To The Lions - 02 (32 page)

“Tell
them to have at it.
 
I’ll die before I
give up the money.
 
That’s my guarantee.”
 
He pointed at her, making his grin
menacing.
 
“Try me.”

There
was a lengthy period of silence that made him feel better—for now—about the
decision he’d made.
 
When de la Mancha
finally spoke, her tone was reasonable.

“I
honestly don’t think they’ll kill you if you pay.
 
Especially if you insist that you sent
another copy of this paperwork by…say…courier.
 
Los Leones may be savages, but they don’t want to make an enemy of the
U.S.”

“You’re
wrong,” Gage said.
 
“They will kill me because
they know, if they release me, I’m more dangerous to them than the U.S.
is.
 
The U.S. will play by the rules to
avenge all of this—I won’t.”

A
torrent of emotions flashed through her expressive face, ending with
exasperation.
 
“And what if I can broker
some sort of deal?”

“Why
do you care so much?” Gage asked, narrowing his eyes.
 
“I know you’re getting a cut, but is there
something more?”

“I’m
scared,
cabrón
!
 
I was vulnerable when I took this job and
they took advantage of that.
 
Every day
of my life, I wonder if I, or my family, will be murdered due to some misstep I’ve
made.”
 
Her eyes welled with tears.
 
“And if you don’t get them that money...”
 

She
wept.

“So
I was right?”

“You
have to give up that money,” she mumbled, a tissue over her eyes.

Gage
didn’t respond.

* * *

Monte
Carlo, Monaco

The
complimentary drink, a Bombay Sapphire gin with a splash of tonic and extra
lime, was placed on the subtly-branded casino coaster next to Xavier’s right
arm.
 
It was daytime on the French
Riviera and, despite his presence at the highest minimum Baccarat table,
Xavier’s time there had already grown boring.
 
He’d had his fill of fine meals and certainly enjoyed his romps with
beautiful, store-bought women.
 
He’d
gambled away nearly a quarter-of-a-million euro but, especially without that
little shit Garcia around, even such a loss wasn’t enough to get his blood
moving.
 

Was
this how life was going to be now that he’d toppled Navarro?
 
Was it going to be a struggle to find
something to get him off?
 

He
already knew he could have damn near any woman he wanted.
 
And killing didn’t do it anymore—oh, sure,
the occasional murder was a useful tool, but Xavier wasn’t a savage.

Sonofabitch
,
he realized, the realization hitting him again…
I’m done.
 
There’s nothing left
to conquer.

“Monsier?”
the croupier asked, gesturing to Xavier’s cards.
 
Xavier stared at a king and a 3 in this
thousand-euro hand.

He
nodded.

The
bank was showing a jack and a four, meaning a third card was coming for the
bank as well.

As
the croupier went to the shoe, Xavier could feel his phone vibrating inside his
jacket.
 
He ignored it, glancing around
the half-empty casino, pondering what to do next.
 
Earlier in the day he’d briefly flirted with
changing his yachting plans, thinking of crossing the Ligurian Sea to La
Spezia, in Italy.
 
He possessed a few
arm’s length La Cosa Nostra contacts there and, on his last visit, had secretly
bedded the local don’s seventeen-year-old daughter.
 
Unquenchable and deliciously curious about
the taboo, she’d clawed his chest upon his leaving, vowing to Xavier that he
could take her anytime he pleased, even after her papa had pledged her hand.

“A
good way to get killed,” Xavier whispered to himself, remembering Camilo and
the lobster cracker.
 
He glanced down to
see a 3, a loser, as the croupier slid the stack of chips away.
 
The phone buzzed again.

“
Joder
,” Xavier muttered, retrieving his
phone with one hand as he waved his other hand over the table.
 
Once he was beyond the red velvet rope, he
glanced at the number, not immediately recognizing it.

“Yeah?”

“Señor,
this is El Toro.
 
I was told to call you
directly.”

“Right,”
Xavier said, using his curt “don’t waste my time” tone of voice with his
underling.
 
