The shadowmaker, p.31
The Shadowmaker, page 31
Just north of Macon, she got off the highway and turned west onto a desolate road, flanked on both sides by endless green pastures.
Isabell turned onto an old country road that took her further into the nothingness. As she peered through the windshield and squinted into the sun, a dingy white building appeared on the horizon. The SUV coasted another quarter mile before pulling into the driveway of a small storage facility, surrounded by chain-link fence.
She came to a stop in front of an old gate and a security keypad. She entered a four-digit code and the gate began dragging itself through the gravel, leaving behind chalky dust that floated weightlessly in the air. She pulled through the gate and slowly crept between two brick buildings that had been painted white, each lined with rows of blue garage doors—one after the other.
Isabell drove to the end of the units and came to a stop in front of door number 619. She got out and pulled a key from her purse—it was the one with no markings, and it fit perfectly into the deadbolt. She reached down and grabbed the bay door and lifted it over her head.
With the flick of a light switch, the room beamed to life, revealing a black sedan and a small metal safe resting on a table against the wall. She hurried to the safe and typed a code into the touchpad, which sprang the thick steel door open.
From inside, she pulled out a burgundy passport and two stacks of bills—one with hundreds and another containing smaller, easier-to-use denominations. She reached in and retrieved a compact nine-millimeter pistol and stuffed it into her purse.
The black sedan parked inside was covered in dust, just the way she’d left it. She took a moment to survey it—assessing whether it would be up to the task—then tossed her bag into the passenger seat and climbed behind the wheel.
With a nervous exhale, she reached into the glove box, pulled out another key, and set it into the ignition. The engine struggled to resurrect itself, but after a stammering purr, it growled to life. She inched the Buick out into the sunshine and parked it close by. She then raced over to her Pathfinder, parked it inside the storage unit, and shut the bay door behind herself.
As she returned to the Buick and dropped into the driver’s seat, she heard it—the familiar sound of the chain-link gate grinding open on the other side of the property.
A silver Range Rover idled restlessly beyond the fence, waiting for it to open.
With a determined glare, Isabell gripped the wheel, promising herself she’d do whatever necessary to survive the day.
The Range Rover crept menacingly through the gate. She could now make out the silhouettes of two men sitting inside.
The vehicles stared each other down from fifty yards away. The thin driveway—bound by storage units on each side—created a gauntlet between them. She reached for her purse and the grip of the small pistol, clutching it in her hand as her pulse quickened.
You can do this, she told herself confidently. Whatever it takes.
Isabell dropped the Buick into drive and began pressing forward. The Range Rover mirrored her advance, slinking toward her along the gravel. As she continued on, her eyes locked on to what appeared to be an assault rifle being hoisted by one of the men.
In sheer panic, she stomped her foot on the brakes and threw the Buick into reverse, thrusting it backwards with a high-pitched squeal. With her foot pinned to the accelerator, she yanked the steering wheel and slung the car around. The sedan shot around the backside of the building and turned the corner through a cloud of dust.
The Range Rover bolted into pursuit, racing between the storage units to the rear of the property. As the SUV gained momentum, Isabell dropped all of her weight onto the gas pedal, blasting the old Buick through a chain-link fence and into an open grass field. She steadied the wheel and kept her foot to the floor. As the car sprinted onto the main road, a chunk of fencing broke loose from the front bumper and tumbled in her wake.
She shifted her eyes to the rearview mirror. Behind her, the Range Rover jumped onto the road and quickly closed in. She pushed the gas harder, but the engine simply didn’t have the strength. Within seconds, the Range Rover caught up and rammed into the back of the sedan. The impact jolted her in her seat. It rammed her a second time, and a third.
The burst of an assault rifle cracked the air as her rear windshield shattered onto the back seat. Isabell let out a terrified scream.
With no way of outrunning them, she slammed the brakes and cut the wheel. The sedan skirted violently from the road and tore into a thick forest before crashing into the base of a large white oak. The Range Rover came to a skidding halt in the middle of the road. It backed up to the crash site and two large men in black suits emerged from either side.
With weapons drawn, they slowly approached. The front windshield of the Buick had been blown out and the hood was wrapped halfway around a tree. A white cloud of steam rose from the engine like a small smokestack. As they flanked the vehicle from both sides, they could now see that Isabell was no longer inside. Their eyes immediately darted to the surrounding brush.
The crash site fell eerily silent as the men fanned out with their guns at the ready.
She could feel the cool sensation of blood running from her forehead as she peered out at them from her hide—one had an assault rifle, the other a handgun.
Through the quiet hush of the forest, the crack of a nine-millimeter pierced the crisp air. One of the men fell to the ground with a thud. The earth underneath him rustled as he squirmed in the dirt, fighting for a breath that would never come.
She’d taken out the assault rifle first, which, in her mind, had leveled the playing field.
The second man scanned his eyes from tree to tree, his pistol in front of him.
A slight movement in his peripheral gave away her position and he unloaded a flurry of rounds into the hazy green woodland. Just as he was trained, the assassin followed the sound of crinkling leaves and the scent of fear.
