Blackjack Page 19

  “So you went into dope. That’s what you think I need to know?”

  “No, hombre. What you need to know is only this: I would kill a thousand times—a thousand cities—rather than return to the favela.”

  “There’s no reason to kill a man more than once.”

  “Ah, you joke when I try to … explain myself. Muy bien. So now you listen: Herrera had a couple of dozen locations. Locations where he stashed money. Money and product. He and I were partners. I have half of the microchip, but mine only works if snapped into his half. Same for him, of course.

  “Now, Herrera, he was having a problem. I know he himself hired you to retrieve a certain book. But, after that, I hear nothing. Then I learn Herrera was killed. His car, his bodyguards … everything blown to pieces. So I know even more now. I know you were paid. Paid twice.

  “Why do I say ‘twice’? Because it is Humberto who has the chip, not Esteban. Why? Because we knew all along that Esteban was secret partners with Herrera. We speak of honor, but betrayal—that is the life we live. Partnerships mean nothing to a savage like Herrera. That old man, he was ready to eliminate Esteban, so perhaps Esteban also paid you to eliminate Herrera? That would be your style, would it not?”

  Seeing Cross was not going to respond, or even change expression, Muñoz continued:

  “My partnership with Humberto is no different than the one Herrera had with me, or Esteban with him. That is why we use the chips, so that each of us has nothing without the other. But our negotiations with Humberto have proved fruitless—he is greedy beyond tolerance. I want to go back across the border, and I want to stay there. But, first, I need Humberto’s arm.”

  “What’s my piece?” Cross said, his voice as expressionless as his face.

  “Your piece? Your piece? I told you … you get el maricón returned to you.”

  “You got a good sense of humor, Muñoz. You want me to do all kinds of risky stuff to score something worth tens of millions to you, and you want to trade a POW in exchange? Do the math.”

  “This … Princess. He was your man. We have—”

  “What you have is a soldier. A soldier who knew the deal when he signed on. I wouldn’t want to lose him, but I could live with that a lot better than if there’s anything on that microchip that would ring the wrong alarm bells. Those Homeland Security boys all carry open paper—they fill it in after they do whatever they want to.

  “Don’t get me wrong. In our country, nobody gives a damn about flags or uniforms. When we fight, we fight for only two reasons: self-defense or money. So I’ll make it simple. Half a million. Cash. And Princess. For that, you get your little chip.”

  “You will trust me to—”

  “You should take that act onstage, Muñoz. Sure, I’ll trust you to release Princess. It wouldn’t do you any good to dust him. You wouldn’t make a dime, and you might get some of the wrong people angry at you if you did. People who can travel south anytime they want.

  “But the cash … no way. You send a man. Your man, okay? We hand him the chip. He puts it in the pigeon’s bag, and hands over the cash. The bird takes off. It lands wherever you taught it to. When it touches down, you try the chip. You see that it works, and then we’re done. We hold on to your man until we see Princess, then your guy walks away. Got it?”

  “What is to prevent you from killing my man and keeping the money? And the chip?”

  “Don’t play stupid. Half of that chip’s no more use to me than it was to you. What I want is the money. And I want you back over the border, too. This job’s gonna draw enough heat as it is.”

  “Your salads, gentlemen,” the waiter interrupted again, placing a plate in front of each man. “Will there be anything—?”

  “No,” Muñoz snapped, eyes still on his opponent. Finally, he slid a folded piece of paper over to Cross. “It is all there. Everything you need. Muy pronto, eh?”

  Cross lit another cigarette, ignoring his salad as he pocketed the paper. Then he leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice a notch. “You’re a professional. So am I. We understand how these things are done. Money is money. Business is business. I’m gonna get you your little chip, Muñoz. You’re gonna pay me my money and let my man go, are we clear?”

  Muñoz nodded, warily.

  “You know how soldiers are,” Cross said, just above a whisper. “In war, you don’t look too deep. A guy’s good with explosives, another’s a top sniper, maybe another’s a master trail-reader. It all comes down to what you need. Turns out one of the guys you recruit is a little bent, you don’t pay much attention to what he does when he’s not in the field, you understand what I’m saying?”

  Muñoz tilted his head slightly forward, waiting.

  “Some people, they’re in because they like it. It’s not for the money—it’s certain … opportunities they want. I got nobody like that in my crew. But maybe, just maybe, you do. Guys who might do something unprofessional, just because they like doing it. You can always spot them: the first ones who volunteer to do interrogations. Rapists. Torture freaks. You always got them sniffing around, looking for work, right?”

  “So?” Muñoz challenged. “What has this to do with what I—?”

