Fatal (6 page)

They both stood then took their seats again when she left. Bruce turned to Neil. “One more thing.”

Neil nodded.

“I need you to go to Israel. Fast.”

“Israel, what’s there?” Neil asked, confused.

“Hopefully the answer to all of our questions.” Bruce grinned. “Oh, and please don’t tell Alexa about the Israel trip. Brief me on your findings first. You may unearth some things that could hurt her emotionally.”

Neil studied Bruce’s face for a moment. “You’re the boss,” he said and attacked his steak with vigor.

Bruce and Neil both stood as Alexa strolled to their table. Neil pulled out her chair and waited for her to be seated before he sat down again.

“Your food’s getting cold,” Bruce said. Alexa knew well the questioning look on his face.

“Sorry, I was held up,” she said with a sweet smile. “So what have you two been talking about?”
 

Bruce shrugged. “This and that, you know.” He coughed. “Nothing important.”

Alexa raised her eyebrows at Bruce.
 

He shrugged. “What?”

Alexa shook her head and cut into her steak. “Men. You’re all pathetic liars.”

Bruce and Neil cast furtive glances at each other as Alexa dropped her napkin on the floor. Neil bent to pick it up, but Alexa held up her hand.

“Leave it,” she said irritably. “You two better tell me what this is all about.”

Neil cast a worried glance at Bruce, who sat there with an annoying grin. She bent down to pick up her napkin then slipped Neil’s wallet back into his jacket pocket.

She cut a chunk of meat and popped it in her mouth. “I’ll find out soon enough,” she said pointing her fork at Bruce. “You know I always do.”

Neil examined the nine millimeter Beretta and tossed it back onto the bed. It lay stacked with munitions. “A rocket launcher?” he asked with a smirk, glancing at Alexa.
 

She shrugged. “When life gives you weapons.”
 

Neil shook his head. “Make war?”

“I have another crate of ammunition on the way. Where are we going to stash all of this stuff?” Alexa asked.

“I’ll take a couple of rifles and handguns. Ask Laiveaux to safeguard the rest at the embassy,” Bruce said.

He turned to face Neil. “You'll need to source your own gear. Get through the airports first.” He slammed the magazine into a Glock. “Callahan is holed up in his mansion in Ireland; I'll send you the exact coordinates. Anything goes, as long as you get the job done.” He placed his hand on Neil’s shoulder. “He's a slippery customer; make sure he's taken out permanently.”

Neil nodded. “No problem.”

Bruce turned to Alexa. “Alexa, you'll be responsible for the border operation. Find out who is involved. What else they're smuggling. Who they're paying off. And then get rid of them all. I'll take care of Perreira and his crowd,” Bruce said.

Neil hauled his duffle bag onto his shoulder. He stuck out his hand to Alexa. “Good hunting.”

She shook his hand, then she pulled him closer and gave him a peck on his cheek. “Be safe.”

Neil said good-bye to Bruce then embraced him, slapping his back. “Thank you, Bruce.” He held him at arms-length. “For everything.” He turned around and headed towards the door.

Bruce called Neil. “One last word of advice.”

“Yes?" Neil said, turning around.

“Do not get anyone else involved. Callahan is well-connected.”
 

“I thought you said I should get this done any way I see fit. I know some individuals who could help.”

“Just be careful,” Bruce said. “And remember what I said about Israel.”

Neil nodded, waved a good-bye, and left the room.
 

Alexa looked up, a frown furrowing her brow. “Israel?”
 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Bruce said, packing his weapons into a duffle bag.

Alexa put her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. “Do you trust him, Dad?”

Bruce answered without hesitation. “With my life.”

Perreira heard a knock on the door, paused the porn movie he was watching, and sat up in the sofa. “Come in,” he shouted. He was expecting the visit.
 

The accountant shuffled into the living room, and Perreira motioned for him to take a seat.
 

The accountant laboriously heaved his frame onto the leather sofa then took a wheezy breath as he settled down. “The shipment has arrived, boss.” He slipped a toothpick from behind his ear and popped it into his mouth. ”I've saved the best for you."

Pereirra nodded and stretched out his legs before him. “Thanks.” He weaved his fingers behind his head and cast a sidelong glance at his accountant. “When will it arrive in the States? The client is becoming anxious.”

“In two days’ time. It’s being loaded as we speak.”

Perreira nodded again, satisfied. “Keep a close eye on it. We need the cash.”

“Will do, boss,” the accountant answered and pushed himself up in the sofa. “Bring her in.”

A powerfully-built man covered in tattoos dragged a terrified-looking girl in by her arm. Her eyes darted nervously between Perreira and the accountant.

Perreira nodded as he cast the girl an appreciative glance. “She's still young.”

“Fifteen, according to her papers.” He chuckled and pulled his fingers through his slick hair. “They always fall for the offer-of-work-in-another-country bullshit,” the accountant said with a gurgly laugh.

Perreira nodded, attached the prosthetic leg onto his stump, and waddled over, grabbing the girl by her neck. She cringed and let out a frightened sob.

He glanced over his shoulder. “I need some more resources in the Kruger.” He focused on the girl, savoring the fearful look in her eyes. “Get me José and Carlos. Tell them to assemble some men and take out Bryden, permanently.”

“Will do, boss,” the accountant said as he mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief.

Perreira let go of the girl’s neck and stood up straight. “Leave me with her, I need a distraction.” He clutched his hands opened and closed, like he was massaging a stress ball, then grabbed the girl by the arm. “Lots of things on my mind.”
 

