To The Lions - 02 (55 page)

“Together
again,” Justina said, pressing her lips to his.

When
she pulled back, Gage whispered, “We made it.”

Then
he passed out.

* * *

Twelve
minutes later, after the beach was sealed off by a Catalonian state police SWAT
team, each of the individuals involved were loaded into a line of
ambulances.
 
Gage, under the influence of
heavy morphine, and accompanied by two armed police officers, mumbled questions
to his accompanying police.

Most
puzzling to the police were Gage’s repeated, out of place questions about the
well-known Catalonian Acusador Cortez Redon.

Gage
Hartline would have surgery in two hours and not awaken until the following day.

And
somewhere, well up the beach, clinging to a wet rock, was the single bearer
bond Xavier Zambrano had held when Gage collided with him.

It
was the only one of Señora Moreno’s bearer bonds still unaccounted for.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Barcelona,
Spain

Nine
days later, Gage and Justina held hands as they waited on the closed-door
meeting to end.

Gage,
having refused a wheelchair for this, his first trip away from the hospital,
sat in a desk chair, his leg propped on another chair.

Justina,
sitting to his right and looking vibrant in cheap, off-the-sale-rack clothes
provided her by someone at the Polish Consul General, winked at Gage as they
waited.

Señora
Moreno, flanked by three of her own attorneys, spoke.
 
Though her voice was slightly modulated by
her redone stitches, it was still quite clear.
 
She proudly remarked about what a dashing couple Gage and Justina
made.
 
She asked each of her
attorneys—gray-haired, scowling, overstuffed men—if they agreed.
 
After much throat clearing and collar adjusting,
each of the men, as if she were the only person on earth who might somehow cow
them, mumbled undecipherable yet obsequious agreements.

Finally,
after nearly an hour, the closed-door session ended.
 
All of the officials exited the office, returning
to the well-appointed ante-room.
 
Among
others were the United States Consul General from Barcelona, her counterpart
from Poland, Colonel Hunter (who had been with Gage for nearly a week now),
numerous officials from the Spanish State Department, and a host of suited, yet
shadowy, men whose presence was never explained.

The
chief man from the Spanish State Department, another whose name and position
were never given to Gage, stood in the center of the group, continuing in
English as they had done prior to the private session.
 
He looked at Señora Moreno, smiling in a
suddenly unctuous manner.

“Señora
Moreno, after reviewing your involvement in this…well, this regrettable and
astonishing set of circumstances…it is our position that, provided you vow your
continued silence and sign agreements to that end, you shall be free to
go.
 
Your employees who intervened in the
escape will also be free of any charges.
 
Additionally, due to the hazard created by the alleged criminal activity
that occurred, you will—”

“Alleged?”
one of her attorneys roared.

The
man next to the state department representative spoke up.
 
“Let’s not split hairs, Molina,” he whispered
forcefully.

Molina.

“Pardon
me, Señora Moreno,” Molina said, recovering smoothly.
 
“Due to what you endured, the Catalonian
government, through an agreement that will accompany your vow of silence, will
compensate you for all future medical treatment, and we agree to work vigorously
with your representation to finalize a pain-and-suffering settlement within
thirty days,” he cut eyes to her attorneys, “as
demanded
by your battery of representation.”

Despite
the hidden stitches in her face, Señora Moreno looked around, crossing her
hands on her lap and smiling as if her pie just won the contest at a county
fair.

“You
may go, madam,” Molina said, gesturing to the door.

“No.”

Molina
stiffened, looking to the man to his right.
 
That man, probably also an attorney, said, “Señora Moreno, what we have
to discuss with the others is confidential.”

Ignoring
him, Señora Moreno huddled with her attorneys.
 
Anyone in the room could hear that she was doing one hundred percent of
the talking.
 
Finished, one of her
attorneys spoke for her.
 
“Señora Moreno
wants to stay.
 
It’s her right to hear
all that is said.”

“That
wasn’t part of our agreement,” Molina said, his ears glowing red while his
clasped hands fidgeted with one another.

“Let
her stay,” Gage remarked in a soft voice.
 
“The rest involves Justina and me—we have no secrets at all from this
fine lady.
 
Her intervention saved our lives.”

The
state department’s attorney again massaged the bridge of his nose as he seemed
to whisper something acquiescent.
 
The
only truly audible portion was a well-known English curse word.

“Fine,
then,” Molina murmured.
 
He turned to
Gage, his tone turning to one of distaste.
 
“Mister Hartline, in a similar accord, we are going to suspend
prosecution against you provided you also vow silence, through an airtight
non-disclosure agreement, and leave this country immediately with an agreement
to
never
return.”

Gage
turned to Colonel Hunter.
 
Hunter, in
that way of his, where he smiled with only his eyes, gave a slight nod of his
head.

“And?”
Gage asked, adjusting himself in his chair.

“Provided
you sign the agreement, that is all.”

“My
injuries?”

“Your
medical bills will be forgiven,” the lawyer next to Molina said, his lip
curled.
 
“We’ll see to that.”

“And
Miss Kaminski, what about her?”

The
state department attorney’s words cracked like three well-aimed bullets.
 
“Same—exact—agreement.”

“And?”
Gage asked.

“And,
what?
 
Were you hoping for something
else?” Molina asked, his accent overdone, emphasizing “else,” making it sound
like the nastiest of words.

“Before
you went into that room, I had several requirements.”
 
Gage rose, supporting himself with his
crutches.
 
“Were they met?”

“They
will be when the agreement is signed.”

Again,
Gage turned to Hunter, who spoke in that soft steel voice of his, sounding like
a Montanan rancher talking about his cattle.
 
