Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (14 page)

Drake caught Allie’s eye, then looked back at Jack.

“Where in Brazil are we going to rendezvous?”

Jack pulled his wallet from his back pocket, wincing slightly as he did so, the wound still tender.

“Rio.”

Chapter Seventeen

Drake verified his bank balance from a computer at one of the Internet cafés in the arrival area at San Jose International Airport and was relieved to see a deposit the day before for seventy thousand dollars. Which only left getting in and out of the bank without being killed to contend with. Sitting in the busy airport, that seemed easy; but the memory of his nocturnal gun battle was still fresh, as were Jack’s warnings.

He’d been forced to check his backpack due to the big knife in it, and waiting for the carousel to deliver the luggage had eaten a solid half hour of his time. He checked his wristwatch and did a fast calculation – it would take him forty-five minutes to make it to the bank if traffic cooperated, and the branch closed in two hours. That posed no problem, but the niggling detail he’d left out of his discussion with Jack did – he couldn’t get into his safe deposit box without the key, and the key was in his apartment.

Drake hadn’t remembered the key until he’d been buckled into his plane seat with the journal in hand, ready for several hours of in-depth study. With the combination of sleep deprivation and anxiety, he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Now it was too late. Before checking his bank balance he’d researched emergency passport issuance within twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t practical due to all the documentation required. He’d tried to figure a way around it, but nothing seemed reasonable, so now he would have to risk doing exactly what Jack had warned against – trying to sneak into his apartment.

The taxi line was short, and he was speeding north toward Menlo Park in less than five minutes. Rush hour hadn’t gotten ugly yet, and the cab took the car-pool lane once they were on the freeway, trimming valuable time off the trip.

He had the driver drop him off a block and a half away from his place. After shouldering his backpack, he donned his sunglasses and the baseball hat he’d bought at the airport and began strolling along the sidewalk to his complex. The units were built around a courtyard with a pool, with a driveway along the outside of the L-shaped building and parking for one car beneath each unit. His was a ground-floor apartment. He’d never met his upstairs neighbor, preferring to avoid contact with anyone in favor of privacy, and had actually dodged him several times by dawdling when he’d seen someone going upstairs in his section.

Drake’s nerves were close to the surface, tingling, but he sensed nothing out of the ordinary. The street was a busy one, and there were no suspicious black vans with antennas announcing surveillance, no sedans with crusty PIs sipping coffee. Nothing.

He passed the entry gate to the complex and kept walking, doing his best impersonation of an uninterested pedestrian. When he reached the driveway, after a quick scan of the surroundings, he ducked down the side of the building and moved along the empty stalls until he reached the stairway that led to his unit from the parking level. Drake paused at the bottom of the steps and listened for anything unusual, but only heard the peals of delighted children laughing from the pool area, accompanied by muted splashing.

As he mounted the stairs, his anxiety gave way to relief. There was nobody waiting for him, no watcher with a sniper rifle, no figures in the shadows. Just Jack’s overly cautious paranoia, even if well founded, and the contagious fear it bred.

At his door he stopped a final time, fished his key out, and ducked inside, feeling foolish for the elaborate approach and unnecessary subterfuge. He made a mental note to not allow Jack’s flights of fancy to color his view of the world too much, but still twisted the deadbolt closed behind him, just in case.

Across the courtyard on the other side of the centrally located pool, a new tenant raised his cell phone to his ear and made a call from his position on a poolside chaise longue, the temperature still moderate enough for sunbathing even in the fall.

“The target just appeared at his apartment. What action should I take?”

The voice on the phone cursed in Russian, and then after a hurried discussion with someone in the background, issued instructions. “It will take us at least six hours to get there. Do whatever is required to contain him. But do not kill him. Do you understand? He is of no use to us dead.”

“
Da
. You’re the boss,” Anatoly Radisov said, hanging up. As a member of the Russian mafia, he was more accustomed to shaking down shop owners in East Palo Alto or collecting gambling debts from yuppies with a taste for the wild side than conducting surveillance, but his latest duty had been the easiest cash he’d ever made. Two shifts, round the clock, five hundred dollars per man for a twelve-hour shift, and all he’d had to do was worry about getting fat from inactivity.

