David Morrell: Burnt Sienna

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Malone demanded.

Cursing, the driver grabbed harder for the key.

Malone threw it into the sand.

At once the cove became silent as the other drivers, having seen what was happening, turned off their machines and jumped to the ground, racing to help their compatriot.

“Answer me!” Malone said. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my home! You don’t have a right!”

The other drivers flanked the bulldozer, two on one side, three on the other.

“Leave my brother alone,” one of them warned.

“You’re at the wrong place! I live here, for God’s sake. You’ve made a mistake!”

“The mistake is yours if you don’t get away from my brother.” The man scrambled onto the bulldozer.

“Listen to me.”

No. Spinning, the driver from whom he had taken the key aimed a fist at Malone’s stomach. With only slightly less speed than when he’d been in the military, Malone grabbed the man’s arm, yanked him from his seat, and hurled him off the bulldozer into the sand. In the same fluid motion, he ducked, avoiding the punch that the driver’s brother directed toward his face. Surging upward, he plunged his fist into his attacker’s solar plexus and flipped him after his brother. With a painful wheeze, the second man landed next to the first.

The remaining four drivers gaped, no longer certain how far they wanted to push this.

“Nobody has to get hurt!”

“Except you.” The first man struggled to catch his breath and stand.

“I’m telling you I don’t want to fight! Just stop while we figure this out! You’re not supposed to be here with this equipment!”

“The man who hired us was very specific,” one of the other drivers said angrily. “He led us to this property. We asked him about the house. He said the land belonged to him. He told us to level everything for a new hotel.”

“ What man? Whoever it was didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did he give you his name?”

When Malone heard who it was, his chest heaved with greater rage.

ROBERTO RIVERA. BANK OFFICER.

Malone shoved the door open with such force, the frosted glass almost shattered.

Rivera, a lean man with dark hair and a thin mustached face, jerked his head up. The elderly client on the opposite side of his desk stopped in surprised mid-sentence and inhaled, making a strangling sound, as if he’d swallowed a peach pit.

“Señor Rivera, I tried to stop him,” the secretary insisted from the doorway behind Malone.

Malone fixed his gaze on Rivera. “My business couldn’t wait.”

“I’m calling the police.” The secretary swung toward the phone on her desk.

“Not just yet.” Rivera faced his client, who had recovered his breath but continued to look startled. “Señor Valdez, I apologize for the interruption. Would you please wait outside for a moment while I take care of this unpleasantness?”

As soon as the client left and the door was closed, Malone stalked toward Rivera. “You son of a bitch, why did you send those bulldozers to wreck my property?”

“Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Not according to the guys driving the bulldozers.” Malone’s muscles compacted with fury. “They were very clear – you sent them.”

“Oh, there’s no misunderstanding about that,” Rivera said.

“What?”

“I sent them all right.”

“You actually admit it?” About to drag Rivera from his chair, Malone stopped in amazement.

“Totally. The misunderstanding I referred to was your reference to the bulldozers being on your property. That section of land isn’t yours any longer.”

“You bastard, I paid for it.”

“In a trust agreement with this bank, which kept the title in its name. But we’ve had too many complaints about your eyesore of a house.”

“What?”

“And the rumors about drugs being smuggled ashore there can’t be ignored any longer. I spoke to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The trust agreement was revoked. I purchased the property.”

“Jesus Christ, you can’t do that.”

“But it’s already happened,” Rivera said. “Obviously, you haven’t picked up your mail yet, or you would have found the bank’s notice of termination.”

“I paid for that land!”

“You would also have found a check for the amount that you invested. I added – although I didn’t have to – a modest profit to compensate you for the increased market value of the property.”

“Compensate? You prick, you’re destroying my home.” Suddenly something one of the drivers had said struck him. “A hotel.”

“What?”

“You sold the property to a developer.”

“It was too good an offer to pass up.”

“It certainly must have been.” Malone grabbed him. “Well, it’s going to be awfully hard to spend the money when you’re in a wheelchair.”

“Call the police now,” Rivera shouted to his secretary in the other room.

Malone dragged him to his feet.

“Think twice,” Rivera warned. “In Mexico, there aren’t any prisoner rights. You’ll spend a long time in jail waiting for your assault case to go to trial.”

Malone drew back a fist. “It’ll be worth it.”

“And when you finally do go to trial, I assure you that Mexican judges take a harsh view of foreigners attacking respected members of the community.”

The secretary opened the door. “The police are on their way.”

“Thank you. Now it’s up to Señor Malone to decide whether they’re needed.” Rivera’s gaze was defiant.

“A respected member of the community.” Malone wanted to spit. In disgust, he lowered his fist. “Yeah, it must have been a damned good offer.”

“Blame the man who negotiated with me. He knows you. He insisted that I pass along his respects.”

“His respects? I don’t… What’s his name?”

“Alexander Potter.”

“Potter?”

“He said to tell you that his employer also sends his regards.”

The Coral Reef’s parking lot was empty. A taxi headed away, its passengers looking disappointed. Malone got out of his Jeep, crossed the sand toward the restaurant’s front door, and found a sign that read CLOSED. All the shutters were down.

He frowned. The silence from inside made the roar of the surf seem extra loud as he told himself that Yat had such a strong work ethic, the only reason he would close without warning would be that something had happened to him or his family.

He tried the door. It was locked. He pounded on it. No one answered. With long, urgent strides, he rounded the building and reached a back door that led to the kitchen. This door, when he tried it, budged open, leading him into the shadows of the cooking area, where the previous night’s savory odors still lingered. From last night , he emphasized to himself, for the several stoves were cold. There was no sign of any meal in preparation.

Beyond swinging doors, a troubled voice asked, “Who’s there?”

“Yat?”

“ Who is it ?” the voice demanded uneasily.

“Me, Yat. It’s Chase.”

“Oh.” One of the swinging doors came open, Yat’s round, pensive face peering through. “I thought it was another customer.”

Malone felt his chest turn warm from the compliment of being considered more than a customer. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” Yat assessed the word. “Everything.”

Beyond him, in the murky dining area, someone knocked on the front door. A second sequence of knocking, louder, ended with disappointed voices and the sound of a car driving away.