Hard Edge

by Pamela Clare

  Holy shit!

  Adrenaline hit her bloodstream, but she kept her composure.

  She pretended to examine a bag of coffee beans. “We’re in the basement. They have seventeen men. There’s an armed guard with us at all times. The stairway to the basement is to the right of the main doors. There’s no other way out of that room. The windows are too high and barred. Topo, the man behind me with the glasses, has instructions to shoot if I say too much or try to run.”

  He looked behind her, saw Topo, then switched to Spanish. “The coffee beans are yours, Hermana. Will you pray for me?”

  “Of course.” Overwhelmed with relief, she made the sign of the cross. “May God bless you and keep you. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  The other man, who must also have been a US operative, reappeared with a box of maxi pads and a box of tampons in his hands. “For you, Hermana.”

  She paid with the handful of dollar bills Topo had given her, the intensity in the man’s gray eyes offering reassurance.

  Not wanting to arouse suspicion, Gabriela hurried back to Topo, her hands full. “They gave me the coffee beans in exchange for a blessing. See? I told you I would not try to run away.”

  “Come. Pitón is getting impatient.” Topo took the coffee beans from her and hurried her back to the warehouse.

  4

  Dylan worked with Jones to keep the merchandise moving, hungry, desperate people looking at them with hope in their eyes. He handed an older woman an extra bag of beans, wishing he could do more for her. “For you, abuelita.”

  “God bless you!”

  When they’d sold through the stock they’d planned to sell today, he and Jones headed upstairs, both careful that they weren’t followed. They didn’t say a word in English until they were behind the locked door of their apartment.

  “Holy shit, brother.” Jones walked to the fridge, took out a bottle of water. “Can you believe that? She walked right up to us.”

  “I got it on camera,” Segal said from across the room. “You spoke with her.”

  Dylan recounted his brief exchange with Sister María. “She told me the hostages are in the basement and that there’s only one entrance—a flight of stairs to the right of the main doors. There’s a guard with them at all times. There are seventeen men in the warehouse, so we’ve missed two somehow.”

  The two men gaped at him.

  Jones looked impressed. “She told you that? Smart nun.”

  Segal left the window, walked over to them, his gaze on Dylan. “You took a big risk by revealing us to her.”

  “Listen, man, I know it’s not in the playbook, but I saw that bruise on her face and wanted her to know she’s not alone.”

  In truth, Dylan had wanted to cross the street and put a bullet through Pitón’s skull, but that would have to wait.

  Segal swore in Hebrew. “Our security is more important than her morale. What if she tells the other hostages and someone overhears? What if one of them lets it slip?”

  “Brother, you need a nap.” Jones sank onto the sofa. “If she’s smart enough to give us actionable intel, she’s probably smart enough not to tell anyone we’re coming.”

  “It’s like she knew exactly what we need to know.” This had to be the luckiest damned op of Dylan’s career. “Let’s get this information to Tower.”

  Five minutes later, they were in a video conference with Tower and Shields again.

  It wasn’t often Dylan saw Tower taken aback by news. “She told you all of that?”

  “In one breath.” Dylan respected the hell out of her.

  Okay, so he also had a bit of a crush on her.

  She’s a nun, a virgin, a bride of Christ.

  He’d always been an idiot when it came to women. That’s why he chose to stay single.

  “Was she alone?” Tower asked.

  “No, the sicario with thick glasses was a few steps behind her, keeping an eye on her. She said he had orders to shoot if she ran or said too much.”

  “Why would they send her to do the shopping?” Segal asked.

  “Oh, come on.” Shields smiled. “That’s easy. Do these guys seem like they’d feel comfortable asking other men for menstrual products?”

  Now that Shields mentioned it, it had surprised Dylan when Sister María asked for pads or tampons. He’d never thought of nuns as having periods. He’d grown up thinking of them as holy figures who had more in common with the Blessed Virgin than they did with other women. But, of course, they must have periods like every other human female.

  “Point taken.” Tower read back what he had in his notes. “Is that everything?”

  “Yes, sir. We ought to be able to move quickly now.”

  Tower nodded. “I’ll bring Andris into the loop, and we’ll start building the op. I want more information about the inside of the warehouse. There must be another way into that basement, something the good Sister hasn’t seen. I’d like more information about those windows—how big they are, whether the bars are removable, and so on.”

  But Tower wasn’t done. “Cruz, I’m looking at you now. Don’t get too familiar with Sister María. If she starts buying something from you every day or spends too much time chatting with you, Sánchez’s men are going to get suspicious. They’re not idiots. They might move the hostages, and then we’ll be starting from scratch. Don’t tell her anything else. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s almost sixteen-hundred hours. There’s no point in talking again in an hour. Let’s check in tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred.”

  The meeting ended.

  Jones chuckled, got to his feet. “He set you straight, brother.”

  “Yeah, well, I probably deserved it.”

  “He let you off easy.” Segal stretched, grinned. “I’d have fired your ass.”

  “Hey, Segal, how do you say ‘fuck off’ in Hebrew?” Chuckling, Dylan walked to the window, took a seat, and began his watch.

