Warriors in Paradise (31 page)

I shouted, “Drop your fucking weapons now, or the next shot is going to be in your knee!”

The guards dropped their guns and raised their hands in surrender.

Santi shook himself loose from the guards, took their guns, and picked up the other guns. He went to the four-wheeler where Frank’s jacket and gun were. He opened the jacket and placed the five guns in the middle, wrapped the jacket around them, making a tight bundle, and tied the arms of the jacket around it.

Santi said, “What took you so long?”

Charlie said, “It seemed to us you had everything under control. We were just giving you your time and space. We didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Santi, walking toward Frank. “How thoughtful of you. Thanks for the vote of confidence. But before we go, I need a private word with Frank. You mind?”

Charlie said, “Go ahead, but please hurry up; we have places to go, people to see, and things to do.”

“Don’t worry. This won’t take long,” said Santi as he stood in front of Frank. “Frank, I am all yours.”

Frank lunged at Santi.

Like a bullfighter, Santi moved aside and slapped Frank’s passing face with an open hand, saying, “Frank, you must have been born on a highway, because that is where most accidents happen.”

I could see that Santi was going to take his time. He had the same look he had when he started fighting Charlie, but with a difference. He now looked totally unconcerned and businesslike.

Santi looked at me and said, “A mean-spirited white-supremacist racist like Frank needs to be reminded of his limitations.”

Santi once told us what his boxing teacher had constantly reminded him: “Hit the body, and the head will fall.” Santi worked Frank’s body with a series of rapid punches.

He was taunting the guard, “Frank, you fail, just like your daddy’s condom. So the thought crossed your mind that you could take me? That must have been a long and lonely journey.”

Frank was throwing wild blows, hoping to land a lucky punch that never came.

Frank started to breathe heavily and move slower on unsteady legs. Signs of distress began appearing on his face.

While Frank was gasping air through his open mouth, Santi switched to the head, not throwing knockout punches but measured punches aimed at cutting and hurting. Frank’s face soon became a bloody pulp of raw meat. He could hardly see and was bleeding from his lacerations, cut eyebrows, broken nose, and lips.

Charlie stepped in and knocked Frank out cold.

Santi looked at him with a question in his eyes. Charlie said, “He’s had had more than enough. You were going to kill him.”

Santi nodded.

***

I had just learned something new about Santi: he had more than one fighting style.

His fight with Charlie had been very different. At that time, he was trying to bring the fight down to the ground. He was enjoying himself, as if it were a sport or a dance competition. Yes, he was trying to win, but not to maim or kill.

I had seen Charlie fight on several occasions. I never thought he could lose; however, Santi almost had him at the start of the fight.

Their fight had lasted almost ten minutes. It was like a dance, with Charlie throwing punches, trying to keep the distance, Santi blocking them, rushing Charlie, and attempting to bring him down. Santi was always the aggressor, moving forward and pressing all the time.

Probably if Santi had not called for a breather, the fight could have gone on for another ten minutes.

When I met Charlie, I wondered if I could take him. Later, the element of competition with Charlie faded away. The same happened with Santi in less than two days. I realized the three of us were better together as a team than as separate individuals. It just felt more normal to cooperate than to compete.

With Frank, the guard, Santi only boxed without trying to bring him down. His intention was that of hurting or killing at a primal level. He was not enjoying himself. He was businesslike, trying to finish the guard off, sort of complying with an evolutionary imperative of eliminating the defective of the species.

I realized the three of us were more alike than I cared to admit.

***

We flex-cuffed the guards and left to look for Jonathan.

A couple of minutes after the guards were found and freed, they would have hell to pay for having been beaten into submission and having had their guns taken away.

Jonathan was about to leave for another circuit when he saw us approach the car.

As we boarded, Jonathan asked, “How did it go?”

“Exactly as planned,” responded Santi.

“All we have to do now is wait,” I said.

“Any difficulties?” asked Jonathan, looking at Santi and the blood on his clothes.

Charlie said, “Five guards caught up with Santi on their four-wheelers, but we took care of them. Only one guard had to be subdued, and he was hurt a little.”

“A little?” asked Jonathan.

“Well, perhaps more than a little, but he will be fine in a couple of weeks,” said Charlie.

“…or months,” I added.

The first call

We arrived at Jonathan’s home forty minutes after leaving the hotel and one hour after delivering the envelope to Rupert Pattinson.

It was 10:10 a.m., time to call.

Terry had been quiet in the basement. I hoped his ordeal would soon be over and that his father would agree to the trade.

Miranda gave us a clean disposable phone, and Jonathan called Pattinson.

Pattinson answered the phone after the first ring. He said, “Hello.”

Jonathan responded, “You know who I am and why I am calling?”

“Yes,” answered Pattinson.

“We don’t want to start delivering Terry’s body parts to you, but we will if you don’t agree to trade the girls for your son.”

Rupert said in a controlled voice, “Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into?”

Jonathan interrupted. “Please Rupert, don’t be stupid. Of course we know what we are getting ourselves into. We are the same group that has already taken care of Nicanor Toro, Nancy Smith, and Alexander Coombs.

“Of course we know whom we are going up against; otherwise, we would not be talking right now. So please don’t waste our time and don’t make us waste the life of your son.”

