by Marc Cameron
Angelica could not have been more surprised if Justino had slapped her.
In retrospect, he knew he should have consulted her, but it was done, and anyway, he’d showed some initiative. She was always saying he should do more of that.
“I wanted to let him know we would be on time with our payment,” Justino said, eyes downcast, unable to meet his wife’s gaze. “I did not think he would come here.”
“In any case,” Richter said, plowing ahead. “I wish to let you know that it would be my great honor to take over from here. I will assume all the risk and we will call our debt even. The ransom negotiations for these prisoners will prove a lengthy and dangerous process.”
Angelica’s eyes darkened. “And you will assume the collection of the money as well?”
“Of course,” Richter said. “There is great danger in exchanging human beings for payment. You may take my word on that.”
“Justino and I will stay the course with our present arrangement,” Angelica said. “You will be repaid before the date agreed, with interest.” Her hands dropped into the pockets on either side of her robe as if she were cold. Justino knew she was holding the pistol. She opened the door. “Now, if you will excuse us, we still have much to do.”
The two men were still waiting outside.
Violeta remained passive, snakelike, her eyes focusing on nothing—and everything. Richter cocked his head to one side, nostrils flaring at the rebuff.
“You are quite sure?” he asked. “This decision is fraught with peril.”
“We have taken precautions,” Angelica said, stone faced.
Richter shrugged. “Very well. I wish you much luck.”
He turned and left without another word.
Angelica turned the bolt on the door as soon as it was shut. “From now on,” she said. “We talk to no one unless we discuss it first. Agreed?”
Justino nodded. “I only thought—”
“I know what you thought, mi amor,” she said. “I must ask you a question. Did you tell Richter the names of our . . . guests?”
Justino shook his head. “I did not. I only told him they were North Americans and that we would be able to pay our debt on time.”
Angelica rubbed a hand across her face, thinking.
“Nothing else? No numbers?”
“No,” Justino said.
“That is interesting indeed,” Angelica said. “We could have had two college students down for a holiday. But Richter somehow knew there were five of them. And he knows that at least one of them comes from a wealthy enough family to make it worth his time and risk.”
Justino rested both palms on the desk, the chill of sudden realization washing over him. “That means one of Jelly’s men is working for Richter. Maybe even Jelly himself.”
Angelica shook her head, already pushing buttons on her mobile phone. “Not Jelly,” she said. “I have known his mother since we were children. He may as well be blood to me.” She held the phone to her ear. “I am calling him now . . . Hello, Jelly . . . Listen very carefully. There has been a change of plans. The pilot will arrive shortly to pick you up. Tell him to take you to the camp instead of the yerba mate plantation . . . Correct. Do not tell the others. And instruct the pilot not to contact anyone about the change. We will be waiting for you when you land . . . And Jelly . . . be safe, my friend. Si . . . Chau . . . Un beso.”
Justino worked to keep from rolling his eyes. Angelica had just told her lead kidnapper goodbye by giving him a figurative “kiss.”
They were both coming unhinged.
“Does your secretary still come in early?” Angelica asked.
Justino nodded.
“Very well,” she said. “Get dressed, mi amor. Richter will suspect we will change our plans and is surely waiting out front somewhere to follow us.”
“Or to murder us,” Justino offered.
“Maybe,” Angelica shrugged, stripping her robe and pulling the gown up over her head as she spoke. “But I think not. He is too greedy to kill us before we pay him back his money. Even if he takes Grey and his friends, he will still want to be paid.”
“But we will have no way to pay him then,” Justino said, near tears.
Angelica ignored his whining. “We will slip out the back and borrow your secretary’s car to go and meet the plane. Richter spoke of the prisoners and the guests. I want to know why he thinks more than one of them is worth his trouble.”
Chapter 6
A woman wearing tan slacks and a crisp white polo shirt welcomed Quinn and the others aboard Riley Grey’s spotless Cessna Citation X. She wore little makeup and her dark hair was cut pixie short, giving her a freshly scrubbed look. Quinn had to stoop as he entered the plush but narrow plane. The interior had the new-car-and-coffee smell common to corporate aircraft.