  Gabriela washed the bowls that had held tonight’s portion of beans and rice, ignoring Pitón’s drunken ramblings, her mind on her brief conversation with the American spec ops guy.

  We’re here to free you and the other hostages, Sister. Don’t be afraid.

  She’d never been so happy to see US military personnel. At the same time, she’d been astounded. She knew what was at stake—not just her life and the life of the hostages, but the relationship between the US and Venezuela.

  If US troops were discovered on the ground here…

  She ought to have realized right away that they were spec ops. It wasn’t just their physiques—all that muscle. It was also the neat haircuts, their awareness of their surroundings, the way they carried themselves with that hard edge one only saw in special operations guys. But the real giveaway ought to have been their low prices, as if the money weren’t important.

  The black market in Venezuela was ruthless.

  The man she’d spoken to, the one with the gray eyes, had called her Sister. That meant the Agency hadn’t broken her cover and she needed to remain Sister María Catalina. The Agency must be trying to protect their string of assets, from the Reverend Mother Beatrice in Peru to Gabriela’s contacts here. If it got out that the religious sister who was abducted with two US journalists was an Agency officer, the diplomatic fallout would be terrible—and good people would die.

  “Eh, Hermana!” Pitón walked up behind her. “I asked if you’re a virgin.”

  On her knees, she was vulnerable, so she stood. “What happened to make you so hateful? Pitón isn’t your real name.”

  “He’s Eduardo,” one of the men called out.

  Sniggers.

  “You were baptized Eduardo, but now you go by Pitón. Why?” She willed compassion to fill her voice, not the loathing she felt for him. “Who was so cruel to you, Eduardo?”

  He grabbed her by the arm, ducked down until his face was inches from hers, his breath reeking of alcohol, his skin unwashed, his fingers bi
ting into her arm. “You need to speak to me with more respect.”

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “If you want my respect, you must earn it.”

  “I could order my men to rape you. By the time we’re all done, not even Christ would want you.”

  She refused to show fear. “Nothing you can do to me could change who I am. My strength comes from God. Besides, your boss would punish you.”

  “You’re drunk, Pitón.” Topo moved cautiously toward them, clearly afraid of the bigger man. “Leave her alone!”

  Pitón released her, staggered back, drew his pistol—and waved it at Topo. “Shut up, you stupid—!”

  BAM!

  Gabriela gasped, watched in horror as Topo crumpled, blood bubbling from a bullet hole in his throat, his glasses flying.

  “I didn’t mean to shoot! The gun just went off!”

  She ran to Topo’s side but knew there was nothing she could do. She took his hand, gazed into his terrified eyes. She didn’t care that she wasn’t a priest or even truly a nun. He’d been shot trying to protect her. She would do all she could to ease his passing. “What is his real name?”

  “Miguel!” someone shouted.

  “Sor-ry!” He managed to croak.

  “Don’t be afraid, Miguel. You’re in God’s hands now.” She began to pray. “Through the holy mysteries of our redemption, may Almighty God release you from all punishments in this life and in the life to come. May He open to you the gates of paradise and welcome you to everlasting joy.”

  Topo/Miguel seemed to relax—or maybe that was just blood loss.

  With her free hand, she made the sign of the cross over him. “May God forgive you of your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  He shuddered—and was gone.

  Gabriela closed her eyes, fought to control her shock—and her rage.

  Behind her, that malparido Pitón was doing damage control. “It was an accident. You all saw that. It was an accident.”

  Gabriela closed Topo’s lifeless eyes, her gaze falling on a chain that had hung around his neck. The bullet had split it. Lying on the floor in a pool of blood was the key. She’d seen him use it to unlock the main doors.

  Did she dare take it?

  If they found the broken chain, they would suspect her, and then God only knew what they’d do. With Topo gone, Pitón would be more of a threat, and Gabriela didn’t want to do anything to put the other hostages at risk. Then again, if she could get it to the guys across the street, they might all get out of this hell hole sooner.

  Keeping her head bowed so her veil would conceal her actions, she took the chain and the key and slipped them both inside her tunic.

  Then she crossed herself with a bloody hand and stood to face Pitón. “Someone needs to tell his family and call for a priest to—”

  “¡Cállate!” Shut up! Pitón slipped his pistol back into his jeans. “We’ll drive his body to the river. Find plastic bags or a tarp.”

  “Pitón, man, we don’t have those things. We’ll have to go find some tomorrow.”

  Gabriela spoke on impulse. “Those men who sold me the tampons also had plastic bags. You could try to find them. I saw them walk around the corner. They can’t be far.”

  She was sure the spec ops guys would be watching, but getting Pitón to ask for their help wouldn’t be easy. Getting close enough to hand them the key—that was going to take a miracle.

  Dylan stood with the others at the window, the lights in the apartment turned off. “What the fuck is going on in there?”

  Jones had been on duty at the camera when the three of them heard what sounded like a gunshot. “They’re opening the doors. I see Sister María.”

  Click. Click. Click.

  Dylan moved into action, grabbing his SIG. “Segal, you take the camera. Jones and I will head down to the street and see if we can overhear anything and figure out what’s going on. Jones, grab the soccer ball and some smokes.”

