To The Lions - 02 (45 page)

“No
answer?”

“No.”

“We’ll
keep trying.”

“You
won’t have coverage on the river.
 
And
there’s one other thing.”

“We’ve
really got to go,” Gage protested.

Sven
told Gage about the bearer bonds.
 
“They’re in a cardboard box, already on the boat.”

Gage
was speechless.

“Señora
Moreno insisted that, if you showed up, you take those bonds.”

“Why?”

“She
said they would be yours to use if need be.
 
I honestly don’t know more than that.”

“Thank
you for everything.”
 
Gage grabbed
Angelines by the hand and burst from the rear door of the cabin.
 
She was moving better with the tight leg
wrap—the jog to the waiting boat took less than a minute.

Gage
helped her onboard before climbing behind the controls of the combo fishing and
recreational boat.
 
As he turned the key
and powered up the Yamaha 115, he estimated the boat as a 17-footer with a low
draft due to the tri-hull design.
 
After
carving a tight turn on the turquoise water, he headed due east under the cover
of the shore trees.
 
Gage spoke over the
engine, telling Angelines to stand behind him and keep an eye out for the
chopper.

She
lingered beside him for a few seconds, grasping his left hand and squeezing
it.
 
“I’m sorry for kissing you earlier,
Gage. I…I…”

“Let
me know if you see that helicopter,” he said abruptly, easing around a
protruding dock.
 
“The farther we get
from here, the better.
 
And guzzle some
water.
 
With all that blood you’ve lost,
you need fluid.
  
Give me one, too,” he
said, motioning to the sack of cold bottled water Sven had placed in the boat.

She
handed him a bottle.
 
“Gage, look at me.”

There
were a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses wedged into the nook of the
console—a nice pair of Smith’s.
 
Gage
wiped them on his shirt and donned them, staring forward as he kept the bow ten
feet from the water’s edge.

“Gage,”
she persisted.

“Pretty
busy here,” he said, eyes still ahead as he swigged the water.

As
was her habit with him, especially when having a serious conversation, she
switched to English.
 
“Gage, I haven’t
been treated well by a man in years.
 
It’s partly my own fault.
 
Years
ago, after another failed relationship, I became bitter, and that’s when I
began to let things occur around me.
 
Illegal things.”

He
turned his head and hitched his thumb backward.
 
“I really need your eyes scanning the sky for that helicopter.”

“I’m
going to say this,
damn it
, whether
you like it or not.”

Gage
edged the throttle back slightly, lowering the speed to twenty kilometers per
hour as the waterway began to narrow, giving way to a wide, flat river.

“I
told you that the things I allowed to happen in Berga would have happened
anyway and, even though I know what I did was wrong, I still do believe that.”

He
kept his eyes ahead.

“I
came up through the ranks in the prison system doing things the right way, and
outworking everyone else.
 
That’s how I
became a captain at such an early age.”
 
She quickly scanned the sky.
 
“I
was in a relationship and I had a child just after I was awarded Berga.”
 
Her chest rose and fell as she took a large
breath.
 
“One afternoon, while I thought
my mother was watching my son, a prisoner went through all the proper channels
by requesting to see me.”

Gage
turned for a moment.

“They
had Jordi, Gage.
 
They had my son.
 
The prisoner didn’t prove it, didn’t show me
pictures…he just told me, and I knew by that man’s dead, soulless eyes that he
was telling the truth.”

“What
happened?” Gage asked flatly, maneuvering the boat to the left around a
bifurcation buoy, choosing the secondary channel due to the boat’s light
draft.
 

As
the massive looming hills slid by, Angelines dropped into the seat next to him,
rubbing her leg above the bandage.
 
“Their demand was simple.
 
If I
allowed them free reign in Berga, they’d leave my son alone and they’d begin to
compensate me.”

“If
you didn’t?”

She
covered her mouth, shaking her head as if she couldn’t say it.

“So,
if you didn’t comply, their people on the outside would kill him?”

She
nodded.

“But
over time, your guards became corrupt, too, and all that extra money Los Leones
afforded you became far too rewarding to throw away by reporting them.”

Eyes
glistening, she looked up at him.
 
