The Grace Bay Agreement

by D. Alan Johnson

  “Look, I have too much invested in this to walk away,” Merkam said. His face screwed up and he clutched his chest. His knees started to give way and Jimmy held him up by his shoulders. Joan ran to the bathroom and came back with a bottle of pills.

  “Now sit down, dear. You’ve gotten yourself all worked up and your heart won’t take that anymore. Here take a couple of these while I get you some water.”

  *****

  November 23, 1999

  Westside Aviation

  Conference Room

  Sugar Land Airport

  Sugar Land, Texas

  David Guaymas strode into the meeting with his right arm in a sling.

  “What happened to you?” Mo the accountant asked.

  “I had a fall on my motorcycle.”

  “You gonna be alright?”

  “Yeah.” But David Guaymas gritted his teeth remembering the doctor’s words.

  “That bullet has cut several tendons in your shoulder. You’ll never have full use of your arm again. But you were lucky. An inch lower and you’d be dead. We need to operate and fish out those bone fragments or you’ll be fighting pain and infection from now on.”

  Even worse, the cartel still might fire him for ruining the Turks and Caicos operation and missing Pete Dolan. Where could he be? He hasn’t shown up at his apartment. No record of his return to the country. But I’ll get him. I’ll kill him slowly for ruining my life. It seems so long ago.

  A local clinic on the cartel’s payroll had taken care of the bleeding, but Jose Leal needed a safe hospital. His escape from the island had almost been ruined when the pilot for his chartered jet refused to fly him to Mexico. The captain and copilot were convinced when offered a choice between a hundred thousand dollars cash each, or seeing their families dead.

  Emergency surgery in the best hospital in Mexico City cleaned up the wound and repaired some of the damage, but they told him he would need at least two more surgeries to reconstruct the shoulder. After only two days in the hospital, he climbed aboard a cartel jet back to Houston, and Jose Leal became David Guaymas again.

  “The Turks and Caicos deal is in chaos after that pilot killed a guard and his girlfriend. Do you think we can resurrect it?” Mo asked. David focused in on Mo’s mouth, and tried to keep thinking about the business of the meeting. He realized that the pain and drugs dulled his perception, and he fought to get back to clarity.

  “No. That deal is dead. Bring everyone home.” His shoulder ached, and after just a few more items on the agenda, he closed the meeting. The other crap could wait. As usual, they would rotate to the next location for their staff meeting the following week.

  The oxycontin was wearing off. As his shoulder throbbed, his anger at Pete Dolan flamed up. I know how I’ll bring him out in the open. He got into his Mercedes, but into the back seat as he still could not drive.

  On the way back to his office he called Mary Warner. It was easy. He really was fond of the old girl.

  “Hello, my love.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that you were in town. Can you spend the night tonight?”

  “No, my love, I’m not in town. Just checking in to see how my songbird’s doing. Oh, and I need to see if you have any news on Lucy.”

  “I’m doing fine, except I miss you so much. No news on Lucy since the last email. When can you come to me again?”

  “Oh, my love, you know I miss you. But business is hard right now. Hey, please do me a favor and see if there’s anything new with Lucy and Cher. You know it is hard right now.”

  “Yes, my love, I know. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  After the usual pleasantries, he hung up his cell phone and pressed his lips together. At least the DEA hasn’t penetrated into the cartel structure. That leaves me free to pursue Dolan. If he gets away completely, I’ll look weak to Don Humo. He may try to replace me. Or another punk in one of the cartels might think that I’d be easy pickings and try to take over my job.

  At a deep level, Jose knew he had to do something. Rage pushed him down in the seat. My life is ruined. I must get revenge. As the Mercedes hit a pothole, a bolt of pain made him give out a tiny cry, like a girl. He blinked back the tears and forced out the shame with his fury.

