Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  “I think I understand. You’re going after your cousin. You think Julie and Shiara are in El Salvador and you need me to find them.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate, Pedro.” Beads of sweat dripped from Eugene’s forehead onto his cheeks. He wiped them away and dabbed at his face with a napkin. “It’s Julie and Shiara, Pedro.”

  “Jesus, Eugene. One wrong move with these guys and I’m a dead man.” They were both quiet for a minute, then Pedro said, “What do you know about their setup in El Salvador?”

  “Nothing,” Eugene answered. “I’m not even sure they took Julie and Shiara to Central America. But one thing’s for certain: They aren’t in Colombia. The Rastano clan has spent too much time and effort to appear legitimate to blow it all by keeping kidnap victims in their back yard. They’ve got Julie and Shiara somewhere away from Medellín. And since their strongest presence outside Colombia is in San Salvador, I think that’s where they took my wife and daughter.”

  “Where’s Miguel?” Pedro asked.

  “Safe in Caracas with his grandparents,” Eugene said. “Thank God for small miracles. But time is limited, Pedro. Javier Rastano has given me two weeks to find Pablo.”

  Pedro was quiet for another minute. Street-smart and tough, he knew the consequences of his answer were huge. If he chose to shy away from danger, he would be abandoning his friend in a time of dire need, and possibly sentencing Julie and Shiara to death. But accepting the challenge held the very real possibility of another early death. His. The people Eugene was asking him to go against were Colombian drug dealers. Ruthless men. He closed his eyes and for a few seconds he was fourteen years old, in San Salvador, walking home from school on that hot, humid afternoon.

  School had gone well and he had the results of a social studies test in his book, ready to show his grandmother. Ninety-four percent. She would be so proud. He took his usual route, passing near the zoo on his way to the small adobe house on Colonia America where he lived with his grandmother. The neighborhood was never really safe, but the walk home from his classes was usually uneventful; most of the thugs who prowled the streets were looking for better targets than a fourteen-year-old schoolboy. But not that day.

  Pedro passed a house with an open front and a couple of soda machines set against an inside wall. Two tables sat in the shade, one occupied by three young men in their late teens. Pedro caught some sort of a motion as he cruised past, but never gave it a second thought. A moment later he heard a voice behind him.

  “Where you going so fast, chiquillo?” One of the teens had lurched outside the hole in the wall and was trailing Pedro down the road.

  Pedro glanced back. The youth was covered with gang tattoos, on his arms, his neck and ears. His face was crisscrossed with scars from knife fights. He yelled at Pedro again, this time accusing him of being from a different gang. Pedro began to run, his legs pumping quickly, his eyes on the ground, watching where each footstep landed on the broken pavement. He reached a clear spot and risked a look behind him. Another four gang members had joined the first and they were only a few steps behind him.

  Pedro knew if the gang caught him he was dead. He started screaming for help. The streets were alive with people and cars and buses, but no one stepped forward. They just watched as he ran for his life, knowing that getting involved would only make them targets. Pedro rounded a corner, his legs and lungs burning and his breath coming in short gasps. He had nothing left. A church loomed up at the end of the block, but his muscles were too tired to make it. Just as the gang seemed to be on top of him, a strong arm grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him off his feet. His feet swung back to earth and his head and shoulders smacked into the man’s back. The hand let go and he dropped to the pavement, staring at the gang through the man’s legs.

  “You want the boy, come and get him,” the man yelled at the group. They pulled up short, brandishing knives and waving them wildly about. The man’s right hand was behind him, close to the small of his back. “I’ve got a gun, and I’ve got enough bullets for each one of you. You want him, you go through me.”

  “Get out of the way, asshole,” one of the gang yelled. “We want the kid.”

  “You get the kid when you get past me,” the man yelled back. “And if you try, I’ll kill all of you. No fucking survivors to tell the story.”

