by Diana Renn
Hugo pressed his lips together as we passed a row of shabby apartments. “Mm. I am not sure this is a good place for the children. I think my Lucia, she will not be so pleased.”
“So don’t tell her,” Andreas suggested.
“Papi. Please. We’re not babies,” said Amparo, with an impatient toss of her ponytail. The front of her hair was secured with one of Mari’s headbands, and instead of her usual frilly blouse or form-fitting T-shirt, she was wearing a Boston Red Sox T-shirt that Mari had given her. Andreas wore Mari’s Bruins shirt.
“I don’t see a shipping container or any bikes here,” Hugo said. “Are you sure this is the right place?” He pulled into a parking lot in front of a huge concrete building, where a group of about fifteen Vuelta volunteers and staff had gathered. Someone had brought a radio, and merengue music was playing. Some of the volunteers were trying to teach Santiago how to dance. Aussie Guy and Emma were cavorting around him, trying to get him to twitch his hips and move his arms, and everyone was clapping and singing while he tried to duck away from them. It was like a party. People were getting their energy up to work fast, eager to empty the container as soon as possible and get over to the circuit race. I wished I felt free to join their party, to dance and to laugh. But Mari and I had a long road ahead of us still.
“The container will come,” Mari assured Hugo. “And these are Vuelta volunteers.” She pointed. “There’s Wilson. Emma. The teachers. Aussie Guy. Oh, and Santiago. Honk, Papi!”
Papi. Already Mari was calling him dad.
Santiago looked embarrassed and sidled away from the dancers. He jogged toward our car to meet us.
While Mari introduced the Ruizes to some of the staff and volunteers, Santiago pulled me aside. “I called to the embassy hotline, but they told me the ambassador is at the race today, and there is no one in the office because of the national holiday. I cannot get him to come to this unload. So when the bike comes out of the container, we have to get it to the circuit race.”
“Exactly. That and the flash drive,” I said.
“The flash drive?”
“We found it last night.”
“What? Where?”
I quickly told him what had happened, and showed him the chain on my neck. Suddenly panic seized me. Had I snapped the flash drive back inside this morning, before I put the necklace on? I suddenly wasn’t sure. What if the drive was still under my pillow?
I fumbled with the cross. “I just want to make sure it’s there,” I said.
“Here. Let me,” said Santiago.
I held my breath as his fingers brushed my skin, sweeping the cross off my collarbone. His warm breath brushed my cheek as he bent closer to pop out the flash drive. An unexpected electric tingle ran through me.
He held the flash drive up to the light, inspected it, then nested it back into the cross and snapped the crucifix closed again. “Everything looks good,” he said. “You are all set for delivery.”
“Thanks.” I smiled at him. Then I looked at him in wonder. “Why are you doing all this anyway, helping us out?” I asked him. “And please don’t tell me it’s an Ecuadorian custom to save girls from spies and help them bring murderers to justice. You’re not just being polite.”
He nodded. “Remember I told you, my father’s business is affected by this matter?” he said in a low voice.
“Yeah.”
“I found records of business transactions in my father’s computer systems last night. Preston Lane has given big donations to Vuelta.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not really. I discovered all the donations were in cash. Every six months, Preston Lane donates three thousand dollars.”
My eyes widened. “That’s a lot of money.”
“It is. Especially in Ecuador, and especially for a charity. And I have heard he invests in other businesses here, too. The information you’re telling me, it scares me.” Santiago sighed. “Because if this money is from something corrupt like racketeering—even if it does good things—it could harm Vuelta.”
“How so?”
“If Preston Lane has been laundering money here, it could damage the reputation of the youth racing club. And my father, too. He will look like a willing accomplice.”
I suddenly remembered something I’d seen on Santiago’s dad’s computer screen the other day. The same black screen that I’d seen on Gage’s computer at Compass Bikes. Sports Xplor. I asked him to explain that. “You weren’t playing it, were you?”
“No,” he insisted. “I found a cookie in the computer and wanted to find out what this was. I asked around, and some Vuelta employees and volunteers had heard about this gambling website. Some person came into the Vuelta shop and gave them flyers about betting for the PAC Tour. Equipo Diablo versus Team Cadence-EcuaBar. El Cóndor versus el Ratón.”
“So people were really placing bets on those two cyclists? Before el Cóndor died?”
“Yes. Some of our staff looked into this because they were curious. Then some logged on and placed bets. Mostly on the Ecuadorian team. And even after el Cóndor died, the betting has continued.”
“I’ve tried to get onto that site. I was locked out. How did Vuelta staffers get in to place bets?”
“The password was on the flyer. Cacao. It was supposed to be good for the duration of the PAC tour only.”
Cacao. The cocoa bean. Of course! A fruit that Mari and I hadn’t thought of last night, but should have, considering it was a key ingredient in EcuaBars. And the password had probably changed from papayas, the word mentioned in Preston’s email to Gage back in April.
“Has anyone you know won anything on the PAC Tour so far?” I asked next.
“In the Colombian and Venezuelan events, yes, some people I know—Vuelta staff members, friends of my parents—they have made good profits on the Equipo Diablo riders. They wanted to bet even more money on them, for the big Quito races. Because of el Ratón.”
