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“How about you, Hali?” Juan asked. “Any adventures for you?”
“I have a feeling I might find one. MacD and Trono are taking me to a bar on the Hip Strip called the Waterfront. They claim it’s got the best mojitos on the north coast.”
“Be careful with those two. I don’t want you waking up wondering what happened to all your clothes.” Juan looked at Murph. “Let me guess what you’re going to be up to . . .”
“Oh yeah! Time to set up the skateboard park. Eric’s going to help me construct a new half-pipe. I’m trying to invent a new trick called the Murph 720.” Juan grudgingly let Murph transform the deck into his own playground, when the opportunity arose. It was a small price to pay for having such a technical wizard on the team.
“Don’t worry,” Eric said. “I’ll be there to film it for everyone’s viewing pleasure later when he wipes out.”
“What about you, Juan?” Julia asked. “Is there a beach with your name on it?”
“No, I’m going to stay on board to catch up on paperwork and oversee the resupply.”
“The hell you are,” Max said.
“No, really. I’ll be fine.”
Max threw a look at Julia. “You were right. We’re the only ones who know what’s best for him.”
Juan trained his eyes on the two of them, recognizing co-conspirators when he saw them. “What are you scoundrels up to?”
“We thought you might be reluctant to take a little R and R,” Max said, “so I took the liberty of chartering a fishing boat for tomorrow. Throwing back a few Red Stripes and wrestling tuna will do you some good.”
Juan glanced at each
of them in turn and realized arguing was useless. He put up his hands in surrender and laughed. “All right. I’ll go. But then it’s back to work.”
“That’s what we wanted to hear. You won’t regret it.”
Montelíbano, Colombia
As the helicopter descended toward the landing pad, Hector Bazin took in the sprawling estate hugging the forested hillside next to the village of Montelíbano. With its terraced gardens, tennis courts, and three swimming pools fit for a Hawaiian resort, the mansion and grounds seemed an ostentatious way to show that cocaine trafficking had been exceedingly good for its owner, Alonzo Tallon. But the lavish villa also indicated that Tallon could afford Bazin’s business proposal.
The helicopter flight from Cartagena’s international airport had taken less than an hour, nearly the same time it had taken for his private jet to get to Colombia from his home in Haiti. Due to Tallon’s mistrust, Bazin and the three men accompanying him were forced to ride in Tallon’s helicopter instead of chartering their own. Guards with RPGs made sure no other chopper would be allowed anywhere near the mansion.
When the helicopter settled onto the pad, Bazin and his men exited into the sweltering tropical air to find a dozen guards aiming Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles at them. Bazin stepped forward and stopped in front of the only man not holding a rifle, Tallon’s second-in-command, Sergio Portilla. Bazin recognized the beefy subordinate by his thin mustache and the tattoo of a flaming skull on his neck. Portilla did his own visual appraisal of Bazin, verifying that he was the same man as the one in the photo that had been sent.
Like most Haitians’ skin, Bazin’s complexion was a smooth ebony, and his hair was cut tight to his scalp. An inch over six feet tall and as lithe as a panther, he concealed a well-muscled physique beneath the contours of his tailored Armani suit.
“I must check you for weapons,” Portilla said with a growl. Bazin noticed a bulge under Portilla’s jacket, which meant that either his suit was too tight or the pistol underneath was too big.
Bazin’s men grumbled, but he quieted them with a stern look. He knew it was all part of the ritual. New visitors normally weren’t allowed inside the house, let alone those who hadn’t been searched. He held his arms up high as Portilla patted him down thoroughly.
Assured that Bazin was unarmed, Portilla jerked his head for him to follow, leaving Bazin’s men at the helicopter. A solo meeting was one of the requirements to get an audience with Tallon.
They took a serpentine path through the marbled halls and lushly carpeted rooms of the air-conditioned mansion. Bazin stifled a sneer at the lavishly gilded decorations. Tallon’s taste went toward the gaudy and grandiose, a far cry from Bazin’s own restrained inclinations.
When they reached Tallon’s palatial office, it was more of the same. Gold leaf on every surface that wasn’t teak or granite, the better to display his wealth. Against one wall was a well-stocked wet bar, replete with expensive scotches and ports. On the other wall hung an original Picasso from his Cubist period. A gigantic cherrywood desk squatted at the far end of the room.
Behind it sat a stoic Alonzo Tallon warily eyeing Bazin as he walked toward him. Tallon’s silk shirt strained to cover a gut expanded by too much gourmet food and fine wine. His wavy black hair shined from the sunlight streaming in from the window behind him.
Tallon didn’t stand, didn’t offer a handshake. He simply motioned for Bazin to take a seat in one of the leather chairs opposite the desk and Bazin took him up on the offer.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Tallon,” Bazin said in English. Though French Creole was his first language, he’d been taught English at an early age by American missionaries in Port-au-Prince. He did not speak Spanish, and he knew Tallon’s command of English was quite good.
“Your demonstration was convincing, Mr. Bazin. Your intel about the raid by the DNE saved my organization a lot of money. We were also able to rid ourselves of five agents.”
The Dirección Nacional de Estupefacientes, Colombia’s antidrug agency, had targeted one of Tallon’s factories for destruction. Bazin’s tip about the raid allowed Tallon to shut the factory down before the operation and set up an ambush in its place.
