To The Lions - 02 (39 page)

Thankfully.

One
thing Gage did know, however, since the explosions were created from only pressurized
plastic, followed by a reaction with the highly-oxygenated air, they would
likely not be fatal, even to a person standing at ground zero.
 
And especially a healthy, well-built human
being like El Toro.
 
But, as Gage also
knew, even a single bottle’s explosion had concussive effects—double with two
bottles.
 

Instinctively,
Gage had dropped behind the sofa during the explosions, avoiding most of the
collateral residue.
 
Ears ringing, he
lurched a second later, finding El Toro writhing on the floor ten feet from
where he’d stood.
 
The chemically-charged
smoke burned Gage’s eyes.
 
After a few
seconds of searching, and despite the stinging, he found the AutoMag.
 

In
one fluid movement he checked the handgun’s operational status, finding it
locked and loaded.
 
Gage aimed it at the
squirming El Toro, his hands clawing his eyes as he alternated between yelps
and moans.
 
Using the three-and-a-half
pound pistol like a hammer, Gage brought it down on top of El Toro’s head.
 
Twice.

El
Toro was knocked unconscious.

“Make
the call!” Gage yelled to Angelines, satisfied when he heard her radio Viejes,
her personal guard that was usually stationed in her outer office.
 
Though Gage’s ears were ringing, he could
hear Viejes reporting the riot situation.
 
Angelines told him to disentangle himself and come to her office, ASAP.

 
Gage touched the “A” alarm on the keypad.
 
He situated Angelines before taking up a
blind spot to the side of the main door.
 
Then, pistol ready, he waited.
 

Concentrate.

“Don’t
kill him, Hartline,” Angelines said.
 
“Viejes
is a decent man.”

Concentrate.

He’s going to see the broken door,
and probably some of the smoke.
 
He’s
going to come in heavy.

But don’t kill him.

Gage
wiped his palms, one at a time, on his shirt.

Finally,
the partially ruptured door was yanked open and, with no effort at being
tactical, the big guard from outside clamored through, his pistol straight out
in front of him.
 

Though
he didn’t think about it as he aimed and squeezed, Gage had aimed at Nicky
Arnaud in the same manner a year-and-a-half before.
 
The large bullet from the AutoMag impacted
the guard’s Sig Sauer just forward of the rear sight.
 
Gage couldn’t imagine the pain of the tightly
held pistol being yanked from a person’s hands with such force.
 
He did get treated to a good visual, however,
as the guard was thrown as if he’d been clinging to a ski rope attached to an
accelerating boat.
 
He went down in a
heap, howling and rolling, clutching his broken hands to his large belly.

Gage
lurched and, like before, brought the butt of the pistol smashing down on the
side of the guard’s head, silencing him.
 
Gage’s shocked eardrums had recovered enough so that he heard the klaxon
alarm from the pressed “A” button.

Standing
and turning, he witnessed Angelines running to him from the rear of the
office.
 
Her eyes were rheumy, her face
was wet, and she was marked by a small cut on her forehead.
 
She opened her hands, as if wanting
instruction.

“Make
the next call!”

Angelines
lifted the radio and asked for a status report.
 
After listening, she told her guards to make sure all prisoners were
secure—every last one—and to get a headcount.
 
She also insisted that the riot not be reported outside of the prison
walls.

“This
is our problem!
 
We will handle it
in-house.”
 
Angelines shoved the radio
into her waist band and looked at Gage.
 
“We’ve got about five minutes.”

Gage
struck the still unconscious El Toro again, seeing him twitch as a result.
 
Then Gage dragged the guard to the bathroom,
stripping him and zip-tying his hands and feet, shutting him inside the toilet
room.
 
Three minutes had passed before he
arrived back in the office to find El Toro awake on the floor, Angelines
standing behind him.

She’d
zip-tied his hands and feet.
 
El Toro
writhed, staring at Gage as he yelled, “You’re a dead man!”

Gage
produced the needle nose pliers from his cargo pocket and rolled El Toro to his
stomach.
 
Sitting on El Toro’s bound
arms, Gage grasped El Toro’s hand, burrowing the needle nose pliers underneath
his left middle finger’s nail.