He stood and collected his towel before ambling back to his unit, newly rented by his organization from one of the numerous available in the complex, and hastily donned trousers and a shirt. He slipped his pistol into the pocket of his windbreaker and pulled it on, all the while watching the unit across the way through the window, and then made for his front door, an expression on his face that would have stopped traffic.

Drake quickly found the safe deposit box key and took the opportunity to pack some more clothes that would be appropriate for tropical climes, including a set of sturdy hiking boots and lightweight shirts. He had no idea whether he’d ever see any of his belongings again, but realized that the sum total of his life’s acquisitions hadn’t amounted to anything he would really miss, which made him both sad and relieved. As he was preparing to leave, his eye caught the red of his mountain bike, and he made an impulsive decision to ride it to the bank. He shouldered it, and with a final glance around the apartment, he opened the door and stepped out, pausing to make sure he relocked it before toting his bike and backpack down the stairs to the parking level.

As he was throwing his leg over the seat of his bike, he detected movement on the stairs. A tall, muscular man headed toward him in a hurry, reaching into his pocket. Some part of Drake recognized a threat, and he pumped the pedals with all his might, leaving the man standing by the stairwell fifteen yards behind him.

The distinctive whistle of a ricochet greeted him as a silenced slug gouged a chunk of concrete out of the retaining wall that ran along the driveway. Drake immediately swerved and increased his pace, his calves burning from the sudden demand. Adrenaline flooded his system and he hunched over the handlebars, presenting a smaller target as he raced a weaving course for the street. Another ricochet pocked the wall, but this one farther away. Accuracy was falling off as he neared the sidewalk, but he kept pumping for dear life – a lucky shot could still drop him.

Drake was doing at least thirty when he hit the street. A car stood on its horn and locked up its brakes with an earsplitting shriek as it narrowly avoided sideswiping him. Drake ignored it and swerved around an oncoming truck, the behemoth missing him by so little he could feel the heat from its front fender as he brushed by it.

More horn honking sounded from behind him, and he dared a brief look over his shoulder, where a green sedan was trying to pull out of the driveway. He shifted gears to buy more speed and blinked sweat out of his eyes as he passed a strip mall on his right. A car engine revved behind him, signaling bad news. He dodged right and shot down a service alley that ran along the side of the complex. The car followed him, its oil pan slamming against a speed bump, and he turned the corner behind the stores as another gunshot tore a divot from the asphalt just in front of him.

Drake had no idea how he was going to escape, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for his pursuer. He heard the car take the turn, and then slammed on his brakes, nearly going over the handlebars as he twisted his front wheel. To his right was a three-foot-wide pedestrian entrance in the high concrete wall he could make – and that more importantly, a car couldn’t.

He barreled through and rolled across a small field, industrial buildings on the far edge. He heard a door slam from the lot, but he was easily seventy-five yards away from the shooter. From what Jack had said, that would be an impossible shot even for a marksman: a moving target alternating speed over rough terrain, and zigzagging to boot.

A puff of dirt exploded to his left, but not close, confirming his belief. Now he needed to get to the nearest structures and he’d be clear.

He reached the buildings and edged between two, shielded from any gunfire. But it would only be a matter of minutes before the gunman drove around and found his way into the industrial park – assuming he wasn’t working with a team. Drake forced himself to greater effort and swung onto a residential street with small homes nestled among mature oak trees. At the next block he took another turn, and at the next, another.

After five minutes of hard riding, he found himself close enough to the El Camino Real to ditch the bike and walk. He leaned it against the side of an apartment building, out of sight, and after rummaging through his backpack, changed his top. Anyone looking for him would have his description, which wouldn’t track with his dark gray T-shirt. He pulled his baseball cap on backward and inspected himself in a nearby car mirror – it wasn’t perfect, but it would hopefully be good enough.