  Needing to look like smugglers, they tucked their firearms in their jeans and took the stairs as fast as they could, stepping into the warm, humid night. They sat on the stairs, ball between them, and lit up a cigarette.

  “Did you see her ass?” Dylan wanted it to seem like they’d been sitting there for hours, just two guys shooting the shit.

  The bastard called Pitón came around the corner, followed by two of his men.

  Dylan didn’t acknowledge him. They were strangers, after all.

  Pitón stopped. “Were you selling things in the street today?”

  Pitón had come looking for them?

  “Is there something you need?” Dylan stood, handed the cigarette to Jones, who pretended to take a drag.

  Neither of them smoked.

  “Plastic bags, the big kind.”

  “Sí, we have those.” Dylan gave Jones a nod, and Jones headed back up to the apartment.

  “Cuban?” Pitón seemed to study Dylan.

  Dylan nodded. “I came to support the Revolution.”

  “And get rich selling stuff on the black market.” Pitón grinned, his expression telling Dylan that he could at least respect those motives.

  Dylan smiled back. “That, too.”

  Jones must have taken the stairs two at a time, because he returned quickly, a box of black plastic bags in hand.

  “How are you paying?”

  Pitón drew a five-dollar bill out of his pocket. “Is this good?”

  “Sí, claro.” Of course. Dylan grinned, took the money, while Jones handed the bastard his plastic bags. “Give him a cigarette, too. When you pay with US dollars, you get a bonus.”

  Pitón seemed pleased by that. “Gracias, panas.” Thanks, buddies.

  We’re not your buddies, you motherfucker.

  Dylan watched him go, he and Jones staying on the steps until the cigarette burned itself to ash. Then they headed back inside, neither of them speaking until they were behind locked doors once again.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Jones asked.

  Combined with that gunshot, it seemed pretty clear to Dylan. “Anyone want to bet they’re getting rid of a body?”

  But whose body was it?

  “You two need to see this.”

  Dylan walked through the dark apartment to the window, but the doors to the warehouse were closed again. “See what?”

  Nothing was happening in the street below.

  “This.” Segal scrolled through images on the camera.

  An image of Sister María peering out from the doorway, as if watching Pitón and his men. Sister María looking back over her shoulder.

  “What is she doing—trying to escape?”

  “No, man, watch.” Segal had taken video of what came next.

  Sister María stepped outside and all but ran into the street and dropped something in the middle of the road before hurrying back indoors.

  “What the …?” Dylan stared at the screen. “We better go see what she dropped.”

  “I’ll go. I need some fresh air.” Segal stood, tucked a weapon into his jeans, and grabbed an old-school iPod and some earphones.

  Dylan and Jones watched through the window as Segal, head nodding along to his music, came around the corner and walked down the center of the darkened street.

  “He’d better find it.”

  “He will.”

  Long minutes passed before Segal bent down, retrieved something, and slipped it into his pocket. Then he took off down the street again, probably planning to walk around the block. A few minutes later, the door opened, and he stepped inside.

  “You’re not going to believe this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a broken chain—and a key. “She left us a fucking key.”

  “A key to what?”

  “I’m guessing she thought we’d be smart enough to figure that out.”

  They moved the camera gear away from the window and drew the curtains before turning on the light.

  “It’s covered i
n blood.” Segal walked into the kitchen, washed it off in the sink.

  Dylan followed him. “Could that be her blood?”

  “She didn’t look injured when she ran into the street.”

  Dylan took the chain while Segal washed his hands. The chain had been broken by force, the key large, the kind that opened a big deadbolt. “We need to check in, get all of this to Shields and Tower.”

  5

  After she’d cleaned up the blood, a man they called El Cebo—Bait—brought Gabriela back down to the basement where Dianne and Tim were relieved to see her alive. While El Cebo told Gordito what had happened, she explained the situation to Dianne and Tim in whispers.

  “Pitón accidentally shot and killed Topo when he tried to defend me.”

  “Dear God.” Dianne took Gabriela’s hand. “I thought they’d killed you.”

  “¡Cállate!” Shut up! Gordito looked angrier than usual and got in El Cebo’s face, speaking in fast and furious Spanish. “Pitón is a stupid bastard. Why do all of you follow him? You’re like sheep. You’re cowards.”

  Gordito and Topo had been buddies.

  El Cebo shrugged. “The boss put him in charge. They’re taking Topo’s body to the river now.”

  “Mamagüevos!” Cocksuckers!

  Gordito shoved El Cebo aside and bolted up the stairs.

  El Cebo stared after him then seemed to realize he was now in charge of the hostages. “No talking!”

  Gabriela sat on her blanket, pretending to retreat into the solace of prayer, indistinct shouts coming from upstairs. She drew a breath, tried to let the stress of what she’d just witnessed drain from her. She and the hostages were safe.

  They’re going to come looking for that key.

  Yes, but they wouldn’t find it.

  The guards had left her alone to clean up the blood while they’d moved the body. She’d seen her chance, so she’d taken it, running into the street, dropping the key and chain on the chance that the spec ops guys were watching.

  What if they didn’t see you? What if they don’t find it? What if they find it but have no idea which doors it opens?