The Wrong Hostage (33 page)

S
AN
Y
SIDRO
M
ONDAY, 11:15 A.M.

F
AROE,
G
RACE, AND
S
TEELE
sat in the shadows beside the St. Kilda command center, watching. Unlike the
chubasco
that had drenched Ensenada and then blown on up the coast, the storm gathering in the trailer park had yet to break.

Faroe didn’t know if the clouds or the task force would cut loose first.

A pair of dark blue FBI buses, a mobile command center, and at least a dozen undercover sedans and trucks had joined the St. Kilda motor coaches in the small park. Weapons teams in Kevlar helmets and blue coveralls prowled with undercover investigators from the Rivas task force and command officers from a half dozen local, state, and federal agencies.

Alpha males and a few tight-lipped alpha females walked stiff-legged, waiting for the signal to kill or die.

“This pretty much defines a Mongolian goat-fuck,” Faroe said. “It reminds me why I left government service. Too damn many servants.”

Steele smiled. “Be proud. You’ve started a wildfire that is burning asses all the way to Washington, D.C. My last phone call was from the attorney general’s chief aide, wondering what in the name of J. Edgar Hoover we were doing by injecting ourselves into a federal investigation of the highest priority.”

“What was your answer?” Grace asked.

“I told him that several St. Kilda operators had agreed to act as confidential informants for the task force in expediting the arrest of the Mexi
can national who is number three on the FBI’s ten most wanted list. I also pointed out that the Justice Department regularly relies on evidence gathered by private investigators.”

“Did that make him feel all warm and squishy?” Faroe asked.

“I didn’t ask about the state of his underwear,” Steele said.

“All he wanted was deniability for the AG if something goes wrong,” Grace said.

“Precisely,” Steele said. “He also reminded me that confidential informants are not permitted to perform actual law enforcement duties.”

“Meaning?” Grace asked.

“No guns,” Faroe said, flipping the satellite phone end over end. “No boots. No badges. Those toys are reserved for sworn agents of the United States.”

“No guns, huh?” she said.

“Cross our hearts and hope to die,” Faroe said.

“That’s a grim saying,” she muttered.

“So I promise not to shoot anybody inside the United States,” Faroe said, launching the satellite phone again. “Under the United States, that’s a different matter.” He looked at Steele. “Did you really refer to me as a CI?”

“Confidential informant. It’s just a description.”

“So is shit. And that’s how agents think of snitches. Oh, excuse me. CIs.”

Faroe spun the phone upward again.

At the top of its arc, it rang.

He grabbed the phone, punched a button, and said, “Faroe.”

“
Hola,
asshole,” Hector said. “You know El Rey Mexican Foods warehouse at Otay?”

“I can find it.”

“Bring Franklin, the ball-breaker, and you. One hour.”

“We’ll be there. But before anything happens, I’ll need proof of life. Be ready to let us see Lane and talk to him.”

“She jus’ talk—”

“We talk to him before we give you the files or there’s no trade.
¿Claro?
And we hand the files to you personally. I don’t trust any of your men with the information and neither should you.”

Hector laughed. “
Sí,
gringo. You listen.”

“I’m listening.”

Faroe concentrated, repeated back seven numbers, and waited for confirmation.

The line went hollow.

Lane punched out the call on his end. “That was Hector. The exchange is set for the warehouse of El Rey Mexican Foods, just like we hoped. I’ve got the front door code.”

“When?” Grace asked.

“One hour.” He looked at Steele. “Where are the kids?”

“Right where you wanted them, in the weeds at the border,” Steele said. “Mary is still lobbying to go over the fence with you.”

Faroe shook his head. “Not this time.” He whistled shrilly through his teeth. “Yo, Cook! You’ve got less than an hour to get to an Otay warehouse and infiltrate your shooters.”

Cook waved and started shouting orders. People began running like their feet were on fire.

Faroe stood up and headed for the beach.

“Where are you going?” Steele asked.

“I need a few minutes away from the hive.”

S
AN
Y
SIDRO
M
ONDAY, 11:20 A.M.

G
RACE FOLLOWED
F
AROE THROUGH
the wind and stinging grit until she stood just behind him on the beach. Distant thunder blended with the relentless pounding of storm surf. Salt spray and a foretaste of rain stole light from the air, turning morning to evening. There was no horizon, simply the wild blending of sky, sea, and storm.