  The nuclear option. That’s what old Lechero used to call it. Going after the family of your enemies. Not good, because if you pursued that road, your enemies might take out your own loved ones, too. But I have no other choice. I’ll be replaced or killed if I let Dolan get the better of me. Besides, Mom is gone, and I care not a speck for my brothers.

  “This is war, and I will kill Peter Dolan.”

  “What did you say, sir?” the driver asked.

  “Nothing. Just talking with myself.”

  ****

  For six days Pete and Baranski holed up in the secret room in the bank. For Pete, each day brought a rancid mix of tears, anger, and claustrophobia in the windowless rooms of the bank basement. The loss of Lillian floated in and out of his consciousness. At times the pain burned him like a laser, and then receded into a dull ache of loneliness.

  Overarching these feelings, his embarrassment sapped his energy. I couldn’t protect my new love. I didn’t even take care of her body or go to her funeral. Shame covered him like a black curtain.

  On the seventh day, the doctor came for his last visit.

  “You’re looking good, Mr. Nickolas. No infection,” the doctor said as he studied the stump of Baranski’s left arm.

  “When can we get out of here?” Baranski asked.

  “As far as I am concerned, you can leave immediately. Of course, no strenuous activity. Be careful with your stump until the stitches heal. Then you or your friend can remove them. Just not too soon. Watch for any redness or puss discharge.”

  “We’re square?”

  “Oh, yes. The bank has paid me well, thank you.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Hopefully, I’ll never see you again.” After the doctor left, Baranski turned to Pete.

  “What’re you gonna do now?”

  “I guess I’ll go back to Houston and be a regular guy again.”

  “That may not be possible. You’d better check in with Steve Joiner. Jose Leal has a reputation in this business. He’s angry. One, he’s missed his target. Two, he got wounded. Both are bad for his business.”

  “Is is OK to use this phone?”

  “Oh, yeah. I am sure it’s untraceable. If someone were to look up this number, it would probably show up as some bar in Lithuania.”

  Joiner answered on the third ring.

  “Steve, this is Pete Dolan.”

  “Man! Am I glad to hear your voice. I thought you were at the bottom of Grace Bay. Is Baranski with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s right here.” Baranski pointed at his stump, and shook his head. “He suggested that I call you before coming back to the Houston.”

  “Good thing.” The long pause gave Pete a stitch of pain in his gut. “Don’t come back to Houston. Your family’s been killed, Pete.”

  “What?! Are you sure?”

  “A burglary, the police say. But I know it’s Jose’s work. Don’t come back. We can’t put you in a witness protection program. Turks and Caicos thinks you murdered the guard and that girl, Lillian. There are warrants out for your arrest, and they’ll try to extradite. Besides, even if we could put you under protection, Jose would find you in two weeks. Stick with Baranski. He’ll help you disappear.”

  Pete felt like a huge hole had been punched through his body. All his concentration focused on keeping his feet under him. His beautiful daughter, dead. His high school sweetheart, dead.

  “Pete. Pete. Are you still there?”

  “But I don’t want to disappear. I’ve got…I’ve got a life.”

  “Talk to Baranski. He can help you. I can’t. My organization is riddled with informants for the bad guys. Good luck, Pete.”

  “Send my pay to help with the funeral expenses.” He put the phone down, cutting the connection while Steve
was still talking.

  “Leal went after your family?” Pete nodded. He sat in a chair, and the tears coursed down his face.

  “This is worse than I thought. That guy’s a psycho. But we’ll get him.” Energy seemed to flow into Baranski as he scurried around their suite. He found a yellow legal pad and a pen, and started writing in a firm hand. He made several corrections, and then started again on a clean sheet of paper.

  Ten minutes later he handed Pete a document to sign.

