Kidnap and Ransom (20 page)

Then a decade ago their mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Jake had taken a leave from work, flying home to be with her during each round of chemo. He and Chris had taken shifts caring for her. Unfortunately the treatment at the base was less than subpar. Jake had fought the establishment, trying to get approval for a transfer to a civilian hospital. They refused, and she died a few months later.

Of course, none of that had been Mark’s fault. What pissed off Jake was that through all of it, his brother hadn’t even made the effort to visit. He sent postcards from wherever he happened to be deployed, most arriving weeks after the postmark. It nearly killed Jake, seeing their mom’s face light up when one was delivered, the way she devoured what was usually just a few sentences about the food and weather. His mother claimed that she didn’t expect any of her sons to stop their lives on her account. She was so excited when Mark finally sent word that he’d be home for Christmas. Unfortunately she only lasted through Thanksgiving.

During the funeral Jake had seethed as Mark stood there, eyes concealed by a pair of sunglasses. After they both had a few drinks, it came to blows. And they hadn’t spoken since. Until now, that is.

Yet he’d flown to Mexico the minute Mark was in trouble. Jake wondered if his brother would have done the same for him. Probably not.

A knock at the door jarred him out of his reverie. He opened it to find Syd standing there, looking worried.

“We should talk,” she said.

“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” Jake stepped back to let her move past him. She settled into the only chair, leaving him to perch awkwardly on the bed. “Listen, about last night—”

“Oh, Christ, not about that!” Syd rolled her eyes. “I heard back from Mark. They’ve run into some complications. Could be a good thing for us, or it could turn into a shit sandwich.”

Jake flushed, but said, “I don’t think that’s a real expression.”

“Whatever, you know what I mean. Anyway, they ran into the Tyr unit. He thinks it’s a good idea to partner up.”

“What? Mark was the one who said they couldn’t be trusted.”

“I know, but Brown offered some information in exchange. He’s got a guy who can infiltrate the camp, figure out where the friendlies are. Mark doesn’t think he’ll be able to narrow it down without that intel.”

“I don’t know.” Jake had a bad feeling. An already complicated situation just kept getting worse.

There was another knock at the door.

Syd’s eyebrows shot up. “You expecting someone? I didn’t think they had room service here.”

Jake crossed to open it. Syd slipped to the side, drawing her sidearm. “You can never be too careful,” she said in response to his look.

Jake opened it a crack. Isabela was standing there. “Can I come in?” she asked.

“Jeez, Jake. The bed was barely even cold yet,” Syd muttered as he slid back the bolt and opened the door.

“What?” Isabela looked puzzled.

“Just ignore her,” Jake said. “You need something?”

“I have information,” Isabela said. Her demeanor had brightened considerably since last night.

“What kind of information?”

“I know how we can get into the camp,” Isabela said. “But it has to be tonight.”

Twenty-One

Every time someone passed by their pen door, Flores’s head jerked up. He kept waiting for a guard to usher them out for another tête-à-tête with the general. Although he figured it was equally likely they’d be shot inside the pen to serve as an example to other prisoners.

Yet the morning passed uneventfully. Lunch trays were brought, then taken away. Calderon had exchanged a few words with the guard, requesting another audience with General Gente. And still, nothing. Flores was climbing out of his skin.

Calderon, on the other hand, was almost preternaturally calm. He’d suggested a game of chess to pass the time. Flores had agreed, since there wasn’t anything else to do, but sitting there facing a tiny board only made him edgier. Flores still hadn’t figured out the damn game, but whenever Calderon gestured that it was his turn he moved a piece somewhere. So far he was down ten games and counting.

“You must concentrate, amigo.” Calderon grinned as he swept another of Flores’s pieces from the board.

“What if he doesn’t care that you’ve changed your mind?” Flores said.

“Then we will be killed,” Calderon said flatly.

“Great.”

“It is out of our hands.” Calderon glanced up at him. “Some things you cannot control.”