“I
kissed you, Gage, because I desperately want to be normal again, and that’s how
you’ve treated me.
 
Though I don’t expect
you to understand, just a week ago I was fine with being a corrupt prison
official.
 
But when you made that
suggestion about the money, it was as if the sun came up on the black night
that’s my life.”
 
She wiped her
eyes.
 
“It all came clear.”

“Well,
that may be clear, but our situation here isn’t.”

“Thank
you, Gage, for treating me the way you have.”

He
nodded, then checked the sky behind the boat.
 
“If you really want to be normal again,
capitana
, sit your ass—which looks fine to me, by the way—on the
rear deck and keep your eyes out for that helicopter.”

She
stood, pulling his head to the side and giving him a wet kiss on the cheek.

While
pleased with her seemingly genuine transformation, Gage’s mind was occupied
with two things: escaping, and wondering what sort of stunt Justina and Señora
Moreno had tried to pull on Cortez Redon.

* * *

The
hounds followed the scent straight to the cabin, howling indignant protests at
the locked front door.
 
After several
bangs on the door and no answer, the trailing police knocked the door in,
tactically entering with pistols outstretched.
 
The two hounds followed, slobbering and wailing, momentarily confused by
the sudden change in environment.
 
One
took considerable notice of the bathroom.
 
A policeman checked the shower, yelling that it was wet.
 
The other hound pawed at the back door as its
handler yelled that they needed to keep going.

Behind
the cabin, both dogs quickly picked up on the scent, headed west, past the dam
and toward the town of Cercs.
 
As the
posse pressed on, they radioed to their rapidly gathering brethren, telling
them to continue setting their roadblocks, but to keep a keen eye out in the
direction of Cercs.

After
scanning the lake, the police in the chopper raced ahead of the hounds, trying
to spot the two runners before they acquired transportation.

Nearly
the entire posse, guided by the sensitive noses of the two hounds, focused
their attention westward.

While
Gage and Angelines were now fifteen kilometers in the opposite direction,
headed to the east.

Chapter Thirty-One

Lloret
de Mar, Spain

Music.

It
was classical, heavy on the piano, an orchestra following a virtuoso pianist of
some sort.
 
A concerto…

Justina
blinked her eyes, seeing blobs of blurred nothingness as she worked her mouth,
running her tongue over her upper and lower teeth, taking inventory, finally
finding the one that was broken.
 
It was
one of her top rear teeth, second from the back if her tongue’s probing was accurate.
 
She wanted to touch it but her hands seemed
to be restrained behind her, though she didn’t feel like her tugging was
generating much in the way of force.

The
pain on top of her head was easily matched by the pain of her chin and jaw.
 
Fortunately the broken tooth didn’t seem to be
affecting any nerves.
 
But her headache
and an impending feeling of nausea began to come to the forefront with every
beat of her heart.

Thump-thump
,
went her heart.

A
hitched breath and several swallows.

Thump-thump
.

More
swallows, mouth all wet.

Thump-thump
.

Vomitus—explosive
vomitus.

Justina
retched for a full minute, ending with dry heaves.
 
She leaned back in the chair, sucking in
great quantities of air as the blue of the sky began to come clear.
 
Suddenly, cold water splashed all over her
legs as what felt like a hose squirted around her feet.
 
She looked to her left, seeing a tall man,
the hose in one hand, a beer dangling casually in the other.
 
He was aiming the hose’s spray around her
feet.

“I
knew that would be coming,” he said in Spanish.
 
“Your friend woke up ten minutes ago and did the same thing, although
yours was much more impressive.
 
A triple
dose of painkillers, unless you’re used to it, will make anyone sick.”
 
He curled his finger.
 
“Come on…come with me.”
 

The
man walked to Justina, gently helping her up.
 
Dreamily, she looked around, realizing she was on an elevated deck and
could see the deep blue of the ocean, nearly melding into the monochromatic
azure sky.
 
He led her inside.
 
The sudden cool upon passing through the
threshold meant the home she was entering was air-conditioned—the mark of
excess wealth in temperate northern Spain.

Realizing
that her faculties were returning, Justina resisted and began to scream.
 
The man chuckled, easily turning her and
pushing her onto a sofa.
 
