The Triple Frontier

by Marc Cameron

  And now they’d been moved hundreds of miles to the north. Even if Jericho had gotten the SOS, it would take him a full twenty-four hours to get to Argentina—and then he’d be looking in the wrong place.

  Ten minutes later, the caravan bounced to a stop on a grass field. The pilot made everyone stay in place while he got out and waddled around to put a support under the tail so the plane didn’t squat when everyone moved to the rear door. As soon as this was done, the pilot walked away, disappearing into a small metal building without looking back. Bo imagined that seeing too much in his line of work was a quick way to end up being thrown out of your own plane.

  Through the side window, Bo could see a middle-aged woman follow the progress of the airplane. She was tall, and impeccably dressed in crisp white slacks and a matching sleeveless blouse. A midday sun blazed overhead, adding to the oppressive humidity, but this woman did not have a hair out of place. A stooped man in a floppy gaucho beret stood beside the woman, gazing more at her than the plane. A brown Renault Duster was parked in the grass alongside the strip. Beyond the car lay a small brick house nestled among a copse of fir and eucalyptus trees. A dozen head of whiteface cattle munched grass in the field behind the house. A windmill turned lazily over two black horses drinking from the water tank. It was a bucolic scene and would have been relaxing had Bo not recently been beaten and bound.

  Bruno and The Flea climbed out of the Caravan first and then opened a wide cargo door at the back, allowing Toro to work his way out on the broken leg. It made an easier exit for the bound prisoners as well. Jelly came around from the front to meet them as they hopped down to the ground. Three others with names Bo didn’t know came around back. Through it all, Toro—still cringing in pain—leaned against his homemade walking stick. If any of the prisoners so much as looked at him, he reminded them that they no longer existed. He could, he said, do anything he wanted to someone who did not exist.

  The woman in the white slacks strode to the back of the Caravan with an air that said she was obviously in charge. The man followed, with an air that said he was not.

  She pointed a long finger with perfectly manicured pink nails at Toro, jabbing at the air in front of his chest. He blinked as though looking into a strong wind.

  “We will treat the prisoners with respect and dignity so long as they give us no cause to do otherwise.” She turned to the group. “Please excuse my friend. His late father was a general during our former military government. Toro is sorry he missed all the mayhem. I think he would have been quite an enthusiastic interrogator.” She shrugged. “At the very least, he would have enjoyed himself.”

  The woman walked down the line of prisoners, stopping one by one to study their faces individually. Even Matt was smart enough not to speak. Once she’d satisfied her curiosity, the woman flicked her fingers, motioning for Jelly to follow her toward the nose of the aircraft.

  They spoke in hushed tones, shooting periodic glances at the rest of the group, paying more attention to her own men than the prisoners. Her companion wearing the gaucho hat retreated back to the Renault and stood there, looking like he’d eaten something that didn’t quite agree with him.

  At length, the woman turned on her heels and marched directly back to silver haired Bruno. Standing in front of him, she put her hands in the pockets of her slacks, which, Bo had to admit, looked out of place for such a smartly dressed woman. They were nearly the same height, but the woman’s aggressive bearing made her seem taller.

  Alma had maneuvered herself to stand next to Bo when they’d climbed out of the plane. All eyes were on the conversation, so no one stopped her when she gave a whispered translation as the woman began to speak in Spanish.

  The woman toed at the grass looking down as she spoke. “I understand you took photographs of the prisoners.”

  “Si, su señoria,” Bruno said, shuffling in place. He was nervous about something. Not a good sign.

  Alma leaned sideways toward Bo, to make sure the others couldn’t hear her. “Weird,” she whispered. “But that guy just called her ‘your honor’ . . . like she’s a judge.”

  Bo added the name to his mental list. If a judge was involved, then there was a chance law enforcement was involved as well.

  Alma continued with her translation.

  “Were you certain that the GPS location services were disabled?” the judge asked.

  Bruno nodded, looking relieved. “I did, su señoria.”

  The woman cocked her head. “I am curious that you did not send the photos to me. Can you explain yourself?”

  Bruno shrugged, gesturing with open hands. “I knew you would meet us here and see the prisoners yourself.”

  The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Then why take any photos at all?”

  “Proof of life.”

  “Very well,” the woman nodding smugly. “That makes sense.” She turned as if to walk away, hands still in her pockets, but then wheeled.

  “Did you happen to text these photographs to anyone else?”

  The man paused, then shook his head.

  “Suppose I were to have a look at your mobile phone?”

  “Su señoria . . .”

  Two sharp cracks pierced the still morning air. A small silver pistol had suddenly appeared in the judge’s hand.

  Bruno’s hand clawed at the center his torso, over his diaphragm. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide. Obscene croaking noises escaped his open mouth.

  Jelly stepped in quickly and grabbed a black revolver from Bruno’s waistband as he pitched forward, writhing in the gravel beside the Caravan’s tire.

