Resurrecting Midnight (13 page)

“I want them dead. No life of luxury inside a military jail. I want them dead.”

“Just wanted to be clear.”

“I want them dead. I want them dead.”

Medianoche asked, “Did you bring what was discussed with my CEO?”

“Yes.” She patted her backpack. “I brought what was agreed upon with your CEO.”

Medianoche nodded. “How soon do you want this done?”

“Thirty years ago. I want this done thirty years ago.”

Medianoche glanced out into the streets. Gun still on his lap.

Caprica finished her wine. “Do you have children?”

“Getting personal.”

“I find you . . . interesting. Quite interesting.”

He shook his head. “No kids.”

“I didn’t think so. I see it in your face, that thing that says you’d never want a child.”

“You’re good.”

“Why no kids?”

“Never been interested in cloning myself.”

“I have a son and a daughter. Children who will never interact with their grandfather.”

He nodded.

She asked, “Are you
married
?”

“Divorced three times.”

“How was your marriage? Well, your marriages.”

“The first two were like a bottle of champagne. Good while they lasted.”

“The third?”

“It didn’t last long enough.”

She nodded.

He said, “Too bad.”

“What is?”

“Too bad you are married. And too bad we will never meet again.”

“That was . . . forward.”

“I know.”

She nodded.

She asked, “And if you did happen to see me again?”

“We could have coffee. Or we could sit, share a
mate
, and talk about the weather.”

“Let’s be real. You wouldn’t want to talk about those things.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But I would if it afforded me the chance to see you again.”

“You are a dangerous man.”

“In what way?”

She looked away for a moment, then back at him, the proper etiquette for having a conversation in Argentina. Eye contact was part of the culture.

She said, “Horrible world out there. I mean the way they murder without punishment.”

Medianoche let her change the subject.

He said, “When there was only Adam, Eve, and their sons, Cain and Abel, one of them became a murderer. Even then, twenty-five percent of the population would kill.”

“Not much has changed since biblical times.”

“I still think twenty-five percent are capable of killing the other seventy-five.”

They sat in silence. Medianoche handed her a napkin to wipe her eyes.

Soldiers did what they were instructed to do, and in the end, war brought many tears.

Then she whispered, “
Nunca más
.”

She left with tears in her eyes. Thirty thousand tears. She had left the USB flash drive on the table. And she had left her backpack behind. A backpack heavy with the cost of justice. The words
Nunca Más
were stitched into the worn material in thread the color of blood.

That woman reminded Medianoche that it was never too late for justice.

Never too late.

That woman had been angry most of her life. Would be until she died.

She was a strong woman. Not a girl. A woman.

He touched his eye patch. Daguerreotype memories played at ten frames per second, the edges dull, the images in black-and-white, blurry, like a hand moving back and forth in front of his face in fast motion. That hole in his head. That missing memory struggled to reboot.

Then.

Daguerreotype memories clicked off when motorcycle lights came on. Through the rain. Across the narrow street. The enemy was exposed.

Señorita Raven. Watching. Stalking.

Medianoche’s jaw tightened as he put his gun on the table. Next to his steak. Underneath a newspaper.

The motorcycle pulled away, sped into the darkness and rain.

Señorita Raven vanished into the streets.

Whatever was between them was personal. Not The Four Horsemen’s business.

However that diva bitch wanted to reconcile this matter, that was okay with him.

He moved his weapon to his lap. Eyes on the streets as he chewed his delicious steak.

He felt it in the air. A storm was brewing.

He didn’t know if it was coming from France, North or Central America, London, Pakistan, Ireland, or within his group, but he smelled it in the air.

The scent of a new war. The scent of blood.

The scent of death.

Chapter 12

I was checked in at the American terminal at Miami International Airport. In my hand, I had the Motorola phone the mysterious Lebanese girl had left behind. I waited for the second call. Knew they would contact me again in a matter of minutes. Trouble never waited long. The phone had GPS. So they knew my general location, could use cell towers to triangulate where I was, plus or minus a half mile. Could be more accurate than that, depending on the level of technology they had access to. Seconds later, the phone rang.

I flipped it open. The number was blocked. I pushed SEND, connected to my next issue, said nothing, listened for background noises, heard nothing that would reveal a location.

A static-filled, electronic voice said, “Gideon.”

“That’s what they call me.”

“You’re still in Miami. In the airport area. Miami International.”

“Good old Global Positioning System.”

“Of course. GPS is wonderful, don’t you agree?”

“Still stalking me? How nice. Was beginning to think you didn’t like me.”

“So happy to have finally established contact.”

They were using a filter, a cheap one at that, the voice more mechanical than human. Voice changers were no big deal. Any nickel-and-dime spy store sold those units. A Motorola phone could be picked up anywhere. A SIM card could be purchased on any street corner.

I said, “You have my attention.”

“Let me get to the point.”

“Do that. Make a long story short.”

“My employer has information regarding your life and occupation.”

“Write a book. Change the names to protect the innocent.”

“No time for jokes.”

“And I don’t have time to bullshit.”

“My employer is willing to sell this information to you.”

“Cut to the chase. What’s the bottom line?”

“Two million dollars.”

I paused. “So, how do you see this going?”

