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  FOR MY DAUGHTERS,

  MAYA KAILANI & KYRA SKYE

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  I: The Kidnappers of Calabasas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  II: The Bankers of George Town

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  III: The Lords of Bogotá

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  IV: The Cardinals of Caracas

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Douglas Corleone

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Here is true immorality: ignorance and stupidity; the devil is nothing but this. His name is Legion.

  —GUSTAVE FLAUBERT

  Part One

  THE KIDNAPPERS OF CALABASAS

  Chapter 1

  The nightmare opened with a sound she heard at least a dozen times a day. On the north side of the house, there was a door used by the servants. The door opened onto a vestibule that guests had to pass through to reach the staircase that led to the main floor of the house, one floor below her bedroom. The door had a distinctive squeal. She’d been meaning to ask Manny to oil the hinges for weeks. Now she was relieved that she had forgotten. That sound gave her time, maybe just enough time to get to Edgar’s handgun. Because she was suddenly certain that sound could mean only one thing—someone was inside the house.

  Emma threw her legs over the side of the bed and instinctively fell into her slippers. When she stood she was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness. She planted her right foot and steadied herself, took a deep breath, and moved like a shot toward the walk-in closet.

  As she rose on tiptoes to reach the high shelf of the closet, she listened for footfalls on the stairs, but the rest of the house remained quiet. When she’d left Olivia’s room not twenty minutes ago, her teenage daughter was sound asleep in her bed.

  Please stay there, sweetheart. No matter what you hear.

  Emma hefted the small steel gun vault off the shelf, turned, and set it on the edge of the bed. She spun the first of the three dials on the combination lock, fixed it into position, then moved on to the next—8, 2, 1—her and Edgar’s wedding anniversary.

  No question now, as she lifted the lid, that there were footsteps on the stairs, heavy footsteps, not the steps of a lone intruder attempting to maintain stealth, but the steps of two or three individuals moving as quickly as their legs allowed.

  Emma removed Edgar’s .38 Special from the vault’s foam-lined interior. The revolver was loaded, as always, and felt heavier in her hand now than when she’d practiced with her husband at the gun range.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser as she moved toward the closed bedroom door. She would have liked to retreat to the master bath to slip her spa robe over her lavender nightie, but there wasn’t time. The footfalls had reached the main floor.

  Emma curled her long fingers around the door handle. Cursed herself for leaving her cell phone downstairs, charging in the kitchen, for not insisting on having a landline in the bedroom.

  Deep breaths. Olivia is safe upstairs. You won’t let them reach her.

  She twisted the handle and slowly opened the door. Instantly nausea struck and she nearly vomited at her feet. Looking down from the second landing, she watched three masked men turning the corner, single-file, and heading with long, purposeful strides straight for the stairs that led up to her bedroom.

  A clipped shriek escaped her lips, and the first of the men looked up. Beneath his black ski mask, the visible flesh around his eyes was painted black.

  Emma raised the .38 in both hands and aimed for the center of his chest.

  As she squeezed the trigger, a fourth man blew out of the door to the home office she’d recently set up across the hall. The revolver discharged as he rammed his right shoulder into her midsection, slamming her against the doorframe.

  Emma’s body tumbled into the bedroom, and as soon as her head smacked against the hardwood floor, she realized she’d dropped the handgun.

  Through the open door, she could see each of the three men reach the top of the steps and turn toward the stairs leading to the third floor.

  Olivia.

  “Please, no!”

  The fourth man—the one who had lain in wait in her office—delivered a powerful blow to her temple, knocking her face hard against the floor. She immediately became disoriented, the ringing in her ears reminding her of the times she sat on the green shag carpet in her grandparents’ living room watching Woody Woodpecker or Bugs Bunny cartoons, when all of a sudden Woody or Bugs or Elmer Fudd was interrupted by an earsplitting pulse, followed by “This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. This is only a test.”

  Emma attempted to lift her head but the room spun as though she were drunk, a fuzzy white frame rapidly closing over her vision.

  She bit down hard on the tip of her tongue, tasted the tang of blood in her mouth as she tried to keep herself from falling into a faint.

  Olivia needs me.

  The fuzzy white frame began receding but then she felt a hand grab her by her hair and drag her backwards as she shrieked. The heels of her bare feet bounced against the surface of the hardwood floor.

  She screeched as the intruder pulled a hood over her face.

  She was shrouded in blackness, a gloved hand closing tightly around her throat.

