To The Lions - 02 (5 page)

“When
was the last time you jumped?” Colonel Hunter asked.

“A
while.”

“Got
time for a hop and pop?
 
Get our knees in
the breeze outta the Cessna, clear the cobwebs out?”

“Are
you serious?”

“Do
I joke?”

Gage
chuckled then glanced at his watch.
 
“You
said he’s paying my fare?”

“The
itinerary they sent routes you from Fayetteville to Kennedy, then on to El
Prat.
 
Leaves around six this evening.”

“Rain
check on the jump,” Gage said.
 
“I need
to do a wash, get a shower, and throw some things in a bag.”

“I’ve
got your cash, your ticket, and the phone number I was given, all back at the
house.”
 

“Just
so we’re clear, sir, I’ll go and listen to him, but I’m not taking a job from
some Spanish mobster.”

“I
know, son.
 
Just take the man’s money and
enjoy a free trip.”
 
Hunter eyed
Gage.
 
“They told me they’re sending
someone to pick you up at El Prat.”

“Meaning,
you
told
them I was coming.”

Hunter
smiled with his eyes only.
 
“Ten grand is
ten grand.
 
In fact, I’ve already got
your money.”

“I
may have to run a little deception at El Prat.
 
I don’t like courtesy limos.”

Hunter
nodded his head knowingly.
 
“Just call
the man once you’re in country.”

“After
this, sir, wait a few weeks before you do any more favors.”

“At
least you’re flying business class,” Hunter added.

Gage
had been stepping into his truck but stopped.
 
“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“This’ll
be the easiest job I ever turned down,” Gage said just as a bevy of skydivers
began to swoop in under canopy.

Gage
Hartline had no idea of the temptation that awaited him in Spain.

* * *

Barcelona,
Spain

Back
at the gala wedding, Xavier chuckled contentedly after sending Amando back to
his wife with the incredibly indecent proposal.
 
Popping a mint into his mouth, he strode back into the main hall.
 
Across the room, up on a platform, the bride
and groom were embroiled in the ridiculous tradition of smearing cake on each
other.
 
Though he’d never been married,
and would never entertain such a notion, Xavier briefly imagined what he might
do if a girl smeared cake on him.
 
Too
cultured to mete out her punishment in public, he would handle things
afterward, making sure she—

Is that Redon?
he asked himself, interrupting his pointless train of thought.

Cortez
Redon was the top
acusador
in the
region of Catalonia—his position was similar to a state attorney in the United
States, yet more powerful.
 
A balding,
petite man, Redon was outwardly pompous—yet Xavier knew that, behind closed
doors, Redon was easily bought.
 
In fact,
they’d recently finished a transaction that had netted Redon a pile of money in
return for his not pursuing a case involving one of Xavier’s most productive
smugglers.
 
Redon’s obese wife was
talking to two other ladies as the acusador visibly slipped backward in the
throng, no doubt trying to find more interesting company to speak with.
 

Xavier
looked left, spotting Amando far across the ballroom, away from the crowd and near
the bandstand, gesticulating as he made his urgent point to his wife.
 
Feeling his arousal coming up, especially
when the wife slapped Amando, twice, Xavier turned back to Redon the acusador,
reading his lips.
 
He’d settled in with a
busty, striking young woman of no more than eighteen, telling her he’d “been noticing
her all day”, dazzling her with his embossed business card and fancy title,
urging her to call him if she “ever needed anything at all.”
 
Xavier shook his head as he closed the
distance.

“Acusador,”
Xavier said loudly, standing directly behind Redon.

Redon’s
neck and ears immediately reddened at the interruption.
 
He turned, his brow line shooting up upon
seeing Xavier.
 
Gathering himself, cutting
his eyes in both directions, he whispered, “What are you doing here?”

“Watching
these two young lovers get married, acusador.
 
Is that now a crime?”

“We
shouldn’t be seen talking,” Redon hissed.

Xavier
moved around Redon, smiling at the young woman.
 
“Call the acusador soon, darling.
 
