To The Lions - 02 (52 page)

Working
the button on his hand-counter with one hand, Dmitry depressed the button on
his Motorola handset with his other, saying,
“Otpravitʹ v chetyrekh lyudey.”
 
It meant, “Send in four more.”

In
seconds, two leggy beauties strode through the door, turning and saying
something to their friend before heading down the stairs.
 
Then, suddenly, Dmitry’s cold, gray world
brightened considerably.
 
Because
standing in the door of the Eastern Bloc, his bruised face illuminated in a
gothic red shadow by the CCCP neon light, was the man who’d beaten Dmitry and
taken his pistols.

Filthy
and stinking, the man immediately placed both of his hands behind his head and,
speaking English, said, “I come in peace and mean you no harm.
 
In fact, I’m here to tell you something you
and your associates will certainly want to hear.”

Dmitry
hardly heard the words.
 
Instead, he
lurched from behind his small stand with a leather-wrapped sap.
 
Though the American partially blocked the
blow to his head, it was enough to knock him down.

And
that made Dmitry happy.

* * *

Gage
sat in an office chair, his hands still behind his head.
 
His fall had been faked.
 
The blow from the Russian had hurt, all right—hurt
his left forearm, which is what Gage used to parry the blow.
 
But, knowing he needed to let the suited ape
be the hero, Gage had fallen, throwing his hands up as if asking for mercy.
 
With the assistance of one of the colossal bouncers,
the Russian had wrenched Gage’s arm behind his back, walking him down the
stairs and, after striking the double doors with Gage’s face and body, into the
pulsating disco.

As
Gage had been shoved over the length of the long club, he looked to his left,
to the bar where, just weeks before, Justina had poured him a beer.

The
thought of her clamped on his heart.

He
had been led through a brightly-lit rear hallway, then into a darkened office
outfitted with cheap furniture and one laptop computer.
 
That’s where he now sat.
 
There was a floor safe in the corner and, on
each wall, cheaply framed photographs of nude women, obviously taken by an
amateur who thought he was a professional.

The
big bouncer, after listening to Gage’s friend’s instructions, had taken his
leave.
 
Now it was just Gage and his
Russian buddy, Dmitry, who happened to be aiming a Walther PP, made conspicuous
by the curved ribbon logo, at Gage’s head.

“I
had to buy gun after you steal my other two guns, you piece shit!” the Russian
said, spitting on Gage’s face.

Wishing
he could wipe the spittle from his nose and mouth, Gage pressed on.
 
“I’m here today to pay you for those
pistols.”

“Pay
me?”

“I
brought you the money for them.
 
It’s in
my back pocket,” Gage said, slowly lowering his right hand.

The
Russian twisted the pistol gangster style.
 
“Wait for Gennady!” he growled.

As
if on cue, the office door banged open and in walked the one who must be
Gennady.
 
Gage recalled having seen him
behind the club on the night he’d liberated Justina.
 
Not overly tall, the man had a shaved head and
his face, other than a lantern jaw, was unremarkable.
 
It was his steroid-enhanced muscles, however,
that were the man’s most noticeable asset.
 
He wore a custom gray suit with a wide-collared, powder blue shirt,
unbuttoned halfway down his stomach to reveal his numerous gold chains floating
over his prison tattoos and rippling abs.
 

“This
is man who robbed me of guns!” Dmitry yelled.
 
“The one who kidnapped Justina from us!”

After
murmuring something to Dmitry with what Gage felt was a note of disdain, the
man named Gennady sneered at Gage.

“Vy govorite na russkom?”
he asked.

Gage
knew enough Russian phrases to know he’d just been asked if he spoke
Russian.
 
Keeping his unchallenging eyes
down, Gage replied, “Only English, German, or Spanish.”

Gennady
rubbed the stubble on his broad chin, poking his lips out as he nodded.
 
Then, with that same hand, he open-handed
Gage across his face.
 
Having seen it
coming, Gage turned his cheek as the blow struck.
 
It hurt, but Gage had been prepared for some
pain when he’d come up with this foolhardy scheme.

