High Stakes by Fern Michaels (22)

“Wheels down right on schedule,” Fergus said as he unbuckled his seat belt. He immediately turned on his cell phone, just as everyone else was doing. Chirping, pinging, buzzing, and musical notes filled the plane.

“Whatever would we do without these marvelous little devices?” Charles said, tongue in cheek. “Sometimes I hate them.”

Dennis was close enough to hear what Charles was saying. “You know who really loves cell phones?” Not waiting for a response, he rushed on. “Men and women who cheat on their spouses. That’s who.”

“And we care about this . . . why?” Ted demanded.

“We really don’t, Ted. I was just commenting on something Charles said. You’re holding up the line. Will you please move!”

“Welcome to Miami, gentlemen,” the male steward said as he looked out into the darkness. The pilot and copilot offered up salutes as the gang tripped down the portable stairs, their only luggage the rucksacks on their backs. Only Charles and Fergus carried bulging briefcases.

The time was exactly 6:50 p.m.

A man off to the side of the stairway held up a huge sign that said CHARLES MARTIN. Charles waved his hand. The gang followed him.

Jack eyed the man holding the sign. He had to be either a retired Navy SEAL or a retired Delta Force operator. Whichever he was, he wasn’t someone you wanted to meet up with in a dark alley, much less in the bright light of day.

“Follow me, gentlemen. My name is Jonas Kellner. We have a few stops to make before I take you to your hotel. Mr. Snowden said to tell you, ‘Welcome to Miami,’ and he’s sorry he isn’t here to meet you.”

“Wait a minute! Is Snowden here?”

“Yes, sir. He arrived forty minutes ago. He’s here in Miami, but he is not here at the airport.”

“How is that possible?” Jack demanded. “We all left at the same time.”

“Mr. Snowden was first in line for takeoff. You were only number seven on the runway. Any other questions?” His tone clearly said there better not be any more.

“And your name really isn’t Jonas Kellner, either, is it?” Jack said.

“That’s right, sir. You all need to step it up. I have a schedule to meet, per Mr. Snowden’s instructions.”

Jack moved closer to Harry. “I think we could take this guy, don’t you, Harry? Not that we would, but we could if we wanted to, right? All Snowden’s guys look like this one. He must recruit each one ten seconds after they retire.”

“Sometimes you are downright silly, Jack,” Harry said. “The only question you should be asking is, How long would it take? Minutes versus seconds?”

Jonas Kellner stood to the side as the troop climbed into a Chevy Suburban that they all knew was outfitted in the same way as the president’s.

Jack and Harry were the last to climb in. Jack had one foot on the running board when Kellner spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Emery. Not even on your best day! Or his best day,” Kellner said, jerking his head in Harry’s direction.

Harry laughed out loud. Jack shuddered. Harry rarely, if ever, laughed out loud. He turned around just as Harry put his foot on the running board. The next thing he saw was Jonas Kellner sleeping peacefully on the ground twenty feet away.

“Show-off,” Jack said, a huge grin on his face. “Now we have to wait for him to wake up, since he’s the only one who knows where we’re going.”

Cyrus barked from inside the Suburban. Action had gone down, and he had missed it.

“What the hell is our problem out there?” Ted bellowed. “Just for the record, your dog is heavy, and he’s sitting on my lap.”

“Nothing much. Harry was showing off. We’ll be good to go in a minute, or when Harry wakes up Mr. Kellner.” To Harry, he said, “C’mon. Play nice and wake up that dude. You made your point.”

Harry backed off the running board and sprinted over to where Jonas Kellner lay. He reached down and yanked him to his feet. “You okay to drive, Kellner?”

Kellner let loose with a string of expletives as he stomped toward the Suburban.

Harry trotted behind, his flip-flops making slapping sounds on the tarmac. “He’s good, Jack.” Cyrus barked in agreement. The doors shut, and the Suburban tore across the tarmac to the exit road.

Thirty minutes later, the tanklike vehicle swerved into a long driveway that led to a prefab building that had seen better days.

