by Diane Capri
Kim’s knees felt weak. The gondola was safely on the other side of the substation. Catastrophe averted.
If she’d been a tourist considering a ride before the pilot’s reckless display, she certainly would have changed her mind. But for now, she could return to normal breathing and keep walking.
They approached the vans just as a tall, dark-haired woman tossed a coil of rope into the back and closed the back doors. Another woman wearing a bright yellow fleece approached with a set of keys in her hand. “Ready to go?” she asked.
Cheryl said, “Daphne, this is Kim. She’s interested in taking a ride, so she came out here to watch today. She wants to come along to the landing site.”
“Welcome Kim. Sure, the more the merrier.” Daphne was a couple of years older and seemed to have lost her energy along the way. “Happy to have you join us. But I’m afraid we can’t offer you a ride. The passenger van is full and we’ve got all this equipment.”
“No problem,” Cheryl said, “We’ll follow in Kim’s SUV and I’ll ride back with you in the van.”
A man walked up and slipped his arm around Cheryl and squeezed her a little too tightly. Her face clouded with an expression Kim interpreted as fear.
He gave her a quick kiss on the temple before she could twist away. The port wine birthmark on his face identified him immediately from Finlay’s photographs. Bruce Ray. One of Glen Haven’s founding brothers. The younger son of Gavin Ray. Muscular and strong, he didn’t look like he’d need Reacher’s help for much of anything.
He said, “Gavin’s in a hurry tonight. You about ready?”
“Bruce, this is Kim. She’s observing. Trying to work up the courage to take a ride,” Cheryl said in a friendly way. “We’re all loaded. Tell Gavin to head out and we’re right behind you.”
“Hi, Kim. You should totally try it. You’d love it.” Bruce nodded toward her, gave Cheryl another brief squeeze, whether she wanted him to or not. “See you at the landing site.”
He turned and walked back to the second van. Gavin Ray was at the wheel. Bruce climbed into the passenger seat.
Daphne got into the first van and drove after them. By the time Kim and Cheryl made it back to the Traverse, a few of the other vehicles in the lot had followed the vans onto the dusty two-track toward the main highway.
Kim lined up at the end of the group and followed behind wondering how these friendly people could possibly defend themselves against the Vigo cartel. Given Pinto Vigo’s track record, his plan likely involved killing them all.
He’d have already done that if he was ready to move on.
So what did Vigo want from the commune that was important enough to keep them alive?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, April 14
6:45 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Vigo paced one end of the common room in the barracks, phone in hand, listening to Martin’s report from the Last Chance Saloon about the FBI raid.
Martin had a good head on his shoulders and he was experienced. He’d dealt with troublesome law enforcement matters before. He knew to play it straight. Give them whatever they wanted. Above all, he knew not to draw attention to the cartel’s activities.
So how did this simple two-agent visit go so horribly wrong?
Two FBI agents entered without a warrant, looking for Lawton.
Lawton wasn’t there and no one in the saloon knew where he’d gone. A short conversation conveying those facts should have been the end of it. Ten minutes, tops.
“Names?”
“The man was Peter Ross. The woman didn’t offer ID,” Martin replied.
“You’re sure she was FBI?”
“Yeah. She had the look, you know?” Martin said.
From Martin’s account, the matter had been under control. A harmless exchange of questions and answers. Nothing more.
“So what happened?” Vigo asked.
“The second agent, the woman, saw Big Sela and Maria setting up in the dining room. She got past me. Approached them,” Martin paused as if he didn’t want to confess what went down next. “Then Maria ran. The agent ran after her. Big Sela knocked the agent down and held her down until Maria could get away.”
“Then what?” Vigo asked, crushing the phone in his hand while barely holding his temper.
Martin explained precisely how Agent Ross shot and killed Big Sela when she refused to let the female agent go. Big Sela fought back. She’d done damage. But Ross recovered quickly and shot her in the head. In the end, Big Sela was dead and both agents lived.
Impotent rage flooded Vigo’s body with every word Martin uttered. His sister, Maria, was right. The Asian bitch was to blame for Big Sela’s death. Sela had one job only. To keep Maria from harm. She died in service of her mission. She had been a good soldier. Vigo owed her.
“What’s the agent’s name?” Vigo demanded between clenched teeth.
“Like I said, I didn’t see her badge. Only the man. Peter Ross.” Martin spoke softly, as if he was concerned about being overheard. Which he probably was.
The answer infuriated Vigo. He lashed out to kick the first thing he saw. A flimsy metal dining chair. He kicked it so hard it fell over and skidded across the room, crashing into the wall.
Releasing a bit of rage had cleared his head slightly. Lawton would know her name. Or he could find out. Which was something else Vigo would enjoy squeezing out of him before he died.
Vigo said, “Are they gone now? The saloon is all clear?”
“No. There’s two teams still here. Interviewing everyone. But none of us saw anything at all. We don’t know who ran out the back door,” Martin said as if it were true. He sounded convincing enough. Perhaps the FBI would believe him for a while.