“That,
pindos
, was for first stepping foot
in my club.”
 
From his pocket he
retrieved a chrome switchblade, flicking it open to reveal a long blade.
 
“And the scar I’m going to leave across your
face is for what you took from Dmitry, and me.”
 
Gennady hitched his head to Dmitry.
 
Dmitry moved behind Gage, grasping his wrists and tugging downward.
 
It was an awkward position and one Gage would
have a tough time resisting from.

“Wait,
Gennady,” Gage grunted through the pain.
 
“Just listen to me for one minute.”

The
Russian was pulling down so hard on Gage’s arms that Gage feared his shoulders
might dislocate.
 
Gennady jabbed Gage’s
already sore forehead above his temple, obviously getting ready to give Gage a
diagonal face slash—a mark of a thief in Russia.

“Why
would I have come back?” Gage yelled as the blade pierced his thick hide of
skin on his forehead, beginning to slowly scrape downward.
 
“I’ve brought you something!”

The
sound of the blade grinding against skull was worse than fingers on a
chalkboard.

“Millions
of euro!” Gage added.

Though
Gage couldn’t tell from his wrenched-backward position, Gennady had only cut a
few centimeters of Gage’s forehead.
 
The
Russian stopped cutting, straightening and telling Dmitry to ease up.

With
the tip of the blade aimed at Gage’s eye, Gennady said, “You’ve got ten
seconds,
pindos
.”

“Have
you heard of Los Leones?” Gage asked, a steady trickle of blood running through
his right eyebrow.

“What
about Los Leones?”

“I’m
meeting their top man tonight, in an isolated spot.”

No
response.

“Don’t
you get it?” Gage asked.
 
“Their man,
Xavier Zambrano, could easily be taken down or even captured at this meeting.”

Gennday
listened to this impassively, shrugging afterward as he curled his lip.
 
“So?”

“Xavier
Zambrano is everything to Los Leones.
 
They’re struggling to take over Los Soldados, Ernesto Navarro’s
operation.”
 
Gage arched his eyebrows.
 
“Navarro was just killed.
 
You know that, right?”

“What
is meaning of this?”
 

Gage
spaced out his words.
 
“Los Leones is
shaky and has poor leadership.
 
If you
take Zambrano down, assuming you import enough muscle, you could potentially
assume Los Leones’ position in Spain.”

“Why
you telling me this?”

“Because
I have a problem with Los Leones and Xavier Zambrano.
 
But I have
no
problem with you.”

Gennady
lowered the switchblade and rubbed his whiskers.
 
“You think killing Zambrano will end Los
Leones?
 
I knew you were stupid for
robbing from the
brotherhood
—now I
think you’re just crazy.”
 
Again he
hitched his head at Dmitry, who yanked down on Gage’s wrists.

“Argh!”
Gage grunted, recalling what Ernesto Navarro had initially told him.
 
“Listen to me!
 
Los Leones are broke!
 
They have no money!”

“So
what?” Gennady asked, holding the knife over Gage’s forehead.

“They
can’t go on without the money I
have
in my possession.
 
If
you
have the money, you can demand Los
Leones fall in behind you.”

Gennady
was straddling Gage on the chair, having touched the blade of the knife into
the wound again.
 
“What money?”

The
pressure on his wrists eased slightly.
 
“Told you…
argh
…I’ve got damn
near a million in euro, in loose cash.
 
That’s why I am meeting Xavier tonight.
 
He thinks the money is his.”

Gennady
pressed down on the blade as if he were trying to bore a hole in Gage’s
skull.
 
“Why he thinks it’s his?”

“Because
Zambrano has something I want,” Gage growled through clenched teeth.

“What
he has?”

“Justina,
the Polish woman who used to work for you!”

Gennady
pulled back, cocking his eyebrow.
 
Amusement darted over his face.
 
“This cannot be true.”

After
a few deep breaths Gage said, “Well, it is.”

“You
came here today, knowing you’d be beaten, for poor Polish girl?”

