In the Teeth of the Wind (28 page)

The memory shot up from that long-buried place where he had entombed his time at Nellis Briggs

Military Academy and the identity of his tormentor came loping up beside it. His eyes widened.

"Ah, now you remember!" His old enemy said, smiling.

Conor just stared at the man. It had been almost twenty years, but he should have remembered the

evil in Luis Quinterras's eyes if not the altered face. You don't forget a man who tried to have you beaten

to death with a baseball bat. There was a malevolent gleam in Luis's black eyes; an insanity lurking just

beneath the surface of those ebony pools that should have registered.

But the face?

"Ah, you are wondering what happened to my face," said Quinterras. "Unfortunately, I am not the

sprinter Daniel Keane was and could not outrun the fire when one of my cocaine factories was bombed

by a rival drug lord." He shrugged. "Such is life." His smile turned nasty. "I blame you for the way I look,

Coni. Had it not been for you and your friends, I would have returned to Bogota with high military

honors. I would have joined the Colombian Armed Forces and been a man of respect."

Through the tape covering his mouth, Conor grunted with disbelief.

"Oh, you may scoff,
amigo,"
Quinterras replied. "But you are to blame." He cocked his head to one

side. "Do you remember what I vowed to do when I left NBMA, Coni?"

Conor's gaze leapt away from the mocking stare of Luis Quinterras and sought out the identities of the

men held prisoner like himself. A low groan of misery escaped his parched throat as he recognized

Danny Keane, Timothy-Pat Collins, and Mick Sullivan, who were all staring helplessly back at him.

"We'll have Cullen soon," Quinterras informed him. "We know where he is and that is a problem at the

moment. But we _will _get him."

He knew with certainty then that each of his old friends had suffered the same agonies he had suffered.

The knowledge that Luis Quinterras had made good on his two-decades old threat and that he had

invaded these men's lives and brutally altered them, set loose the Celtic berserker inside Conor Nolan.

The demon that had always resided in the heart of every Gaelic warrior ever born rose up to flood

Conor's very soul with murderous, insatiable bloodlust. But the demon in Conor Nolan hid Its face well

and the only outward sign It gave of fury was the flaring of Its host's nostrils.

"Then, of course, there's the woman," Quinterras said.

Conor knew Quinterras was talking about Rhianna. He had to will himself not to struggle, not to show

the effect the Colombian's words had on him although his heart sped up and his gut was filled with an icy

dread.

"And we'll have her, too, old friend." Quinterras chuckled. "Then, the party can begin!"

Nine*

Rhianna stormed out of the station like a woman infuriated and disgusted with those with whom she

was forced to deal. She snatched open the taxi cab door and threw herself inside, going through the

motions of flinging her hands to the heavens - as though brought to the edge of mental collapse by her

fellow policemen's stupidity. For the benefit of anyone who might be watching her from a short distance

away, she shouted her address at the cab driver, then flopped into the seat and stared angrily out the

window at the station as the cab pulled away from the curb.

****

Jamie Cullen came outside and stood under the station's overhang. Digging his hands into the back

pockets of his jeans, he just stood there, drawing in the cool rain-washed air, and stared blindly across

the parking lot. To the keen eyes observing him from a darkened car window, Cullen was as oblivious to

his surroundings as Marek had been. When the DEA agent stepped from the overhang and ventured

down the sidewalk leading to the bus stop at the corner, no one came out of the station to stop him. No

one was watching from the windows above him; no one seemed to care where the Florida man was

going.

Jamie heard the car engine cranking a short distance away. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the

headlights come on. He didn't increase his pace, didn't slow down; he just continued to amble listlessly

toward the bus stop a hundred yards away. As the car's tires crunched over the wet pavement behind

him, Jamie Cullen grinned.

****

"Cortesio. Triplett." Darlington's voice was firm, but held no special inflection. His face was blank as

he called the men into his office. Once he'd ushered Trip and Joey inside, he closed the door and flung

out a hand, bidding them sit.

