Connections: Conexiones (Mercenaries Book 3)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Description
Previously
The Nest
Locations in the Story
Chapter One - New York
Chapter Two - Piero visits Goldfarb
Chapter Three - Missing
Chapter Four - Starring Amy
Chapter Five - Rescue
Chapter Six - Amy Healing
Chapter Seven - The Nest
Chapter Eight - Following Abby’s Signal
Chapter Nine - Sailing, Dinner and Secrets
Chapter Ten - Peru
Chapter Eleven - Infiltration
Chapter Twelve - Between Chatham and Brewster
Chapter Thirteen - Piero: Candidate, Father
Chapter Fourteen - The Nest
Chapter Fifteen - Peru
Chapter Sixteen - Coral Gables
Appendix
The Nest
Cast
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also Available
Connections
(Conexiones)
By
Tony Lavely
All Maps by Tommi Salama
tommisalama@gmail.com
Copyright © 2015 by tony lavely
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edition 151224.2
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-tailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Tony Lavely.
Description
Everyone has connections they take for granted, and others of which they are unaware.
Beckie’s ongoing training as a nineteen year-old apprentice in Ian Jamse’s mercenary group emphasizes teamwork above all else. Now, with the London episode behind her, it’s time to put her training on hold and begin her sophomore year at Miami.
Goldfarb impelled Piero to smuggle cocaine using sex and money. Their enterprise flourishing, Piero turns to the Peruvian Presidential election. Goldfarb controls the key to the election: videos documenting the conspiracy to pervert the course of justice both he and his chief opponent engaged in years ago. The videos would ensure Piero’s election.
To force delivery of the videos, Piero threatens to halt their smuggling partnership. When threatened, Goldfarb’s composure fails; he attacks Ian’s group, starting with Amy Rose, Beckie’s young friend.
To save Amy, to keep the team safe, Beckie must put her wants on hold. It’s a helluva one-semester course. Pass-fail means live-die.
Connections is the third Mercenaries story, a YA/NA thriller recommended for 15 and up. While Connections stands alone, readers may find that understanding the background and relationships, especially from Freedom Does Matter, enhances the story.
Bonus: an excerpt from the next offering in the series, Coda?, is included.
Previously
Beckie Sverdupe and Ian Jamse are introduced in Sandfall and Allure, the stories of their meeting, Ian’s invitation to Beckie to join his mercenary group, and then, his proposal of marriage to her. In the second volume, Freedom Does Matter, Beckie demonstrates her desire to have the team move away from direct combat types of contracts, favoring negotiations and protection offerings instead. The results are not uniformly positive, but London is saved.
Amy Rose Ardan enters the story during Freedom Does Matter, where her nascent relationship with Abby Rochambeau, an older team member, is exposed and put on indefinite hold: Abby is sent to assist the team setting up campaign security for a Peruvian presidential candidate. Meanwhile, fifteen-year-old Amy continues her home schooling. As Freedom Does Matter ends, Beckie and Ian return to the Nest; coincidently, Amy disappears on her sailboat.
Chapter One
New York
PIERO SALVADORE’S FELLOW NEWARK-BOUND passengers clogged the jetway, slowing him even more than his misgivings. During the trek to the terminal, his phone signaled a new message from his boss, Mateo Huamán. “I can’t make it to pick you up,” he’d written. “Meet the limo outside Baggage Claim. We’ll talk later.” Piero sighed. He still had no idea why he’d been invited to attend the conference at the United Nations.
During the limo ride into New York City, Piero concocted reason after reason for Huamán’s sudden command to join him. None made any sense. As Peru’s Minister of the interior, Huamán’s role was understandable. As Huamán’s sub-Minister, Piero might provide background, he supposed, but then thought, We did all that before he left last week. And he would never have forgotten so much that a phone call wouldn’t suffice!
When Huamán greeted him at the hotel, the tension in the man’s face and carriage soothed Piero not at all. While the conference, a symposium on natural resources and their allocation on a supranational level, is important, he thought, it could not cause such angst.
Nothing reduced the mystery during dinner, except Huamán told Piero they had an appointment at nine that evening; they would leave the hotel a half-hour before.
Though New York was experiencing an unseasonably cold October, Huamán chose to walk. Striding alongside Huamán, Piero noticed the evening traffic—taxis and police cars, mostly—and the leafless trees along the curb. When Huamán spoke, however, the scenery faded away.
“I’m sure you remember the meetings we held with Nayra on Jaime’s behalf?”
Piero was shocked into silence. After a few paces, Huamán tapped his sleeve. “Piero?”
“Jaime’s campaign financing violations? Of course. How could I forget? But what… He’s out of prison, now, and out of politics.”
“Yes. It is not he you should recall. Instead, the video recordings he made for—”
Piero tripped over a smooth section of sidewalk. “The video…”
“Yes. While they would not impact you, as sub-Minister, so much, Nayra and I… we might have…”
“Yes.” Piero looked around, expecting to see Peruvian staffers surveilling them. “What of it? And is it safe to discuss, even here?”
