Sinclair Justice (24 page)

Almost as an afterthought, Ross added a stock photo of Curt. “Tupperman, we think, is one of their top American contacts, but we’re not sure. Just take him into custody, but don’t trust him. We’ll sort it out after we have the situation secure.”

They all nodded and got into their assigned transports.

Chad had pleaded for, and received, permission for him and Ross to ride in the front armored truck. As they began the long trip from the airport, Ross was relieved to get a text from Abby, who was in the rear panel van, saying that the tracker was still live and hadn’t moved. The over-the-counter electronic device wasn’t sensitive enough to pinpoint Emm’s exact location, but Abby knew she was still at the compound.

 

Inside the study in the compound, Emm forced herself to meet Cervantes’s obsidian eyes. They’d turned on all the lights as it was now dark outside. Curt was translating, as needed, between the two of them. The thought crossed her mind that he might censor some of what she said for his benefit, but she had little choice but to trust him at this point; he was the only ally she had.

She carefully formulated the words she’d mentally rehearsed. “Yancy is my sister, as I said. Half sister, but I love her dearly and she’s my only sibling. I’ve already cleared this with my father—” she was getting pretty good at lying, Emm thought, for her voice didn’t even falter—“and we’re prepared to pay richly to get her and Jennifer back.”

Cervantes snapped something. Curt paled slightly but translated, “He wants to know why he should trust anything you say when you invaded his home under false pretenses.”

Emm pulled the envelope from her bag. “A deposit in good faith. Fifteen grand.” She extended it and one of the guards took it, counting the money. “If he’ll allow me to confirm Yancy and Jennifer are okay, to see them with my own eyes, I’ll contact my father and have him wire half of whatever ransom we all agree on to the account of his preference. We promise not to go to the police or any other agency, either here or in the States. Once we have Yancy and Jennifer safe, that will be the end of it. We’ll arrange our own transport out of the country, and when we’ve boarded the plane, my father will wire the other half.”

As he listened to Cervantes, who used his hands again as he talked, Curt sighed. “The women are very valuable. Especially the younger one.” He listened, swallowed, and added, as Cervantes looked Emm up and down, “And if he adds you to his inventory, you won’t be a threat and he’ll still make a lot of money.”

Emm had been ready for this one. “He can do that, but my father and grandfather know where I am.” Another lie. There had been no time, and Emm barely knew the wealthy side of the family. “My great-uncle has many businesses in Latin America and knows many people. Including governors and other business owners. Yancy is not a Rothschild by birth, so they looked the other way. But I am . . .” Emm lifted her chin as that gaze raked her again, hoping, for once in her life, that she looked as regal and snotty as people always said.

Cervantes laughed and made an aside to his men. Curt looked away rather than translate. Emm said through her teeth, “What did he say?”

Curt muttered, “He said all women are alike between the legs. And he thinks you just haven’t been mounted enough.”

Cold sweat broke out on Emm’s brow, but she lifted her chin a bit higher and said coolly, “And you can tell him that despite the insult, he needs to recall that the Rothschilds have made billions with our business acumen. We deal fairly with partners. He can check that independently if he likes, along with this—Mayer Rothschild, who founded our banking dynasty in the late seventeen hundreds, was orphaned at twelve and grew up in the ghetto. He, like Señor Cervantes, was a self-made man. His five sons took his teachings around the globe, leading to the empire we have today in finance, publishing, wines, and many other ventures. My grandfather would respect a man of Señor Cervantes’s determination and ability, as do I. I am not afraid . . . and I’ve dealt with him truly and fairly. But no matter what, I love my sister and niece very much. I am resolved to leave Mexico only with my sister and niece safe beside me. I can be Señor Cervantes’s asset—or a very big liability.” Emm bowed her head before the despicable man in a gesture of both respect and challenge. Wouldn’t Yancy be proud of her desperate new ability to bluff? They played Texas Hold’em together when they could, and Yancy usually beat the socks off her . . . once quite literally when she’d demanded Emm’s Christmas socks as part of her winnings.

