“Not exactly a long trip,” observed Kismet.
“It is one thing to compel a man to break the laws of nations. But to make them forsake God? That is not so easily done.”
“So how did he do it?”
“With the rope. He doesn’t threaten them directly. Such a forced conversion would have no value. Instead, he threatens to kill their loved ones with the Judas Rope. If someone dies with the rope around their neck, they are eternally damned. The cartel barons were given a choice: swear allegiance to Negron, or their loved ones will burn forever. If they ever break their oath, the curse is binding. Once he ruled the cartels, Negron had an army at his disposal, and like any victorious king, set his sights on a bigger prize: the American syndicates.”
Kismet found this even less credible than the notion of a devil-worshiping immortal priest. “So criminals and murderers are worried about their eternal souls?”
“We care about our families, Mr. Kismet.” Turino’s voice had become as taut as a garrote. “I won’t waste my breath trying to explain our code to you, our sense of honor, but ours is a tradition that goes back hundreds of years. The Colombians may be animals, savage and vicious, but they still protect the ones they love. And we share something else: faith.
“You call us criminals, murderers…you have no idea. We have always walked a fine line between belief and damnation. Threaten my eternal soul…” He made a dismissive gesture. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Now, you make that threat against my beloved granddaughter and you’ll get my attention. Give me the choice between my own soul and hers, that’s easy.”
Kismet kept his expression hard. “Do you believe Negron has this power?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. He has her, and if I don’t do what he says, he’ll kill her.”
Then the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. “You want me to rescue her.”
A guilty look softened the Mafioso’s countenance. “Negron is holding Capri at a house in Montauk. If I’m not standing in front of him by midnight, to swear on the Judas Rope to serve him and his master, he’ll kill her. That’s three hours from now, Mr. Kismet. My men told me what happened at the Empire State Building. And I saw you fight Negron with my own eyes. If anyone can help her, it’s you.”
Kismet looked away, gazing through the tinted windows at the streetlights and storefronts as they passed by. He realized with a start that the chauffeur had navigated through city streets to the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood where Kismet lived. The Don was giving him a choice. He turned his gaze back to Turino. “I’ll need to get a few things first.”
Kismet did not linger to watch the limousine continue down the wooded drive; his attention was already fixed on the task at hand, namely navigating through the dark pine forest at a brisk walk. After a few minutes, his eyes adjusted to the near total absence of light and he was able to increase his pace to a jog. At first, the muscle aches from injuries incurred earlier in the night were almost debilitating, but as he moved, exercising the stiffness from his limbs, the pain became more tolerable; the Motrin tablets he had downed probably helped too.
During the two-hour ride across Long Island, he had struggled to devise a strategy for rescuing Capri. Fortunately, the property currently being used by Negron and his minions was listed with a real estate broker, and floor plans and a full map of the estate were available on a realtor’s market listing service. It was a marginal piece of intelligence but Kismet knew he was going to need every advantage to survive the night.
The forty room mansion was situated above the Atlantic Ocean and separated from the main road by several hundred acres of woodland, through which ran an elaborate maze of horse trails. There were several satellite buildings, including a stable, an enormous garage with a coach house, and a full-fledged guesthouse, but Kismet felt certain Capri would be kept in the main residence, probably in one of the bedrooms that overlooked the surf. He had outlined his plan to Turino during the ride, and the capo had given a guarded blessing.
“I won’t be able to help you. I’m going to have to go in there like he’s beaten me, ‘cause if you fail, I’ll have no choice but to do what he wants.” Turino had grabbed his forearm meaningfully. “Don’t fail. Once you’re clear, call my cell phone; it’s set to vibrate, so no one will hear. When you give the signal, I’ll pull out. If necessary, I’ll come out shooting. And there’ll be two cars of my guys waiting just outside the gate. They have phones programmed for the same number, so they’ll move as soon as you make the call.”
Now, as he reached the edge of the woods, Kismet could see Turinos’s car as it rolled to a halt in front of the marble stairs leading up into the main house. Several men wearing casual clothes and openly displaying assault weapons surrounded the vehicle. Turino was ushered up the steps, while his bodyguards remained where they were. Kismet frowned, but this development was not entirely unexpected.
He skirted along the edge of the woods toward the east end of the house. His quick surveillance led him to believe that Negron’s men were not vigorously patrolling the grounds; they probably didn’t have the manpower, and confident in their leader's omnipotence, must have reckoned themselves secure enough with guards at the main gate and the front door. If he was wrong, and Negron’s men had state of the art video monitors and motion sensors, then he would find out very soon. He eased from the woods and moved smoothly across the open expanse between the forest and the house. Once safely behind the screen of topiary that ringed the perimeter, he hastened to the rear of the house, perched high above the roaring ocean. There was not a soul to be seen.
“So far, so good.”
The mansion had been designed to resemble a medieval castle, but the stonework on its mock battlements had sacrificed security for aesthetic appeal. The craggy surface presented no obstacle to Kismet as he climbed up to the level of the second floor balcony. Several sets of French doors opened onto the long terrace, but without exception, the glass panes were dark; no lights were visible in the bank of apartments where he expected to find Capri held hostage. After a quick reconnaissance, he returned to the first door and examined the lock. There was no keyhole to operate the mechanism and the bolt was hidden behind a thin strip of wood.
Frowning, Kismet reached into the black nylon waist pack-one of the items he had secured from his residence before making the long drive to Montauk, along with a change of clothes-and produced his kukri. The large chopping knife, which could almost be described as a short sword, was the signature weapon of the Gurkhas, a British infantry regiment originally drawn from a fierce Nepalese warrior tribe of the same name. The knife was a memento of war, given to him by one of the men that had fought at his side on the night of his initial encounter with the assassins of Prometheus, but was no less practical for all its sentimental value. The boomerang shaped blade, nearly fifteen inches in length, could be used like an axe, a shovel, or in this case, a pry bar. He slid the point of the knife under the fascia strip and twisted. The wood splintered to reveal the thick lock bolt underneath. The kukri made quick work of the bolt as well, and a few moments later, the door swung silently open.
He exchanged the knife for his Glock 17 automatic pistol, then moved inside. The room beyond was empty. A thin stripe of light peeked from beneath the interior door, and Kismet dropped to a prone position in order to peek through the tiny crack. There was no movement in the corridor beyond, nor any sound of voices, but his field of view was limited to the opposite side of the hallway. After taking a deep breath, he gently turned the door handle and eased the solid wood door open a few millimeters. The hallway, like the room, was as empty as a tomb.