“I told him to have you call
me.
 
Speak.”

“Well,
señor, it is an honor to finally talk with you after so long,” El Toro said
with annoying and highly obsequious gravitas.

“Skip
the dramatic salutations and just bring me up to speed.
 
I’m quite busy.”
 
Xavier winked at a bikini-clad woman who was
passing by with her male companion, headed from the pool to the elevators.

“The
son is gone, señor.”

“Then
it’s done,” Xavier said with finality, his thumb preparing to end the call.

“Please,
wait, señor, there’s one other thing.”

“Hurry,”
Xavier snapped, focusing on the derriere of a lady who’d just taken a seat at
his baccarat table.

“Señor,
it’s the American, the most recent one who was brought in, the one who we took
the signal from.”

“Yeah?”

“Señor,
under advisement from my superior, we are to make him believe that we’re
willing to cut a deal with him.”

“I
heard about this.
 
I want the warden to
get the money.”

Xavier
motioned to the croupier to play the hand without him and ascended the carpeted
stairs, looking at the rear pool and the assemblage of hot-tubs arranged in a
pattern.
 
There were a number of oiled
women sunning themselves and suddenly he didn’t feel quite as jaded with his
vacation.

“Señor,
should we trust her to handle this?”

“She
knows what will happen if she screws up.”

“Yes,
but I have never truly—”

“I
already told Vasco this,” Xavier said, cutting him off.
 
“Do it my way.”

“Of
course, señor.
 
It will be done.
 
And it has been good to—”

Xavier
clicked the phone off as El Toro was speaking.
 
He headed back to his table, deciding that he would play another hand or
two before donning his swim trunks and bathing in the sun.

The
sight of the thong bikinis had gotten his blood moving.

Chapter Twenty

There
had only been a brief gap of time since Gage had told Capitana de la Mancha
that he would not make a call to retrieve the money.
 
Since then, she’d done a poor job in
remaining calm, crossing the room to a wet bar, running water in a tumbler and
guzzling it so fast a stream ran down her neck and into her blouse, temporarily
marking it with a dark stain.
 
She must
not have feared him rushing her because she showed him her back, muttering
curses in Catalan.

While
her attention was diverted, Gage flirted with the idea of diving for the other
handgun, the one in her drawer.
 
Unfortunately, there were too many holes in such a reckless plan and,
even if it were loaded and he could spirit it out without getting shot
beforehand, how would he get away from Berga?
 
Sure, he might be able to hold Capitana de la Mancha hostage long enough
to get a news crew here to hear the truth, but getting from where he was to
that point would be prohibitively difficult.
 

Added
to that, he wasn’t in the U.S. anymore.
 
While Spain is an advanced and cultured country, he had no idea how
their news organizations worked—to them, he’d likely be just another crazed
murderer spouting off on fanatical discourses about corruption in the Spanish
justice system.
 
Certainly Acusador Redon
would arrive on the scene, calmly pronouncing Gage as a lunatic, showing
manufactured evidence of his murdering a man in Africa (almost certainly at a
time when Gage had no alibi,) condemning the United States and its elitist
attitude, and saying this was one Yank that wasn’t going to get away.

C’mon, Gage.
 
You’ll probably not get this audience
again.
 
This may be your only
chance.
 
What is her weakness?

As
his mind raced, he eyed the phone on the table next to where he sat.
 
A single unit, wafer-flat, it was probably
chosen due to its inconspicuous profile.
 
A wired phone, it was nothing more than a one-piece handset with a
single switch hook button, gravity-aided when seated on a flat surface, and the
keypad between the transmitter and the receiver.
 
Gage eyed the outlet on the floor, sprouting
with several plugs and cable jacks like one seen below a conference room
table.
 

De
la Mancha’s back was still turned.
 

After
another moment, she stalked back to her desk, the pistol trained on him as she
remained standing.
 
“I walked away to see
if you might make a move.
 
Kudos to you
for at least having some sense.”

An
idea was coming to him.

De
la Mancha tapped her telephone.
 
