trying to regain his composure. His head throbbed with a mounting pain. "We're in way over our heads. I didn't sign on for this. Charboneau is one thing, but now—"
"Don't panic. Believe me, Delacorte will find out how dangerous a path he walks. I have a grand welcome planned."
"Oh, just great." He spat his reply before he could stop himself. Closing his eyes, he waited for the response he knew would come.
"You know what's at stake, you pompous ass. And you're not going to fuck this up . . . not when we're so close to pulling this thing off." Uncharacteristic humor tinged his voice. "Besides, one little Polaroid and we might even get them to wire the ransom to the Swiss account. Pure gravy."
"I thought you weren't interested in the money."
"I'm not. A million dollars is nothing by comparison. Yet for a man who grew up with so little, I find money hard to ignore. In the end, if they don't pay, it won't matter. I've got bigger plans." His tone grew adamant with a familiar resentment. "Charboneau's an outsider. He had no right to rape my country. If anyone has the privilege of doing that, it is me."
Rape was rape, no matter who performed the despicable act. The subtlety of this concept in exploitation missed the mark with his partner in crime. Phillips felt the blood rushing through his system. The heat of it flushed his face. Slowing his breathing, he collapsed into the leather chair once again, defeat in his voice.
"I just wanna stop the killing."
Again a vulgar cackle erupted from the phone.
The man's sinister laugh mocked his plea. The sound made his skin crawl. "Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience, not after what you and Charboneau tried to do. There's only been one change since this whole thing began. You've got a new benefactor, that is all."
This time his voice hushed to a macabre whisper. "And your old backer is not going home, except in a box ... if they even find the body."
The room closed in on him, the eerie gloom suffocating him. Would the killing ever stop? How had he gotten sucked into this quagmire of corruption?
"Oh, God, please don't remind me." He pressed his fingers to the side of his head, trying to squelch the migraine he knew would be inevitable. "I just can't—"
"You can ... and you will." Cruelty shaded the man's voice. He knew the sound well. Then a repeated threat churned beneath the surface, like the many caimans and piranhas in the Paraguay River of the Pantanal, ready to strike with razor sharp teeth. "How is your lovely family, by the way? I hope they are in good health . . . and will remain so."
He wouldn't have to wait for the torment of hell. Hell's fire was on the other end of the line. "Please . . . you've got nothing to worry about. We still have a deal. Just leave my family out of this." He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool stillness of his home.
"Nothing would please me more. Stick to the plan. These Americans have nothing, but it will not stop them from visiting the clinic . . . from wanting to speak to you."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Look, if they become a nuisance, I'll take care of everything. I've got surveillance on them now. Remember, this is my turf. Are we clear?"
"Yes, I—" The dial tone interrupted him. The man had already hung up, not waiting for his answer—so cocksure he knew what it would be.
"Time for phase two." Christian stood at Jasmine's bedroom door and gestured with a wave of his hand. At the small of his back, under his shirt, he carried a Glock 19 that Jasmine had held for him in her black duffel. "You're coming with me."
He interrupted her as she hung a blouse in the closet, emptying her suitcase. By the looks of things, the woman donated her fair share of dollars to the bottomless coffers of designers everywhere. And Lord only knew what she stashed in her bags to appease the more lethal side of her nature. Killer couture at its best.
"Where are we going?" she
"Don't panic. Believe me, Delacorte will find out how dangerous a path he walks. I have a grand welcome planned."
"Oh, just great." He spat his reply before he could stop himself. Closing his eyes, he waited for the response he knew would come.
"You know what's at stake, you pompous ass. And you're not going to fuck this up . . . not when we're so close to pulling this thing off." Uncharacteristic humor tinged his voice. "Besides, one little Polaroid and we might even get them to wire the ransom to the Swiss account. Pure gravy."
"I thought you weren't interested in the money."
"I'm not. A million dollars is nothing by comparison. Yet for a man who grew up with so little, I find money hard to ignore. In the end, if they don't pay, it won't matter. I've got bigger plans." His tone grew adamant with a familiar resentment. "Charboneau's an outsider. He had no right to rape my country. If anyone has the privilege of doing that, it is me."
Rape was rape, no matter who performed the despicable act. The subtlety of this concept in exploitation missed the mark with his partner in crime. Phillips felt the blood rushing through his system. The heat of it flushed his face. Slowing his breathing, he collapsed into the leather chair once again, defeat in his voice.
"I just wanna stop the killing."
Again a vulgar cackle erupted from the phone.
The man's sinister laugh mocked his plea. The sound made his skin crawl. "Don't tell me you've suddenly developed a conscience, not after what you and Charboneau tried to do. There's only been one change since this whole thing began. You've got a new benefactor, that is all."
This time his voice hushed to a macabre whisper. "And your old backer is not going home, except in a box ... if they even find the body."
The room closed in on him, the eerie gloom suffocating him. Would the killing ever stop? How had he gotten sucked into this quagmire of corruption?
"Oh, God, please don't remind me." He pressed his fingers to the side of his head, trying to squelch the migraine he knew would be inevitable. "I just can't—"
"You can ... and you will." Cruelty shaded the man's voice. He knew the sound well. Then a repeated threat churned beneath the surface, like the many caimans and piranhas in the Paraguay River of the Pantanal, ready to strike with razor sharp teeth. "How is your lovely family, by the way? I hope they are in good health . . . and will remain so."
He wouldn't have to wait for the torment of hell. Hell's fire was on the other end of the line. "Please . . . you've got nothing to worry about. We still have a deal. Just leave my family out of this." He closed his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. Sweat trickled down his temple, even in the cool stillness of his home.
"Nothing would please me more. Stick to the plan. These Americans have nothing, but it will not stop them from visiting the clinic . . . from wanting to speak to you."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Look, if they become a nuisance, I'll take care of everything. I've got surveillance on them now. Remember, this is my turf. Are we clear?"
"Yes, I—" The dial tone interrupted him. The man had already hung up, not waiting for his answer—so cocksure he knew what it would be.
"Time for phase two." Christian stood at Jasmine's bedroom door and gestured with a wave of his hand. At the small of his back, under his shirt, he carried a Glock 19 that Jasmine had held for him in her black duffel. "You're coming with me."
He interrupted her as she hung a blouse in the closet, emptying her suitcase. By the looks of things, the woman donated her fair share of dollars to the bottomless coffers of designers everywhere. And Lord only knew what she stashed in her bags to appease the more lethal side of her nature. Killer couture at its best.
"Where are we going?" she
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