“I think so. I hope so.” Huamán continued walking, his arms first swinging in cadence, then clasped behind his back. “What of it? On my arrival, a… gangster, I suppose, introduced himself as I walked near the UN. He called himself Donato Talos, and eventually told me he had the original video Jaime made of our meetings.”
Piero recovered from his shock enough to say, “What? How?”
“Talos would not say how the video came to him. He wants…” Huamán paused as they passed a young couple. “He wants a substantial amount, in gold he said, to return it. No other party could provide both interest and funds, he said.”
Piero sneered. “I can only imagine he has not looked very hard.”
“Perhaps. Or I was his first target. In any event, for all our sakes, I will purchase his package, and give the video to Nayra.” Piero said nothing. “Before you ask, I have done all the research possible to be assured he has what he claims, and the payment will finish the story. The gold is at the hotel.”
Piero mumbled somet
hing that might be confused as assent, but his mind roiled. Finally, he could speak again. “So, I’m not here for the conference at all.”
“True.” He stopped to face Piero, the clouds of their breaths billowing before vanishing in the breeze. “I need your help making the exchanges. There will be no risk, I’m sure.”
As he stepped off again, Piero smiled in mock agreement. I doubt Nayra Mamani is the best repository for that evidence.
After a few more moments of conversation to agree on their plan, Huamán slowed, consulting a scrap of paper. Piero noticed the dark wood facing of a bar, tall silvered letters proudly, incongruously, announcing its name, The Quiet Pub. Huamán tipped his head at the glass door.
When they entered, a tired looking barmaid listened as Huamán murmured his name, then pointed to a table where two men waited. Glasses and a large chrome pitcher stood before them. As Huamán led the way, the two stood and with a single curt wave, the shorter man invited them to the table.
“Thank you, Mateo. First names will do,” the man said.
“Good evening, Donato. My… friend is Piero.” Huamán sat across the table from Donato.
“Please. Donny is fine.” He faced Piero. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”
Piero nodded. Both of the men impressed him. No, he admitted, the unnamed man impressed him. Donny terrified him. Donny’s eyes were cold; emotionless. At least, hints of feeling flitted across the other man’s face. And the rose tattoo on Donny’s neck.
Huamán began directly: “The recording? When may I see it?” Looking at Donny, Piero cringed inwardly, wondering about the wisdom of starting with a demand.
“In good time, señor, in good time. Perhaps Piero can deliver the payment tomorrow morning to León?” He inclined his head toward the second man. “Then, after we validate the weight, you and I can meet tomorrow evening for the exchange.”
“But how will I be sure—”
“You doubt my word? Come, come. You have seen the screenshots; how would I make them without the original? What in the Virgin’s good name would I do with the videos if not turn them over to you? They have no value outside your tiny world.”
Piero agreed. However, inside Peru the videos could trigger a bidding war. Or worse. ¡Dios! I might be entangled in that war!
However, Huamán had instructed him to observe; he remained silent. He looked once again at Donny and quivered. Silence would serve him well.
Piero remained focused on Donny while Huamán continued to protest. Donny was calm, without evident emotion, but definite in his position. He sipped from a wine glass, but Piero didn’t believe it held wine. As Donny repeated himself, a small smile crossed his face. An emotion: he enjoys this.
Huamán tapped his shoulder; together, the two men rose. As Huamán made their goodbyes, Piero turned to León. “At my hotel?” Piero glanced at Huamán to see a brief acknowledgement.
“Sí. Your room?”
“Fifteen thirty-two. Ten o’clock?”
León nodded.
At the appointed hour, Piero had the gold, in a wooden crate stenciled ‘Machine Tools,’ ready for León. By his watch, the knock was a minute late, but since Huamán had said, “I’ll see you at the U.N. at twelve-thirty,” he felt unhurried.
He opened the door, then fell back as a short, black-haired girl stumbled into his arms. In reflex, he caught her and held her up as he realized first, she was nearly nude, and second, Donny and León had followed her in.
León tossed aside the wrap the girl must have worn; Donny strolled around the room’s perimeter to the chair at the desk. He waved at the girl. “Enjoy. She’s a distraction for you while we validate the package.”
Piero couldn’t speak. He stammered, but his protest was unintelligible. He held the girl away, observing, before she hugged herself to him again. “But…” She was attractive, perhaps twenty or a year older. Her breasts, not large, quivered minutely as she moved. He wondered if she was Andean; her color and facial structure argued she might be.
She reached to place her lips against his ear. “Please, do not refuse,” she whispered. “We will both suffer, believe me.”
He pushed her away but she fought him to crush her lips against his mouth, cutting off his questions but also, he shamefully admitted, causing a reaction she took advantage of, grinding her hips against him. After a minute of the vertical foreplay, she released his mouth and took his hand. With a smile, she pulled him out of the suite’s sitting room into the bedroom.
