No One Lives Forever (10 page)

She rummaged through the black duffel and retrieved scanning gear. State-of-the-art and very high tech. The best Charboneau's money could buy. With ear jack in place, she ran the equipment quietly through each room, over walls, light fixtures, and phones. As a professional himself, he admired her thoroughness. When the place had been swept without incident, Jasmine set up her countersurveillance gear, to jam eavesdroppers from a distance.

Standing by his side, she gave her assessment. "Looks like the suite's clean, but from outside, parabolic mics and laser surveillance are still a threat. Doesn't hurt to take precautions."

"Good, I agree. But before we get to your agenda, I need to ask you something." He stepped closer to her. In typical Jasmine fashion, she gave her acceptance with only a tilt of her head, words unnecessary. "If the kidnappers contacted you for any reason, you would let me know, right?"

She merely stared at him, her dark eyes a blank slate.

God, she'd make a helluva poker player!

"This is not a game, Christian. I know you and I do not trust one another, but we have to get past that, for Nicky's sake." She sighed with drama. "Yes, I would tell you."

Even hearing the words, he wasn't convinced. The woman could sell time-share condos to men on death row. Still, he would play the cards he'd been dealt.

"Now can we get on with this?" She stepped to the French doors located near the balcony. "That is where they came in. They punched the glass and opened the door."

She touched a windowpane. "Right here. It seems they were prompt to make repairs, like Nicky was never here." Annoyance creased her brow.

Christian nodded. "With the cameras along the hall, we should have a record of what happened outside the suite that night. We'll ask hotel security tomorrow, see if they'll cooperate if given enough monetary incentive. Let's hope Captain Duarte hasn't taken custody of everything."

"Not likely." She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned a shoulder against a wall. "The man does not strike me as inept. Did you see the eyes on that snake?"

One reptile to another, Jasmine had an inside track, but Christian only shrugged and opened the doors to the balcony to step outside. Sounds of the city swelled below as he peered over the balustrade. Colorful lights of Cuiabá churned beneath him like a witch's caldron, casting its spell. Eventually, he broke free of its seductive pull to search the darkness, looking for a means of escape for the men who had kidnapped his father.

"No easy way out. Rappeling to the street from here would've drawn too much attention. And security cameras would've nailed 'em if they left by the front door. If they dropped from the roof, maybe they left the same way. What's on the back side of this building?"

"The hotel parking garage." She nodded. "So you figure they escaped to the garage rooftop, probably to a waiting vehicle?"

"It makes the most sense." He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin. "And if the garage has surveillance, maybe . . ."

She grinned. "Perhaps Captain Duarte missed the security cameras in the garage. Now that's a notion with possibility. Good thinking, little acorn."

She caught him by surprise with the familiarity. In her mind, he was the acorn that hadn't fallen far from the imposing Charboneau tree, the spitting image of his father.

"You know I hate that name, don't you?" He fixed a stern expression to his face and folded his arms across his chest.

"Most assuredly. There are many ways to get a rise out of a man." She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, matching his stance. "Please don't deny me my fun."

He shook his head. "Lady, we haven't gotten to the fun part yet. Not by a long shot."

Dr. Tyson Phillips had gone to bed with his wife over an hour ago, knowing sleep would be a lost cause. His demons weren't that humane.

When Elizabeth's breathing settled to a steady pace, he rolled out of bed, shrugged into his robe, and nudged his feet into slippers in the dark. Guided by the dim nightlights along the upstairs hallway, he walked toward the bedrooms of his boy and girl. He touched a hand to each door, his way of grounding himself in reality. They were his world. His kids and his wife of sixteen years meant everything.

Too bad he hadn't realized it sooner. Guilt tugged at his heart.

He made his way to the study. After flipping on a desk lamp, he poured himself a glass of brandy from a crystal carafe on a console table, gulping down the first of many. With the decanter in one hand and a glass in the other, he wandered farther into the room filled with scholarly books and his credentials framed on the wall.