“What’s this place?” Abner asked curiously as he looked around.

“A beauty parlor,” Kellner said through tight lips. “Go on in. I think Mr. Snowden is already inside.”

The group trooped inside and was stunned to see that the inside of the ramshackle building was nothing like the outside. It was brightly lit, with overhead fluorescent lights. Everything was white or stainless steel, and it was absolutely spotless.

“What took you so long?” Snowden quipped. He looked at Jack and Harry and shook his head from side to side. Cyrus moved then to stand next to Snowden, his ears straight as arrows, the fur on his neck ruffled. He quivered in anticipation of . . . something.

Avery Snowden had always thought of himself as fearless. And he was, except when it came to Cyrus. Cyrus scared him shitless. He looked over at Jack. “Call him off, Jack. Please.”

“He doesn’t have enough meat on his bones, Cyrus.” Cyrus knew what that meant: he wasn’t going to be biting this guy’s ass anytime soon. He backed up until he was standing next to Jack, but his eyes never left Avery Snowden.

“Gentlemen, this place is similar to Alexis Thorne’s studio, where Mr. Espinosa transformed you a short while ago. We use this facility for the same purpose. It is not on anyone’s radar. Except ours. We use it in order for you all to blend in here in Miami since you will draw too much attention as snowbirds recently arrived from up North. Therefore, we have to correct that, so we’re going to give you all an instant suntan. We’re going to bleach your hair to a degree and dress all of you like beach bums. Surfer beach bums. We’ve got some knocked-around surfboards and some beat-up boogie boards that you will take with you when you hit the Pink Pelican. You’ll sign in, register in groups of two or a few singles. You’ll all meet up in one of the beach bars.

“The Pink Pelican is part of a string of beach eateries. That’s where all the lettuce and salsa are delivered. They do a monster salad and chip business. No one is looking twice at them. My people have been hard at work since I found out how this is all going to go down. We have four days to get it down pat. Charles and I have some things to go over, so follow the young man who is going to do your spray tanning. His partner will choose your clothes and your luggage. Try not to give them a hard time. It has to be this way.”

No one said anything as they trudged after two buff, young beach types who were so totally ripped and bronzed that the snowbirds were jealous to a man.

“This is so neat and cool. I’m one of those people who can’t tan. I burn and have to use a ton of lotion, and I still burn and peel,” Dennis gushed. “I can’t wait to see how I come out. Women like men with tans, did you know that? Also, you look healthier with some color. Why are you looking at me like that? It’s true. I read a lot. So there!”

“Who wants to go first?” the lead guy asked.

Dennis raised his hand.

“Okay, buddy, you’re up. Strip down to the buff, and I mean buff. We spray every inch.”

Harry was the only one who had a problem with the words every inch, until Jack pinched his arm. “Not to worry, Harry. Just tell him to close his eyes when he gets to . . . you know . . . the jools. This is a walk in the park. Nikki and the girls do it all the time at the beginning of summer, until they build up a tan. I could never tell the difference. Nikki makes a point of never going out in the sun, so I’m thinking she does this self-tan stuff all summer long. Whatever it takes, Harry. The upside to it all is it smells good, like coconut and vanilla.”

“Shut up, Jack.”

Cyrus growled.

“That means you, too, Cyrus.”

Cyrus looked up at Harry, then at his master as he lowered himself to slink behind Jack.

“Now you scared my dog, Harry. Not nice. One word from me, and your ass is grass. You know that, right?”

Harry leaned down to stare Cyrus in the eyes. Neither blinked. Cyrus whooped in delight, and then he was all over Harry, and Harry was loving it. Jack did his best not to laugh. It was a thing Harry and Cyrus had going that he simply was not a part of. Like Harry and the mystical dog Cooper. Some things you just had to leave alone. This was one of those things.

In the sterile great room, Avery Snowden led Fergus and Charles over to what looked like a clear Plexiglas table with matching chairs. “We need to talk. First things first. The bill for this mission is creeping higher and higher by the hour. I did warn you at the outset. Are we still good?”

