To The Lions - 02 (3 page)

“In
lock step,” Gage replied.

“Then
I gotta tell a prosecutor and maybe a judge that some white knight took down
four of our local Fiends and didn’t hang around long enough for us to collar
him.
 
They ain’t gonna wanna believe me
but, when I tell it, it’s gonna sound like the truth.”

“Thank
you,” Gage said.

The
sergeant extended his hand, giving Gage’s a powerful shake.
 
“Good to meet you, Mister Hartline.”

“You,
too.”

The
sergeant handed Gage his telescoping blackjack.
 
“Slip that back in your pocket.”

Gage
did.

“You
still here?”

“Negative,”
Gage replied, lifting his pack and accepting his North Carolina driver’s
license.
 
Rather than obey the sergeant
and go straight to his car, he risked the man’s ire as he walked to the side of
the service station where the young man’s mother was nervously smoking a
cigarette, speaking to a female officer.
 
Using her walker, the mother stood, bear-hugging Gage as if she’d known
him her entire life.
 
While she nearly
broke Gage’s neck with her hug, Gage was happy to see her son, sitting placidly
on the curb, eating peanuts and drinking his soda.
 
He appeared fine.

Gage
chatted with the mother for a moment, learning that they’d come to Waco to
visit Baylor University.

“We’ve
never had a college graduate in our family,” the mother said, eyes welling with
tears as she looked over at her son.

“Is
Baylor offering him a full-ride?” Gage asked.

“Not
quite,” she answered, worry in her eyes, her lip quivering.
 
“But he’s got a number of schools offering
him quite a bit.
 
He’s worked so hard.”

Gage
sensed a greater need.
 
He reached into
his pack and removed a small portion of the money, leaving it in the bag.
 
Then he placed the remainder of the money
bundle in her hand.
 
“This is for you and
your son,” he whispered.
 
“Maybe it will
be enough to put his tuition over the top, wherever he decides to go.”

The
mother was too stunned to react and Gage didn’t wait around for a reply.
 
He hurried back to his rental car, waving at
the sergeant who was standing in the same spot, scowling at Gage.
 
The Impala’s tires squealed as Gage rocketed
from the Waco gas station, aiming the GM product north toward the yet unseen bright
lights of Dallas-Fort Worth, wondering if he could make it on the amount of
fuel he still had remaining.

He
was low on cash, too, he reflected.
 
Good
thing Colonel Hunter had another job lined up.

Big green.
 
Life-changing green
.

As
Texas roared by, Gage Hartline settled back into the seat, giving a small
salute as the sign told him he was leaving McLennan County.

Despite
the deep laceration on his elbow, he’d enjoyed his brief time there.

Chapter Two

Barcelona,
Spain

The
wedding took place among Barcelona’s high society and, primarily because of his
handsome appearance and impeccable wardrobe, Xavier Zambrano fit right in.
 
Only the wedding director and the mortified mother
of the bride wondered how Xavier got an invitation.
 
But they didn’t dare ask him.
 
They knew better.

Since
it was a semi-formal afternoon wedding, Xavier nearly stole the show with his fashionably-late
entrance.
 
His shoulder-length black hair
shone, swept back majestically.
 
His face,
with a beard of short stubble, was deeply bronzed.
 
Contrasting with his dark hair and tan skin,
Xavier’s white teeth sparkled as he flashed his dazzling, store-bought smile at
the guests when he was shown to his requested position just behind the family
of the groom.
 
Xavier wore an
immaculately-tailored, cream color linen suit.
 
Rounding out his expensive wardrobe were supple, handmade Italian
loafers and a dazzling Breitling diver’s watch.
 
He could have easily graced the cover of any Barcelonan fashion
magazine.

Save
for the tattoo of a smoking revolver on the left side of his neck.

Ahead
of Xavier, escorted by one of the groomsmen, was a younger woman, Xavier’s
date, no more than twenty and sufficiently beautiful enough to demand every
male guest’s unwavering attention.
 
She
was tall and lithe, standing apart from the Spanish crowd due to her natural
blonde hair and ice blue eyes.
 
She wore
an arresting pink dress that clung to every undulation of her nubile body.
 
Though what she did, according to wedding
etiquette, was quite rude, she beamed at the guests when she shooed them down
the pew, affording her and Xavier two prime seats, at the center aisle and just
behind the family of the groom.
 

The
perturbed guests seemed ready to protest before noticing Xavier’s neck
tattoo.
 
Upon seeing it, they hastily
made room, forcing smiles as they did.

