Sinclair Justice (22 page)

But Rosemary eyed Ross critically as they began making a plan of action that would have to be coordinated with Mexican authorities.

 

Under the circumstances, Ross didn’t take time to go back to the ranch to pack. He called his dad and asked him to organize things as the reunion ended and to convey his regrets, telling him curtly only that he had to make an emergency trip out of town. He picked up a few things in Amarillo and stuck them in a DPS pack, along with his state-issued Sig Sauer P226 .357 and his own custom Ed Brown handmade 1911 .45 with rosewood grips. He also had two extra clips for each pistol. Others would be carrying shotguns and machine guns.

Would it be enough? Given Mexico’s strong anticarry laws, the Mexican authorities didn’t like them bringing in weapons, even for a joint op, but they’d allow it this time because of the huge firepower they’d likely be facing, and the fact that there were likely American hostages involved.

But then Chad knocked and entered with a full set of protective gear on one arm, wearing another set, and Ross’s sense of urgency increased. “The latest from DC.” Chad pounded on his own chest as hard as he could. “Some type of hybrid material. They say it will stop damn near anything. I wanted to try my own out before we go and thought you should, too.”

Chad set the gear down on Ross’s desk. Ross nodded at him to close the door. Chad complied, looking resigned, as if he knew what was coming.

Ross said, “As former head of the task force, I think I’m now up to speed on the latest intel. Please assign me just to this operation instead of you. I have to go; she’s my woman. You don’t. You have a family.”

Chad scowled. “I was half-expecting this from you, but you’re not my daddy, so back off.”

Ross frowned right back. “I never said I was, but with all the personnel on this op, we don’t both need to be there, and it would be smart to have someone manning everything from central control. That way if we need to request more Mexican troops or get more equipment trucked in, or need to scramble for more intel we didn’t expect, you can coordinate all that.”

Chad made a rude noise. “Yeah, right, while y’all get the collar on the meanest SOB in Mexico City, I’m minding the kitchen. Not hardly.”

“Dammit, Chad—”

“No. That’s final. I’m responsible for this op and I can’t supervise remotely. I do promise to stay out of the way of the Mexican Marines. The president just gave us his approval to include them, but they’re supposed to lead the raid. It is their country, and we have to be careful not to step on any toes.” His voice softened a bit. “Besides, Jasmine would never ask me to stay. She knew I was a Ranger when we got together, and she’s not clingy. It’s one reason I love her so much. She doesn’t try to change me.”

Ross bit back the logical response:
Yes, but what about little Trey?
Instead, he turned to the new gear. As Chad helped him try it on to be sure it fit properly, Ross’s thoughts fixed yet again on Emm. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t have made the trip without a detailed plan, but what could that possibly be? She didn’t even know where the compound was, much less how to get inside, and even if she did, it was likely Yancy and Jennifer had been moved.

He knew from bitter experience that planning only carried so far. And even if Curt was by some miracle just an investigative reporter, Emm’s life was in extreme danger.

 

As the taxi drove them into the hills above Mexico City to investigate their first target, Emm searched frantically in her handbag for her cell phone.

Curt looked concerned when she leaned down and felt beneath the seat. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find my phone. I didn’t have time to activate it for international reception before we left, but I know they can track it, just in case we need the cavalry.”

“Don’t worry about it; mine’s activated,” Curt assured her. “I come to the City pretty often.”

She’d seen him use it only once and thought it looked pretty antiquated. It was probably a burner phone he’d purchased with cash. Someone at his income level didn’t need to do that unless he was worried about being tracked.

Emm’s heart began hammering in her chest and they hadn’t even reached the compound yet. Dread and fear grew with every hairpin turn. She was very careful with her cell phone, and at the end of the flight she’d checked for it so she could activate it once they reached Mexican airspace. Curt had been up front talking to the crew, so he hadn’t seen the suspicious, despairing look she’d sent his way as she realized her phone was gone. She hadn’t seen him take it, but the exterior pocket on her purse fit the phone exactly, and she had to tug to remove it. No way it just fell out.