“The funds are unlimited. For the most part. You have no worries,” Charles said.

“I think I know how this is all going to go down. The cocaine is being shipped from all over to the Pink Pelican. They hollow out the heads of lettuce and insert a container in the middle, then pop the core on top. Voilà. The salsa is made right here in Miami by a mom-and-pop team. The mom-and-pop part is just the cover. They do make the salsa and pack it in gallon jars. They fill a quart jar, which goes inside the gallon jar, with cocaine, pour some salsa on top, and put on a screw lid, which is then sealed by machine to prove that the contents have not been tampered with. The thing is, these people have the customers to prove they eat all that stuff. Tons of it. Tons, boys.

“I can’t prove this yet, and I could be wrong, but I don’t think so. Whatever that guy Delgado said he’s moving, you can triple it. He might be paying Sanders well, but nowhere near what he’d pay some sharp-eyed drug dealer. I doubt she has a clue.”

“Why haven’t the authorities cracked down on them?” Fergus asked.

“Weren’t you listening to me, Fergus?” Snowden replied. “The Pink Pelican can account for the heavy orders of lettuce and salsa. When you get there, just walk up and down the beach. Each eatery is filled to capacity, and guess what they’re eating! Salads and chips. My guys are not sure if any of the cocaine is being shipped in the bags of chips. They come in gunnysacks of white cotton to keep them fresh. Who can say what’s in the middle of the sacks?”

“How did you find this out so quickly?” Charles asked.

“I have good people. I’ve had my people working this end the minute I found out the Mr. December contest was going to be in Miami instead of California.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Fergus asked nervously.

Snowden stretched his lips into a wide grimace. “There is one other thing that is not going to go over well. You do realize that unless we actually catch them in the act, this thing could shut down in the blink of an eye.”

“Do you have a plan?” Fergus asked.

“If you want to call it that. I made it my business to upload all the previous pageants to see how it was all done. What they’ve done in the past is, after Mr. December is crowned, each dancer, including the winner, is given a gift. It’s all fancied up, big red ribbon, silver paper, that kind of thing. The winner gets the biggest box, and the others a box maybe as big as a shoe box. They are told not to open them until they get back to the hotel, where the substitution takes place, unbeknownst to them. The Sanders woman then takes possession of the boxes after all the pictures are taken, and she takes them back to the hotel for the switcheroo. She leaves the van in the hotel parking lot and takes the real gifts to the boys’ rooms. Someone drives off with the van and returns it later. End of story.”

“Then what happens?” Charles asked.

“The next day, they drive up to Fort Lauderdale, put on a performance, showcase Mr. December, hand out gifts, same deal. Then it’s on to Palm Beach, and from there to Jacksonville, with the last stop outside Disney World. It’s the end of the tour, and everyone goes home. That’s all I’ve been able to pretty much prove.”

“What’s the part we’re not going to like?” Charles asked.

“Your boys have to take over for the dancers. They have to actually receive the gift boxes. If you can think of a better way, tell me, and I’ll listen. You hired me to snatch the Sanders woman and her husband. We lost the husband. We can still capture Ms. Sanders. What we don’t want is Delgado and his people. Let the authorities handle them. That’s why I said your boys have to be stand-ins. The real dancers have to be spirited away in plenty of time so as not to get caught up in the web. My people and I can take care of that end of it. Tell me, what do you think?”

“Won’t that set off a red flag?” Fergus asked.

“Which part?” Snowden asked.

“Our guys taking over.”

“At the last rehearsal before the big show, they throw open the doors to hold an audition of wannabes. It lasts all afternoon. That’s where our guys show up. They’ve done it successfully for many years, according to all the taped videos I’ve watched. The feds aren’t going to care too much, and neither will the DEA. All they want are the drugs and the goons.”