Raising a glass, he saluted the sham of his life.

"A man isn't a failure until he starts blaming someone else." He paraphrased an old quote that held more significance for him now. "Well, if you're looking for someone to blame, look in the mirror."

He slouched into the leather chair behind his desk and set the carafe in front of him.

When he was a younger man, he believed providing for his family meant material things. Money was power. But all that changed after he'd been downsized at the prestigious Biotech Industries back in the States. He felt like such a failure on all fronts—a stigma he couldn't outrun.

"You used to be bulletproof, Phillips." He downed another glass. "And oh, so gullible, you egotistical loser."

When presented with an escape to Brazil, it seemed like such a fresh start at first. Charboneau enticed him with the position of director at a notable genetics research facility in Cuiabá—Genotech Labs. It made him feel whole again. In the end, the man's flattery seduced him completely. Why didn't he question such a gift horse? Like being offered an apple in the Garden of Eden, he got suckered by bogus promises.

Soon after he'd moved, the cold reality hit. His feelings of impotence had been a beacon to Charboneau. Now he wished he'd never met the man.

"God, you fucked up everything." He torqued his jaw in frustration.

Every damned day, he lived like a king in this country, thriving in complete denial of his fraud. He perpetuated the lie in front of his wife and kids, knowing he was little more than a common criminal. In time, guilt softened his backbone and sapped his strength.

Now, he sat at his imported cherrywood desk in his extensive library, all the trappings of his life surrounding him. He stared at his reflection in the empty crystal snifter of brandy. His face warped with the thin coating of liquor on the glass. Failure had aged him, infused his blond hair with streaks of gray. Creases along his forehead and around his pale gray eyes had deepened with his inadequacies. Like
The Picture of Dorian Gray,
the sins of his life had taken their toll, producing a distorted vision of the truth.

And time had run out.

Along the far wall, a grandfather clock stroked the top of the hour. Slowly, his eyes searched for the cell phone sitting on his desktop. He waited for the call he knew would come. It had been prearranged.

Even still, when it chirped, the harsh sound made him nearly jump out of his skin, yanking him from his self-indulgence. He grappled for the phone and flipped it open in a rush, his hands trembling with the heat of too much alcohol. Before he uttered a word, a man's voice commanded his attention.

"She's back. And this time, the foreign woman has someone named Delacorte with her. He says that the woman is the reason he's here. He claims not to even know Charboneau . . . and that he has no link to the Chicago syndicate." The man's voice was low and furtive, his accent more pronounced than usual.

Gritting his teeth, Phillips condemned the man on the other end of the line. Yet he despised himself even more. He'd been tethered to the bastard for what felt like an eternity. No matter what happened now, he would deserve whatever fate held in store.

"Oh, and because he says so, you believe him? How nice." The doctor stood and paced the floor behind his desk. He found it more and more difficult to hide his disdain. One day his arrogance would get him killed. "You assured me that when she left she'd be arranging for the ransom. The money was supposed to be a distraction to get her out of town, but now she's back. And she's got company. Why is this man with her?"

"He says he's here to free Charboneau. And he's demanding proof of life or no payday. The arrogant bastard." A wicked chuckle told him the man found Delacorte's purpose to be a ridiculous endeavor. Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hide the alarm filtering through his voice.

"What? How can we do that now? You said—" Phillips stopped, trying to regain his composure. His head throbbed with a mounting pain. "We're in way over our heads. I didn't sign on for this. Charboneau is one thing, but now—"

"Don't panic. Believe me, Delacorte will find out how dangerous a path he walks. I have a grand welcome planned."

"Oh, just great." He spat his reply before he could stop himself. Closing his eyes, he waited for the response he knew would come.

"You know what's at stake, you pompous ass. And you're not going to fuck this up . . . not when we're so close to pulling this thing off." Uncharacteristic humor tinged his voice. "Besides, one little Polaroid and we might even get them to wire the ransom to the Swiss account. Pure gravy."

"I thought you weren't interested in the money."

