Survival (27 page)

He’d finished up his day by meeting with the organization’s bookkeepers and their financial advisor, who had the bulk of their nonworking income invested in financial products he didn’t understand – derivatives that tracked the price of gold and silver, ETFs that were plays in the global petroleum markets, and a short position on the Japanese yen that was up twenty-five percent for the year, a handsome profit for money that was really just being laundered as it passed from broker to hedge fund to exchange and back again.

Alejandro yawned as he strode to his new AMG gullwing Mercedes coupe, a congratulatory gift from his father before he’d gotten on the private jet that winged him to Spain for a comfortable retirement at his multimillion dollar seaside villa, his neighbors Russian oligarchs and Saudi princes, the yachts moored in front of their ostentatious homes vying for most obscene display of wealth in the area.

His bodyguards nodded to him as he made his way to the car. The underground garage was his exclusive domain, housing Porsches, Ferraris, a Maserati, two more Benzes, and his BMW. Responsibility came with its perks, and he remembered his father’s parting advice: “Work hard, but play hard too, because it’ll be over before you know it, and the play is what makes the work worth it.”

Wise words from a man who’d fought for every peso and emerged from the struggle a force of nature.

Alejandro thumbed the remote and the car chirped at him, blinking its lights in welcome. He climbed into the low-slung vehicle, started the engine, and the twin exhaust burbled with barely constrained power. Two minutes later he was accelerating like the devil was chasing him, enjoying the release of acceleration, pure adrenaline his reward as he stomped on the gas without concern for speed limits or fuel consumption.

He pulled up to a club that the organization owned and tossed the valet his keys. The heavyset bouncers were expecting him, the bulges in their jackets silent warning that there were better places to start trouble. The manager led him wordlessly to a reserved table where a twenty-something starlet waited with a pout. The three-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne had done little to improve her mood at being kept waiting.

Alejandro kissed her cheek and she sighed. “You’re late,” she complained, eyeing the platinum Rolex President with a tanzanite dial he’d gifted her the prior week. He took in her flawless profile and breathtaking beauty and offered a conciliatory look.

“I know,
mi amor
, and I’m sorry. I had a meeting run late. But I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you, Aurelia. I promise.”

She took a sip of champagne and her eyes danced in the colored lights. “That sounds interesting. Be careful what you promise.”

“I am your slave. Just say it and I’ll make it so.”

Aurelia smiled impishly and leaned into him, her hand dropping casually into his lap as she whispered her demand in his ear. His eyes widened just a hair and a smile of his own curved the corners of his lips, and he turned and brushed her lips with his.

“Sounds…dangerous.”

“You know me too well already,” she purred.

They finished the bottle in record time and he slid out of the booth, adjusting his slacks so his interest in his young friend wasn’t obvious. “See you at your place?” he said, and Aurelia nodded. She had an apartment only a few minutes away in one of the most exclusive buildings in Santiago.

The manager saw him rise and murmured into his headset, warning the valet to have the car ready by the time he made it to the club’s entrance. Alejandro took his time, pausing to shake hands with a group of dark-haired men at a private booth, business associates of his out on the town. Their night was just getting started, to judge by the bottles of expensive scotch and vodka on their table and the professional smiles of their companions.

When he reached Aurelia’s building, he parked in the subterranean garage in the vacant space next to her customary slot. He was easing himself out of the car when a blinding pain shot through his head and he dropped to the polished concrete floor, barely registering the legs of his assailant before losing consciousness.

Alejandro came to with a pounding headache and immediately realized he was naked, bound to a chair. He glanced around but didn’t recognize anything – bare brick walls, dirt everywhere, a single overhead bulb lighting the area.

A man stepped from the shadows. Alejandro stared at him, memorizing the face, but didn’t recognize him. The man’s face crinkled as he offered Alejandro a sad smile, as if apologizing for the impolite treatment he’d received.

“What do you want?” Alejandro asked. His tongue felt thick and clumsy, the words slurred in spite of his best effort.

