The Successor (32 page)

18

“CHRISTIAN,
please
don’t let her come with us today.”

They were just passing over Tampa on the way down to Naples. Twenty minutes to touchdown and Beth had gone to the restroom in the back of the jet to freshen up. Quentin was taking advantage of this small time window—he hadn’t been able to speak to Christian alone since they’d boarded in New Jersey—to make his case. Beth had curled up next to Christian on the sofa as the plane was taxiing toward the runway and hadn’t moved for two and a half hours. Christian hadn’t gotten anything done, either, just spent the entire flight caressing her head and hair, consoling her. Quentin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his boss go this long without pulling out a file on one of Everest’s portfolio companies, firing up his laptop, or at least doing one of his beloved crossword puzzles. This was crazy.

Maybe Christian really did feel something for this girl—which somehow rubbed Quentin the wrong way. Maybe it was jealousy—which was hard for him to admit. Maybe it was that he didn’t like seeing Christian so distracted—which wasn’t good for Everest. He knew the jealousy thing was unfair and the Everest thing was unfounded. Christian hadn’t really had time in years to have a meaningful relationship with a woman, and Quentin knew his boss would never let anything get in the way of his responsibility to the Everest investors. But damn it, there was a job to do, and Quentin knew what he was saying was right.

“The pilot’s an old friend,” Quentin continued. “He’ll drop us off, refuel, then take Beth anywhere she wants to go. I’ve already talked to him about it.”

“I can’t do that,” Christian said firmly. “You saw her on the way down here. She’s devastated. She’s been crying since we boarded, since last night when she got the news, really. She hasn’t stopped.”

“I’ve got to be able to protect you,” Quentin argued gently. “Having her around makes that much tougher.”

“I can’t let her down, pal. I can’t turn my back on her and send her home right now. Besides, do you really think she could be working for somebody?”

Quentin could feel the plane descending. They were getting close. He didn’t have much time. “Anything’s possible at this point.” He took a deep breath, trying to erase the aggravation from his expression. “How about this? What if I send one of my guys back with her? And you promised that as soon as this thing’s done, you’ll come right to her. That could be as early as tonight, couldn’t it?”

“And it could be a week,” Christian shot back. “I can’t do that to her.
How many times do I have to say it?
”

“She’s bad news, Chris.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, I just feel it.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Why are you defending her so hard?”

“Why do you dislike her so much?”

“I don’t dislike her,” Quentin muttered. I hate her, he thought to himself, glancing toward the rear of the plane. One of his men was sitting halfway toward the restrooms and looking at them over his magazine with a strange expression. As soon as they made eye contact, the guy looked back down at the magazine. It didn’t do any good for the troops to see them arguing. Quentin couldn’t remember the last time they had. Not like this anyway. “It’s just that—”

“Look, I’m not saying she should be anywhere near the meeting,” Christian interrupted. “She’ll stay in her room while we’re at that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin noticed Beth emerging from the restroom. “I’ve got some feelers out, people I know. About Beth. If I find out something incriminating about—”

“Then I’ll send her away, I promise.
Immediately.
But you’ve had those feelers out for a while,” Christian reminded him, “and nothing’s turned up.”

“I know,” Quentin admitted grudgingly. “Is it all right if I at least take her cell phone while we’re here?”

Christian smiled. “Sure, but I don’t think that’s going to—”

“Right,” Quentin agreed as Beth stepped between them and retook her spot next to Christian on the sofa. “But I’ve got to feel like I’m doing
something.
”

IN VERY SOUTH FLORIDA,
Interstate 75 runs straight to—or away from—the sun, depending on the time of day. One of the few places in the United States where an odd-numbered interstate runs east-west for an extended distance. Here it connects Naples on the west coast with Fort Lauderdale on the east. It’s a lonely stretch of highway that cuts through the northern portion of the Everglades and the Big Cypress National Preserve for eighty miles. In that eighty-mile stretch there are only two exits that pierce the tall chain-link fences that rise on either side of the highway to protect travelers from the wildlife living in the massive swamp. Even at eighty miles an hour—the average speed on the road—you can see gators basking in the canals on the other side of the fences at dawn and dusk. Which is why it’s known as Alligator Alley.

