Whispered Lies

SEVEN

DURAND KNELT ON a wool blanket to keep from ruining his black dress pants. He lifted the L96A1 sniper rifle, settling it against his shoulder, then centered the crosshairs on the head of his six-foot target standing two hundred feet away. The wind slipped through trees on each side of him that created a canopy of relief from the afternoon heat weathermen had warned would reach the high nineties in nearby Caracas today.

Like fall in Venezuela was not always hot?

Ankle-deep grass stretched between him and the target so small against the lush tree line and the imposing mountains farther back. So vulnerable. When his breathing slowed to shallow breaths, Durand gently pulled the trigger.

The explosion rolled across the empty field and echoed against the ten-foot-high stucco wall at Durand’s back. Sulfur odors stung the air. His target’s head burst, pieces of clay flying in all directions.

Cheers went up behind him.

Durand gri

“I only buy the best for you,” Durand said softly his smile growing. “And in return, I expect the best. ¿Entienden?”

They answered a resounding “Sí,” all confirming they understood. More than that, their eyes beamed with respect for him. Durand constantly proved to his men he was a cu

A man who deserved uncompromising loyalty and would accept no less.

“You are the mejor, my finest marksmen,” he told them, watching each man silently accept his praise. He waved them toward a row of tables displaying rifles, scopes, silencers, ammunition, and more. Everything a marksman needed. “Choose your weapon and begin training.”

He frequently spoke English in his compound to lead by example. The better a man understood anyone outside his camp, the more formidable an opponent he became.

Durand left his men joking and laughing as they picked through weapons and accessories like children given free rein in a toy store. He strode toward the rear of his private compound enclosed by the butter-yellow wall built to match his hacienda it protected. Spiked, black wrought iron ran along the top ledge interlaced with cascading bougainvillea that perfumed the warm air. A landscape architect had designed the rock gardens with tropical plants that ran low to the ground along the exterior base of the wall, hiding trip wires.

But the exterior was nothing compared to the landscape artistry inside his fortress.

At the arched oak door that allowed rear access, two guards in pressed khaki shirts and pants held H amp;K assault rifles at the ready. The older of the two men lowered his weapon to pull open the ornate door carved with scrolled vines, which hid a core of solid steel.

“Hola, Ferdinand. How is your son’s knee?” Durand paused before passing through the doorway. The gray-haired soldier had come to him many years ago, asking for help. Ferdinand’s wife needed medical care that Durand provided for six months, but her cancer had proved too advanced and she died.

“He still uses the…” Ferdinand’s wrinkled forehead drew tight in heavy concentration. “Sticks.”

“Crutches?”

“Sí.” Ferdinand sighed and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with a cotton banda

Durand was only six years younger and eye level with Ferdinand, who stood five feet eleven inches and was still strong for an old hombre. But the similarities stopped there, because time had been hard on Ferdinand’s face. Durand was still a virile and attractive man. He kept his body fit and wore his silvery mane tied back with a leather thong. Women admired strength in a man just as his business associates respected power in a peer.

Ferdinand shrugged. “You know how a young hombre is too proud to ask his papa for help, but I go anyhow. I tell him working in the pawnshop when I leave here is better than doing nada at home. He will be much improved in a few days.”

Durand frowned over his man having to work all day for him then nights and weekends for his son. “You may have this week to go help him, then come back Monday.”

Shaking his head, Ferdinand argued, “No, Don Anguis. I do my job.”

Durand patted him on the shoulder. “Go, old friend. I want you to. When your son is better, tell him to come see me. He can make more here than at that pawnshop. Sí?”

“Sí.” Ferdinand swallowed, then nodded. “Gracias.” He backed away then to hold the door open.

Once inside, Durand strolled along the stone-paved walkway that snaked through tiered gardens. Two acres of paradise. Nothing like the filthy hovel he grew up in. Three of his five gardeners trimmed hedges, shaped the bougainvillea, and planted fresh flowers. Celine, his latest novia, liked something to always be flowering.

A small price to pay for what she can do with that mouth.

Guards stood at each corner of his nineteen-thousand-square-foot hacienda, a magnificent two-story stucco backdrop to the pool that stretched the length of his Mediterranean-design home. Double glass doors in the center of the lower level opened. His sister pushed the wheelchair with her son Eduardo outside, wheeling the chair to the far left under a cabana next to a kidney-shaped pond with rare fish Durand had personally selected.

He started each day by sipping coffee at the pond, watching his fish play. He found it peaceful.

Maria insisted her son needed a daily dose of sunshine.

Durand headed their way, but his eyes strayed to the foot-long bloated body of a dead fish partly hidden beneath the leaves of a water lily. His favorite scarlet-and-white one he’d raised from a guppy size.

Stopping next to the pond, he fisted his hand.

“Qué te pasa, Durand?” Maria called to him.

“Nada,” he answered, then corrected himself. “No problem.” He relaxed his fingers and made a mental note to have Julio deal with it. His bootheels clicked against the hand-painted ceramic tiles covering the concrete perimeter of the pool as he reached the pair. His nephew lifted his head and gazed Durand’s way before averting his eyes.

That boy was such a waste. Durand regretted that Eduardo wore the tattoo of an Anguis soldier with the scar of a blood relation. His life was full of regrets, such as Alejandro, who had walked away from his family rather than take his rightful place.

He asked his sister, “Did you confirm your plans?” Heat burned through his silk shirt from the sun bearing down on his back. Why didn’t his sister put Eduardo out here if he needed sunshine?

“Sí, nosotros-,” his sister started to answer.

Durand interrupted her by shaking his head. “Please, Maria. In inglés.”

Her mouth turned down in a frown until she caught herself and quickly recovered to nod, a passive mask in place. She had never been a beauty, but she was not unattractive either at forty-eight. Her head reached his shoulder and she had a full womanly figure a man would like if she allowed someone to date her. He’d given several men permission, but she refused any invitation.

Dios mío. Durand hated the submissive droop in her shoulders. She was his baby sister. He loved her. He did not tolerate insolence from his men, but he would never raise a hand to her.

“Sorry.” She kept her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Yes, everything is confirmed. We leave on Thursday.”

“How are you today, Eduardo?” Durand asked for Maria’s benefit. The boy got on his nerves.