He will do
anything
in his
power to help you…so that you might help him.”
 
Xavier let his eyes focus on her juicy
décolletage, repeating, “Anything.”
 

The
young woman’s lips parted as she eyed Xavier dreamily, tilting her head to look
at his Leones tattoo.

Disregarding
her, Xavier turned to Redon.

“Your
tastes haven’t changed, I see.”

“What
do you want?”

Xavier
glanced to the spot where Amando had been “speaking” to his wife.
 
Only Amando was there now, glumly staring
toward the rear of the grand hall.
 
Xavier’s brown eyes tracked across the parquet floor, seeing Amando’s
wife trudging to the rear concourse, mopping her eyes with a tissue.

Perfect
.

Turning
the other direction, Xavier spotted his Swedish date standing alone by the wine
bar.
 
She was looking at him, so he
motioned three minutes and pointed to the rear doors.
 
She nodded, winking at him before running her
long tongue slowly over her upper lip.
 
His exit now secure, he turned back to the corrupt government attorney.

“If
you’re uncomfortable speaking with me, Redon, please turn and watch the
festivities while I ask you a question.”
 
Redon obeyed, standing close to Xavier.
 
The newly wedded couple had made their way off the platform and were
heading to the bandstand as slices of cake were being distributed to the guests.
 
Xavier glanced at Redon to make sure he was paying
attention.
 
Though he had his eyes on the
procession, he clearly was.

“Who
that you know might have access to satellite data, in regard to satellite
phones?”

Redon
put on a broad smile when the emcee called all unmarried men and women to the
stage for the tossing of the bouquet and garter.
 
“I’m not sure I follow,” he said naturally.

“Simply
put, I want to know the exact location of someone I’m certain is using a
satellite phone.
 
I want a contact who
can track the person down to the meter.”

Redon
began slowly walking with the crowd toward the stage.
 
Numerous women formed a crescent around the
bride, laughing and jockeying for position.
 
“I’m not sure,” Redon said casually.
 
“But I’ve no doubt such a task would require,” he cleared his throat
audibly, “
tribute
to numerous
people.
 
It would be
muy caro
.
 
What else can you
tell me?”

“The
person I seek is here in Spain.
 
He’s
very careful.
 
Just find out how it can
be done and reach out to me as soon as possible.”
 
Without another word, Xavier turned and
walked to the rear of the grand hall.

The
leggy Swede awaited him, posing with one of her long legs jutting provocatively
through the slit in her dress.
 
Xavier
closed the distance quickly, glancing back to see Amando, staring from across
the room.
 
With a fluttering finger wave
Xavier led his date through the double doors, quietly shutting them and placing
an index finger over his lips.
 
His date
silently questioned him and he made a motion for patience.

Guiding
his date forward, keeping her on the carpet runner, Xavier walked on the hard
floor, so that only his set of footsteps was audible.
 
Column after column passed until the broad
area with natural light was upon them.
 

There
was a final corner concealing the scene.

What will we find around the corner?
Xavier wondered, barely able to keep himself from laughing.

As
they continued forward, they passed the corner and the decorative sofa came
into view.
 
Sitting on the sofa, leaning
back, naked as the day she was born, was Amando Segura’s wife.
 
Her hands trembled beside her, as it seemed
it was paining her not to cover herself.

Though
he had a plan that he intended to stick to, Xavier couldn’t help but feel his
pulse rate spike.
 
The wife was actually
quite attractive in the nude and, judging by what he knew of the diminutive
Amando, Xavier could think of no way he was coming close to pleasuring this
wholesome woman twenty years his junior.
 
While she didn’t have the lean, hard body of his Swedish date, Amando’s
wife possessed a natural figure without excess weight.
 
Her breasts were large and firm and, setting
Xavier off, was a small hoop navel ring that told him she was possibly
promiscuous and might have been secretly excited over this encounter.

But
it was not to be.
 
Xavier had created the
entire ruse to humiliate Amando.

