Sinclair Justice (23 page)

Cervantes’s full mouth curved at her obvious unease. He said something to his men, which Emm caught as
“bonita”
and something less flattering. Emm shrank against Curt, as if afraid, which was not a difficult emotion to portray. Next, they demanded to search her purse. Emm had been afraid of that, and she’d done what she could to disguise the tiny tracking device. She handed her purse over. The guard fingered through it, including the envelope bulging with cash. Cervantes lifted an interested eyebrow, but when the guard held the envelope up hopefully, Cervantes shook his head. The disappointed guard put the money back, searching each cavity, finally unzipping the side pocket where Emm had hidden the device. She held her breath, carefully tucking her blouse back in her long skirt so they couldn’t see her tension, but the guard’s questing fingers moved away as if scalded when he brought up the two tampons she’d put on top of the device. He dropped them back in and handed the purse to the head guard. When Cervantes nodded, they gave the purse back to her.

Finally, Cervantes seemed satisfied. He waved them into chairs, but his four guards took stances on each side of him and behind Curt and Emm. Only then did Cervantes allow Curt to pull out a pad and make a few notes. Emm waited her turn, content to let the clock tick, as Curt conducted an apparent interview. From what she could see, Cervantes did not seem to even know Curt, so maybe she’d been too hard on her former friend.

As Emm half-listened, she couldn’t help wondering if Abby and Ross had gotten her SOS. If they hadn’t, well, she’d cleaned out her savings account and had plenty of Yankee greenbacks to barter for information and transportation. But for now, the ball was in Curt’s court. She was glad to see that Cervantes seemed more relaxed. He gestured with his hands while he described in rapid Spanish what sounded like a traumatic boyhood, but Emm couldn’t keep up. She began looking around the study, already cataloguing the locations of windows and another door she could see far down the hallway.

All in all, it was going pretty well so far.

At least they hadn’t been shot.

At least Cervantes seemed to buy their ruse.

Or he didn’t and was toying with them while he debated whether to cut their hearts out . . .

 

Deeper inside Mexico City, Yancy had yanked so hard at the handcuffs that her wrist had finally started bleeding. After Arturo had given her the new prescription, she’d only had time for a few doses of her meds before they took her, and now Arturo was so angry with her that he obviously didn’t care if she lived or died. He hadn’t alerted the Chechens to her illness, or sent the meds along. So she’d been without them, what was it, almost three days?

The wound had been trickling for over an hour, but it also made her wrist slick. Yancy barely paid it any mind because the continued silence down the corridor tormented her. She’d tried calling to Jennifer, but that had only resulted in a vicious blow from one of the Chechen thugs. She’d seen neither the tall, thin, younger Chechen nor the smaller, stout, older one for over twenty-four hours now, and she assumed that was a bad sign.

They were probably arranging transport for them. Or worse . . .

With little else she could do, Yancy began screaming, kicking at the iron bedstead. “I want to see my daughter!” She screamed a good fifteen minutes, until she was almost hoarse, before she got a reaction.

The same thug came back in, using his machine gun butt to slam her in the stomach. Yancy curled up in a ball. She cried out, cradling her stomach with her free arm. A bruise began to bloom. He ran a hand over the tattoo on her spine, but when she shrank away and someone called for him, he reluctantly went back out, tossing a harsh command on the way out.

She didn’t speak Russian but got the message:
Shut up or die, bitch.

Yancy was winded and hurting, but if she gave up, Jennifer would die. She raised herself against the bedstead and slammed her back against it, jolting it against the wall. The old iron headboard was rusted, and for the first time Yancy realized it wasn’t stable because the frame bowed under the force.

Experimentally, she slammed against it again. It made a terrible racket, but so far the thug hadn’t come back in. The metal bed slat she was latched to bent slightly at the bottom, where rust had eaten at the weld. With renewed vigor, she shifted her weight against it again and again until, with a groan that didn’t make too much noise, the slat separated from the headboard. It would have gouged her, but she was expecting it and dodged aside in time.

She slipped the handcuff off the unattached slat and was free.

She stood so fast that the room swam. She was nauseated from the punch, sore everywhere, including between her legs, but she had one thought—get to Jennifer. She ripped the thin blanket off the bed and wrapped it, togalike, around her nudity. She was bleeding, bruised, and smelly, but at the moment she didn’t care. She’d get one chance at this . . . She slipped to the door and listened. Somewhere, classical music lilted down the hall, but other than that, she heard no signs of life. Glad they hadn’t bothered to lock the door, she eased into the corridor.

