-sucking audition.

  And for what?

  The honor of selling the great god Valac a piece of information?

  Ridiculous.

  Wasn’t it enough that Favreau had tortured and killed someone to get that information? He was not, and never had been, a fan of such brutal methods of extraction, but he did whatever needed to be done. And if that bastard scientist had been smart enough to take the money Favreau had offered, such drastic measures would never have been necessary.

  You’d think Valac would appreciate Favreau’s initiative, but no. You don’t get an audience with a superstar unless and until you’ve jumped through all the necessary hoops.

  True, a short vacation in St. Cajetan was nice, but Favreau had no desire to play the part of the trained monkey, ready to dance on command. If Valac’s initial bid on the merchandise hadn’t been much higher than anyone else’s, Favreau wouldn’t even be here. But his patience was wearing thin and he was willing to take only so much before he’d tell the son of a bitch to fuck off, then take the next plane home.

  The place that had been chosen for the preliminary meeting was a dive. Favreau had spent time in his share of strip joints over the years, but this one looked like something from the outer rim of hell. Most of the women were dogs, for one thing, like the one on stage, pimping for Bahamian dollar bills. There was nothing less appealing than a stripper with the face and body of a pit bull.

  He sat at a table, drinking scotch, staring morosely at what looked like a hair on the rim of his glass that was clearly not his, when a couple of hard cases walked in through the front entrance, spotted him, and came over to the table.

  Favreau had never seen Valac before, had only spoken to him on the phone, but neither of these guys looked like they fit the voice.

  The tall one, obviously in charge, scraped a chair back without an invite and sat across from him as the other one hung back a little, keeping his eye on the door.

  “Good afternoon, Frederic.”

  The accent was American. If Favreau had to guess, he’d say the guy was ex-CIA, one of the many who had either gone rogue or hired themselves out to men like Reinhard Beck.

  “Where’s Valac?” he asked.

  The tall man smiled. “Dealing with other matters at the moment. He sent me to continue the negotiation.”

  “Continue?” Favreau said. “He made his bid and heard my counter. Either he accepts it or I’m gone. I know a man in Chechnya who would kill for what I’m selling.”

  “I assume you’re talking about Dakalu?”

  Favreau tried to keep the surprise off his face. How could they possibly know whom he’d been in contact with?

  “Dakalu is no longer in contention,” the tall man said. “He’s had an unfortunate accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “Something to do with his car exploding. I don’t know the exact details.”

  Favreau felt a chill run down his spine. What the hell was going on here?

  The tall man was still smiling. “I believe you’ll find that Owusu and Budiono have withdrawn from the bidding as well. So that leaves only Valac.”

  What started as shock was turning into anger. Favreau said, “So is this your idea of negotiating? You brought me here to try to intimidate me?”

  “Of course not. Valac loves the island and wants others to enjoy the experience just as he does. It isn’t often that men like us get a chance to relax, but St. Cajetan is something of a safe haven, and he thought you might appreciate it here.”

  “Bullshit,” Favreau said.

  “There’s no need to be hostile, Frederic.”

  “Look, I don’t care if your boss is the last man on Earth, if he thinks he can lowball me—”

  The tall one raised a hand. “It’s not like that. Valac is a man of honor. He simply wants a couple days to consider your latest price and asks that you humor him. In the meantime, he hopes you’ll indulge in the many pleasures the island has to offer.”

  Favreau gestured to the woman on stage. “You mean like dog face over there?”

  “I’m sure some men find her very appealing. But if she isn’t your type, there are bound to be others on the island who are. A tourist, perhaps. There’s quite a selection this time of year, and they all have money.”

  “The only money I’m interested in right now is Valac’s. Either he wants what I’ve got to sell or he doesn’t. Tell him I expect an answer by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be sure to relay the message,” the tall man said as he got to his feet. “We’ll be in touch again. Very soon.”

  “You’d better be. Or competition or not, I’ll withdraw my offer and leave.”

  The tall man gave him one last smile. “I’m afraid you might find it difficult to secure a flight, Frederic. You can certainly try, but I wouldn’t recommend it at this point.”

  Favreau felt something stir in his intestines. “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “Now why would we feel the need to threaten you? We all want the same thing, don’t we?”

  He nodded to the other man and the two crossed the bar and exited.

  When they were gone, Favreau let out a long, shaky breath, then flicked the hair off the rim of his glass, knocked the rest of his scotch back, and ordered another.

