Page 71 of Savage Redemption

“No. This is my problem, and I’ll sort it. Trust me,amor.”

“I do. It’s him I don’t trust.”

Me neither. But we shall soon know.

CHAPTER 19

Adan

The heat hitsme the moment I emerge onto the tarmac atAeropuerto Tenerife Sur-Reina Sofia, the main airport serving the south of the island. I navigate my way through immigration control, courtesy of the forged passport kindly provided a year ago by Bartosz. I just brought hand luggage with me, so I skirt past the carousel thronging with excited tourists from all corners of Europe and head for the outside.

There’s no car waiting; I didn’t phone ahead so they’re not expecting me.

I could head for either the yacht or the hacienda. I opt for the hacienda and hop in a taxi. Of the two, my gut tells me that Bartosz might be marginally more amenable to reason with than his boss.

Half an hour later, we arrive at the main gates, which are locked, of course.

“I drop you here,señor,” the driver announces. “That will be thirty euros.”

I hand him a fifty and get out. He doesn’t offer me any change and disappears in a cloud of dust.

There’s a buzzer on the gatepost, so I press it and wait.

Less than a minute later, two guards appear in a somewhat elderly sedan. They emerge, guns at the ready.

“Esta es propiedad privada,” one of them announces, warning me off with an ominous wave of his firearm.

I respond in English. “I’m here to see Mr Bartosz.”

The second guard steps forward, scowling. He answers me in stilted English. “Is he expecting you? No one tell us.”

“Tell him Adan San Antonio is here. He’ll see me.”I hope.

The guard radios the main house. A brief conversation ensues, then he steps forward and keys a code into the gate locking mechanism. The two halves slide apart on well-oiled runners.

“Come with us.”

His mate opens the rear door of their sedan and gestures me to get in. I sling my holdall onto the seat and follow it inside.

We pass lush meadows on either side of the sandy driveway. Clearly, Bartosz is not unduly concerned by the usual local restrictions on the sparing use of water — the sprinklers are in full swing. A dozen or so sleek Arabian horses chomp on the abundant grass.

I’m deposited at the foot of the stairs leading to the front entrance. The place hasn’t changed much in the year since I last saw it. It’s a graceful house constructed over two storeys with a wraparound veranda, elegant but not overly ostentatious. Several outhouses surround the property, stables I daresay, along with garaging for the vehicles.

“This way.” One of the guards nudges me with the barrel of his gun. “Señor Bartosz is waiting.”

I obey, mounting the stairs and following the guard into the cool interior while the other one brings up the rear.

I recognise the housekeeper awaiting us in the foyer. “Good afternoon, Señora Hernandez. I trust you are well.”

She inclines her chin but remains silent, simply turns and marches away down the hallway, the three of us filing along behind her.

She reaches a door at the end and turns to face us. “Señor Bartosz is expecting you.” She opens the door and stands aside to allow me to pass.

I thank her and enter Bartosz’s office.

Bartosz regards me from behind his huge, ornately carved desk. Kristian Kaminski lounges in a winged burgundy leather Chesterfield chair in front of the desk, his ankles casually crossed. I seem to have caught two birds with one stone.

“Good day, gentlemen,” I say and bow politely.

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