The Colombian sucked in his cheeks, reflecting his desperation. “Ridiculous. Not a peso over three million.”
Ares’s gaze drifted to Carlos’s nephew, Jorge. The kid couldn’t be more than twenty-three, but his intelligent eyes absorbed the subtleties—unlike his uncle. Jorge’s talent could be honed, mentored. Young people needed good influences, and Carlos was hardly that.
“The Colombian army recently purchased Black Hawks, missiles, and tanks. If you want to compete, you need my weapons. Four million.”
“How do I know that information is accurate?” Carlos rubbed his stubble with his right palm.
“The Ares Corporation has eyes and ears where it matters.” He didn’t disclose the fact that he’d hijacked the Colombian army’s latest shipment to supplement his regular supply of Chinese black-market weapons. Someone had to help the Davids of the world in their rebellion against the bullying Goliaths.
“I’ve been offered the same product for three million. Your prices aren’t competitive.”
“Rapier doesn’t supply turnkey service, which includes training. Do you want your men battle-ready or left to shoot themselves?”
Carlos’s eyes bulged.
It had been a good call getting better acquainted with the nephew, Ares reflected. The inside information he had gleaned from the young man about his competition had just paid off in spades.
“H-How . . . ?” Carlos spluttered.
“You need to work with someone who understands your long-term goals. Rapier’s thugs can’t help you expand your territory.” Usually he shadowboxed a few rounds with Carlos, letting the older man feel that he had landed a solid blow or two, distracting him with a feeling of triumph before outmaneuvering him. Today, he had more pressing things on his mind. “Do we have a deal?”
“You’re impossible.” Carlos lit an unfiltered cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke straight into Ares’s face.
He didn’t flinch. “No, I make things possible. Now get the money.”
“I need time to find the extra million.”
“The weapons will be sold to the customer who pays first.” Ares stood.
“You’re a hard man.”
This from a man who’d killed his own daughter over a kilo of coke. “It’s just business, my friend.” Ares slipped the music box back into his pocket and strode toward the exit. Carlos undoubtedly had millions stashed inside this compound alone. The narco-bourgeoisie didn’t believe in banks.
He’d almost reached the door when Carlos said, “Wait. Jorge will take you to the money. I expect the weapons to be delivered within twenty-four hours.”
Ares turned. “You’ll have everything you asked for in twelve.”
Carlos’s nephew scrambled to his feet and followed him out, then led Ares to the outbuilding where the cash was held under armed guard.
“Jorge, it’s time. An hour after I leave, my men will arrive with the weapons. You’ll make it happen?”
The young man’s gray eyes gleamed. “I’m ready.” Jorge was eager, intelligent. No doubt he’d lead FARC for years to come. No more meetings with the insufferable Carlos. The thought almost made Ares smile.
Jorge loaded several large black duffel bags onto the helicopter. Ares didn’t count the money. The young man wouldn’t double-cross his backer—at least, not yet. Not that he wouldn’t warrant a close eye in the future. After all, Jorge was betraying his uncle. Was nothing sacred? These days, you couldn’t even trust your own family.
Ares shook the young man’s hand and climbed aboard the Black Hawk, the helicopter blades coming to life.
Chapter Four
Santorini, Greece
December 25
6:00 a.m.
While most of the island was observing the birth of Christ, Thea would be celebrating her father’s sixtieth name day. The family was fully American now, but they still celebrated Greek holidays, especially name days, and Christos’s fell on Christmas Day. This tradition brought father, daughter, and son—and their cherished Rhodesian ridgeback, Aegis the Second—together no matter how busy their lives. Every year, Christos and Thea and Nikos flew from wherever in the world they were to Athens and boarded Christos’s yacht, the Aphrodite, for the hundred-nautical-miles cruise to Santorini, paying homage to Christos’s humble beginnings as a fisherman’s son. And every year the festivities there expanded, keeping pace with her father’s fortune.
Papa’s loud voice emanated from the salon. “I don’t care if you have to shovel through the tar yourself—get that oil. Stop worrying about the Canadians. I’m sure they’ll politely thank you when the oil is flowing.”
He was in business mode, accepting no excuses. He could be an unforgiving taskmaster.