by Marc Cameron
Midas pressed the issue. “So you carry the suppressed .22-caliber rifle around, just in case?”
“Another fair question,” the Japanese woman said. “There must be trust if we are to work together. Were the intelligence on Kim to reach a high enough standard, I would contact my superiors with the information, and then proceed as ordered. Such orders may include the use of a rifle.” She shrugged. “Your country has been known to put the faces of certain . . . high-value targets on playing cards.”
The group nodded.
Midas said, “Targets, indeed.”
“High value, indeed,” Yuki said. “Beatriz Campos was not our ace of spades. She was, however, an ace.”
• • •
Less than six hundred meters away, at the Palacio Duhau Hyatt, Chinese foreign minister Li reclined barefoot and shirtless on a blue velvet duchesse brisée, his legs propped on a thick pillow on the elongated footstool. The room had a distinct French neoclassical style with claw-foot furniture, wing-backed chairs, and the “broken duchess” style of chaise longue, where Li was undergoing a thorough examination from his physician. The bespectacled Dr. Ren used a pair of tweezers to pick bits of wood and gypsum wallboard from Li’s shoulder.
He would not have been injured at all had the idiot Paraguayan woman not been so slow to detonate the device. Her stupidity would have infuriated him, but the minor shrapnel wounds would only enhance the story of the cowardly attempt on his life. The death of one of the members of his security detail and the injury of another should have been enough, but you played the hand you were dealt.
Li’s mobile phone began to buzz across the ornate glass-topped table at the foot of the duchesse brisée. He shot a glance at Long Yun, who looked down at the number and then picked it up without answering.
“Madame Li,” Long said.
The foreign minister nodded and held out his hand, causing the doctor to stab him with the tweezers. Li cursed at the idiot and shoved him away, ordering him out of the room before taking the phone.
“Wei, xingan baobei,” he said. Hello, sweetheart. “No, I am fine. Minor scratches, that is all. No, no, really. I am well . . . Please tell our son not to worry. He must be brave and take care of his mother . . .”
Journalists from Xinhua—reporting directly to Secretary Deng’s propaganda department—would speak with Madame Li shortly. The foreign minister knew his wife well enough to be sure that she would quote her selfless husband, who, though wounded in a foreign land, exhorted their son to “be brave and take care of his mother.” He felt a pang of guilt at using his family so cruelly, but quickly disabused himself of the feelings. Drastic actions were necessary for the survival of the party, perhaps even for China itself.
“Yes, my dear,” he continued to console his wife, “they are taking good care of me. I will be home very soon. Yes, my love. I must hang up now.”
He did not actually end the call first. Such an act would have proven disastrous. Even a man as powerful as the foreign minister of China knew to let his wife be the one to end the call. She finally did, and Li handed the phone off to Long Yun.
The CSB officer set it back on the table.
“Will we go forward, Mr. Foreign Minister?”
“Of course,” Li said. “Why would we not? I am fine. We have come too far to turn back now.”
Colonel Long nodded toward a flat-screen television across the room. The sound was off, but the photos showed the whirling white vortex of a typhoon on a large map that included Taiwan, Japan, and the East China Sea.
“The typhoon has turned northward,” Long said. “It may prove problematic if it reaches Japan.”
“Nonsense,” Li said. “The summit is still days away. Many things will occur between now and then. Now get that egg of a doctor back in here.”
Li knew all too well that there were countless things that could go wrong with his scheme—this typhoon, the unknown person who had shot Amanda’s blond compatriot, even idiot servants who were dilatory in their duties. President Zhao might suddenly realize that Li was not actually his best friend. No, the man was much too dense for that. And even if Zhao did come to that conclusion, he would have to grow a pair of testicles in order to do anything about it. Perhaps by then the President of the United States would have used his famous Ryan Doctrine to put an end to Zhao and his witch hunt for anyone in the party who had exhibited a shred of financial success. And if President Ryan was himself too dense, then there was always another way.
In truth, Li had begun to think of their cause as a noble one. Just as Chairman Mao must have seen the task that had been before him. A work of the gods—or, in a world absent any gods, at least the work of destiny.
• • •
Maybe they turned in for the night,” Chavez said.
“Perhaps,” Yuki said. “More likely they are upset about the death of Beatriz Campos.”
Jack rubbed a hand across his beard. Talk of the sewers had left him feeling like he needed another shower. “How long will the battery last on your device?”
“The microphone is voice-activated,” she said. “That will conserve some power, but I am afraid we have no more than thirty-six hours.”
“We’ll listen in shifts, then,” Chavez said. “Jack, you’re voluntold to take the first rotation.”
“Excellent,” Ryan said through a feigned smile.
“I will listen with him,” Yuki said. “To make certain he does not drift off to sleep.”
Midas stood and raised his arms high overhead in a long, shuddering stretch. “I call dibs on half the bed.”
Adara stuck out her bottom lip in a mock pout. “What happened to guys taking the couch?”
“I only called half the bed,” Midas said. “You can fight Ding for the other half.”
“I’m good on the floor,” Chavez said, dragging the cushions off his chair.