  La Pulga walked up and stooped to get a better look at the dying man. Cheeks flushed, The Flea didn’t appear to be interested in his friend, but in the process of death itself.

  The man in the gaucho hat leaned against the Renault for support, seeming to grow smaller, fading away by the moment.

  The judge began to speak again.

  “Sorry,” Alma gasped, coming out of her stupor and catching back up with her translation. “The judge just told Jelly to get Bruno’s phone. She wants him to collect everyone’s phone as well. Looks like that one called Bruno was planning a double cross, working for someone named Richter. The judge doesn’t want anyone to contact—”

  Toro’s walking stick whooshed through the air, cracking against Alma’s back. “No talking in line,” he snapped. With her hands cuffed, and no way to catch herself, she pitched face first into the gravel.

  Bo roared at the assault. Without thinking, he launched himself sideways, directly into Toro’s broken leg. Toro screamed in pain, hopping sideways and lashing out with the stick, catching Bo across the jaw. Bo rolled onto his stomach, curling into a ball to try and protect his head as Toro continued to batter him with the heavy stick.

  Alma threw herself on top of Bo, screaming, pleading for Toro to stop.

  The rest of the thugs converged on the prisoners to keep them under control.

  “That is enough!” the judge barked.

  Toro hunched over Alma, panting, his walking stick in the air, smiling even amid his pain. The judge had been right. He would have enjoyed doling out torture.

  The judge pointed a finger at him. “I told you to treat the prisoners with respect.”

  “Si, su señoria,” Toro said.

  The woman turned to speak to Jelly again.

  Bo waited for Alma to roll off him, and then turned gingerly onto his side. He took a couple of deep breaths and willed the world to stop spinning. Coughing, he spit out a front tooth along with a clot of fresh blood.

  “How about we don’t do that again,” he said.

  Alma moved her neck back and forth. “No promises.”

  She was a tough one.

  Matt stayed put as if welded in place, looking away.

  Bo drew his legs under him, and wallowed to his feet. He was unwilling to stay down any longer than he had to, but it took him a while without the use of his arms. Alma stepped closer so he could lean his shoulder
against her thigh. Not just tough, but smart as well. Sickeningly dizzy, he had to use her for support even after he was standing. The earlier blow across his helmet had rattled his brain. Toro’s beating had been icing on the cake.

  “Ha!” Toro chuckled. “I gave you a good hit. Soon you will have no teeth at all—”

  The judge spun where she stood and shot Toro twice in the face before he knew what was happening.

  “Pelotudo!” she spat.

  Beside the Renault, the pale man muttered to himself in Spanish. He was obviously not cut out for this much violence.

  The rest of the men stared down at their two dead comrades. Even La Pulga had been caught off guard.

  Bo couldn’t bring himself to care. He spat out another mouthful of blood and then ran his tongue over the jagged remains of his tooth. An overwhelming dread washed over him at the pain he knew he’d be in once the adrenaline wore off.

  The judge walked over and prodded the dying Toro with the toe of her shoe, pistol still in hand. Smoke curled from the end of the barrel.

  “I will have someone find clove oil for your tooth,” she said. “It is the best I can offer.”

  Bo nodded. He wasn’t about to say thank you to the woman responsible for his kidnapping.

  The judge licked her lips, studying Bo. “You are in charge of this group?”

  “Yes,” he said, keeping his tongue over the broken tooth to protect it from the air.

  “Good,” she said. “With any luck, we will soon put all of this behind us. It will be nothing but an unpleasant memory and a good story.”

  “For those left alive at the end,” Bo said.

  “You will still be alive if you behave,” she said.

  Bo kept his eyes locked on her. “I’m not talking about us.”

  A smile spread over the judge’s face. “I am no stranger to threats, Mr. . . .”

  “Quinn,” The Flea said. He had the passports.

  “Mr. Quinn,” the judge continued. “I meant what I said about treating all of you with respect. So long as you do nothing to deserve otherwise. But do not for an instant take that to mean I lack the needed resolve.” She looked down at Toro’s lifeless body and then back at Bo. “I once had a dog that killed my chickens. I was very fond of this dog, but I still shot him.” She leaned in close to make her point. “Even so, the dog’s death did not save the chickens when it came time for me to make a stew.”

  Chapter 8

  Riley Grey’s Citation X was set up with a satellite phone, so Quinn was able to touch bases with Ronnie Garcia somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico.

  Her voice was a comfort amid the chaos going on in his brain.

  “I’ve confirmed with Soledad,” she said. “She’s all set to meet you. She’s already talked to her contacts with the Buenos Aires police as well as the federal Gendarmería, to be on the safe side. The Gendarmería Captain in charge of the precinct where Bo and the others went missing admits that it was likely a kidnapping, but says they have no suspects or witnesses at this point. According to Soledad, they do appear to be working the case, so that’s good. She’s put out feelers at local hospitals and clinics, but so far she’s not heard anything.”