Sitting across
from her, holding a pink towel to her face, was Señora Moreno.
 
She looked much older and lowered the towel
long enough to curse the man.

What
Justina saw took her breath.
 

Señora
Moreno had been sliced open from the left opening of her mouth to her
earlobe.
 
It was a ghastly image.
 
Justina covered her own mouth with her hand,
stifling a scream.
 
The man, still
casually swigging his beer, moved a plastic pail across the floor with his
foot.
 

“If
you feel sick again, precious, I’d suggest you use that bucket.”

“Why
did you do that to her face?”

After
considering Señora Moreno for a moment, he shrugged and spoke mildly.
 
“Not my finest moment, for sure.
 
I don’t like harming women, even old ones,
but I
won’t
hesitate to do so when it
comes to my own ascension.”
 

He
moved to Señora Moreno, touching her hand and lowering the towel.
 
“She’ll need to be sewn up soon.
 
I’ve never seen this wound having been done
on only one side—it’s usually done on both sides.
 
Though I’ve never known someone to die from
the full wound—it’s known, among other things, as a Glasgow grin—I’ve heard
that dehydration can be a problem.”
 
He
moved Señora Moreno’s now unkempt hair back, like a loving caregiver might.
 
“Would you like to try some water, m’lady?”

“Que te jodan,”
she whispered in an injury-modulated voice.

“Suit
yourself.”
 
His amusement faded when he
looked at Justina.
 
“I’m going to give
you a few more minutes to wake up.
 
By
that time, one of my friends should be here and we’re all going to have a
little chat.”

As
he spoke, Justina got a better look at him.
 
Tall and lean, yet muscular, he had an angular, chiseled face.
 
His beard was black, flecked by only a few
hairs of gray, and his tan was rich and fresh.
 
His odd, pleasant accent and his expensive
casual clothing would typically make such a man seem harmless, and even
refined—but she sensed an underlying trashiness to him.
 
It bubbled just under his surface, escaping
his polished veneer here and there.
 
When
he turned away, Justina glimpsed a brief flash of a tattoo on the man’s neck as
his long hair swept to the side.

It
was the tattoo of a smoking revolver.

Los Leones.

The
man walked away, tossing the beer into a garbage can and retrieving
another.
 
He walked to the stereo,
increasing the volume to a blaring level.

Justina
knew she couldn’t yell above the music without alerting the man.
 
Making her mouth movements pronounced, she
mimed the words to Señora Moreno: “Is he after the money?”

Señora
Moreno nodded.

“Your
money?”

She
shook her head.

“Navarro’s
money?”

A
pronounced nod.

Just
as Justina was preparing her next question—had Gage escaped?—a deep bell could
be heard over the music.
 
She watched as
the man turned down the volume, crossing the room.
 
“That must be my friend.
 
You’ll like her, I promise.”

Turning
around on the sofa, Justina watched as the man opened the door, admitting a
small, thin woman with very short hair.
 
He closed the door behind her, then passionately kissed her as his hands
freely roamed her body.

Justina
could see that the woman carried a small leather bag.

When
their fervent kiss was finished, the man led her into the sitting area by her
hand.
 
Now that Justina could see her
well, she realized with an odd spike of recognizance that she’d seen this woman
before—on numerous occasions at Eastern Bloc.
 
The woman was probably in her late twenties with a striking narrow face
and full lips.
 
Her head was shaved on
the sides though the top was somewhat sculpted, giving her a trendy appearance,
as if she were a pop star.
 
Emerging from
the woman’s black t-shirt Justina could see numerous tattoos.
 
She was obviously going for the anarchistic
look.

More
important, however, were her numerous visits to Eastern Bloc.

Who had she typically come with?
Justina
thought, her mind muddled by whatever drug she’d been given.

“Lower
the towel,” the tattooed woman said in a distinctive alto voice.
 
After a moment, Señora Moreno removed the
towel from her face, at which time the woman nodded and spoke rapid,
indecipherable Catalan to the man.
 
Then
the woman turned to Justina, narrowing her eyes.

“Where
have I seen you before?” she asked, switching to Spanish.

Justina
made sure to look puzzled yet indignant when she shrugged.