Midas fell back on the mattress, bouncing once before curling up in the sheet, apparently unfazed that Yuki had slept in it the night before. He’d surely slept in much, much worse. “Don’t try anything,” he said without opening his eyes as Adara got in beside him.
“I’ll do my best to contain myself,” she said.
Chavez was already breathing deeply.
“I like your friends,” Yuki said, looking at Jack, who now sat beside her on the loveseat.
“Me too,” Ryan said. He wanted to ask her about the scratches on her face but decided against it. He was surrounded by people he trusted, and was alive after a particularly bloody day. A little mystery was a good thing.
46
John Clark was nothing if not patient. He’d seen Magdalena’s auction video in the room at Matarife’s ranch. It had sickened him enough to make it his mission to find the one who’d brought her to the States. The person who had used her and then quite literally sold her into slavery. According to Lupe, that person was Dorian Palmetto.
Clark had a nose for bad men like Palmetto, but even so, it took two days of watchful waiting to find him.
Lupe had given him the location of the cheap hotel where Palmetto liked to hang out and a vague physical description, but Clark still didn’t know exactly what he looked like. He considered the idea of calling in a favor with an old friend from the Agency—or even getting Gavin to pull the guy’s photo. In the end, though, he decided he didn’t want any kind of trail, even with trusted friends. As it turned out, in addition to running a side business trafficking in human cargo, Palmetto had a real job managing an auto parts store near the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base in West Fort Worth. Navy C-40 Clippers and Air Force Reserve C-130s had replaced the iconic B-52 Stratofortresses of Clark’s day when it had been a Strategic Air Command Base. Air Force F-16s and an occasional Navy F/A-18 Hornet roared overhead, invigorating Clark and helping rather than hindering his thinking process.
Clark was a traditionalist when i
t came to investigation, preferring well-worn shoe leather and telephoto lenses over computer analysis. But even he didn’t have any trouble learning that there were three people named Dorian Palmetto on Facebook—and one of them had graduated from Arlington Heights High School, also in West Fort Worth. It was a dangerous endeavor to see stereotypes in the world of intelligence gathering, yet looking at the smarmy mug of Palmetto’s profile picture, Clark couldn’t help thinking that he would have shot this guy had he ever approached one of his daughters. Shooting him certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility now.
According to his profile, Dorian was married with two children, both boys. His wife was a slender waif of a thing, with freckles and braids that, not incidentally, made her look like she was in junior high school. It made Clark sick to his stomach to contemplate her horrible life. It was all based on a lie and she went to sleep every night with no idea she was married to a monster—or it was a living hell. Either way, that was about to change.
Clark knew there was a way to get GPS locations from photos on Facebook. He’d heard Gavin talk about it. But again, he decided to watch and wait. He had the address of the Auto Sphere where Palmetto worked and of the Sleeptight Inn tucked in off Loop 820, where, according to Lupe, he took new girls to “break them in.”
The chain-smoking woman with peroxide-orange hair behind the front desk hadn’t given Clark a second look when he checked into the Sleeptight Inn the day before. She was evidently used to older single men in dark glasses who paid cash and kept to themselves. For a two-hundred-dollar deposit—a little over four nights’ rent—she didn’t make him show any ID.
Clark had stayed in worse places, though that had been many years ago—and Vietcong soldiers had been trying to kill him at the time. All the rooms in this single-floor motel faced the parking lot, and Clark’s room, the last one on the short leg of the L-shaped building, gave him a decent view of all the doors but the two adjacent to his. The walls were thin enough that he could hear if anyone came or went in the next room—but no one ever did.
Palmetto’s Facebook photos showed that he drove a blue Dodge Durango with damage to the right-front fender. Clark woke up to peek out the window and find the Durango parked across the lot. But by the time he got his pants on and slipped the 1911 into his holster, it was gone. It didn’t matter. He’d always been patient, and years of hunting men had endowed him with even more of that particular virtue.
Now that Lupe’s information was confirmed, Clark had no doubt that Palmetto would return.
Clark made it a habit to carry a couple Clif Bars in his bag, but when Palmetto still hadn’t shown by late evening, the chocolate chip and peanut butter washed down with Diet Pepsi from the motel vending machine was wearing thin. He reasoned that Palmetto was a predator, and as such, he would have a territory. When he wasn’t bringing in girls from South America, he’d surely be trolling for them somewhere within driving distance of home. The money in human trafficking was incredibly good. There was no doubt of that. But Palmetto’s Facebook didn’t show him spending money on his family or his vehicle—and he certainly wasn’t blowing it on fancy hotels. No, a man like Dorian Palmetto was in it for the hunt.
A quick computer search pulled up crime statistics for the local area, noting a higher-than-average number of prostitution arrests near a bus transfer station just a few blocks away. If Palmetto wasn’t at the Sleeptight Inn, he was either at home with his baby-faced wife or out trolling.