As he closed in, Isabell crawled through a patchwork of wild grasses and boxwoods, struggling to return to the Buick’s wreckage—the one place that offered her cover.
She reached the old sedan on her hands and knees and grabbed the passenger door handle. She tried to pull herself up but was suddenly paralyzed by the sound of snapping twigs.
Lacking the strength to stand, she twisted around and rested her back against the steel frame of the sedan, clutching the gunshot wound in her stomach.
The footsteps continued to draw closer until a tall, middle-aged man emerged from the trees.
With a painful wince, she wiped the blood from her mouth and gazed up at him. She could see him clearly now; his hair was tufted in places where it had once been combed and a pool of sweat gathered around his throat, soaking the white shirt beneath his black jacket.
He stepped forward and raised the pistol to her face.
She stared down its deep, cavernous barrel and managed a faint smile. As she closed her eyes, a gunshot shattered the silence, reverberating through the empty countryside.
The man fell to his knees, then collapsed facedown into the dirt.
Isabell lay motionless. A plume of gray smoke seeped from a tiny black hole in her purse, where her hand was still snuggly tucked inside.
The next several minutes seemed to pass in a peaceful, euphoric daze. Her vision began to blur. Her breaths became shorter and harder to manage.
Somewhere in the distance, beyond the rolling green hills, she could hear the blaring wail of sirens. They grew louder at first, then softer, until soon she couldn’t hear them at all.
Isabell shut her eyes and fell unconscious against the car door.
CHAPTER 37
Henry exited the highway and blasted past a strip of retail outlets and car dealerships. Minutes later, he coasted into the fringes of East Atlanta. From there, he continued to the wealthy neighborhood of Oakhurst. It was a collection of renovated homes, locally owned coffee shops, and well-manicured parks.
The Malibu drifted several more blocks before parking in front of a single-story brick home with a black door and black shutters. Henry stepped out of the car and peeled the sunglasses from his eyes. He marched to the front door and knocked twice.
Seconds later, Jack Veselko’s big brown eyes appeared in the doorway. “Great to see you, Henry! Come on in,” he quickly offered.
Henry stepped inside and stood mawkishly in the center of the living room. “I appreciate you seeing me on short notice, Jack. It’s been a difficult day, to say the least.”
“So what’s going on?” the young operator asked as he closed the door behind them. “You sounded a little panicked on the phone.”
“The truth is, I could use some help.”
“Anything for you, Henry.” Jack led him into the kitchen, then grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the counter and two glasses from the cabinet. “Have a seat, boss. Tell me what’s going on.”
Henry trudged to the center island and dropped onto a barstool. “Listen, Jack, some new information has come to my attention,” he began. “I’ve learned some things over the last few days. Things that put me in a very precarious position.”
“Okay. I’m listening.”
Henry downed his whiskey in a single gulp. “I need to get away for a while. Someplace nobody will find me.”
“Why not go to Anton? I’m sure he could send you to ground.”
“Because Anton’s the one I need to get away from.”
Jack wrinkled his forehead and straightened his back. “I know I’m supposed to report directly to you, Henry. But I’m a little concerned about keeping something like this from Anton. I can get in a lot of trouble for even having this conversation.”
“I know, Jack. And I appreciate your loyalty—to me and the organization.”
“You know, I can’t imagine this has been easy for you,” Jack allowed. “Darius’ death, the new promotion… maybe we just need to take a step back and sort it all out.”
Henry stared vacantly into the empty shot glass. He ran the tip of his index finger along the rim, debating how much he was willing to tell his new lieutenant. “I think I’m past the point of sorting it out,” he said after a moment.
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Henry. Just say the word.” Jack chugged his whiskey and slammed the glass onto the counter. “I could probably get you to South America—Paraguay, middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”
Henry nodded. “Yeah. I think I’d like that. How soon could you set it up?”
“I could probably have something arranged in the next twelve hours. But you need to find someplace other than here to lay low until then.”
“I can do that. How much?”
“Forty thousand. It’s a guy out of Juarez. Twice a month he runs a fleet of single-engine Cessnas to Galveston and back.”
“The drug cartels, huh?”
Jack gave a culpable glance. “Something like that.”
“All right. I can have forty grand within the hour.”
“You know, Henry, I know I shouldn’t ask, but… what on God’s green Earth is going on?”
Henry scoffed with amusement. “Well… let’s just say I’ve uncovered a lot of secrets about my life—how I got here, what happened to my parents, and why I even became a member of Ružaro. It’s all part of one big goddamn lie.”
“And you think going to ground is the answer?”
“There’s just something I have to do. And it’s going to get me in a lot of trouble.”
Jack hung his head and rose from his stool. “I really wish you hadn’t told me that, Henry.” The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and then, as if out of nowhere, two figures appeared in the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I had no other choice.”
Henry gazed up to see Asa and his grizzly-bear friend, Paul.
“Let’s go,” Asa instructed. “You know the drill.”
Henry turned to his lieutenant, who silently shook his head, unable to find the words to defend himself.
