Читать книгу Not Without Cause - Kay David - Страница 7

Guatemala City, Guatemala

May 2006

JACK HADEN HAD the taxi driver drop him three blocks from his rented villa. Walking down the dimly lit sidewalk, scanning the gloom, his weapon handy, he found himself wondering how it would feel to have a regular job with two kids and a dog and a wife all waiting for him in a nice little home on a nice wide street.

What would it be like not to worry about someone following you and shooting you in the back? Haden had a hunch he’d never know, but more and more lately, the question had been on his mind.

The idea plagued him for a second longer, then he wondered why he was even wondering. He was forty years old and he’d lived on the edge since the day he’d left his mother’s home. If things ever did change, he’d probably end up restless, screw the nanny and start drinking like a fish.

Either way, he wasn’t going to have a chance to find out so why was he even thinking about it?

He turned down the street one block south of his house. Shadows clung to the houses and lay across the walls like woven chamarras. Guatemala City was always dark, even when the street lamps were on. Back in the nineties when the political situation had been even crazier than it was now, the powers that be had kept it that way for a reason, and although things had changed—slightly—the place was still blacker than hell, literally and metaphorically speaking.

Even in Zona 10.

Divided into sectors for ease of reference, Guatemala City had a personality of its own and each area had a unique flavor as well. Zona 10, where he’d had dinner, was upscale all the way and it housed the offices and shops the foreigners frequented. The restaurants were typically more expensive, the streets were generally cleaner and the neighborhoods were usually safer. A lot of the diplomats lived in Zona 10. He’d attended a party there last week at the French ambassador’s home. Haden wasn’t quite sure why he’d been included—except his name had gotten on a list when he’d first moved to Guatemala City and the list had been passed around. For years he’d had somewhere to go every night if he wanted. No one knew what, or who, he actually was and most of the time he passed on the invitations, but that night he’d been ready for some company, his mood overtaking his usual reluctance to mingle with expats who had little to do and even less to say.

Still, the guy from Washington had taken him by surprise.

“So you work at the American Embassy, huh?” he’d asked, the bourbon in his hand obviously not his first. Their hostess had introduced the man to Haden as Brad Prescott, a communications engineer in town for work. “What are you, a spy or something?”

Haden had had a smart-aleck answer ready but at the last minute, he’d stuck with his normal cover story. “I wish! Nah, my job’s not that glamorous. I’m just a computer technician.”

Prescott had nodded, then stirred his drink with his finger and licked it with a sloppy motion. “Too bad,” he’d mumbled. “I thought you might know someone I know back in Washington.” He’d leaned closer, a whiff of cigarette smoke coming with him as his voice dropped in a self-important way. “He’s with the Agency and he’s a ruthless SOB. We’re partners in a little start-up venture I’m handling.”

Haden had pursued the conversation because he’d had nothing better to do. “Who is he? You never know, he could be my old neighbor or something.”

The tall blonde laughed in a condescending manner. “I doubt that. This guy doesn’t have neighbors or friends. He’s too rich for either, but I don’t think he’ll have that little problem much longer. I’m gonna help him out in that department.”

“Well, what’s his name anyway? Maybe I’ve worked on his computer,” Haden joked.

Prescott shook his head again. “Dean Reynolds with a computer? He doesn’t need a computer, he’s half machine himself!” Prescott had muttered something else then stumbled off, Haden watching until the man had been absorbed into the crowd.

He’d been with the CIA too long because Haden immediately assumed he was being set up. He’d studied Prescott for another hour, then followed the man when the party was over. Prescott had gone directly to the Marriott and as far as Haden could tell, had stayed there the rest of the night. The next day, Haden had paid his way past security and searched the engineer’s hotel room but found nothing.

Two days later, Prescott disappeared.

He was snatched right off the road in broad daylight. No one seemed to know where he was but rumor had it Rodrigue Vega’s men had been involved. When Haden had picked up that bit of gossip, his radar had pinged even louder.

For months, he’d been hearing snatches of information linking someone in Washington with a unique smuggling operation based in Guatemala City. If the rumors were correct, Haden didn’t even want to think about the possibilities. Taking dope and illegals over the border was one thing; slipping in terror and its providers was something else. One of the names out of Washington that had been mentioned as being behind the deal—Dean Reynolds—had surprised Haden. But not totally.

He didn’t trust Dean Reynolds. Not after that deal in Libya. If Reynolds, the director of the CIA, had somehow managed to hook up with one of the biggest crooks in Guatemala City, Rodrigue Vega, they would have a huge network of assets—of people and of funds—at their disposal. The results could be catastrophic, because neither man gave a damn about anything. Reynolds had hidden behind a screen of patriotic fervor for years, his power and influence growing to match his ego. Vega, once a petty thief, now part drug lord, part pseudo-politician, held tremendous power in Guate, especially within the vast communities of immigrants who made the city their home. Both men were greedy, egotistical and self-centered bastards the world would have been better off without. In Haden’s humble opinion.

Haden worked the pieces of the puzzle as he walked, but as usual, more questions than answers resulted from his effort.

Two minutes later, he turned the corner to the street where he lived. A movement in the darkness caught his eye and he checked his progress, his hand going to his waistband without conscious thought. When two hissing cats streaked by, he exhaled slowly, his fingers falling back to his side.

Had his meeting with Prescott been a coincidence? Had the engineer really been kidnapped or was he already dead? Had Prescott’s alcohol-soaked brain been behind the mention of his association with Reynolds or had the revelation been guided by something more sinister?

Haden approached the patch of light that revealed the gate to his courtyard. Pulling his key from his pocket, he unfastened the bolt set in the iron bars and stepped inside. Light from a lamp in his neighbor’s house fell through a tree in the courtyard and cast shadows on him as he continued forward. The sounds of a television down the street rippled through the cool night air. Deep in thought, he unlocked his front door, walked inside and closed the door behind him.

The first blow hit him across the shoulders.

The second one sent him to the floor.

The third strike filled his mouth with the salty taste of blood. He spit it out, then his vision went black.