  From his table across the room, Cooper watched Favreau down his drink and said into his comm mic, “Deuce, you out front now?”

  “That, I am.”

  “There are two guys coming your way, one tall, m
id-to-late fifties, curly gray hair. The other mid-thirties, dark, looks like muscle.”

  “I got ‘em, they just exited. The tall one looks a little familiar but I can’t place him. I’ll take photos for facial recognition.”

  “I’m guessing they’re Valac’s men, so you’d better follow them.”

  “I figured as much, but how can you be sure?”

  “Because Favreau looks like he’s about to drop one in his pants. Once he leaves, I’ll catch a cab, see if I can keep up. But from the look on his face, I figure he’s done for the day.”

  “You sure he isn’t done for good?”

  “I don’t think so. Nothing exchanged hands. No money, no merchandise. So I think we’re okay.”

  “Roger,” Deuce said. “I’ll be off comm for a while. Talk to you on the other side.”

  Keeping his gaze on Favreau, Cooper touched the transmitter inside his pants pocket and sent a signal to Alex.

  After a moment, she responded. “You rang?”

  “How are things going back there?”

  “Hunky-dory,” she said. “I’m babysitting a naked rock star, and the twit with the fancy glasses is banging around inside the ventilation system as we speak.”

  “You’re in the rock star’s suite?”

  “That would be a yes.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Favreau booby-trapped his door so we had to improvise.”

  “Jesus,” Cooper murmured. “Warlock, are you on comm?”

  “The twit with the fancy glasses is a little busy at the moment,” Warlock told him.

  “Just give me an assessment.”

  “All right, but you won’t be happy. I have limited choices up here, meaning one. I can snake a single cam into Favreau’s living room through the AC vent, but I don’t know how good the signal will be. He has some all-purpose jammers in place that’ve buggered up my equipment. Which means a compromised picture and little or no sound.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “I’m afraid it is. The vent is too small for physical access to his room and the rest of the vents are cut off.”

  Cooper sighed. “We’ll just have to get you in there somehow.” He saw that Favreau had finished knocking back another drink and was climbing to his feet. “In the meantime, Target One is on the move, so unless he makes a stop, you’ve got about ten minutes to get that camera in place. I don’t want to chance him getting even a hint of what we’re up to.”

  “Almost there,” Warlock said.

  “Good. See you soon.”

  Alex had hold of Warlock’s legs and was helping him climb out of the crawl space above the toilet—and trying to avoid the blinding sight of his butt crack in the process—when the snoring abruptly stopped in the bedroom behind them and the rock star groaned.

  “Shit,” she said.

  She left Warlock hanging and sprinted out of the bathroom, closing the door just as Liam Bellamy came awake.

  He blinked groggily at her, his expression a mixture of drunken confusion and outright surprise. “Who the ‘ell are you?”

  “You don’t remember? I’m insulted.”

  He frowned and thought about it. “Did we shag last night?”

  Alex swallowed a tiny bit of bile. Between Warlock’s butt crack and this guy’s almost hairless body, she was beginning to have her doubts about the UK’s male population. Surely they could do better than this.

  She put on her best post-coital smile. “We did, and it was amazing.”

  “Brilliant,” he said. “You up for another go?”

  She almost choked. “Sorry. I have to get to work.”

  He shrugged and wagged his fingers at the door. “All right, then. You can see yourself out.”

  Without another word, he rolled over, buried his face in the pillow, and was snoring again within seconds. Relieved, Alex pushed the bathroom door open, and found Warlock still hanging there, his pants threatening a plunge toward his knees.

  Maybe agreeing to take this job hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  CHAPTER 14

  DEUCE FOLLOWED THE gray-haired man and his muscle-bound buddy as they drove several blocks then took a turn onto St. Cajetan’s only highway. According to his GPS, the road wrapped around the entire island, with only a single gap on the south side that would require a four-wheel drive to traverse. Not something in large supply around here.

  Deuce kept a healthy distance from them, enjoying the view of the ocean as he drove, not particularly concerned about being spotted. His car looked like a hundred others he’d seen on the road today, and he doubted the gray-haired man or his buddy would notice him. He was just another tourist exploring the island.

  The two men made no stops, keeping a steady pace until they’d traveled about thirty miles into a less densely populated area, where they finally turned onto a narrow road that looked very much like a long driveway.

  Whatever it led to was hidden by dense tropical foliage.