* * *

Pilar was so nervous, she twitched as she walked out of her bedroom toward the kitchen. She had to walk past Santos, the baboon, and that bothered her. Her arms were full of brochures, flyers, and pamphlets that she was going to package up and send to Florida by FedEx. At least that was what she was going to indicate to the baboon. In reality, what she was going to send via FedEx was the manila envelope from the safe, now in the golf bag, with instructions to the hotel to hold it for pickup, with picture ID required when claimed.

Until last night, she had had no plan, but after hours and hours of tossing and turning, she had finally come up with something she thought would work. It had to work, or she was a dead woman.

At three o’clock in the morning, she’d sent off an e-mail to Carlie Fisher, her business manager. It was a terse message:

Pilar had then texted Toby, alerting him to her change of plans. And also to alert him to the change in hotels. She had debated about sending a text to Zuma Delgado but had decided he wasn’t worth the effort. Everything was in motion now.

Her next two texts had been taken care of within minutes. She had canceled her reservation at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel and had booked a new reservation at the Ritz-Carlton. She knew Delgado would go ballistic when he found out she’d changed the reservations, but she didn’t care. Enough was enough, and finally, finally, she knew what she had to do, and she was going to do it come hell or high water.

She’d rubbed at her burning eyes. If only Gabe were here. He’d be so proud of her. She’d started to cry then. So the sound didn’t carry, she’d buried her head in the pillow.

It was morning now, and she knew it was the last day she would ever spend in this condo and the last day she would spend in this city. She wondered if she would miss it. Probably. She sucked in a deep breath as she stomped her way forward, knowing that the baboon was going to stiff-arm her to see what she was doing. Her own left arm shot out at the same moment. Stalemate. She showed him the FedEx box with the bright colors. He nodded. Then she showed him the stack of colorful brochures of Miami. Then she tried to make flapping motions with her hands to indicate the package had to be flown to Miami. He nodded and went back to his chair, which by now stank to high heaven, to watch the silly cartoons he was addicted to.

Pilar was so light-headed from the fact that she’d gotten away with her plan, she barely made it to the kitchen. She quickly made coffee, and while it dripped, she stuffed the manila envelope in the box and packed it tight with the brochures and flyers. She stuck on the air waybill just as the last drop of coffee plopped into the pot. She would wait until just the right moment to claim it at the Ritz-Carlton. All she cared about right now was that the manila envelope was as safe as she could make it.

As she sipped at the scalding coffee, she stared at the box sitting where the dead flowers had been. How innocent it looked. And yet it was her do-or-die destiny. She looked over at the digital clock on the Wolf range. If Avis was on time, the van should have been delivered ten minutes ago. Her cell buzzed. She looked down at the incoming text. BMW SUV delivered on time. Key in magnetic container, as per instructions.

She knew instantly why Avis had sent an SUV instead of a van. Vans didn’t come with child lock doors. How stupid she was. She should have known that. Then again, how could she, since she didn’t have children? She absolved herself. She wasn’t stupid, after all.

Pilar finished her coffee and headed back to her bedroom so she could shower and dress. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it would burst right out of her chest. She used every ounce of willpower in her body not to turn around and look at the box on the table.

Forty minutes later, Pilar was showered, dressed, and made up. She was dressed casually in a plum-colored pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse. She wore flat-heeled shoes and carried her pricey Chanel bag. A white leather duffel bag sat by the door. She’d packed it at midnight. Two pairs of black slacks, three sequined, sparkly tops, and three dressy blouses, along with her granny flannel nightgown, underwear, and makeup. Not too heavy, and she planned to carry it, not check it in baggage. She looked around to see if she’d forgotten anything. Nothing that jumped out at her.

The last thing she did was open Gabe’s sock drawer. She rummaged for the only pair of argyle socks he owned, and unrolled them to reveal five thousand dollars rolled into a very tight cylinder. More than enough to get her to Florida, where she could buy whatever she needed in case she had forgotten something. She dropped it into her purse and covered it with several tissues. Done.