Feeling
his date stiffen and gasp sharply at the ribald sight, Xavier eyed Amando’s
wife and said, “My dear, I’m not sure what you’re doing but you really should
get dressed.
 
Someone might be offended
by your nudity and I saw a number of children in there.”
 
Holding his date’s arm, they continued on.

The
Swede turned back as they walked, making a vulgar gesture at Amando’s wife and saying,
“Hora!”
 
They passed through another set of double
doors as Xavier surveyed the rooms.

At
the very rear of the massive museum, Xavier led his date into a vacant choir chamber,
taking her right there on a bench.
 
The
images of Amando’s wife and the buxom young woman the acusador had been
cajoling danced in his mind, fueling his lust.

Also
flitting through his otherwise endorphin flooded brain were images of what
would happen once he finally located his arch-nemesis, the cowardly Ernesto Navarro.

With
the intensity of a rabid wolf, Xavier howled with pleasure upon his climax.
 
His blissful wail was heard by nearly every remaining
guest at the reception.

Chapter Three

El
Prat Airport, Barcelona

During
his first-ever trip while seated in business class, Gage learned that the
exclusive front-of-the-aircraft seating afforded passengers a multitude of benefits.
 
From the lie-flat seats to the constant
service of food and booze, Gage could tell the airline had worked diligently to
make sure that an average passenger who happened to be flying in the front
would debark and immediately swear to never fly coach again.
 
While he felt the service was a bit overdone,
especially on an eastbound flight that traveled through the night, Gage could
see why some people would opt to pay a severe multiple of the coach price just
for the lie-flat seat alone.

Gage
had performed memorization work during the first portion of the flight.
 
Though he despised it—it elicited bad
memories of high school biology exams—memorization was one of the most
important preparations for his type of work.
 
After memorizing phone numbers and names, he scanned images from Google
Earth, studying each of the seaside cities and the restaurant he planned to use
for the first meeting.
 
Then he studied
avenues of approach, of escape, and landmarks.

Satisfied
that he had everything down pat, Gage eventually slept.
 
Having no need for May’s featured wine, an Italian
Piemonte, he had shooed his flight attendant away three hours into the nine-hour
flight, telling her to discontinue his service so he could get a little
rest.
 
Thankfully for Gage (and setting
off a memory about another flight he’d once been on) there were no unruly
passengers aboard this flight, and he could feel his mind slowing to a point
where he’d eventually slumbered.
 

Though
he’d have loved to have gotten six hours of sleep, he managed about four,
sleeping fitfully despite all the features that had been provided to make him
comfortable.
 
It wasn’t the airline’s
fault—he blamed himself.
 
This was the
first time he had traveled back to Europe since the business with the diaries,
and Monika.
 
Understandably, his nerves
were slightly on edge.
 
This time,
however, his destination was not Germany or France.
 
The 767 he was aboard had just parked at the
Terminal 1 gate of Barcelona’s sprawling El Prat airport.

Upon
clearing customs with his counterfeit passport, Gage stepped to his flight’s
luggage carousel where he retrieved two large suitcases, already on the
revolving belt, both wrapped in purple ribbons and appearing stuffed to the
gills.
 
He hoisted his carry-on onto the
top of the two suitcases and made a pit stop at the restroom, donning a loud
Hawaiian shirt from his suitcase.
 
He
shook out a droopy ball cap, tugging it down over his hair, then began the trek
to the main terminal, purposefully walking adjacent to a garishly-dressed vacationing
woman in her mid-fifties.
 

There
were additional customs officers at the exit but they paid him no heed.
 
With his showy clothing and large suitcases,
Gage looked absolutely nothing like an arriving mercenary. He stepped into the
throng outside the secure area, estimating that there were sixty people
awaiting arriving passengers.
 
To the
right stood a row of drivers, each holding a sign.
 
Gage noted the one holding the sign for
“Harris,” the name he was supposed to be traveling under.

Pressing
forward through the crowd, staying next to the woman, Gage glanced left, seeing
another man well behind the crowd.
 