Quinn had thought the woman was one of the pilots but was surprised to find two men already seated in the cockpit. The front four seats were set up in a vis-a-vis configuration with six more identical leather seats behind it, one on each side of the aircraft in three rows. Depressions in the carpet showed that two of the seats had been added recently, probably within the last hour. The big Cajun came in behind Quinn and leaned into the cockpit, then turned to give a thumbs up. “Salt and pepper hair on both,” he said. “Just the way I like my pilots—years of experience.”
“Mr. Grey sends his regards,” the woman said. “I’m Dr. Roselyn Patrick, Mr. Grey’s personal physician.”
Thibodaux transferred his bag from his right hand to his left and reached to shake hands with the doctor.
“Damn, Doc,” he said. “Glad I didn’t jump to conclusions and ask you for coffee.”
Dr. Patrick smiled. “I don’t mind getting you some coffee,” she said. “But my medical opinion is that you should try and get some sleep. This is going to be a long flight for someone as big as you. Please, take a seat anywhere, stretch out as best you can.”
Miyagi put her bag in an aft facing seat. “Do you normally travel with Mr. Grey?”
“I do,” Dr. Patrick said. “He’s a very athletic human being—in some very remote parts of the world. He sent me to care for Steven once you retrieve him.”
Quinn nodded. That was optimistic—but what else could a father be?
The first officer, who turned out to have a soft-spoken southern drawl, craned around in his seat on the right side of the cockpit and waved to grab everyone’s attention.
“Welcome aboard,” he said. “Mr. Grey has instructed us not to spare the horses on this trip, but there’s no way around it, we’re in for a long ride. We’ll make our fuel stop in Panama quick, but even at our max cruising speed of Mach .82, we’re still looking at a thirteen-hour trip. Doctor Patrick will give you a safety briefing and should be able to answer any questions.”
Even with the new configuration, there wasn’t a bad seat on the plane. Still, Quinn left the forward seats to Thibodaux so he’d have maximum leg room, and took a spot in the back. Out of habit, he sat on the left side of the aircraft, to keep his gun hand free and in the aisle—though he was traveling light on this trip. The last thing he wanted to do was get sideways with Argentine customs by showing up in their country carrying his Kimber.
Quinn looked across the confines of the Citation’s cabin at Thibodaux and Miyagi, who had both settled into their seats to read—or at least stare at a book while they thought. The monstrous, one-eyed Cajun and the enigmatic little Japanese woman had dropped everything to come with him. Between the three of them they had more scars than most people had skin. Their experience and skill made them formidable weapons. But they were going into this blind, to a foreign country, with none of their usual lines of support. Friends. No, more than that. They were family.
Quinn’s cellphone buzzed in his pocket the moment he sat down. He’d long since given up on Bo calling him back, but was grateful to hear Ronnie’s voice on the other end. He gave her their ETA. She told him her friend Soledad would be there waiting.
; “I feel terrible that I can’t help,” Ronnie said.
Quinn shook his head, despite the fact that he was on the phone. “Don’t,” he said. “What you’re doing there is important.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But not as important as what you’re doing.”
“I’m sure it’s important to someone,” Quinn said. “Anyway, I might need help running interference from the boss, if he catches wind that we’re down here.” The line clicked, signifying another call. He took the phone away from his ear long enough to see it was Riley Grey.
“I have to go,” Quinn said.
“Be safe,” she said. “You’ll bring him home. I know it.”
Quinn was hopeful, but not nearly so optimistic as everyone else. He’d seen too many good people die because they happened to be standing in the wrong spot or crossing the street at the wrong place.
“Quinn,” he said, answering the incoming call.
Grey started right in without a greeting, reminding Jericho of his boss, Winfield Palmer, the national security advisor. He supposed rich and powerful people got in that habit.
