“You will wire the money to Nigel’s Cayman account,” Bertie began, “and when I get confirmation—”
But Cabot had heard enough.
He jumped to his feet, yanked the Glock from his pocket, and centering the sights on Bertie’s forehead said, “I’d rather pay you now.”
The pistol bucked in his hand, Cabot turning as the bullet snapped the man’s head back and he pumped two rounds into Nigel’s gut.
“Shut them the fuck up,” he yelled in German. The command was barely out of his mouth before he heard the wet smack of flesh on flesh and the whimper of one of the women at the bar.
“Quiet now, girls, or I’ll slit those pretty throats,” Beck warned.
In the chair, Nigel looked down at the spread of crimson across his shirt, then up at Cabot. “What . . . what have you done?” he asked, eyes wide with disbelief.
Cabot chopped the Glock across the man’s mouth, the blow knocking him out of his seat, sending a spray of blood and shattered teeth across the room. Before the fat man hit the ground, Cabot had him by the front of his shirt.
“Where are the codes?” Cabot demanded, pressing the barrel of the Glock into his face. “Tell me and you die fast—lie to me and I’ll have Beck peel off your skin with a shard of glass.”
“Gra . . . Grand-Bassam.”
“Where in Grand-Bassam, who has them?”
His reply was so faint that Cabot had to lean in to hear it. Only after Nigel had repeated it again and he was sure the Englishman was telling the truth did he let go of the man’s shirt and press the Glock against his chest.
“Not so smug now, are you, fat man?” he asked, before pulling the trigger.
1
CEUTA, SPAIN
It was late afternoon and hot as hell when Carlito Rocha eased the Yamaha YZ125 to a halt on the hill overlooking the Calle Real. An hour before, the block was alive, the street packed with cars and the cobblestone sidewalks that bordered the glass boutiques awash with shoppers.
But now it was siesta, and the street lay silent and still. The only sound: the gentle put-put of the dirt bike’s two-stroke engine as Carlito motored down the hill and turned into the alley at the end of the block.
He stopped next to a green dumpster, backed the bike out of sight, and deployed the kickstand with the heel of his ratty tennis shoes. He made sure the front tire was pointed at the street. He thought about leaving the engine running in case someone called the policía, in which case he’d need to make a quick getaway.
No, someone will steal it, he thought.
Carlito pulled the key from the ignition and climbed off the bike. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tightened the straps of his backpack before starting toward the metal door twenty feet in front of him, carefully avoiding the broken beer bottles and scattered trash that lined his path. He was almost to the door when something stopped him in his tracks.
What the hell is it?
He didn’t know, but something was wrong, and he was instantly on guard. Eyes ticking back the way he’d come, searching the mouth of the alley for a threat that wasn’t there.
Carlito found himself hesitating, thinking back to the plan he’d made a week ago. Wondering why in the hell he’d ever thought it was a good idea to leave the Barrio del Príncipe—the lawless fourteen-thousand-square-meter slum that he knew better than the back of his hand—and come north to the Barrio de Borizu.
He knew the answer was the same then as it was now. He’d come north after the economic collapse of 2008 that had precipitated his family’s move from their two-story house near the ocean to the squalid apartment in the barrio. After his father used what little money they had left to drink himself to death, Carlito had become the man of the house, leaving him responsible for feeding his mother and young sisters.
He’d tried to do the right thing, get a job, but with the Ceuta economy in shambles there was no work. It was a situation that left him with only two choices: starve or steal.
And Carlito was done being hungry.
So he decided to go north and try his hand breaking into the hotels close to the marina where the guiris—the rich tourists—stayed.
He thought back to his mother and sisters sitting at home, starving in that piece-of-shit apartment. They are counting on you, coward, he thought.
Carlito tugged the gray ski mask from his back pocket and pulled it over his curly brown hair. The mask was filthy, the fabric reeking of sweat and exhaust, but he ignored it. He grabbed the scarred crowbar from his pack and turned back to the door.
In one practiced motion, he drove the tip into the seam an inch above the lock and yanked on the handle. The door flexed and the bolt grated against the frame but refused to give.
“C’mon, you bitch,” he cursed, bracing his foot against the wall.
He pushed off, leaning back, pulling until his biceps shook and the sweat rolled down his face. He was panting now, mouth moving in a silent prayer, begging whatever god was listening that the door would open before he ran out of strength.
Then the lock tore free of the frame and the door swung open, throwing Carlito off balance.
He stumbled backward, losing his grip on the crowbar, the clatter of the metal off the concrete sending ice up his spine.
Oh, shit.
He scooped the crowbar off the ground, heart hammering in his chest when he stuffed it into the pack, the open doorway before him looming dark as the grave. Every instinct screaming at him to run. Get back to the bike and get the hell out of the alley.
But in the end, it was the hollow growl in his stomach and the thought of his family back in that wretched apartment that won out.
Carlito rooted around the bottom of the pack, brushing over the tools of his trade, the rusted hammer and dull bolt cutters, before closing around the grip of the .44 Magnum he’d stolen the week before.
The heft of the heavy revolver in his fist, the rattle of the massive bullets in the chamber, restored his confidence, reminding Carlito that no matter what was waiting for him inside, he was the one with the gun.
The motherfucker in charge, he thought, stepping inside.
* * *
—
When Adam Hayes arrived at the Hostal La Perla, he hadn’t killed anyone in one hundred and fifty-two days. It wasn’t the kind of achievement you gloated about, not even in a lawless town like Ceuta, but it was a streak he wanted to keep alive. Which is why he was standing in the street, blue eyes scrutinizing La Perla’s weathered yellow façade and wondering if the hostel was worth the twenty-five euros advertised on the faded marquee.
It’s only for one night.
With that thought in mind, he started toward the front door.