Over the Line

by Kelly Irvin

  “Quiet.”

  Thudding footsteps. Another door. More half-drag, half-walk. Something sharp dug into his wrists. Suddenly, they were free. His shoulders relaxed. Blood rushed to his arms. He breathed. Snip. Snap. His legs were free. Too bad they felt like wet noodles.

  They moved again. Creaking under his feet gave the impression of a metal platform of some kind. It moved. His knees buckled. His captor swore and grabbed him.

  The sensation of moving down. Like an elevator only open. Humid air wafted across his face. Gears grinding. A squeak. Another. An abrupt stop.

  More walking-slash-dragging. Voices called to each other in Spanish. Orders flew in curt tones. They were talking about a shipment. Box them up. Movement tonight. Everything has to be ready.

  Eli memorized the words. If he could get loose, get to a phone, they could ping his location and nab these guys in the act of shipping guns. Where and to whom remained beyond his reach. He struggled. The cool metal of a barrel touched his neck. “You’ve been so good, amigo, don’t screw it up now.”

  A kindly voice. Grandfatherly. Deacon and Natalie had described their home invader as almost grandfatherly. Until he sprayed the bookshelves with an AK-47.

  He held his breath. The barrel receded.

  Eli breathed.

  An almost gentle push set him flying forward. His arms and legs flailed. Once again, he landed flat on his face, the wind knocked from his lungs. This time the surface felt softer. More like dirt. Even so, his nose hurt. This was getting old.

  Thump. Thud. Deacon’s words were a little less colorful than Eli’s. Didn’t the guy ever cuss?

  The creak of a metal door clanging shut.

  Gasping for air, Eli scrambled to his knees and tugged at the hood. His fingers were all thumbs. “Come on.” The hood gave. He shoved it over his head.

  Still dark. Completely and utterly dark.

  His nose burned. He wiped at it. Warm liquid. Blood. “Deacon, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Did they get your phone?”

  “Yep. And my laptop. My editor will be so PO’d that I didn’t file a story today.”

  “I’ll write you a note. Can you get the hood off and stand up?”

  “I am. I am.” Shuffling and growling. “What the heck. I can’t see a thing. Where are we?”

  “Good question.” Eli settled back on his knees. Maybe his eyes would adjust. “Give it a minute.”

  The seconds ticked by. He closed his eyes and opened them. Opaque darkness.

  A moan broke the silence.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Then who’s moaning?”

  Eli strained to see in the darkness. Nothing. The sound emanated from the far reaches of the darkness. “Hey, who is it? Is someone there?”

  Another moan.

  Eli waved his hands in the air. Nothing. He stretched his arms to their full reach. Nothing but stinking darkness. He edged forward, hands in front of him. His nose didn’t need another collision. Nothing.

  His fingers touched a firm surface. He ran his fingers over it. Smooth, solid, but soft. Ignoring the pain that radiated through both nostrils, he sniffed. Dirt, mustiness, cool but humid. An enclosed space.

  “Whoever it is, are you hurt? Where are you? I’ll come to you.”

  “Water. Water, please.” A ragged, breathless whisper.

  Another prisoner. How long had he been in this dungeon? “Sorry, dude. I wish I had some. I’m coming to you.”

  He patted his shirt pockets. Empty. His fingers slid into his jean pockets.

  The BIC.

  Eli swallowed a hysterical laugh. See, Gabs, I took up smoking again for a reason. He wrapped his hand around the lighter and pulled it out. It took two tries to light it. The smell of butane intensified the desire for nicotine. At the same time it steadied him. His miniscule torch in a sea of night remained lit.

  Not much to see. Deacon entered his space. “I never thought I’d thank God for a smoker.”

  “Shut up.” Eli held up the lighter higher. “Hey, buddy, talk to me.”

  “Over here.”

  Ahead of him to the left. Eli edged toward it.

  A figure huddled in the corner, back against the wall, barely discernible in the flickering flame. Eli squatted. The battered, bruised face lifted.

  “Jake?”