“Exactly right. Keep it that way,” Vigo ordered and disconnected because his sister’s burner phone was vibrating in his pocket.
He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. This time, she was calling instead of sending a coded text. A breach of security. Which meant she had something urgent to say.
Hector and Freddie and a couple of other soldiers were milling around inside the barracks. The basement door was securely locked. The soldiers were armed.
He nodded. “I’m going outside for some air,” he said.
“Okay, boss,” Hector replied.
Vigo closed the door behind him and walked into the gravel parking lot for privacy. There were seven vehicles parked there now. The rest of his crew was inside the second barracks preparing meals and dealing with the women.
The evening temperatures were cooling off. He glanced skyward. The Glen Haven balloon was on course, floating easily in the air currents. From this distance, he couldn’t see or hear the propane blasts that heated the air and kept the balloon afloat.
He watched the balloon as he answered the phone. “Yes?”
Maria said quietly, “I found her.”
Vigo knew who she meant. “How?”
“Waited for her outside the hospital. Followed her to a cheap hotel.”
“She’s there now?”
“No.”
“Is she alone?”
“No.”
Quickly, Vigo ran the problems through in his head. She was an FBI agent. Which meant he couldn’t kill her until he was ready to leave town. He remembered too well what happened to his father.
A dead federal agent would bring the wrath of the government down swiftly. The hyenas in the rival cartels would immediately follow. Within forty-eight hours, his organization would be destroyed.
Or he could wait. Deal with her when he was ready. Which was a better plan.
“You found her once, we can find her again,” he said.
“Or I can take care of her now and we won’t need to find her again,” Maria replied.
Vigo closed his eyes and shook his head, a sinking feeling in his gut. Maria had always been impulsive and uncontrollable. Big Sela would probably be alive now if Maria hadn’t drawn attention to hersel
f by running out of the saloon. What she’d done was foolish. But it didn’t matter now, so he didn’t say any of that.
“That’s not a good idea. You’ll have your chance. But not now.” He imagined her listening to him. Just once. Even as he knew the likelihood was slim. Maria only listened when she felt like it. “We have other things to accomplish before we leave here.”
She was quiet for a long time.
He listened closely. He could hear traffic noises in the background.
He asked, “Are you driving?”
“Yes.”
“You’re following her?” Vigo swallowed hard. The big shipment would arrive tomorrow. If he lost the inventory due to her recklessness, buyers would come after him like the hounds of hell. The war would rival the one he fled in Mexico. The feds would be the least of his worries.
“Of course I’m following her,” she said.
“Maria, listen to me. Don’t do it.”
Maria didn’t reply.
“If you kill her, you’re on your own. Run. Now. Tonight. Get as far away as you can as fast as you can and lay low. You hear?” Vigo told her as sternly as their father would have done. If she did this reckless thing, she’d be hunted down like a dog. And he’d be hunted right along with her. “Don’t come here. Don’t call. I’ll find you when things cool down.”
Sardonically, she replied, “You’re being dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Not even a little bit. I know what I’m talking about. You saw what happened to our brothers. Our father. You were there with me at the battle in Mexico. I promise you’ll have your revenge. But not yet,” he said, pleading.
Her silence lasted a good long time. He hoped she was thinking things through and would see the situation his way.
“See you when I see you, brother,” she replied before she disconnected.
He stood listening to dead air for almost a full minute before he cursed, dropped the phone into his pocket, kicked the dirt with the toe of his boots on his return to the barracks.
He strode into the big room and made eye contact with the two soldiers. “Go next door. Prepare the women and get them to town. Wait there until I call for you.”
They marched quickly past him and closed the door on their way out. He waited a couple of minutes to give them time to get into the other building.
Vigo ordered gruffly, “Hector. Bring O’Hare.”
Hector moved toward the basement. “What about Lawton?”
“One at a time,” Vigo replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Thursday, April 14
7:45 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Kim followed the slow caravan of vehicles along the dusty backroads toward the balloon’s landing site. The brightly colored balloon envelope was clearly visible ahead. She guessed it was about 2,000 feet up in the air. Its flight path would have been easy to monitor even without Cheryl along for guidance.
They traveled to the main road and turned south for a couple of miles, keeping the balloon in sight. They passed a busy intersection and then ran into what seemed like nothing but desert before the lead van turned off onto the backroads.
“How far will the balloon travel before it lands?” Kim asked, steering around a deep rut in the gravel road and bouncing back onto flatter ground. The Traverse had decent suspension, but the road was far from smooth. She felt like she was riding over uneven railroad ties.
“Well, the longest hot air balloon ride was recorded at more than twenty-five thousand miles. So they can go quite a distance, depending on a lot of factors,” Cheryl replied with a friendly smile. “Today? About five miles. We can run about twenty miles on our standard propane setup. In case there was some reason we couldn’t land where we usually do. And sometimes we offer premium rides for ten miles or so. But the passengers are usually ready to come down after an hour.”
“How fast does it travel? It seems slow from here.”
Cheryl shrugged, bouncing with aplomb every time the wheels hit another hole. “Depends on the wind speed. Maximum safe speed is about ten miles an hour. Today we’ve got light winds, blue skies, and no rain. So it’s covering about five miles an hour, so four-and-a-half knots, give or take.”