The blinds were drawn around the Captain's office and Special Agent Franc Boucharde was already

there when the men took their seats.

"Do not raise your voices," Boucharde warned them. "Do not give any indication whatsoever that what

we are going to tell you has made you angry."

Cortesio exchanged a puzzled look with Triplett, but neither man spoke. They waited for the Fibber to

continue.

"Luis Raphael Quinterras has been in this country for twelve years," Boucharde began in an

instructional tone. He was seated on the corner of the Captain's desk, Darlington in his own chair. "He is

the owner and CEO of Leatherworks, Inc., a Fortune 500 company manufacturing fashions and

accessories made from leather. They do a multi-million dollar business every year, selling mostly to very

expensive boutiques in L.A., New York, and abroad."

"Mr. Quinterras is a very wealthy man with a home estimated to be worth upwards of $2.5 million. He

and his wife have three children, all of whom are in private school in Switzerland. The parents are quite

well known in their community for being very generous to their church and to local charities, although

Quinterras is something of a recluse," Darlington stated. "Quinterras, who by the way, goes by the legal

name of Louis Quinton here in the states, has received several community awards for his philanthropic

works. He is a hero in the town where he lives."

"Louis Quinton may be a hero where he lives," Boucharde said, crossing his arms over his knee and

leaning toward Joey and Trip. "But to those who work for him, he is a tough-as-nails businessman who

enjoys the raiding and raping of the smaller companies his corporation swallows up. Quinton takes great

delight in going in once the floundering company is taken over and personally firing the entire staff,

especially management."

Darlington leaned back in his chair. "He has a rather large legal staff kept on retainer for just such

enterprises."

"Fredericks, Martin, Nysberg, and Dahl." Trip sighed.

"Among others," Darlington confirmed, nodding.

"But that's not the most intriguing part." Boucharde swung his foot against the corner of the desk.

"Leatherworks, Inc. is listed on the New York Stock Exchange as an Illinois-based company with

satellite processing plants in Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, and Missouri. The beef-producing states, my

friends."

Cortesio sat forward with a rush. "He has his headquarters in Illinois?"

"Since 1989," Darlington replied.

"Does he live there?" asked Joe Cortesio.

"Yes, he sure does," Boucharde replied. "He lives on Bayshore Drive. Guess who his Executive

Manager is?"

Cortesio slumped into his chair. "You've got to be shittin' me," he breathed.

"She has a Master's Degree in Business Management and helped to set up the company," Darlington

put in.

"Oh, my God," Trip whispered. "Irish's sister?"

"The one and the same," Boucharde acknowledged.

"Then she's in on this!"

"We don't know for sure, but we've got enough to hold her for questioning," said Darlington.

"She and Corbettson have been eyeballing one another all evening like two dogs in heat," Trip

grumbled. "Do you think they might be working together?"

"Doubtful," Darlington answered, "but we'll be asking C.C. some questions, too."

"There's never been any love lost between him and Irish," said Cortesio. "I wouldn't put nothing past

that s.o.b."

"How long have you known all this?" Trip demanded.

"The Bureau called in the information less than half an hour ago," Boucharde informed him. "Since we

found out Mrs. Greiner is involved somehow, we've been watching her closely to make sure she didn't

call anyone." He grinned wryly. "And I've been watching Corbettson, too, since Rhianna also noticed the

eye contact between him and Greiner."

"She would," said Trip. He was still out of sorts about his partner setting herself up for a possible

abduction.

There was a knock on the door and Darlington held up a hand. "Come in."

Dave Donne poked his head around the door. "Rhee just called in, Cap'n. She's at home in case we

need her."

Darlington nodded, then waved the detective away. He waited until the door was closed once more.

"Ronald Nysberg was picked up by a couple of deputies just before we called you guys in here."

"You're not wasting any time," Cortesio interrupted.

