Salty Sky (27 page)

They danced; Cale stayed on beat, moved smoothly, and smiled. The smile was important. Ashley led. There was even a song that required clapping on the two and the four beats. He congratulated himself on ignoring his natural Caucasian male instincts to clap on the one and the three for the whole song.

They were alone for three dances. Somehow—perhaps a few spare ribs were involved—a smattering of women appeared. Partners joined them. Tony was doing the hustle
—dunt dunt dunt da dunt da da dunt dunt
—and his partner seemed pleased. With the extra dancers, the space tightened. They danced closer, more hand holding. More elbows above the shoulders. More body contact. It was incidental on Cale’s end, of course. He figured she did it intentionally. They sweated. Smiled.

22

THAT NIGHT, THE
rain continued but the wind lessened, and they began their hunt. The three men took the black Suburban to Mr. Coleman’s house. He was not home, but they knew he was nearby. In fact, Alberto had chartered Coleman’s plane under an alias and made a deposit for Tuesday morning. Francisco found this a small expense to ensure the trip bore fruit.

Francisco had recognized Coleman’s twin turbo prop’s call sign at the FBO when his G5 landed. If he did not so strongly wish to personally watch Mr. Coleman suffer and also realize his physical presence at the man’s death would add to his legacy, he’d have rigged an explosive to the plane. Instead, he would avenge his brother directly, and in a spiritual manner, he would avenge his mentor, Tío Pablo, too. But most important, Francisco was building the legend of timeless vengeance to right wrongs. When his tale was told around the law enforcement water coolers, would this change the
norteamericanos
’ behavior? He was not sure, but he was sure it would be reinforced in the minds of any new strategic partners.

In person, Mr. Coleman house’s was as suitable a location for the end of the man’s life as it had appeared on the tablet. The significant physical separation from his neighbors was privacy he must normally enjoy; on a windy day, no noise, even that from a gunshot, would
reach his neighbors’ ears. Coleman would be surrounded by things he loved, providing him no comfort in his darkest hour, thought Francisco.

The three men entered the back screen door. Alberto prepared to kick open the back door, but the Cuban turned the unlocked handle first. Alberto stepped in and jumped back, quickly shutting the door.
“Dios mío,”
he gasped.

A dog the size of a burro padded across the room, silent except for its footfalls. The dog stood on its hind legs. Its steady, unhurried growl competed with the rain splashing. The dog’s eyes narrowed as it looked directly into the men’s eyes through the glass of the half-light door. The low growl vibrated the door’s window where Alberto’s hand rested.

Alberto pulled his hand from the window and drew his Glock. The dog would be little trouble. He started to turn the knob. The dog felt the door knob turn, hopped down, and got in position to come out the door. Francisco put a hand on Alberto’s arm.

The Cuban asked, “Alberto, what happens after we shoot the dog?”

Alberto answered, “We will go inside as we planned.”

Francisco was embarrassed to have to finish teaching Alberto what the young man, relatively new to his employ, knew intuitively. If they shot the dog, they would have to stay and wait for Mr. Coleman; otherwise, he would come home to find his dog dead and be forewarned. If they let the dog live, they could return at a time of their choosing.

This was a lesson Francisco learned from the
norteamericanos
of Delta Force when they hunted El Capo. The Delta Force officers coordinated the hunt for El Capo while Colonel Hugo Martinez coordinated the Colombian military police effort. Colonel Martinez showed no desire for wealth or a fear of death. Some called him a patriot, but more called him an errand boy for the
norteamericanos
. He led his men in the hunt even after his more pliable superiors ordered his replacement. Delta Force showed patience, knowing that when
you find a place where your quarry will return, you leave them every reason to return to it.

For El Capo, it was family to which he always returned. Even after buying his wife and children’s asylum in Germany, there was still family like Francisco to visit.

For Mr. Coleman, perhaps the dog and the house would do for a lure. If not, Francisco was sure, like the
norteamericanos
had done with Pablo, he could move to Coleman’s family.

Francisco looked through the glass past the dog. He disliked the interior’s finishes. Wood floors. No marble. Not enough ceiling height for a dramatic chandelier. Photographs instead of paintings on the walls. But the utilitarian house would work for the utilitarian purpose Francisco intended.

The men walked through the rain across Coleman’s backyard to the water’s edge, where the wind still gusted. They noted the boat raised on the lift and poked their heads into a small shed filled with surfboards and fishing rods. With nothing more to learn, they left.

Francisco told Alberto to call their pilot. Have the plane arrive in the morning. They would return to the house at dawn. It was always easiest to catch them asleep. How many judges were dragged out of their homes, screaming, as their bleary-eyed families slowly awoke? There was something about taking a victim away in front of his family that both excited and nauseated Francisco.

He wished he had timed his visit for when Mr. Coleman’s family was in town. The brutal death of innocent family members was particularly useful in instilling fear into allies and enemies alike. In his life’s equation, scared allies and enemies saved his men’s lives. But Francisco had decided to focus on kings. The killing of more innocents was focusing on pawns. He would not spend the time tracking down the remaining family members unless he needed them to catch Mr. Coleman.

Leaving the premises, Francisco decided that, at dawn, if Mr. Coleman was not there, they would wait in the house for him.