Kim glanced toward her. She looked as relaxed and easygoing as she sounded. While Kim’s attention was diverted, the Traverse’s front wheel landed hard at the bottom of another pothole. The bounce lifted Cheryl off her seat and thumped her head on the roof.
“Ow!” Cheryl yelled. She reached for the hand grip and held on tight as the Traverse kept moving and the back wheel landed in the same deep hole. “Jeez! Watch where you’re going!”
Kim nodded. “Sorry. Maybe put your seat belt on. This road is—”
“Yeah. Got it.” Cheryl replied sourly as she reached for the belt and snapped the tongue into the buckle and pulled to snug the strap. She rubbed the top of her head, offering a wobbly smile. “I’m going to have a pretty solid lump there later.”
“Sorry,” Kim said again, slowing the Traverse to what felt like a bouncy crawl.
The balloon had begun its graceful descent, gliding down slowly, easily.
The crew van had pulled off the dirt road onto level ground and headed further off-road to meet up with the balloon’s estimated landing site.
“How long will it take the crew to finish up here once the balloon lands?” Kim asked.
“It takes a while. There’s a lot to do. We usually encourage the passengers to leave after about half an hour so we can finish up without interruptions,” she replied.
The other vehicles followed the crew van and Kim steered the Traverse behind them to the parking place. She slipped the transmission into park, which allowed Cheryl to open the passenger door.
Cheryl pulled a business card out of her pocket and handed it to Kim. “I’ve got to go help with the gear. I hope you’ll join us another time for a ride, now that you’ve seen how easy and safe it is. Set up an appointment on one of my flights. I’ll be sure you have a terrific experience.”
“Thanks. Will do.” Kim looked at the card, which said “Glen Haven Balloons.” It listed a phone number and flight times. She stepped out of the vehicle as Cheryl waved and jogged toward the gondola basket, which was only a few feet overhead now.
Kim leaned against the Traverse and watched for a bit as the gondola bounced a few times and then settled gently on the earth and the crew helped the passengers disembark. She glanced around the open area. Nothing to see much in any direction except desert sands. Scattered rocky outcroppings dotted the landscape here and there, some larger than others.
Once the gondola had landed on solid ground, the ground crew became energized into a flurry of activity. The champagne toast was set up twenty feet off to the right and the passengers’ friends were encouraged to gather there to wait. Two crew members scurried to place a tarp on the ground to protect the balloon envelope while it deflated. Heavy ropes and other gear were removed from the van and placed to anchor the balloon.
Kim’s body was flooded by an odd sense of déjà vu. The group standing around. Nothing but empty country for miles in every direction. Something about it made her uneasy. A wave of worry washed over her. She tried to shake it off, even as she scanned the distance for threats she could sense but not see.
One crew member placed an elevated platform on the ground while another steadied a small step ladder inside the basket. Passengers climbed out of the basket, one at a time. A white-haired man steadied himself inside the basket while another crew member assisted. He climbed the ladder’s two steps, threw a leg over the basket’s side, and stepped out onto the platform outside where a second crew member waited and waved him toward the champagne.
Kim watched three more passengers disembark while the crew prepared to fully deflate the envelope and collect their equipment after the toast. The whole process seemed to run smoothly, despite all the moving parts.
The last passenger was a petite woman about Kim’s size wit
h long, black hair gathered into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck by a bright yellow scrunchy. She hopped up the step ladder, put two hands on the basket’s rim, and tossed herself out.
Her body twisted and landed gracefully on the platform like the gymnast she probably was. The other passengers and their friends applauded and she raised her arms in a mock “V” for victory, smiling and bowing as the others laughed.
The balloon’s equipment, the crew’s activities, the passengers and their friends’ frivolity overwhelmed the desert’s natural silence.
Which was why Kim didn’t hear the first gun shot. But she saw the murderous result.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Thursday, April 14
8:00 p.m.
Albuquerque, New Mexico
Arms still raised, the gymnast collapsed on the platform, blood exploding from her chest as if she’d been hit with a sledgehammer hard enough to bust her tiny body open. Her blood spattered over two of the crew members who were standing nearby.
Kim screamed, “Get down! Get down!”
If the bullet had landed twelve inches to the right of the gymnast, it would have hit the propane tank. The explosion would have been spectacularly destructive. No one would have survived.
But no more shots followed the first.
She strained to hear anything remotely like a second attempt. She drew her weapon and swiftly scanned the area for the killer.
Three rock outcroppings could have concealed the sniper’s nest. All were too far away for her pistol’s range. Which meant the shooter had used a rifle.
She saw something glint in the fading light more than a hundred yards away. A scope or field glasses, maybe. Or had she imagined the brief flash? She peered toward it, but didn’t see it again.
Ignoring the panicked group lying flat on the ground, Kim crouched low and, using the vehicles for cover, ran to the fallen gymnast. When she was closer to the body, she confirmed with a glance that the woman was beyond rescue.