“So locals were putting money down on the underdog team. Just like Preston had said in that email to Coach Mancuso!” It was all part of the “narrative” they were constructing to make Sports Xplor profit. They would boost the visibility of cycling in Ecuador, and give Team Cadence-EcuaBar a shot at redemption upon their return. That would lead to more wagers, more money. A cycle. More bettors, more viewers, more enthusiasts, more sponsors. Even with el Cóndor out of the picture, the machinery was in place to bring pro cycling into high-level sports betting, and to pay off cyclists—young athletes who really needed the money—in order to skew the results.
A low rumbling sound behind us interrupted our conversation.
“The truck is coming,” said Santiago. “Suerte, Tessa. Good luck. We will need it.”
55
THE TRUCK chugged up to the parking lot, towing the shipping container. A cheer rose up from the crowd. I reached into my backpack for the Vuelta video camera that Santiago had loaned me to interview el Ratón. If we couldn’t get the official media here to get this recorded, I would be the media presence.
My view from behind the lens blurred as the truck turned into the lot and the container came into full view. My eyes welled with tears. The container looked like it had aged a hundred years since I’d seen it last. It was filthier than I remembered, and covered in scrapes and dents. If someone had said the thing had been dragged underwater by the ocean freighter, instead of loaded onto it, I would have believed it.
Thank God I’d gotten out. No one was going to open that thing and find my body inside.
The truck and trailer rumbled, closer, making the whole ground vibrate.
The container was ugly, yes. But it was also a thing of beauty. It contained the good intentions of countless people back home who wanted to give their bikes or parts to help strangers in a distant country. To help young girls in villages get to school.
And it cont
ained the secret behind Juan Carlos’s death. Soon, very soon, we’d be able to show that secret to the world.
The truck stopped, and the driver got out of the van. Wilson signed some forms on a clipboard. A black Ford Explorer drove up. And parked.
An Explorer. Crap. Was this Darwin himself? This seemed like something he’d drive.
The door opened. One leg emerged. Then Preston Lane stepped out.
I nudged Mari. “He’s here. Just like he said he’d be. He isn’t at the race.”
Mari looked worried. “Okay. Slight revision of plan is in order.” She let out a long breath and looked around. “There’s nobody here to arrest him. We have to get his bike out of the container and not let him touch it. Why don’t you talk to him, since you know him. If you can keep him talking, stall him, Santiago and I can go after the bike.”
There was no time to discuss all the things that might go wrong. Preston Lane walked over to the driver and to Wilson. He shook Wilson’s hand and said a few words to him, in English, thumping him on the back.
I walked up to Preston, while Wilson finished dealing with paperwork, and gave him my most winning KidVision smile. “Hey, there,” I said. “Remember me? I’m doing a video about the container unload. Can you answer a few questions?”
“Maybe later. I’m afraid my time is limited,” he said brusquely. He narrowed his eyes. “I heard you were here,” he said in a low voice. Not friendly at all.
Of course he knew I was here. He and Darwin had to be in communication, working together to move money—or a money-filled bike—across international borders and to conceal Preston’s secret business.
“I’m a Vuelta Volunteer,” I said, forcing a grin. “I wanted to follow the shipping container and see how the story ended.”
Something about holding a video camera in my hand made me bold. Bolder than I would have been standing there without it, and feeling the full force of his gaze, even as the warmth drained out of his face and he narrowed his eyes at me. “I’d prefer that you put the camera away,” he snapped.
I feigned an innocent expression. “Oh? Why’s that? Don’t you want everyone to see how committed you are to this bike donation program? Think of all the bikes here going to communities in need. All the bikes.”
He glared at me. “You,” he said, “need to learn a lesson about boundaries. None of this business concerns you.”
“Señor Lane!” Wilson, smiling, approached him. “How wonderful to have you here. Will you please do us the honor of opening the doors?”
“My pleasure.” He brushed past me and strode to the container.
Santiago and I exchanged panicked looks. Preston was getting ahead of us. If he was the first one inside the container, he could grab the bike as soon as he saw it. And take off.
The crowd around us applauded, and the Vuelta receptionist took photos of Preston standing by the container, holding up the key. Normally he’d enjoy the photo op, mugging for the cameras, but now his closed-mouthed grin and wild eyes looked almost maniacal to me.
“We must take our positions. Now,” Santiago whispered to me. He beckoned to Mari, a few yards away. She came toward us, with Amparo, who’d linked her arm through Mari’s in a sisterly gesture. I often saw women and girls in Quito walking arm and in arm like this, but now was not the time. I didn’t want my host sister anywhere near this.
“Why don’t you hang out with your family?” I suggested to Amparo. A line of helpers was forming behind the container, as directed by a Vuelta staffer, and I pointed to Hugo and Andreas farther down the line, near the end.
Amparo squeezed Mari’s arm and beamed at her. “Mari is family,” Amparo said stubbornly. “And so are you. While you’re visiting us, both of you are my sisters.”
I heard the locks turn in the tumblers, even though traffic roared past on the highway and buses belched in the terminal nearby.
