Blond Cargo (31 page)

Mateo cut the tape that bound Raul’s ankles, cuffed him, pulled Raul to his feet, and started toward the door. Jack stopped him with a nod to the burlap sack.

“Don’t,” Raul whined. “I can’t breathe in that shit.” But he was in no position to negotiate.

Mateo grabbed it and slid it over Raul’s sweat-plastered hair, a move not lost on Frankie the Man.

Jack took Frankie’s cell phone and his weapon and muscled him to the concrete floor.

“Call Vincent in fifteen minutes,” Frankie wheezed. “After you’ve cleared the joint, let him know I’m in here. Least you could do.”

Jack nodded and stepped out of the freezer, locking the door behind him.

A hooded Raul Vargas was complying with Jack’s order to stay down on the backseat of the Lexus. If he didn’t, Jack had warned, he could travel in the comfort of the trunk. Raul let out involuntary moans as the car hit speed bumps and made hard turns. No sympathy from Jack.

“They fucked up my hand,” Raul said, his voice muffled by the burlap sack.

“I’m crying for you. You’ll never play Beethoven again.”

“Take off this fucking bag, man. I’m sweating, I have allergies.”

“Don’t bleed on the leather.”

“Fuck you, man.”

“Did you say, ‘Thank you, man, for saving my sorry ass’?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Depends on your next answer.”

Jack let that roll around his desperate brain before going on. He made a hard left turn and Raul let out a plaintive yelp.

“Is Angelica Cardona alive?”

“I told you, I don’t know the girl.”

Jack made a tire-squealing right turn and Raul rolled onto his bad hand, which had been wrapped in Mateo’s T-shirt. The scream was primeval.

“I’m gonna puke. A little compassion here.”

“Is she alive?” Jack said simply.

“I never heard anything to the contrary.”

“What am I gonna do with you, Raul? Will you testify against Malic?”

Raul’s laugh was tight and crazed. “Not if I want to see Tuesday.”

“I tied you to the girl.”

“I’m the only one in the world taking pictures of pretty women with their cell phones?”

“I drop you off at the hospital, what are you going to say?”

“That I was set up by my friends I left in the dust at the big house. They think I’m sitting on a pile of money instead of house-sitting for my father. They sent guys who jumped me and took me around the corner to my father’s beach house. There was no pile of money and they took me somewhere else and tortured me as payback. When they went out for a smoke, I ran, got lucky, and ended up in the ER,” he said, hoping his story would come true and he wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch off of Mulholland.

“Works for me,” Jack said, and Raul emitted a muffled sigh of relief. “But if Angelica turns up dead,” Jack continued, “or she doesn’t turn up, or if you warn Malic, or his men, or your lawyer, or talk to the cops, or any-fucking-body, you’re going down for kidnapping and murder with aggravating circumstances, a capital offense. With your record, it behooves you to remain silent. It’s time to put your game face on, Raul.”

Jack reached back and yanked the burlap sack off Raul’s head. He hung a hard left into the lot at Saint John’s emergency entrance and pulled to the curb. Jumping out, he cut the flexi-cuffs off Raul with a Leatherman and hauled Raul up and out of the backseat.

Raul stood on wobbly legs, wiping burlap threads out of his eyes and mouth with his one good hand.

Yet once Jack jumped into the car, Raul slipped down on one knee, started to wail, and went Shakespearean on him. “Help! Heeelp me! Police! Jack Bertolino fucked me up! Help! I have a restraining order and he tortured—”

A man rushed toward him, intent on business. He slid an arm around Raul’s neck and squeezed tight enough to shut off his airflow.

“Keep your yap shut, boyo,” Nick Aprea said, leaning down, his menacing face inches from wide-eyed Raul. “You called for the police?”

“You’re squeezing too tight,” came out like a rasp.

Nick let him go, and Raul slid to the pavement.

Jack rolled down the passenger-side window, and Nick winked.

“Thanks for the heads-up.” And he tossed in a brown paper bag.

Jack had Nick phone Mateo and send him home for the night.

“The eighteen-year-old Macallan did the trick,” Nick continued. “You better disappear yourself until this is over. You won’t be much help sitting in a jail cell.”

Jack nodded his thanks and peeled out. In his rearview mirror Jack saw Raul reach out for help standing and then howl at the moon as Nick grabbed his bad hand, squeezed it tight, and pulled the ex-con to his feet.