“And some things you can.” Flores jumped to his feet. He’d cased the perimeter of the pen in its entirety. There was a weak section in the back, near where they slept. The chicken wire wasn’t buried as deeply into the ground there, and the wires were looser—he assumed that a previous tenant had worked away at them. It was the best way out, somewhat sheltered from the guards’ view by the tarp. Calderon’s knife was dull, but with enough muscle power behind it he should be able to fray the wires until they tore. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of wire cutters.

Flores still wasn’t sure how he felt about Calderon. There were holes in his story, but Gente’s version didn’t make complete sense, either. He suspected both of them were mixing truth and lies. Part of him was tempted to make a break for it and leave the guy to rot. But that would be condemning him to death, and he didn’t feel right about that. Holding the blade to Calderon’s throat that morning, he’d just felt dirty. He kept seeing Maryanne’s face, and in the end he hadn’t been able to go through with it. Hopefully that would be a decision he wouldn’t regret.

He was down on his knees, examining the surrounding wire for weak points, when a shadow fell across the pen. Flores’s heart leaped into his throat. He slowly stood and turned around. A guard was on the other side of the door, gun drawn. Calderon had frozen, one hand still clutching a chess figurine.

The guard appeared uncertain. He raised the brim of his hat an inch. Calderon exhaled sharply and rose to his feet.

“What?” Flores asked, coming up alongside him. “Is he going to bring you to the general?”

“No, amigo.” Calderon kept his voice low, but the excitement was unmistakable. “He is one of ours.”

Kelly was in a dark place. Ripples moved across the ceiling, like it was made of water. She was so cold. Dampness clung to her skin, her clothes sopping wet. The air reeked of something burning.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” she called out.

The silence was broken by a flutter of wings. Something brushed against her, and she reared away from the oily silk of feathers.

There was someone in there with her. She felt their presence, heard their steady breathing. Footsteps echoed through the gloom, sure and steady, as if they knew exactly where to find her. She felt for her gun, but it was gone.

An icy grip suddenly closed around her arm.

Kelly shot up, breathing hard. She wiped a handr face, trying to shake off the nightmare. Glancing around, she realized that the one she’d awoken to was in a way much worse.

She was in a dingy holding cell. When the federales had brought her in that morning they’d done the usual, fingerprinting her, taking mug shots, then shoving her in a cell with a motley assortment of other women, mostly prostitutes based on their appearance. They’d taken her in with a glance, then left her alone.

It was odd to be on the other side of things for the first time.

A short while later she’d been ushered into an interrogation room. A red-faced cop whose uniform strained at the seams barked at her, an unintelligible mishmash of Spanish and English. When it was clear she had no idea what he was saying, he finally slammed her FBI badge down on the table and sat back, arms crossed. She shrugged. “Soy policía,” she repeated.

That only served to irritate him further. He exploded in another tirade, spit flying as he leaned over her. Kelly kept her expression stony. When he finished, she simply said, “Teléfono.”

He stormed out of the room. Kelly remained there alone for ten minutes, then another cop came and led her away. She tried to impress on him the importance of allowing her a phone call, but apparently that right wasn’t automatic in Mexico. She knew next to nothing about their judicial system. Kelly wondered how long they’d be able to hold her, and if they’d actually gone so far as to charge her with anything. More than that, she wondered where Stefan was now. And how many other people he’d manage to kill before she got the hell out of here.

Even though she’d requested a telephone, she honestly wasn’t sure whom to call. Jake was probably in the middle of the jungle somewhere. Her former boss at the FBI, ASAC McLarty, wouldn’t want to touch this with a ten-foot pole. The sad truth was, there was no one else.

But no matter what, she intended to stop Stefan. And to do that, she’d have to get out of here.

Kelly sat up, unhooked her prosthesis and massaged the spot where her leg ended. They’d originally taken it, probably assuming it could be used as a weapon. But after a thorough inspection, they’d returned it to her.

Her whole right side throbbed from the fight this morning. Kelly winced as she encountered sore spots—Brandi would not be pleased, she thought with a grim smile. With all the abuse her body had suffered in the past few days, she’d probably set herself back months’ worth of physical therapy. Everything was bruised and sore. Her head ached from lack of sleep and the beating Stefan had given her, and it still hurt to swallow. But all in all, she felt okay. In fact, oddly enough, she felt a hell of a lot better than she had for a long time.

