by Diane Capri
She sighed. Tenacity was one thing. Idiocy was something else. “You’re right. I’ll check with the airline.”
Morris was silent a beat. “I know that’s not what you wanted to do, Jess. But thank you. I’ll feel better knowing you’re on your way home.”
After they hung up, Jess checked with her airline, and booked a 7:00 a.m. flight out of Valencia. She sent travel details to Morris by text. He sent back a smiley face.
When she looked up, Garza was walking toward her with a hulking bodyguard.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Friday, August 19
6:30 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
It was still daylight as Kale threaded his way through the streets in a blue Peugeot he’d stolen thirty minutes earlier.
He stopped four blocks from his destination and backed into a parking space. He grabbed the duffel bag and left the car unlocked.
He crossed the street, and zigzagged to the rear terrace of a mixed-use four-story building. The ground level was retail shops. Dumpsters were out back.
He donned a pair of gloves and walked up and down the street twice, checking doorways and recesses for places to establish a nest. Several units had gates. He checked the latches and noted which ones opened easily.
Confident he had the area mapped out in his mind, he returned to one of the empty shops in the first building.
The courtyard behind the once-thriving shop was filled with mangled cartons. He moved boxes and other obstructions to clear a straight path between the back door and the rear gate that exited to the road behind it.
The back door’s recess provided cover from prying eyes, should anyone bother to look. The building was secured with a large industrial padlock. It weighed a good pound or two in his hand, and the thick steel hoop wrapped through the equally thick clasp on the door. Despite its weight, the steel yielded to bolt cutters on the first try.
Inside, he turned on his flashlight. It had a weak red beam that glowed instead of shining, but it was bright enough to avoid the debris on the abandoned shop floor.
A car approached, engine wheezing. He stood still, easing the flashlight closer to him until the lens was pressed against his body to extinguish the glow.
The car passed by.
He waited fifteen seconds. The engine’s noise faded.
He released the flashlight’s soft beam for a quick look around. He saw one large rectangular space. Cheap painted plywood boarded off one corner.
A door was set into the side wall, secured by a deadbolt. He pushed aside two broken chairs, clearing his path to the door.
He waited, listening to the building creak as the stresses and strains shifted with the wind. He heard no identifiable human activity.
He sprayed oil on the deadbolt and hinges, and gave it a full minute to work.
The door opened silently.
On the other side was a corridor with wooden stair treads that led upward. No basement.
He climbed the stairs gently, walking on the edge of each old tread, deftly shifting his weight from foot to foot to prevent a rapid creak, or worse.
At the top, the stairs were tucked between the pitch of the front and rear roofs.
He ducked his head to pass.
A low door, maybe five feet high or so, was set into one wall. He used a generous quantity of the oil on the handle and hinges, and it, too, opened silently. He ducked lower as he passed through into a room that hadn’t been used in years.
The odor of old books and rotting vegetation assaulted his nose. A thick layer of dust covered the floor and the furniture left behind.
A ragged and dirty lace curtain sagged over a single casement window. He brushed the grime from a stool with the back of his glove, sat beside the window, and lowered his duffel bag to the dusty floor.
He oiled the window hinge and allowed it a full minute to penetrate the rusted mechanism. He was in no hurry.
He bumped the window with his shoulder as he pried it open. It gave only a slight creak the nearest occupants one floor below wouldn’t have heard.
The curtain was suspended on a thin wire across the window. He unhooked one end. The other end unhooked itself and sprung outward through the window to the open air. He yanked the wire back inside, but the filthy curtain slid off the wire outside.
He lunged forward, grabbing for the curtain.
It fluttered and danced in the air.
His fingers snapped onto the delicate fabric, but it slipped through his gloved hand.
He made one last grab, clenching his fist around the center of the fabric, and wrenched it back inside.
He knotted the fabric to the leg of the stool, and sat with a thump. The escaping fabric and the noise he’d made retrieving it rattled him. At this point, he could only hope no one had observed the ridiculous comedy.
He took a few deep breaths to regain control of his frustration.
He waited. He heard no alarms.
After a few minutes of silence, he returned to his work.
He pulled a black case from the duffel bag and unclipped its two latches. Inside was a matte black gun, a VSK-94. It looked more like a prop from a futuristic movie than a lethal weapon.
He grinned. Appearances were deceiving.
The VSK-94’s stock was square and hollowed out. The magazine jutted out at a right angle to the body. The barrel was a thick plain cylinder.
Seemingly, the only concession to ergonomics was the grip, sloped and shaped for a human hand in stark contrast to the rest of the design’s rigid geometry.
The sight was a separate piece. It clipped on with a precision click. He rocked it back and forth. No free play. Perfect.
Finally, he screwed on the sound suppressor.
He adjusted the position of his seat, rested the barrel on the window frame, and tuned the scope to focus.
The view from the window wasn’t perfect, but good enough for his purposes.