Clark stopped at a Whataburger to grab a sandwich and then ate in the rental car while he drove. The bus station turned up nothing, so he drove around the mall parking lot, thinking and looking for the Durango. He found nothing there, either, so he decided to cruise by the nearby seedy motels he’d found through the Internet. There were plenty of guys going in and out of various rooms. Hookers hardly ever worked the corners anymore. Sites like Craigslist and Backpage had taken the girls off the street—and when the adult-services ads on those sites had been taken down, more sprang up to take their place.
It was beginning to get dark when Clark finally saw a blue-gray Durango parked on the side of the road, half a block from the bus transfer station. He made a mental note of the license plate number and then slowed as he continued down the block. A tall Ken doll of a man with perfect black hair was busy chatting up a couple young girls. Clark couldn’t see his face at first, but knew in an instant that this was Dorian Palmetto. Surely fresh meat to him, both girls carried small backpacks and had probably just gotten off a bus. Palmetto paid no attention to Clark as he cruised past in one of a dozen dark sedans, focusing instead on his quarry.
Palmetto leaned in close, body-blocking both girls as they stood against the brick building next to the bus stop. The taller of the two wanted no part of it and waved him off. She went so far as to duck under his outstretched arm and walk away.
“Way to go, kid,” Clark said out loud. He fought the urge to drive up and slam the man’s face against the brick wall, but consoled himself in the knowledge that that would come later.
Sadly, a much smaller girl, likely a runaway and still hardly more than a child, appeared to be interested in Palmetto’s proposal. She had short purple hair and a nose ring big enough that Clark could see it from a distance. Palmetto did a lot of talking with his hands, pointing up the street, then opening both arms as if he were offering this girl the world—or, at the very least, a whole lot of money.
The driver of a dually pickup behind Clark lay on his horn, forcing him to drive on or risk drawing attention to himself. He flipped a quick U-turn as soon as he had an opening, but the Durango was already pulling away by the time he got back to the bus stop, and the girl with the purple hair was gone.
Clark hung back, sipping his Diet Pepsi and reaching into the Whataburger sack to grab the last of his french fries as he followed Palmetto and the girl back to the Sleeptight Inn. He got out of his rental car at the same time Dorian opened the door to his Durango. Clark did his best to rein in the hard look he knew he possessed, rounding his shoulders a little and even affecting a slight limp. He was just some random man who’d rented a room, too old to be any trouble. Palmetto paused anyway, giving him a quick once-over. His hand shifted nervously to his waistband, likely touching a handgun.
Nice of you to let me know where you keep it, Clark thought.
Palmetto pointed toward number 5. That figured. He’d want a room away from the office—or at least the office would want him far away so they’d have some deniability. The girl followed dutifully, cords to her earbuds trailing down the sides of her face, her head bobbing to whatever music was playing on her phone. She never even looked up at Clark, which made his next move much easier.
47
The doors at the Sleeptight Inn had seen plenty of wear from police boots, so it didn’t take much effort with the flathead screwdriver Clark carried in his pocket. He’d anticipated having to make such an entry and already practiced on his own door. The key would have been slower.
Clark rolled a black balaclava over his face and pushed.
The screwdriver was still in his left hand, a nine-inch leather sap in the other. Palmetto had just hit the girl hard in the back of the head. She pitched face-first into the unmade bed, perfectly framed in front of two tripod-mounted cameras. Palmetto’s head snapped up at the noise behind him. Clark’s sap took him across the temple, the ten ounces of lead shot impacting bone and rattling teeth with a satisfying thud. He dropped like a sack of wet sand.
Clark registered a flash of movement to his left. He turned in time to see a very large black man with long dreadlocks barreling at him from the open bathroom door fifteen feet away. Focused as he was on Palmetto, the attack caught Clark flatfooted, driving him against a wall and knocking the wind from his lungs. Clark attempted to bring the sap into play, but the man was too close, robbing the swing of any power.
The man was at least forty years younger—though with C
lark’s balaclava, he hadn’t figured that out. What he did know was that he was a half a head taller than Clark.
Clark exhaled quickly, relaxing his paralyzed diaphragm. He couldn’t do anything about the searing pain in his ribs.
“You messed up!” the man growled, stepping back to have a good look at the little man he was about to crush. “Parrot is about to put a chop on you that you never gonna forget!”
Clark stopped listening when he heard this guy was Parrot. The name had come up too many times—always in association with a bruised or broken girl. He’d read Blanca Limón’s statement, heard the stories about the brutal “choppings” this monster used to discipline his girls and keep them in line.
With his back to the girl on the bed, Clark feinted with his right hand, drawing the much larger man’s attention to the leather sap.
“Punk ass,” Parrot said, and chuckled. “I’m gonna take your little bat an—”
Clark wasted no time on words. Bounding forward, he drove the screwdriver straight up through the bottom of the big man’s jaw, shoving upward, aiming for the ceiling. The steel shaft of the screwdriver pierced Parrot’s tongue and impaled the soft palate at the back of his mouth. His teeth slammed together. His eyes flew open in shock. He made a vain attempt to grab at the screwdriver, but Clark batted his hand away with the sap. Clark pressed the attack, slamming the lead-filled sap into the man’s elbow as he fell.