"I'm not. A million dollars is nothing by comparison. Yet for a man who grew up with so little, I find money hard to ignore. In the end, if they don't pay, it won't matter. I've got bigger plans." His tone grew adamant with a familiar resentment. "Charboneau's an outsider. He had no right to rape my country. If anyone has the privilege of doing that, it is me."

Rape was rape, no matter who performed the despicable act. The subtlety of this concept in exploitation missed the mark with his partner in crime. Phillips felt the blood rushing through his system. The heat of it flushed his face. Slowing his breathing, he collapsed into the leather chair once again, defeat in his voice.

"I just wanna stop the killing."

Again a vulgar cackle erupted from the phone.

The man's sinister laugh mocked his plea. The sound made his skin crawl. "Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience, not after what you and Charboneau tried to do. There's only been one change since this whole thing began. You've got a new benefactor, that is all."

This time his voice hushed to a macabre whisper. "And your old backer is not going home, except in a box ... if they even find the body."

The room closed in on him, the eerie gloom suffocating him. Would the killing ever stop? How had he gotten sucked into this quagmire of corruption?

"Oh, God, please don't remind me." He pressed his fingers to the side of his head, trying to squelch the migraine he knew would be inevitable. "I just can't—"

"You can ... and you will." Cruelty shaded the man's voice. He knew the sound well. Then a repeated threat churned beneath the surface, like the many caimans and piranhas in the Paraguay River of the Pantanal, ready to strike with razor sharp teeth. "How is your lovely family, by the way? I hope they are in good health . . . and will remain so."

He wouldn't have to wait for the torment of hell. Hell's fire was on the other end of the line. "Please . . . you've got nothing to worry about. We still have a deal. Just leave my family out of this." He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool stillness of his home.

"Nothing would please me more. Stick to the plan. These Americans have nothing, but it will not stop them from visiting the clinic . . . from wanting to speak to you."

"What if something goes wrong?"

"Look, if they become a nuisance, I'll take care of everything. I've got surveillance on them now. Remember, this is my turf. Are we clear?"

"Yes, I—" The dial tone interrupted him. The man had already hung up, not waiting for his answer—so cocksure he knew what it would be.

"Time for phase two." Christian stood at Jasmine's bedroom door and gestured with a wave of his hand. At the small of his back, under his shirt, he carried a Glock 19 that Jasmine had held for him in her black duffel. "You're coming with me."

He interrupted her as she hung a blouse in the closet, emptying her suitcase. By the looks of things, the woman donated her fair share of dollars to the bottomless coffers of designers everywhere. And Lord only knew what she stashed in her bags to appease the more lethal side of her nature. Killer couture at its best.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I'll know it when I see it. How do you feel about fishing?" He knew she'd hate his cryptic response. The woman liked being in charge. Christian smiled as he ushered her to the door of the suite, under protest.

"I'd sooner go bowling."

The image of Jasmine in rented shoes, hoisting a Brunswick in one hand and a cold brew in the other, almost made him laugh out loud.

"You know, I might pay good money to see you wage war on tenpins. But no, I've gotta see what fifty thousand in green might buy us. Stir things up."

To make sure no one bugged the rooms undetected, the woman had set up surveillance with hidden cameras rigged for motion before unpacking her clothes. Given all the high-tech equipment inside the room, he felt sure they'd know if the suite had been tampered with once they returned. But just in case, he stopped outside the hallway door for one last measure.

"Ow."
Jasmine turned around, looking appalled. Rubbing her scalp, she turned to face him. "What the hell are you doing?"

He held a strand of her hair and dangled it in front of her face, fighting a smirk.
Some tough assassin.

She grimaced. "With all the surveillance gear I've got set up in the room, what good will
that
do?"

Curiosity replaced annoyance as she watched him hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob and make use of her personal donation to their added security. He wedged the single strand of hair into the crack of the door, above their heads. A small piece hung barely visible.

"An early warning system ... of sorts."

"I would've expected something a little more high-tech from a guy with your background."