She was relieved when Curt finally said, “How much? He wants to know how much you offer.”

 

Yancy got to the lobby easily enough, but as she’d feared, it was full of guards. And also as she feared, it wasn’t easy to exit. When the elevator pinged, she peeked outside the still opening elevator door. A scowling guard started toward her, so she pushed the close button on the elevator and tried the lowest button. Nothing happened, so she figured the basement level was off limits and pressed the fourth-floor button again, trying not to think of Jennifer, of somehow saving her body from being thrown on top of many others like waste in some rock pile. She held grief at bay only with cool calculation.

This entire disgusting building was based on a very tawdry form of free enterprise, but prostitution had always been about money. Therefore, if she wanted to leave in one piece, she needed to be on the arm of one of the johns who funded this business. Part of the enterprise, not an escapee.

She went back to the room she’d entered before and left the door cracked so she could hear better. She also took the time to do a more thorough search, hoping she might find some sort of a weapon. Thirty minutes later, she heard a door open down the corridor and a male voice. She’d found a long and sharp nail file of sturdy steel, but it would be pathetic against Arturo’s army.

Still, she stuck the file in her jacket pocket and sashayed out into the corridor. She caught up with the businessman in a wrinkled suit who had pressed the elevator button. He looked at her nervously, shying away a bit, but Yancy only ran her hand down his arm and then down his hip. She lifted the veil and widened her lovely green eyes. He stared into them, fascinated.

“I’ll give you whatever you want if you’ll let me leave with you in your car,” she whispered seductively, still caressing. “I am one of the most popular girls here.”

She felt the frisson that went through him, but he looked around uncertainly. “I have no more money.”

“I don’t want money. I want to go to—” and she named the main street near the compound. When he still hesitated, her hand drifted closer to his groin. She brought his hand to her firm breast.

“That’s all? I want . . .” and he named several disgusting acts.

Yancy lowered her veil again but nodded to hide her revulsion.

This time, when she entered the lobby, she was latched onto the arm of one of the brothel’s best clients, who had his own arm around her, his free hand caressing her breast. They whispered to each other as they slowly made their way to the exit.

She heard the guards debating her identity as they passed and held her breath as her john opened the front door, but they exited unmolested. Then she was seated in a nice Lincoln sedan and driving through very crowded streets toward the compound.

They hadn’t gone far when the john pulled to an empty side street and stopped. He demanded a blow job. Yancy hesitated, eyeing the keys. She moved closer to him on the wide bench seat, as if to comply, but she whipped the nail file from her jacket pocket and held it to his carotid artery, leaning over him as if to whisper sweet nothings.

Instead, she said, “Get out or I swear I’ll give you a mark to remember me by. You disgust me. Do you know some of the girls in that place have been kidnapped?” She pressed the sharp edge into his throat. Swallowing harshly, he fumbled for the door. He tried to grab the keys at the last minute, but she cut his neck enough for him to bleed. He bleated and reared his head away. Blood dripped onto his shirt and he screamed, covering his scratch. But his gaze fell to the blood flowing now from beneath her black sleeve. He looked at his hand, at the few dots of his own blood, then back at her wound. His expression changed from anger to horror as he realized it wasn’t his blood. Frantically, he reached for the car door and fell onto the pavement outside.

She drove off, well aware that the first thing he’d do was call the police and report his car stolen. Good. She hoped he made all the papers when he described who took the car. Even better, she always liked a police escort when she was going to kill drug dealers . . . Yancy laughed, but strangely her voice sounded broken. However, she still had the presence of mind to pull over long enough to search the car. She found a thick wad of napkins and tied them around her wrist as she drove with her free hand. It wouldn’t stop the blood but would help with the mess.

 

The center of attention in the luxurious study, Emm tried a low number first, like a true monied Rothschild. “One hundred thousand.”

Cervantes scoffed a laugh and bit off a nasty remark. Curt said, “He can make that on Jennifer in six months. He wants five years’ worth of revenue or he isn’t interested.”

Emm did some quick calculations. “He wants a million just for Jennifer?”