She realized she was in an abandoned hotel when she saw all the numbered room doors and the exit sign above a stairwell. As she moved in the general direction in which she’d heard Jennifer screaming, she passed the stairway and tried the door. It was locked; no surprise. The only way out appeared to be the elevator, which was obviously guarded in the lobby.

She listened at each door but heard only silence. From one she heard moans that raised the hairs on her neck, for they sounded sexual in nature. She obviously wasn’t the only sex slave here. Instinct screamed at her to run, but she’d never leave without her daughter. Most doors were locked, but one finally yielded, and when she opened it, she saw enough to know exactly where she was. Messy, stained sheets, tawdry underwear flung on the floor, a see-through robe on a hook. A big box of condoms, mostly empty.

She was in a brothel. And a very low-end brothel at that . . . They didn’t intend to move her. They’d already sold her. She was too old, and too much trouble, so they’d cut their losses.

If she didn’t find Jennifer, and fast, she’d only leave this place in a body bag and Jennifer, still young and valuable, would disappear forever.

O
n the hills outside the City, inside the compound’s luxurious study, Emm Rothschild watched the lively way Arturo Cervantes, Mexico’s oldest and most ruthless drug lord, conveyed his story. He’d been wary at first of answering questions in any depth, but Curt, as a seasoned, nationally known reporter, had interviewed princes and popes. Adding a wary drug lord to the list wasn’t much of a challenge.

Emm read over his shoulder and saw that he was, indeed, making copious notes that would aid in his story. Nothing incriminating; more of the history of Arturo Cervantes and how he did, indeed, support not just an army of men but their families. He’d put more than one poor boy through private school and into university.

The morning waned into afternoon as Curt’s pad grew full. A waiter brought tea and scones and finger sandwiches. Emm would have laughed at the pretension if she hadn’t been so tense. She was too nervous to be hungry, but she forced herself to eat, not knowing when she’d get the opportunity again. The clock struck five p.m. as Cervantes obviously grew restless. Curt thanked him and then led Emm forward. Emm heard something about
“casa”
and more that sounded like her credentials.

Cervantes’s intense stare fixed on her. Emm’s skin crawled at the way he looked her up and down. She saw the appetite in his eyes, and it had nothing to do with food. But she only accepted the camera they finally returned to her after a direct order from Cervantes. Then he swept his arm before them, and Emm realized the great man intended to give her the grand tour himself. She gave a pleading look to Curt and he moved to follow them, but Cervantes made a staying move with his hand and two guards blocked Curt. Ruefully, he sat back down in his chair, shrugging at her slightly.

She knew that look—
your idea. Good luck
...

Emm’s heart skipped a beat, but she had little choice, given everything that was at stake. She followed as he showed her around the ground floor, her shoulder purse wrapped securely over her shoulder. She found herself oohing and aahing at the huge house, which looked like something from the Mexican version of
House Beautiful
. She saw several flower arrangements, drooping a bit now, that looked like a style Yancy favored, but that was hardly conclusive. In the kitchen, however, she saw a recipe for
tres leches
flan that someone had pinned to a board on the refrigerator. While Emm stalled, pretending to focus the camera on the long granite kitchen counter, in reality she was reading the handwritten notes through the lens. Someone had quadrupled the recipe and calculated the new ingredients by hand. Her heart pounded against her ribs, for she recognized that untidy scrawl. Yancy’s handwriting was horrid and this looked exactly the same, with the backward slanted
l
s and
t
s. Still, it wasn’t definitive.

But when Cervantes led her upstairs, he bypassed his room, allowing her to look into the second one very close to his. She peeked inside, seeing the feminine decor and the makeup vanity. She lifted the camera, rhapsodizing in her schoolgirl Spanish that the room was lovely. She pointed—could she see inside? He hesitated but let her in. Attached was a bathroom and Emm said,
“Baño?”
and made an embarrassed face. He eyed her carefully, shrugged, and gave her a regal nod of acceptance.

She went inside and did actually use the facility, but when she turned on the water to disguise the noise, she did a quick search of the medicine cabinet above. Nothing distinctive except . . . She pulled the pill bottle out. It had Cervantes’s name on it, but then she read the name of the medication.

Effluenatasis. Yancy’s new hemophilia drug, rare in Mexico City, rare even in the US, it was so new . . . Proof as definitive as she could want.

