Target Deck - 02 (15 page)

The Lebanese gangster's eyelashes batted every time he blinked. They were so dark that it almost looked as if he were wearing eye liner. There was something elegant about his face, like he was someone who took care of himself. There was a gentleness to it that was countered by the look in his eyes.

They were pushing a hundred and twenty miles an hour as Bashir held onto the wheel with both hands. He wore a black shirt that was left unbuttoned to leave much of his chest exposed. Since it was tucked into his slacks, Deckard could see that he wasn't carrying a firearm. He did some quick calculus in his head.

He could incapacitate Bashir, take control of the car, kill him, and make a run for it. It sounded great but it would never work. They were on a narrow strip of beach and highway. The white van was just a minute behind them filled with Bashir's hired guns. Deckard could try to lose them inside one of the hotel complexes but it was a zero sum game. He needed access to Bashir's private DVD collection if he, and the CIA, would have the leverage they needed over the Mexican government. He'd have to keep playing the game and ride this thing out.

“So what is your specialty with the firm?” Bashir asked. “Double Dutch?”

Deckard caught on that now he was talking shop, specific money laundering techniques.

“Not so much,” he replied. “We're a progressive group that looks east these days. We wash the money through Turks and Caicos, Montserrat Island, and a few other places in the Caribbean before packaging it into financial derivatives that we invest in China and elsewhere in South East Asia.”

“I've been having issues with our accounts up north as of late.”

“We understand. Your money is safer in Asia. Even anonymous Swiss bank accounts are not as anonymous as they used to be. My firm understands the need for privacy and security that our customers look for in an investment bank.”

“I look forward to talking about it with you,” Bashir said as he pulled into the drive way of one of his five-star hotels.

No sooner had they stepped out of the Ferrari and a valet was slipping in and pulling the sports car away to be parked.

“This is where you live?”

“Year round,” Bashir laughed, causing the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes to become pronounced. Deckard knew from the dossier that the cartel money launder was 53 years old but he looked like someone in their mid to late thirties.

Another attendant held the door as they walked into the marble floor lobby.

“You should think about staying a few days, make yourself comfortable,” Bashir insisted. “I'll tell you something about the women down here,” he hinted.

“Oh?” Deckard said, feigning interest.

“In Mexico you can go to the strip club and the girls will let you put your finger all the way up her pussy to the last knuckle.”

“Sounds like a gas.”

“Americans think it is nothing but wetbacks down here but I've carved out a paradise for myself.”

The words were chilling when taken into account with the dossier files Deckard had read. He knew exactly what kind of paradise Bashir had in mind. Looking over his shoulder and through the glass door he saw that the white panel van was nowhere to be seen. The bodyguards must have pulled around back assuming that their principle was safe inside his own establishment surrounded by his own people.

There were guests wandering around the lobby, as Bashir's flagship hotel was actually staffed and operated as an actual business. Mostly young honeymooners enjoying the beach life and the night life of Cancun. Bashir led him deeper into the hotel passed several fountains to an elevator that was roped off and guarded by two strong men.

“This goes straight to the penthouse,” Bashir said.

One of the guards inserted a key into the control panel and the elevator doors parted. Stepping inside, the guard punched the single button for the top floor for his boss before letting the doors slam shut.

“Very nice,” Deckard complimented. “So what is the next big project out here?”

“I've got architects drafting the plans for a water park, a casino, and a few more hotels. I think they will go forward but the gears of government need some lubrication as I'm sure you can understand.”

“Perfectly.”

“Nineteen stories,” Bashir boasted as the doors swung open at the top floor.

The office was indicative of a man who had more money than taste. The walls and ceiling were painted in pastels, modern art hung on the walls, and some movie memorabilia was scattered about including a life size mannequin bearing the costume armor of a Spartan warrior. Deckard fought to control his facial expression in front of his host.

“Impressive.”

“Several magazines want to feature the penthouse but you know how it is,” Bashir said non-nonchalantly. “I value my privacy.”

The Lebanese man sat down behind his desk as he motioned for Deckard to take a seat as well. As he sat down in one of the leather seats beside the desk his eyes absorbed everything in a single snapshot. He was in one of two leather chairs. An armed guard that he wasn't supposed to notice stood behind him at his seven o' clock. On the desk were closed MacBook, an ash tray, a cellular phone, a remote control, a pencil, and lamp.

“Can I offer you a drink?”

“Johnny Walker Black. On the rocks.”

Bashir picked up the remote control and pressed a button. One of the adjoining doors swung open and a woman done up like an escort walked in. She stood at about five foot two and ninety pounds and wore a very revealing hostess outfit. Bashir gave her Deckard's order and asked for a gin and tonic for himself before sending her on her way.