Pilar walked out into the living room, reached down, and pulled the plug to the television set out of the outlet. She hated the roar of outrage she heard, but that didn’t deter her. She picked up her jacket and slipped it on. She carried the duffel to the front door and dropped it, along with her purse! She ran into the kitchen for the FedEx box and thrust it into the baboon’s hands. She didn’t care that he was texting his boss.

She opened the door to leave, but he grabbed her arm. She lashed out with her foot and gave him a good crack on his shinbone. She looked down at the text on the baboon’s phone. Stay where you are. Stay with the plan.

Instead of saying something to the baboon, Pilar pulled her own phone from her jacket pocket and pressed in Delgado’s number. The moment she heard his voice, she went into her spiel. “Do not tell me what to do and when to do it. I am leaving now. The baboon can come, or he can stay. It doesn’t matter to me. Tell him if he even looks at me crossways, I will scream rape at the top of my lungs. I have a good set of lungs, just so you know. It’s time you showed me some respect.”

She shoved the phone into the baboon’s hand. He was smart enough to bring it up to his ear as he leered at her. She listened to his side of the conversation, not understanding a word he was saying. Nor did she care. She did care, though, when he threw the phone at her. She was lucky and caught it before it smashed on the tile floor in the foyer. She didn’t hesitate even for a second before kicking him square in the family jewels. As he doubled over, Pilar reached down for the Chanel purse with the heavy double gold chain. She wound up like a discus thrower and rapped him in the head. He toppled over, and for good measure, she kicked him in the ribs. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard a satisfying sharp noise. She hoped she had cracked a rib. Or two. Maybe three.

Duffel in one arm, her handbag on her shoulder, the FedEx box under her other arm, Pilar sprinted for the elevator, where a white-haired elderly gentleman was holding the elevator door for her. He looked curiously over her shoulder at the baboon, who was limping down the hall and cursing in Spanish. Pilar smiled and shrugged. She was careful to position herself on the opposite side of the white-haired gentleman. She almost laughed out loud when she noticed the man sniffing and wrinkling his nose.

“What floor, young lady?” he asked genially.

“The garage level. By any chance, sir, are you going to the lobby?”

“I am. I’m taking my morning constitution. Why?”

“Would you mind dropping this box off at the desk? That way I can go straight to the garage. I have a plane to catch.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” He reached for the box just as the elevator stopped at the garage level. Pilar smiled and waved as she quickly left the elevator, the baboon right behind her. Her eyes raked the parked cars. The white BMW SUV was right where Carlie had said it would be.

She walked toward it, reached under the fender, and withdrew the magnetic box and pulled out the key. She walked around to the passenger side and pressed the remote that would open the door. She took her time walking back around to the driver’s side, where she fiddled with the key fob. The baboon was smart enough not to get into the car until her side opened. She had one leg up and was about to slide onto the seat when she heard the passenger-side door slam shut. Quicker than lightning, she was off the seat, the door slamming shut behind her. She ran then, dodging between cars until she found her own car. She was in and peeling rubber in seconds when she heard what she thought was the sound of a gunshot.

Damn. That was the one thing she hadn’t thought of, that he could shoot his way out of the car. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Gabe would have thought of that.

She quickly pressed in the digits for 911. She reported a robbery in progress and said, “He has a gun, and a knife strapped to his leg. I think his name is Santos, and I suspect he’s illegal.” Pilar hung up before the operator could ask her any questions.

The garage came alive with sound, horns blaring, early morning risers screaming and yelling as they tried to figure out what was going on. Like she cared. She was out now and blasting down the road on her way to the airport.

She did it! She’d outwitted him! Now all she had to do was get to the airport, and it would be clear sailing. Or flying, as the case may be. She was safe. At least until she landed in Florida and met up with Zuma Delgado. She did wonder, though, if the baboon would have time to call Delgado before the police arrived.

Ninety minutes later, Pilar was thirty thousand feet in the air. She couldn’t help but wonder if Santos would give up Delgado to save his own neck and what was going to go down in Florida. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She was asleep in seconds.