23

TONY DROVE HUNCHED
forward to see through the rain, Ashley rode shotgun, and Cale sat at an angle in the backseat with his feet behind Tony and his body behind Ashley. There was a test of the emergency broadcast system that silenced their chatter for a moment. Funny that they went forward with this scheduled test even when an actual hurricane was in town. Ah, regulators. You had to love ’em.

During the beep, Cale’s mind wandered to his abbreviated time in college. The best class he ever took was dance.

It wasn’t dance theory. Or dance history. It was actual dancing. He signed up, thinking, rightfully, that it would fulfill his physical education requirement and that he’d meet chicks. He met Maggie there. In the class, it was fortunate that the guys didn’t wear leotards; it was unfortunate that the girls didn’t. The end of the acid wash and the start of the grunge era was the least optimal college clothing era for displaying young bodies in fifty years. OK, maybe the shoulder pad era was worse, but not by much. Of course, it was a class that started in January in the upper Midwest, so most of the students weren’t exactly in fighting shape. But if leotards were required, would he have shown his boys off? Would he have resorted to a confidence prop? Not that he needed a prop. Or help with his confidence.

Thinking of props, an old joke ran through his mind. It was just the three of them, so he went ahead with it.

“So two friends,” he said aloud, “a Frenchman and a Pole, visit the beach. The first day, the Frenchman puts on his Speedo and struts around the beach. He meets two girls and takes them back to the hotel. The Pole is very impressed. The next day, the Frenchman does the same thing again. So on the third day, the Pole asks, ‘My friend, how do you do it?’

“The Frenchman replies, ‘Mon ami, after I put on my Speedo, I put a potato in it. The potato is what gets the ladies’ attention.’

“The Pole thanks his friend for the advice. He goes and buys a Speedo. He goes and buys a potato. He puts the potato in his Speedo. He walks the beach. That afternoon, he walks up from the beach in his Speedo by himself and sees the Frenchman. The Pole is very upset.

“‘My friend,’ he says, ‘why have you tricked me? I put the potato in my Speedo, and instead of meeting women, people have run away from me.’

“The Frenchman looks at his friend and says, ‘Mon ami, do it again tomorrow. But this time put the potato in front.’”

The joke received a polite laugh.

Tony jumped in. “A Frenchman, an Englishman, and an Irishman walk into a bar, sit down, and order three beers. At the exact same moment, a fly drops into each of their beers. The Frenchman says not a word, but pushes the beer away with a look of disgust. The Englishman takes the fly out of the beer, tosses it to the side, and then takes a sip. The Irishman picks up the fly, holds it by its wings, and yells, ‘Spit it out, ya bastard!’”

Cale laughed a little more than the joke warranted. It felt good, and the laugh came easy. They had become a comfortable group.

Ashley started another. “So this guy and girl went parking. The guy looks at the girl and says, ‘Do you want to get in the backseat?’

“She looks at him, a little puzzled, and says, ‘No. I’d rather stay up here with you.’”

Cale laughed a lot more than the joke deserved. Well, it was cute, reminded him of one his kids said no less than a thousand times.
Daddy, why didn’t the pony sing? Because it was a little horse
. He left that one unsaid; they weren’t that comfortable a group.

Cale’s thoughts returned to where they were before the jokes: Dance class. He learned shag, salsa, and the Electric Slide. How many times had he used that knowledge? Now
that
was a liberal arts education. How many times had he used what he learned in biology? So the mitochondria were the powerhouse of the cell, but what did that mean? Tonight, he was again pleased with that dance class. There was no salsa music, but the basics transferred; he’d held his own with Ashley.

It was after midnight and Cale was bone tired, but the night possessed unasked questions. Should he invite them in for a nightcap? Should he invite just Ashley? Would she say yes?

Ashley beat him to the punch. When Tony pulled into the driveway, she read a text from her friends. They asked her to pick them up. No cabs were running tonight, and they needed a lift to the boat.

Ashley said she’d call Cale tomorrow when Joe was free. Since he was without a car, Cale agreed to take the water route and meet them to celebrate the restoration of liberty. He was gambling that the wind and rain would slacken enough by then. What was the plan to get his car back? Oh yeah, Barry was driving back Friday and leaving it at the FBO. After tomorrow, he had a charter that would have him out of town until then anyway.

Cale scuttled in the front door and rubbed Jimmy’s head. The two housemates walked through the quiet rooms to the back door. Cale flipped on the back porch light and froze.

There were puddles of water. They tracked from the screen door to the back door. Someone there? He flipped the light off. From the volume of water, it looked like several pairs of shoes or multiple trips in and out.

Nobody came inside. Jimmy would have demanded a fight. Cale checked him for injuries. He felt fine. Cale used his phone’s flashlight app to spotlight the kitchen floor. No water. He shined it around the
doorframe. Two big paw prints were on the glass door. Good boy, Jimmy. Cale rubbed his head again.

Who visited? Friends on boats used the back door. Friends in cars used the front. Nobody was on the water tonight, so this wasn’t a friend. A burglar not willing to mess with a 120-pound dog? A Colombian with a fillet knife?

Cale left the house lights off. He unlocked his safe, withdrew the Beretta, nestled it in the small of his back, and pulled a fleece on to conceal the weapon and keep warm. He hit the head, brushed his teeth, gurgled Listerine.

He sat on his bed to think. Jimmy laid across his feet, creating a less-than-optimal ready position. He envisioned trying to run with one foot asleep, dragging behind him. The more adrenaline Cale had running through his veins, the more he joked.