He
was leaning against an advertisement-adorned column, his eyes narrowed as he
studied each passenger coming through the door.
 
Gage glimpsed the man’s illuminated iPhone, held low and half-concealed.
 
As Gage continued to walk, he angled behind
the man.
 
The man lifted the phone,
mimicking the actions of a person typing a quick text or email.
 
But he was checking the photo, and the photo
was none other than Gage Hartline, almost certainly taken surreptitiously and,
from what Gage could tell, at some point in the last year.

Believing
he’d escaped both men’s watchful eyes, Gage ambled on, lugging his two prop suitcases
which happened to be stuffed with clothes from Goodwill’s dollar rack.
 
He angled right, descending a conveyor that
took him to a lower level, to the taxi stand.
 
On the lower, outdoor level, Gage donned dark sunglasses.
 
He paused, appearing to stare up at the signage,
but cut his eyes back to the ramp.
 
He saw
no one who appeared to be following him.
 
Making an educated guess, he felt the driver and his partner were the
only two who were waiting for him.
 
They
would have assumed he’d not checked any bags and, by this time, were probably
beginning to panic since he hadn’t appeared.

It
was time to leave.

Since
it was so early in the day, the taxi line was short.
 
Gage told the attendant he wanted to be taken
to the seaside resort of Lloret de Mar, drawing raised eyebrows from the
man.
 

“Señor,
that will be a very expensive fare.
 
More
than a hundred euro.”

“It’s
okay,” Gage said with the same stupid grin.
 
“My company is paying for this whole trip.
 
As long as I get a receipt, we’ll let old man
Humphries worry about it.”

The
attendant, who’d no doubt heard it all in the busy tourist destination, smiled
disinterestedly at Gage’s reply and scribbled “Lloret” on the taxi card.
 
He deposited Gage’s bags into the rear of the
mini-van taxi and received a five-euro tip in return.
 
As the taxi exited the airport into the
morning traffic, the driver glanced at the taxi card and asked Gage where in
Lloret he would like to be taken.

“Where
the main entry road meets the beach,” Gage answered in English, hearkening back
twenty-two years.
 
And despite the
somewhat uncomfortable seat, he reclined and managed to nap for the entire
hour-long trip, relieved that his first obstacles had been cleared.

* * *

Lloret
de Mar, Spain

Upon
his arrival in the seaside resort, and after paying the exorbitant cab fare
with the expense money he’d been fronted, Gage checked into a second-row hotel,
booking a modest room for the night for considerably less than what he’d paid
for his ride from Barcelona.
 
He took a
shower, making the water very hot to ease his cramped muscles.
 
The gash on Gage’s elbow burned in the water,
making Gage briefly wonder what had become of the four Fiends back in Waco.

From
the few clothes he’d wedged into his pack, he donned cargo shorts and a
t-shirt, an outfit that would blend in well in the inexpensive seaside
town.
 
Then Gage headed back outside.
 
It was now nearly noon and the May sun baked
the Mediterranean resort.
 
The streets
were quiet in the likely hung-over party town, with most of the foot traffic
wearing the bored countenance of locals. Gage walked inland, following Avinguda
del Rieral for about a kilometer until he saw the large hotel he’d noticed on
the drive in.
 
Its brass sign out front
claimed four-star-S status—exactly what Gage needed.

After
eyeing the main entrance for a moment, he entered the sprawling hotel complex
through the side entry, at the spa and tennis courts.
 
There, after practicing a bit of his rusty
Spanish on the pert female attendant—enjoying her radiant smile and affected
interaction—he threw one of the embroidered hotel courtesy towels over his
shoulder and wended his way into the cavernous main lobby of the hotel, just
any old guest coming back from a trip to the spa.

While
Lloret de Mar is a bargain basement destination for much of Europe, it still
commands incredible views and is situated ideally between Barcelona, the
Pyrenees, and the French border.
 
The
nightlife is famously frenetic, especially during the summer months, as teens
and twenty-somethings from all over Europe flock to the resort’s energy and low
prices.
 
