Savage Redemption (The Caraksay Brotherhood #10)

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

R osie

I feel bad about Magda. I think she believed me when I phoned to say I’d been held up and would make my own way back to Caraksay. I hope so, anyway. The last thing I need is for the alarm to be raised and someone to intercept me, stop me getting on that flight.

I tell the cab driver to drop me at the departure terminal entrance, then sprint through the terminal building into the departure lounge. I make a beeline for the first departures board I see. There are two scheduled flights to Tenerife later today, the first in just under two hours, the other one in six hours.

I need to be on that flight in two hours.

I note the airline and ask at the information desk for directions to their booking office. It’s a five-minute walk, but I make it in three, even allowing for a brief stop at a cash machine where I withdraw five hundred pounds.

“The five-seventeen flight to Tenerife,” I gasp, trying to get my breath back. “I need a seat on it.”

“Just the one seat, madam?” The perfectly coiffed and made-up ground crew member smiles at me.

“Yes, just the one.”

“Luggage?”

“No. Just this bag.” I hold up my duffel bag crammed with a change of clothes, my passport, and a few toiletries.

She nods and taps several keys on her computer, her artfully painted fingernails clacking as she does so. “Hmm, you’re in luck, madam. We have a cancellation.”

“I’ll take it. How much is it?”

“You’ll be needing a return, I assume.”

“No. One way will be fine.” Coming home is a problem for another day, and I have no idea what my onward destination might be.

Those immaculate eyebrows lift slightly, but she continues undaunted. “One way only. That will be… fifty-four pounds, madam. Cash or card?”

“Cash, please.” I don’t want anyone checking my banking details, and if I’m any judge that’s the first thing Casey would do. I shove the crisp notes across the counter.

“Passport, please?”

I drag that from the pocket on the side of my duffel bag, glad it is new and up to date. “Here.”

“Thank you, madam.” She glances briefly at the details and my photograph, then slides it back across the counter along with the flight ticket. “Check in has just opened. Desk forty-three.”

“Thanks.” I clutch the ticket and my passport as I dash back through the departure lounge, checking the desk numbers. There’s already a queue at number forty-three, and I have no option but to join it.

Twenty anxious minutes later, I’m handing over my passport and ticket and explaining that no, I have no luggage to check in. I’m provided with the requisite boarding pass and directed to security.

I get through the security checks without managing to set off any metal detectors, and at last I’m in duty free, one short step away from boarding my plane.

I perch on a high stool in a coffee shop with a latte and an overpriced brie and salad sandwich, watching the information board for instructions that it’s time to go to the gate.

Surely, no one can stop me now.

The flight leaves bang on time. I have a window seat, and it’s not until I see the airport buildings receding below me that I finally relax.

That’s the hard part over. Now, all I have to do is find Mr Kaminski and explain that he needs to let Adan go.

It’s after dark when we land at Tenerife International Airport. I skirt past baggage reclaim with my solitary duffel bag and head for customs and immigration. The border control staff wave us all through with barely so much as a cursory glance at passports as they slam their stamps down on the pages and I emerge into the arrivals hall. First things first. I spot a bureau de change and buy two hundred pounds worth of euros. At last, I head out onto the paved forecourt.

It’s still pleasantly warm. I shrug off my jacket, stuff my passport and cash back in my duffel, then scan the ranks of taxis queuing for business. They’re filling up fast, but I manage to secure one and hop in the back.

Where to now?

Mr Kaminski lives on a yacht, but I only saw it briefly and I can’t recall the name of either the vessel or the posh marina where he moors it. There must be loads of marinas on Tenerife. Sure enough, when I ask the taxi driver, he just shrugs.

Plan B, then. “Please take me to Los Vinedos . It’s…it’s a sort of farm. They have horses. It’s somewhere in the middle of the island, at the foot of Mount Tiede.”

The driver glowers at me but does punch some details into his satnav. “Ah, si,” he beams, triumphant. “ Los Vinedos . Will be one hundred euros, se?ora .”

More expensive than the entire flight here, but I have no choice. “Yes, that’s fine.” I make myself comfortable and do my best to ignore the faint aroma of stale tobacco ingrained in the leather seats.

I’m exhausted, the combined result of stress and travel. I nod off in the back of the taxi and wake only when the driver reaches back to shake me by the shoulder. “We are here, se?ora . Los Vinedos .”

“What?” I shake my head, try to reassemble my wits. “Oh, yes. Right.”