El
Toro’s shrieks rose above the blaring klaxon alarm.

Twisting
the pliers, Gage denailed El Toro’s finger while struggling to hold him in
place.

“What
was your plan?” Gage asked, leaning down to his ear.
 
“Tell me now or all nine of your nasty
fingernails are coming out.”

“No!”

“Tell
me!”

“I
was just going to get your money,” El Toro grunted.
 
“I was going to get it and let you go.”

Taking
all of ten seconds, Gage removed the left thumbnail next, estimating that it
took twice as much twisting force.
 
There
was considerably more blood with the thumbnail.

“Ayeeee!”

“The
plan?”

“Okay…okay…once
I had the money, I woulda killed you,” El Toro sobbed.
 
“That was the plan.”

“Who
was the money for?”

“For
Xavier,” El Toro said, sounding surprised that Gage didn’t already know.

“Xavier’s
the head of Los Leones,” Angelines added.
 
“Hurry, Gage!”

From
all Angelines had said, and from his own research, Gage certainly knew about
Xavier Zambrano.
 
“And is Xavier nearby,
waiting on the money?”

“I
don’t know!” El Toro shrieked.

Believing
there was nothing else to be gained from this thug, Gage slid the pliers into
his back pocket.
 
He grabbed Angelines’
shoulders, leaning close to her ear.
 
“I
know you wanted to kill him, but if we do that, it changes our status in the
eyes of the authorities.”

Her
eyes blazed.
 
“And what about Los Leones?”

“They
want us dead anyway.”

Angelines
took the pliers from Gage’s pocket.
 
She
yanked El Toro’s light prison pants down.
 
And, to Gage’s shock, and satisfaction, she wrecked both of El Toro’s
testicles.

Before
they departed, Angelines spit on the sobbing El Toro.
 
And kicked him.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Barcelona,
Spain

Cortez
Redon’s office was located in a pleasant yet nondescript building on the Carrer
de Pau Claris.
 
The one-way street, lined
with flowering Jacaranda trees, was dominated by apartments and office space
over the street-level retail establishments.
 
Hundreds of scooters and bicycles littered the available areas of the
sidewalk, though no automobiles were permitted to be parked on the busy thoroughfare.
 
This would work in Justina and Señora
Moreno’s favor.

Justina
was now driving, circling the block as Señora Moreno settled into a
street-facing chair in a modern café one block south of Redon’s office.
 
She consulted her notepad, memorizing the key
points she’d been told by her own attorney.
 
Finally, when she was confident she knew what she wanted to say, she
dialed Redon’s office number, touching her rosary and whispering a one-sentence
prayer that he would be in today.
 
The
woman answering the phone sounded young.

“Hello,”
Señora Moreno said.
 
“Acusador Redon,
please.”

“He’s
in a meeting.
 
May I take a message?”

“No
message, dear.
 
Please interrupt his
meeting and tell him I’d like to speak with him about Ernesto Navarro.”

“I’m
sorry,” the woman said with unconcealed irritation.
 
“He is
in
a meeting.
 
I can take a message.”

“How
long will his meeting last?”

“A
while.
 
And he has more meetings
immediately afterward.”

“Then
you must go tell him something for me, dear.
 
I promise you, he will be upset if you
don’t
.”

The
young woman’s voice was even and deliberate.
 
“Like I said, I can take a message.”

“Understand
this: my reason for calling is an
emergencia
for the acusador.
 
Interrupt his meeting
and watch his eyes when you give him my brief message.”

There
was a brief pause and an outbreath. “What message do you want me to give him?”

“Please
pull him aside so it’s private—no one should hear this but him.
 
Tell him I’m in possession of a large amount
of Ernesto Navarro’s wealth and, now that he’s dead, I need to speak to Cortez
about what to do with the money.”

“Ernesto
Navarro, the dead gangster they talked about on the news?”

“He
was a businessman, too, dear.”

The
assistant sounded unimpressed but seemed to jot it down because she read it
back to Señora Moreno, word for word.
 

“That’s
correct, dear.
 
Please go tell him.”

