Gia and the Lone Raven (Gia Santella Crime Thriller - Novella Book 4)

by Kristi Belcamino

  “¿Que?” said one of the men, wearing a fishing vest and hat with lures stuck in it.

  “Call 911,” I yelled. I couldn’t trust Austin to do it. I sprinted to the side of the yacht, preparing to hurdle over the side. I pulled up short when I realized the momentum of Marc’s jump had propelled the yacht away from the other boat. There was no way I’d make the leap. I searched the other deck only to see Marc vault onto the dock and break into a sprint.

  “There he goes!” I turned and headed for the dock.

  Dante was close on my heels. We raced past the startled fishermen and leaped onto the dock. It swayed and creaked beneath us as we sprinted toward the shore. By the time we got there, Marc was long gone. We stood, searching every direction until I saw a red sports car zip away at the far end of the parking lot. Shit. I looked for anyone in the parking lot heading for a car that we could “borrow,” but there was not another soul in sight.

  I turned to Dante. “Hey, sailor.”

  He exhaled loudly and wrapped me in a big hug. “I’ve missed you, Gia.”

  I sank into his embrace and felt his shirt grow wet with my tears. I couldn’t speak only nod and squeeze him tighter.

  Then he burst into laughter.

  “Pray tell,” I said, drawing back. “What could possibly be funny right now?”

  “You said call 911. We’re in Mexico.”

  I laughed. “Okay. That is funny.”

  Just then I heard Austin shouting. “Stop! We’ve called the federales, you can’t get away.”

  He stood back with the two men, fear shining in his eyes. I started walking toward him.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he said backing away, holding my knife. “You have some explaining to do.”

  I walked up to him and gently took the knife out of his hand.

  “Austin. You’re right. I do have some explaining to do. But first I have a flight to catch. I need to grab my stuff out of your boat and borrow your car and some clothes.”

  “It’s not a boat.” He sounded indignant and put out.

  I flashed a brilliant smile at Austin. “Right again.”

  I turned to Dante. “I need your cell phone. Mine’s shit. Will you explain to the authorities what’s going on? Call Sal, He can fill you in.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I left Austin’s car in the no parking zone in front of the airport and raced to the terminal. I’d booked my flight by phone. I’d remembered what that girl Laine had said. Something about Mexico City.

  There was only one flight that day to Mexico City. It left in a few minutes. I was banking on Marc being on this flight. I remembered his surreptitious glances at his watch on the yacht. He’d said he didn’t have time.

  I was cutting it close. I had the boarding pass on my phone and only had to get through security before boarding, but that might be a challenge. I had my knives in the supposedly X-ray proof compartment of my duffel bag. I’d ordered the bag from a Swiss survivalist company. I’d originally bought it to bring my guns on international flights, but it would work for my knives, as well. But I’ never tested it out. Trying it in a foreign country might be a big mistake. I’d heard the Mexican jails were torture chambers.

  To my relief, the guard lazily waved me and my bag through the security checkpoint. As soon as I was out of the guard’s sight I ran.

  Racing through the airport, I yanked on one of Austin’s giant parkas and pulled one of his baseball caps low on my face as I ran. I couldn’t risk Marc seeing me until I was ready for him.

  I slipped onboard the aircraft just as the flight attendant closed the door. I slunk into my first-class seat, slouching as low as I could.

  My seatmate, an older guy in a business suit gave me a nod and then went back to his laptop. Good.

  As the plane took off with a roar, my flesh pricked with anxiety. If I was right, Marc was on this plane somewhere behind me. I’d kept my eyes hooded as I boarded, so I had no idea if he’d seen me. I hoped my disguise of hat, coat, and sunglasses had worked.

  The plane was still climbing to cruising altitude, forcing me back in my seat when legs appeared at my side. At the same moment, the flight attendant unstrapped and jumped up. I lifted my head and scrambled for my bag at the same time the flight attendant shouted in alarm, “Sir!”