The accountant nodded and hoisted his bulk from the chair. The girl sobbed and tried to pry Perreira's hand from her arm.

Perreira grinned. “Come here, my pretty. You Filipinos always fight so hard. I can see why your country has so many good boxers.”
 

The girl whimpered and pulled away, panic in her eyes.

Perreira slapped the back of his stump through her face, sending her sprawling onto the ground, blood dripping through her fingers she held to her nose.
 

The accountant whistled as he trundled out of the room.

Perreira bent down. “Bitch, you’re going to die today.”
 

Dublin, Ireland

Callahan switched on his tablet PC then logged onto his bank account. He grunted, satisfied. He had four million in his personal account.

He logged out and then typed in the access codes to the Dalerian Institute’s account. His eyes widened in shock and he hit the refresh button.

He was greeted by a bunch of zeroes. Bad zeroes. The shittiest kind of zeroes.
 

He fumbled for his cell phone, punched in a number, and waited impatiently for it to be answered.

“Perreira, did you transfer money from the company account?”
 

“No, why?” Perreira asked, sounding out of breath. Someone moaned in the background.

“Because the account is empty. Nada, zilch. It's all gone!” he shouted.

“Gone, how? Where?” Perreira asked, his voice sounding panicked.

Callahan clicked on an icon, scanning through the online statement.
 

“The funds were transferred to an account referenced as 'Cuspis Dei’”, he said and slapped the arm of the sofa. He breathed in deeply. “Any ideas?”

“No, how could this—”

Realization dawned. “Bryden. Allen.” He swallowed. “Who was the girl with them?”

Perreira hesitated. “We don’t know, we’re still trying to trace her.”
 

“I need to think,” he said and disconnected the call. He dropped the phone in his lap. “Shit!”

He grabbed the phone and dialed a number.
 

A groggy voice answered. “Hello?”

“It’s me, Callahan. I have a crisis. Bryden stole all our money. It's gone,” he said, his voice quivering.

“I know,” the voice answered. “I have some of it in my personal account.” The voice went quiet. “Don’t phone me on this damn line, we’re being traced, you idiot. I’ll get in touch soon,” Neil Allen said, and then the call disconnected with a click.

“Allen, Allen, you better—” he shouted and looked at his phone in disbelief. “Dammit!” He threw it at the wall with all his might, shattering it into a hundred pieces.
 

He cupped his face with his hands, breathing deeply. He stood and poured himself a stiff drink then leaned against his desk. A bead of sweat formed on his eyebrow and meandered down his nose. He slammed the glass on the table, spilling the amber liquid over his expensive pants. He ignored it, staring blankly at the wall.

“Shit.”

Alexa scanned the notebook then tried the third password. It worked, and she logged into Neil’s cell phone company internet portal. She had found the passwords in Neil’s wallet; he had scribbled them all on a piece of paper in a tidy cursive. She duly copied them all.
 

She didn’t find anything else except for a black-and-white photo of Neil with a toddler on his lap. Probably his daughter.
 

She flipped through the pages on the browser and did a lookup on his call history. Within a couple of seconds she noticed the pattern.

Fifteen phone calls had been made to his phone from the same number during the past eight hours. The number looked familiar. She fished Laiveaux’s report from the envelope on her desk, flipped through the pages, and found the right one, then she scanned the contents with her finger to the detail she was searching for.

She compared the two numbers, shaking her head in disbelief. It belonged to Owen Callahan. Why would he be calling Neil?
 

The cell phone record indicated the calls had been made from a roaming location, outside of the normal network’s coverage area. It had a cellular provider code next to the number. Alexa typed a quick search into her browser and found the cellular provider the code was referring to.

Both men were in Israel. At the same time, on the same day. Her face heated as the anger surged through her body. She sucked in angry breaths through her nose.
 

The bastard
. Neil Allen was going down.

Alexa glanced at the message on her cell. It contained Perreira's updated location. He was back in Maputo. Good. She needed him to be home. She deleted the message and slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Alexa looked up, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and smiled an apology. “Sorry about that, Mr. Lobera. I’m expecting an urgent message regarding my shipment.”

Ebbe Lobera nodded conspiratorially. “Business is business.” He was a short, dark guy with moles on his cheeks, probably in his mid-forties. He wore a brown suit and had a solid gold chain around his neck.
 

Alexa shift din her chair. “How much would your services cost?" she asked sitting back. “You have come highly recommended.”

Lobera shrugged his shoulders, his palms facing upwards and out to his side. He looked like a Bollywood dancer. ”It depends on what you need done.” He sat back, contemplating his answer for a second, doing the math in his head. “The basic service costs two thousand meticais,” he said with a lisp, an expensive-looking watch dangling from his wrist as he spoke.

He had doubled the price. He was getting greedy.
 

“And the car won't be searched at all?"
 

“Coming in, no. Going out is more; I need to pay the South Africans in rands."

“How much?”

He swiveled back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, thumb-sucking another price. “Five thousand rand,” he said.
 

He was bullshitting. He had added two hundred dollars to the standard fare. That was OK; she needed him for a couple more days.

“OK, that’s fine,” Alexa said. “I pay you directly?”
 

Lobera beamed and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over an ample stomach. “Yes, I'll take care of the rest.”

Alexa smiled and stuck out her hand. “Deal.”
 

Lobera leaned forward and shook her hand with vigour, a wide grin on his face. “Good. Very good.”

He probably thinks I’m a pushover.