As
she waited for Acusador Redon, Justina approached in the Volvo and Señora
Moreno nodded and pointed to the sidewalk.
 
She watched as Justina pulled the car all the way up onto the walkway,
between two trees, in an area forbidden to vehicles of any type.
 
Just as she’d been instructed, Justina exited
and depressed the air valve on the back rear tire.
 
A man on the sidewalk stopped and Señora Moreno
watched as Justina shook her head and waved him on.
 
Then, just as they’d planned, Justina dragged
the scissor jack and assorted tools from the trunk, scattering them haphazardly
around the flat tire.
 
The stage was set
and, just in time, Acusador Redon came on the line, sounding quite breathless.

“Who
is this?” he demanded.

“Is
this Acusador Redon?” Señora Moreno asked in her professional voice.

“Of
course it is.
 
Now who are you?”

“I’m
not willing to reveal my identity, yet.”

He
cleared his throat.
 
“Well, what’s all
this nonsense about supposed money belonging to Ernesto Navarro?”

“He
rented a large mountain chalet from me, Cortez…may I call you Cortez?”
 
When he didn’t respond she continued.
 
“He rented it through a shell company for
years and would come and go at the oddest times, only with his assistant.
 
I knew who he was, of course, from the news,
but never reported it since he paid handsomely in cashier’s checks, regular as
clockwork.”

Redon
could be heard groaning before he spoke in an admonishing tone, saying, “So, he
was your renter?
 
That’s why you called
me?”

“He
left something behind, Cortez.
 
Something
of great value that I now have.”

“Money?”
he asked in a low voice.

“Negotiable
financial instruments.
 
When I saw on the
news that he’d been killed, I confiscated them.”

“And
why are you calling me?” he asked, his tone one of suspicion mingled with
hopefulness.

“I
saw your press conference.
 
I thought you
might be interested in,” she cleared her throat, “
partnering
with me to make sure these instruments are converted.”

“Madam,
am I to believe that you are truly holding negotiable securities that were
owned by the notorious gangster, Ernesto Navarro?”

“It’s
the truth, and I’m ready to make a deal that will sufficiently compensate me
for my trouble.
 
After that, Cortez, I
don’t care what you do with the remainder of the money.
 
Understand?”

Redon’s
response was thunderstruck silence.

Smiling
because she knew she had him, Señora Moreno said, “I’m sitting a few blocks
away from your office, Cortez.
 
El Café
de Limón.
 
You will come alone, right
now.”

“Why
don’t we meet here?”

“I
may be a widowed landlady, Cortez, but I’m not stupid.
 
Now, let’s have a chat here in public, shall
we?”

“Very
well.
 
In the interest of the good people
of Catalonia, I’m on my way.”

Señora
Moreno touched the screen, ending the call.
 
Justina was adjusting the scissor jack under the car.
 
When she turned, Señora Moreno pointed to her
own eyes and motioned up the sidewalk.

Justina
tugged her short shirt upward, then pulled her thong up into view over the
waistband.
 
Laughing, Señora Moreno gave
her a double thumbs-up.

“Now
let’s just hope your libido overrides your greed, Acusador Redon,” Señora
Moreno whispered.
 
Mineral water at her
right hand, she leaned back to watch the show.

* * *

“Just
play it straight, Cortez,” Acusador Redon murmured to himself, slipping his
mobile phone and business cards into his pocket.
 
He’d struggled for a full minute, trying to
decide whether or not to wear his suit jacket.
 
In the end he’d donned it, feeling it might make him look a tad more
official, more formal.
 
Breath mint
clicking in his mouth, he stepped from his office, telling his assistant he
needed to step out.

“What
was with that woman?” his assistant asked with a sneer.

Cinching
his tie he said, “Just another crazy.
 
It
seems we grow them here in Catalonia.”
 
He popped his cuffs.
 
“Grabbing a
bite.
 
Be back soon.”

Cortez
was off, skipping the cramped elevator and padding down the stairs from his third
floor office.
 
If this woman was serious,
and did hold negotiable financial instruments—
negotiable
being the operative word—once owned by Ernesto Navarro,
Cortez would be in an enviable, yet precarious, position.
 