Antonio Barrado stood on the State Road 29 overpass. There was only one other overpass for fifty miles to the east and none for thirty miles to the west. There was nothing out here as far as you could see except the interstate, a few vehicles, cypress trees, and swamp. And nothing in the swamp but gators, snakes, panthers, deer, and wild boar. An amazing place and one he was glad to be leaving soon. He’d come up SR 29 from the south this morning, from Everglades City, which was the last speck of civilization before you got into the truly remote areas of the Everglades just above the Keys—where his camp was. He would have taken SR 41 over to Miami—it was an older road that paralleled I-75 about twenty-five miles to the south, closer to the camp—but Hurricane William had destroyed long sections of 41 last fall and a lot of the road still wasn’t open.

Barrado was parked on the overpass because his cell phone reception was best up here—he could almost see the microwave tower in the distance, to the east. He was completely prepared, ready to head toward Miami to carry out his mission—but he wanted final confirmation of the location first. A few days ago his contacts had started hedging on the spot, and it was pissing him off. Two of his men were in the SUV with him, ready to carry out their duty as well. The one who’d been bitten by the python was back at camp, tending to the nasty bite in his thigh, and making certain anyone who happened to come around didn’t stay too long. Other than that, everything had gone off without a hitch, everything was ready.

However, at the last minute, there seemed to be a problem.

When the cell phone rang, Barrado answered on the first ring. “Hello,” he barked angrily. “
What?
What do you mean you still aren’t sure? What am I supposed to do now?” he demanded, eyeing the thunderheads already building high in the sky past the cell tower. Rolling in from the east the way they did almost every day in the summer. “Yeah, yeah.” Hurry up and wait. He hated it.
“Bastards,”
he hissed, ending the connection and turning up the air-conditioning inside the SUV.

“What’s up, boss?” the man in the passenger seat asked after Barrado tossed the cell phone on the dashboard in disgust.

“Nothing,” he answered angrily. “A whole lot of nothing.”

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
”

Beth stopped and stared at Quentin. They’d just made it inside the terminal at the Naples airport. “To the ladies’ room. Is that okay with you? It was kind of a long flight.”

“You just went to the bathroom,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Christian, who was headed toward the men’s room. “On the plane, right before we landed.”

“Do I need to be graphic? It’s that time of—”

“All right, all right. But let me have your cell phone.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Never been more serious.”

She stalked toward him, until they were close. “Do you have a problem with me?”

“Nope. I’m just being careful.”

Beth dug through her purse and pulled out the small phone. “Here,” she said loudly, sticking her chin out as she pressed it into his hand. “Please take it.
Now
can I go to the bathroom, Daddy?”

She sure wasn’t crying at this point. As soon as Christian had walked away, the tears had dried up. “Uh-huh.” Quentin wanted to search that purse himself, but that might set off World War III: Christian had told him not to do exactly that. And she could always go to a landline if she was working with someone. “Hurry up,” he called loudly as she walked away. “Don’t be long.”

PADILLA STEPPED
into the cab outside the Miami International Airport. It was an orange minivan with
RICK’S AIRPORT TAXI SERVICE
written on both sides in black script. Phone number printed beneath the script in block letters. Taxi number on the top: 3742.

Delgado had given him that number at their meeting late, late last night. A second meeting that had taken place
after
Alanzo Gomez had been killed. After the banker had slammed into the cement wall doing eighty-five miles an hour, ripping his car and himself into shreds. Delgado hadn’t told Padilla anything about the assassination at their first meeting of the evening. He’d played it cool, close to the vest at that time.

Padilla was saddened by the news, shocked that Gomez would be the one to roll over on them—not the attorney. But Delgado had assured Padilla that they had irrefutable evidence of Gomez planning to tell his superiors everything. A diary detailing every meeting of the Secret Six with entries indicating exactly whom Gomez was going to tell first—the president of the Central Bank.