Felix Cantor wasn’t home from work yet. He would be soon.
Kale needed only one shot.
One swift kill would restore his employer’s confidence.
And Kale’s pride.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Friday, August 19
6:30 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Jess suppressed a grin. Inspector Garza’s idea of a suitable bodyguard was built exactly like a man Morris would have selected.
Bulky, muscular body, jet black hair. And smoky green eyes, she noticed. Morris might not have been too pleased with how hot this guy looked, though.
His dark blue uniform was covered by a bullet-proof vest. The submachine gun strapped in a holster across his chest made him look even bulkier. In a good way.
“I’m Bruno Toscani.” He shook Jess’s hand with a solid grip.
“Toscani? Like the famous photographer?” she asked him, smiling.
“Call me Bruno,” he replied, all business in front of the boss. Or maybe he simply had no sense of humor.
“My flight departs at seven in the morning, so I have time to interview Elden’s boyfriend.” She checked her watch. “He should be home from work.”
Garza frowned a moment and then nodded. “After the interview you will remain in your hotel? I don’t have the manpower to guarantee your protection if you’re wandering around the city.”
“Agreed.” She scribbled Cantor’s address on a page from her notebook, and handed it to Garza who relayed it to Bruno. “I’m not interested in any more excitement while I’m here, either.”
“It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I hope your return home is less eventful than your stay in Zorita,” Garza said, shaking her hand one final time.
“Trust me, I do, too.” She smiled at him and this time, he smiled back.
Bruno led her to an underground parking garage and a white Hyundai hatchback. He handed Jess the keys and patted the gun on his chest. “You drive, I watch.”
The Hyundai’s door clanged as she closed it. She fought with the le
ver to shift the manual seat close enough to reach the pedals. The external mirrors were easily adjusted with a small stalk.
She started the engine. It buzzed to life with a sound that suggested the motor was housed in a tin box. She grimaced. A far cry from the jazzy little Mini Cooper.
Jess backed out of the parking space. She slipped easily into first gear.
Bruno pointed to the left.
She merged into traffic.
Bruno was quick with hand signals, and they weaved their way through some busy streets without a single U-turn.
After ten minutes, she recognized the dry cleaner where she’d learned Elden’s address. She slowed to find a parking space.
Bruno shook his head, and pointed farther down the road. She turned right and doubled back to Felipe Cantor’s apartment. Bruno directed her to park outside the apartment building beside a sign that read estacionamiento prohibido.
“Wait here.” He climbed out and hammered on the apartment’s outer door with the flat of his fist. Twenty seconds later he shouted “Policía,” and hammered again.
He spoke briefly with a resident. She backed away and he propped the door open with what looked like a garden gnome.
He gestured for Jess to get out. He led her into the building, shielding her from the street with his body.
The woman who had talked to Jess on her previous visit was there. She nodded her recognition. “Numero ocho.”
Jess smiled. “Sí.”
The woman disappeared into her apartment on the ground floor. Bruno led the way up the stairs.
He scanned constantly, checking the area for threats, Jess assumed. He waved her to the third floor. The stairs continued upward.
The third floor had four doors off the corridor. Bruno stared at them each in turn.
Jess followed his gaze. His intensity unnerved her. Did he know something terrible about this building? Or this area? Surely local police didn’t enter all buildings using these procedures. Or maybe they did. She shrugged.
He looked outside the window, and gave her a nod.
She pressed the doorbell to number 8. The happy tune echoed in the apartment behind the door. Jess gritted her teeth. No matter what she’d said to Garza, if she missed Cantor here after what she’d been through, she’d barge into Grupo Lopez and demand to see him. She’d take Bruno along. He didn’t look like a man who would be refused entry anywhere.
She stabbed the doorbell again. The music played. Footsteps clicked on a hard floor.
Bruno stepped up to the door. He held his badge in front of the spy hole. “Policía.”
The door opened two inches, held by the chain. Felipe Cantor’s bearded face peered through the gap.
Bruno held his badge up. “Policía.”
Cantor said something in Spanish much too rapidly for Jess to catch. Bruno replied, and Jess caught her name.
Cantor grunted, and pulled the door open. In English, he said, “Welcome to my home.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Friday, August 19
7:00 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Hadlow yawned as he drove. Elden’s early morning flight didn’t fit well with the Spanish fondness for late nights. He breathed deeply to help focus.
His target was a white Hyundai, three vehicles ahead. Kimball had finally emerged from the police station with an officer who could be nothing but her bodyguard carrying a CETME-C2 strapped across his chest. He shook his head. Better than letting her roam the streets alone, but did this mean the CNP had abandoned the search for the man who had tried to kill her?
As an exercise, Hadlow challenged himself to guess her destination. He smiled when she parked at Felipe Cantor’s apartment.
He parked a hundred yards down the road. He watched as they entered Cantor’s apartment building. The bodyguard looked formidable enough to intimidate civilians, at least.
