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 grinned, then swung around, making a theatrical half bow for his audience of four elite Anguis soldiers he’d chosen to train with the new rifles. They wore an assortment of jungle-camo fatigues, black cargo pants, dark T-shirts, and sleeveless camo shirts. With their ages ranging from early twenties to late thirties, there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat among them.

“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 cunning leader with vision. A man who put family above all else and treated his soldiers as his family.

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 bandanna. Fifty-eight years of living had carved deep lines in his forehead and around his mouth that lifted with a smile whenever he spoke of his son.

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.

“Bien.” A paraplegic since an accident in his teens, Eduardo could use his upper body. He could raise his head and look his uncle in the eyes, but no.

Durand sighed. He’d had the pool built so the boy could be wheeled into it from the far end, but Eduardo refused to go into the water.

“Do you need me to do something for you?” Maria never failed to draw his attention away from Eduardo, ever the protective mama.

As if she thought her own brother was a threat?

“No.” He scratched his chin. “I must speak to Julio.”

“I saw him in his office on our way out.”

Sweat ran inside the open collar of his silk shirt. Durand excused himself with “Until dinner.”

Inside the hacienda, he ran into Julio in the two-story hallway, who said, “Were you looking for me, patron?”

“Sí. I have an errand for you.” Durand explained about the dead fish, finishing with “Find that pond keeper Tito and kill him.”

Julio nodded, but before walking away he shared, “The Italian called to say he was on his way and should arrive in the next fifteen minutes.”

Durand dismissed Julio and headed to his office. This meeting would determine if he and Vestavia would remain partners. He’d settled into the leather chair behind his burled-pecan desk and had finished making a call when heavy footsteps approached.

“My associates aren’t happy.” The stocky Italian entered his office on a sweep of anger. A few inches taller than Durand, Vestavia was not a huge man, but he was thick like a bull.

“I expect better manners in my home,” Durand warned. Few people were even allowed to step on his land in central Venezuela. Even fewer were invited inside the compound.

“You want better manners? Give me better results.” Vestavia shoved an uncompromising gaze back across the desk. The black-rimmed glasses he wore belonged on an accountant, not that bulked-up body covered with a tailored suit designed for boardrooms in New York. The rough-cut, dirt-brown hair reminded Durand of American cowboys.

“Please.” Durand pointed at the inlaid-wood humidor on his desk, silently inviting his guest to choose one of the ten most exquisite cigars made in the world.

Instead of answering, Vestavia withdrew an OpusX cigar, ran the premium blend below his nose with the intimacy of smelling a lover. He used Durand’s engraved snipper from the desk, lit the cigar, and took a seat in one of the two liver-colored leather side chairs.

While his guest settled, Durand twirled a stiletto between his fingers. Vestavia should respect his elders. Vestavia could be no more than late thirties. The respect was due.

“We both suffered losses.” Durand pulled his lips tight in a grim smile. This man Vestavia had shared little about the mysterious group he represented. But the money and underworld connections he brought to the table were too substantial to dismiss. “You think I am pleased to have lost fine men?”

“You assured me you could do this project,” Vestavia countered.

“And you assured me you could locate Mirage.”

Vestavia quieted, his lips not moving until he blew out a stream of smoke. “We did find the informant. We-”

“-may have located the informant, but you do not have him. Excuse me for interrupting, but I believe I know more about the outcome than you do.” Durand placed the stiletto on the desk and selected a custom-rolled cigar from the humidor for himself.

That drew a brief flicker of concern into Vestavia’s gaze that dissipated just as quickly. He puffed, watching Durand with the eyes of a predatory bird patiently waiting for the perfect moment to attack. “Go on.”

“As I understand it, Baby Face found a connection, which I assume was due to some help you must have given him since all my people claimed Mirage could not be found without access to supercomputers.” Durand paused until Vestavia gave a slight nod of his head in agreement. “I have men looking for this informant as well. Everyone with a computer and a weapon on both sides of the law is after Mirage. Baby Face was brilliant, but his ego became a liability. He bragged online about, as he put it, ‘hitting the mother lode’ or some such. This allowed Turga to catch scent of the deal and cost Baby Face his life.”

“Who is Turga?”