  Before I could react, Marc had looped something around my neck and yanked it—and me—to my feet. His words were low in my ear rumbling along with the roar of the airplane’s engines. “Try to fight me and you die.”

  The sharp wire around my neck pressed into my flesh. I knew it would only take a bit of pressure on his part to render me unconscious in seconds. A minute or two later I’d be dead. I also knew that inserting my finger between my throat and the wire could only make it worse. I had to bide my time and think of an escape plan.

  “Nod if you understand.”

  I did, barely moving my head. My duffel bag, with my knives, was still under the seat. If only I’d been smart enough to immediately grab my stiletto when I boarded. Fuck.

  Meanwhile, the flight attendant was scrambling for the phone, but Marc yanked me toward her.

  “Get in the bathroom,” he yelled at the woman. “Now.”

  The flight attendant looked at me with fear and hesitated. Keeping me pressed against him, Marc’s shot his foot out and kicked her in the stomach. She collapsed, her face a mask of pain. He kept his back to the wall.

  A few men had risen from their seats shouting.

  “Sit back down or she dies.”

  Then, unexpectedly, the plane leveled out. I shot a glance out the window. We were still low—not far above the ocean. The pilot must have known something was going on.

  “Get in the bathroom. Now,” Marc told the flight attendant. “Do not come out unless I tell you.”

  Red faced and tears streaming down her cheeks, the woman crawled to the open bathroom door and disappeared inside, closing the door behind her.

  Marc backed us against the door to the cockpit. The passengers were exchanging alarmed looks. Two passengers near us were whispering.

  “Knock that shit off,” Marc said. “No talking.”

  Meanwhile everyone in the back half of the plane had erupted into conversation. People were out of their seats and huddled together. I hoped they were making a plan to take Marc down. Like Flight 93 on 9/11.

  Marc shifted behind me and then reached for the intercom phone. He fumbled for a few seconds, and then his voice rang out. “Get the fuck back in your seats, and shut the fuck up or I’ll kill this woman.”

  Holding the wire taut against my throat, he reached for the phone that connected him to the pilot.

  That meant he only had one hand on the wire. I jerked forward. The wire cut into my neck painfully, but then I felt release. I’d broken free. I slammed my head back toward his. With a loud crack, I bashed my skull into his head, hearing a satisfying crunch that I hoped was his nose.

  At the same time, I jerked my elbow back into his side. He grunted but then sent a boot to my kidney that sent me flying into the aisle. I tried to catch myself but landed on my stomach. I twisted my body and thrust my legs up prepared for him to attack.

  That’s when I noticed my seatmate, wild-eyed behind his thick glasses, had sprung from his seat and was between Marc and me. I scrambled to my hands and knees and clawed at the wire around my neck, which was slippery with my blood. The wire was twisted tightly under my hair. I managed to loosen the wire even though I couldn’t get it all the way off.

  The two men fought, throwing each other around, banging into the cupboards containing airline snacks and drinks. My seatmate had his hands around Marc’s neck. Marc’s eyes bulged and he reached off to the side, fumbling for something, knocking soda cans and napkins off the counter. Then his hand reappeared with something that glinted.

  Scissors.

  “No!” I lunged forward, trying to gain footing to stand.

  There was a crash and I felt something warm splatter over me. I looked
over in time to see Marc withdraw a pair of scissors from the man’s neck. Blood spurted in an arc everywhere for another second or two. The man slumped onto the ground, his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.

  Marc stood there like a madman, holding the bloody scissors, his face, hair and shirt splattered with blood. A few passengers who’d been storming toward the front of the plane, froze, backing up as Marc held the scissors out.

  He’d forgotten about me. I glanced at the man. My instinct was to rush over and clamp my hands on his neck, trying to stem the blood loss, but I knew Marc would stop me. I couldn’t save the man and this sent fury shooting through me.

  With one kick, I took Marc’s legs out from under him. I rolled and was on top of him, my knee to his neck. My thighs pinning his arms down. The scissors in my hand above him, my blood dripping slowly onto his cheek.