At the shop on the corner, Hadlow bought a newspaper and an espresso to go. The clerk handed him a tiny paper cup.
He pressed an earbud into his right ear. The recording device he’d placed in Kimball’s bag clicked on and her voice burst into his ear.
He wandered toward Cantor’s apartment, sipping from the cup, and holding the folded paper in front of him as if he was reading.
Kimball talked to a woman. From the footsteps, he heard them climbing the stairs. The musical tune from Cantor’s doorbell that Hadlow heard last week when he used it to confirm that Cantor was out sounded.
A trio of mopeds raced by. Screaming tiny engines blotted out the conversation inside.
A bird fluttered from the roof opposite. Hadlow looked up. A window was open on the top floor of the building. A window that hadn’t been open when Hadlow was here before.
He was approaching Cantor’s apartment block. He could walk past and double back, or loiter. Neither were good options. There were shops across the street. They were closed, but he could look in the windows without drawing too much attention.
He stopped ten feet from Cantor’s building and waited to cross the street.
He glanced again at that open upstairs window. From this angle something looked different.
He blinked to focus and stared intently.
Which was when he saw it.
A thin black cylinder poked from the window.
His blood ran cold.
A rifle barrel.
He dropped his espresso and newspaper, and bolted for Cantor’s door.
He hammered his boot on the lock and raced inside.
He took the stairs three at a time.
Three floors.
Climbed fast.
Well aware that the rifleman could squeeze the trigger any moment.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Friday, August 19
7:15 p.m. CET
Zorita, Spain
Bruno led the way into Felipe Cantor’s apartment. Jess followed through the front door, which opened into a small hallway. To the rear was a bedroom with a bedside lamp illuminating a messy bed. To the front was a living room with two small sofas on either side of a coffee table. The curtains were closed. Somewhere there had to be a bathroom.
The small kitchen smelled of strong coffee. A machine gurgled in the corner. A two-cup carafe, but only one mug waited on the countertop. Beside it was a half-eaten sandwich.
Cantor waved toward the kitchen and closed the front door when Bruno moved out of the way.
The kitchen’s single garish light bulb wasn’t bright enough to banish the shadows. Bruno and his equipment overwhelmed the confined space. Cantor’s gaze returned repeatedly to the big gun.
“Do you speak English?” Jess said.
Cantor nodded. “Some.”
She gestured through a small archway to the living room. “Can we sit?”
Cantor stepped into the room and flipped on the light.
The coffee table was covered in magazines. Jess noticed Taboo among them. An empty red wine bottle and a wine-stained glass lay beside one of the table’s legs.
He picked up the glass and bottle, stood them beside each other on the table, and gestured toward the sofas.
Jess sat and Cantor took the opposite sofa. Bruno remained standing in a corner of the room, just inside the archway leading from the kitchen.
She held up a small recorder and flipped it on. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
Cantor looked at the recorder and then at Bruno. “Whatever.”
She placed it on the magazines in the center of the table.
“I’m Jessica Kimball with Taboo Magazine.” She tapped the issue of her magazine on the table. He glanced down briefly. “You’re Felipe Cantor, correct?”
“Sí. Yes.” He nodded. “What’s this about?”
“Debora Elden. I need to find her. Do you know where she is?”
“Why? What’s happened?” He frowned and glanced sideways at Bruno. “Is she in trouble?”
Jess said nothing.
“So you come in here wi
th RoboCop to what? Frighten me?”
Jess leaned forward. She stared at him for a moment.
He lowered his gaze and slumped back against the sofa.
“A friend of hers has been arrested in the US.”
He shrugged. “She has lots of friends.”
“A bomb exploded. Four people are dead. Many more are injured.”
He whistled. “What friend?”
“Alex Cole.”
He nodded. “Oh.”
“You know him?”
He swung his head, slowly. “I… No.”
“I don’t think he did this. But I need to talk to Debora.”
“Because she knew him.”
Jess nodded. “He was her boyfriend.”
She waited for Cantor to show some response, but he didn’t. “Do you know where Debora has gone?”
He shook his head.
“I saw you leaving Grupo Lopez together.”
“We live close to each other. We’re not…you know.” He shook his head. “We’re just friends.”
“Debora’s not your girlfriend?”
He stood and opened the drapes. “I guess she will be back soon.”
“What kind of work is she—”
The front door crashed open.
Instantly, Jess and Cantor turned to look.
Bruno raised his submachine gun.
A large man with jet-black hair Jess recognized from her hotel burst into the room.
Without pause, he launched a jab to Bruno’s chin, rocking his head backward.
Bruno’s arms flailed in circles. His knees gave way.
The man ran for Jess. He grabbed the front of her shirt. She twisted to lever his hand away, but he half-lifted, half-dragged her off the couch and toward the kitchen as she struggled to break free.
“Get down!” he yelled toward Cantor.
“What the—” Cantor sputtered without moving from the sofa.
The living room window exploded.