“It’s all right, Jack,” Henry allowed. “You did the right thing. You’re going to make one hell of a boss someday.” He stood to his feet as Asa and Paul grabbed him by the arms and ushered him out of the house. They piled into a black Mercedes and sped out of the driveway.
“I thought I trained you better than this,” Asa snarled from the front passenger seat.
“Where are we going?” asked Henry. “I want to talk to Anton.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll get to speak with Anton. I can assure you he’s looking forward to it.”
Henry understood the veiled threat. He knew the old man preferred to kill high-ranking traitors in person. As a wave of nausea washed over him, he stared through the window at the world outside—the mindless commuters, the playing children, the leaves blowing in the wind. It all suddenly seemed so virtuous. Yet beneath it all, he knew, buried in the concrete buildings and the mediocrity of everyday life, was a world where the wicked climbed to power on the backs of the innocent.
And in that moment, he was tired of it all: the corruption, the violence, the betrayal. With a sobering breath, he closed his eyes and thought of Isabell. He hoped she was hundreds of miles away by now, far from the reach of Asa and his murderous goons.
The Mercedes pulled down a narrow street, around the back of a massive warehouse. Henry knew the place well. “Anton’s not coming, is he?” But Asa didn’t answer. The car came to a gentle stop in front of the loading docks. “You know, Asa, you and I are like family. You practically raised me!”
Asa got out and opened the back door. “That’s what makes all of this so hard,” the general replied as he slung Henry out and guided him into the warehouse.
It took a moment for Henry’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. Across the concrete floor, in a shadowy, damp corner, was a single foldout chair and a thick metal chain that draped from somewhere high above. A construction hook was mounted at the bottom, waiting for its next victim.
As Asa and Paul led him across the warehouse, five more men emerged from a nearby office and gathered around him like a pride of hungry lions. Henry knew each of them by name.
Asa was the first to step up—he threw a hard right into Henry’s jaw, knocking him backward onto the ground.
Paul was next. He rolled up the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt, then cracked his neck to each side. He picked Henry off the floor and set him down in the chair.
“Why were you trying to run off to Paraguay?” Asa asked from the shadows.
“I wanted to hide out for a while,” Henry answered.
“For what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Paul slammed a fist into his gut.
“Why were you going to ground?” Asa asked again.
“Because I found out about Darius.”
“And what exactly do you think you found out?”
“I know the Cardoso cartel didn’t kill him.” Henry was fishing now, doing anything he could to redirect Asa’s attention.
“If you have information about Darius’ death, I suggest you share it with me,” the general warned.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know if I can trust you, Asa.”
Paul delivered a hard right hook to his face, followed by a heavy uppercut. Henry recoiled for a moment, then spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor.
“Who do you think killed Darius?” Asa pressed.
“I think you killed him.”
The general stepped closer. “Why on Earth would I do that? Have you gone mad?”
Henry’s left eye began to swell. He stared blankly at the concrete beneath his feet.
“Regardless, the decision has already been made,” Asa announced. “You’ve betrayed your family, Henry. And unfortunately, forgiveness is not an option.” The old general turned and walked away, motioning to his men before disappearing into the darkness.
Henry’s wrists were bound with rope, which hung from a large steel hook. He dangled there like a ragdoll, his toes squirming against the floor, trying to keep his shoulders from pulling out of their sockets.
The beating continued for well over an hour.
With their prisoner on the brink of unconsciousness, the men gave up and retreated into the far reaches of the warehouse.
He could still see out of one eye, but even that was blurred by a thin coat of blood. The faint voices of Asa’s soldiers murmured from somewhere in the distance. Above him, through the fiberglass tile ceiling, the last glimmers of sunlight illuminated the clouds with a brilliant amber glow.
As darkness fell, a set of headlights pulled around the back of the building. The loud metallic slam of a door announced the return of Asa Petrovi. The general lumbered across the warehouse floor to examine his prisoner.
“All right, Henry!” he shouted. “Are you ready to see Anton?”
Henry lifted his head and squinted into the blackness. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Paul and his crew returned from their break and cut Henry loose from the hook. His body collapsed to the ground with a deep thud.
“Pick him up!” Asa ordered. “And bring him to the car.”
Half conscious, Henry was lifted and dragged across the concrete. He was brought to the outside parking lot, then shoved into the backseat of the Mercedes.
The black sedan thundered out of the lot and rushed west toward Buckhead. After a ten-minute drive, they pulled into the underground deck of the Park Avenue building. Asa got out and walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk. He retrieved a light blue dress shirt, then stepped to the back door and tossed it through the window.
“Put this on,” he insisted. “We can’t have you walking around like some wild, bloody animal.”
Henry took off his shirt and put on the new one. He was then yanked from the back of the car and into the elevator.
Moments later, they stepped out into the lobby of Anton’s penthouse. It seemed much colder than before, more foreboding. What was once a safe haven now felt like death row.
Paul shoved him through the archway and into the grand hall, where a half dozen men, each armed with an assault rifle, meandered around in a terrorizing silence.