  Beside me, passengers were huddled around my seatmate, screaming for a doctor or nurse. But my laser focus was on Marc beneath me.

  My adrenaline raced. It would take less than a second to kill him. The gleaming blades of the scissors hovered above his skin, but then slowly, I drew my hand back. I remembered Kato’s words. This time, at least, I would choose love over hate.

  Just then I felt bodies pressed around me. A hand on my shoulder.

  “We can take over now.” Three huge men stood behind me. One kneeled down and put a beefy hand to Marc’s neck. I handed another man the scissors and got up, pulse racing.

  The flight attendant emerged from the bathroom with a tear-streaked face and with trembling hands picked up the phone to the cockpit. I shivered uncontrollably as someone untwisted the wire from my neck and sat me down in a seat and plastered bandages on my bleeding neck. I’d probably have another scar to match the one on my temple. Someone else draped a blanket over me.

  Then, the people kneeling near my seatmate got up. It was a woman and a man. Their clothes and hands were covered in blood. They exchanged a glance. The man was dead.

  The man’s newspaper and laptop sat on the seat beside me. I closed my eyes and fought back threatening tears. Somewhere on the plane behind me, Marc sat. Silent.

  As the plane descended, I glanced outside and saw the runway was lined with emergency vehicles. Police cars. Fire trucks. Ambulances. All with flashing lights.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes until we had landed. I didn’t open my eyes until I felt a hand on my shoulder and a person identified himself in Spanish as a police officer. I stood and faced the rear of the plane. It was filled with police officers. They surrounded Marc. His hands were cuffed behind him. Right before he stepped out a door to the rear, he looked over at me. I held his gaze until they jerked him and he disappeared out the door.

  When we got off the plane, taking the stairs to the paved tarmac, I saw a lone raven perched on a rickety fence separating the airstrip from a dirt road.

  It was over.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Two days later ....

  The drive out to the Mexican prison was hot and dusty. It was a long, desolate two hours from Mexico City. Sal had insisted by phone that I not go alone. I’d reassured him I’d take a friend. I lied.

  Besides, I had a special slip of paper that the Mexican president had given me in case I got pulled over. It would also grant me special access to the prison. I’d met the president this morning. Some deal Sal had set up. It also involved me slipping the president a thick envelope Sal had arranged for me to pick up at the bank that morning.

  When Sal found out that the extradition process for Marc could take months, he gave me directions to deliver the package and said the president was expecting me. I wasn’t certain, but I had a feeling we were paying off the Mexican leader. To let me go home before the investigation into the hijacking took off but also to keep Marc in prison instead of in jail. Fine by me.

  In Mexican prisons, the prisoners relied on people from the outside to bring them food. I had a feeling that after two days, Marc was probably pretty damn hungry.

  I’d packed a huge stack of corn tortillas and a few cans of refried beans to bring Marc. I had no idea if he had a can opener or not. Not my problem. I didn’t do it out of compassion, either. I just thought I’d do my part to keep him alive until justice was served. Because from what I’d heard from Sal, as of now, he wasn’t talking.

  It didn’t matter. Jessica Sala’s family was trying to get him extradited to stand trial for murder in the United States after a prosecutor in New York City said he’d be happy to try him absent corpus delicti—without a body being found. Cassie would be the key witness. He’d confessed all of his crimes to her, thinking that dead women couldn’t testify.

  Little did he know, Cassie wasn’t that easy to kill. I couldn’t wait to see his face when he found out.

  Let him rot in a Mexican prison for a while. As long as he was locked up, I was satisfied, but I could also understand Jessica’s family’s need to face him in court and see justice served. That was one reason I’d hesitated in slicing his throat. At least that was the story I was telling myself. I fingered the thick bandage on my neck. He’d come damn close to cutting mine. The doctor said she couldn’t guarantee the stitches wouldn’t leave a scar.

  Whatever.

  THE PRISON FACILITY was not Club Fed.

  From the road, it loomed gray and unwelcoming. A stark cold place. High walls without windows covered with barbed wire. Two guard towers with assault rifles mounted in them, manned by two sun-glassed guards with moustaches.