“Is
she from Lloret?” the woman asked the man.

“Don’t
know where she lives.
 
I think she’s
Polish.”

“I
know I’ve seen her before.”

“Have
you been to Lloret?” the man asked Justina.

“No,”
Justina answered with a sneer.

The
woman walked to Justina, touching her forehead, running her fingers back
through her hair, making a humming sound as she said, “She’s really beautiful.”

“D’acord,”
the man replied, pressing himself behind the woman, licking the back of her
neck, leaving a slick trail.

The
woman turned and they kissed again, their tongues entwining like impassioned
asps.
 
After the moment passed, he
gestured to Señora Moreno’s wound.
 
“Can
you manage?”

The
woman moved next to Señora and viewed the incision.
 
“It may not be pretty.”
 
From the bag she removed a bottle, a small syringe,
a small pair of scissors and a plastic container with what appeared to be
needles and surgical suture.

After
preparing a needle, she touched Señora Moreno’s shoulder.
 
“You’ll be glad to know that I’m going to
numb your face.”
 
She injected Señora
Moreno’s face in four locations, setting the needle aside and resuming her
necking with her beau.

Several
minutes later, needle in hand, she went to work.

* * *

More
than a half hour after departing the cabin, the posse, led by the dogs,
followed the upper lake to its river source.
 
After continuing on, they crossed at a foot bridge, the hounds picking
up the scent on the other side.
 
They
knew the prisoner and the prison’s captain had to be close.
 
On the far side of the river, soaked from
slogging through a bog, the posse rushed to the south, each man satisfied that
the hounds seemed to be growing excited as the scent grew more powerful.

But,
to everyone’s surprise, the scent halted around a jutting headland.
 
There they found an older gentleman on a
stump, placidly fishing with an improvised pole.
 
In one hand was a flask—it contained Swedish
vodka.
 
He took a swig and lowered his
fishing pole.

“You
folks looking for a man and a woman?” he asked in his oddly-accented Catalan.

When
the handler quieted the hounds, the Manresan police chief stepped forward.
 
“Yes.
 
Did you see them?”

“Sure
did.
 
Just know I’m well-oiled this
afternoon.
 
And unless I was seeing
things, I’m pretty sure they went in right here and started swimming.”
 
He pointed straight out over the water.

It
took ten minutes to find the clothing that had been sunk by the heavy stones.

Sven
was arrested on the spot, but the posse was nearly an hour behind Gage and
Angelines.

They
would not catch up.

* * *

Fortunately,
there had been no epic chase on the river.
 
Gage had navigated by Garmin, never really having to rely on it since
the river’s path was obvious and marked.
 
But after some time, when the available fuel was well below half a tank,
he began to see markers denoting a major confluence.

When
he zoomed out on the Garmin, the confluence was distinct—the Llobregat River
loomed just ahead.
 
This was good,
meaning they were now forty kilometers away from where they’d ditched the car.
 
But the bad news was the controlled locks on
the Llobregat as the river descended toward the Mediterranean.
 
According to Señora Moreno’s man Sven, once
the rivers converged, Gage and Angelines would need to find other transport
since the first locks were only a few kilometers downstream—and operated by
workers from the government.
 
Those
workers could easily be on the lookout for two fugitives.

As
they floated into a town at the confluence, Angelines turned to Gage.
 
“This is Ripoll.”

“Do
you know it?”

“Not
really.
 
It’s about like Berga.
 
Just another hill town.”

“We’ve
got to trade this boat for some other type of ride, and we need to do it very
quietly.”
 
Gage pulled the throttle back,
checking the current as the boat idled.
 
Although close to the confluence, the current was still mild.
 
Not knowing the depth near the shore, he
tilted the prop up, keeping it submerged just enough for thrust.
 
He reversed a few times, easing the boat to
the shore, a slight thud announcing their impact.

Gage
leapt from the front, holding the bow while he found two steel stakes under the
bow hatch.
 
When he turned, he saw an
older woman on her knees, peering at him from behind a clump of yellow meadow
buttercup.
 
She was on a knee-pad, a
small shovel in her hand.
 
Wearing a
straw hat held down by a filmy kerchief, Gage could see a smile on her kindly
face.