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“He always demands proof.”
“Then we’ll give him some.”
“It will have to be convincing.”
“It will be,” Don Fernando assured her.
Her brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”
Unbuckling his seat belt, he stood up. “The plane isn’t going to land.”
The waters of Acapulco were turquoise, clear down to the rocky bottom.
Diving into them from great heights took both skill and lungs of steel. To survive the depths to which a cliff diver plunged, to hold your breath for the time it took to descend and then fight the currents, eddies, and undertow on your way up to the frothy surface took long practice and, again, lungs of steel.
By the time, he was eleven, Tulio Vistoso, the best cliff diver in the sun-bleached resort city, could hold his breath for just under nine minutes. By the time he was fifteen, it was at least a minute longer.
The water around Dockside Marina was black as oil, but the lack of light was no deterrent for the Aztec. He had let go of jefeMarks’s legs when the bullets hit the water; there was no sense in being stupid. If he didn’t pull Marks under then, he knew it was just a matter of time. Not that Maceo Encarnación had given him much time. In fact, half of it was gone. He had to return to Mexico City with someone’s head and at least the promise of the return of the thirty million.
The moment the bullets stopped and jefeMarks was pulled out of the water, Don Tulio made his move. He knew it would be only a small matter of time before Marks’s people dropped divers into the water. He had to be either securely hidden or out of the water entirely before that happened. With the boats in the water, he could hardly swim out of the marina. Besides, he had to assume the Gringo federaleswould already have established a secure perimeter.
Rising near one of the slimy piers near the Recursive, he felt the vibrations of other boats. Then powerful floodlights were switched on, probing the darkness of the water, pushing back the shadows in which he had thought to secret himself. Clearly, now, that would not do. Neither would the network of pilings and crossbeams beneath the pier, his next choice. As he popped his head experimentally out of the water, he heard the panting and sniffing of dogs. They’d find him for sure under the pier.
That left only one alternative, one he was reluctant to use. Ducking back down to avoid a moving spotlight, he moved slowly and deliberately, causing no ripple at all, moving stealthily into the narrow crevasse between the dock and the starboard side of the Recursive. He edged his way along until he was directly beneath the second, and larger, bumper.
Feeling only with his fingertips, he found the metal ring, painted the same color as the hull. If you didn’t know it was there, you would never have seen it. But the Recursivewas, first and foremost, a smuggler’s boat; it contained all ma
Still, entombment was the only chance Don Tulio had now, and he took it. Twisting the ring, he opened the hatch from the top and swung himself into the space. Water splashed in with him, filling the bottom. Quickly now, he closed the door and turned the ring into the locked position from the inside so it could not be seen.
Then, his heart beating fast, he began to pray to a god he had long since abandoned, except in name.
Forty minutes after he reached the ER, Peter was allowed to sit up while he was hydrated with fluids via an IV. He called Hendricks, waking him up.
“Where the hell have you been?” the secretary said grumpily.
When Peter told him that he had infiltrated Core Energy, that its CEO had verbally implicated himself, that Dick Richards was secretly working for Tom Brick, and that he had followed leads to the thirty million aboard the Recursive, Hendricks sounded mollified. But only for a moment.
“I hate it when both my directors are out of circulation.” Instantly, Peter was on the alert. “What are you talking about?”
“Soraya’s in the hospital,” the secretary said. “She collapsed and had to have an emergency procedure.”
In his extreme agitation, Peter nearly tore out his IV. “How is she?”
“Stable, from the last update I got. Delia’s with her. She’s barely left Soraya’s side.”
“Where is she?”
“Same hospital you’re in, but you don’t sound as if you’re in any shape—”
“I’m fine,” Peter snapped, a bit too aggressively. Even he realized that, albeit belatedly. “Sorry, sir, this whole business at the marina has got me on edge.”
“Right. Keep me wired into that. The moment you ID the man who attacked you, I want to know, got it?”
“Yessir.”
There was another pause. “As for Richards, do you want to pick him up or let him run?”
Peter considered this question, among thoughts of Soraya. “Give me a day or two to see what he’s up to. Now that I’ve flown Brick’s coop, I want to see what’s going to happen.”
“I wish we knew who he was bringing back for you to kill.” “Me, too, boss. But it might have been no one. Brick is into playing games with your head. I had had enough of that, and there was this key lead to run down.”
“I hear you. But as of this moment we have to treat Richards as a threat.”
“Absolutely, boss. But if we can use him to gain solid evidence of what Brick is really up to, I don’t want to miss the chance.”
“Fine.” Hendricks sounded reluctant. “But any backup you need—”
“I’ll call ASAP.”
“Do that. And, for the time being, I’m ordering you up protection.”
“That’s precisely what you won’t do, sir. With all due respect, I can’t do my job with a shadow. I’m not a desk jockey. I can handle myself.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Sir?”
“Peter, for God’s sake, take better care of yourself,” Hendricks said before he disco
You have two choices,” the mortician said, “sleep on the floor or in one of these coffins.”
“Nice silk,” Rebeka said, sliding her hand along the rim of a coffin.
The mortician gri
“Your choice,” he said. “Either way, I’ll notify you when it’s time.”
“You’re sure Maceo Encarnación’s people will call you,” Bourne said.
“More than that,” de la Rivera said, “I’m sure Maceo Encarnación himself will call me.”
“How’s that?”
De la Rivera’s lips twitched. “I’m married to his sister.” This made Bourne uneasy. “Isn’t blood thicker than water here?”
De la Rivera’s lips curled fully into a sneer. “Maceo Encarnación is not my blood. The man is made of money, but still he treats his sister like shit.” He spat onto the floor. “And me? He likes giving me business; he thinks it demeans me. ‘All you’re interested in is my money,’ he tells me, when what I want is for him to treat us like people. But, what? He doesn’t even invite us to his home. So there’s no blood here, not for me, not for my wife. He can go fuck himself for all I care.” He waved his hand. “So whatever chaos you cause when you’re inside, I’ll fucking applaud.”