Fatal Secrets (40 page)

Jones. It had to be. The FBI was at his house, they’d found it. Not for the first time, he wished he’d made Jones suffer.

A computer-generated enhancement came on-screen with the voice, “An FBI forensic artist has aged the picture to what Marchand may look like now. Marchand is between five foot nine and five foot eleven inches tall and approximately one hundred seventy pounds. He has light brown or graying brown hair and blue eyes. He’s approximately fifty-five to sixty years of age. He may be traveling with a Chinese American using the name Sun Ling.” An old, shaded photograph of Ling popped onto the screen. “If you see either of these men, do not approach. They are armed and dangerous. Call the FBI or your local police department. A special tip hotline has been set up and will be answered by a trained agent.”

Richardson came back on the television and the hotline number ran on the ticker.

“Marchand is the leading suspect in multiple felonies in the United States, Mexico, and Central and South America. He uses multiple aliases, including Sergio Martin and Pierre Devereaux.”

Noel fired his .45 into the television. In rapid French, he swore. “That bitch! How dare she give them that name! I will tear her apart limb from limb. I will cut off her fingers and stuff them down her throat and leave her dying for the coyotes to eat for dinner. I hate that girl. I should have drowned her after I slit her mother’s throat!”

He pressed the trigger again and again, until his ammunition was gone. He threw the gun across the room, picked up a knife, and cut deep gouges into the handmade
leather couch that graced the small cabin. When he was done, the only sound was his rapid breathing.

“We should leave now,” Ling said quietly.

“Right. The buyers.” He shook his head to clear it.

“I mean, we should leave the country.”

“No.”

“Sir, it’s too dangerous—”

“I said
no!
I’m not walking away from my money. I had to pay out of pocket to change the day and time. I’m not leaving half a million dollars behind.”

“The first half million is already in your bank. I think—”

“No. Let’s go to the mine.”

“I would not do well in prison.”

“You won’t be going to prison.”

“I will get your plane ready.”

“You will be coming with me!” Ling looked at him with defiance. Noel fumed. How dare he disobey. Contradict him. Noel was in charge!

“I believe you’ve lost sight of the goal,” Ling said.

Noel forced himself to breathe slowly. Lower his heart rate. Take it easy.

“Perhaps.”

Ling relaxed. “Very well. Let’s go to the airstrip.” He turned his back to Noel.

That was his second mistake.

Noel threw the knife. It hit Ling right where he aimed, between the shoulder blades. It went in deep, deep enough that Ling couldn’t scream or make any sound.

His first mistake was telling Noel what to do.

Noel never ran away, especially from a woman.

He retrieved his gun, calmly reloaded it. He felt much better now that he had a game plan. Headlights cut a
swath of light across the room, then stopped. One long, three quick beeps of the horn and Noel was assured Ignacio had arrived.

He’d lost half his U.S. team during this operation. Someone had to pay for his losses. Hell, a lot of people were going to pay.

Noel stepped over Ling’s body without giving him a second thought, for the years of service, for the people he killed on command, or for the friendship.

If he felt a twinge of regret it was only because he would miss Ling’s perfectly steeped morning tea.

At Dean’s command, FBI SWAT team leader Brian Stone pulled together a team of tactically trained agents within fifteen minutes. Dean had Sam Callahan dragging the curator of the Calaveras County Museum out of bed to meet them at the sheriff’s department. Warren Shef field had the only known map of the closed mine. Dean wanted to consult the man because Callahan’s quick research told them the mine was severely unstable.

It was an hour before midnight when they gathered at the Calaveras Sheriff’s Department in San Andreas, twelve miles from the abandoned mine off Salamander Gulch Road. Unfortunately, the twisting road was narrow and treacherous in places, and the sheriff said it would take thirty minutes.

“Do you have a helicopter?” Dean asked.

“Yes, Agent Hooper, two. We use them primarily for search and rescue.”

“I need them.”

“One of our pilots lives quite a ways—”

Brian Stone said, “I can fly a chopper.”

The sheriff cleared it and called in the on-call deputy pilot. While they readied the equipment, Dean spoke to the curator.