“An old associate who will unfortunately not see his next birthday. He is what you would call a poacher, who shows up to snatch a prize at the last moment, then auction it to the highest bidder. I understand he was very hard to kill, but he is also dead. His helicopter pilot was the last one to see everyone alive. He told my people that Turga caught a man and woman who escaped Baby Face. This pilot is on his way to meet with me. By tomorrow, I will have an artist’s sketch of the man and woman from his description.”

Vestavia’s face never changed, eyes as flat and cold as the first time Durand had met him. But this man’s vision for the future-or his organization’s vision-was exceptional, a world where the Anguis family would thrive and rule in Venezuela, then all of South America.

If he and Vestavia could reach a point of trust.

“So we have both been disappointed, no?” Durand continued. “As for Mandy, my men did their job. She was delivered to the chalet on time, but a black-ops team ambushed my men. I will find who was behind the attack.”

“Going to be hard to do that with all your men dead.”

“No really. I never send my men in on a new operation without surveillance.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent Julio, my most trusted soldier, ahead of the team. No one knew he was inside the house. He entered before they arrived and used lipstick cameras that fed to a terminal in the basement where he stayed the entire time.”

Vestavia sat forward, tense. “Why did you send a spy?”

“I am a cautious man.”

“No.” Vestavia moved his head slowly from side to side. “I think you don’t trust me, which I find insulting.”

Durand smiled. “Trust is the question between us, yes? I have not known you long. What kind of leader would I be if I do not assure of a way to make someone pay for ambushing my men?” Durand drew on his cigar and exhaled, sending wavy circles into the air. “Using Julio keeps my men sharp. I tell them things about their missions they think I cannot possibly know. They respect that. You see, respect is like trust, it must be earned.”

Vestavia was one of those men who exuded power in silence.

Durand would not be intimidated, not even by a man whose money, contacts, and powerful organization could help him bring the Salvatore family to their knees. He would soon have the throat of that squealing Mirage pig in one fist and Dominic Salvatore’s cojones in his other fist.

But in the meantime, Durand did not want to create an enemy of this Vestavia.

“I provided projects to make you high profile for Mirage,” Vestavia offered in a conciliatory tone Durand knew better than to believe. “Kidnapping Mandy was moved up just to give you more exposure to Mirage since the informant seems to take a particular interest when a female and the Anguis are involved.”

“True, but our deal is not one-sided,” Durand cautioned. “My men have made two successful attempts on our oil minister’s life appear as if the Salvatore family is behind the attacks. Killing the oil minister would be much simpler than pretending to. I do not want the Venezuelan government on my doorstep. I admit I am happy to put Salvatore’s cojones in a vise, but these attacks are very risky. What is the purpose?”

“I don’t explain myself to anyone,” Vestavia warned.

Durand hid the urge to choke this man. To show anger was a sign of weakness. “I only suggest that if I understand your reasoning, I can better support your cause since I have a finger on the Venezuelan pulse.”

Vestavia studied on that a moment before speaking. “My organization was quite pleased with the results so far, but it’s imperative the pressure is kept up. The United States is under scrutiny for their attempt to secretly partner with Venezuelan oil production behind the Venezuelan government’s back.

“Both candidates for the next U.S. presidency are opposed to financing a partnership with Venezuela to produce more oil. Both are pushing the platform about America becoming a more green country since that’s the new hot button for voters. The media is fueling rumors that one of the two political parties is funding Salvatore to assassinate your oil minister. No one can figure out if the Democrats are behind the attacks to show how the Republicans are trying to partner with an unstable country for oil instead of going green or if the Republicans are behind this and plan to produce evidence the Democrats were behind the attacks simply to lay the groundwork for a major shift to going green.”

“How does Salvatore fit in your plans?” Durand leaned back, arms draped along his chair. A pose of confidence.

“It appears the Salvatore Cartel is sitting back until the elections are over to see if a coup does indeed overthrow the government. If so, that’s when we’ll find out if the new U.S. administration actually forms an agreement with Venezuela for oil. Salvatore can be an impediment in the oil ministry’s plans or the two could team up to form an agreement that assured the oil production industry was protected from rebel attacks as long as Salvatore’s drug shipments passed through safely.”