“Wait,” Donny said with a smile. “The package?”
Before he kicked the door closed, Piero pointed to the wooden crate.
Behind the door, Piero asked only why they would both suffer. “I for not being attractive to you,” she said. “You for paying attention to what Jefe does, rather than me.”
“And the penalty?” Surely he wouldn’t—
“For you, I guess it would depend on what the box contains and his expectation. For me, at least a beating, perhaps worse.”
“I must be at the U.N. by noon.”
She glanced behind her at the clock. “Jefe said he needed less than an hour, so…”
“So?”
“So, not much foreplay!”
She laughed as she drew him to the bed; she fell on her back, dragging him down atop her.
Piero didn’t have his pants on when Donny threw open the door. “Camila, out.” After the girl scampered through the door, Donny pushed it closed. Piero tried to swallow but his throat was suddenly dry and constricted. He gasped, trying to breathe. Donny didn’t seem to notice. Maybe he has that effect on everyone.
“Everything’s fine,” Donny said. “We’ll take care of the package.”
A single nod was all Piero could manage.
Donny smiled and went to the armchair by the window. “Now. While señor Huamán has been a profitable acquaintance, I hope to meet someone. Perhaps someone like yourself, who might bring me an advantage in dealings I plan.”
Piero managed to force two words from his tight throat. “Dealings, señor?”
Donny laughed as he turned the chair and dropped into it. “Relax, Salvadore. Piero. Breathe. Pull your pants up. I will not kill or even injure one whose collaboration I wish to gain.”
Piero nodded. He rolled off the bed away from Donny, then pointed to the bathroom. He felt marginally better when he returned to sit on the end of the bed across from Donny. “Thank you.” He turned to check the time. “We have a few moments, señor Talos. What help do you think I can provide you?”
“Nothing of great import.” He paused just long enough to worry Piero. “Simply put: I have a need for a reliable source of cocaine in bulk.”
Piero smiled tentatively. Smuggling cocaine out of Peru met one of his personal goals: every kilo shipped into the northern hemisphere was a kilo not distributed in Peru. He leaned back on his hands. Sara can always use more money. And that finca we’ve been looking at… But… He looked up at Donny, sitting, still patient, a humorless smile twisting his lips. His eyes… He could have killed her, Piero knew in his heart. And probably me, too.
He nodded, a small motion, then said, “The girl—”
Donny stopped him with a gesture. “She’s a distraction. You won’t see her again…” His eyes opened wide. “… unless you wish to?” Piero didn’t dare answer that. He couldn’t guess how either a yes or a no would be interpreted. “Do you wish to see her again? If not her, another? Similar? Different? Older? Younger—”
“No! Yes. Yes, I would like to see her again.” Which seals my fate, undoubtedly, but protects her. But Sara… It’s done now, no matter what.
Donny was already at the door. “León, send Camila back in here.” He turned back to Piero. “She’s available while you are in New York. If you wish to take her to Peru, that can be arranged, but I won’t do that until we speak again. Have a good day, señor.” He patted Camila on the butt as she came through the door, then Piero heard the front door to the suite close.
�
��We weren’t that good, Piero.” She dropped her wrap over the chair. “But practice will help. Shall we try for a more… Hmm. A more relaxed experience?”
“No. I must meet… for lunch. Please stay here; we will talk when I return. Order yourself lunch or anything you wish.” He glanced at her bare body. “Perhaps some clothing for dinner?”
Once she nodded, he verified the crate was gone and left.
Later that evening, as Talos and Huamán began their meeting, Jolene Rochambeau walked out of the Dag Hammarskjöld Library at the United Nations. She wrapped her scarf tight and pulled her coat together as she hurried to the gate on 1st Avenue.
New York spread out in all its nighttime glory. The wind cut through her coat and slacks; she shivered. Traffic was still heavy though rush hour had passed. With a snort of disgust, she rejected the buses lined up along the avenue and walked west along 42nd Street. She frequently did the mile walk to Times Square, but not often when her breath clouded before her.
After a stop in MacDonalds for a bag of dinner, she strode toward the subway station, where she could catch the number one train to 116th Street, and Columbia University.
Just before she reached a small park, the sound of a scuffle ahead stopped her before she stepped into the light from a streetlamp. She scanned the area, but saw no one. Most particularly, she saw no police.
She sidled up to the corner of the building and peered into the open space.
About fifteen feet away, two men were struggling beside a scrawny tree. For a moment, she watched them. Just as she decided to cross the street to avoid the unpleasantness, light glinted off something in the shorter man’s hand. By the time she’d recognized the knife, it had fallen three, four, five times.
Transfixed, she watched the wounded man slump against the tree. The attacker knelt beside him and began to rifle his pockets. The light gave her a good view of his face and the black rose tattoo on his neck. Her paralysis faded, though not her panic, and she looked around, hoping to see someone, anyone.