“In return for you not talking about all the damned corruption they got
in this government”—his eyes surveyed the room as he said this—“they’ll
compensate you to the tune of five grand, U.S., for each week you’ve been here,
rounded up.”

Gage
let out a relieved breath.
 
“And what
about Angelines de la Mancha?”

Hunter
shook his head.
 
“They’re going to take
care of the mother and son, and they’ve agreed to transparency to our state
department so we can monitor the situation.”

“What
about Angelines?” Gage asked.

“Short
stint in prison,” Hunter said flatly.
 
“Club-Fed
type…nothing like that animal farm where you were.”

“The
laws she broke were egregious,” Molina said, lifting his pointy nose.

“You
mean, the laws she broke along with your government officials?” Gage asked.

Molina
and the attorney joined eyes then looked away.

No
one said anything for several moments until Justina broke the silence.
 
“What about my friend, the man in the
wheelchair in Tossa de Mar?”

“He
doesn’t want his name revealed,” Molina replied, his tone much different when
speaking to Justina.
 
“He’s under a full
pension due to his war injuries and he told us to tell those involved that he
was ‘just doing his duty,’ whatever that means.”
 

As
the meeting was ending, Gage brought up a subject he’d brought up every day
since the incident at Tossa de Mar.
 
“What about Cortez Redon?”

Molina
let out an exasperated breath.
 
“He’s
missing.
 
If we had found him, we would
tell you.”

“Perhaps
someone killed him,” the attorney said, staring at Gage with an arched
brow.
 
“Perhaps that person who killed
him keeps asking about Redon in an effort to throw the investigators off his
trail.”

Before
Gage could speak, Hunter spoke for him.
 
“Begging your pardon, buddy, but if my boy here had killed that little
pecker he’d proudly let us all know how the rubbin’ out went down.”

“What
about the money?” Justina asked.

“No
one recovered any money other than a single bearer bond.
 
It was found nearly a kilometer away,” the
attorney said.
 
“We’ve been over this.”

Justina
and Gage eyed Señora Moreno.
 
She’d
insisted the bearer bonds not be mentioned and, once again, shook her head.

Gage
rubbed his face and said, “Let’s just end this.”

A
battery of papers was produced for Gage, Justina, and Señora Moreno.
 
Gage and Justina’s agreements were carefully
explained by attorneys from the U.S. and Polish consulates.
 
Colonel Hunter sat in the corner, leaning
back against the wall, quietly nibbling sunflower seeds, depositing the hulls
in a paper cup.

After
the meeting, before they were led from the nondescript federal building, Gage
asked to see Molina in private.
 
When he
was told that Molina was busy, Gage steadied himself on his crutches, telling
the Spanish officials that he would wait.

Their
escorting envoy, a young Spanish man with little diplomatic ability, rolled his
eyes in irritation before stalking away.
 
Minutes later, Señor Molina and his attorney—attached to his hip like a
Siamese twin—reappeared.

“I’d
rather hoped you were on an airplane by this time, Mister Hartline,” Molina
said, pursing his lips afterward.

“I’ll
be gone by sundown,” Gage said, glancing at the clock that showed it to be
nearly five in the afternoon. “But I’d like to see Angelines de la Mancha for
just a few minutes before I leave.”

“Absolutely
not!” Molina snapped, shaking his head while clamping his eyes shut.
 
It was the gesture of a man who’d been
terribly spoiled as a child.

Gage
made his own expression earnest.
 
“Why
not, sir?
 
She’s going to prison.
 
What’s ten minutes?”

“I’m
sorry,” he said, using the tone of a man who is anything but sorry.
 
“I can’t allow it.”

Gage
eyed the man, softening his own voice as he said, “Please.”

Molina’s
eyes were bleary.
 
Tired.
 
He looked at his attorney, who shrugged.
 
Finally, Molina threw his hands up.
 
“If you’re not in the air by sundown, that
agreement is considered breached and we will prosecute you.”
 
He pointed to the toadying envoy.
 
“Take them to the hospital and call my cell
if you don’t witness them board their aircraft before nine tonight.”

* * *

“Hey
there,
Capitana
,” Gage said.
 

Her
head was slightly tilted to the side as she slept, her hands resting on a clean
white sheet that covered most of her body.
 
From across the room she looked fine but, as Gage stepped closer, her
skin still showed lingering scratches from their marathon day.
 
All things considered, other than her leg
that was held in traction, Angelines de la Mancha looked damn good.

“I’m
no longer
la capitana
,” she murmured,
her large eyes fluttering open.
 
She
extended her left hand and Gage took it.
 
Justina’s footsteps could be heard walking away.

Angelines
motioned to the door.
 
“Does she think
you and I…?”

“No,”
Gage replied.
 
“I assured her.”

She
gave his hand a little tug.
 
“Well,
there’s still time and this bed is very soft.”

Gage
couldn’t help but enjoy her bawdy humor, finding her similar to many of the
people he’d been in service with.
 
His
smile quickly faded.
 
“So, will you stand
trial?”

“My
attorney knew they wouldn’t want that.”

“And?”

“Provided
I agree to all their conditions, which mainly revolve around silence, he thinks
I’ll only do a year.
 
And there will be a
stipend for my son and my mother, plus tuition and expenses for his
university.”

“You
can do a year standing on your head,” Gage repeated.

“Yeah,”
she laughed weakly.
 
“Supposedly, I’ll
get my own little suite, an
aposento
,
and can even have male visitors on the weekends.”
 
She squeezed his hand.
 
“You remember that if you and your lady don’t
make it.”

They
chatted for a few minutes, with Gage telling her all he knew.

“So,
who were the men with Xavier?”

“Mercs.”

“What?”

“Mercenaries.
 
Americans.
 
Hell, I knew one of them.”