“Yes, yes, I stay informed through my contacts.” Durand tapped his cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray. Salvatore had been an obstacle in his plans for many years. “I have no care what America pays for a gallon of fuel or the presidential election next week. I am concerned with the future of the Anguis and believe we can help each other.” He let that sink in.

Vestavia had come to Durand. Not the other way around.

When his guest didn’t comment, Durand repeated, “We both suffered a loss in France. The question is how will we both recover our losses? Someone will pay for mine. If we work together, we can recoup and make an example for others who might think to interfere again.”

“No one ever screws me over and lives to brag.” The brutal cold in Vestavia’s voice could freeze a hot ember.

“Then work with me to find these men who have killed mine and taken Mandy, because together we will find them.”

“You’re certain about Julio’s allegiance?”

Dios! This man had better be worth the aggravation he caused. Durand smiled. “Julio was the only person who knew about the chalet in advance and I stake my life on my cousin’s loyalty. Blood is everything in my family.”

“Did he get any good photos of the black-ops team?”

“Julio is processing everything now.”

“Send me what you have and I’ll put our people on identifying them.” Vestavia had said more than once he had limitless resources.

Durand nodded politely, but he would not share photos or anything else of significance until he could strike Vestavia’s name off the list of suspects for the ambush.

“Someone got the information to Mirage very quickly that you were behind the kidnapping,” Vestavia pointed out. “Sounds like a snitch inside your group.”

“I have people on that as well, but you also have a problem,” Durand countered in a calm voice. He suppressed a smile at his guest’s scowl. “My men did not know where they were taking the girl until they were in route, and since all were killed, is it not logical to assume their innocence?”

Durand paused to draw on his cigar, letting the rich tobacco flavor flow through his mouth. He exhaled and said, “Before you accuse me of failure, you must explain how anyone knew of the chalet meeting spot. The elite team who killed them showed up in less than eleven hours of my men arriving. How did the informant get that information so quickly?”

Vestavia didn’t answer for a minute, his tiny brown eyes shifting between narrowed slits. “If there is a leak in my organization, I’ll find it and deal with that person. But if I learn that someone in your camp betrayed us, my associates will expect his head or yours. And I mean that literally.”

Durand smiled conspiratorially. “If someone I know killed my men-one of whom was my younger brother-you may have the head and any other piece…once I am finished with him. You cannot have mine, ever. And if it is one of your people, I will expect the same courtesy in return.”

“Fair enough. In the meantime, continue as planned. I’ll personally interrogate Mirage once that informant is captured.”

Durand waved a finger back and forth. “Nada. The Mirage is mine. Delivered alive.”

Vestavia grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing and reached down into his briefcase. He withdrew a thick manila envelope. “Your next contract.”

Durand did not move to take the package. “I no joke about this informant.”

“Fine. Alive. No promises on the condition of the body.”

Durand took the package and opened it, withdrawing the photos. “Another female. No problem.”

“Maybe, but this one won’t be quite as easy to grab.”

Durand studied the teenager and wondered yet again what Vestavia’s purpose was for the teens, but his alliance with this strange Italian depended on better results with less questions.

“What is our time frame?” Durand lifted the photo sheets into view. Pretty, but nothing notable.

“Two days. Mandy was intended for a side project, but this girl,” Vestavia said, his eyes going to the photos in Durand’s hand, dark eyebrows dropped low over mean eyes, “is needed now. No missteps.”

Vestavia lifted his briefcase and turned to leave.

“It would be in your best interest to find the snitch before I hand over this girl,” Durand warned quietly.

Vestavia stopped, breathing slowly during the long silence. “Threatening me is not a healthy idea.”

“I only offer incentive to move as quickly as you expect my people to. If you do not locate this Mirage first, then you will owe me, yes?”

Vestavia left without another word.

Durand tapped his cigar. This would never be an easy alliance, but the truly strong ones took work and finesse. He pressed a button on the radio function of his cell phone, calling Julio, who answered immediately.

Durand asked, “How are the photos from the château coming?”

“Most are fair, but one is no bad. It is the man who I believe was in charge of the team.”

“Bring all the photos now.”

“Sí. I am on the way.”