“I received a ransom demand of sorts in my inbox fifteen minutes ago.”
“Forward it to me.” Quinn put the phone on speaker so Jacques and Emiko could hear and then gave Grey his email address.
“It says not to contact the police,” Grey added.
“I’m not surprised,” Quinn said.
“Should I do what it tells me to? Not call the police, I mean?”
“That’s something you’ll have to decide for yourself,” Quinn said.
“Aren’t you the police?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Quinn said. “But if we’re going to bring your son and my brother back, I may not have the luxury of acting very much like a police officer.”
“That is exactly what I wanted to hear,” Grey said. “I’d prefer to trust you to do what needs to be done. We’ll keep this between us.”
Miyagi nodded. Thibodaux gave a thumbs up.
“Very well,” Quinn said. “Please tell me if you change your mind. Have you responded to the email?”
“Not yet,” Grey said. “I have my best techs combing the file for any metadata or other digital tracks that might lead us back to whoever has Steven. If there is anything there, my guys will find it. I’m surprised kidnappers would send an email to someone like me.”
“That is odd,” Quinn said. It might mean they were not particularly sophisticated, which was a concern, but he didn’t say it out loud. “How much did they ask for?”
“Three million. Instructions for payment to come later.”
Thibodaux grimaced and mouthed the amount.
“Stand by a minute,” Grey said. “Another email just landed in my inbox.”
Quinn checked the time on his Aquaracer while he waited. Argentina was an hour later than DC. With the time difference, that put them wheels down sometime around 11:00 p.m. local, almost fifteen hours from the time Bo had sent up his SOS. Light-years faster than a law enforcement team could have gotten spooled up, but it was an eternity when you had a gun to your head—as Bo and the others surely did.
The FBI and Homeland Security had capable agents already on the ground in Buenos Aires, but they were few in number, and still had to answer to the bureaucracy of their respective agencies. Officially, Quinn would have told anyone else in this present situation to share the ransom demands and every other correspondence with the FBI. They were the experts in kidnap recovery. But a federal law enforcement response to a kidnapping in another country would mean liaison with foreign governments, deconfliction with their law enforcement—who might or might not be compromised—and a lengthy negotiation.
Quinn planned to do whatever it took to bring Bo and the others home.
Negotiation wouldn’t even enter the picture.
Grey came back on the line, his voice even more hollow than it had been. “I’m not sure what to think of this.”
“Instructions for how you’re supposed to make payment?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Grey said. “A second demand for ransom, this one asking for five million dollars—from a completely different party.”
Quinn felt a knot form in his chest. “A different party?”
“I’m forwarding you the email now,” Grey said.
Quinn left the phone on speaker while he opened the email.
Mr. Grey,
Associates of mine have come into the possession of your son and others. It is my belief that these people have reached out to you for payment by this point. The situation here is fluid and your son will very soon find himself under my care. I would urge you to forgo further contact with the first party and conduct negotiations with me only. Five million dollars would aid in my expenses for your son’s safe return.
I will be in touch soon.
A Friend.
“What do you make of this?” Grey asked.
Quinn looked at the others. “I hate to say it,” he said. “A double cross maybe. Another cartel? In any case, someone smells a payday, so they’re planning to grab Steven from whoever planned the original kidnapping.”
“Could be it’s the same damned group?” Thibodaux mused. “Just makin’ us think there’s something going on because they decided they didn’t ask for enough in the first place.”
“That is a possibility,” Miyagi said, uncharacteristically agreeing with Jacques out loud.
An exhausted sigh came from the other end of the line. “If there are more people involved, maybe that will leave more of a trail.”
“Maybe,” Quinn said. But a trail of what?
Grey promised to call as soon as he got any more emails and ended the call.
A moment later, the Citation X threw Quinn back into the leather seat as it shot down the runway.