"We can't afford to," Boucharde said. "If Nysberg is involved in any way at all in the kidnapping and

torture of a policeman, I want to make damned sure he goes down hard."

"Who's going to question Mrs. Greiner?" Trip inquired.

"I am," Boucharde replied. "I want you and Cortesio to have a little talk with Corbettson."

Joey Cortesio smiled. "I think we can do that."

****

The moment Rhianna Marek arrived home, she called a special number at the station. Dave Donne

and Brett Samuel had been awaiting the call in a room one floor up from the detective offices. The

connection had not been severed once Marek informed Donne she was in place. Samuel stayed behind

as Donne went to inform their Captain of Marek's call. He had the speakerphone turned on and was

listening to the muted sounds coming from Rhianna's home. Now and again he would chuckle as Rhianna

kept up a running commentary with an imaginary cat, letting Samuel know things were as close to normal

as possible. Just as Donne came into the room, the tone of Rhianna's voice changed.

"Is that someone outside, Garfield?" they heard Rhianna ask. "I thought I heard someone. Should we

go check?"

Samuel leaned forward, his face close to the speakerphone. Donne held his breath, waiting. Over the

line came the muted sound of glass breaking, running footsteps, then the unmistakable sound of the

telephone receiver being picked up and three numbers punched in before there came a squeal of surprise

and the receiver was slammed into its cradle.

For a few ticks of the clock, Samuel and Donne remained where they were - frozen by what had

happened while they listened - then the men sprang into action.

****

The bus stopped at the corner of Patrick and Dixon streets, a rather seedy area of town where the

intersection was lit only by the garish neon glare of a rundown bar. The rain-dampened black pavement

glistened from the light reflecting from the Matheny's Shuffle Inn sign, casting an orange pathway from

where the bus had stopped to let him off to the bar across the street. Surrounding the bar were

dilapidated buildings. Long abandoned and dark, their broken windows gaped like jagged teeth in the

aging facades. Jamie had been somewhat disappointed when the men following him had not snatched him

before he got on the bus. It had been a tense, frustrating ride, until he'd caught sight of the bar sign in the

urban decay passing beyond his grimy window. He reached up to pull the cord, signaling his get-off.

"This ain't the best of neighborhoods, mister," the black bus driver told him as Jamie came forward.

"This is Harlem. You be careful."

"Thanks," Cullen answered. As he stepped off the bus, he cast a glance to his right and saw the car

parked half a block back, its lights off.

The bus driver held up a hand in parting, then pulled away, leaving behind a noxious wake of diesel

fumes and spent oil, the squish of heavy tires on the wet pavement, and the grinding of the gears as the

bus accelerated.

Jamie sauntered across the intersection, seemingly unaware of the car moving toward him. He was

halfway across the street when the vehicle sped up and came to a screeching stop, blocking his way.

Reclining against the side of an abandoned building, the old wino paused in taking a drink from his

brown paper bag-wrapped bottle as he heard the car doors opening. He watched a struggling white man

get hustled into the backseat. Wincing as the car peeled off into the misty night, shooting forward with a

shriek of tires and howl of a gunned motor, the wino shrugged. It was nothing to him. Lifting his bottle, he

took a long, satisfying mind-numbing pull on the bitter contents.

*Part Four*

*Chapter Forty*

They brought Jamie Cullen in and dumped his bound body on the floor at Conor's bare feet. Livid

bruises marked the DEA agent's face, and a trickle of blood oozed from his left nostril.

"Sonofabitch had more fight in him than I would have thought," Victor grunted as he motioned two

men to hoist up Cullen. "Didn't think it would take a goddamned hour to get his sorry ass here!"

Conor's eyes blazed with hatred as he watched them yank up Jamie to swing between Tim-Pat and

Mick. He saw his friends eyeing one another and read the fear on their pale faces. They knew it was

nearing the time of reckoning.