“Information. I want information, nothing more.” The man’s voice was as cold as an open grave, and Alejandro shivered involuntarily.

“Where are my clothes? Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m afraid you might not take me seriously if I didn’t impress upon you how completely helpless you are, how dependent on my graciousness you are for every breath you take.”

“What information do you want? Shipments? Bank accounts? Because I don’t have them memorized. I couldn’t tell you any of it even if I wanted to.”

The man grunted in agreement. “Oh, I’m quite sure that’s true. No, nothing so mundane as the details of your enterprise, which are your concern. What I need to know is more…specialized.”

Alejandro’s eyes shifted behind the man, where he could make out another form tied to a chair. He squinted to chase away the double vision and gasped when he saw who it was. Aurelia’s sightless eyes stared at him from the gloom, the gash across her throat staining her naked flesh with drying crimson. The man followed Alejandro’s gaze and grunted again. “Ah. Yes. I’m afraid your young friend came across me as I was loading you into the car. A shame, really. Although she went out with a bang – quite a remarkable body, I’ll give you that. You’re a lucky man,” he leered.

Alejandro strained at the bindings and could feel his pulse thudding in his ears. “You sick bastard. I’ll skin you alive. You’ll beg for death before I’m done with you.”

The man ignored his outburst and moved behind him, then reappeared with a butane welding torch and a lighter. “I trust I have your full attention now?” He flicked the lighter absentmindedly as he spoke, almost a nervous tic.

“What do you want?”

“You arranged for a man and a little girl to travel on a container ship that was later found with its crew murdered off the coast of Nicaragua. I need to know everything you do about them. Who they are, what they were doing, where they were going.” The lighter flared and the man twisted a valve as he held the torch. Blue flame shot from the nozzle as he inspected it like he’d never seen the torch before.

Alejandro’s heart skipped several beats as his eyes met the man’s – he saw nothing but death.

Fifteen minutes later, Drago stepped back from Alejandro’s inert form, the room sour with the acrid stink of seared flesh and bodily fluids. He carefully wiped down the welding torch and moved to the door of the abandoned industrial building, taking care to use the rag from his back pocket when handling the knob. He stopped in the doorway and took a final look at the corpses. His face was expressionless, the skin slack, like putty on a mannequin. Then he switched off the light and pulled the door closed behind him.

Chapter 38

Viterbo, Colombia

Jaime toasted Fernanda with his brandy snifter. Dinner had been marvelously relaxed, and the food had lived up to the restaurant’s reputation, as had the slavish service from a staff that seemed to recognize Jaime. He clinked his glass against hers, their Dictador 20-year Añejo rum fragrant in the evening’s warmth.

“To beauty and courage,” Jaime said, eyeing her over the rim of his glass as he took an appreciative sip and sighed in satisfaction.

She forced herself to take a small mouthful and swallow it with a rapturous expression that was as fake as the enthusiasm she’d shown for her dinner, every bite tasting like wood to her as her mind ran into the redline with thoughts of Igor. But she needed to ensure Jaime’s continued cooperation, especially if she would be tackling the mystery woman on her own, so she was playing the drug lord like a Stradivarius, using every ounce of her considerable charm and skill to make him feel fascinating and powerful.

Fernanda had long ago learned the right words to use, the subtle signals to send, the questions to ask so that men believed she was captivated by them. She was so good at it she barely needed to think about what came next. Men were simple creatures, easily twisted to do her bidding, whether a brutal cartel boss or a target, and she found Jaime to be no exception.

The quiet was broken by the chirp of Jaime’s cell phone, and Fernanda had to keep from jumping up and snatching it out of his hand as he answered. He listened for several long beats, asked a series of short questions, and then hung up. He took another long draught of his rum and set the snifter down with a sad shake of his head.

“A body had already washed up on the beach in Acandí by the time my men made it there. They’re sending me a photograph for you to identify.”

“A body,” she repeated woodenly.

