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Rapp studied the problem for a few seconds and shook his head. “I agree with the extra footer, but why not just epoxy some steel plates in there as spacers, then redrill the holes? We can dial it in by trial and error and you don’t have to try to run your welder off an extension cord.”
Maslick dropped the deck and stared down at it for a moment. “Hey. That’s actually a good idea.”
“You seem surprised.”
“Your ideas are usually more likeIf we swim in through the sharks, they won’t see us coming.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Rapp said, opening his beer. “The biologists swore to me that species never attacks humans.”
When the sun finally dropped below the horizon, the two men had retreated to their respective lawn chairs. A level with the bubble hovering dead center rested on the deck.
“Ready to get back to work?” Rapp said. “We’ve only got another half hour of decent light.”
“We should let the epoxy dry,” Maslick responded.
“It’s quick set.”
“Pays to be sure.”
Rapp dug another beer from the cooler between them. “True that.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes before the dull ping of an incoming message sounded in Rapp’s pocket. Very few people had that number, and none contacted him without good reason, so he dug his phone out and glanced at the screen. Instead of Claudia looking for a progress report, he was faced with a somewhat more enigmatic message.
I’M INPARIS. CAN WE TALK? DAMIAN.
Rapp stared at the text for a few seconds before returning the phone to his pocket.
“Supper ready?” Maslick asked, but he didn’t get a response.
Damian Losa was unquestionably the most powerful criminal in the world and a man Rapp had hoped to never hear from again. Their lives had become entangled a few months back when an extremely vindictive Honduran cartel leader named Gustavo Marroqui discovered that one of the people involved in the assassination of his brother was still alive. Unfortunately, that person was Claudia.
Marroqui had sent a ten-man hit squad to their house in South Africa, and while Rapp managed to take them out, dealing with their boss was a bigger challenge. He pretty much controlled the government in his home country and had a gift for staying one step ahead of his enemies. Despite tens of thousands of man-hours and tens of millions of dollars invested, even the world’s intelligence agencies had never been able to locate him.
What was known, though, was his level of motivation. This was a man who created public art installations by dismembering his competitors and sewing them back together with pig parts. There was no amount of blood or treasure that he wouldn’t expend to see his brother’s killer die a glacially slow death.
Faced with that, Rapp had to do what no one else had managed to pull off—find him.
The only plausible way to accomplish that had been through Losa, a man he’d met years ago during an operation in Mexico. And while the crime lord had been happy to help, he’d made it clear that one day the favor would have to be returned.
Apparently, that day had arrived.
“You all right, Mitch?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because you look like somebody just shit in your hat.”
“I was just wondering if one extra footer is going to be enough,” he lied.
“It’ll be fine.”
Rapp pretended to admire their handiwork, but didn’t really see it. Regret wasn’t something he tended to wallow in, but it was hard not to wonder if he’d turned to Losa too quickly. Maybe he could have figured out a way to find Marroqui on his own.
No. That was bullshit.
If the CIA, DEA, MI6, and countless others couldn’t find the man, he sure as hell wasn’t going to. But with Losa’s help, the time between the attack in South Africa and Marroqui’s incineration was less than two weeks. Claudia was safe and the world was a better place. A win-win.
Hell, probably all Losa wanted was one of his competitors out of the way. While not exactly sanctioned, one more cartel scumbag fertilizing the jungle wasn’t exactly something that would keep him up at night. Maybe he’d take the family and they could combine it with a little beach time.