Torn between relief and fear, she was putting the bottle back when the door opened gently behind her. Arturo Cervantes watched her close the medicine cabinet. He said in broken but distinguishable English, “
Sí
, I thought so. She no here.” He smiled, his grin bright and toothy in the vanity lights.

Glad somehow that the charade was over, Emm took the card she’d saved in her pocket and offered it to him. He glanced down, obviously unsurprised at the name. She offered her hand as the overture to what she knew would be very tense, and very critical, negotiations. Not just Yancy and Jennifer were in danger now. So was she . . . “Mercy Magdalena . . . Rothschild. Yancy’s
hermana. Mucho gusto.
”

 

Back in town, Yancy shook off her horror at where she was and what it meant and plunged inside the next open door. To her relief, there were clothes hanging inside. Slutty clothes, but she was used to that. She didn’t risk pulling on underwear, but the tight fake leather skirt and tank top were better than a blanket. Even the stiletto shoes fit, but she needed to be light on her feet, so she kicked them off and looked for something easier to walk in. There was nothing. With every move the handcuffs rattled, and she knew that no matter how she tried to disguise them, they’d give her away.

She sat down, pulling at the one still latched around her wrist. Her skin was slick with blood. She bit her lip as the wound opened further. But she kept twisting her wrist from side to side, pulling . . . pulling . . . and finally her thin wrist slipped free. She wanted to toss the cuff across the room but instead wrapped it in a pillow case from the bed and shoved it as far beneath the bed on the dirty carpet as she could reach.

She rummaged through the rest of the room and to her delight found a black lace mantilla. In a Catholic country, even prostitutes went to Mass; they had plenty of reason to cover their heads, too. She pulled it down over her face and anchored it to her blouse with a couple of pins to keep it in place. She blinked, her eyes adjusting, but finally she could see through the heavy lace well enough to brave the corridor again.

She despaired as she tried more doors, certain she was already past the room where Jennifer had lain screaming, but then she heard the elevator ping and ducked inside the last empty room. She cracked the door and watched two Mexicans dressed like gang members pass. One carried a small automatic pistol, and they eyed both ends of the corridor warily, as if they didn’t want anyone to see what they did next. The other used a key to open one of the locked doors across the hall. A rustling of what sounded like sheets, and then the taller one exited with a bundle of sheets over his shoulder. As he passed, Yancy saw long blonde hair swinging limply almost to the floor.

She had to cover her mouth and bite her palm to stifle her own groan so she could listen.

If she’d had any doubt about who it was, the brief conversation between the Mexicans settled it. “What do we do with the body?”

“Same quarry as usual.”

“What happened?”

“The Chechens gave her drugs to shut her up and she used them all. Waste of a pretty
mujer
. Tomás was finished with her and said I could have her next.”

And then they were in the elevator, leaving Yancy with a buzzing in her ears and, finally, no more fight. She slipped down the wall to the filthy carpet and buried her face in her knees, sobbing. Uncaring that the sounds she made could bring someone to investigate.

Then blood dripped down her arm to the floor. She used the blanket to dab at it, but it only welled up again. It wasn’t a huge wound, but she knew from past experience that she needed a specialized shot from a hospital to stop it. Within a day or two, she’d be past the point of no return.

Her eyes hazed over as the ugly red tinted her world. Red blood, red roses in the garden, her red lips as she kissed a man with a greedy, grasping red tongue, hungry for more, always more . . . Her grief hardened into a cold, pure hatred.

Arturo.

He’d done this to them. Kidnapped her, subjected her to his filthy abuse for months on end, letting his son brutalize Jennifer and turn her into an addict too weak to keep fighting to live.

Everyone was terrified of him. But she wasn’t. Not any longer. Because now he had nothing to threaten her with. If she didn’t get medical attention soon, she’d be dead in a day or two anyway, and she wasn’t sure she cared anymore.

No one was coming. She was alone.

What did she have to lose? She went to the scummy sink, the only plumbing in the tiny room, and turned on the faucet, scrubbing away the residue of tears and blood from the last few days. Her mouth was sore and split, but she slathered on the red lipstick she found there to cover it. Then she used a bit of powder to disguise the bruise on her cheek. She washed between her legs and under her arms, spraying on a heavy dose of perfume. Then, wrapping the mantilla more closely about her face, she slipped into the stilettos and down the hall to the elevator, wearing a black jacket over the wound to disguise the blood.

She’d used her feminine wiles for many months to survive.