  This was apparently the facility the notorious drug kingpin El Chapo had escaped from. They’d beefed up security since then. And compared to El Chapo, who was named one of the most powerful people in the world by Forbes Magazine, Marc was a two-bit crook. And he had no friends. His chances of tunneling out were slim and none.

  Two guards literally carried Marc into the room where I was waiting. They held him under the armpits with his ankles shackled and feet dragging in the dust. The two guards, armed with pistols remained in the room with us, standing on either side of him. I was glad. They also didn’t undo the shackles on his wrists or ankles. I was glad for that, too. I had no doubt he’d try to kill me if he got half a chance.

  I took Marc in for a second. He’d already lost weight in the two days since I’d seen him last. He had a black eye and scabs on his arms as if he’d scratched himself raw. Probably bed bugs. Or worse. His cheek was cut. The blood had congealed, but the wound looked infected, yellow with pus.

  All in all, not a good look.

  “Prison doesn’t suit you,” I said.

  “How’s your neck?” he said, flashing his trademark smirk.

  So, the spirit hadn’t been beat out of him yet. Too bad.

  I slid the Polaroid photo across the desk. For a second his eyes flickered with some emotion I couldn’t decipher.

  I gave him a slow smile. “Yeah, you’re fucked.”

  It was a picture of Cassie, bruised and bloody and shielding her eyes against the bright sunlight as she walked out of the cave where Marc had left her for dead. He’d lured her up to see the cave paintings, taken her ATM card, beat the password out of her and struck her in the head with a heavy rock. He’d hidden her in a nearby cave hidden by brush on the other side of the hill. He’d planned on her body never being found. He could casually withdraw money as often as he wanted. Or so he’d thought.

  But I’d remembered how he’d wanted to take me there and told the federales. Within an hour, a K-9 scented on Cassie in the hidden cave. At first, when I’d heard about the cave, I’d thought maybe his wife’s body would be there, as well. But the cave was empty save Cassie. And the sailboat he and Jessica had been on still hadn’t been found.

  In the photo, two federales supported Cassie on each side, but the look on her face was fierce. She stared right into the camera. If looks could kill, Marc would have fallen down dead from her wrath even behind bars hundreds of miles away.

  Marc stood abruptly, startling the guards i
nto drawing their guns. One pressed his shoulder down hard until Marc was sitting again.

  “I guess I just came to see if you wanted to cough up any more details about your earlier relationships. I could probably help you with a plea bargain if you had info on the other missing women in Mexico.”

  It was a lie.

  Marc scoffed. And then there was his trademark smirk.

  No longer sexy. Just skanky.

  “Well, let me know if you change your mind. They are already searching every square inch of Baja. If you give them what they want before they find it, you might stand a better chance.”

  That’s when he spat. The long trail of phlegm missed my face, but landed on my arm. I ignored it.

  But the guards didn’t. Within seconds Marc was down on the ground, and the guards were kicking him in the stomach and legs. They avoided his head, but made sure he learned his lesson.

  I watched, expressionless. When they were done, the larger guard picked Marc up by his collar.

  “This is bullshit.” He glared at the guards.

  That’s when I stood and smiled. “See you, Marc.”

  I walked out without another glance.

  As I drove away, I glanced down at the passenger seat. I’d forgotten to bring in the bundle of food. Oh well. I was late. I was meeting Dante in Mexico City and we were flying home together for Christmas.

  Glancing in my rearview mirror, I watched the prison walls growing smaller behind me in the setting sun. As it did, my heart filled with excitement to see Dante and spend the holidays with people I cared about and who cared about me.

  Dante had forgiven me. Finally.

  Like me, he’d decided it was better to choose love over hate.

  SHADOW MAN

  AT FIRST, TIMOTHY MCDONALD thought he was seeing things. His truck jerked over the potholes, making his headlights bounce erratically, distorting once familiar shapes and shadows. A thick line of trees bordered the old logging road, blocking out the sunrise to the east.