  Lives hung in the balance. Witnesses to the standoff crawled into doorways and behind buildings, wary of stray gunfire or of being slaughtered because they’d seen too much. There were no police, and even if they were near, this wasn’t their fight. This was one man against a gang.

  “You fucking guy,” one of the gang yelled. He snapped his blade shut and rammed it in his pocket. “I ever see you around here again, I’ll kill you.”

  “You do that,” the man said as the rest of the gang followed suit and retreated. A minute later they were gone, swallowed by the grimy labyrinth of streets and alleys. The man finally looked down to where Pedro was huddled on the cement. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Pedro said, standing and dusting off his school clothes. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Not a problem, but we got a bit lucky if you ask me.”

  “How’s that?” Pedro asked.

  The man lifted up his shirt to reveal the small of his back. “I forgot my gun today.”

  “Holy shit,” Pedro said. His knees buckled and he collapsed back to the ground. “It was all a bluff.”

  The man nodded. “I’m Eugene Escobar,” he said, wiping a few beads of sweat from his brow. “Just visiting from Venezuela. Is it always this exciting around here?”

  Despite the seventeen-year difference in their age, the two became friends. At first, it was more of a father-son relationship, but as Pedro matured and entered his twenties, the friendship blossomed into one of mutual respect. They stayed in touch, Pedro often traveling to Venezuela and to Eugene’s island to visit and help on the dive boat. Eugene made a couple of trips to El Salvador, but it was more difficult after Shiara was born. Still, despite distance and time, the friendship endured.

  Now Pedro sat at the rickety table in the lunch room of Cerámico Cuidad, already knowing what his answer would be. He adored Julie; she was like a sister to him. And Shiara had turned into a wonderful young woman. She and Miguel always called him Uncle Pedro. It was the family he had been denied as a young boy surviving the rough-and-tumble streets of San Salvador. He took a sip of coffee and cupped the warm mug in his hands.

  “I’ll need some expense money, Eugene. I’m kind of tapped out right now.”

  Eugene finally let out his breath and nodded. “Money’s not a problem. I can give you twenty thousand American dollars. That should pay for your plane flights, hotels and food.”

  “Where did you get…?” Pedro let the question die, not really wanting to know the answer. “What should I do? How do I get close to Javier Rastano and his father?”

  Eugene shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re a resourceful kind of guy. You’ll think of something.”

  Pedro finished his coffee. “And if I find your wife and daughter? Then what?”

  “That’s your call. Get them out if you can. Call me. Call the police. Do whatever you have to.”

  “Are they in El Salvador right now?”

  Eugene shrugged. “A friend of mine thinks so. He was tied into the drug business a few years ago and he’s still in the loop. You’re going to have to wing it, Pedro. Make it up as you go.”

  “How do we stay in touch?” Pedro asked.

  “I’ll get two cell phones from a dealer in Caracas this afternoon. I’ll be the only person with your number, and vice versa.”

  “I’m assuming you’d like me to leave for El Salvador right away,” Pedro said, and Eugene nodded. “All right, I’ll have to settle up a few things here before I leave. I don’t want to burn any bridges. I like working here. I’ll just tell them I’ve got a family emergency.”

  “Thanks, Pedro.”

  “Not a
problem, my friend.” He rose to finish his shift. “Where are you staying?”

  Eugene shrugged. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Try the Plaza Catedral, on Boulevard Plaza Bolívar. It’s in the colonial section of Caracas. Nice rooms, great restaurant on the roof.”

  “I know it,” Eugene said. “You want me to check in and wait for you?”

  “Sure. I’ll need a few hours here to wrap things up. Give me another hour to pop by my apartment and have a shower and change. I’ll see you then.”

  “Ciao, amigo,” Eugene said, shaking Pedro’s hand.

  Their eyes met. “It’s going to be okay,” Pedro said, seeing the agony in his friend’s eyes. “We’ll find them.”