  Chapter 37

  “I’m gonna hunt him down and then I’m gonna kill him,” Gabriella muttered as she cut one-third cup of shortening into the mixture of flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt she’d tossed together in a bowl on Piper’s pristine kitchen island. The oven was preheating and the strawberries sliced and glistening with sugar. When in doubt, cook, had always been her motto. “And then I’ll kill him again.”

  “And then I’ll kill him again.”

  Fidencio I—or was it II?—bobbed his head and squawked in agreement.

  “Fidencio, hush.”

  “Fidencio, hush.”

  “You’ll argue with anyone, even a bird, won’t you?”

  Gabriella swiveled. Natalie maneuvered her chair past the kitchen table and stopped on the other side of the island. Her fair skin was pink from being outside in the sun watching Ava and Cullen do cannonballs into the pool under Piper’s supervision. “What are you making?”

  “Piper had some strawberries that needed to be used. I decided to whip up some strawberry shortcakes.”

  “Jake’s favorite.”

  “I figure there will be leftovers.” Gabriella’s throat closed. She concentrated on gently stirring in three-fourths cup of milk, just enough to blend it. “Eli happens to like them too.”

  “Have you talked to Vic?”

  “Just got off the phone with her. Business as usual. She’s worried about us, but she’s a trooper. She’ll make sure I don’t have to worry about the restaurant.”

  “Eli will call when he calls.” Natalie snatched a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. “Yum. And just so you know, that’s not appropriate talk for a Christian woman.”

  “He did it on purpose. He had no intention of coming back.” Eli was an overbearing, sexist, macho man. Careful not to take her frustration out on the dough, Gabriella smoothed it into a ball on a floured, cloth-covered board and began to knead it. Baking was the best therapy. “And just so you know, God understands. He knows I’m not some sissy wallflower.”

  “He shared information. He agreed to you going downtown on your own.” Natalie still sounded disbelieving. “That’s huge.”

  “Huge.” Fidencio agreed.

  “Hush, Fidencio.” Natalie and Gabriella shushed the bird in unison.

  Natalie’s gaze went to the phone on the table. Using a pair of Piper’s gardening gloves, Gabriella had removed it from the baggie. So far, she’d been unable to come up with a password to open it. Baking usually cleared her brain, but so far, nothing usable had occurred to her. “Deacon hasn’t called either.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “Before the news conference.”

  “Try calling him.”

  “I did. Twice. It went to voicemail.” Gabriella concentrated on rolling the dough into a half-inch thickness. This was ridiculous. Baking while Eli searched for her brother. Her brother, his friend.

  She used a floured three-inch cutter on the dough and laid the cakes on an ungreased cookie sheet. The oven beeped. Ready. “In you go.” She slid the pan into the oven, set the timer, and washed her hands.

  Feeling only slightly calmer, she scooped up her phone and scrolled through her texts until she found one from Chris Matthews with his number. She punched it in and seconds later he picked up.

  No, he didn’t know where Deacon was. Or Eli. They parted after the news conference, so Chris could head back to the newsroom to file his story. “He wanted to talk to Eli to see what the next move was. Then he would file his story.” Chris’s voice became muffled. “
Sorry, I’m at work. My editor had a question about my story. Then he walked off down the block. I assumed he was going to find Eli at his dad’s house. Piper’s car was still at the church.”

  “And that was it? He didn’t let you know what was next?”

  “He did call me about half an hour later from Eli’s car.” Chris sounded distracted. “He wanted me to dig up anything I could on a property outside the city limits in southwest Webb County. Another warehouse property. Why? What’s going on?”

  “Give me the location of the warehouse.” Gabriella made writing motions to Natalie, who buzzed over to the table, picked up a flowered grocery-list tablet, and handed it to Gabriella, along with a pencil used down to a nub. Belatedly Gabriella added a “please.”

  “Got it. Did you find out anything?”

  “Yeah, sure did. The principal behind the shell company that Deacon had traced the ownership to was none other than Andy Mendez.”

