To The Lions - 02 (7 page)

“What’s
your name?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“My
name is Gregor,” he answered, using the German version of the false name he
typically used.
 
“So is it just you and
him here?”

“No.
 
The other girls are back there working,” she
curled her lip, “and
him
.”

“You’re
a waitress?”

“And
bartender.
 
And janitor.”
 

“Why
are you here so early?”

Justina
laughed, though it was more of a snort.
 
“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“You
do
not
live in Lloret.” It wasn’t a
question.

“Just
during the season.”

“All
the Russian clubs are like this one.
 
The
girls, we get here in the early afternoon.
 
We do everything to run the club, yes?
 
We clean.
 
We stock bar.
 
We prepare food.
 
We take out the trash.
 
We scrub the bathrooms.
 
Then we must cross the street and lay in the tanning
bed to stay tan.
 
After that, we use
shampoo and shower under the hose out back and make pretty in the mirrors and work
until four in the morning.
 
We have to
remove our tops and show our tits after midnight so we can get grabbed by
disgusting men.
 
Then we go to the tiny
house with all the bugs and mice, sleep six hours and repeat everything.
 
We do this
seven
days a week.”

“Your
English is good.”

“Language
is not hard for me.
 
Being here is,
though.”

Gage
turned on the stool, screwing up his face.
 
“Why don’t you just leave?”

“Where
do I go?” she asked, taking a step back.
 
“I have no money.
 
No
education.
 
They know all this when they
come to Poland and hire us.”

“Don’t
they pay you?”

“At
the end of summer.
 
While here they feed
us bad food and clothe us in skimpy things.
 
If we get very, very sick we might go to doctor.
 
That is all.”

Gage
listened to her explanation without outward emotion—he couldn’t afford it at
the moment.
 
“Hang in there,” was all he
said as he turned back to the bar, trying to put what she’d said out of his
mind.

“You’re
not German,” Justina said, moving around so he could see her.
 
After her pronouncement, her full lips tilted
upward.

“Excuse
me?” he replied in perfect German.

“No.
 
You’re not German,” she said with
conviction.
 
“I know this.
 
Like I said, I am good at language.”

Gage
had studied several languages at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey,
California, a government institution that claimed to be the finest training
facility in the world.
 
And even during
his time living in Germany, no one had exposed him the way this Polish woman
had just done.

“Why
are you here?” she asked.

“Just
doing some business with Dmitry.”

“No.”

“No?”

A
corner of her mouth turned up.
 
“You’re
up to something.”

“It’s
just as I said.”

She
leaned closer.
 
“Can you help me?”

“Excuse
me?”

“I
cannot stay here.”

“Then
leave.”

“I
can’t just leave.”

“Not
sure what I can do to help.”

Her
hand gently touched his shoulder.
 
“I can
tell you’re different than the men who come in here.”

Gage
turned to her.
 
Her eyes glistened as she
stared at him.

“I’m
just a man.”

“I
need a man—a good one.”

“Do
you ask all men things like this?”

She
appeared hurt.
 
“No, I do not.”
 
Nibbled her bottom lip.
 
“The last few days have been bad and…and I’ve
got to leave.”

“What
happened?”

“Nothing
happened.
 
The changes are here,” she
said, tapping her temple.
 
“The things I
was able to put up with in the past years I cannot deal with anymore.
 
Make sense?”

Gage
nodded.

Before
he could answer, light spilled into the room again as Dmitry the Russian reentered
the main portion of the club.
 
Gage watched
him, seeing the Russian reflexively touch his pistols.

Gage
turned back to Justina.
 
“Do me a favor,
okay?”

“Yes?”

“Go
behind this bar and get me another beer.”

“You
haven’t touched that one.”

“Please,”
Gage said, placing his beer on the shelf beyond the bar.

Justina
shrugged, moving away from Gage, making him briefly gloomy at the absence of
her close presence.
 
But, as pleasant as
the five-minute interlude had been, it was time to finish this diversion and
move on to the big meeting at Tossa de Mar.

Just
as Justina ducked under the moveable bar hinge, the Russian stepped to the spot
where she had just stood, again gripping Gage’s shoulder in his irritating
manner.

It
was like replacing a bouquet of beautiful and fragrant flowers with a smelly turd.