  Eugene nodded and they split. Pedro headed back to the problem with the hydraulic system, and Eugene cut back through the office to the parking lot. He thought about Pedro’s words as he slid into the cab and gave the driver the name of the hotel. We’ll find them. The words were hollow, just spoken to appease his suffering, both men knew that. But somehow, just hearing someone else say what he wanted to believe was encouraging. And one huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that he had Pedro helping him. Without Pedro he was dead in the water. He closed his eyes and the vision of Julie and Shiara, captive with blood-soaked bandages wrapped about the stumps of their severed fingers, came to him.

  Despite his eyes being tightly closed, his cheeks burned as the tears slowly rolled down.

  Chapter Seven

  They met in Les Grisons at seven in the evening, the sun just setting on the rugged horizon. Splashes of color streaked across the evening sky, and then a muted gray washed across the palette and dusk descended. The lights of Caracas flickered and then glowed dimly against the stark darkness of the towering hills to the west. Beneath the rooftop restaurant, the city pulsed with energy and readied itself for another night of pounding music in crowded nightclubs.

  Pedro ordered a lite beer as he stared out over the spires of the cathedral toward Plaza Venezuela and the adjacent Jardin Botánico. The gardens were poorly lit and appeared as a black blotch against a sea of oscillating streetlights. He took a sip of cold beer and wiped a drop of condensation from the bottle. It fell on his dark denim jeans and he absently rubbed it into the material with his index finger.

  “Rastano give you the money?” Pedro asked. He didn’t know why, but he had to know.

  Eugene took a long pull on his beer and nodded. “Yeah, it’s drug money. Rastano gave me a hundred large for expenses. If you need more than twenty…”

  Pedro shook his head. “Twenty is fine. Hell, my job at Cerámico Cuidad only pays thirty-five U.S. a year and I survive on that. I think I can get through two weeks with twenty. Anyway, I don’t want to appear in San Salvador throwing cash around. That attracts a lot of unnecessary attention. I’d rather stay at a hotel that’s cheaper than the Hilton.”

  “Any ideas on how to find Rastano?” Eugene asked.

  Pedro grinned. “Finding Rastano will be easy. Rich people aren’t all that common in San Salvador, and they all tend to stick to one area: Escalón. Getting to meet him will be the tough part.”

  “Escalón? Is it a subdivision or a neighboring town?”

  “It’s a subdivision,” Pedro said. “Huge estates with walls and gates. Armed guards everywhere. And I’m not talking your average rent-a-cop idiots. These guys are ex-military types, and they’re well paid. Kill you in a second if you give them a reason.”

  “Rastano’s type of people,” Eugene said.

  Pedro ordered another beer, and asked Eugene, “What do you know about Javier Rastano? From what you’ve told me, he seems to be the front man for the family these days.”

  “That’s only my take on it, because he’s the only one I’ve met. I wouldn’t be able to pick out his father in a crowd of three. Then again, Javier didn’t seem to need his father’s approval to kidnap my wife and daughter. But I don’t know that for sure.”

  Pedro looked thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, “Rich young man in a foreign country. He’s got to have some vices that need satisfying. Drugs, booze and women; he can certainly take care of those necessities himself, but rich guys usually need something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Gambling, fast cars, cock fights. Who knows. When you’ve got more money than you can hope to spend, you’ve got to find new and exciting ways to get rid of it. I’ve known a few high-level drug dealers, and they were all fucked up. I’m sure Javier Rastano is no different.”

  “Where does that get you?” Eugene asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

  “Get Javier on his home turf with nothing to do but take a good hard look at me, and chances are he’ll be suspicious. But put him in another environment, one where common sense is diverted and pure adrenaline takes over, and I might stand a chance.”

  “A chance for what?”

  “To get inside his gardens, his house, his world. That’s the way to find Julie and Shiara. Busting down the front door with guns in hand isn’t going to work. And standing outside his mansion gates won’t get me anywhere. I’ve got to meet him and get in his life.”