“Well, if you know who you’re going up against, then you know that my options are limited. I cannot let the girls go. They are part of a bigger scheme, an unmovable scheme.

“You have to understand, this is just business. It is nothing personal,” said Pattinson.

“It is personal to us, you arrogant prick! And now we have made it personal for you too,” answered Jonathan.

“Rupert, we know what can be done. We know that you’re the man in charge. We also know that nothing much will happen if you deliver fewer girls to be auctioned. It will just be one small slip-up in your otherwise impeccable record. That is all. You and I know that nothing much of consequence will happen if you deliver five girls instead of ten.

“Anyway, I don’t care one way or the other. Either we have the girls today, or you will never see your son again. It is as simple as that.

“The sooner that you make the exchange, Rupert, the less suffering your son will have to endure.

“We will call you back in one hour, and I hope for your son’s sake that you will have a positive response.”

“I need more than an hour. At least four hours.”

“Rupert, don’t make me waste my time. You have one hour.” Jonathan hung up the phone.

I looked at Jonathan and asked him, “Could you please tell us what you know and what you think of Rupert Pattinson? We need to figure him out. We need to get into his head.”

The fixer

Rupert Pattinson thought of himself as a true American patriot. He considered himself better than the rest of the world and the majority of the American people. He believed that wealth and privileges were predestined to be his as a member of the ruling class.

His family had lived in Massachusetts since the eighteenth century. His surname came from the north of England. It had its own coat of arms and was among the most distinguished surnames. Pat was the patronymic form of the abbreviated form of Patrick, from the Latin “Patricius,” meaning patrician, or “son of a noble father”—a member of the patrician class, the Roman hereditary aristocracy. Patrick was chiefly used in Ireland and Scotland but was widespread in the north of England from the twelfth century, giving rise to a number of surnames including Patrickson, Paton, Patten, Patti(n)son and Pat(t)erson.

From very early on, the Pattinsons were active in trade and finance in the Boston area. The family had chosen wisely during the American Revolutionary War and financed the insurgents, while most of the other banks shared the fate of those backing the losing side.

After the republic was established, Pattinson Bank helped the American colonies achieve financial independence. The bank became synonymous with Boston and Massachusetts. His grandfather’s bank was family owned and stayed within the family for generations.

His father took control of the bank a couple years before his grandfather’s passing.

Ten years later, a group of Jewish bankers from New York bought the shares from the family members right out from underneath him. The governing board ousted him in a bold maneuver. None of his family members would look him in the eye.

He had been blindsided.

That evening, his father came home and into his studio. He lit a cigar, filled a goblet with cognac, and went up to Rupert’s room.

Rupert had always been afraid of his father. When his father walked into his room, he faked that he was asleep.

The cigar and cognac smell were enticing.

His father sat down on his bed next to him and said, “Son, I have to leave you, not because I want to, but because I want you to have a good life. If I stay around, you and your mother will end up with nothing.” He just sat there for a moment and then bent over, and for the first and last time in his life, he kissed Rupert lovingly on his forehead.

He still regretted not opening his eyes or embracing his father in that moment. He didn’t know what he could have said. He probably wouldn’t have changed his father’s mind, but at least he could have tried. He regretted that he didn’t try.

Then his father went down to the studio and blew his brains out.

Standing next to his father’s open grave a few days later, he promised himself that he would never be afraid again.

His father had been right. The takeover of the bank had left Rupert Pattinson and his mother penniless except for the two properties: their house in Boston and the one in Cape Cod.

The sale of those properties kept Rupert and his mother going, albeit not in the style that they were accustomed to. However, with wise investments and living frugally, there was enough money to allow Rupert to attend private schools and then Harvard University.

After finishing his MA in foreign studies at the Center for International Affairs at Harvard, he took a job at the State Department. The end of the Cold War had opened new opportunities for young and educated professionals who could adapt to the new world conditions, including the end of socialism and globalization.

He took on his responsibilities with a newfound passion. He was soon noticed by the higher-ups, who gave him the opportunity to take on new responsibilities and challenges.

Two years after Rupert had started working at the State Department, one of his mentors invited him to his weekend house. There he met six of the most influential men in politics, industry, and finance in America.

After a pleasant day of skeet shooting and a fascinating dinner conversation about the future of international organizations, he was invited to the library for cigars and brandy. They seated him in the middle of the room facing his host and new friends.

He was surprised and felt blindsided.

They told him that he had been under observation for two years, that they admired his work ethic, dedication, and devotion to the United States of America. They voiced their concerns about the real issues and challenges confronting the United States. They told him that America had to stay under the control of real Americans. However, because of the drug trade, organized crime, and foreign threats, the country was facing very serious challenges from within as well as from outside its borders. The internal problems created windows of opportunities for outside interests, minorities, the Russian and Mexican cartels, the Italian mafia, and foreign terrorists bent on the destruction of the United States.

They could not allow that to happen.

A group of true American patriots had formed a secret group called the Corporation in order to deal with these issues and confront those challenges in the most effective of ways, even if those ways fell outside the established institutional channels.

They offered him a job in the Corporation.

He could not believe his own ears. These people were his heroes. All of them came from good, white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant, full-blooded American families. He had always aspired to be just like them. Being offered a job with them was a dream come true.