  Deuce sped past the turn, drove for a few seconds, then pulled to the side of the road and waited for the highway to clear before making a U. He headed back and came to a stop at a roadside fruit stand located only yards away from the driveway.

  After cutting the engine, he grabbed his camera, and filed through the shots of the two men he’d taken outside the strip club. The muscle didn’t look familiar, but he was positive he’d seen the gray-haired man’s face before. He just couldn’t remember where.

  He got out of the car and approached the fruit stand, which was manned by a local boy of about nine or ten. He raised the camera and kept the driveway in frame as he took several shots of the boy climbing off his perch and approaching with a plate of sliced mango. “You like a taste?”

  “Sure.” Deuce fingered a slice and popped it into his mouth. Damn, it was good. Gesturing toward the driveway, he asked, “You have any idea where that goes?”

  The boy nodded and grinned, showing him big white teeth. “Pappy Leo’s house.”

  “Who?”

  “Pappy Leo. King of St. Cajetan.”

  Deuce realized he was talking about Leonard Latham, the billionaire who owned the island.

  The kid pushed the plate toward him. “More?”

  Deuce ate another slice and said, “Have you been up there before? To the house?”

  The boy nodded enthusiastically. “Pappy Leo asked me to bring him fruit. Paid me twice what I wanted. He’s a very nice man.”

  “So what does the house look like?”

  “Big,” the boy said. “Very big.”

  Deuce gestured toward the driveway again. “And is that the only way in?”

  The boy shook his head. “They have a service road in back. No trucks allowed this way.” He pushed his plate forward again. “The mango is good, yes?”

  “Yes,” Deuce said after sucking down another slice. Probably the best he’d ever tasted.

  “Will you buy some?”

  Deuce tucked the camera under his arm and reached for his wallet.

  “I do believe I will,” he said.

  Deuce found the service road on a street full of rundown shacks at the rear of Pappy Leo’s estate. He parked the car in front of an abandoned lean-to and traveled on foot, stepping past a sign at the mouth of the road that read PRIVATE. DELIVERIES ONLY.

  About a quarter mile in, he heard the echo of voices and the slam of a door. A moment later, an engine started and accelerated in his direction. He backed away from the road and hid in the underbrush as a van rumbled past, the name ST. CAJETAN MAIL SERVICE printed on its side.

  When it was gone, he waited for a moment then returned to the road, and continued traveling along it until it widened slightly and began to rise up a small hill. He moved into the bushes again and worked his way to the crest of the hill, then crouched amidst a cluster of coconut trees and peered down toward a large white mansion that looked as if it belonged on a Southern plantation.

  Though he saw no fence around the perim
eter, there was a checkpoint manned by two uniformed security guards at the end of the service road.

  He heard voices again and shifted his gaze. Three men sat at a table on a large veranda at the rear of the mansion, drinking beers as they talked.

  Deuce raised his camera to study them more closely through the telephoto lens. The one facing him was the gray-haired man he’d been following. To his left was a man Deuce recognized from photographs—Leonard Latham, or, as the kid had put it, Pappy Leo. The man sitting directly across from them had his back to Deuce, but his gray-streaked hair was pulled into a ponytail.

  Valac?

  Deuce wished he could hear what they were saying.

  He snapped off several shots of them, then trained his lens on the mansion and its lush grounds. He counted four exterior CCTV cams covering the courtyard and walkways and the lap pool at the rear of the house. He didn’t see any more guards, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. If ponytail really was Valac, Deuce didn’t imagine he’d go without protection.

  As Deuce lowered the camera, the gray-haired man jerked his head up, looking in his direction.

  Shit, Deuce thought as he ducked out of sight.

  Did he see the reflection of the lens?

  Deuce heard a shout that sounded like a command, and the jungle around the mansion came alive as uniformed guards rushed out from behind trees and started toward him.

  Son of a bitch.

  Slinging the camera around his neck, he headed back the way he’d come. Fast.

  Not wanting to chance using the road, he made his way through the underbrush, hacking at it with his hands to clear a path. He heard a radio squawk behind him, closer than he expected, and dove to the ground, rolling under the protection of a large bush as he reached toward the small of his back for the piece Cooper had given him.

  It was gone. The holster must have been dislodged when he rolled.

  He scanned the ground but saw no sign of it.

  Seconds later, two guards appeared on the roadside only yards away, checking the trees and undergrowth for any sign of movement. They clutched what looked like FAMAS Infanterie assault rifles.