Page 97 of The Perfect Stranger

Chapter Thirty-Three

The phone call came at two in the morning while I was waiting for a red-eye flight. I was heading back to Bogota, Colombia in hopes of finding my targets.

An unknown number appeared on my cell. Accepting, I waited until whoever it was spoke.

“Hunter?” a female voice finally sounded. It wasn’t Nina, but it had my heart pounding. “Hunter, it Ariana from Santos y Demonios club.”

Ariana was the manager of Gabriel’s club was where Ana had worked. It was her who had told me about Ana’s beheading. They had been friends. And now, for whatever reason, she was phoning me.

“Is everything okay?” I asked with caution. This may have been a trap.

“I hope so,” she said. “I have something you might be interested in hearing.

“Go on.”

“Well, word has gotten around about what happened between you and Gabriel. About how you weren’t really a Santos.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yes.” Her lack of enthusiasm told me she wasn’t pleased.

I inhaled sharply at the news. Someone must have found him on the side of the road.

“I know where you can find them,” she offered.

This had me searching for a quiet corner in the airport.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Last night, Gabriel came into the club. You fucked him up good,” she added, side tracked. “But he said he and his uncle were going away for a bit. They wanted some girls from the club to join them.”

“Where did they go?”

“They were joining them on Luis’s yacht. The same one he would often take Ana on. Knowing what happened to her, the girls didn’t want to go. Sometimes being the ‘favorite’ can cause more trouble than good. If you know what I mean?”

“Did they say where they would be sailing?”

“No, it’s always been a secret. Luis would blindfold Ana and lock her in a room until they reached their destination.”

“Why are you telling me?”

There was a pause and when she returned, her voice was filled with sadness. “Ana was my friend. She was a good person. And she didn’t deserve what happened to her. All of us here at the club, we all feel the same way. We may work for a murderous drug lord, but that doesn’t make us cold like him. And that’s how we feel about you.”

I appreciated her kind words.

“We want Gabriel and Luis Santos dead.”

Luis Santos was the master of disappearing. He had made it this far in life simply by living off grid. My first port of call was the wharf by the distribution warehouse. The Mariner would hold a log book of who had set sail.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed it was a far cry from what it was only months ago. There was barely a soul in sight, the lonely seagulls swarming overhead having claimed the territory as their own. The distribution warehouse was empty, a large industrial padlock barred entry.

Down by the Mariner’s office, there was a shadow of movement. Whoever it was shifted with urgency, scurrying around the small space non-the-wiser of me approaching. My Glock was in a position to shoot if I had too. Edging closer, I waited until the man turned the slightest bit more to the left before kicking the door open. He was startled by the intrusion, stumbling back until he tripped over one of the boxes he was packing.

The Mariner was a man in his fifties, skin worse for wear after being in the sun day in and day out. He stumbled to his feet, his hands held outright as if they would protect him from a bullet.

“Who… who are you?” He faltered, eyes wide and wary.

“Where’s your log book.”

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