that time limit, I'll pay you the rest when we get back."
"Fair enough." Ben took the envelope and pocketed it. He would count it later.
"I'll be hiring one man myself, someone who has been recommended to me. Now, how do we handle payment for the supplies?"
"I'll arrange for the supplies and bring you the receipts. Then you pay for everything and it'll be released for loading." Ben was highly curious about this one man Kates wanted to hire himself, but he didn't ask. Let Kates think he wasn't interested.
When Kates left the bar, Ben let the door close before he got to his feet. His pickup truck, a ten-year-old Ford, was parked in its usual spot outside the back door. He was out the door and in the vehicle before ten seconds had passed. He circled the building and pulled out into traffic just in time to see Kates getting into a taxi.
He hung back, something that was easy to do in the Manaus traffic. South American traffic, while it tended to be chaotic, lacked the grim purposefulness of its North American counterpart. He rolled his windows down and let the hot breeze blow through the truck while he wove in and out, dodging bicycles and pedestrians and always keeping an eye on the taxi several vehicles ahead of him.
Christus's bar wasn't in the best section of town, but the taxi was heading into the truly rough area. Ben reached under the seat and drew out a pistol, placing it beside him. It was a Glock-17, mostly plastic, with a seventeen-shot magazine, and it was one smooth-working piece. Just one look at it tended to effect an attitude adjustment in unfriendly individuals.
He shielded his eyes with a pair of very dark sunglasses, taking the precaution even though he suspected Kates was so sure of himself that he hadn't even considered the possibility of being followed. Stupid bastard.
The taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped. Ben drove past without looking directly at the vehicle, then turned the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, he parked and jumped out of the truck, smoothly tucking the pistol into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, with his loose shirt hiding it.
He didn't know in which direction Kates would go. He stood by the truck for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if Kates would come by, but he didn't dare wait any longer. When the man didn't appear, Ben strode quickly to the corner, walking close to the side of the dilapidated building. Kates had crossed the street; he was going into a bar, Getulio's, which was so seedy that Christus's place looked like a four-star establishment in comparison. Ben had been in the bar a couple of times several years ago, and hadn't liked the atmosphere. A man could get dead in a hurry in Getulio's.
Well, hell. He couldn't follow Kates into the bar without being recognized, for he'd have to remove the sunglasses in the dim interior. Frustrated, Ben looked around.
Less than a minute later he was the owner of a stained khaki safari hat, bought from a swaggering teenager for twice what the damn thing had cost brand-new, assuming that the kid had bought it rather than stolen it, which Ben didn't. It still wasn't much of a disguise, but it would have to do.
He ambled across the street and stepped aside when the bar's rough plank door opened and two burly dockworkers staggered out. Despite the relatively early hour, neither of them was feeling any pain. Before the door could slam shut, Ben slid inside, immediately reaching up to remove the sunglasses, both so he could see and so his hand would hide his face. Without looking at anyone, he moved to his left and took a seat at the table closest to the corner. There weren't any windows in Getulio's; there were a couple of naked low-wattage bulbs hanging from the ceiling and another couple of lights over at the bar, which was manned by a bartender who looked even meaner than the one Ben remembered. This one was a big bruiser who stood six and a half feet tall—easy—and probably weighed close to three
"Fair enough." Ben took the envelope and pocketed it. He would count it later.
"I'll be hiring one man myself, someone who has been recommended to me. Now, how do we handle payment for the supplies?"
"I'll arrange for the supplies and bring you the receipts. Then you pay for everything and it'll be released for loading." Ben was highly curious about this one man Kates wanted to hire himself, but he didn't ask. Let Kates think he wasn't interested.
When Kates left the bar, Ben let the door close before he got to his feet. His pickup truck, a ten-year-old Ford, was parked in its usual spot outside the back door. He was out the door and in the vehicle before ten seconds had passed. He circled the building and pulled out into traffic just in time to see Kates getting into a taxi.
He hung back, something that was easy to do in the Manaus traffic. South American traffic, while it tended to be chaotic, lacked the grim purposefulness of its North American counterpart. He rolled his windows down and let the hot breeze blow through the truck while he wove in and out, dodging bicycles and pedestrians and always keeping an eye on the taxi several vehicles ahead of him.
Christus's bar wasn't in the best section of town, but the taxi was heading into the truly rough area. Ben reached under the seat and drew out a pistol, placing it beside him. It was a Glock-17, mostly plastic, with a seventeen-shot magazine, and it was one smooth-working piece. Just one look at it tended to effect an attitude adjustment in unfriendly individuals.
He shielded his eyes with a pair of very dark sunglasses, taking the precaution even though he suspected Kates was so sure of himself that he hadn't even considered the possibility of being followed. Stupid bastard.
The taxi pulled over to the curb and stopped. Ben drove past without looking directly at the vehicle, then turned the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, he parked and jumped out of the truck, smoothly tucking the pistol into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, with his loose shirt hiding it.
He didn't know in which direction Kates would go. He stood by the truck for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if Kates would come by, but he didn't dare wait any longer. When the man didn't appear, Ben strode quickly to the corner, walking close to the side of the dilapidated building. Kates had crossed the street; he was going into a bar, Getulio's, which was so seedy that Christus's place looked like a four-star establishment in comparison. Ben had been in the bar a couple of times several years ago, and hadn't liked the atmosphere. A man could get dead in a hurry in Getulio's.
Well, hell. He couldn't follow Kates into the bar without being recognized, for he'd have to remove the sunglasses in the dim interior. Frustrated, Ben looked around.
Less than a minute later he was the owner of a stained khaki safari hat, bought from a swaggering teenager for twice what the damn thing had cost brand-new, assuming that the kid had bought it rather than stolen it, which Ben didn't. It still wasn't much of a disguise, but it would have to do.
He ambled across the street and stepped aside when the bar's rough plank door opened and two burly dockworkers staggered out. Despite the relatively early hour, neither of them was feeling any pain. Before the door could slam shut, Ben slid inside, immediately reaching up to remove the sunglasses, both so he could see and so his hand would hide his face. Without looking at anyone, he moved to his left and took a seat at the table closest to the corner. There weren't any windows in Getulio's; there were a couple of naked low-wattage bulbs hanging from the ceiling and another couple of lights over at the bar, which was manned by a bartender who looked even meaner than the one Ben remembered. This one was a big bruiser who stood six and a half feet tall—easy—and probably weighed close to three
Similar Books