Once she had departed he offered Deckard a cigarette which he declined. A plan was formulating in his mind. He had a narrow window of opportunity and had to make it count. Lighting up a smoke with his Zippo lighter Bashir smoked his cigarette underhanded with his thumb and middle finger.

“If I can convince you to enjoy Cancun for a few days I promise you won't regret it. While you are here we can conclude our business and begin transferring several sizable accounts once our lawyers get the paperwork done up.”

“I thought I was supposed to be pitching you,” Deckard smiled. “But please continue.”

“As I was saying, you can have any girl you want here. Any taste, any size.”

“Really?”

“I prefer them small,” Bashir shrugged as he took another puff on his cigarette. Reaching out, delicately tapped the ash into the ash tray. “It is okay to indulge yourself here. No one will say anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“As they say, the United States is a nation of prudes. When a girl reaches sexual maturity she has become ripe. For whatever reason, your laws do not account for this. It is a very easy thing,” Bashir continued. “I invite them over to swim in one of my pools. Sometimes I promise them nice things, a designer handbag, nice clothes, whatever they like.”

Deckard couldn't believe how brazen Bashir was. He didn't even try to hide it but rather offered his own pseudo-intellectual justifications for why it was okay for him to rape girls who had barely reached puberty.

“I've never had them turn me down because they know that I love them. It is perfectly natural of course and helps their self-esteem as they grow older to know that they are desired by older men. Most of the time I let them play movie star and we make some movies as well.”

There was a knock and the hostess came back into the office with their drinks.

“Is that something I can convince you to stick around for?” Bashir asked.

Deckard palmed his glass of scotch off the hostess' tray.

“I'll pass.”

Without missing a beat he hurled the contents of his glass at Bashir, causing him to recoil backwards in shock more than in pain. Springing to his feet, Deckard hooked an ankle under the Mexican hostess' feet and swept her to the ground. By now the lone body guard in the room was closing the distance towards him.

Deckard didn't want the body guard drawing his pistol and going for lethal force which was why he had taken a restrained approach. Reaching out, his fingers tightened around the pencil laying on the desk even as Bashir thrashed about and knocked his ashtray and computer to the floor with the crash.

Pivoting on the balls of his feet, Deckard bent at the knees and prepared to receive the bodyguard's attack. The mercenary held the pencil in his right hand, the eraser at the end pressed into the palm of his hand, his middle and index finger resting on either side of it while the point stuck out. As the bodyguard reached out, Deckard deflected his hand and struck out with his right. The tip of the pencil was guided into the bodyguard's neck where it stuck in place. Deckard immediately moved his two fingers out of the way and pushed the pencil the rest of the way into his neck by palming it forward until he slapped skin.

Bashir had by now wiped his face down with his shirt and was fumbling for the remote on his desk, no doubt for the panic button. Deckard slapped it out of his hand before the bodyguard collapsed to the floor where he began convulsing. Grabbing the money launderer by his greasy hair, Deckard slammed him face first into the desk. His head bounced off the surface before he slid off to the side and fell to the ground.

“You,” Deckard pointed to the hostess and began speaking in Spanish. “Go in there,” he pointed to the coat closet. “Go inside, turn the light off, hide in the corner, and don't come out.”

The woman nodded his understanding.

“Now!”

She got to her feet on shaky legs. That didn't stop her from stepping over the still twitching body on the floor on her way to the closet.

Reaching inside the bodyguard's waistband, Deckard confiscated a Glock 19 pistol.

Bashir was moaning on the ground.

Pushing the point of one of his shoes under him, Deckard flipped Bashir over onto his back. Blood flowed freely from his broken nose.

“I'm not going to give you the opportunity to lie to me. You've got me interested alright, but not in the way you were hoping. Where do you keep the movies you made?”

“W-w-who are you?” he stammered.

Deckard reached down and twisted his nose eliciting a sharp scream. They were alone up in the penthouse aside from the one guard he had taken down already.

“Where do you keep the movies?”

“In the basement,” he groaned.

“How do I get there?”

“It's the sub-basement. That private elevator is the only way down.”

“You have the key?”

“In the desk drawer.”

“Let's go for a walk.”

Deckard dragged Bashir up to his feet and pushed him back to the desk. Inside he found the key and then pushed the pedophile towards the elevator. He held Bashir by the neck with the Glock 19 pressed into the small of his back.

Calling up the elevator, the door opened.

“I don't need to tell you what will happen if you try anything stupid. You can still make it out of this alive if you play your cards right,” Deckard told him a bold face lie.

As it was, it would be a miracle if either of them survived another hour.

Deckard grabbed the key and turned it into the slot. The elevator snapped shut and they began descending down into what he suspected was Bashir's private house of horrors. He played it off like it was all fun and games, but people like Bashir were hardcore psychopaths. They dropped below the lobby and the basement. The digital counter above the doors was blanked out when they reached the bottom.