Most of the hotels near the
water, such as the one Gage had checked into, were quite inexpensive.
 
This four-star-S hotel, however, catered to a
different type of client.
 
In the lobby
he spotted the bright white clothing and freshly groomed lap dogs he’d seen
during his last trek to Paris.
 
And
although he was wearing a common t-shirt and plain shorts, Gage put on an
important air, laboring to add a German accent to his Spanish as he asked the
concierge for a courtesy phone.

“Of
course, sir,” the concierge said, whipping a cordless phone from an unseen spot
behind the counter.
 

Gage
situated himself in a corner leather chair, dialing a long series of calling
card numbers from memory, learning that he had only a few dollars’ worth of
time remaining.
 

I should recharge the phone card
now
,
he thought.
 
Upon glancing at his watch,
short on time, he decided to do it afterward.
 
He then dialed the phone number he’d been given, pulling in a breath as
the phone rang.

“
Díme
,” commanded the person who picked
up.

“May
I please speak with El Jefe?” Gage asked, remembering the explicit instructions
that he was not to use Navarro’s name on the telephone.

“I
know who this is.”
 
A pause.
 
“Where are you?”

“What’s
important is that I’m calling El Jefe.”
 
Gage could hear what he guessed was Navarro’s voice in the background,
speaking in Catalan-accented Spanish.
 
There were a few muffled sounds before a new voice could be heard on the
line.
 
The voice was odd-sounding, as if
it were computer-generated.

“Is
this Mister Harris?”

“It
is.”

“Mister
Harris, my men awaited your arrival at the airport.
 
Was there a problem?”

“No,
señor.
 
I suppose I didn’t see them.”

“But
you made the flight?”

“Yes,
and thank you for the business class seating.
 
I’ve never enjoyed such comfort.”

There
was a pause.
 
“I was expecting we would
be meeting by this time.”

“A
meal works best for me.
 
Meet me this
evening at nine, in Tossa de Mar, in the pedestrian area.
 
There’s an Italian restaurant there called Il
Dipinto.
 
I’d prefer you be alone.”

Despite
the voice modulator, Gage could hear the tiniest note of indignation.
 
“You will pardon me for saying, but when I pay
a sizeable retainer and fund a person’s travel, I’m not accustomed to being
directed what to do and where to be.”
 

“And
you will please pardon me for my careful nature.
 
Because, señor, this is the only way I will
agree to meet you.
 
If you do not agree
with my request, you will not see or hear from me again.”

“I
cannot come alone, or to the place of your choosing.
 
I have far too many enemies to hazard such a
directive.”

“Would
you hire me, especially going through the channels you did, if you didn’t trust
me?”

Navarro’s
silence provided Gage his answer.

“Señor,
the restaurant is in an alleyway.
 
Bring
one man and post him at the head of the alleyway.
 
One man
only
.
 
I will be alone and I have no intention of
doing anything other than dining, and chatting, with you.”

The
modulator squelched as Navarro exhaled loudly into the phone.
 
“Agreed.
 
Nine this evening.”

“I
look forward to meeting you then.”

Forgetting
to recharge his calling card, Gage thumbed off the phone and handed it back to
the concierge along with a crisp ten euro bill.
 
He made his face contemplative, tapping the polished counter with his
fingernail.

“Can
I help you with something else, señor?”

Gage
nodded, removing another ten from his pocket.
 
“Would you be able to assist me in the hire of
a small charter boat for an evening cruise?”

The
concierge beamed as he consulted an old-fashioned Rolodex.

* * *

After
walking back to his own hotel, Gage napped until nearly 5:30 in the afternoon.
 
When he awoke, aside from his lingering jet
lag, Gage felt quite good.
 
Following
another shower, he dressed in his favorite khaki utility pants and a long-sleeved
bush shirt.
 
Smelling of soap and
shampoo, Gage made his way out into the early evening and headed to the main
strip, near where it intersected with the beachfront road, headed to a unique
club he’d noticed earlier in the day.