  “You got my man, got him locked up. He’s your hostage. I understand that. I don’t expect you’re gonna feed him whiskey and steak, send up a friend if he gets lonely. That’s okay. But maybe you got guys on your team who like to hurt people. Hurt them for fun. That’s not professional.”

  “Yes,” Muñoz said impatiently. “I know all this.”

  “Herrera, he liked to watch men die. That’s why he had those cage fights.”

  “Herrera is no more, amigo. You above all should know that.”

  “There’s others like him. Maybe you have some of them in your crew. What I want to tell you is this: I can find one myself, easy enough.”

  “Why do you say all this? What is your meaning?” Muñoz spoke softly, but a titanium thread of menace throbbed in his voice.

  “Just play it for real,” Cross told him. “Nobody gets paid for acting stupid. You know about me. You know people who owe me. Some of them, anyway. You know what I can do.

  “So listen good. If you hurt Princess, if we don’t get him back in the same condition as you found him, we’ll find you. Wherever you go, no matter how long it takes, we will find you, Muñoz. And when we do, it’s going to take you a long time to die.”

  “HOW MUCH do I owe you?” Rhino asked the waiter from Nostrum’s. They were standing near the mouth of an alley that opened into a street in the heart of the gay cruising area.

  “You owe me some respect,” the waiter snapped. “I don’t forget what Princess did for us. I’m a man,” he said with quiet force. “A man pays his debts.”

  “I apologize,” Rhino squeaked. “If there’s ever—”

  But the waiter was already walking away.

  IN THE basement of Red 71, Cross was using a laser pointer to illuminate various parts of a crudely drawn street map he had taped to the back wall.

  “He’s somewhere in here,” Cross said, the thin red line of the laser pointer aimed at a cross section of a tall building standing next to three others exactly similar. “We don’t know what apartment. We don’t even know what floor. Humberto controls the buildings, so he may even switch from time to time.”

  “This Humberto, he never goes out?” Rhino asked.

  “Once a week. To the airport. He meets an international flight on the south concourse. A different guy comes each time. Humberto meets this guy, talks to him for an hour or so; then the guy just turns around and gets back on another plane.”

  “The courier still has to clear customs,” Buddha said. “Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “Sure. It’s a sterile corridor up to that point. No way to get in or out without the machines looking you over. But whoever comes in, he’s not bringing product, he’s bringing in a chip that’s smaller than a wristwatch battery. Nobody would give it a second look. And even if t
hey did, so what? It’s a piece of plastic, not contraband. The courier clears customs, has a conversation with Humberto, and goes back home. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Don’t make sense,” Buddha said. “That’s a lot of gelt just to get around a wiretap.”

  “I don’t think that’s what it is,” Cross said. “Like I said, I think the courier’s bringing half of a puzzle. Like this one—” holding up the chip he got from Muñoz. “But the only way to see if it works is to try it: they all look alike. The way I got it figured, Herrera was playing both sides. Trying to get Humberto and Esteban to waste each other, each of them thinking they were partners with him, see?”

  “So?” Buddha put in impatiently.

  “So Herrera’s not around anymore. But he probably had chips stashed all over the damn place. Maybe Humberto thinks Muñoz hasn’t got the only one. Or maybe not even the right one. But it’s still his best chance. They go through this negotiation dance, but it’s really a stall for time.”

  “This Humberto, he cuts the chip out of his own arm every week?” Buddha said, skepticism heavy in his voice.

  “Maybe not. Maybe he’s got a dupe. I don’t know. But this much isn’t open for discussion: we’ve got to take Humberto at the airport. That job pays half a mil—that’s a buck and a quarter apiece.”

  “You want to dust him at the airport, then chop off his arm right there? And—what?—throw it in an ice chest?” Ace asked caustically.

  “No. We’ve got to bring him out of there, alive and in one piece. I think I know how to do it. Something I’ve been working on for a while.

  “But Humberto won’t come alone. So I figure we take him when he comes back out of the terminal. Just before he gets into his car. Buddha can get an ambulance real close. What we need is a hideout. Someplace close to the airport. Quiet enough for us to do the rest of the job.”

  “How you figure a hundred and a quarter apiece?” Rhino asked, leaning forward, his bulk imposing itself on the room.

  “Me, you, Ace, and Buddha,” Cross replied, puzzled. “Tracker won’t take a dime, says he wants to prove in, first.”

  “Righteous,” Ace said, touching the brim of his Zorro hat in a salute to a man not present.

  “The way I figure it, Princess is in for a share, too,” Rhino squeaked.

  “Princess?! He’s the genius who got us into this mess,” Buddha spit out.

  “Then he’s the one who brought us the job,” Rhino snapped back.