“Yes,”
Gage answered earnestly.
 
“I came for
her, and her alone.”

Still
amused, as if he were listening to a child spinning fantastic lies, Gennady’s
iron chest hitched in a chuckle as he glanced back at Dmitry.
 
“A million euro?”

“Reach
down and get a wad of it from my back pocket.”

Gennady
lifted his chin.
 
As the pressure on his
right hand was released, Gage leaned forward so Dmitry could retrieve the wad
from his back pocket.
 
He slid the money
out, handing it to Gennady.
 
It was still
banded, though Gage had used a few bills earlier.

“That’s
payment for the guns.”

“Where
is rest of money?” Gennady asked, moving forward.

“The
cash I have is not for you.
 
I’m offering
you Xavier Zambrano.
 
And, just so you
know, Ernesto Navarro’s fortune is still hidden out there somewhere.
 
If you can take the mantle in Spain, the
spoils are yours.”

“I
don’t believe you.
 
This is trap.”

“Again
I ask you, why would I come here otherwise?” Gage asked.
 
“I didn’t come here to die.
 
I came to make a deal with you.”

Gennady
said something in Russian to Dmitry, who released Gage’s arms.
 
Gennady eyed Gage.
 
“You want us to kill Zambrano.”

“I
don’t care what you do to him,” Gage answered.
 
“But, in return for me delivering him to you, you must agree to do
things my way.
 
Because I just want to
get my girls and leave.”

“Girls?”

“Yeah.”

Gennady
depressed the button on his knife, and stashed his blade.
 
“Explain,
pindos
.”

The
three men met for twenty minutes.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Tossa
de Mar, Spain

It
was 3:47 A.M.
 
The breeze that had at
first seemed cool now whipped with chilly fervor, combining with the dampness
of the Mediterranean to seep into a person’s bones in minutes.
 
Few lights burned in windows.
 
Most of the illumination came from street
lamps with the balance being cast down in electric blue by the waxing gibbous
moon.

The
seaside town’s lone night patrol idled by the beach strip, turning up the
curving road that led back into the hills.
 
Angelines watched this from the alleyway very near where Gage had first
met Ernesto Navarro.
 
When the car had
passed, she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, the dangerous excitement of the
situation making her tingle in her loins.

“Shouldn’t
we be the first ones out there?” she asked.

“Unless
they have sniper on rooftop.”

“I
hope this goes to plan.”

He
held his fingers scissored open for her cigarette, which he accepted and
dragged deeply from.
 
“Nothing ever goes
like plan,” he replied, exhaling smoke and dropping the cigarette to the
ground, twisting his boot on it.
 
“But
we’ll chance sniper.
 
We don’t have
choice.”

As
he carried the cardboard box loaded with money and the alleged bearer bonds,
Angelines led the way out onto the beach, limping heavily.
 
She turned as she walked down the boardwalk,
their feet scratching over scattered sand on the wooden planks.
 
Her nervous perspiration added to her chill.
 

And
the filmy, oversize white blouse she wore unbuttoned over her camisole was
doing absolutely nothing to keep her warm.

It
was, however, serving its purpose as it popped and furled with the
southwesterly breeze.

* * *

Moments
earlier, Xavier had parked the Mercedes on Passeig del Mar, between the Club
Hotel Giverola and the Mediterranean Sea.
 
Passeig del Mar was typically brightly lit, teeming with cheery
restaurants and bars, each covered with the massive beer or cigarette umbrellas
so typical of European cafés.
 
But at
this time of night the beachside resort was deserted, spooky even, except for
the lights approaching from Xavier’s rear.
 
He could see the reflection of dormant blue lights on top of the car and
the
policia
markings on the
hood.
 

“Don’t
move,” he commanded the man beside him.
 
His rear passengers were slumped down and sleeping, so Xavier and his
partner sat perfectly still as the police car idled past, never once
slowing.
 
The car turned up the hill into
the town, disappearing and marked only by the glow of its taillights, slowly
fading to darkness.

