To The Lions - 02 (51 page)

“So,
these conditions are the only way you will meet?” Xavier asked.

“That’s
right,” the American replied.

Xavier
hung up the phone.

* * *

Gage
heard the click.

Xavier
Zambrano had hung up.

“Shit.”

“You
pushed him too hard!” Redon said, lowering his bloody t-shirt from his mouth.

Gage
glared at the dishonest attorney until Redon lowered his eyes.
 
Angelines was sitting in the passenger seat
of the pickup truck, her hand on her wounded leg.
   
Gage walked to her.
 
“Think he’ll call back?”

“I
don’t know how he operates.
 
But he has
so much power that I can’t imagine it’s worth it to him to meet you straight up
if he thinks he might die—even for that much money.”

“I
negotiate for a living and he was dying to meet you!” Redon chastised.
 
“But your demand was unreasonable.
 
And now he will
not
call back, and those two women are dead due to your
stubbornness.”

Gage
tilted his head back, massaging the bridge of his nose.
 
The sun had just dipped below the western
mountains, dragging behind it a blanket of cool air from the
Mediterranean.
 
As he looked up, watching
the line of aircraft on their downwind leg into El Prat airport over by the
coast, Gage saw one small aircraft in the pattern, a Cessna Caravan.
 
Larger than the plane they had flown on
earlier, the single-engine aircraft was still diminutive in comparison to the
other jet aircraft setting up in the pattern.

The
brilliant bloom of a distant idea burst from a corner of Gage’s mind.
 
He continued to eye the Caravan, flying
quickly to keep up with the commercial traffic.

This could work.

Gage
turned to Redon.
 
“Get in the truck
between her and me.”
 
He looked at
Angelines.
 
“If he twitches, shoot him in
the stomach with the AutoMag.”

Stepping
away from the noise of the bridge, Gage dug into his pocket, retrieving the
business card given to him by Arturo the jump pilot.
 
Using Redon’s phone, Gage dialed Arturo,
initially thanking him for the ride and the use of the truck before asking Arturo
a detailed set of questions.
 
He listened
to all of Arturo’s responses, satisfied with all of them but the final
objection.

“With
your transponder off, assuming you drop from radar afterward, how would they
know?”

“They
probably wouldn’t,” Arturo admitted.

“Would
you reconsider if I offered you one-hundred-thousand euro in unmarked bills?”

Arturo
chortled a rueful laugh.
 
“My friend…”

“If
you do your part correctly, I will
not
get you burned.
 
You have that on my word
as a fellow soldier.
 
I will die before I
give up your name.”

The
speaker crackled as Arturo blew out a hard breath.
 
“You’re serious?”

“I
am.
 
I can’t go to the authorities on
this one, my friend…but if I don’t act now, innocent people will die.”

“
Entiendo.
 
When can you be here?”

“Tonight,
but I’m not exactly sure what time yet.
 
We’ll call you when we’re on the way.
 
I’m still in Barcelona and I need to make a very important stop on the
way to your D.Z.”

“I
can’t get caught,” Arturo said.
 
“My
life’s been nothing but clean living since I retired from
El Grupo
.”

“Just
drop below radar until you land.
 
No one
will know and I will
never
tell.”

Arturo
grew silent for a moment.
 
“I’m in.”

“Thank
you.
 
Call you in a bit.”
 
Gage hung up and jogged to the truck, praying
that Zambrano hadn’t harmed the women.
 
He wheeled the pickup into a spinning turn on the dusty access road.

“Where
are we going?” Angelines asked.

“I
have a plan,” Gage said, wheeling the old truck into a 180-turn.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Gage
motored to the north, following the signs to the AP-7, known as the
Autopista del Mediterráneo
, running the
length of Spain’s eastern shore.
 
He
merged onto the busy highway, headed to the northeast.

“What’s
the plan?” Angelines asked.

“We’re
headed to Lloret de Mar, first.
 
There’s
a pharmacy next to where we’re going, unless my brain is playing tricks on
me.
 
I’ll get something for your pain.”

“What
about Xavier?”

“I’m
getting ready to call him.”
 
Gage took a
number of deep breaths.
 

This
was the big moment.

He
touched Xavier’s number.
 
Predictably,
Xavier didn’t answer the first time.
 
Without hesitation, Gage called again.
 
And again.

“What?”
Xavier yelled after picking up on Gage’s third try.

Breathing
a sigh of relief, Gage said, “You apologized earlier, now it’s my turn.
 
I’m sorry and, as a tactician, you’re correct
to refuse my demand.
 
You shouldn’t be
expected to agree to an unprotected meeting.”

“I’m
pleased that you’re at least intelligent enough to realize that,” Xavier stated
coldly.

“Are
the ladies still alive?”