The bank was six blocks away. By the time he arrived, he only had ten minutes. A harried-looking assistant manager escorted him to the hand scanner, which quickly verified his identity and granted him access. Drake entered the vault and moved to the section with his box, unlocked the door, and pulled the long metal drawer from its resting place. He didn’t bother carrying it to the table in the small room next to the chamber, preferring to open it there and retrieve his passport. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached into the zipped pocket of his backpack and retrieved the journal. He placed it in the box and closed the lid, and then slid the drawer back into the compartment and locked it.

Finished, he left the secure area and approached the teller. The manager seemed annoyed when he withdrew thirty thousand dollars in cash, and checked his balance twice before approving the transaction and going back into the vault for the money. The doors were closing when he walked out with his cargo pants stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. He made a right and walked along El Camino Real while scanning his surroundings for watchers. Luxury cars whizzed by him on the street as he made his way toward an electronics store, and within minutes he’d bought a second disposable cell phone and activated it. He asked the woman behind the counter to call him a taxi, and he used the waiting time to dial Jack’s cell.

“You get it?” Jack answered, no attempt at preamble or greeting, the muted rumble of motor and tires on the road audible in the background.

“Yup. But I had a little complication.” Drake told him about the key and the near miss. Jack didn’t respond with more than a grunt, so Drake continued. “I’m going to catch a flight for San Diego and walk across the border there. Hopefully I can get a night flight to Mexico City from Tijuana. If not, first thing in the morning. How’re you doing?”

“Radiator’s fixed, a can of Bondo covered the bullet holes, and we’re on our way to Austin.”

“How’s the graze?”

“I don’t recommend it, but all things considered, it could be worse.”

Drake paused. “And how’s Allie holding up?”

“Fine. She’s excited about going to Brazil. Go figure.”

“With any luck I should be there in two days. Where should we meet?”

“I’ll check into the Mar Ipanema Hotel down by the beach. Under the name Jack Keller. Stop in once a day until I’m there.”

“Got it. Jack Keller. Mar Ipanema. Easy.”

“Let’s hope so. Safe travels and good luck. Oh, and Drake? Don’t under any circumstances underestimate these guys. You’re damned lucky you’re alive. That could just as easily have gone the other direction.”

“I know.”

He disconnected and decided there was nothing to lose now by calling Harry, which he’d avoided based on Jack’s warning. The line rang and Betty picked up, sounding out of breath.

“Betty, it’s Drake. Is Harry there?”

A long silence greeted him, and then a choking sound.

“Oh…you don’t know. He was murdered. A few days ago. In broad daylight. While I was at lunch,” she said, ending with a sob.

“What? Someone killed him?” Drake’s stomach sank. “What do the police think?”

Betty pulled herself together. “They’re investigating some of his bail skips, and anyone that could have held a grudge. You know the kinds of psychos he dealt with. It’s a full roster.”

“Who’s running the show?”

“Harry’s brother is helping out, but unless someone wants to buy the business, he’s saying he’ll wind it down. This isn’t what he wants to do for a living. He’s got his construction business. I don’t blame him. I’m looking for another job. It’s creepy coming into work. I…I found him…”

Drake swallowed hard, shock setting in at the realization that his longtime friend was dead – because of him. Or more accurately, because of the murderous thugs who’d targeted him. “I’m so sorry, Betty. It must have been horrible.”

“You have no idea. What kind of animals…never mind.” She paused. “Did you want to speak to Harry’s brother?”

“No…no need. I was just checking in. Nothing more. I hope things go okay for you.” Betty had serious health issues and limped along from paycheck to paycheck, so Harry’s death would affect her more profoundly than most. She was highly competent but too long in the tooth for most to hire, and it would be rough finding another job that paid a living wage for her receptionist skills.

“Thanks, Drake. Please stay in touch.”

“Will do,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. Everyone he came near seemed to be in mortal danger. No point adding poor Betty to the list.

The taxi arrived shortly after he hung up, and he asked the driver to take him to the San Jose airport. He jettisoned the phone outside the terminal and paid for his one-way ticket to San Diego in cash, relieved that he’d be there by nine o’clock at night. It had been years since he’d been in Tijuana on a hazy spring break during his college days, but he suspected it hadn’t changed much and that there would be plenty of foot traffic crossing over from the U.S. for the evening’s festivities.