“I don’t
want to send you back out to the prison population.
 
So, will you please stop fencing with me and
get that damned money here?”
 

“I
already gave you my answer.”

“Look,
I promise to do all I can to protect you
if
you pick up that phone and get the money, now.”

“Just
send me out to the main bay so we can all get on with it,” Gage replied.
 

Capitana
de la Mancha, for the third time, sat behind her desk, collapsing into her
chair.
 
She placed the pistol on her
blotter and rested her head in her hands.
 
It was the picture of a person in distress.
 
Gage could tell that she’d never have thought
that he might turn the deal down.
 
What
sane person would, especially after seeing what those animals did to
Cesar?
 
And when he did decline the offer,
she had no idea how to react.

While
her head was down, he leaned over, unclipping the phone cord from the jack.

Her
head was still down.

He
spirited the phone away, pushing it behind him, making sure the cord was safely
under his rear end.
 
Now he had to divert
her so she didn’t mention the phone again.

De
la Mancha lifted her head.

“Send
me back out there,” Gage said, adjusting his body to cover the phone.
 
“Send me out into the main bay and let’s get
it over with.”

“Will
you stop saying that?”

“No.”

She
threw her head back.

He
used the time to tuck the phone into the rear of his pants.
 
That done, Gage decided to propose the idea
that had come to him.
 
It wasn’t
perfect—it would involve his losing all his money—but, in his current
situation, his life took priority over money.
 

“There
is one other avenue we might take,” he said.

Showing
her age despite her mask of makeup, she muttered, “What’s that?”

“I’ll
get you the money.”

“I
thought you said you wouldn’t.”

“Listen
to what I am saying.
 
I’ll get
you
the money.”
 
Gage stressed the word “you”.

“You’ll
get
me
the money?”

“Yes,
I will.
 
Minus the small amount that’s
been spent, you can have it all.”
 
He
lifted his index finger.
 
“But I won’t
get it for those savages, not one single euro.”

It
appeared as if switches had been thrown in Capitana de la Mancha’s mind.
 
Dozens of minuscule markers immediately sent
out external signals to a scrutinizing eye.
 
The rise and fall of her chest quickened.
 
Her left hand clawed the armrest of the
chair.
 
Both of her eyes twitched,
bouncing a few degrees to the left and right.
 
Her tongue barely pressed through her painted lips, pushing at her right
upper canine.
 
Her swallow was evident
from the movement of her Adam’s apple.
 
She blinked several times.
 
Her
feet shuffled.
 
Gage suspected her body
had released a rush of scarcely discernible pheromones.

No matter what she’s preparing to
say, she’s intrigued
.

“You’re
mad,” she snapped.

Ignoring
her, Gage said, “There’s about nine-hundred-fifty grand left, in euro, all for
you.”
 
He leaned forward.
 
“I’m guessing you bring in…oh, I dunno…maybe
the equivalent of a hundred grand U.S. here.
 
Maybe a little more.
 
Then, from
your dirty money, you probably double your salary, maybe triple it.
 
And that, of course, is tax free.
 
But,” he said, sitting back and making his
voice grave, “you’re in bed with the devil, and you know that.
 
And sooner or later, despite all that you
tell yourself about corruption in Spain and Los Leones’ wide net of protection
over you, someone who matters is going to turn the microscope to Berga
Prison.”
 
He studied his fingernails,
speaking matter-of-factly.
 
“It could be
a politician looking to buck the system or just some rich asshole whose
relative was killed in your prison.

“You’ve
put a little money back, probably in cash for fear of banking it and getting
investigated over its source.
 
And
nine-fifty, also in loose, spendable
cash
,
sounds mighty good right now.
 
That’s
well over a million dollars, U.S., and a quick run up to Zurich would allow you
to set up a new life elsewhere.”
 
He
glanced around.

Gage
stacked his hands in his lap and continued.
 
“Despite the situation you tell yourself you were thrust into—one which
has made you a shitload of money—and all the comforts you’ve come to know and
love, you hate living this existence.
 
