Free Bloodline by Jeff Buick Page B

circle. Getting close to him would be difficult. But men were often most vulnerable about activities they considered pleasurable. Sex with younger women, motorcycle or car racing, extreme sports. Whatever the man’s button was, Pedro needed to find it. And then exploit it. Not easy, but Pedro was already thinking on the right track. Eugene slipped an envelope from the inside pocket of his windbreaker.
    â€œHere’s your cash,” he said. “American dollars.”
    â€œUniversal currency,” Pedro said, taking the package and tucking it in his pocket without glancing inside. “You traveling with the other eighty in cash?”
    â€œNo chance,” Eugene said. “I’ve got about ten on me. I stopped at a bank earlier today and put the rest on my credit card. They won’t be asking for a payment for a few months.”
    Pedro laughed. “They’ll probably up your credit limit.”
    â€œJust what I need.”
    The waiter, young with shoulder-length hair, came around, pad in hand, and took their orders. He thanked them, and was gone.
    â€œHow are you going to find Pablo?” Pedro asked. “If he is alive.”
    â€œThere’s a family member I can try before I resort to the DEA or the CIA. Raphael Ramirez. He’s a cousin, once or twice removed, I can’t remember. Anyway, he’s a shady kind of guy. Always looked up to Pablo, but Pablo wouldn’t give the guy the time of day.”
    â€œI thought Pablo liked sycophants.”
    â€œHe did. But Raphael borrowed some money once to open a business in Medellín, which he never got around to doing. Spent the money, then came nosing about for more. He’s lucky Pablo didn’t get one of his guys to whack him.”
    â€œYou think this Raphael might know something?”
    Eugene shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’ll only take a day to check it out. I booked an early flight for Medellín tomorrow morning.” Eugene slid his hand inside his jacket and withdrew a cell phone. It was the latest model Motorola, tiny with an extra capacity Li-Ion battery. “Your number flashes across the screen when you turn it on. Here’s mine,” he said, jotting down the number for his new cell phone on a match pack and sliding it across the linen tablecloth.
    â€œThanks. You said no one else will know these numbers. Is that still on?”
    â€œYes. Just us. And they’ve got call display, so we’ll know when a call comes in if it’s a wrong number.”
    â€œExcellent.”
    Eugene leaned forward slightly. “You have a gun?”
    â€œIn Caracas, yes. But I’m going to leave it here. Easier to travel without one. I’ll pick up another one in San Salvador. I’ve got lots of connections in the city.”
    â€œOkay.”
    The food arrived, Creole cuisine with hearty sides of fresh vegetables and rice. They ordered fresh beers and dug in. They talked about other things; Pedro’s job and where he was living in Caracas. But the small talk was forced and it quickly came back to the matter at hand.
    Pedro said seriously, “Eugene, you’ve got to do me one favor.”
    â€œOf course, my friend. Just name it.”
    â€œIf for some reason I don’t make it through this alive, I want you to visit my grandmother and tell her I died trying to do something good. She may not see it that way if I end up getting shot or knifed, but I’d hate for her to think I was some street punk. That would break her heart.”
    â€œShe still lives on Colonia America?”
    â€œYeah, she’s still there.”
    â€œI’ll tell her, Pedro. But you have to do me a favor.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œDon’t get killed.”
    â€œI’ll try, amigo. I’ll try.”

Chapter Eight
    Eugene flew Aeropostal, Venezuela’s national airline, directly from Caracas to Medellín. The spiny backbone of the Cordillera