  Upstairs, Olivia screamed, and Emma felt her entire body shudder.

  Help. Please someone help us.

  Emma’s mind reflexively turned to the next morning, to the sun rising high in the California sky, and Manny arriving through the same door the intruders had entered. She envisioned the majordomo trudging upstairs, none the wiser tha
t anything had transpired while he was gone.

  Until he reached the second landing, that is, where her bedroom door would no doubt remain ajar. He would rap lightly, afraid to wake her even though he knew she never slept past five.

  “Mrs. Trenton,” he would call with his thick Spanish accent.

  There would come no reply, of course. Concerned, Manny would push open the door to make certain nothing was wrong.

  Here he would find Emma sprawled out on the hardwood floor—strangled, though he wouldn’t know it yet—a black hood still covering her head as though she were the executioner rather than the executed.

  “Mrs. Trenton,” he would say again as he approached her.

  Manny would kneel over her and feel for a pulse. Then, as he often did, he’d make the sign of the cross, dip into his pocket for his cell phone, and dial 911.

  Once he was sure the authorities were on their way, Manny would walk out of the bedroom and hurry up the stairs to check on Emma’s daughter.

  Oh, please, no, not Olivia …

  Chapter 2

  When Emma came to, she was seated in an upright position, her back propped against the wall. Which wall she couldn’t be sure, because the hood still covered her face. She didn’t know how much time had passed, whether it was day or still night.

  She was parched.

  Her throat burned.

  Her head throbbed.

  But she’d survived. Which surely meant that Olivia …

  “Olivia.”

  Her voice was hoarse. There was no response. She tried to move, then realized both her wrists and ankles were bound tight.

  “Olivia?” she said again.

  She felt a presence standing over her.

  “Who’s there?”

  Smoke permeated the hood, caused her to cough violently.

  Is there a fire? She was sure she was going to suffocate.

  “Olivia!”

  Emma tried to maneuver her body in such a way that she might be able to stand, but she only raised her lower half slightly, then fell hard to her knees, cursed at the surge of pain.

  A low throaty male laugh emanated from somewhere not far away.

  They’re still here. The sound confirmed it.

  The man who’d laughed rattled off something in Spanish.

  Emma’s response was automatic, her voice cracking with every syllable. “What, what did you say? Please, in English.”

  Another man replied to the first, also in Spanish. He sounded far off, too far for them to be in any part of the house other than the great room.

  Then some light from the French doors should be penetrating the hood. I should be seeing red, not black. Christ, could it still be dark out?

  Never in her life had she felt so disoriented—and that, in and of itself, was utterly terrifying. She could feel the small blond hairs on her bare arms standing on end.

  Without warning, one of the men ripped the hood off her head, jostling her neck. A sharp pain traveled south through her shoulders, and she had to keep herself from crying out.

  The room was black, the windows and doors covered with dark sheets she didn’t recognize. She blinked repeatedly, hoping it was just a matter of time before her eyes adjusted. But the intruders had effectively blocked all light from seeping into the room.

  “What do you want?” she cried.

  She wondered why her mouth wasn’t gagged or sealed with tape—but then, what did it matter how much noise she made? Their closest neighbors would have to strain to hear cannon fire coming from their house.

  The Trentons’ estate rested in the hills of Calabasas, an exclusive city in Los Angeles County, surrounded by towns such as Woodland Hills and Malibu. Tucked in the heights of the southwestern San Fernando Valley and the Santa Monica Mountains, Calabasas was a place where people valued their privacy and paid seven, sometimes eight, figures to ensure it.

  “Where’s my daughter?”

  Emma glanced down at her wrists and realized they were bound together with zip ties, the strong plastic fasteners used by police during riots and protests. The darkness prevented her from seeing her ankles, but it felt as though they were bound by the cables as well.

  She was sweating profusely but felt goose bumps running up her bare legs. She looked down and noticed a tear in her nightie, her left breast slightly exposed.

  So much flesh. I feel like one of those pathetic girls in Edgar’s movies.

  Edgar was in Europe for the premiere of one of his studio’s films at the Berlin International Film Festival. These men must have known her husband was away, which meant they were most likely professionals. Professionals didn’t kill, did they? They took what they wanted and left.

  So why are these bastards standing around?

  Emma could make out only two silhouettes, meaning the other two men may have been doing just that, searching for and snatching valuables.

  Or raping my daughter.

  The abhorrent thought flew at her like an errant arrow and struck her square in the chest.