“One hundred euros,” he demands, his palm outstretched.

I peel a couple of fifty euro notes from my stash and hand them over, then scramble out onto the road. The dour driver can whistle for a tip.

“You ring bell,” the driver yells as he reverses the vehicle in readiness to turn around. Before I have time to answer he’s roaring away, presumably back the way we came.

I take a moment to study the huge wrought-iron gates. They present a formidable barrier. It’s clear that visitors are not especially welcome, but I reach for the electronic bell nonetheless.

I can’t hear any sound. I press again and contemplate yelling for someone to come.

I disembodied voice breaks the silence of the heavy darkness, speaking to me in a torrent of Spanish and demanding to know who I am and what I want.

I naturally reply in the same language, glad of the recent practice with Adan. “My name is Rosie Darke, and I need to see the owner. Mr Kaminski.”

“Mr Kaminski is not here. You must make an appointment. Goodbye.” Silence falls once more.

I turn in a circle, surveying my surroundings, or what I can see of them in the dark. I’m miles from anywhere, my taxi long gone. There’ll be no bus coming along anytime soon.

I’m stranded.

Right, then. I press the electronic bell again.

There’s no response this time, so I stab my finger onto the button and keep it there. They have to let me in.

At last, that disembodied voice, and sounding impatient this time. “ Se?ora , I suggest you leave. Now.”

I lean in to the keypad to answer him. “I can’t leave. I have no transport. I need to see someone. Whoever is in charge.”

“How did you get here, with no transport?”

“Taxi. He’s gone now.”

There’s a brief silence, then another voice, if anything more irritated than the first one. “What did you say your name was? And what is so urgent?”

“I’m Rosie. Rosie Darke. And… and I want to know what happened to Adan San Antonio.”

Another short pause, then. “Remain where you are. I will send someone to the gate.”

“Thank you,” I call into the night, but he’s already gone.

A couple of minutes later, the low growl of an engine reaches me. I grasp the bars of the gate and peer through. Headlights come into view, and soon a battered four-by-four crunches to a halt a few feet from me. The windows are blacked out, so I can’t see who’s inside, but the huge gate starts to slide to my right. It moves just far enough to allow me to walk through.

On the other side, I shield my eyes from the glare of the headlamps as the gate closes. No one emerges from the vehicle, but one of the rear doors swings open.

Short of other options, I hop inside and close the door behind me.

I can see the backs of two heads in the front seats, but neither man turns or speaks to me. The four-by-four grinds back into motion and pulls away, back up the gravelled driveway. I judge the distance to the house to be perhaps half a mile.

We come to a stop in front of a graceful two-storey dwelling surrounded by an elegant wraparound veranda.

“Get out. You’ll be met at the door.”

No further words of welcome appear to be forthcoming, so I open the car door and scramble out again, dragging my duffel behind me.

“Leave the bag. It will be returned to you before you leave. Maybe.”

“But…” I protest. “It has my passport in. And my money.”

“The bag,” the voice from within the vehicle repeats his instruction.

I resign myself to the inevitable and toss my duffel back onto the car seat. I close the door and turn to contemplate the short flight of steps leading up onto the veranda.

Right. Here goes.

The door opens before I reach it. The man awaiting me is familiar.

“Good evening, Mr Bartosz,” I say. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“You left me little choice, Miss Darke.” He stands aside and gestures me to enter. “Second door on the right.”

I follow the directions and find myself in a study or office. It’s quite grand, imposing, even. The solid mahogany desk dominates the large space, a laptop open on its gleaming surface. A Chesterfield-style chair made of polished burgundy leather is positioned behind the desk, and a matching one faces the desk at an angle. A two-seater sofa in the same expensive leather occupies one wall.

Mr Bartosz — Baz if I recall correctly — seats himself at the desk. “Please, Miss Darke, make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you. I’m good.”

“In that case, what can I do for you?”

“Is Adan here?” I blurt. “He said he was coming to see Mr Kaminski, but he hasn’t come back. Is he still here?”

Mr Bartosz regards me in silence for several moments, then, “My advice to you, Miss Darke, is to forget you ever met San Antonio. Return to your family, the UK. I can provide transport to the airport and a flight ticket if you require it. Or perhaps you’d like me to phone your father again? I’m sure he would come and collect you if I ask him.”

I stiffen my posture, all five foot four of it. “There’s no need to do that, Mr Bartosz.”

“No?” He waits in silence.