Now, as she’d tested his reaction, he’d responded exactly the way a guilty man trying to keep her on a leash would respond—reassuring her that she didn’t need it, rather than wanting her to have her own backup. As they rounded yet another curve, going higher in the hills, Emm only hoped that her last-minute cry for help had been received.

Because it looked like she would need it.

Still, as she spied a hulking red-brick compound on the hillside above, she pretended surprise and rolled down her window. “That’s it! How lucky we found it first . . .”
Lucky my ass
, Emm thought . . . yet another block on the towering pile of evidence that indicated Curt Tupperman was on the take from one of the world’s most powerful drug lords.

Curt nodded enthusiastically. “Okay, we agree on the script?”

“Yes; you want to do a human interest story on some of the surprisingly positive side effects of the drug trade in Mexico, such as funding village schools and lifting many people out of poverty. I’m your girlfriend, an expert on historic buildings, and I’m cataloguing all the European-style mansions built in the City since the turn of the century. I just wonder if I might have a quick tour.” When he nodded enthusiastically, Emm wanted to slap that mendacious grin off his face. To hide her disgust, she rummaged in her purse and touched up her makeup and lipstick, thinking frantically.

She did have a plan, such as it was. If she succeeded in getting a tour of the mansion, she’d watch for any personal items that might belong to Yancy or Jennifer. If she confirmed their presence, she intended to come clean to Arturo Cervantes and offer a huge ransom for both women. Kidnapping was a lucrative side business for many of the cartels after all, so she’d be speaking his language. And when he saw her card and realized she was a Rothschild, he wouldn’t doubt her ability to raise the funds, even though she knew it was a lie. But first, she’d demand proof of life . . . and by the time they actually took her to Yancy and Jennifer, she hoped Ross and the cavalry would arrive.

If they didn’t get the message in time, well, she’d have to improvise. And she and Yancy would finally see the true Curt Tupperman based on whose side he took.

She was jolted back to the present when the taxi stopped. Curt leaned forward to pay the driver and asked him to wait.

Emm took advantage of the moment. As she put her makeup back, she unzipped a small pocket inside her purse and activated the tiny GPS tracking device she’d purchased, just in case, from Amarillo’s only advanced electronics store, prior to her luncheon with Curt.

Then, as Curt opened her door and she got out, the mansion loomed above them, blocking the early morning sun. Suddenly it didn’t seem beautiful anymore. Emm wished she’d taken time for one more purchase—a gun—even if logically it could only increase the danger to her since she didn’t know how to shoot and didn’t have a prayer of winning a gunfight.

The truth was, it would have given her great comfort as that big wrought-iron gate rolled open like the gates of hell.

 

Back in Amarillo, the task force members were in the process of boarding a big DEA jet saved for complex tactical operations when Abby’s phone pinged with a message. She was boarding last, burdened with three laptops, each for a different purpose, and she hadn’t heard it ring in the roar of the jet engines.

She struggled up the ramp, glad when a young FBI agent with an improbably cherubic face took the laptops from her as she boarded. His name was Al, as she recalled. He nodded shyly at her thanks, giving her the opportunity to listen to the voice mail she’d just received. Her eyes widened, and she was so excited that she didn’t realize everyone else was belted in and ready for takeoff.

Ross called out at her expression, “What is it?”

“When she checked out, Emm left a message for us,” she said, going to a different function on her phone. “They didn’t find it until this morning, after the janitor cleaned last night. It had fallen beneath the desk.” She brought up the scanned attachment to the e-mail and showed it to Ross. The big smile that stretched her angular face, making it almost pretty, was the happiest expression Ross had ever seen her wear.

He looked down at the message and read off for the others: “ ‘Ross and Abby, by the time you read this I’ll be in Mexico City. If I meet Arturo Cervantes or his son, I’m going to offer to ransom Yancy and Jennifer and will stall the negotiations as long as I can. Here’s the GPS tracker ID I brought.’ ” And she gave the coordinates to her device, signing it Mercy Magdalena Rothschild.

Ross slumped back in his seat next to Chad, never so relieved as he was at this moment. Nothing would stay a drug dealer’s murderous instincts better than an offer of a huge ransom from a Rothschild . . . As they taxied toward takeoff and Abby belted herself in, Chad leaned over to whisper in Ross’s ear, “Told you she was a good fit for you. Now she’s too valuable to kill. She’s one smart cookie.”

