PRAGUE, CZECH REPUBLIC
Gustavo Berganza’s face contorted in anger.
“I assure you there’s no need to send Francisco Abalos to Prague,” he said. “I can take care of this mess.”
“You had your chance,” General Velásquez said. “And you fucked it up.”
Berganza grimaced at the rebuke. He was operating on paper-thin ice. He had to be careful not to antagonize Velásquez even more.
“Sir, give me the opportunity to fix my mistake,” Berganza said, cringing at the words. He hated admitting responsibility for anything other than successes.
“Francisco’s skills are more attuned to what needs to happen next,” the general said. “But if you were to prepare the field for him, I might be willing to consider this as atonement for your recent failure. Very few people know that Lucas Miller is still alive, and I’d like to keep it that way. Francisco will meet you at the apartment in a couple of hours, Gustavo, but in the meantime, I want to know who tries to contact Miller.”
“Abalos, he’s . . . he’s already on his way?” Berganza asked, stunned.
The line went dead. General Velásquez hadn’t even bothered to reply. Furious, he threw the phone across the room without looking. The device flew through the open door of the bathroom, smacked off the tiled wall above the bathtub, then bounced back into the toilet, where it sank.
Mierda!
He rushed to the toilet and retrieved the phone, thanking God that whoever had last used the toilet had had the decency to flush it.
He dried it with a face cloth, still not believing that General Velásquez had decided to send Francisco Abalos to Prague. Abalos was the general’s personal representative in Europe. Words that came out of Francisco Abalos’s mouth were as if they had been spoken by the general himself.
And the man is a raving lunatic.
Velásquez’s call had been unexpected. Velásquez had been told by a reliable source that one of the two UR Real News reporters had survived the blast. He even knew the hospital room Lucas Miller had been assigned.
Berganza swore out loud. How was it even possible that Lucas Miller had survived?
Berganza had been there. He’d seen the explosion. He’d seen the devastation. And so had General Velásquez. It was unfair for the general to lay the blame entirely on Berganza’s shoulders. He’d done everything by the book. Why should he be held responsible? Surely it was God himself who’d chosen to save the reporter. What else could it be if not divine intervention?
“What’s going on, patrón?” Salvador asked.
Berganza took a calming breath and looked at his second-in-command. The man had been sitting in front of the television playing stupid video games with a pair of headphones on. At six feet tall, Salvador was two inches taller than Berganza and a good twenty pounds heavier. He had coal-black hair and the sort of face that always looked sad. In his mid-forties, Salvador was ten years older than Berganza, but had climbed as high as he ever would within Velásquez’s organization. A former officer with the Cuerpo de Infantería de Marina—the amphibious infantry force of the Mexican Navy—he’d transitioned over to the dark side for the same reason Berganza had.
Money.
Salvador had been a member of the Gulf Cartel for six years before he was recruited by General Velásquez.
“One of the reporters, Lucas Miller, is still alive,” Berganza said.
Salvador didn’t reply, but his eyes widened. He, too, knew what it meant. A job not done properly, for whatever reason, was a job you didn’t walk away from. Not if you wanted to grow old.
“I can take care of it for you, patrón,” Salvador offered.
Berganza shook his head. “That time has come and gone, my friend. The general is sending Francisco Abalos to take over.”
Salvador’s eyes bugged out. “We could have taken out the surviving reporter ourselves,” he said. “Sending Abalos over is an overkill, patrón. Killing a bedridden man isn’t rocket science.”
“I know, but it’s out of our hands now,” Berganza replied. “Velásquez wants us to keep track of anyone who’s trying to talk to Miller.”
Salvador tossed the video game controller on the sofa and got to his feet, eager to get going. He knew his fate was directly linked to Berganza’s.
“Which hospital is he at?” he asked.
“General University Hospital,” Berganza replied. “Go now, Salvador. Grab a taxi and get to the hospital. Me and the others will get the surveillance gear and the weapons ready, then we’ll join you as soon as we can with the SUV.”