  “Where’s my daughter?” she cried again, helpless to keep the words from pouring out.

  She’s only fifteen! she wanted to shout. But that was the mindless drivel Edgar’s writers would put in their victim’s mouth. The intruders wouldn’t be persuaded by calls for morality; they’d laugh and spit in her face and beat and rape whomever they pleased.

  “Oh, god, please let us go. Take whatever you want, just please leave us alone.”

  Emma knew these words were no more useful, but they’d flooded out of her mouth as though released by a dam. The longer she sat here, she knew, the less control she’d have over what spilled out of her lips; she was sure it was just a matter of time before she said something that would get both her and her daughter killed.

  If they were going to kill us, they would have done so already.

  “Please, just … Just show me my daughter. Please.”

  A gloved palm shot out of the darkness and struck her full-force in the face. Her nose took the brunt of the blow and instantly felt numb, blood flowing freely from both nostrils over her lips, onto her chin, spilling onto the front of her nightie and puddling in her lap.

  So much blood, she thought in a panic. But it’s only a broken nose. It’s nothing. You can’t bleed to death from a broken nose, can you?

  Her lips stung.

  Her front teeth felt loose.

  The inside of her mouth was cut and she was swallowing blood.

  When she spoke again her words were horribly garbled. “Please, tell me what you want, I’ll tell you exactly where it is.”

  One of the masked men knelt before her. She looked into his eyes, which appeared black in the lightless room. The mask contained a hole for his mouth; the harsh stench of cigarettes emerging from between his lips caused her to dry heave.

  Slowly, the man whose face was merely an inch or two from hers ran his gloved hand up the inside of her right thigh and she shivered. He stopped just shy of her crotch, squeezed her leg firmly, then reached into her nightie and cupped her partially exposed left breast.

  Emma’s busted lower lip trembled.

  Tears welled in each eye.

  Her throat constricted.

  In a thick, smoky accent, the man said, “What we want, you will tell us where it is?”

  Her entire body already shaking, she did her best to control her neck and summon it to nod.

  “Yes.” Her voice was little more than a hiss.

  The corner of the man’s lips turned up in a grin as he leaned into her so closely that the wool of his mask brushed up against her broken nose, making her itch.

  “But what we want,” he said softly, “we already know where it is.”

  Chapter 3

  Several minutes later Emma’s eyes widened to the point of strain as the masked man brandished a blade at least a foot long and as sharp as the horror-film prop displayed prominently in Edgar’s den. With her heart pounding harder than it did during even her most strenuous wo
rkouts, she closed her eyes and felt the steel being pressed lightly against her throat, dragged slowly from left to right, stopping dead center, then moving down her chest, between her breasts, slicing through the sheer material of her nightie.

  She held her breath.

  Allowed tears to stream down her cheeks.

  Forbade herself to make a sound.

  The man said, “How much cash will we find in the safe in your husband’s movie-picture room?”

  She opened her eyes, exhaled, watched the blade retract leisurely from her body.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered hurriedly. “Forty, fifty, maybe sixty thousand dollars.”

  “That is not enough.”

  “There’s jewelry,” she said, her breathing uneven. “Lots of jewelry hidden behind the—”

  “—behind the painting in your precious little office, yes. It is lovely and we will take it, but I am afraid it is still not enough.”

  Emma grimaced. “How much do you want?”

  “We require something that will fetch us eight and a half million dollars.”

  She said, “We have nothing like that.”

  “No?”

  “No. Take the cars. There are four of them. The yellow and black one is a Bugatti Veyron; it’s worth almost three million dollars.”

  The corners of the man’s lips dripped like melting candle wax into a frown. “Why do you need such a car?”

  “I don’t. It’s my husband’s. Please, take it. Just leave, that’s all I want. Please.”

  “Can I sell that vehicle for eight and a half million dollars?”

  He was playing with her. Her head felt like a lead weight and she didn’t know how to answer. Why were they taking their damn sweet time?

  Because they know no one is coming to help us. Christ, how did they disable the goddamn alarm?

  “No,” she said. “I told you we have nothing like that. There’s the cash, there are the cars, and there’s my husband’s movie memorabilia.”

  “This movie … memorabilia,” he said, pronouncing each syllable as though it were its own word. “It is important to your husband?”

  Her husband, Edgar, was the CEO and chairman of Carousel Pictures. This man had to know that. Why did this son of a bitch care whether that crap was important to Edgar?

  “Yes, very.”