She’d only have to use them a few hours longer. . . .

 

On the threshold of the bathroom, Arturo Cervantes shook Emm’s hand, and if she’d been outside looking in, she would have been bemused at this bizarre propriety between a murderous drug lord and a supposedly pampered society girl. But she was all too involved, and scared right down to her designer pumps. Even her quirky sense of humor couldn’t find anything funny in this scenario. Especially when he pocketed the card and smiled. A smile that reminded Emm of a knife balanced on its tip, ready to cut or clatter away, depending upon the next fifteen minutes—and her deceit and negotiation skills. She skirted past him as she obeyed Arturo’s still polite gesture, indicating she should precede him down the stairs. Emm was eager to reach the study, to have Curt’s company again. What she had to say now would take fluency on both sides.

And a prayer. And luck. Voicing the soundless prayer, and glad she still had her grandma’s four leaf clover, Emm entered the study. Shadows were gathering outside, so they’d been here most of the day. Surely time enough for Ross to arrive if he’d taken an agency jet.

If he’d received her message.

 

At the secure government portion of the enormous airport in Mexico City, while workers unloaded all the equipment, Chad and the other task force leads gathered around the Mexican Marine general who’d been tapped to spearhead the raid.

Ross watched as Chad explained the new wrinkle. The general brigadier, who sported four silver stars and a gold eagle insignia, scowled but bit off orders to his subordinate. Ross’s Spanish wasn’t as fluent as Chad’s, but he thought he understood well enough that the general was telling his men to take the infrared imaging equipment so they could try to figure out where each person was inside the compound. Their spotters had confirmed that Curt and Emm had arrived in the morning, in a cab that still waited outside the gates.

Ross was itching to get started, but he tamped down his impatience, well aware he was a guest in another country. He was just happy they’d let him keep his guns, even if they inspected them carefully and noted what he carried, including model and ID numbers, in a file. They’d done the same with all their weapons. With the virulent drug wars in Mexico, too often lost or seized weapons ended up in the hands of the cartels, so he couldn’t blame the authorities for being extra cautious.

When the general was finished, Chad came over and briefed them. “We’re going in three vehicles—two panel vans with the lead truck armored. The road has a sharp ess curve right before the compound, and we’re going to shut off our lights and coast until we stop probably a quarter mile away. We’ll have to hoof it up the hillside from there, but it’s our only chance to surround the place unseen. They have state-of-the-art security beginning right past that curve, so once we crest the hill, we’re committed and have to move quickly. I asked about interrupting their power, but the general says Cervantes likely has generator backups, so it wouldn’t gain us much and would probably alert them. We’ll just do it as a diversion as we move in.”

Ross cleared his throat, his heart hammering. “And Emm? How are we going to protect her?”

Chad looked a bit uncomfortable. “She’s your responsibility,” he said. “They’ve been planning this op for weeks and one woman, no matter who she is, may have to be expendable if Cervantes tries to use her as a shield.” Chad offered tablets to Ross and the others. “But he did give us a schematic of the mansion, and they’ve had the place under surveillance, too. He says this exterior wall—” Chad zoomed in on part of the ground-floor plan—“is the study where Cervantes conducts most of his business. If the infrared imaging shows several bodies in that room, we can assume that’s where he’s holding Emm and Tupperman and make one of our entries there at the same time the marines go in the front and rear.”

Chad looked at each of the task force leads from the various agencies. “Remember, assuming we get the chance to do a search, our priority is any information we can get on who the splinter groups are back home. Who heads them, how the drugs and women are being smuggled, the trail of funds—”

“Particularly look for the names of Curt Tupperman and Brett Umarov,” Ross inserted.

They nodded, now all grim professionals. Even Rosemary wore the new body armor, though she looked thinner still in the heavy equipment, like a model playing soldier.

Ross hesitated, knowing Chad might not like him butting in, but he had to do this. For Emm . . . And Chad was so new to the task force, he probably hadn’t had time to get fully up to speed.

He pulled out a file from his pack and handed around pictures of Emm, Yancy, and Jennifer. In happier times, true, but it would be enough to identify them. “Here are pics of the hostages. The two Russell women, if they’re here, have probably undergone months of abuse, so we need to be ready with medical attention.”

Rosemary nodded at her medic. He held up his bag and tapped the mike in his ear. “Just say the word and I’ll storm up the hillside.” He’d been instructed to hold back until summoned as he wasn’t a field operative or combat specialist.