Blackjack (35 page)

BUDDHA PULLED
into a driveway of packed dirt, nosing the car forward until it was inside a garage whose doors had swung open in response to an electronic signal.

He popped the trunk. Rhino reached in and grabbed Humberto’s still-limp form by his belt.

Five minutes later, Humberto was strapped to a straight chair in the basement of the house. The men waited another half-hour. Despite Tracker’s assurance, each stayed watchful and alert against the possibility they had been followed.

Finally, Cross stood up and slipped a stocking mask over his face. “All clear,” he said quietly. “Let’s get to it.”

“
THAT SHOULD
be enough,” Rhino said, as he squeezed the plunger of a hypodermic, testing it for clearance. He compressed Humberto’s arm with one huge hand, tapped a prominent vein, and drove the needle home with a surgeon’s precision.

Cross waited as the adrenaline mix slowly took hold, watched as Humberto gradually regained consciousness. He signaled Rhino to stay where he was—looming over Humberto’s back, but not visible.

“Wha … What is this?” Humberto mumbled, his eyes struggling for focus.

“It’s a job, pal,” Cross said. “You do what you’re told, it
stays
a job. You don’t …” He let his voice trail off, its message clear.

“You’re not …” Humberto said, his vision gradually clearing.

“What we are is professionals,” Cross replied. “Just like you. We get paid for our work. Just like you.”

“What work?”

“Muñoz paid us. For your arm.”

Humberto went deathly white under his swarthy skin. “I don’t know what—”

“Yeah, you do,” Cross interrupted. “You got something Muñoz wants. A microchip. Someplace in your right arm. Muñoz, he paid us to bring him that arm.”

“Wait!
Wait
a minute! I can—”

“Don’t say anything. Listen to our offer. Then you say yes or you say no. That’s all the choices you get. Understand?”

Humberto nodded, his hooded eyes now steadied on Cross.

“We
are
gonna get that microchip. We know it’s somewhere
under that tattoo. We can take it gentle,” Cross said, “or we can take it hard. Your choice.”

“I
have
no choice,” Humberto said, his voice calming as strength flowed back into him.

“Muñoz, he has one of my men. He wants to trade him for that chip,” Cross told Humberto. “But if we saw off your whole arm like he wants, he gets
you
, too. And he didn’t pay us for a kill … just for the chip.”

“
I
could pay you …” Humberto said.

“That’s right, you could. But then what would you have? Your bodyguard’s gone. So is your driver. And Muñoz would
still
know where that chip was. You know how he must have found out—you’ve got a traitor close to you, and you don’t know who that is. Might take Muñoz longer the next time, but you’d end up just as dead.”

“What do you suggest?” Humberto asked, a faint ray of hope sounding in his voice.

“I
suggest
you pay us. Not to leave your arm alone—to take out Muñoz. The chip, that’s what gets us in the door, see? And once we get in there, we sit down with Muñoz. Only he never gets up. Costs you a flat two million. Cash.”

“I can get—”

“No,” Cross cut him off. “Forget the games. You’re not making any phone calls. Not writing any notes, either. You’re too smart not to have some money stashed. Serious money. And you’d never trust anyone with
that
info. I’m betting you got it nice and accessible. No safe-deposit boxes, no passwords … nothing like that.”

Cross put a cigarette into the thin slit cut into his mask and lit it with the same hand.

“So it goes like this: you tell us where the money is. Tell us right now. One of my crew goes there, picks it up. If it’s in more than one place, that’s okay—just takes us a little longer. When my man comes back here with the cash, we count out
two mil for ourselves, give you the rest, if there is any. And
then
we do the job for you.”

“How do I know you won’t just take the money—take
all
the money—and kill me anyway?”

“If I was gonna do that, what would I need this mask for?” Cross said, deliberately calling attention to the makeshift balaclava covering his face and neck. “This is business, that’s all. You didn’t come after us. It wasn’t you who snatched my man and held him for ransom. That’s all on Muñoz. So it’s Muñoz who has to go. I’m just making sure we get paid for our work, see?”

“And if I say no?”

