The Somali Deception Episode IV (A Cameron Kincaid Serial) (7 page)

* * *
* *

Stratosphere, Ibiza

The two muscle bound Black Tees
waiting at the valet stand were no surprise to Cameron.
 
The calm of the fresh evening air, or maybe
the reality shift stepping out of the club, had subdued him.
 
Cameron felt no need to launch into
another confrontation.

Cameron smiled, sucked in a
breath, and then said, “Gentlemen, the Aston Martin Rapide please.”

The two men appeared
uneasy.
 
Their focus slipped past
Cameron to Annalisa.
 
“Miss
Droukos,” one of them said, “we have strict instructions from Mister Stratos
that the gentlemen that came with you are to remain here until he returns.”

Stepping forward Annalisa
sighed, “I am sure you do.
 
However
we are ready to go, so.”
 
She
shrugged her brows and reached for the velvet rope.

The second Black Tee found some
confidence and moved to block Annalisa.
 
“I’m sorry Miss Droukos.
 
Mister Stratos was very --.”
 
He paused searching for a word.

“Explicit?” offered Annalisa.

“Yes explicit.”
 
He scowled then said,
 
“You need to go back in the club now.”

Pepe put himself between the
Black Tee and Annalisa to undo the velvet rope himself.
 
His voice was stern, “I don’t think that
is going to happen.”

The brave Black Tee threw his
hand flat up against Pepe’s chest and said, “I believe that’s exactly what is
going to happen.”

Pepe slowly tilted his head up
from the rope to meet the bouncer eye to eye with a look that let the Black Tee
know he had made a mistake.

Annalisa scrunched her
nose.
 
Cameron winced an eye near
closed.
 
The image of a jet about to
collide with a train and knowing that nothing could stop what was about to
happen.

The velvet rope was no longer an
issue as the bold Black Tee tore the hardware away when Pepe threw him into the
driveway.
 
The other bodyguard
responded out of a sense of loyalty to his friend and duty to his job, yet only
half heartedly, as he did not actually strike a punch at Cameron.
 
He raised his fist into a boxing stance
a safe distance away so he would still appear in play.
 
The tossed down Black Tee began to
stand.
 
Pepe had taken two strides
toward him when, from inside the nightclub, two more Black Tee security guards
appeared.
 
These two upped the game,
as they each had Taser sticks in hand.

Pepe shook his head.
 
“Really?”
 
Then from the back of his waist he
produced his Beretta M9, triggering Cameron to draw his Ruger.

The four Black Tees looked at
each other and then the bold one said, “You cannot shoot all of us.”

“I cannot believe you just said
that,” said Cameron.

The four Black Tees shared a
glance, and then, bent forward, began to move toward Cameron and Pepe.

Annalisa screamed, “Stop!
 
Stop!”

Everyone looked at
Annalisa.
 
They did stop.
 
Right where they stood.

Annalisa spread her hands out,
pressing them to the air, and spoke calmly at first, her voice rising as she
went on, “Okay, this is enough.
 
These two men are obviously trained killers.
 
Unless you all want to die, I suggest
you prepare the car, and I will smooth things over with Mister Stratos.”

The first bold Black Tee eyed
Cameron and Pepe thoroughly then asked, “Trained killers Miss Droukos?”

Cameron flashed his brow.

“Get the car!” said Annalisa.

“Yes, right now,” said the
jolted Black Tee.
 
“I’ll get the
car.”
 
He scurried toward the Aston
Martin while the other three Black Tees began cleaning up the pieces of their
broken velvet rope.

* * *
* *

Ibiza

The bi-xenon headlamps sprayed
the road to Ibiza Town bright blue, far beyond the flying Aston Martin Rapide.

Pepe tapped his knuckles against
the back window.
 
“Can’t you make
this car go any faster?”

“It’s an illusion,” said
Cameron.
 
“We’re moving fine.”

“Huh?”

“We’re almost to Ibiza Town.”

Pepe curled his lip.
 
He pushed his forehead against the glass
and peered up through the darkness into the starry sky.
 
In a low voice he muttered, “Rich or
not, who buys an Aston Martin with an automatic transmission.”

Cameron flashed his eyes briefly
from the road to the rearview then dropped them back again.
 
“A stick wouldn’t move us any
faster.
 
Besides they only make this
model in automatic.”

Annalisa reached for the
stereo.
 
“Mister Stratos is partial
to Aston Martins.
 
A close friend
once owned the company.”

Cameron placed his hand on
Annalisa’s.
 
“Please, enough music
for a little while.”

Annalisa pulled her hand back to
her lap.
 
Cameron considered her
situation.
 
The situation Nikos and
his father had put her in.

“Hey,” said Cameron.
 
“I thought you told us the garage in
Gstaad was full of Lamborghinis and Ferraris.
 
Are you telling me he has close friends
in every one of those companies?”

Annalisa lowered her head, a bit
embarrassed, and grinned.
 
“You
wouldn’t believe it but, yes,” she raised her head and looked at Cameron, “he
does.”

“In every one?” said Cameron.

“In every one,” said
Annalisa.
 
Then they both began to
laugh.

Annalisa sighed.
 
“I guess it all sounds kind of
ridiculous.”

“He is who he is,” said
Cameron.
 
He let the Aston Martin
decelerate.
 
On the road ahead of
them, an unmoving line of red taillights trailed toward the glow of Ibiza Town
on the near horizon.