Xavier Zambrano, of course, felt he was
entitled to anything owned by Navarro and, in the unwritten code of the
underworld, he did.
 
But, as Cortez
reminded himself as he shoved the stairwell door open, emerging on the cool
morning sidewalk, Xavier didn’t have to find out about this.

“And
that’s why we play it straight…at first,” he said to himself, setting a quick
pace down the street.
 
“Let’s allow her
to make the indecent proposal and then let’s see if these are indeed negotiable
instruments.”
 
It had been quite some
time since he’d brushed up on investment law.
 
He began summarizing a list of negotiable instruments at the only
crosswalk between his office and the cafe.

“Promissory
notes, cheques, bearer bonds, warrants, debentures…”
 
Acusador Redon muttered to himself while
waiting at the crosswalk.
 
Then his
discourse was cut short when he noticed a tall, well-built blonde fumbling with
a scissor jack beside her flat tire.

He
glanced left, seeing the café just past where she was parked, but his eyes were
drawn back to the bombshell struggling with the jack—and, of course, her pink
thong panties jutting from the small skirt that contained her
deliciously-proportioned rear end.

Feeling
his neck flush at the ribald sight, he shuffled audibly to a stop, watching as
she slumped, the jack lying impotently on its side with two narrow bars
extending from its eye-hole.

She
turned and looked at him and, in accented Spanish, said, “I hate days like
this.”

Flashing
his jury grin, Cortez motioned to the jack.
 
“May I help you with that,
preciosa
?”

The
woman stood.
 
She was nearly half a head
taller than Cortez and her frustration was evident.
 
“Will you help?
 
I’m clueless about these things.”

She
stood in his space, her large breasts straining against her tight shirt, close
enough for him to smell her scent, making him forget why he’d even left the
office.
 
Cortez looked up at her and
said, “I must say you’re quite beautiful.
 
And what’s your accent?”

“Polish,”
Justina replied.
 
“I’m visiting Spain
and, as you can see, not doing too well.”

Cortez
shed his jacket, hanging it from the Volvo’s mirror.
 
He lifted one of the tire irons.
 
“What brought you to Barcelona?”

“I
came down for the summer to visit my sister and her husband.
 
This is their car.”

“How
long have you been here?”

“Couple
of weeks.”

“Do
you like it?” he asked, seating the jack and looking up at her.

“I
guess I like Barcelona but I don’t like my brother-in-law.
 
I don’t think he wants me staying with
them.”
 
She glanced away.
 
“I’m just lonely.”

Cortez
squeezed his eyes shut.
 
In his mind he
screamed “gracias!” to the God he didn’t believe in, because this was going to
be too easy.

“Well,”
he said, “let’s see if we can’t get you fixed up.”

Not
having much experience with changing tires, he consulted the diagram on the
black vinyl bag that had held the tire tools.
 
After loosening the lug nuts, he positioned the jack just in front of
the tire and elevated the right rear corner of the car from the sidewalk.
 
Reading the diagram he said, “Now, all you do
is finish taking off those nuts, then pull the tire off and replace it with the
spare.
 
Twist the lug nuts back on, lower
the jack, then tighten the lug nuts in a star pattern.”
 
Smiling, he handed her the diagram.
 
“Can you handle it or do you want me to
stay?”

“I
can do it,” she replied, again standing in his space.
 
“Being here, in a different country, knowing
hardly anyone, is more difficult than I’d thought it would be.
 
But then someone like you, a new friend,
comes along.”

“Is
that what I am, a new friend?”

Her
face took on a rueful expression.
 
“With
my luck, I’m sure you’re married.”

Ignoring
the comment, and in a practiced motion, all while feeling the throbbing,
elevating arousal between his legs, he pressed a business card in her
hand.
 
“I’d like you to call me, darling.
 
Perhaps you’d let me show you around a bit.”

She
read his card.
 
“Acusador…you sound
important.”

He
made a shooing motion.
 
“Don’t be
intimidated, my beauty.”
 
He tapped the
card.
 
“Just call.
 
Call soon.”

With
no nod of agreement, the frustration coming back to her face, the girl placed
his card on the ground as she went back to work on the tire.