“Am I part of the hive?” she asked above the wind.

Without turning away from the sea, Faroe held his hand out. “I’m thinking about Lane.”

She laced her fingers through Faroe’s hand.

“I’m thinking about the time I didn’t have with him,” Faroe said, gripping her hand. “The first time he walked, the first word he said. I’m wondering if he was like the toddler I saw in Peru, who pointed at the surf and said ‘laughing water’ and then he laughed with it. Joy. Innocence. Openness. The things Lane had to lose to survive.”

Grace didn’t say anything. She simply held Faroe’s hand.

“Then I think about all the other times I wasn’t there,” Faroe said. “The first time Lane got bloody protecting someone smaller. The first time he sucked it up and didn’t cry because crying didn’t get the job done. The first time his voice broke. The first time he looked at a girl and felt like his skin
was too small.”

Grace told herself the cool moisture on her face was salt spray.

“Now Lane is as old as a lot of the soldiers in too many of the regular and irregular armies around the world,” Faroe said. “More innocent maybe—until forty-eight hours ago.”

She lifted his hand and put her cheek against it.

“I’m used to violence, to death,” Faroe said. “Not indifferent to it. Just not surprised. I can accept that I won’t see the next sunset, but not Lane.
Not Lane
. And there’s damn little I can do to prevent it. So damn little. So I have to trust in greed and violence, because they’re reliable weapons and innocence isn’t.” Faroe’s fingers tightened, then slid away from her grip. “So be it.”

“Can you forgive me?” Grace asked, feeling cold, watching the coming storm with eyes that didn’t see.

Faroe skimmed the back of his fingers over her cheeks, her tears, her wind-tangled hair.

“The ‘honors’ were about even on both sides,” he said. “So yes, I forgive you for knowing I wasn’t what you needed all those years ago. Have you forgiven me?”

“Yes,” she said.

For an instant his fingers clenched. “Now all I have to do is forgive myself.”

She made a sound that could have been laughter, but wasn’t. “Same here.”

His hand slid out of her hair and to his belt, where the satellite phone was holstered. He started to punch in a number, then stopped.

“Go talk to Steele,
amada
. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Does this have to do with Lane?”

“Yes.”

Grace didn’t leave.

Faroe didn’t ask again.

T
IJUANA
M
ONDAY, 11:22 A.M.

C
ARLOS
C
ALDERÓN HELD HIS
scrambled cell phone like he expected it to slice open his hand.

In a way, he did. Opportunity was like that.

It cut both ways.

The phone beeped.

He crossed himself and answered it.
“Bueno.”

“This is Faroe. Is this Carlos Calderón?”

“Yes. I have been expecting your call.”

“Listen carefully, because I’ll only say this once. You and Jaime want Hector Rivas Osuna out of the game. I’ve arranged for that to happen.”

“How?” Carlos asked, almost afraid to hope. “It can’t come back to me.”

“It won’t. All you have to do is tell Jaime to take Hector to the Tijuana warehouse, wait for him to be out of radio range, and then pull everyone out. Just leave Hector and don’t lock up behind him. I’ll do the rest. Do we have an agreement?”

“That’s all? Just leave him?”

“That’s it.”

The satellite connection hummed.

North of the border, Faroe waited.

And prayed. “It is done,” Carlos said.

S
AN
Y
SIDRO
M
ONDAY, 11:30 A.M.

T
ED
F
RANKLIN WAS COMING
down off his drunk, which meant that he swung between surly and frightened.

When Cook approached with handcuffs, Ted freaked.

“I’m not wearing those things! No way! You crazy?”

“Settle down,” Cook said. “It’s part of the act. You’re supposed to be Faroe’s prisoner, remember?”

“I said I’d go with him—I didn’t say anything about cuffs!”

“It isn’t a choice,” Cook said.

Before Franklin could do anything but gasp, Cook had the man’s hands behind his back and the cuffs on tight.

Franklin started sobbing.

Jesus,
Faroe thought.
He’s going to have a total meltdown before he even sees Hector
.

Faroe elbowed his way into the circle of agents around Franklin.

“Give me the key,” Faroe said to Cook.

Cook hesitated, then handed it over. “Personally, I’d rather bitch-slap some sense into him.”

“Take a ticket and get in line.” Faroe unlocked Franklin’s cuffs, but left one of them attached to his right wrist. “Ted. Yo, TED!”