  The Grace Bay Agreement

  November 27, 1999

  Whereas: The cartels have hired the assassin ,Jose Leal, to kill us;

  Whereas: Waldo Baranski has suffered a gunshot wound resulting in the loss of his left hand;

  Whereas: Peter Dolan has suffered the loss of his wife, daughter, and girlfriend in a senseless series of murders;

  Whereas: Both Baranski’s and Dolan’s lives are shattered;

  Whereas: The legal systems and courts of the world are too corrupt to adequately handle this matter;

  Therefore: Know this day that Baranski and Dolan pledge to repay these evils by ridding the world of Jose Leal and the boss that authorized these actions. This document and agreement calls not for revenge, but for justice. The correct and fitting punishment for these actions is death. We shall carry out this judgment as befitting agents of civilization.

  SO HELP US GOD.

  _______________________

  Waldo Laverne Baranski

  ________________________

  Peter L. Dolan

  Pete read the “Grace Bay Agreement”, and he smiled through his tears. For the first time in four days, he felt alive. He would avenge his family. He had something to live for.

  He held out his hand, and looked up at Baranski. The narrow face beamed with pride as if the document was a baby instead of a contract. Baranski gave him the pen, and Pete signed with a flourish. They held each other’s gaze while Pete shook Baranski’s hand so hard his arm muscles ached.

  Book

  Two

  Chapter One

  November 28, 1999

  Saturday

  Apartamentos Salitre

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Maria Elena Figaroa trembled as she held the phone. She knew that she shouldn’t call again, but she had to know something soon. Third ring, fourth ring and she started to put the receiver down. Just then she heard a click, and a faint, “Hello?”

  “Hector. It’s me. Have you found out anything?” Outside her open window rain fell straight down, drowning the street, so heavy she couldn’t see the apartment building across the road.

  “No, my sister, nothing yet.” She could hear the exasperation in his voice.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re doing your best. I’m just worried. I want to get that animal, and I want to get him now!” Surprised at her own ferocity, she took a deep breath. “He owes me,” she said.

  Hector just listened. That’s his way. I talk enough for both of us, I guess.

  “You call me when you hear anything.”

  “You know I will, Hermana.” She hung up the phone and her mood matched the rain, the thunder, the lightning.

  Fourteen years ago, Ramon Menchaca married Maria Elena in a wedding matching every girl’s dream. She was twenty one and he was forty. After his first wife died, Ramon looked for a wife with social status and money. Lots of money. Her family owned movie theaters in Santa Marta, Cartagena, and Buena Ventura.

  Ramon worked in the family business, and wormed his way into management. Maria’s bitter snicker escaped out her nose as she remembered how proud she was of his business prowess. He gained more and more power, forcing her father to sell him half ownership. The family thought it would be alright since he was still in the family.

  After the first year, when she did not get pregnant, Ramon started staying out overnight. When she asked where he had been, he only glared at her.

  Then her friends told her they saw him in restaurants with his mistress. After Ramon refused to talk about her, Maria Elena went to his mistress, Margarita to ask her to stay away from her husband. Instead Margarita bragged about how she had borne Ramon’s son and the plans to make him the heir.

  Ramon came home two nights later and their violent argument marked the end of the marriage. Even though it took months to weave through the courts, she considered herself divorced that night.

  Ramon’s fury fell on Maria Elena and her family. Kicked out of her own house, her father chased from his offices by armed goons, Ramon consolidated his power in less than a week. Forced to find work in a friend’s business, her father never looked her in the eye again.

  Her family should not have been surprised when Ramon, after three years of court battles, won a judgment of full ownership of the theater chain. He must have bought off the judge and her family’s lawyers. One day, her whole family found themselves with their savings gone and deep in debt to their lawyers. All of it legal, none of it right.

  For over ten years, her family appealed to the Supreme Court, to Congressmen, and even to the President. The only result was the early death of her father from a heart attack. Her mother, broken by grief, lived in a nursing home outside Santa Marta. I guess Ramon pays for that since I never get a bill.