To
Xavier, his date was of less consequence than the eight-thousand euro watch on his
wrist.
 
She was an accessory, who would
be used for his personal amusement, and deviation, later in the evening or, if
the mood struck him, at the reception a bit later.
 
Seated, the procession beginning, his date
allowed her hand to roam, squeezing Xavier before he gripped her wrist, moving
her hand back to her own lap.

“Not
in church,” he whispered primly, straightening as wealthy young groomsmen—Spaniards
educated in places like Cambridge, Heidelberg, and Yale—filed in, each
murmuring some private joke to the groom as they passed by to take their
predetermined spot.

As
he would later at the reception, Xavier merrily made eyes with the other
guests, as if this delightful ceremony warmed his tender heart.
 
The truth was, deep inside Xavier, he
desperately desired to belong.
 
Raised in
a hovel, he’d eventually learned how to associate among the affluent ruling
class.
 
Sure, he’d killed men with his
bare hands.
 
Yes, he’d watched as men
were held down and forcibly sodomized as punishment for their actions.
 
Xavier had even once bitten off a man’s nose
(though he’d used his original teeth, not the lovely new veneers that had cost
him a small fortune.)

Even
if Xavier didn’t have the conspicuous tattoo; even with the dashing figure he
cut in a crowd of dashing figures; and despite his massive German automobile
and the model-worthy woman on his arm; if a discerning member of society were
to study him closely, they would discover the flaws in mere minutes.
 
Such scrutiny has occurred since the
beginning of high society, to those who are into that sort of thing: a new
member is welcomed to the country club, because they have the kind of wealth
that’s the first, and
most
important,
membership requirement.
 
Once a person is
among society, however, some forgotten little detail can easily out them as a
mere commoner.
 
Maybe it’s their spouse,
or a shirttail relative they’d rather not claim.
 
Or perhaps they wind up drunk at a social gathering,
groping women in their nether regions.
 
Sometimes it’s simply cursing or displaying the lewd and lascivious
behavior that separates mere mortals from the pillars of society.

And,
somehow, though he did desire to belong, Xavier also enjoyed the slight
disconnect that would often occur when he interfaced at societal events such as
this.
 
Older women in their late fifties,
wearing sparkling sequin gowns that showed the tops of their tired, age-spotted
bosoms, would spot him from afar, standing tall and proud, looking every bit
the part of a famous actor from the distance.
 
Xavier delighted in the fact that his mere presence probably made their
hearts race, remembering their glory days as they took a quick, contemptuous glance
at their white-haired husbands, droning on about tedious golf or dreary yachting.
 
The older women, high on champagne and the
glamour of the gathering, wanted to believe they had one last good affair in
them, dreaming of having their suety legs wrapped around this dashingly
dangerous man in the trappings of an exclusive hotel room.

When
the older women approached him, Xavier relished in their reaction upon noticing
the tattoo.
 
Sometimes they were already
speaking to him when it caught their eyes.
 
Most of the women turned tail upon seeing the tattoo, making some silly
excuse to quickly evacuate.
 
But some,
the brave ones, lingered.

Xavier
had had more than his share.

So,
although a part of him desired to be a feted member of society, Xavier was
comfortable enough to merely enjoy the whiff of society he received when at power-rich
functions such as this wedding.
 
And, two
hours later at the exclusive
Paulau
Nacional
reception, after dining on sumptuous lobster mated perfectly with rice
pilaf, haricots verts, and highly acidic Picapoll wine from Catalonia, Xavier
sent his date to mingle after he made eye contact with an associate.
 
Summoning the man, Xavier hitched his head.
 

The
associate placed his plate on a table, said something to his wife—she was at
least twenty years his junior, and well-kept—then walked through the crowd and
passed through the rear doors.
 
Thirty
seconds later Xavier followed, finding an ornate hall marked by high arches and
lighted oil paintings.
 
He could hear the
nervous flicking of what sounded like a Zippo and, after thirty paces, found
Amando standing in an alcove off to the right, staring at an interior garden
through a floor-to-ceiling window.

“Smoking
is not allowed in here,” Xavier said, curling his lip at the vile
cigarette.
 
“You might draw unwanted
attention.”

Amando
Segura, a short, cultured-looking man with gray hair and puffy bags under his
eyes nodded obediently, taking a quick drag before pressing the cigarette into
a large plant.
 
“Were you invited?”

“I
crashed the wedding just to see you, old friend.”

“Bad
news,” Amando said quietly, brushing a few stray ashes from his blue suit.