The drug lord smiled broadly. His English was apparently good enough when it came to hard, cold Yankee dollars. He nodded.
“Sí.”

The cold sweat had extended to Emm’s hands, but she only said coolly, “And for Yancy?”

Curt interpreted. “Half that. Take it or leave it.”

Together, that would be 1.5 million; a lot of money even for a Rothschild heir. Emm debated negotiating longer to give Ross more time, but the truth was she was frantic to see Yancy and Jennifer. She needed to start that process. There was something about Cervantes’s attitude that made her uneasy, aside from his obvious lack of scruples. He was hiding something.

“Very well. But I’ll only call for the funds once I see for myself that Yancy and Jennifer are okay. Are they here?” She watched his response very closely.

He shrugged, pulled out his cell phone, and made a call. He said something hesitant and indistinguishable, but it sounded like Russian. Emm and Curt exchanged a look.

So it was true. He was working with Chechen gangsters.

Cervantes listened. He scowled at the response, gave one harsh command, and hung up abruptly. He stood, stretching, and bit off an order to his lieutenant. The gun lowered.

“They’ll be brought to you shortly,” the lieutenant said in English, and Emm realized he’d understood every word she and Curt had exchanged. “While we wait, Señor Cervantes would invite you to dine with him.” He listened to Cervantes’s genial description of the menu and smiled at Emm. “Argentinean beef. Rare.”

A delaying tactic? Emm wasn’t sure she could eat a bite, but she only nodded graciously, aware she had to be true to the role she’d created. “You’re having Yancy and Jennifer brought here?”

Cervantes nodded, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. She looked outside. The moon was rising. She’d forgotten her watch and had no idea of the time. Except that it was late.

And getting later . . . fast.

Where was Ross?

 

Outside on the hillside, Mexican Marines, heavily weaponized in body armor and guns, snaked up the slope until they could peek above it. Further down, the US agents remained crouched and waiting for their okay to advance.

Chad held a lethal tactical shotgun, the barrel too short to be legal for anyone other than law enforcement, and packed a machine pistol on one shoulder, his pistol on his hip. Ross held his issue weapon at the ready, with his custom .45 loaded and waiting in his holster.

The Mexican Marine captain leading the squadron of elite special forces lifted his fist and began counting, his fingers rising in a countdown. One, two, three . . . he was reaching for four when car lights split the ess curve.

They all had to go flat as a Lincoln rounded the last dogleg. Ross and Chad crawled up the slope, careful to keep their heads as low as possible. The car drew to a stop in front of the compound, blocking the entrance. A veiled woman wearing spike heels, dressed like a hooker, got out to meet the angry guard who exited to berate her for blocking the driveway. She sashayed to meet him, her hips swinging, not intimidated when he poked her in the stomach with a machine gun. She said something to him they couldn’t hear, dropping the veil. More guards poured out as every exterior floodlight snapped on.

The marines and Texans all cursed and ducked down at the same time. They waited a moment, but the loud, excited exchange indicated the guards were too involved, and probably blinded by the lights, to see them. They peeked over the slope again. The woman advanced into the light, saying something, and offered a small and shiny object that looked short but sharp, from her pocket as they frisked her. The oldest guard used his radio and got an immediate response. They grabbed her arm to force her inside the gate.

She stumbled, and Ross caught her profile illuminated in the bright lights. “Holy shit, it’s Yancy Russell,” he hissed to Chad. Chad passed the word to their colleagues and the marines. A brief conference ensued on whether to delay the raid or not. They all looked down the slope at the general, who had maps and radios spread on the hood of the armored truck, which they’d parked beneath a huge tree. Abby stood next to him, speaking into a phone, and Ross realized she was trying to get drone assistance for the infrared imaging. They hadn’t been able to get close enough to the structure to use the equipment they’d brought, so if they invaded now they’d be going in blind. Because she was a consultant, they hadn’t allowed her near the tactical side of the operation, but they wanted her there for data collection at the end.

But the general and his men were growing impatient. . . .