Sheffield was skeptical. “The Grouch is dangerous. No one goes there.”

“Grouch? Don’t you mean the Gulch Mine?”

“Technically, it’s called the Second Quartz Mine. The primary mine is about five miles from there, and is open in the summer for tourists. The caverns are amazing, and you can—”

“I’m interested in this one,” Dean interrupted impatiently.

“The Grouch. The miners nicknamed it because it has a temper.”

“A mine with a temper,” Cammarata interjected, shaking his head.

Dean cringed. He hadn’t wanted to bring Charlie Cammarata with them, but Callahan said the man would be valuable since he was the only one who had recently seen Marchand. Dean relented. They needed every advantage they could get.

Sheffield nodded. “Fourteen miners lost their lives in the twenty-six months the Grouch was operational. It took nearly five years to build it, and it was open less than half that. Shafts collapsed spontaneously. It’s boarded up.”

“Are these blueprints accurate?” Dean asked.

“As accurate as they were since the last inspection, which was five years ago. During the inspection one of the geologists fell thirty feet and broke both legs. It took them six hours to get him out of the hole he’d fallen into because they had to shore up the sides, otherwise he would have been buried alive.”

“Sounds lovely,” Sonia said. “We need to get up there, Dean. If Marchand saw that broadcast—”

Dean and Sonia had tried to stop Richardson from
broadcasting Marchand’s identity, but it was too late. It had been the smart thing to do … until they learned the location of the women. Now they feared they’d forced Noel Mar chand to act rashly.

“I’ll go with you and explain the blueprints.” Shef field said, pushing his glasses up on his nose for the tenth time in as many minutes.

“It’s dangerous.”

“So is the Grouch! I understand the risk, but you don’t.”

Dean didn’t want any civilians with him, especially this old nearsighted curator, but he didn’t see another way. They needed Sheffield to interpret the arcane blueprints, but they couldn’t sit around the sheriff’s station.

“You’re with me,” Dean said, “Sonia, Brian, Cammarata and three of the SWAT team. Brian, we’re going to have to send half your team on the road. Callahan will go with the other pilot and three SWAT. Trace, if you can lead the ground contingent and stay alert for any sentries. If Marchand is anywhere nearby, the longer he’s in the dark about us, the better.”

Brian pulled his team aside for orders.

Dean took out a highlighter and marked the map. “Sheriff, I need your men to put up roadblocks here … here … and here. That should effectively cut off all escape routes if someone is already up there, and prevent anyone else from showing up.”

“We can’t go there, that’s Rio Diablo land. They’re not the friendliest Indians around.”

“Get as close as you can.”

“That I can do.”

Dean glanced at his watch. “Brian, two minutes.”

“Roger that.”

Dean made a call to the Western Regional tribal counsel leader. He’d obtained his home phone from a local congressman who was friends with the chief.

“Chief Raintree?”

“Speaking.”

“My name is Dean Hooper, assistant director of the FBI. I’m calling as a courtesy to tell you that we’re engaging in an operation adjacent to tribal lands that may cross over into your property.”

“Which property?”

“Rio Diablo Rancherita.”

“Ah.”

“Sir?”

“We have our own investigation into Rio Diablo, Director Hooper. I’m not at liberty to share our ongoing investigation, but I appreciate the call, and you won’t have any trouble from the Council if there’s a need to cross into our sacred lands.”

“Thank you, Chief. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Dean hung up. That was easier than he’d expected. He hoped the rest of the operation would run as smoothly.

Sonia listened to the curator explain that the Grouch Mine had produced over seven million dollars in gold—a large haul for a small mine—but the preponderance of accidents had left the owner bankrupt. When the bank seized his property, he fought the police who came to remove him, then fell hundreds of feet to his death in a condemned shaft.

“The geologists who sited the mine made a critical error in judgment related to groundwater. There are hot springs a few miles from here, and we now know that they run deep underground, and because of a unique
combination of rock and soil on just this small acreage, they caused underground floods and the shifting earth collapsed shafts. Had the owner simply built the mine one mile down the road, still on his property, he would have tapped into the same vein of gold without the tragic problems.”