  Mr. Law-and-Order. Father of the Year, Vietnam vet, rancher. Had he added something new and unexpected to his resume? “What does a rancher need with warehouses?”

  “Good question. One I plan to ask him after I finish here and drive up to the ranch.”

  “Did Deacon say how he obtained the address or why he needed information on it to start with?”

  “Nope. I called him back with the info about fifteen minutes later. He didn’t even say thanks. He said he’d call me back. Gotta go. Boom. He hung up on me.”

  “Where was he?”

  “I got the impression he and Eli were headed to this property, but I don’t know that for a fact.” More muffled words directed to an unseen colleague. “Look, I gotta go. My editor is having a hissy fit.”

  “Chris, wait. Don’t go to Mendez’s. Not yet.”

  “Yeah, right. We’re on to something here. Your brother and Larry Teeter had the wrong warehouses. It’s obvious.”

  “Which means Andy Mendez isn’t who he pretends to be. Going out there now could be—is dangerous. Let me talk to Eli first. Find out where they are and how they found out about the address. I’ll call you back. You’ll have more information to approach Mendez with.”

  A beat of silence. “I’ll give you two hours.”

  “Thanks—”

  He hung up.

  “Stinking reporters.”

  “Stinking reporters.”

  Both Fidencios agreed. Gabriella ignored their chorus. Better to save her breath. She also ignored Natalie’s questions while she tried Eli again. No answer. Then Deacon. Again, no answer.

  “This is not good.” She related her conversation with Chris to Natalie while checking on her shortcakes. Starting to puff. “I don’t like the way this feels. I don’t like it, Nat.”

  “Me neither.” Natalie rolled her chair into Gabriella’s path. “We need to get into this phone. Think. Do you know his birthday?”

  “Nope. I know his age.”

  “What about his girlfriend’s?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “We could try 1722 or 2217.”

  “After so many tries, we’ll get locked out.” Gabriella chewed her bottom lip. “If you’re a teenager in love, don’t you think you know everything about your boyfriend, including how to get into his phone?”

  “Naturally. Especially because you want to check to see who he’s texting.” Natalie nodded. “Puppy love 101.”

  Gabriella scrolled through the numbers on her phone. She’d added Kristina’s number to her contacts Friday night from the smudged numerals scrawled on her hand in ink. She touched the number. After several rings, Kristina’s high voice answered. “Who is this?”

  Interesting salutation. Gabriella identified herself and explained the situation. “You said you wanted to help find who did this to Beto. Tell me you know his passcode for his phone.”

  “Of course I know what it is and I’ll give it to you.” Kristina began to sob. “But I want his phone. I’m working on a collage of photos for the memorial services. He has photos on there that I don’t have.”

  “I can’t give you the phone yet, but I’ll work on getting it to you when this is over.” Depending on what was on it, the phone might be evidence in a trial. “If it’s possible, but you know it might not be.”

  “I know.” She sniffed and the sound of nose blowing filled the air. “It’s my birthday: 0322. He said no way he’d forget it if he had to use it all the time to get into his phone.”

  “He was a smart guy.”

  More sobs. “Call me when you know what happened. Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  Gabriella hung up and tapped in the number. Voilà. A selfie of Kristina and Beto outside a bar on San Antonio’s River Walk stared up at her. “We’re in.”

  The video turned out to be audio only. The phone camera appeared to be pointed at a tile floor. At one point a dog’s face appeared. Big orange snout, sad brown eyes. Music played in the background. Norteña. Two voices, maybe three.

  “Turn it up.” Natalie crowded closer. “Can you see anything?”

  A coffee table. A semiautomatic weapon of some sort. The dog again. He woofed this time.

  Someone told him to shut up in Spanish.

  Voices discussing a delivery.

  “Why is this guy with you?”

  “He’ll start making the deliveries next week.”

  “You sure?”

  “Manny uses him.”

  “No need to come up to the house. Text. Drop your package at the gate.”

  “Understood.”

  “When do we ship?”

  “They move everything on Sunday.”

  “Ready.”

  “Yes.”