Then,
from the black rectangle of one of the pedestrian streets, two figures emerged.
 
One was large and well-muscled, lugging a
cardboard box.
 
He fit the bill for the
American, although he wore a dark watch cap pulled down over his hair.
 
The other, wearing a bright white shirt, was
female.
 
She was limping.
 
Xavier lifted the binoculars to his eyes,
watching as the couple strode under the decorative street lamp that marked the
strip.
 
He wasn’t at all surprised to see
Angelines de la Mancha, the captain from Berga.
 
That’s who he thought it would be.
 
Xavier couldn’t help but briefly recall the stories he’d heard about
her, sexual stories, involving his prison chief, El Toro.

Why is she still with the
American?
 
What is there to gain?
 
Is he screwing her?
 
And, if so, what would he want with this
Polish girl and the old woman?

He
glanced back.
 
The Polish girl, despite
her haggard appearance, was beautiful.
 
He
could see why the American might want
her
.
 
But why the old lady?

And what is Angelines de la Mancha’s
angle?

“Do
you see your friend?” Xavier asked the man in his passenger seat.

“He’s
there.”

“You
two better be as good as advertised.”

The
man snapped his fingers and held out his hand.
 
Xavier placed two banded stacks of money in his hand.
 
“Stay by the beach wall until the shooting
goes down, then clean it up.”

“I
heard you earlier,” the mercenary said.

“Well,
hear me again.”

The
man exited the car, gently closing the door and low-crawling into a covered
doorway next to the car.
 
He’d come by
earlier, smashing the light above the door.
 
Now, standing there in the blackness, protected from above, the
mercenary was virtually invisible.

Once
he was in place, Xavier turned to the backseat. “Wake up!” he yelled, watching
in the mirror as the two women started.
 
Before leaving his rental home he’d injected them again, this time with
only a half-dose of parlador.
 
In fact,
he’d kept them drugged all night, having given each woman a total of four
injections since his nurse friend had perished.

Their
arms were behind their backs, handcuffed.
 
He turned around, watching as the two women blinked their eyes, the
confusion of their drug-induced haze far too much to quickly blink away.

“You,”
he said to Justina.
 
“Sit up.”
 
He pointed to the pair walking on the boardwalk.
 
“Is that your boyfriend, Hartline, carrying
the box?”

She
leaned forward, her eyes dilated, a line of drool spilling from her open
mouth.
 
He again pointed to the boardwalk
leading out to the beach, where the two darkening shadows walked.

“Tak,”
was all she said, the answer coming in her native Polish as her head fell
forward onto the seat.

Xavier
lifted the small radio the mercenaries had given him and pressed the
button.
 
“How does the shot look?”

“Clean
and easy,” the sniper answered.

“See
anything unusual?”

“Only
that the woman is limping.”

“He
said she was wounded.
 
Could be
bullshit.
 
See any weapons?”

“The
man is very muscular and is packing under his shirt, backside.
 
Amateur hour.”

“Have
you seen anyone else?”

“Just
the cop that just did a drive-by.”

“You’re
sure?”

“I’ve
peered at every nook and cranny with the thermal scope.
 
There’s no one.”

“You’re
sure about the shot?”

A
momentary pause.
 
“There’s a stiff
breeze, about fifteen kilometers an hour and my range is a hundred and forty
meters.”

“I
don’t want statistics,” Xavier snapped.
 
“Can you hit them?”

“Easy,
pal…I’m explaining myself,” the second mercenary said.
 
“Now, I’m confident I can be inside of a
half-meter on my first shot.
 
So, when
you signal me, just make sure you take a step back.
 
If I don’t kill him on the first shot, I will
on the second, even if he runs.”

“Get
the woman, too.”

“She’ll
be the fun one, scrambling around while her boyfriend’s brains are all over her
face.”
 
The radio crackled.
 
“But why not just shoot now?”

Xavier
cursed.
 
“I’ve got to
verify
that they have the bonds.
 
Got it?
 
Do—
not
—shoot until I touch my
head.”