Able to get awfully close to cruising at Mach 1, the Citation X was the fastest business jet on the market—but there weren’t a lot of business owners who could afford to pay over twenty million dollars for a plane. Quinn had a fleeting thought that it must be nice to be so rich, until he realized that Riley Grey’s wealth came with a price, the price of turning his family into a target. But then, Quinn wasn’t rich, not by a long shot, and his line of work had turned his friends and family into literal targets on too many occasions to count.
He read over both emails again. Quinn wanted to believe that this was merely a case of some unsophisticated kidnappers asking for more money. But that wasn’t the case. The wording and tone were different in each note, the “voice” of two separate writers. No, Bo and the others were caught in the crossfire between two warring groups, and “fluid” didn’t even begin to describe the situation.
He leaned back and shut his eyes. “Keep your head down, little brother. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 7
The smell of chicken shit and sour apples oozed from the Cessna Caravan’s cloth seats. The pilot, an ancient man with squinty eyes and skin as dark as a roasted coffee bean, likely made his living flying whatever anyone paid him to fly, be it livestock or live human beings. He’d surely seen many things over his long life, leaving Bo to wonder if that was the reason his eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint.
Bo’s hands were still cuffed behind his back so he couldn’t get a look at his watch. He estimated they’d been in the air for nearly two hours. Counting the drive to the remote airfield out of Buenos Aires—north, judging from the sun—and the time they’d spent on the ground waiting for the aircraft to show up, something like five hours had elapsed from the time they’d been grabbed.
Steven was holding up okay, though it was clear from the pained expression on his face that he blamed himself for all this. Eva had started off in tears, but had become more and more defiant the longer they were in captivity. Defiance had a place, but not until they knew a little more about their captors. For now, her angry outbursts only incited the men. Those that were scared reacted with more brutality to hide their fear. La Pulga, the little flea wi
th the Ivy League sweater, just looked at her and smiled as if taking notes about what he planned to do.
Not counting the grizzled old pilot, there were twelve passengers on the plane, taking up all the seats in the back and leaving the wounded Toro lying in the aisle with his head on a duffel in the rear cargo area. He’d cut a walking stick from the green limb of a jacaranda tree and used it to threaten the prisoners when they got in his way or came near his broken leg.
Jelly, the apparent leader, sat up front. He was young, like most of the rest, well dressed in a blue and white rugby shirt of Argentina’s national team. Larger than Toro, Jelly’s bulk was gained from his time in the gym rather than a diet of empanadas and sweets.
Bo felt his ears pop as the pilot began to descend. Bo recognized the confluence of the Iguazú and Paraná rivers that formed the borders of Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. He watched the brown rivers and patchwork of green fields and seemingly impassable jungle as they passed beneath the plane. The deep canyon called Garganta del Diablo, or Devil’s Throat, and the frothy white Iguazú Falls came into view as the pilot banked back to the south, staying in Argentina. The sprawling city of Paraguay’s Ciudad del Este lay to the left, across the Paraná.
It made sense that Jelly would bring them here. The Triple Frontier had a reputation as a haven for smuggling everything from counterfeit goods to humans. Bo and his group had come down the Pan-American Highway, riding through Quito, Lima, and Antofagasta, before turning east in Valparaíso, Chile to reach Buenos Aires. The original plan was to spend a couple of days poking around BA before riding down to Ushuaia at the southern tip of South America before eventually heading back up to see Iguazú Falls.
Now that they were here, Bo couldn’t help but wonder if this aerial view might be the only one he’d ever get. They knew who Steven was, that was obvious from the way they kept him apart from the others and treated him like a golden egg—not exactly good, but valuable. The would be demanding ransom soon, for Steven at least. So far, they didn’t seem to know the significance of who else they had. Matt wouldn’t shut up about how his dad would be happy to buy his freedom, but for some reason, none of that seemed to impress them, least of all The Flea, who seemed to be in this for something other than money. The captors had made zero attempt at hiding their identities. Maybe that was due to inexperience, but they’d come around to the realization soon that it had been an error. It was difficult to foresee a set of circumstances where the ransom got paid and everyone was released with a handshake.