“I’m aware of what you do. I assure you, that has been taken into consideration. I have no intentions of being at the receiving end of your fury.”

Again I paused. “And if I don’t have two million?”

“Then you would have a problem.”

“I need to see the information.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Then neither is two million dollars.”

“Sure you want to play it that way?”

“Show me what you have. How do I know it’s worth two mil?”

“She kept an electronic journal that would be easy to send all around the world. Scotland Yard. Interpol. CIA. FBI. NTSB. DHS. To every law enforcement agency in the islands and Canada. To every government agency that has ever been created. Could send that same information to every social networking site. To CNN. To local stations from New York to Tokyo. Same info could be sent to the BBC. They would love that story. The Internet is powerful. One click and . . . well . . . once that is done, you know it can’t be undone.”

“One click.”

“Only takes one click and it’s done.”

I licked my lips, swallowed, my jaw tightening. “You said she. She who?”

“A very powerful woman in Detroit. It was a hidden file. It was encrypted, but I have the information deciphered. Files about hiring you to kill her husband. Information about how the money was transferred. About being double-crossed. About properties you owned. About bank accounts you had. Files that document her interaction with you up until her last night in Antigua. You were there. And you were probably the last person to see her alive.”

Ghosts reached out to strangle me from beyond the grave. From Hell.

I said, “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you, meet face-to-face and—”

They ended the call. Did that as if they didn’t want to be traced.

I had looked around the room while I was on the phone. Saw no one watching. No one talking at the same time my brand-new threat spoke their words.

My hands opened and closed, my trigger finger in motion.

I took out my iPhone, was about to pull up the software that allowed me to play Big Brother and check on Powder Springs again, but my iPhone rang. Once again, area code 809.

Arizona said, “What can I do to get you to move the project up?”

My voice remained intense, on edge, just like hers.

I said, “Are you safe?”

“We’re safe.”

I put my personal issues inside my mental Dumpster and I pressed on.

I said, “Let’s stop focusing on you and talk about what I need first.”

“Power play.”

“Not a power play. I need reciprocity. Somebody was on me at Starbucks.”

“When I was being shadowed?”

“Came at me after you left. I was being shadowed by a girl. The Lebanese.”

“She was across the room.”

Like me, Arizona had taken in the entire room when she entered.

I said, “When you lifted information, she was there, so you might have something usable.”

“I’ll see what I have.”

“Do the same for the name Nicolas Jacoby. He was in the room too.”

“Who was he?”

“The rail-thin collegiate-looking guy flirting with her. He carried your tea.”

“They were at the same table. Had to be together. How do you think they fit in?”

“Not sure if they were together.”

“But you don’t know for sure.”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

“He needs you to get to South America ASAP.”

I paused. “
He.
”

Arizona took a breath. “I need you to get there. ASAP.”

I sat on bubbling emotions. “Put him on the phone.”

“He’s not here.”

“Don’t fuck with me. I’ll cancel this order. Now put him on the fucking phone.”

She put the phone down. I heard her speaking in Tagalog, a language I couldn’t understand, not at the pace she was speaking. Then I heard a male voice with a British accent.

“Cheers, Gideon.”

“Cheers. What should I call you?”

“Scamz.”

I paused. “Like your father.”

“The name worked for him.”

“Scamz and Queen Scamz. Nice.”

The last Scamz had been Arizona’s abusive lover. She had spread her legs. Allowed the son of the dead man she couldn’t let go of impregnate her. Greek tragedy to the bone.

I said, “Let’s cut to the chase. Tell me about South America.”

“As you have been informed, it would be lovely for you to leave for Buenos Aires today.”

“I told Arizona what I could do. Four days.”

“But you also need her assistance on another matter, from what I understand.”

My trigger finger moved back and forth.

I said, “You can buy one day. Get me what I need and I’ll move it up one day.”

“What’s your price to make it right now?”

“I can’t make it right now.”

“New information just came in. Things have changed since Arizona contacted you.”

Again I cursed. “Details.”

“Just got word. A team of mercenaries have obtained the . . . what did Arizona call it?”

“MacGuffin.”

“Yes, the MacGuffin.”

“A team of mercs was babysitting your precious cargo.”

“It was hijacked. One part of it.”

“How many parts are there?”

“Two. Two parts. I believe Arizona told you that much already.”

“Just confirming.”

“But the mercs have managed to obtain one.”

“The part Hopkins and his crew were after. That was what Arizona was carrying.”

“We have one part, yes. That was why there was so much interest in us earlier.”

“How many mercs are babysitting part two?”

“Not sure. But Hopkins hired The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Israelis?”

“No idea. They are led by an assassin who is known in South America as
La Bestia
.”

“
La Bestia
.”

“Spanish for ‘The Beast.’ ”

“I speak Spanish.”

“Argentine Spanish?”

“Castellano, the Spanish of Spain and the Spanish of Mexico.”

“Most people are ignorant enough to think that Spanish is Spanish, that it’s universal.”

“Most people don’t have as many frequent flier miles as I do.”

He was speaking to me in Castellano. Testing me. I didn’t like being tested.

Scamz said,
“Impressive. Your Spanish is very impressive.”

Aggravation controlled my tone.
“The job sounds like more than a simple recon.”

I didn’t comment.

He said,
“You’re good.”