“Just
know, when your right hand touches anything north of your neck, I’m sending
lead downrange.”

“Make
sure you finish these two women before the both of you disappear.
 
You’ll get the balance of your money in the
morning while the media converges on this slaughter.”

“Just
remember,” one of the American mercenaries warned, “if you fuck us, you’ll be
the one in our crosshairs.”

“How
frightening,” Xavier said, monotone.
 
“Just don’t miss.”
 
He hung up and
stepped from his Mercedes, opening the rear door and dragging the old woman
out.
 
After situating her on the adjacent
park bench, looking out over the blackness of the ocean, he pulled Justina from
the car, shushing her as she stirred.

When
both women were safely situated on the bench, he stood beside them until they
slumped into each other, unconscious again.
 
Xavier nudged the rear door shut with his hip, checking the pistol in
the right pocket of his charcoal gray Burberry waistcoat.

The
couple had walked past the end of the boardwalk, out to the foamy edge of the
surf.

“Seventeen
million,” he privately sang as he strode forward.
 
“Seventeen million followed by a decadent
month in Mallorca.”

* * *

As
the members of the treacherous liaison converged upon one another, Cortez Redon
cried in the pickup truck.
 
Wrapped
around his head were several layers of thick duct tape, covering his mouth.
 
It had restricted his breathing and, once the
tears began, his nose began to get stuffy.
 
Now, with each exhalation, pink snot bubbles burst outside his shattered
nose as he struggled for breath.

A
sturdy pair of Russian handcuffs bound Redon to the steering wheel of the
battered pickup.
  
Once Redon had begun laboring
to breathe, he’d decided to try to be constructive rather than give up.
 
Upon sliding his loafers off, he lowered
himself into the floorboard, probing under the seats with his bare feet.
 
Using his feet as pincers, he removed all
manner of items.
 
But the most important
item was the tool he’d just transferred to his hindered hands.

A
screwdriver.

After
popping the horn cover off with the screwdriver, he had just enough slack in
the cuffs to turn the screws that held the steering wheel fast.

It
was a tedious job, but Redon was highly motivated.
 
He had no desire to be around when the beach
meeting ended.
 
Though, if pressed, he
hoped Xavier Zambrano prevailed.
 
But,
after all that had transpired, neither party was very palatable to Redon.
 
If it were up to him, they all should die.

But
what motivated Cortez Redon the most was what was hidden behind the seat of the
old truck.

That
item, a sheaf of A4 linen paper, was his nirvana.

* * *

“Here
he comes,” Angelines said.

“Alone.”

“Yeah,
so it appears.”
 
Her tone changed.
 
“Gage, are you reading me over all this wind
and surf?”

“I’ve
had you the entire time,” he replied.
 
“We’re banking hard, circling so I can use the scope.
 
Do you hear the airplane?”

“The
surf and wind are way too loud.”

“Good.
 
I can see the body moving in your
direction.
 
Is it Xavier?”

“Yes,”
Angelines answered.

“Good,”
Gage replied.
 
“Make sure you stand to
the south, facing the north.”

“That’s
how we’re set up,” Angelines said.

“Almost
show time,” Gage said.
 
“Once I pop this
door, communication is over.
 
Dmitry, do
you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Straight
back from the boardwalk they walked out on, directly across the street, is a
restaurant with four umbrellas out front.
 
I cannot make out colors on the scope, but if you walked straight off
the boardwalk, you’d eventually walk into the restaurant.”

“I’ve
got it,” Dmitry answered.

“On
top of that building, pressed up against the façade, is a nice warm body.
 
I’m guessing he’s holding a three-oh-eight,
or something similar.
 
Stay back because I
bet that sniper has a thermal scope like this one and as soon as your warm body
is exposed he’s got you.”

“He
not see me,” Dmitry said.
 
“Anyone else?”

“Xavier
put two live bodies on the bench by his car.
 
I hope to God that’s my two girls.
 
Otherwise, there’s not another warm soul that I can find,” Gage
answered.
 
“Keep in mind, he could have
others out there.”