Chapter 26 - The White Villa on Calle CaramurúMontevideo at dawn smelled of damp earth, blooming jacaranda trees, and the salt spray rolling off the wide, muddy estuary of the Río de la Plata.
The unmarked black sedan rolled slowly down Calle Caramurú, its tires whispering against the damp asphalt of the wealthy seaside suburb. The houses here were sprawling white stucco villas surrounded by high iron fences and bougainvillea vines that spilled over the walls in waterfalls of magenta blossoms.
Number 412 was set back from the road behind a double-layered security gate fitted with automated cameras.
Dante sat in the passenger seat, watching through the tinted window as the white stucco walls came into view. True to Gregor’s intelligence, a small wooden dock extended from the rear cliff down into the gray water of the estuary, where a white Boston Whaler was tied up with its bow facing the open sea.
"Silva says the local patrol car passed the gate six minutes ago," Paolo muttered from the driver's seat, keeping the engine idling in neutral. "We have an eleven-minute window before the next rotation comes down the coastal road."
"Kill the engine," Dante said.
"Boss—"
"Kill the engine, Paolo. Wait by the car."
Dante pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He didn't wear his heavy coat here; he wore a simple charcoal suit, his white shirt collar open at the throat, his hands empty and visible.
He didn't jump the iron fence. He walked up to the pedestrian gate, pressed the intercom button, and waited.
A tiny speaker crackled with static, followed by the voice of an old man—thicker, rasper, and slower than Dante remembered, but unmistakably the voice of Samuel Vance.
"Yes? Delivery goes to the rear service entrance on the kitchen side."
"The service entrance is locked, Uncle," Dante said into the metal grille. "And I didn't bring any groceries."
A dead silence hung on the intercom for three full seconds. The faint hum of background noise vanished entirely.
"Dante?" the voice whispered through the static, the absolute control fracturing for a fraction of a second. "You... you're dead. The papers said your plane went down over the Baltic five years ago."
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"The papers were misinformed," Dante said smoothly. "Open the gate, Sal. Or I'll take the fence down with the sedan, and your neighbors might find the noise disturbing."
A heavy, mechanical click echoed from the latch. The iron gate swung inward, creaking slightly on its oiled hinges.
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