  Not exactly stimulating conversation. Gabriella hit pause and inhaled the lovely fragrance of baking cake. Just breathe.

  Natalie sat back in her chair. “That was totally anticlimactic. What are they so worried about? You can’t see any faces.”

  “You can hear them talking about making a shipment Sunday night. Obviously guns. I don’t recognize anything about the location, but one of the voices is vaguely familiar.”

  “Which one?”

  “The guy who says Manny uses him and asks when the shipment is.”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know.” Eyes closed, she leaned forward, hit Play again, closed her eyes, and inhaled that mouthwatering scent of cake again. A few seconds later she opened them. “It’s not someone I know well, but it’s familiar.”

  “We need to call someone about this. Turn it over. Maybe someone from the task force will recognize the voices.”

  “Jensen from the ATF. Maybe even Rincon. We need reinforcements. We’re not like our idiotic men friends who think they can go charging in like superheroes.” Gabriella’s phone dinged. She rushed to unlock it. “Speaking of idiots. A text from Eli. Thank God.”

  U hv something we want. We hv something U want.

  The attached photo showed a body sprawled facedown on the ground. A black hood covered the prone figure’s face.

  Gabriella’s stomach roiled and pitched. What was Eli wearing when they left for his parents’ house four hundred years ago—earlier in the day? A blue button-down, collared shirt and dark-blue jeans. Nikes. She studied the photo. Blue shirt. Jeans. Nikes.

  Her hands shook. She gritted her teeth and typed with thumbs that seemed to swell.

  Who is this? Where’s Eli?

  Don’t Y recognize him? A smiley face emoji followed.

  “What is it?” Her neck craning, Natalie crowded closer. “What’s he saying?”

  “The text isn’t from him.” Cold chills shimmied up Gabriella’s spine. A heat wave followed. Her lungs shriveled up. Her vision darkened. Breathe. Breathe. God, oh, God, please.

  She tried to type. Her fingers refused to cooperate. Stupid typos. Stupid autocorrect. Breathe.

  What did you do to him?

  Nothing that can’t be undone. Yet.

  Another photo appeared. Jake’s bruised, battered f
ace. Purple-and-black circles surrounded closed eyes. Blood encrusted his swollen, cracked lips.

  Gabriella’s heart hurt. Every part of her body ached as if his wounds had been inflicted on her muscles and bones. “Oh, Jake.”

  Natalie tugged the phone from Gabriella’s fingers. “What have they done to him?”

  Gabriella grabbed it back and started typing.

  What do y want?

  U. U and the video. Come Alone.

  The urge to hurl blew through Gabriella.

  “No way.” Natalie grabbed at the phone. “No, no, you can’t. We’ll call the police.”

  Holding it high over her head, Gabriella danced away from her sister. “One way or the other, I have to go.”

  “Tell them you already shared what you know with law enforcement.”

  “Then they’d have no reason to keep our guys alive. Besides, they know that’s not true. They must think that whatever was on that video will expose their operation. The ATF hasn’t descended on them.”

  “You can’t go out there alone.”

  “They’ll kill them.”

  “Look at the photos.” Natalie’s tone had retreated to cool, clinical, but her warm hand gripped Gabriella’s arm. “Are you sure it hasn’t happened already? And what about Deacon? Chris said they were together.”

  The urge to vomit grew. Bitter acid burned Gabriella’s throat. She swallowed, then started typing.

  Where’s Deacon Alder?

  Reporter is fine.

  Prove it. I want to talk to them.

  No.

  Two photos followed. One of Eli—again from behind—supported between two men in camouflage and ski masks. One of a man in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. Deacon’s standard reporter attire—also between two men wearing camouflage and masks. Eli’s and Deacon’s hands were zip-tied behind them.

  When & where?

  1 hr. directions to follow.

  just y. no cops or they’re dead. tick tock.

  “We need help.” Natalie backed away. “Do you have Jensen’s number?”

  “They said to come alone.”

  “But you’re not an idiot, unlike Eli and Deacon, who apparently walked into a trap.”