“Where to?” the cabdriver asked.

“Hotel Renaissance. Fourth floor.” The code from Delgado. No need to tell a driver what floor you were going to.

“You can count on me,” the driver said, pulling into the heavy traffic of the crowded airport. “I’m your man.”

Just what he was supposed to say.

As they headed out of the airport onto I-95, the cabdriver eased beside a huge tractor-trailer just as another one pulled in behind the cab, momentarily cutting off any view anyone on the highway could have of anyone inside the taxi.

“Now,” the driver called loudly.

Padilla ducked down, then dropped to the floor just as another man crawled over the arm of the seat and took his spot. From the floor, Padilla glanced up and could barely believe his eyes. The man now sitting in the seat was as perfect a double as possible. It was as though they’d found his long-lost identical twin.

BETH MOVED QUICKLY
into one of the stalls in the ladies’ room, closing the door and jamming the latch shut. It didn’t go through the slot right away and she took a second try at it, pushing at it hard. Finally it locked and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her heart was pounding, and she could feel the perspiration soaking her clothes—cold against her skin in the air-conditioning. She’d been certain Quentin was going to rummage through her purse and find it.

She sat down, placed her purse on her lap, and pulled it out. A small cylindrical case that looked exactly like lipstick—but a quarter the normal size, the size of a 9 mm bullet. It was a transponder, which would lead them right to her as soon as she turned it on. They’d been afraid that Quentin might take her cell phone—actually hadn’t wanted her to use it anyway because the call numbers would show up later on a bill somewhere and they didn’t want that. Didn’t want anyone to be able to see that Beth had made any calls after landing wherever it was she was going.

Beth held the device up, pulled off the cap, then switched the blue button into the
ON
position as they’d shown her how to do. Now it was sending out a strong homing signal, and they’d be able to track her as soon as they picked up the transmission. She just had to keep it with her wherever she went.

She exhaled heavily again, replaced the cap, and put the transponder back into her purse. She’d made her choice—as awful as it was.

DORSEY SLAMMED
the phone down. The two older men had been shouting at him for several minutes, berating him for still not having any information. As one of the most senior senators in Washington, he wasn’t used to being so brazenly dressed down. But they were clearing the way for him to be the president of the United States, so he’d managed to keep his temper.

Victoria still hadn’t returned his phone calls of last night and this morning—had basically ignored him. And the men on the other end of the phone were certain Christian Gillette was on the move. They’d tailed him to a freight warehouse in Newark, New Jersey, early this morning—then lost him. They’d described to Dorsey how two identical 760s had emerged from the warehouse twenty minutes after the one they were certain Gillette was riding in had disappeared inside. Emerged at exactly the same moment from different entrances. Because they’d been careful and had a helicopter up in the air, they’d been able to follow both cars—one with the chopper and one with the car they’d followed him with from Manhattan. But after a couple of hours, they’d realized that Gillette wasn’t in either. That he’d slipped away.

What was really causing them heart failure was that it had become clear Quentin Stiles must have suspected something. Why else would he be so careful? Why else would he have switched vehicles at the warehouse? And if he suspected something, there must be a
reason
for him to suspect something. Which meant that their suspicions could be true. That someone else was coming after Gillette.

Dorsey picked up the phone and dialed Victoria one more time. But it rang and rang until the voice-mail greeting finally answered.

SANCHEZ WAS DOING
110 miles an hour, tearing across Alligator Alley toward Naples. They’d picked up the signal from the homing device an hour ago, and he was on his way, closing in on the target.

He was keeping himself amused during the long straightaways by thinking about how the woman he’d met with in Miami had given him strict instructions that no one else was to be killed during this mission. He laughed out loud. She was so naïve. She was supposed to be some big financial executive or something, probably savvy in her world. But she was out of her league in this one. He wouldn’t have taken the job if he’d been aware of all the limitations at the beginning—but now he was glad he had because he’d quickly figured out the right way to play it. The woman was paying him a million bucks—which wasn’t too bad. But he had no intention of sticking to his promise to her of not killing anyone—or of just making a million.