  I should be grateful for the monthly stipend that he sends. Just enough to buy food and keep me in an apartment. But instead, every time the messenger comes with the little packet of cash, I scream at him, demanding to know how I can find Ramon. What is his phone number? At least tell me that.

  She stared at the rain. Her hatred kept her warm even though there was a chill in the room.

  “I will see him disgraced. I will see him beg me for mercy. And then I will kill him with my own hands. Let God be my witness.”

  November 29, 1999

  Sunday, 0520

  Port Wilchess

  Providenciales, Turks and Caicos

  In the back seat of the limo, Pete Dolan checked his new passport and new wallet. William Peter Douglas was his new name. At least he could still go by Pete.

  Both the wallet and passport had been aged to look like they had been carried for several months. Pete opened the passport and examined his entrance and exit stamps from the Turks and Caicos. Nice work. Whoever had made the passports, driver’s license, shot records, and credit cards were professionals. Baranski assured him that there was a whole identity backstopping these documents. The credit card included a PIN number, so Pete assumed that he could use it to draw cash.

  He also had a ticket. After asking him where he would like to go, the bank purchased passage for him on a ship to Santa Marta, Colombia. There he would begin his search for the murderer.

  The Mercedes sedan wheeled around the traffic circle, pushing him toward the side door, and motored on toward the water. Waldo Baranski sat against the other door, staring out of the window.

  “I hate getting up this early,” Pete said, hoping to break the mood. Silence.

  A high chain link gate loomed up in the headlights, and they drove in. Finding the coastal freighter at the end of the little spit of land just south of the airport, the driver parked, opened the trunk and got out the small bag that belonged to Pete.

  “Have a nice flight,” Pete said as he got out of the car. Baranski just grunted. I guess he’s bummed about his hand. Can’t blame him.

  The black Mercedes wheeled away leaving a cloud of white dust. They had just a few minutes to get Baranski to the airport to catch his flight to JFK, and then on to London. Should be no problem, the airport was less than a mile away.

  The sky whitened in the east, and Pete could better see the old ship. Rust streamed down the bow and at several points along the sides. The faded paint made it difficult for Pete to read the boat’s name. The Santa Elena was the name on the ticket. He walked toward the stern, and saw the washed out lettering that confirmed that this old tub would be his home. More like risk his life in to get across the Caribbean, he thought.

  A crane swung a
green container aboard, and fitted it into the last empty slot. Now the boat was fully loaded and ready to depart. He walked up the steep gang plank and handed his ticket to a dirty deckhand.

  “Siga, senor.” Go ahead. And the deckhand pointed toward the front of the ship. This ship looks like a pickup truck, Pete thought. The bridge and a few cabins made up the superstructure at the front, while the rest of the ship was flat to accommodate the forty-foot shipping containers.

  Another sailor pointed him to the cabin that was to be his cell for the next four days as they crossed the ocean to Santa Marta.

  The first day out, the sea was like glass, but that night, the waves grew. Being so far forward, every wave pushed Pete further into seasickness. All night long, he heaved his guts out. At least he had his own lavatory. The next day was smooth, and Pete became accustomed to the rock of the ship.

  The loveliest morning in history dawned with their entry to Santa Marta harbor. At least that’s how Pete felt about it. The sea looked like a pool of mercury; calm, thick, and dark. The sky glowed pink in the east, but lights still shown on the shore. Pete could make out the silhouettes of the high rises on the beach.

  No more pounding, no more vomiting. I think I am going to like Santa Marta, he thought.

  *****

  As soon as he walked off the boat, Pete asked for a cheap hotel, and went to the ATM for some Colombian money. He had no idea the limit on his credit card, nor how the bill would be paid.

  He strode down the narrow streets in the old section of town, admiring the two story buildings erected during the 1700’s. The bottom stories bristled with hair dressers, souvenir shops, bars, and restaurants. The floors above contained apartments belonging to the owners of the businesses below or to some romantic, an artist or heiress, wishing to live in the historic district.