There was no time to lose. And maybe Amparo could be useful here. I handed my loaner camera to her, and instructed her to keep filming everything. No harm could come of that. Besides, I needed both my hands free to catch Juan Carlos’s bike if it came my way. And if Preston did make a dive for the bike, at least we might catch that on film.
Preston struggled to slide the long metal bars on each door, and Santiago ran up to help him. Gutsy. Santiago had moved into a prime position to leap into that shipping container.
The moment the doors swung open, Preston lunged forward. But Santiago pushed him aside. He jumped up to the back of the shipping container. Mari and I got right up in front, further crowding out Preston. Santiago then began extracting the bikes and items closest to the doors and passing them to us. We passed them down the line of volunteers. Hands stretched out to receive and pass on each bike or component or box of parts. Six volunteers acted as runners, ferrying things into the warehouse.
Hugo had loosened his necktie and rolled up his sleeves. He laughed with Andreas as they fumbled to pass an armload of tires to each other. Amparo, meanwhile, stood a few yards away from it all, sweeping the camera up and down the chain of volunteers, then training it again on the back of the container, which Preston, scowling, still struggled to edge toward. Bikes and parts were flying out of there so fast, into volunteers’ outstretched arms, that Preston could never get quite close enough to jump in.
Santiago passed a bike down to me. With a start, I realized what it was. My Bianchi. I clutched its familiar mint-green frame tightly, remembering those scrapes from my crash. It held so many memories, so many miles. I missed it. But I couldn’t take back my donation.
I passed my Bianchi to Aussie Guy, and he sent it traveling on down the line.
“Excuse me,” said Preston, elbowing people and pushing forward. “Can I get in there and help?”
“Help? Sure. Here you go. Catch.” Santiago tossed him a cardboard box, almost knocking him over.
Preston staggered under its weight. “Jesus. What’s in here?”
“Tools,” said Santiago. “Do you mind running them over to the warehouse?”
“Unless they’re too much for you?” I added to Preston. “We could find someone . . . younger, maybe?”
Preston, reddening, glared at me. “I can carry a box of tools,” he said. “And I’m hardly the oldest person here.” Huffing, he strode off to the warehouse, lugging the box.
Santiago grinned at me. “How’d you get rid of him so easily?” he asked.
I smiled mysteriously. “I had a little inside information,” I said. “Preston’s freaked out about getting older.” Then my smile faded. “But we still have to hurry and get that bike out. He’ll be back here soon enough.”
“Can you see the Cadence bike? Are we getting close?”
I could just make out the white tape on the handlebars. “You’re two rows away,” I said.
“Jump in. And start digging.”
I did, and Mari came in to help too. Contents had shifted in transit, and many of the bikes had capsized or become entangled. The two of us burrowed through bikes, extracting them—carefully at first, then less so—and handing them off to Santiago, who moved them on out to the volunteers.
“Preston’s coming back from the warehouse,” Santiago said over his shoulder as he picked up a children’s bicycle trailer. “Are you close?”
My hands closed around one of the white handlebars. Mari’s closed around the other. Together, we pulled.
“Hold on. It’s stuck on another frame,” said Mari, diving down to remove a pedal from the spoke of another bike’s wheel. “Okay, pull.”
I did. The bike gave way. “We got it!” I cried.
“Hurry!” Mari urged.
I rolled the bike toward the container door and handed it to Santiago. “Quick. Jump off and take it to your car before Preston comes out of the warehouse.”
“No! Stop!” Mari exclaimed, as a Ford Explorer at the edge of
the parking lot suddenly started up. The window lowered slightly. Santiago and I followed Mari’s gaze. At the wheel was the guy in the Panama hat.
“Looks like Preston brought his own personal get-ahead vehicle,” I murmured. “Crap. Now there’s two people we have to worry about.”
“Maybe more,” said Mari, gesturing with her chin to two more identical cars, with tinted windows, parked on the opposite end of the lot. Right by Santiago’s parked car.
As if to confirm Mari’s guess, their engines roared to life.
56
“OH, NO!” Mari pulled at her hair. “Three cars with Preston’s henchmen.”
“And now Preston is coming back from the warehouse,” said Santiago, pushing the Cadence bike over so it lay flat on the container floor.
Santiago passed armfuls of tires down to volunteers to keep the chain moving. I wiped sweat off my forehead and tried to keep breathing. “We’ve got to get this bike down to the circuit race along with the flash drive and give it to the ambassador! Preston knows I’m on to him, and I want both these things off my hands. Like, now.”
“But we can’t!” Mari protested. “Not with those Explorers flanking Santiago’s car. We’ll never get the bike in there without their intercepting it. They’re totally in position to nab this bike from us.”
“We have only one choice,” Santiago said as he turned to pick up a box. “We must get this bike past Preston, past his friends in the Ford Explorers, and into the warehouse.”
“And then what?” I demanded. “What good is the bike stuck in a warehouse?”
“There is a storage closet in the back,” said Santiago. “You can turn the lock as you leave, and lock the bike inside there. Then run out to the street and take a taxi to the race. Give to the ambassador the flash drive and explain him what else we have found. Then he can come to the warehouse to see the bike himself.”