  “So give him half your share,” Buddha suggested.

  Rhino slowly turned, focusing his small eyes on the short, pudgy man, not saying a word. Buddha gazed back, unfazed.

  “Half a mil splits five ways real easy,” Ace said.

  Cross nodded.

  Buddha waited for a slow count of ten, during which Rhino never blinked. “Yeah, fine. But if one of you ever mentions this to my wife—”

  CROSS PLUCKED the cell phone from his jacket pocket in response to a soft, insistent purr.

  “Go!”

  “He’s in. On schedule,” Buddha’s voice was that of a man accustomed to speaking from cover, quiet but clear.

  “You have his ride?”

  “Black Mercedes. Four-door S-Class. Bodyguard left on foot so he could meet up when the target walks out. Driver’s already out of the picture—replacement set.”

  “Roger that. So it’s down to two … unless you scoped any backups?”

  “Negative. Came in with driver and bodyguard, front seat; just him in the back.”

  “Then get rolling,” Cross said, breaking the connection. He turned to Rhino. “They’ll probably page the driver as they get close to the back exit. That way, he can pull out of the parking area, swing around, and be waiting when they step off the curb.

  “He’ll have another bodyguard hanging around, somewhere else. You take him. I’ll get Humberto. Ace’ll already be behind the wheel of their Mercedes, but they’ll never get close enough to see that. You and me, we ride crash-car on the getaway; we all meet back at the spot if we get separated.”

  Rhino nodded. “You really think that contraption’s gonna work?” he asked, pointing his index finger—the one with the missing tip—at what looked like a particularly awkward pistol: instead of a butt, the pistol’s handle was a long, narrow canister.

  “It’s gas-propelled,” Cross explained. “Same stuff they use in air conditioners. We should get around eleven hundred feet per second. And it won’t make a sound.”

  “It only works for one shot?”

  “One’s all we get.”

  “Why don’t we just finish this guy? What do we need him alive for?”

  “Muñoz wants him dead,” Cross said. “But he’s only paying us for an arm, not a body.”

  THE PHONE purred again. Cross snapped it to his ear. “What?”

  “Moving.” Buddha’s voice. “Me, too. You got two minutes, tops.”

  “Moving,” Cross echoed, pointing a finger at the windshield. Rhino keyed the motor of the Shark Car, threw it into gear. Cross was punching a number into his phone.

  Twenty seconds later, he said “Go!” and closed his phone.

  HUMBERTO WAS standing on the wide curb, a broad-chested man at his side, obviously that on-scene bodyguard Cross had been expecting. The bodyguard spotted the Mercedes rolling toward them and stepped forward, reaching for the handle to the back door.

  Cross moved out of the shadows cast by a thick concrete pillar, the gas gun up and aimed. Humberto grabbed at his neck as he fell. His bodyguard whirled just in time to meet a .22 hollow-point with his left eye.

  Rhino pocketed his silenced pistol and charged forward, carrying Humberto’s body in one hand as another might a suitcase.

  The Mercedes pulled off.

  An ambulance rolled in, its rear doors popping open. Rhino tossed Humberto inside. The ambulance doors closed as it took off for the exit, lights flashing. Rhino ran to the Shark Car and jumped into the open back door, his movements acrobatic despite his bulk. Cross, now behind the wheel, mashed the pedal. The Shark Car chased the ambulance, easily passing it within a half-mile.

  When the Airport Police arrived, they found one dead man, devoid of identification. And no shortage of highly contradictory accounts from spectators.

  THE AMBULANCE pulled to a stop in the shadows of a bridge abutment, just a few yards off the freeway. The Shark Car was already waiting—Cross had placed the anonymous vehicle so that it would be parallel to the ambulance.

  He stood watch as Rhino threw Humberto’s limp body over his shoulder and transferred it to the Shark Car’s trunk.

  Buddha took the wheel of the Shark Car; Cross moved to the shotgun seat. Ace and Rhino took the back, weapons out, each man covering a different rear window.

  As the Shark Car pulled away, Buddha said: “I spraydusted as good as I could, boss. But you never know what they’re gonna find when they vacuum that bus.”

  Cross pulled a small radio transmitter from his jacket, checked the blinking red LED, and tripped a toggle switch. A heavy, thumping whoosh! followed. The sky behind them became a red-and-yellow fireball.

  “What they’re gonna find is some dead meat,” Cross told Buddha. “Well done.”

  AS THE Shark Car entered a quiet community of tract houses, the phone in Cross’s jacket sounded. He opened it up, but didn’t speak.

  “Clear at six.” Tracker’s voice.

  Cross broke the connection and gave the thumbs-up signal to the men in the back seat.

  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.”