His phone pinged and he checked the screen, waited a moment, and then handed her the phone. She took it from him with surprisingly steady hands and regarded the snapshot without reacting. When she handed it back to him, her face was expressionless. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Ah. Then that’s good news. Bodies have been known to wash up on that shore – it’s not that unusual an occurrence.”

“What are your men doing now?”

“They’ve enlisted the help of the local constable, who’s showing them through the town in case there’s any sign of a fight.”

“No reports of gunshots?”

“None.”

Fernanda felt a momentary glimmer of hope, but forced it away. Hope was a luxury she couldn’t afford. But she allowed herself to try Igor’s phone one more time, only to get the same out-of-service message she’d gotten earlier.

She set the phone down and took a larger swallow of the rum. The silky spirit burned as it went down, spreading a flush of warmth through her stomach seconds later. She wasn’t much for alcohol, but tonight she wished she could dive into the bottle and drown in it, welcoming the oblivion it promised so she wouldn’t have to think.

They nursed their drinks in solitude, the other patrons having left long ago. The waiter stood patiently by the kitchen, averting his eyes so they had complete privacy while he could still respond to their every wish. Jaime was finishing his glass and signaling for another when his phone went off again. He sat back and listened, then hung up after a grunted sentence. “They found another body in a construction site. I’ll have a photo in a moment.” He paused and lowered his voice. “But I must warn you – they said that the man’s face was…he’d suffered considerable trauma. Perhaps you might want to wait to look at it.”

She shook her head and downed the rest of her drink. “No. I need to know.”

They sat in silence, the cool mountain air crisp on her skin, the thick candles dotting the restaurant flickering with each gentle gust. When Jaime’s cell beeped again, he seemed reluctant to check it, and only did so once his second glass of rum had arrived.

He studied the image and closed his eyes for a second, then handed her the phone. She glanced at the image and nodded as she returned it to him. “That’s him. How did he die?”

“Best they can tell, he was beaten to death with a piece of wood. A plank.”

“Killed with a plank?” she said disbelievingly.
One of the most adept assassins in the world sent to the afterlife with a two-by-four?
She couldn’t help herself and barked a hoarse laugh. It was absurd. There must be some mistake. That couldn’t happen.

Jaime looked at her strangely, and she struggled to maintain her composure, stress cracks appearing at the brittle edges that she hoped were only obvious to her. He motioned to the waiter and pointed to his glass, and the man rushed to get another snifter for Fernanda. He was back in moments and whisked away her empty glass before vanishing into the back of the restaurant. She lifted the rum to her lips and drained the snifter in two swallows, then set it back on the table with a trembling hand.

Jaime knew enough to stay silent; the pain and rage in Fernanda’s eyes were obvious. She sat staring a thousand miles into space as he took his time with his drink, and by the time he was finished, she’d regained control.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly as he slipped a sheaf of bills onto the tray holding the check.

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to say. She killed him. He must have missed something, made a critical mistake, and it cost him his life.”

Fernanda pushed back from the table and stood. Her face betrayed nothing, the veneer back in place after an uncharacteristic slip. Jaime rose, and the waiter moved to the door to hold it open for them, having locked it to keep any unwanted late night patrons from intruding on their intimate evening.

They walked slowly back to the hotel in silence, the only sound other than traffic on the distant highway the thudding of their footsteps on the cobblestones, the bright moonlight illuminating their way.

When they reached the hotel, Jaime saw her to her room and, at the threshold, took her hand in his and spoke softly. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ll do everything I can to help you. You can count on me.”

Fernanda nodded at the words, barely hearing them. “Thank you.” She pulled away and turned to go inside, and Jaime tried one more time.

“Good night, Fernanda. Knock on my door if you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk.”

She swallowed a sour spurt of bile that threatened to choke her and gave him a small smile. “That’s very kind of you, Jaime. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched her enter the room and push the door shut behind her, and then walked slowly to his room. Inside hers, Fernanda glanced around with tear-blurred eyes and threw herself down on the bed, stifling a tortured scream with her pillow before dry-heaving as she sobbed, gasping for ragged breath in between her cries. The only man she’d ever felt anything but contempt for was gone forever.