“Is there always this much
traffic on this little island?” asked Cameron.

Annalisa lifted her head in an
attempt to see up and around the cars in queue ahead of them.
 
“After sunset people are finding their
way to dinner I guess.”

Cameron rested his forearm on
the steering wheel.
 
They would have
to wait for traffic to begin to move.
 
With the tips of his fingers, he began to tap the top edge of the
dashboard, a nervous habit that went with his mind wandering to where he may
find Nikos, to where he may find Christine.

Cameron tilted his head to the
side and absently peered ahead to the roundabout.
 
“There they are,” he said.

“Where?” asked Annalisa.
 
“Where do you see them?
 
How do you know it’s them?”

“Up there in the
roundabout.
 
The LED in the
taillight is out.
 
They didn’t get
far ahead of us.”

Annalisa craned her head closer
to Cameron for a clear view of the roundabout.
 
“I don’t see them.”

Cameron shifted his fingers on
the dashboard to the left.
 
“They
took that turnoff.
 
They’re not
going to the house or airport.”

Pepe put his hands on either
side of Annalisa’s seat and pulled himself forward.
 
“Where are they going Miss Droukos?”

Annalisa’s eyes, fresh a mere
moment ago, sunk in.
 
Cameron winked
at Annalisa triggering a frail smile in return.
 
“I’d love to drive around all night but
we do need to help a friend.”

This time Annalisa was quick to
respond, “That turnoff leads to the port.
 
They are going to Mister Stratos’ sailing yacht.”

“Of course,” said Pepe, “that’s
why there were no signs of Christine.
 
Nikos is hiding her on the yacht.”

Cameron gripped the steering
wheel and switched his head side to side.
 
Driving forward to maneuver around the queue of cars was not an
option.
 
To the right was an iron
fence and a boundary of boulders, and to the left was a meter high concrete
median.
 
Cameron and Pepe needed to
uncomfortably bide their time until they made their way to the roundabout.
 
After an eternal five minutes, they were
clear of the median barrier on the left.
 
Cameron gunned the accelerator and the Aston bounced up onto the curb.
 
Dirt, dust, and stones flew up behind
the car as Cameron tore through the loose dry sandy soil and shrubbery of the
median and into the opposing lane.
 
Circumventing the frozen traffic that had held them, he aimed the Aston
toward the roundabout, ignoring any vehicles in his way.
 
A small VW station wagon turned off the
roundabout and into the lane, head on with the accelerating Aston.
 
The horn of the oncoming Volkswagen
blared as the vehicle swerved to miss the Aston Martin then stopped abruptly as
the car slammed up against an olive tree.
 
Having barely missed crashing into the VW, the Aston entered the
roundabout against traffic.
 
The
surprise chance of near collision sent the oncoming barrage of brilliant lights
veering into rapidly deviating directions.

The Aston Martin had been still,
a whirlwind, corrected, and then was again travelling smoothly.
 
Cameron tweaked the rearview mirror to
see if traffic in the roundabout was correcting as well.
 
“You can relax now,” he said.

“I’m not sure I can,” said
Annalisa.
 
Her clawed hands were
each clutching a part of the interior dearly, one hand the dash, the other the
door.

“Which way now?”

“Um, turn right at the next
roundabout then go all the way to the end.
 
Mister Stratos keeps the yacht moored in Talamanca Bay.”

The cadmium yellow lights that
illuminated the white stucco buildings blanketing the hillside Ibiza Town,
appeared an anachronism to the flowing headlights that weaved in and out of
view.
 
The harbor’s forests of masts
towering the mammoth powerboats produced the same sense of mixed century.

Cameron slowed as he approached
the next roundabout that led down toward the port.
 
The other Aston Martin was far ahead of
them, yet in view, skirting the rows of the docked sailboats and cruisers
populating the port.
 
Cameron
watched Stratos enter the far roundabout and then exit the spoke that led to the
second harbor, Talamanca Bay.
 
When
Stratos had cleared his view, Cameron killed the lights of the Aston so he
could shorten the distance to his quarry in stealth.
 
The plan was good because, when Cameron
entered the far roundabout, he saw Demetrius and Nikos exiting their sports car
at the shoreline parking area, mere meters away.
 
Barely above an idle, the Aston loomed
from the spoke onto the side street.
 
The Aston came to rest curbside under the shadow of a tree.
 
Hidden in the darkness, Cameron killed
the engine, and then decided to slip the key fob into his pocket.

The well-lit parking area, where
Demetrius and Nikos had left their Aston, was intended for those with boats
moored out in the bay.
 
From the
shadows, Cameron watched the two men walk the length of a long concrete dock
past a series of tethered dinghies.
 
Nikos climbed into one of the dinghies near the end of the long dock
followed by his father.
 
Demetrius
untied the line and then pushed the boat away from the dock.
 
Cameron watched Nikos tug a few times on
the four stroke motor cable.
 
With a
purr, the dinghy veered out of the pool of light cast from the dock and into
the bay.

A short way out, a number of
masts sprouted from the surface of Talamanca Bay.
 
Mooring lines, strung with lamps, appeared
to rest on the reflecting amber sheets that shot across the still water from
the shoreline hotels.
 

“Which one?” asked Pepe.
 
His elbow supported him on the center
console as he watched the two Greek men motor away.