“Is he here?” I repeat. “Please.”

He seems to be considering his response. Eventually, “Yes, Miss Darke. He is. And he will remain here for as long as we see fit.”

I knew it. “Can I see him?”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me…?”

“I… I’m not leaving. I’m going nowhere without Adan.” I glare at him and concentrate on not trembling under his cool, assessing gaze. This man has the power to crush me under his boot heel, but some inner sense tells me he won’t. Baz Bartosz is hard as nails, but I don’t detect any of the mindless cruelty I became so accustomed to in the past.

“You are wrong, Miss Darke. You will leave when I say you will.”

“You… you can throw me out, but I’ll go straight to the authorities. The police. I’ll tell them you have a man held prisoner here, that he’s in danger.”

“And you imagine this will come as a surprise to them? Surely you realise we have an understanding with the police on the island. They will not seek to intervene here.”

“They will. They’ll have to, when I tell them what’s happening. And I’ll go to the papers. I’ll make sure everyone knows?—”

“That would be unfortunate, for all concerned.”

I whirl in my seat at the unexpected voice from the doorway. Kristian Kaminski saunters in, flanked by two of his gangster heavies.

“Boss.” Mr Bartosz greets him cordially enough. “I wasn’t expecting you this evening.”

“I heard you had an unexpected visitor and came to pay my respects.”

“I can deal with this, Kris. Miss Darke was just leaving.”

“That’s not how it sounded.” He settles into one of the Chesterfield chairs and lounges casually as he regards the pair of us. “Did I hear mention of the police?”

“Miss Darke will have thought better of that by now. Is that not right, Rosie?” Bartosz’s smile is affable, but I don’t miss the hint of menace in his tone. My final warning.

“I just want to see Adan, to know he’s all right.”

“And I explained that this will not be possible. So, if you would?—”

“Pietr, Marek, take her downstairs.” Kaminski’s harsh tone cuts across his second-in-command. “If she’s so keen to see her ex-lover, we can accommodate that. In fact, they can die together. Nice and neat and tidy. No loose ends.”

“Boss!” Bartosz gets to his feet. “There’s no need?—”

“I’m not having some silly girl singing her head off to the police about my business. She won’t be leaving, and neither will he.” He waves a hand in the direction of his two goons. “Take her away and keep her quiet.”

Before I can utter another word, I’m grabbed by the arms and hauled from my seat. I put up a struggle, but it’s futile. I’m unceremoniously dragged from the room.

I continue to fight all the way across the polished tiled floor of the hallway, and really start to panic when I’m bundled through a door at the end. A long flight of stone steps drops away before us, dimly lit by bare lightbulbs every few yards.

“Down,” one of the guards snarls.

“No! No, I don’t?—”

“Get down there before I throw you down.” The threat is accompanied by a sharp shove between my shoulder blades, enough to propel me down the first couple of steps before I manage to make a grab for the stark metal handrail and regain my footing.

“All right, all right,” I mutter, making my way down the remaining steps with care.

They both clatter down after me and manhandle me along the narrow corridor at the foot. It’s darker down here, just occasional pools of pale-orange light provided by flickering wall-mounted lightbulbs.

At the end, one of the guards unlocks a heavy, reinforced-steel door. It opens with an ominous scraping sound. “In you go.”

Terrified, I back away, but don’t manage more than half a pace before the other thug delivers a vicious shove to hurl me forwards. I tumble through the door to finish up on my knees in a narrow cell.

“There now, isn’t this cosy? You two can get reacquainted. Best you don’t waste any time. You don’t have long.”

I stagger to my feet, my knees throbbing, and make a frantic dash for the door. I’m too late. Far too late. It clangs shut in front of me, leaving me to explore my bleak surroundings in semi-darkness.

A groan from somewhere close by tells me I’m not alone in my prison.

“Who… who’s there?” I press my back against the unyielding door and peer into the gloom.

More groaning. It sounds to be a male. In the dim light I can just make out the contour of someone lying on a bunk set into the far wall, no more than a few paces from me.

“Who is that?” I repeat. “Are you okay?” Whoever it is, he certainly doesn’t sound okay.

I inch forward, staring at the prone form, trying to make out some detail. It’s not until the man rolls onto his back and turns his face in my direction that I recognise him. Battered, bloodied, one eye swollen and shut and nose conspicuously broken. I drop to my knees again, this time beside the bunk.

“Adan? Oh, Adan, what have they done to you?”