Every single day you awaken and wonder, is today the day?”
 
His voice grew quiet as he finished, saying,
“The money is yours if you simply let me walk.
 
You’ve a decision to make.”

Capitana
de la Mancha’s face had clouded over.
 
She stared through slit eyes, her lips parted, no longer making
movements of any type.

Gage
remained silent.

After
about a minute she held a hand to her mouth and cleared her throat.
 
“Do you realize what they would do to me if I
participated in your plan?”

“They
have to catch you first, Capitana.
 
And
they’ll eventually eliminate you, whether or not you do this.
 
At the very least, this will take them by
surprise and you can be long gone before they know what’s happened.”

“I
really don’t think they’ll eventually kill me,” she said with no confidence
whatsoever.

“Really?
 
Go have a look at Cesar Navarro’s body at the
morgue.
 
And I’d be curious to know how
they killed his father.
 
You yourself
said they’re prehistoric.”
 

“In
the way they deal with their enemies.”

“And
you know what they do to their enemies.
 
Rape and murder.
 
Rape steals a
person’s soul and murder does away with it.”
 

She
averted her eyes, and Gage noticed.

He
leaned back, willing his intensity away, softening his voice.
 
“Capitana de la Mancha, at some point you
will serve no more purpose to them and, when that day comes, because of all you
know, they will kill you.”

She
sipped her water, abruptly standing and walking to the barred window, staring
out.
 
“I need some time to think.”

“You
can have all the time in the world, capitana.
 
But if you send me back out into that bay, according to you, I’m a dead
man.”

She
turned, briefly gnawing on one of her painted fingernails.
 
“They won’t kill you if they think you’re
cooperating.”

“What
does that mean?”

“I’ll
tell them you called several times but your contact wasn’t there.”

“And
who is my contact?”

She
walked to her desk, flipping open a file and tapping the sheet.
 
“The girl who came to visit you.
 
That’s who has your money, correct?”

“No.”

“Whether
she does, or not, that’s who I will say you called.”

“Don’t
do that,” Gage warned.

“Why
not?”

“That
girl doesn’t exist.”

“Olga
Nemcova?” de la Mancha asked, reading the paper.

“That’s
not her real name.”

“Well,
that’s the name listed here.
 
And it had
to have been on her identification for her to get in.”

“It’s
not her name,” Gage said authoritatively.
 
“And they won’t find her, either.”

“So,
that
is
who has the money.”

“Doesn’t
matter.
 
You won’t find her or anyone
else.”

“They
have plenty of money, Mister Hartline.
 
Make things too difficult, and it will be easier for them to just kill
you.”

“If
that happens, you won’t see any of the money.
 
And…” he said, drawing it out, “Los Leones will blame you.
 
Or, as I’ve said a dozen times, you let me
walk and the cash is all yours.”

“You’re
sure of the amount?” she asked.

Gage
nodded.

Capitana
de la Mancha paced the room for a full minute.
 
“If I’m even to consider this, I’ve got to move fast.
 
I won’t be able to hold them off very long
before they want to question you.”

The
money suddenly seemed supremely unimportant.
 
“How soon can we leave?” Gage asked.

 
“I haven’t agreed to anything, yet.
 
Until I decide, I’m going to stick you in the
aposento
.”

“Aposento?”

“The
apartment I told you about.
 
It’s used by
a few select prisoners for visitation.”

“Conjugal?”
Gage asked in Spanish, curling his lip.

Ignoring
him, she walked behind her desk and lifted her phone, speaking rapid Spanish
that he could barely follow.
 
Carefully
replacing the receiver, Capitana de la Mancha motioned him away.
 
“Go back out the way you came and follow the
guard’s instructions.”

As
Gage left, he thought he heard a stifled sob.

* * *

Ten
minutes later, when she’d stopped crying, Capitana de la Mancha opened the top
right door of her handcrafted desk.
 
In
the back of the drawer was a directory of Spanish Judicial System phone
numbers.
 
Tucked in the center of the
directory was a stack of pictures of a boy in various stages of life.