“I know what would suit you, Sheik. I know you better than you know yourself.”

Malic was sitting in his home office, wearing his tie at half-mast with uncharacteristic dark circles under his coal-black eyes.

“But why would I need an electric car?” the sheik asked. “It’s not as if gas is an issue for me.”

The sheik’s image was choppy and pixelating this evening. Maybe a solar disturbance, Malic thought.

“You need it because the Tesla Roadster is a work of art, a perfect one hundred percent rating in
Consumer Reports
, and it takes you from zero to sixty in three point seven seconds. Silently. Like a stealth bomber.”

Malic worried he was pushing too hard, but it was crunch time. His world was coming apart, and he was feeling pressure from all sides. His wife had been acting very strange, he didn’t think Detective Aprea was going away without a fight, and Jack Bertolino was a thorn in his side that kept piercing.

He was getting pressure from the Sinaloa cartel, which had fronted the drugs. They wanted their cash and wouldn’t be denied. They were nobody to fuck around with, Malic knew. The Cardona girl was an albatross and would be dealt with in the next twenty-four hours, or she could literally bring an end to life as Malic knew it. And he wasn’t totally convinced that Mustafa hadn’t talked to the police. Would he cut a deal to stay out of prison? Malic knew he himself would if it were politically expedient. And now his old friend, for whom he had generated so much wealth, was turning a deaf ear.

Malic watched the sheik walk back and forth before the Skype camera like a preening peacock. Malic had always prided himself on controlling his own fate, and now it was in the soft, pudgy hands of Sheik Ibrahim.

The sheik knew full well why Malic was offering the exotic car. He lived for moments such as these and couldn’t wait to bury the knife.

“Two of my men scouted it in Anaheim and will take possession in the next few hours.”
Take
being the operative word. “I’ll have it detailed and it will be ready for transport when your men arrive,” Malic said. “Sadly, I will not be home to greet them.

“And then let’s say we float the loan for a thirty-day period. I’ll be forced to do some creative bookkeeping but will deliver as I have always done.”

The sheik looked like he was actually thinking about accepting the proposal and then . . . was that a smile Malic detected?

“I will hold the Matisse for the thirty days until payment is rendered, my friend. I have the perfect wall already picked out. My men will be landing at John Wayne Airport at seven p.m. Have the painting wrapped and ready.”

That was not the demand he wanted to hear. “Tomorrow is not good. I have an event that must be attended.”

“Cancel it.”

“Impossible.”

“Then make other plans. You are a powerful man with many friends. Have your driver, Hassan, take care of your business, but I will have what has been promised and what is now mine. Are we clear, my old friend?”

Sheik Ibrahim stepped so close to the computer that his face became distorted, but his eyes showed clear resolve. Malic knew there was no way out. He had given his word.

“Hassan will be here waiting. I’m not a happy man. We have a long history. I have made you a fortune and never let you down.”

“Our relationship will remain strong as long as we fulfill promises made. Our friendship is too valuable for me to compromise.

“And hold the car, Malic. It is a grand gesture, but I am a man who loves a combustion engine. I’ve learned that silent power isn’t as fulfilling as the roar of a lion.”

Jack docked his boat at slip 207 in the Newport Marina, the one that had housed Malic al-Yasiri’s cigarette boat. He needed a safe place to spend the night and gather his thoughts. There wasn’t much chance that Malic or his men would be returning any time soon, and so he tied up close to the canvas-covered hydraulic boat lift and spent the better part of an hour cleaning up the mess the MAC-10 bullets had made of his side window and teakwood instrument panel.

The pain in his back was acute, and his self-medication was a full step behind the hurt. He needed sleep. Leslie had rung him up twice, but Jack chose not to answer. He didn’t want to lie if asked what he was up to.

Nick was going to keep Raul on ice for as long as possible. But if Raul decided to spill his guts to Malic about what had really transpired, the element of surprise would be gone. Jack risked prison time or death if things blew up.

If all went according to plan, Jack would invade the compound and leave with Angelica safely in tow. His debt to Vincent Cardona paid in full. Malic would be arrested for kidnapping, murder, and human and drug trafficking. As for Raul, hopefully Jack would have enough to put him back in the slammer.

