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A bunch of parrots squawked at his arrival. He stopped beneath a bent palm and watched the colorful birds jump from frond to frond, wings flapping. What was a collection of parrots called? Francis knew weird, random shit like that.
Boots crunched on gravel. Vitari turned and eyed the man headed across the parking lot toward him. Early thirties, tattered sneakers, faded T-shirt. He seemed to be alone, and as he drew closer, he dropped his right hand and reached behind him.
Vitari placed his own hand on his gun at his back.
Parrots shrieked louder.
The rough stranger brought his hand back around—holding a gun.
Vitari cocked his weapon and jerked his chin. He opened his mouth to warn the prick who he was about to mug?—
A bag swung down over his head from behind him. Plastic handles cut into his skin. Fingers grasped his neck. Vitari gasped, sucking in air, but the bag glued itself to his face, blocking his nose and mouth. He whipped the gun behind him—the weapon was snatched away.
Panic clutched at his heart. He bent double, trying to heave his attacker over his head, but the bag stayed on. He staggered, fighting to stay upright, to breathe, to think. The stranger’s blur still came for him—parrots screeched louder—and his every gasp failed, lighting his chest on fire.
His sight throbbed, ears ringing, darkness pushing in.
The bag—if he could just get the bag off! He tried to dig his fingers under the hold around his neck, but the thudding in his head spread to his chest, where his lungs screamed, desperate for air.
His knees hit the dirt.
Too fast?—
He just needed?—
The bag vanished.
Air rushed down his throat. He choked, wheezed.
“Come with us,” a Spanish-accented voice said.
Hands hauled him to his feet.
Vitari bucked, or tried to, but his body still burned, his head throbbed, and his vision swam. A fist landed in his gut. Pain roared. Vitari hit the ground, clawing at the dirt. Hands grabbed him again, hauled him to his feet.
A pickup truck pulled in, and his attackers flung Vitari against its side.
“Fight and you get the bag,” the brute holding him warned.
“Fuck… you.” Vitari slammed his head back, colliding with the satisfying crunch of a nose.
The brute swore in Spanish, and down came the bag, plastered to Vitari’s face again, blinding him, choking him. Fuck, fuck, fuck… He struggled, shoving, bucking, pushing. He couldn’t let them take him, he couldn’t leave Francis fucking alone. Another punch hit him in the kidney. He heaved, choked, and drowned in darkness.
The roar of an outboard engine and thumping jolts of the speedboat carving through waves dragged him awake. He coughed, tasting blood and dust. On his side, he blinked into bright sunlight and sea spray. He’d been dumped in a boat alongside the guy wearing those tattered sneakers. Shifting, he found his hands had been bound behind his back, making sitting up a struggle, especially with the brutal seesaw motion of the boat. But he managed to lift his head high enough to see San Blas’s beach shrink into the distance.
He huffed through his nose.
A single man piloted the boat, two more sat up front, facing ahead, and Sneakers sat next to him.
“Where we going?” he croaked at Sneakers.
“Boss wants to talk,” he replied in Spanish.
“Which boss?”
His answer was a side-eye that made it clear Vitari had no friends here. This close to Colombia, any number of cartels might want to get their hands on L’ Angelo della Morte. Colombia wasn’t Venezuela; the Battaglia had no foothold here. Even if it had, Vitari was persona non grata everywhere.
At least they hadn’t killed him. Although his insides felt as though they’d been yanked out, rearranged, and shoved back behind his ribs.