As
was his habit, Xavier combed both hands back through his mane of hair.
 
He stared out into the gardens, pondering the
“punishment” he might mete out if Amando’s news irritated him.

“Did
you hear me?” Amando demanded, cutting into Xavier’s train of thought.

Xavier
came back to the moment and smiled coldly at the man.
 
“I fail to understand how a man in your
position, who has had
no
success in
regard to my proposal—that you readily
accepted
—finds
himself annoyed at having to repeat himself.”

“Please
accept my apologies,” Amando quickly replied.
 
“I’m simply frustrated that what you’ve paid me to do hasn’t come
together.”

A
clock could be heard ticking as Xavier glared at the telecom executive.
 
“I suppose ‘
hasn’t come together’
is one way to put it.
 
And your current analysis of the situation is?”

“Are
you one hundred percent certain he was receiving the call while he was near the
resort of—”

“He
was near Cadaques, yes.
 
And the time
before, he was near Llafranc.
 
And the
time before that, Mataro.
 
No question.”

“Then
there is only one answer, unless there’s a technology available that I’m not
aware of, and I seriously doubt that.”

Xavier
arched his eyebrows, tapping his loafer.

“As
I’ve surmised before, Ernesto Navarro is using a satellite phone.”

After
running his tongue over his porcelain teeth, Xavier said, “A satellite phone.”

“Indeed.
 
He’s not using a landline or a tower-operated
wireless phone.
 
If he were, we would
match the words being spoken from the other end.
 
We’re able to do this with only a five second
delay and, on each of the three occasions, we’ve had nothing close to a match
nor have we received any cellular signal carrying that, or any type, of
encrypted data.”

“And
what of the phones emanating from the prison?”

Amando
shook his head.
 
“Nothing there
either.
 
They’re probably both sat-phones,
and I want it noted that I already
told
you this after the previous two tries.”

Though
his birth Aragonese-Spanish was cob rough, Xavier had spent so much time in
London over the past five years that he’d purposefully developed a West End
London accent on the tails of his spoken Spanish.
 
He felt it added to his sense of refinement
and, though it wasn’t his intention, made him seem less threatening.
 

But
at stressful times like this, he struggled not to fall back into his birth accent,
tripping on pauses in his speaking the way a determined stutterer does when
trying to get out an uninterrupted phrase.
 
He pulled an audible, whistling breath into his Roman nose and asked,
“Have you any suggestions for intercepting a satellite phone?”

“No,
Xavier.
 
That technology is out of my
sphere of influence.”

Xavier
eyed Amando through slits, hating every fiber of the executive’s diminutive
being.
 
“Then our business is done.
 
You failed me.”
 
He reached into his jacket pocket, removing
the envelope containing 3,000 euro, proffering it.
 
When Amando reached for it, Xavier allowed it
to fall to the floor.
 
Amando’s body
jerked as he reflexively started to reach for it before stopping, raising his distrustful
eyes to Xavier.

“What?”
Xavier asked with mock innocence.
 
“Do
you think I’m going to hurt you?”

“No,
señor.”

“Then
get your money.”

Amando
bent to the envelope.

Using
a half-strength soccer kick, Xavier caught Amando in the jaw, knocking him back
on his rear end.
 
The executive sat there
for a moment, inventorying his face with both hands, working his jaw before he
pulled a piece of a tooth from his mouth.
 
Xavier watched as Amando then held his head down, concealing his face as
his body began to shudder and sniffing sounds could be heard.

“Oh
no,” Xavier muttered, looking to the heavens and laughing.
 
“You’re crying?
 
My God, man, how do you live with yourself?”
 
More laughter.
 
“One kick makes you weep like a woman?
 
Actually, not even a woman.
 
Just
last week I watched a dainty little Austrian woman hold out against the working
end of a cattle prod.
 
They zapped her at
least ten times and she never once cried.”
 
Xavier tilted his head in an admissive manner.
 
“She talked, eventually, but never cried.
 
Gained my respect.”

“I’m
sorry for crying but you scare me.”

“Amando
Segura, you’re the only man on this earth, outside of
my
sphere of influence, who knows of my efforts to seek the man in
question.
 
Shall I verbalize what might
happen if I hear tale of this escaping to other interested parties?”

“No,
señor,” Amando answered with a strong shake of his head.

“Are
you certain?”

“I
will never, ever breathe a word of this to anyone.”

Xavier
extended his hand to Amando, helping him up.
 
“How’s the jaw?”