Just in case the operation went bad, Jack checked the load in his Glock semiautomatic and packed two full clips. Then he pulled out his old throw-down .22 and made sure it was locked, loaded, and stowed in his ankle rig, ready for the worst-case scenario.

Jack didn’t remember falling asleep and wasn’t aware of the rain until his cell phone beeped and dragged him from a deep REM sleep. He fumbled for the phone and read the text.

I have information. Will contact tomorrow. K.

44

“Get out of bed and get dressed,” Malic ordered Kayla, who looked as if the king-sized bed had swallowed her whole. She was lying with the gold-threaded brocade duvet cover pulled tightly up to her chin. Her knuckles white, her eyes red-rimmed from crying.

“I’m ill,” she spit out. “I vomited an hour ago and I still have to vomit. You are not helping me.”

“This is an important night,” he said, trying to control his anger. “How will it look if I show up alone?”

“I don’t care how it looks, Malic—”

Kayla leaped from the bed and ran into the bathroom. She knelt at the bowl with her back to her husband and stealthily slid her finger down her throat until she puked. Long and hard.

Malic looked away in disgust.

Kayla stood slowly, holding herself up at the lavish sink. Weakly, she splashed water on her face and rinsed out her mouth. She walked silently back to bed and slipped under the covers, ignoring her husband’s scrutiny.

“Is Mommy sick?” little Saarah asked, sticking her head in the doorway.

“She’ll be fine, my love,” Malic said as he struggled to button his heavily starched tuxedo shirt. “Go back in with Adelina.”

“I love you, Mommy,” she said.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

That was good enough for Saarah, who galloped back into the living room with the nanny.

Malic gazed at his wife, who was crying again and looked pitiful. He started to upbraid her but grabbed his Armani tux jacket and stormed out of the room before he said something he would live to regret.

Kayla dried her eyes and checked the time on the bedside clock.

Malic walked briskly across the lawn, looking like an ad from
GQ
. The man was so self-absorbed, he didn’t have a clue as to why his wife was crying. He was seething and Hassan took a reflexive step back from the desk, where he had been working when Malic pushed through the doorway.

The mahogany wall panel that hid the Matisse was open and lit. Malic knotted his tie as he looked at the empty space and felt a surge of rage. He would get his life back in order and fly to Iraq personally to pick up his work of art when the sheik’s one million eight was safely returned to his account.

He couldn’t bear to watch as Hassan picked up the bubble-wrapped parcel that contained his treasure and placed it in a Zero Halliburton aluminum suitcase that had been lined in memory foam to protect the masterpiece.

Malic sat down behind his desk and hit one of the buttons on the pull-out panel. The television set was revealed and as it blinked on, Angelica Cardona could be seen lying on the bed, in much the same position as his wife, seemingly lost in thought. Malic had an impulse to smash the set. What he really wanted to do was sample the wares, but it was not to be.

“One bullet to the back of the head,” he said without any feeling. “If she doesn’t become shark bait, it will look like a mob hit to the police, and her father will have to look at his own organization for revenge. Did you fuel up the boat?”

“Both tanks,” Hassan answered. “More than enough to get to the back side of Catalina and home. And Raul? What did he have to report?”

“Retribution for his early release. He was beaten and will still be sitting at the dais tonight. He should have been an example for Kayla.”

Hassan dared not go there. He knew a wise man never interfered in another man’s marital strife.

Malic keyed a sequence into his desktop computer, and sixteen different cameras fed sixteen different squares on his computer screen, providing different views of the compound. His wife in her bed, his daughter in the living room, his cigarette boat safely tied off at the dock, the front gate, and every other square inch of his protected domain. All was good.

Malic stood tall, straightened his jacket, and snugged his bow tie. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.” He stopped at the door. “Hassan, you are a good man. My right hand. Your loyalty will be rewarded. I will have a handsome bonus for you and your family at the end of the month.”

Malic walked out without looking back.

The yellow sun dropped below the horizon, leaving a darkening blue sky as Jack paddled his inflatable Avalon away from his boat. He had moored it around the bend of the promontory, away from prying eyes. The ocean was glassy, the air clean after last night’s rain. He tied off on the neighbor’s dock and felt his blood pressure rise at the sight across the way. Malic’s cigarette boat was docked, and bright security lights surrounded the compound.