“I
have good news,” Dmitry said majestically.
 
“For twenty-six thousand euro per kilo, cash in your hand, we can—”

Gage’s
left hand struck like an angered cobra.

Using
his entire body, he swiveled, his left hand whipping around like a bolo.
 
But, instead of a fist, he held his palm flat
with his thumb outstretched.
 
The effect
was similar to a karate chop, and it struck the Russian squarely in the throat,
on his larynx.
 
Predictably, shut down by
his body’s limbic system, Dmitry crumbled in a choking heap.

Gage
pounced on him, straddling his torso as his hands shot inside the Russian’s
splayed suit jacket, spiriting away the matching pistols.
 
As Dmitry lay choking, Gage gave the handguns
a quick appraisal, realizing he hadn’t been too far off in his original
estimation.
 
Star pistols, model SS in
.380 ACP.
 
.380 was not Gage’s favorite
caliber, not by a long shot, but it would do for now.
 
Both pistols were finished in handsome Starvel
nickel and outfitted with excellent grips.
 
He jabbed one into his waistband while raking the slide on the other,
ignoring the round that arced to the floor.
 
Gage was far more concerned with the round that replaced it.

As
the stunned Russian recovered his air, Gage aimed the freshly cocked pistol at
him.
 
“Do not move,
zalupa
—I will shoot you.”

The
Russian had been trying to get up but instead he lay back, gagging and coughing
loudly.

Gage
stood and backed away to the door.
 
He
kept the pistol trained on the Russian, subconsciously adjusting his hands on
the pistol, familiarizing himself with its weight and feel.
 
When he reached the door, the Russian rose to
his elbows, screaming a torrent of curses and gesturing with his balled fist.

Gage
opened the door with his rear end and the last thing he saw in club Eastern
Bloc was Justina the Pole, eyeing him in shock.
 
But, just as she had earlier when outing him as a non-German, the corners
of her mouth turned upward.

She
gave Gage a small wave.

Unable
to move for a few seconds, Gage shared the gaze with Justina.
 
Then he turned, ducking his head for the
camera’s sake, and ran up the stairs, exiting into the gloaming of the Spanish
evening.
 

Chapter Four

While
Gage had been to Lloret as a post-teen in the Army, he’d never been to neighboring
Tossa de Mar.
 
Now, seeing it from the
water, with the lights twinkling against the backdrop of the reddish hills, the
town overlooking a crescent beach, Gage made a mental note to come back someday.
 
While the sun had fully set behind the hills,
there was probably another hour of twilight left.
 
Gage’s two favorite hours of the day were
morning and evening twilight, especially in the summer months, when the dusky conditions
lingered on and on.
 
He could see why
movie directors called it the “magic hour,” because of the richness and layers
of depth the low light provided.
 
And
Tossa de Mar looked especially handsome during such a flattering hour,
especially when viewed from the water.
 
White buildings were the norm, interspersed with cheerily-colored
buildings and the occasional rock outcropping.
 
Above the small boat, towering over the water on its rocky promontory,
was a Spanish castle, lit by strung lights, a beautiful painting.

As
they trolled in a few feet of water, well inside the foot-high waves, Gage
motioned to the small boat’s pilot to beach the craft here.
 
After one final thrust from the motor, it
went silent before the sand could be heard gently scrubbing underneath the
bow.
 
Gage hopped off, not caring that
his boots and pants legs were soaked.
 
He
paid the man his required seventy euro, adding in a generous tip, before turning
the 22-footer back to sea and giving it a shove.
 
As the motor burbled to life, the pilot
turned, giving Gage a two-finger salute before he chopped through the small
waves, headed back to his slip just north of Lloret.

With
two Star SS pistols weighing down his already wet pants, Gage cinched his belt tighter
and skirted the narrow sand of the promontory.
 
A check of his Timex showed he was expected in ten more minutes.
 
Without caution, because he was certain Navarro’s
man—
or men, if I’m correct
—wouldn’t
be expecting him to arrive by sea, he walked straight into Tossa de Mar,
heading up a steep pedestrian street to the southwest of the restaurant.

Like
most towns on the Costa Brava, Tossa was built directly onto the side of the
rocky Catalonian hill.
 
Having
scrutinized and memorized the map on Google Earth, Gage was confident in his
approach to the restaurant.
 