While Sonia appreciated the history lesson, she was more interested in what the marks on the yellowed blueprints meant. “What’s this?” she asked of a red X.

“Collapsed tunnel. Here … this is elevation. The entrance itself is stable, but you’ll want to watch your footing. Right … here”—he pointed to a double red line—“the ground gave way between five and twenty feet. There are markings and warnings all over the mine, but you’ll want to watch for neon orange marks. If you see them, stop. That’s the sign for danger, and any step you take other than retracing your exact steps could land you in deep trouble.”

Sonia pointed to what appeared to be a room. “What’s this? It looks like an office.”

“It used to be. The foreman worked from there, the men would break there. It’s three stories belowground, and probably the only safe place in the whole structure.”

“That’s where they are,” Sonia said. “It’s secure, they can’t get out, it’s dark.”

“What about air?” Dean asked.

“There’s plenty of ventilation on the upper levels, but after a hundred feet I wouldn’t guarantee it. I haven’t been to the Grouch in years, it could have changed dramatically since the last inspection.”

The night was clear and the mine seemed to come out
of nowhere as they approached from above. The towering metal roof had rusted with time, a narrow and forbidding remnant of the past. The three-quarter waning moon backlit the peaks, casting a ghostly bluish light over the land.

Brian asked Dean over the headset, “How close do you want me to get?”

“As close as you can,” Dean said. “The noise will alert anyone near the mine, but we don’t have a choice. It’s nearly midnight. We can’t be running through the woods in unfamiliar territory searching for the mine.”

Sheffield said, “The road is right there. See? There’s a good-sized turnout just past the mine to the northeast.”

Brian inspected the map and instruments. “I can do that.”

He radioed the other pilot with the information, then said to Dean, “We can land, but there’s only room for one. The other chopper will land point-four miles west.”

“Roger.”

Sonia stared at the blueprints, searing them into her brain as best she could. “How do we get to that room?” she asked Sheffield.

“There’s only one way. The old elevator shaft. It’s a manual elevator.”

“Manual elevator.”

“Crank, pulleys, ropes, chains. You get in and turn the crank by hand to go up and down.”

“Ropes,” Sonia said. “They couldn’t possibly be in any condition to hold any weight.”

“If they were worn the inspectors would have marked them with a big orange X, and I don’t see anything here.”

Sonia swallowed heavily. The closer they got, the more
nervous she became. She would not allow her claustrophobia to stop her.

Dean looked at her. He knew. She hated that she was so obvious about it. She closed her eyes as the helicopter descended.

It was cold up here on the mountain. They jumped out of the choppers. Brian ordered one of his team members to stand guard, leaving only seven of them to approach the mine.

“Hooper,” Brian said, “we should wait for the rest of the team before we go in.”

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

Both Dean and Sonia shook their heads. “We don’t know where Marchand is,” Dean said. “Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

Guided only by flashlights and the waning moon, they walked briskly and cautiously down the road and around to the fenced entrance to the property. The lock looked new, and Sonia wondered if it had been put in place by Marchand’s people. The
whirl-whirl
of the second helicopter faded into the night. Sonia tried to breathe easier, but the pounding in her chest vibrated so loudly she couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing through her veins.

She had to save those girls. But the mere thought of going down a manual elevator shaft to a room more than a hundred feet below the surface of the earth had her hands coated with sweat.

Brian cut the lock off the fence and they reached the mine minutes later, staying among the trees. Dean motioned for everyone to turn off their lights and be silent.

Sonia heard nothing but her fear.

Dean whispered, “Okay, two of us need to stay here on lookout. Under no circumstances is anyone to go off alone. You all heard Dr. Sheffield’s instructions? You see neon orange, turn around. Cammarata, Knight, stay up top with Sheffield. The rest of you, with me.”

“You need me down there,” Sonia said. “You don’t speak Chinese. I speak enough to at least calm them when you find them.”

Dean shook his head. “I need you up top,” he said. “You’re the ranking agent. When the others arrive, you need to be here to give direction.”