Franklin blinked and focused on Faroe.

“This is an act,” Faroe said distinctly. “These are props.” He held the open cuff in Franklin’s face and pointed to the chain. “See that link? It’s weak. All you have to do is give a good solid yank and it breaks.”

Cook turned away so that Franklin wouldn’t see him smile.

The other agents did the same.

Franklin tried to focus on the chain, but he couldn’t see through the tears.

Faroe had counted on that.

“It will break?” Franklin asked.

“Yes. I’d show you, but we’ve only got one pair of fake cuffs. So relax and remember it’s an act.”

“An act,” Franklin repeated. He took a few ragged breaths and wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Do I have to?”

“Hector expects to see you in cuffs, so that’s what we’ll show him,” Faroe said. “But we know better. We know you can get free anytime you want, right?”

A few more broken breaths, another swipe of arm over nose, and Franklin said, “Uh, yeah.”

“Ready to play your part?” Faroe asked.

“…yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. I’m going to cuff you, but I’ll keep your hands in front this time. Ready?”

Franklin swallowed and stood up straighter. “Okay.”

Faroe had the handcuffs back on before Franklin could blink.

Or change his mind.

“What’s going to happen?” Franklin asked in a rising voice. “I should know. I have to know!”

With a muttered curse, Cook turned back to his reluctant snitch. “Like I told you the last twenty times you asked, you, Grace, and Faroe are going to meet Hector in a warehouse up on Otay Mesa in about forty-five minutes. You listening this time?”

Franklin nodded.

“The warehouse has a tunnel that leads to another warehouse south of the line,” Cook continued in a monotone. “That’s how Hector will bring Lane north. It’s the only way he can cross north without risk of discovery.”

“A tunnel,” Franklin said. “Why can’t you come along, you and a bunch of armed men? It would be safer.”

“Because Hector isn’t a fool,” Faroe said. “He’ll have men watching the warehouse. If too many people go in, the deal’s off, Lane dies, and if you’re really lucky, you go to prison for money laundering. If you’re not lucky, Hector has you killed before you go to trial.”
Assuming I don’t drop you first
. “Any questions?”

Franklin shuddered. He shook his head.

“To keep everyone alive,” Faroe continued with false patience, “we have to make it look like I grabbed you and am willing to trade you for Lane. That’s why the weapons teams from the Bureau will have to hang way back in the weeds, waiting for our signal.”

“But when Hector knows it’s a trap, won’t he try to kill everyone?” Franklin asked.

Cook’s eye-roll said that the question had come up before.

Repeatedly.

“He won’t get the chance,” Cook said, giving an impatient glance to his watch. “We’re running out of time.”

Faroe started to turn away, then stopped. “Here, let me help you get into the act.”

“What?” Franklin said.

Faroe gave him a short, sharp right cross followed by a left uppercut that ripped along the side of Franklin’s face.

It was over before Cook could stop it.

Blood trickled from the left corner of Franklin’s mouth and from his nose and the ugly welt on his cheek. Automatically he reached up to the wounded areas.

“I’m bleeding!” Franklin said.

“That’s the whole idea,” Faroe said. “Smear the blood around on your white banker’s shirt. You have to look like you put up a good fight but got your clock cleaned. And it has to be real, right down to the shocky look around the eyes. Hector knows exactly how a man who has been beaten looks.”

Franklin stared, then touched his own bloody face and wiped his hands
on his shirt.

Faroe patted him on the shoulder. “Lookin’ good. Keep it bleeding, or I’ll have to pop you again.” He looked past Franklin and the agents and spotted Grace. “Motor coach,” he said to her.

She caught up with him just as he got to the motor coach.

“You lied about the cuffs, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you really have to hit him?”

“Yeah.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

She sighed. “Not as much as I should.”

The same hand that had opened up Franklin’s cheek stroked gently down Grace’s. “We’ll get through this,
amada
. But first, we have to wire you for sound.”

She opened the door to the coach. “Cuffs on Franklin and a body bug on me. Lord.”

“That’s how the weapons team will know when to hit the front door. I’d wear it, but I’m going to be in another country.”

“Once I put it on, they’ll be able to hear everything I say?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Then I’d better say it now.”

Grace grabbed Faroe, pulled him close, and said against his mouth, “Come back to me, damn you. Promise me.”

Faroe sank into the kiss, grateful that he had a way not to make promises he couldn’t keep.