  Eugene ran his fingers through his curly hair and nodded. Pedro was right. Javier Rastano may be rich and pampered, but with his position in the drug underworld came street smarts and hands-on experience in treachery and deception. The man was no fool. He would be alert for the wrong people trying to infiltrate his inner circle. Getting close to him would be difficult. But men were often most vulnerable about activities they considered pleasurable. Sex with younger women, motorcycle or car racing, extreme sports. Whatever the man’s button was, Pedro needed to find it. And then exploit it. Not easy, but Pedro was already thinking on the right track. Eugene slipped an envelope from the inside pocket of his windbreaker.

  “Here’s your cash,” he said. “American dollars.”

  “Universal currency,” Pedro said, taking the package and tucking it in his pocket without glancing inside. “You traveling with the other eighty in cash?”

  “No chance,” Eugene said. “I’ve got about ten on me. I stopped at a bank earlier today and put the rest on my credit card. They won’t be asking for a payment for a few months.”

  Pedro laughed. “They’ll probably up your credit limit.”

  “Just what I need.”

  The waiter, young with shoulder-length hair, came around, pad in hand, and took their orders. He thanked them, and was gone.

  “How are you going to find Pablo?” Pedro asked. “If he is alive.”

  “There’s a family member I can try before I resort to the DEA or the CIA. Raphael Ramirez. He’s a cousin, once or twice removed, I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s a shady kind of guy. Always looked up to Pablo, but Pablo wouldn’t give the guy the time of day.”

  “I thought Pablo liked sycophants.”

  “He did. But Raphael borrowed some money once to open a business in Medellín, which he never got around to doing. Spent the money, then came nosing about for more. He’s lucky Pablo didn’t get one of his guys to whack him.”

  “You think this Raphael might know something?”

  Eugene shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’ll only take a day to check it out. I booked an early flight for Medellín tomorrow morning.” Eugene slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a cell phone. It was the latest model Motorola, tiny with an extra capacity Li-Ion battery. “Your number flashes across the screen when you turn it on. Here’s mine,” he said, jotting down the number for his new cell phone on a match pack and sliding it across the linen tablecloth.

  “Thanks. You said no one else will know these numbers. Is that still on?”

  “Yes. Just us. And they’ve got call display, so we’ll know when a call comes in if it’s a wrong number.”

  “Excellent.”

  Eugene leaned forward slightly. “You have a gun?”

  “In Caracas, yes. But I’m going to leave it here. Easier to travel withou
t one. I’ll pick up another one in San Salvador. I’ve got lots of connections in the city.”

  “Okay.”

  The food arrived, Creole cuisine with hearty sides of fresh vegetables and rice. They ordered fresh beers and dug in. They talked about other things; Pedro’s job and where he was living in Caracas. But the small talk was forced and it quickly came back to the matter at hand.

  Pedro said seriously, “Eugene, you’ve got to do me one favor.”

  “Of course, my friend. Just name it.”

  “If for some reason I don’t make it through this alive, I want you to visit my grandmother and tell her I died trying to do something good. She may not see it that way if I end up getting shot or knifed, but I’d hate for her to think I was some street punk. That would break her heart.”

  “She still lives on Colonia America?”

  “Yeah, she’s still there.”

  “I’ll tell her, Pedro. But you have to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t get killed.”

  “I’ll try, amigo. I’ll try.”

  Chapter Eight

  Eugene flew Aeropostal, Venezuela’s national airline, directly from Caracas to Medellín. The spiny backbone of the Cordillera Central, engulfing the city on all sides, dwarfed the José María Córdova International Airport and created dangerous up- and downdrafts for incoming flights. Eugene recognized a few landmarks as the landing gear unfolded and the plane thundered through the unsettled air pockets. A football match was underway at Atanasia Girardot stadium and the stands looked full despite it being a Monday afternoon. The plane banked hard right and crossed the beacons, alternately dropping and lifting with the wind shear. The landing was surprisingly smooth, given the rough approach, and the pilot came over the intercom and made a comment about how much better his landings would be once he got his commercial license.