David Baldacci - The Forgotten

An hour later he heard the thump-thump.

He rose and looked out the window. The lights of the chopper were drawing closer, coming in from the Gulf where a boat larger than the one Lampert was on lay at anchor.

A few minutes later he felt the wheels of the bird come to rest on the helipad at the aft of the yacht. The chopper powered down and he could envision but not hear over the sounds of the engine the doors of the aircraft opening and then thunking closed.

He sat back down in his chair, put his fingers together, and waited, counting off the seconds in his head.

The door to his office opened and the person came in, escorted by a member of Lampert’s security team.

With a curt nod Lampert dismissed the guard, who closed the door behind him.

The visitor was around five-eight and strongly built, with a head that was too large by half for even his muscular frame.

There was a lot contained in that overly big head, Lampert knew.

The man was dressed all in black. His shoes had blocky heels to push his height up as much as possible.

It was enlightening, thought Lampert, that a man that powerful still felt compelled to artificially inflate his stature.

He nodded at Lampert and sat down across from him.

“Good trip?” asked Lampert.

The man flicked a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit up without asking whether it was permitted or not.

Lampert would not have questioned the man’s decision to smoke on his floating palace.

Peter Lampert did not fear many people.

The man sitting across from him was one whom he did fear.

“A trip that ends safely at one’s destination is, de facto, a good trip,” said the other man in an accent that showed that English was not his primary language.

“Things are going well,” said Lampert.

“Things could be better,” said the man as he exhaled smoke and watched it float toward the elaborately carved ceiling.

“Things could always be better,” replied Lampert, leaning forward a bit in his chair.

The other man tapped his cigarette ash against the arm of his chair, letting it fall to the carpet.

Lampert did not object or even react to this.

“Things could be better,” said the man again. “For example, there have been a number of killings in Paradise. The police are investigating. Your car was bombed. Again, the police are investigating.” He stopped talking and stared across the width of the desk.

Lampert’s expression didn’t change. “Steps had to be taken. The fallout is what it is. The investigations will lead nowhere.” He might be afraid of the man, but he could not show that fear. And Lampert could debate a point with the best of them.

“Your opinion that the investigation will not go anywhere,” said the man, studying him closely as he bent the fired match between his two fingers.

“My educated opinion based on conditions on the ground.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“I don’t believe that I am.”

“But if you are?”

“There will be consequences.”

“Of course there will be. For you .”

“Then I have every incentive to make sure I’m right.”

The man eased a bit to the left, making the leather seat squeak. “Moving on. It’s getting more difficult to acquire product. The price has to go up. You’ll send this down the line.”

“How much?”

“Ten percent for now. As a base. Add five percent for each category above base.”

“Meaning a twenty percent increase for the top tier?”

“Yes.”

“That’s steep.”

“It could be more. But I’m a reasonable man.” “I’ll have to eat some of that.”

The man looked around at the luxurious interior of the yacht. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“So long as your educated opinion turns out to be right. Money isn’t everything.”

Lampert smiled. “I would disagree with you there. Money is everything, because it leads to everything else of value.”

“Would you like to visit my boat? I have a new submarine. It can hold over thirty people. The marine life here is quite fascinating.”

“I would like to, but demands here will prevent me.”

Lampert was thinking, I don’t actually want to become part of the marine life.

The man rose. “Someone who blows up Bentleys and disappears like a wisp of smoke is someone who is formidable. It was a message.”

“Yes, it was. Perhaps more directly than you know.”

“And you have the answer?”

“Working on it as we speak.”

“A small measure of advice?”

Lampert looked up at him expectantly. “I’d love to hear it.”

“Smoke often evidences a large fire that can burn out of control.” He paused and put out his cigarette on the surface of Lampert’s forty-thou- sand-dollar custom-built desk. “So work faster.” The next moment he was gone.

Like a wisp of smoke blown out to sea.

Mecho lifted his head slightly out of the water and watched the chopper lift off from the helipad and head south out to sea.

He turned on his back and used small strokes of his hands to propel him closer to the boat.

There was security on the main deck and two men on the pier holding MP5S. However, they had no one in the water. That was a large breach in security. But then again the sharks would be out now.

And while Lampert paid well, he apparently didn’t pay that well.

Mecho drew close enough to the boat to touch its hull on the starboard side. He looked out to sea where the lights of the chopper were still visible.

From land and with the aid of binoculars he had caught a glimpse of the man who had first climbed off and then climbed back on the bird.

Mecho had known instantly who he was.

Stiven Rojas.

Police around the world would pale at the name.

There had never been a successful prosecution of Rojas, though many had been attempted. But when witnesses, prosecutors, and even judges are slain during the course of a trial, convictions are exceedingly rare. He had given a whole new definition to the term “ruthless” and would make some of the world’s worst terrorists look innocuous by comparison.

He had started as an orphan on the streets of Cali and built himself into a cartel chief of near mythic proportions. Despite his modest stature, men twice his size would drop to their knees at his approach. He would kill without warning or provocation. He was not simply a sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.

He was the sociopath who happened to be a global criminal.

But something had come along that even Rojas had not anticipated.

Rojas had watched his hemisphere’s drug pipeline into America move from his native Colombia to Mexico. But then he had adapted to a new business line. He would provide the mules to move the drugs throughout the United States. And along with that he would move other valuable product, namely prostitutes and slaves. Slaves in particular were the new growth market. Forget illegal immigrants. They expected to be free, and paid at least something. Slaves expected nothing. They just hoped not to die. Everything after that was a positive for them-not that there was much that was positive.

Rojas and Lampert were partners in the largest slave ring in the world. And they were poised to make it even larger.

Unless they were stopped.

Still in the water, Mecho moved down the starboard side of the ship. There was a line of portholes low enough for him to see in. He gripped one and pulled himself partially out of the water.

The room he was looking into was dark. And empty. He lowered himself back into the water and moved to the next window.