An image of Stefan’s expression when he realized he was losing the fight popped into her mind. Tough not to feel good about that. Even unarmed and missing a leg, she’d almost beaten him. That was something to be proud of.

Approaching footsteps echoed off the concrete floor. Kelly wondered if they’d finally managed to locate a translator. Or maybe they were going to let her make a phone call after all. A guard appeared, fussed with a key ring, then unlocked the door to her cell.

Kelly froze at the sight of the man accompanying him.

Twenty-Two

“Why do we have to attack tonight?” Syd asked.

“Can I come in?” Isabela stood uncertainly on the threshold. She’d showered and changed into some clothing Maltz had rustled up for her. With her hair down, she was actually quite attractive. No wonder she’d easily managed to enlist Mark’s help.

“Sure.” Jake stepped aside. Isabela entered and looked for a place to sit. She ended up leaning against the wall by the television.

“I called some contacts,” Isabela said.

“Not the Zetas.” Syd’s voice was hard.

“No, of course not. I know some people who work for the Sinaloa Cartel.”

“Isn’t that one of the rival cartels?” Jake asked.

“It’s the rival cartel,” Syd said, eyes narrowing. “The Zetas took over the Gulf Cartel after Osiel Cárdenas was extradited to the U.S. in 2007. They formed a partnership with some former Sinaloa members, the Beltrán-Leyva brothers. Now the two cartels are sworn enemies, responsible for most of the uptick in violence. It’s interesting that you seem to know all these guys.”

“We all grew up together in el Eden,” Isabela said defiantly. “The cartels were the only option for most of the local boys.”

“And you became a pharmacist. Interesting.”

“This information could save Mark’s friends, and my father,” Isabela retorted, chin raised. “You think I would risk his life?”

“It remains to be seen if you even have a father, never mind one in the camp,” Syd said. “We only have your word on it.”

“Why else would I be here? I am in as much danger as the rest of you.”

“She’s right, Syd. I can’t figure out a reason for her to lie about all this,” Jake said.

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t,” Syd retorted, but she settled back into the chair. “So what’s the information?”

Isabela said, “Recently Los Zetas had a few shipments seized. Their top men think they have a mole.”

“There’s a lot of that going around,” Syd commented. Jake silenced her with a sharp look.

Isabela continued, “The general called all Los Zetas commanders back to the camp, so he can figure out who is the traitor. Luis says the Sinaloans found out about this and they plan to raid the camp now. They are going to execute the leadership and take over their prisoners.”

“A power grab,” Jake said. “If they take the camp and eliminate the top guys, they’effectively seized their base of operations.”

“Exactly,” Isabela said.

“And your friend just called up and told you this?” Syd asked.

“Luis was the one who first told me my father was being held there.”

“That was nice of him,” Syd said.

“Prisoners will die during the raid,” Isabela retorted. “Luis wanted to prepare me for bad news.”

“This is such a crock.” Syd rolled her eyes. “If a major cartel was planning a raid, don’t you think we’d have seen some of them rolling through here by now? There’s only one road.”

“They are already waiting on the other side of the mountain,” Isabela insisted.

“You have to admit, Isabela, it sounds awfully convenient,” Jake said slowly. He held up a hand to fend off her protests. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but it’s a huge coincidence.”

“What reason would I have to lie about this?” Isabela asked, challenging them with her eyes.

What reason indeed, Jake wondered.

“Good to see you, Valencia,” Calderon said.

Valencia nodded and lit a cigarette. “Not much time, sir. Do you know where the others are?”

“I don’t know if Kaplan survived,” Flores said. “I think it’s just us.” For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt a ray of hope. They hadn’t been forgotten. Hell, they might even get out of here alive.

They stood near the entrance to the pen, keeping their voices low. Flores glanced over—next door, Ramon Tejada was taking an interest in their conversation. From what he’d observed, interactions with the guards were limited, and their pen had clearly gotten more than the usual share of attention the past two days.

“What’s the plan?” Flores lowered his voice and moved closer to the door.