“For
the moment.”

“Don’t
hurt them.”

“Then
don’t make stupid demands.”

“Understood.
 
How about this?
 
We meet in the same place, at Tossa.
 
You bring the women—I bring the bonds.”

“Go
on.”
 

“I’ll
have someone with me.
 
A woman.”

“De
la Mancha.”

“And
she’s wounded, Xavier.
 
A threat to no
one.”

“I
want a backup man, also.”

“No.”

“No
deal,” Xavier said.

Gage
relented.
 
“One backup man, standing at a
distance, and he better not have a rifle.”

“Have
no fear.”

Gage
knew Xavier wouldn’t honor these terms.
 
But he had to act as if he trusted the man for this situation to come
off.

“So,
we’re clear?” Gage asked.
 
“Zero-four-hundred, at the water, armed but not carrying, one man in the
distance.”

“Yes.
 
And I will bring your women.”

“I
will have the bonds and the lawyer.”

Xavier
clicked off.

Gage
rubbed his face with his free hand before handing the phone to Angelines.
 
“Turn off the phone’s radio.”

As
she did, she asked, “Why are we going to Lloret, of all places?”

Gage
was silent.

“Did
you hear me?
 
Why Lloret?”

Gage
jarred, turning to her.
 
“There’s someone
there I need to see.”

As
night fell, and the blackness of the Mediterranean to the east beckoned their
rendezvous with Xavier, the old pickup puttered on, growing closer to Lloret de
Mar.

* * *

Xavier
held the phone in his hand, his mind racing.
 
What was he not seeing?
 
What was
the angle?
 

Because
Tossa was perfect, absolutely perfect—for Xavier.

A
crescent beach.
 
Several hundred meters
of flat sand with no obstructions.
 
Plenty of beachside buildings to place a sniper.

And,
since Tossa wasn’t a party town, the entire population would be asleep.

This
was going to be too easy.

Xavier
began thumbing through his contacts.
 
He
knew just who to call.

* * *

Lloret
de Mar, Spain

The
anxious crowd numbered at least fifty people, packed five-deep inside the
velvet ropes.
 
Confined like sheep in a
pen, they breathed the universal scent of urban center dance clubs: the overblown
aroma of cologne and perfume, mingled with liquor, cigarettes, and pheromones.
 
The revelers shared a common agenda:
 
drink, have fun, and get raucously laid by
daybreak.

Gage
visited the pharmacy first.
 
Thankful
that he didn’t need a prescription in Spain, he purchased over-the-counter
antibiotics for his kidney, taking a dry double dose in front of the
cashier.
 
He then carried a large bottle
of
Espidifen
, Spanish Advil, power
bars and water bottles to the pickup truck parked on a dark street behind the
rows of brightly lit buildings.
 
Angelines was doing fine, holding the acusador at bay.
 
Gage told her to wait an hour.

“If
I’m not back by then, take the money and disappear.”

“How?”

“No
idea,” he answered honestly, walking back to the lights of the main
thoroughfare.

Gage
knew getting in was going to take some effort once he saw the mob outside of
the club Eastern Bloc.
 
Typical of clubs
like this one, a large bouncer stood on the small elevated stoop, meaty hands
clasped in front of him, ready to unleash an ass-whipping on anyone who got out
of line.
 

As
Gage lingered in the distance, he watched as two women finally exited the
club.
 
The man inside spoke by radio to
the large bouncer who then perused the waiting crowd.
 
Rather than accept the three cheesy
club-maven males at the front of the horde, the bouncer called a couple
forward, both of them striking—especially the woman.
 
As the crowd jeered his choice, the couple
waited as red bands were taped around their wrists by the man just inside the
door.
 
That done, the other bouncer, this
one outside the ropes, admitted two more people inside the ropes.

Moving
to his left, Gage could see inside the doors to the bright red stairwell.
 
Sitting where he had been when Gage first met
him was his Russian friend in the gaudy burgundy suit.
 
This was Gage’s “
priyatel
,” the one he’d relieved of the two pistols.
 

There
was no way to get to the stairwell without going through the crowd and, to do
that, Gage would have to increase his odds somehow.
 
He turned, watching the people on the busy
sidewalk until he noticed two women who certainly had the assets to pull off
his plan.
 
Gage stopped them, not
surprised at the way they recoiled.
 
Today had been a very long day and he had no illusions about his
appearance.
 
His forehead was still
bruised.
 
There were cuts on his face and,
worst of all, he could smell himself.
 
The old Army saying was, “If you can smell yourself, everyone else
smelled you two days ago.”

“We
have no money,” one of the girls immediately said in broken Spanish.

They think I’m a panhandler
.
 

Gage
smiled, hoping he could later share this story with Justina.
 