“Didn’t I say that Muñoz snatched one of my men? So Muñoz, he’s
already
dead. But we have to get close enough to kill him. If we can’t use the chip to get us in the door, we’ll just bring him your arm.”

A long minute passed. Humberto took a deep breath. “It’s right under her butt,” he said, flexing his right biceps, which sent the tattooed dancer into a very realistic bump-and-grind. “Have you got a drink for a man first?”

HUMBERTO WAS
in a comfortable easy chair, his feet up on an ottoman. He was bare-chested, a gauze bandage taped around his right biceps. To his left, a water glass half full of dark liquid sat on an end table. A thick cigar smoldered in an ashtray. Humberto’s handsome face was relaxed.

“Listen to me,
amigo
,” he said to Cross. “The key to Muñoz is his pride. Muñoz was always … 
muy macho, comprende?
Years ago, he fought a duel. With machetes. It was a matter of honor. He is very, very good with blades. And with his hands, even better—very quick, very strong.”

“And you tell me this because …?”

“Because now I trust you,
hombre
. And I want to prove it to you.”

“You think that does it? Telling me about this guy’s ego?”

“No,” Humberto said, his dark eyes steady on the black stocking mask covering Cross’s head. “
This
is what does it: I know who you are.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. You are the man they call Cross. You hide your face, but you forget to cover your hands,” Humberto said, flicking his glance at the back of Cross’s right hand, where a bull’s-eye tattoo stood out in bold relief. “I myself hired you once before. Years ago. I know your markings.”

Cross made a sound of disgust, reached up, and pulled off the stocking mask. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know you—your crew—you were the ones who killed Herrera. I was not there, but I have heard about it, from many places. Some believed you wanted his product, but I know you don’t play in my game—I always believed you took his stash of jewels instead. I know Esteban always converted his product to money. Only gold, diamonds, the
true
hard currency.”

“What else?”

“Esteban became too strong for his own good. And Herrera,
he
was a devil.
El diablo
does not take in partners.” Humberto’s shoulders moved in an eloquent shrug. “As for Muñoz, I know there was a battle, years ago. Many died. But you escaped. That was all I know. That and the tattoo on your hand. It must have been some kind of rescue operation, which was why Muñoz was not killed.

“Still, Muñoz always swore he would pay you back—he lost much prestige when you invaded his compound. He had to return all the protection money Herrera had paid him.
That hurt him as well. When you got away that time, you took some piece of Muñoz with you.

“I heard more things, later. Herrera, he hired you to do something. Something involving Esteban. And now both men are dead.”

“Why tell me all this?” Cross asked.

“Because I paid for Esteban. Me. It was all my money, even if Herrera acted as if he was the one in charge. Esteban, he was a good front, but he was nothing but an actor, playing a role. We never met face to face, but I know it was you I paid—Herrera would not have known who to call upon, but I did. Like I said, from before.

“You did your work well, Cross. Herrera is gone. Soon, Muñoz will be, too. But you cannot run a drug network yourself. You do not have the contacts down south. You and me, both professionals, I think maybe we will be partners.”

“Like you said, not my game,” Cross answered.

“
IT’S DONE
,” Cross said into the mouthpiece of the cell phone.

“Yes, I watch the news on television,” came the voice of Muñoz. “But it is
not
done. Only half.”

“I’m ready to finish it. Now.”

“You know the King Hotel? On Wabash, near—”

“I know it.”

“My man will be standing in front, on the sidewalk, at midnight. You take him wherever you want. Once you are satisfied that we have not followed you, send us the chip.”

“How are we gonna get the pigeon?”

“
Pigeon!
You insult me. My man will have the bird with him. In a cage.”

“And my money?”

“Sí, compañero.”

“
THE KING
Hotel ain’t nothing,” Ace said, facing the assembled crew. “I got a half-dozen people in that dump. It’s a low-class dive. A little dice game downstairs, but mostly it’s nothing but a hot-sheet. I can be inside hours before they show, cover you anywhere from the top floor down.”

“Perfect,” Cross said. “Buddha, you make the pickup, all right? Me and Rhino, we’ll transport Humberto’s man. Now everybody get to work wiping things down—we can’t have another fire so soon.”