“And she could be added to the merchandise if things go sour.”

Chad agreed, “Exactly. But that’s what she wants, isn’t it? Maybe she’ll find the two women just in time for us to track them all and save the day.” When Ross nibbled at his lip, obviously still worried sick, Chad added, deadpan, “She’ll be okay. Or as someone said, ‘I do not believe in using women in combat. They’re too fierce.’”

Ross finally smiled, as Chad had hoped. “Patton? Omar Bradley?”

“Margaret Mead. I’ve been reading her so I can keep up with Jasmine, and I figure if anyone understands the species, it’s a female anthropologist.” Chad winked and went back to his own laptop.

Ross looked at Abby, knowing he didn’t have to say a thing, but he still held his breath as she opened her laptop and entered the coordinates. The rest of them relaxed just a bit as they took off. Despite his impatience, Ross gave it some time, knowing that even with the plane’s advanced satellite technology, the tracker software would take a moment to synch with Emm’s location.

But the second they reached cruising altitude and the pilot allowed them to unbelt, he whipped off his seat belt and knelt next to Abby’s seat. “Did you pick up the signal?”

Abby looked at the little blip on her screen, and her face was drawn again when she looked back at Ross. “Yes. It’s in the hills. Very near the compound and getting closer.”

Ross took a deep breath. “Great. Well, at least we have strong evidence of her whereabouts.” He went back to tell Chad.

While he talked to Chad, the other task force members discussed the new development. They’d already made contingency plans for a likely hostage situation, but now instead of two potential American citizens, they might be dealing with four . . . Still, there was a potential bright side: Maybe Arturo Cervantes would be distracted with the negotiations enough to give them time to get in place to storm the compound. Maybe this interfering woman all the others had been viewing as a liability would really be an asset.

 

As they walked inside the compound, Emm stayed true to her role and snapped a picture of the exterior of the building with the camera she’d purchased from a drugstore on the way. The suspicious older man who met them in the courtyard didn’t seem to recognize Curt. He snatched her camera away, growling at them. Three more men hovered over them with machine guns at the ready, but they relaxed a bit when Curt gave them his card.

Emm’s Spanish wasn’t as good as his, but she understood enough to realize Curt was citing a mutual acquaintance and explaining why they’d come. Emm heard her name, “Mercy Magdalena” only, and was relieved he hadn’t revealed her surname. The second they heard that, they’d know why she’d really come. For that reason she intended to give her card only to Cervantes senior.

After the underlings gave both Emm and Curt a quick, professional search, finding nothing in the way of weapons, the head guard unhooked the radio on his belt and said something into it in very rapid Spanish Emm couldn’t follow. A more measured response came back and, to her vast relief, they were escorted inside the soaring foyer. In other circumstances, Emm would have loved the gorgeous architecture, which was indeed a wonderful blend of European and Mexican elements, but then their two guards, still heavily armed, shoved them inside the study off the foyer.

Finally, Emm came face to face with the monster who’d been behind the kidnapping not just of her family but of so many innocent young girls. She wanted to spit and claw at him, but she instead took a deep, calming breath and waited, like an obedient female, looking around as if fascinated.

Cervantes spent a moment grilling Curt, and then her name arose. Curt nodded at the camera the guard held and said something more. Cervantes relaxed, but only marginally. He gave a commanding look at his guard, who indicated to Emm that she was to open her blouse. Her eyes widened as she became the focus of all the males in the room, including Curt. When she resisted, he said out of the side of his mouth, “We have to show them we’re not wired. Just open your blouse and turn around slowly.” The men took her jacket and his, turning them inside out and looking for anything electronic.

Curt lifted his shirt, even pulling his pants up to the knee. Emm’s fingers shook but she did as told, wanting to run when she saw all the intense dark eyes fixed on her as if she were prey. Which was all she was to men like these . . . She spun around, looking over the heads of each man as if she were alone, and then she pulled her blouse closed, buttoning it with shaky fingers.