In the time he’d known her, he found her
sense of humor irresistible.
 

“I
don’t want your money,” Gage said to the young women, speaking English as he
produced a crisp hundred euro bill from his back pocket, taken from the stash
in the cardboard box.
 
“I want to pay you
for a favor.”

“We’re
not like that,” the other girl said, screwing up her face.

“This
money is yours if you simply get me into that club,” he said, pointing to the
Eastern Bloc.

The
taller of the two eyed him narrowly.
 
“What do we have to do inside?”

“Nothing,”
Gage said openly.
 
“I just need to get
in.
 
You can take the money and leave if
you like.”

The
girls, Irish if Gage heard their accents correctly, looked at one another and
shrugged.

Putting
his arms around both girls’ trim waistlines, Gage led them to the outer rope,
pushing his way through the crowd of men, ignoring protests and threats
directed at him in at least five languages.
 
The massive bouncer, charged with letting people into the inner circle,
cocked a bushy eyebrow at the trio, nodding once as he unclipped the rope,
allowing them access to the inner circle.

Once
in, Gage leaned to the one on his right, the taller one, a striking redhead
with expressive blue eyes.
 
“Now you walk
up and get the big bouncer at the door to let us in.
 
Stick this in his palm,” Gage said, handing
her a folded fifty euro bill.
 
He stood
with her friend, keeping her close to prevent her from getting crushed by the
energetic mob as he viewed the other Irish woman push her way forward, in the
way only beautiful women can get away with.
 
At the door, she stood next to the bouncer, speaking in his ear while
she pressed the money in his hand.

The
bouncer looked at his palm, a grin forming on his face as he nodded.

C’mon Igor, do it.
 
That’s got to be a night’s pay for you
.

“Igor”
wagged his finger at the crowd, saying something to Gage’s new friend.
 
She pointed directly at Gage and her
friend.
 
Breathing a sigh of relief,
combing his ragged hair with his fingers, Gage allowed the other Irish woman to
push forward, walking behind her to conceal his filthy clothing.

Finally,
upon reaching the platform, the bouncer instructed them to stand next to
him.
 
He spoke English, saying, “Next
three people come out, you go in, yes?”

The
girls stood by the bouncer as Gage stood behind them, concealing himself.
 

He
dreaded what was coming.

* * *

The
Russian in the burgundy suit was named Dmitry, a former prisoner in Moscow and
now just another thug in the globally-mushrooming
Ispanskiy
crime syndicate.
 
Things had not been going very well for Dmitry in Spain, especially
after the beating he’d taken at the hands of a stranger several weeks
before.
 
His boss, a ruthless sort named
Gennady, had beaten him further over the incident, citing his own embarrassment
at his top club man being so easily taken down by what he called a “pussy
westerner.”
 
The two pistols that were
stolen had been issued to Dmitry upon his arrival to Spain.
 
Due to their loss, Dmitry had to pay Gennady
back from his own paycheck, and Gennady’s appraisal of the Star pistols was at
least six times what they were really worth.

Though
he was a lowly soldier in the Ispanskiy syndicate, Dmitry had aspirations,
too.
 
Toward the end of his stretch in
the infamous Butyrka prison, he’d been told about the position here in Spain,
eagerly seeking it after hearing of its glorious nature, endearing himself to
one of the mob bosses by beating collections and obscene interest out of
several other prisoners.
 

Like
so many things in life, Dmitry later learned this Spain-based job wasn’t near
as glamorous as they’d made it sound.
 
He’d had no idea that he would wind up a glorified babysitter for a
dozen Polish swine.
 
He was also never
told he would work seven days a week, fourteen hours a day, for six months out
of the year.
 
Sure, since arriving, he’d
had his share of women, but one gets tired of vacationing club girls with their
disgusting white-crusted nostrils.
 

Dmitry
dreamed of his own club, operated by his own decisions.
 
He’d have an office just above the dance
floor, hidden behind a strip of mirrored windows.
 
He would arrive each evening around nine,
greeting his regulars warmly and going straight upstairs to read the numbers on
yesterday’s take.
 
By midnight he would
choose the girl he wanted, having his bouncers retrieve her and bring her to
his well-appointed office, full of chrome and leather.
 
Then, once he’d had his fill, Dmitry would
finish off the night by walking the floor, thanking the biggest spenders with a
free round on the house.

Anything
but this, sitting here in a stuffy, stinking stairwell, putting on wrist bands
and using a hand-counter to satisfy the corrupt Lloret de Mar fire marshal.

His
droning thoughts were interrupted as two couples ascended the stairs, speaking
in British accents as they made fun of the “trashy Russkie crowd” in the
club.
 
A year ago Dmitry might have
threatened them; now he simply didn’t have the energy and, honestly, could give
a shit what they thought.