The street
he climbed was lined with shops and cafés, but too narrow for any large restaurants
with outdoor seating.
 
This was
good.
 
He was searching for a landmark, a
fountain outside of a church and, after five hundred meters, found it.
 
At that point he was to make his way into a
narrow alley to his right.
 
If Navarro
had broken his promise and brought more than one man, and if his people had any
sense at all, this was where the hidden men would be stationed.
 

Gage
was no longer moving normally.
 
His steps
were each lifted and slowly lowered to the earth in front of him.
 
A scraping sound was not desired at the
moment.
 
Before he turned the corner, he
removed one of the Russian’s Star SS pistols, gripping it in his right hand as
he glanced at his Timex. It was now time for the meeting.

Ahead
of Gage, at the end of the narrow alleyway, was a rusty railing that had once
been painted black.
 
Running with the
railing, just as Gage had memorized, was a narrow alleyway that ran parallel to
the street he’d just ascended.
 

Pistol
extended, Gage made his way up the alleyway until, around a slight bend, he saw
what he suspected.
 
Standing behind a
narrow copse of saplings was a man.
 
He
was wearing black slacks and a shimmering short-sleeved button down.
 
His skin was light brown and, other than the
large caliber pistol in his right hand by his leg, he might have passed as a
worker in the alleyway having a smoke.
 

But
Gage knew by his own pace count that where the man with the gun was standing was
above the side street that housed the Italian restaurant Il Dipinto—his meeting
place.
 
The man’s back was partially
turned to Gage and, after a few more steps, Gage could hear the man
murmuring.
 
A few more steps and an
angling to Gage’s left showed a small hands-free device on the man’s ear—a
Bluetooth.
 
He was obviously talking to
someone posted elsewhere.

This
was going to be delicate.

Deciding
not to overthink it—because he was only ten feet away—Gage prowled
forward.
 
In a swift movement, he moved within
a foot and pressed the Star into the small of the man’s back as he controlled
the man’s right hand with his own right hand.

“Do
not move,” Gage said loudly enough to be heard on the Bluetooth device.
 
“And whoever is on the other end of the line,
don’t you move either.
 
I’m Señor
Navarro’s dinner companion.
 
We
agreed
that he would post only one
guard.”
 
The man in front of him
stiffened but said nothing.
 
Gage slid
his hand downward.
 
“Let’s all be
peaceful.
 
Hand that over and I will
lower my weapon.”
 
As he tugged on the
large handgun, Gage could hear something being said through the Bluetooth
device and, just afterward, the man released the gun.

Gage
backed away and, in his rough Spanish, told the man to turn around by saying,
“Date la vuelta, por favor.”

The
man was young and handsome, his face displaying a mixture of indignation and
fear.
 
Gage recognized him from earlier
as the man from the airport who’d held a sign with Gage’s pseudonym.
 
Honoring what he’d promised, Gage held both
pistols down to his side.
 
“Habla Inglés?”

A
nod.

“I’m
not going to hurt you.
 
But I told Señor Navarro
he was to bring
only
one man.
 
Where are the others?”

“Only
one.
 
Outside the restaurant on the main
pedestrian avenue.”

“Tell
him we’re coming down, and he’s not to show any threat to me.
 
Comprendé?
”

The
man spoke into the Bluetooth, listened for a moment, then spoke again.
 
He nodded.

“Very
good,” Gage said, stepping forward.
 
He
peered through the leaves of the saplings, seeing a man at the rear table, a
white fedora resting on the table next to him.
 
It was Navarro, don of Los Soldados, a man whose image was all over the
Internet as the most powerful, and aged, mobster in Spain.
 
In front of Navarro were a bottle of
Pellegrino and a powder-blue box of Dunhill fine-cut cigarettes.
 

Lifting
his eyes, Gage saw Navarro’s other man at the mouth of the alleyway—the man
from the airport who’d been eyeing Gage’s picture on his phone.
 
He was pacing, staring up to where Gage and
the unarmed sentry stood.

It
was a satisfying image.

Realizing
his tedious precautions of the day were probably completely unnecessary, Gage
didn’t regret them at all.
 
Over the
previous eighteen months he’d gotten his sea legs again.
 
And the very first lesson, especially when
dealing with criminals, was to trust no one.
 
