93

Callahan
“Any chance we can get eyes on the estate? Gauge what we’re walking into?” I ask Diamente as we drive toward the location in Eindhoven. I watch the dark sky, the raindrops only a nuisance on the windshield now. Clouds are rolling angrily in the distance, illuminated by still-silent flashes of light.
Dante is coordinating more manpower and Antonio is sitting beside me staring out the window, hands fisted.
“We can’t get closer than the public road leading up to the house. They’ve got their own drones,” Diamente says.
“Of course, they do.”
I have him on speaker phone but I’m not sure Antonio’s listening.
“From what I’ve learned about past auctions, they issue, at most, two dozen invitations. In most cases, the buyer himself doesn’t attend. They send someone in their place. None of these men want to be in the same room together if they can help it. None of them want to be seen.”
“Makes sense. How do they know what they’re bidding on?”
“A brochure would have circulated prior to the event.”
“A fucking brochure?”
“These are animals we’re dealing with, Callahan.”
“Christ.”
“It’s a pretty sophisticated operation. These sort of auctions are extraordinary from what I’m learning. They’ll save the special girls. Your uncle kept pretty good records from what I’ve found, and I get the feeling this is scratching the surface.”
“Do you know what he did with the information?”
“Nothing yet. But you should see what he’s got. Who he’s got. It would surprise you. Although he wasn’t on the cartel’s payroll, he had plenty of ammunition to get what he wanted from a number of people in various countries at various levels of power.”
“Dirty bastard.”
“We walk in,” Antonio says.
Diamente stops talking.
I turn to my brother.
He looks determined. “You and me. We walk in like we’re invited. Like we belong there. Once we have Portia, we’ll need a distraction so we can get out.”
I study him, head tilting as I think about this.
“They won’t be expecting someone to walk through the front door. You and I walk in, Brother. We get Portia. Someone pulls a fucking fire alarm. I don’t know. But we get out. We deal with the mess after. Once she’s out of harm’s way.”
“That’s risky,” Diamente says. “But Antonio may be right. It may be your best bet to get on property and get to Portia in time. There’s a forest and a fucking stone wall once you cross the property. Getting in any other way will be difficult and we’d have to wait for soldiers to arrive on site.”
“What do you want me to do, bid on my own wife?”
“We do what we need to do to get her out,” Antonio says. “Period.”
“If our men aren’t there by the time you get her, I’ll call in a disturbance. Get the local police out there. They won’t want the attention. The attendees will scatter like cockroaches,” Diamente says.
I consider this. It could work. And it may be our only option.
“She may not have much time, Callahan,” Diamente adds as if he’s just read my mind.
The driver takes the exit off the highway and a few moments later we’re on a dark, single lane road, two cars close behind with soldiers. More coming from other directions but it’ll take time and we’re out of it.
“Pull over. We’ll switch cars. Dante and I will go in. Antonio, you ride in the next car.”
“No,” Antonio says.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean I go in with you. It’s my plan. I’m not sitting it out. And I want this.”
You’re not trained well enough – ”
“You really think I’m not trained? That for the last ten years since finding my family massacred, I haven’t been preparing for a moment like this one? Like the one we just had? What kind of fool do you take me for, Brother?”
I study him, my younger brother, my, what I presumed carefree brother, living the life he should live with girls and liquor and fun. Not the half-life of a damaged boy turned damaged man.
“Pull over,” I tell the driver.
He does and we all step out. The rain’s picked up and I’m getting wet but I’m still considering my brother.
He needs this. I know it.
I nod. “I’m driving, ” I say.
“Dante, Diamente, I’ll give the signal. You two work out the distraction.”
–
Rain now drums against the roof of the car. The windshield wipers work frantically to clear the glass.
The street leading to the house is quiet. We’re late to the party.
Antonio is sitting beside me, loading extra rounds of ammunition into his pockets. I keep looking at him to see if I can read distress, any sign of upset after what just happened. He’s got the radio turned up to some heavy metal shit music and is focused on his Glock.
Narrow canals parallel the road on either side with trees lined up at the perfect distance from one another almost as if someone used a ruler when planting them.
As the road curves to the right, I see lampposts along the side of the road. In the distance, the tall gates of the estate, the gargoyles perched atop the pillars on either side lit up like two devils.
I turn to Antonio who is looking ahead at the entrance, too.
“Whatever happens, none of this is your fault. You know that, don’t you?”
He turns to me. “You don’t need to baby me, Brother.”
“I’m not babying you. I know you’re not a fucking baby. But you’re still my kid brother. You’ll always be my kid brother.”
He studies me. “Nothing is going to happen,” he says, turning back to the gates as we near them, turning the volume up on the radio when we see the first armed guards come into view. I slow the car, pushing the button to roll down my window part of the way, irritated by the rain pelting my face. Antonio tucks his weapon out of sight and sings along to some of the lyrics. The guard leans his head down to look inside the vehicle as he pushes his automatic rifle behind his back.
“Gentlemen,” he says. He has to scream it over the rain. Lightning electrifies the sky just beyond the hulking house.
Another man shines a flashlight inside checking out the backseat.
“This is a private residence. You’ll need to turn around.” He’s soaked, umbrella barely hanging on in the wind.
I turn the music down. “I expect Perez to have booked a private residence considering.”
He studies me as his colleague knocks on the trunk of the car.
“Why are you so late?”
“We got lost. This place is the fucking end of the fucking world and road signs don’t exactly help when you don’t speak the language.”
“Name.”
My brother turns the music back up and leans across to look at the man. “You don’t recognize my brother? He’s fucking famous.”
The man looks from him to me. He gives up on the umbrella with the next gust of wind and tosses it aside, letting the rain cascade down his face. “Name.”
Committed.
“Scarfoni,” Antonio says, sitting back in his chair as I survey what’s beyond the gates. More armed soldiers, smoking, a few feet away. Lights from the house, about a mile farther down, and more than a dozen vehicles dotting the place. At least of those I can see.
“I gotta take a piss,” Antonio says to the man.
“Just a minute. Let the man do his job,”I tell him.
“They could pay a fucking monkey to do this job faster,” he mutters half in English half in Italian. The monkey part loud and clear.
“What did you say?” the soldier asks.
The man at the back knocks his fist twice on the trunk.
“Pop the trunk,” the one from the back yells.
I do. “Is there a problem?”
There’s nothing in there but a spare tire.
“Your name doesn’t appear to be on my list,” he says, eyes narrowing on us. His accent sounds local.
“Clean,” the man at the back says, closing the trunk.
“Then your list is wrong.” I turn to Antonio. He’s waiting for my signal. I need to get inside. If I have to kill these fuckers to do it, I will but I don’t want to sound the alarm.