It was a stroke of fortune, to be out of the house, so he could tell the jefe what happened, be a witness.
His boss will be angry, but will be understanding, Antonio is sure. For the jefe’s concern was that the old man be kept safe and secure until the norteamericano showed up.
And considering the police response—Jesus, is that another siren he is hearing?—there certainly wasn’t anything polite or quiet going on down there during the past several minutes.
He resumes driving, turns onto St. Mary’s Street, starts rehearsing what he’s about to tell the jefe.
A pause.
But what about Pepe?
Pepe knew exactly where he was going.
Not off to get medicine, but to get some hot McDonald’s food.
He ponders some more.
Considering what he’s seen, Pepe is wounded, dead, or alive in police custody.
If he’s in police custody, Pepe will know the rules. Keep quiet, no phone call—which can be tapped—and wait for someone from the cartel to come retrieve him.
If he’s wounded, then he’ll be in a local hospital. Antonio can track him down and then…take care of him.
And if Antonio is very, very lucky, then Pepe is dead and is now explaining himself to the God he believed in.
Antonio doesn’t believe in God but believes in his jefe, and now it’s time to make a confession of sorts.
He picks up his phone and then freezes.
No signal.
CHAPTER 57
PELAYO ABBOUD is relaxing on a couch in his expansive suite, reading the Economist, when Casper slips out of a door and gestures to him. He puts the Economist down and strolls over to his trusted deputy, and Casper whispers to him, “There’s something going on at Three Rivers. Quickly, please.”
He steps in and Casper gently escorts him to a wide computer screen that has the feed coming in from the ex-CIA drone that now belongs to Pelayo and his organization. Once again, he is taken aback by the details he can see from the aerial platform.
“Are we sure this cannot be seen?”
One of the technical men who replaced the unfortunate Alejandro quietly says, “Fairly certain, jefe. It has what is known as a chameleon liquid outer shell. The drone adjusts its own color to match the sky and flying clouds. For someone on the ground, they might hear the buzzing sound, and that will be all.”
“Your name, son?”
“Ferdinand.”
He gently squeezes the young man’s shoulder. “Well said, Ferdinand.” He leans over and asks Casper, “What, then, is going on?”
Casper takes a pen and places it on the screen, lower right, where there seem to be low trees and brush. He taps the screen and says, “A few minutes ago, we saw a person crawl into this brush. It seems like the house is under surveillance.”
“I see.”
Pelayo looks to the house. “And the truck is still gone.”
“Yes,” Casper says.
“Then—”
Pelayo stops talking as a figure emerges from the brush and walks quickly to the nearby road, and then strolls up to the front of the house.
“Well,” Pelayo says.
With reluctance the young man says, “Jefe?”
“Yes? Don’t be shy.”
“If you want, I can lower the drone’s altitude…which may make it easier for it to be seen. But there is a microphone. We might be able to hear voices.”
“Do it,” he says.
The young man manipulates the keyboard and the view tightens in on the house, looking down from above, and Pelayo imagines the possibilities of having several drones like this, perhaps armed with weapons. An avenging angel, overseeing his enemies.
He likes that idea.
Sound crackles from the speakers set next to the computer screen. He can hear a car horn, the sound of wind. The figure, wearing a baseball cap and regular clothes, comes to the front door and knocks.
Casper says, “Could that be the Army captain?”
“It might,” Pelayo says.
There’s another knock on the door. And then, a third.
“Could the house be empty?” Casper asks.
Pelayo says, “Don’t even think of such a thing.”
Then…voices. He can actually hear a voice and—
The figure disappears into the house.
Gunshots.
Pow!
Pow!
Three more rapid gunshots in a row.
Then another one.
Pelayo leans over some more, like he’s now part of the drone, watching everything unfold beneath him.
Two figures emerge from the rear of the house, run across the yard. Ferdinand manipulates the keyboard one more time, and they watch as the two people go into a grove of trees.
A minute later, what looks to be a Jeep drives out and onto a road.
The drone follows the Jeep’s progress.
With pleasure in his voice, Casper says, “The Army captain…she drives a Jeep.”
“So she does,” Pelayo says. “I guess that was the Army captain after all, eh?”
He watches as the Jeep maneuvers its way through some streets and then pulls over.
Pelayo says, “The phone, if you please.”
Casper passes it over to him.
He holds it.
Waits a few minutes.
It rings. He answers.
“Yes?”
The woman’s voice comes through clear and strong.
“Got him,” she says.
Pelayo chuckles.
“I know.”
He puts the phone against his chest so she can’t hear what he says to his crew, for he knows that they are still worried and disturbed by the day’s earlier events, and the fact that one chair in this room is blatantly empty.
With a smile to his crew, Pelayo says, “You see? Sometimes it pays to be merciful.”
CHAPTER 58
SO THE son of a bitch knows already, which doesn’t surprise me that much. Having committed at least a half dozen serious capital crimes in kidnapping and threatening my family, there’s obviously something very big on the line for him, so it stands to reason he’d be keeping track of me.
But he doesn’t realize the mistake he’s made in revealing this information, which now gives me some hard intelligence I didn’t have before, knowing for a fact I’m being tracked.
That’s the thing with civilians. They watch some History Channel documentaries, read a bio of a Navy SEAL or two, along with Sun Tzu, and they think they’re a goddamn strategic genius.
I say, “All right. I’ve got him. What now?”
“Let’s verify you have the right person. Will you describe him?”
I give my silent passenger one good look and say, “Gentleman in his late sixties, early seventies. Well-dressed, well-groomed. White beard and hair. Brown eyes. Wearing a nice suit, no necktie. You want I should ask him his blood type?”
Another chuckle. “That won’t be necessary.”
I hear another siren coming in from another direction. This place is hot and is going to get much hotter, and I need to get moving before some smart cop starts setting up roadblocks.
“What now?” I ask.
“You’re to bring him to me, in good health. You’re to drive east, to a town called Beachside, Florida. It’s off Route 98, just below Miramar Beach and above another town called Seaside. If you were to drive nonstop, it should take you just about thirteen hours. But as you can tell, I’m in a giving mood. Your deadline is exactly twenty-four hours from now.”