Even men vouched for by Colonel Hunter.
 
Gage couldn’t afford to take any chances, like a bullet in his back
while he dined.

He
turned to the sentry.
 
“Drop through here
and go stand with your partner.”

“My
pistol?”

“I’ll
return it after I eat.”

Flashing
a childlike expression of remorse, the sentry slid through the railing and released
to the ground.
 
Gage watched as Navarro turned
and frowned at his man.
 
Gage pocketed
both pistols, now carrying three in his pants.

Grasping
the center bar, Gage followed suit and slid through the railing.
 
He dropped in behind Navarro, holding up his
weighted-down pants.
 
Straightening, Gage
realized a woman at an adjacent table had seen him and the sentry drop in from
above.
 
Startled, she touched a hand to
her upper chest.
 
Gage smiled at her and
said, “Atajo,” the Spanish word for shortcut.
 

He
stepped to Navarro’s table and sat without invitation.
 
To his credit, Navarro showed no surprise
other than an arched white eyebrow.
 
Navarro
used his thumbnail to slit the cellophane from his cigarettes, peeling away the
foil and removing a single cigarette.

“Mister
Harris,” he said, inclining his head.
 
“I
truly appreciate your caution.”

“You
said you would only bring one sentry.
 
Yet you went against your promise and posted an armed man hidden behind
you.”

“My
sincere apologies.
 
It was not done out
of disrespect, and I would have informed you of his presence had you arrived
traditionally,” Navarro said mildly.
 
He
spoke idiomatic English with only a slight accent.
 
Navarro didn’t appear to be a tall man from
where he sat, although his belly indicated a man who enjoyed good food.
 
Gage guessed him to be at least seventy, give
or take five years.
 
His hair was stark
white and styled nicely.
 
Although his face
was deeply tanned, it was blemished by a fair number of acne scars, mainly on
his cheeks.
 
The face was round and his
nose, while tan and a tad sharp for a man with otherwise rounded features, showed
several groupings of burst capillaries, possibly denoting him as an alcoholic,
giving him a bright, rubicund appearance.
 
But most pronounced were Navarro’s eyes, light amber in color.
 
They were small but vivid and, to Gage, seemed
to be the eyes of a person who was highly intelligent.

When
Gage didn’t respond, Navarro lit his cigarette with a simple disposable lighter.
 
He gestured to the street with his cigarette.
 
“My men are embarrassed.”
 

“Which
one is senior?”

“Valentin,
the man stationed out at the street, is my
asesor
de seguridad
.
 
He’s by my side at all
times.
 
The other one, Ocho, comes and
goes.”

“Would
you mind calling Valentin over and introducing us—so he doesn’t do anything
rash—then keep him posted out there for protection?
 
I’m presenting my back to the street—something
I do not feel comfortable in doing—and I’m only doing so as a courtesy to you.”

Navarro
snapped his fingers.
 
Valentin stepped
over, flashing a harsh glance at Gage.

“Valentin,
this is Señor Harris.
 
He meant no harm
in arriving the way he did.”

“He
was showing off,” Valentin said in Spanish.
 
“Showing off at the airport.
 
Showing off here.”

“Stop,”
Navarro commanded, raising his left hand.
 
Resetting his countenance, he motioned back to the mouth of the
street.
 
“Now that you know he’s here and
means no harm, Valentin, please continue to monitor the street for unwanted
guests.”

“But
he’s armed, patron, and he took Ocho’s pistol.”

“I’m
not giving up my weapons,” Gage said flatly.
 
He shook the silverware from a linen napkin and placed the other man’s
pistol inside of it, placing it at the end of the table.
 
“For Ocho.”

Valentin
accepted the wrapped pistol, nodding curtly to Gage.

“That
is all,” Navarro said.

Once
Valentin had walked away, the waiter approached, hands behind his back as he performed
a small bow.
 
He spoke rapid Spanish to
Gage before Navarro intervened, looking at Gage and saying, “In the interest of
time, might I order for us?”

“Please.”

Gage
wasn’t able to understand the request but it appeared by his reaction that the
waiter approved.
 
The waiter soon came
back with another glass and poured Gage a glass of water.

“Unless
you would like something stronger,” Navarro said, holding the waiter with an
upheld hand.

“Water
is fine.”

The
waiter went back inside.