  “I know it’s going to be late,” Quinn said, “but I’d like to go visit the scene as soon as we arrive.”

  “I told her you would,” Garcia said.

  “Thanks,” Quinn said. “I really appreciate this.”

  “Wish I was there with you,” Ronnie said.

  “Me too,” Quinn said.

  Quinn had never been one for long telephone conversations, so he thanked Garcia again and said goodbye.

  Quinn called his parents next, checking in on the off chance that Bo had called home. His mother answered, sounding out of breath. She said she’d been shoveling the remains of a March snow in the driveway. Quinn couldn’t imagine his dad allowing that unless he was gone or incapacitated. His mother confirmed his suspicion and said he was away at a boat show.

  Rather than worry her, Jericho decided not to mention Bo. There was nothing to tell anyway. His mother had a particular soft spot for Bo. He’d broken her heart many times over the years. But he was her youngest, and, sickly as an infant, he’d needed her the most.

  Quinn said he’d call back soon to catch up, and ended the call. His mother was a tough woman—she had to be with sons like Jericho and Bo. She’d cried buckets of tears over her two boys—and she would, no doubt, cry many more for one reason or another.

  Across the aisle, Thibodaux looked up from his book. “You doing okay, Chair Force?”

  “I’m fine,” Quinn said, though he was far from it. He held up the satellite phone. “You need to call Camille?”

  “Talked to her before we left,” the Cajun said. “She’d think I was tryin’ to get her to let me buy a new gun or somethin’ if I called her twice in a four-hour period.”

  Miyagi removed her earbuds and gave Quinn a quiet smile.

  “I appreciate you both coming,” Quinn said.

  “Arrête toi!” Thibodaux said, telling him to stop. “You got the weight of the world pressin’ down on you, ami. You need us to take care of the goats while you see to saving your brother.”

  Miyagi raised an eyebrow and shook her head. She and Quinn both knew there was no way to predict what might come out of Jacques Thibodaux’s mouth. It was his way of dealing with—and helping deal with stress.

  “My mémère loved to tell us about a man who had himself all kinds of misery.” Thibodaux’s Cajun accent came on stronger when he told a story. Quinn couldn’t help but grin, despite the situation. “Well,” Thibodaux continued. “This sad man, he took his self to the doctor and he say, ‘Doc, I think I’m goin’ plum braque—crazy. My wife, she givin’ me the fits. My kids, they no good rascals. My job, it have me in a rut. Life just ain’t no good at all.’ Well, the doc, he looks at the man and says, ‘You need to buy a goat.’ ‘A goat?’ says the man. ‘What would I need a goat for?’ ‘Just buy the damn goat,” the doc says. Next week, the man, he comes back, and he says things is still awful at the house and at work. The doc shakes his head and tells him to buy another goat. The man, he does what the doc orders, but comes back next week with the same story. ‘Buy a third goat,’ the doc says. A week later, the man comes back and says that things is worse than ever. The goats, they get into everything and he can’t keep them penned up to save his life. ‘Sell the goats,’ the doc says. Next week the man comes in. ‘How’s your life now?’ the doc asks. ‘C’est magnifique!’ the man say. ‘Now I don’t have no goats.’”

  “Goats,” Miyagi muttered, shaking her head again.

  “You focus on savin’ your brother,” Thibodaux said. “Me and Miyagi-san, we’ll take care of the goats.”

  Chapter 9

  The judge took the passports and then laid down the law about the treatment of her prisoners, giving a rousing speech on human rights and dignity. She then turned on her heels and took Jelly with her, leaving The Flea in charge.

  The medicinal smell of eucalyptus from the tangle of trees overhanging the small brick cottage infused the humid air, mixing with the pungent odor of cattle and horses munching hay in the pens outside. La Pulga allowed the prisoners to drink from the water spigot off the windmill, no doubt to remind them that he was in charge and could give or take away whatever he wished. Bo whispered for the others to dunk their heads in the round metal trough as they took their turns at the tap. The sticky heat was oppressive in their armored riding gear, and the cool water helped bring relief and much-needed focus.

  Dripping wet, they were ushered inside.

  The interior of the house was dark, with the only light streaming in through small windows and the open door. Thick walls and a tile floor kept it relatively cool. Soot from many fires in the large fireplace stained the red bricks below a rough-hewn timber mantel. The smell of wood smoke and saddle blankets hung in the still air. A number of photographs adorned the stucco walls. Most of them were of polo ponies, but a f
ew showed the judge and the man in the gaucho hat during happier times. Bo nodded to himself. The imperious judge and her milquetoast husband made an unlikely pair of criminal masterminds. The photographs of the couple were what Jericho would have called good intel. But the fact that such evidence had been left around for the prisoners to observe gnawed at Bo’s gut.

  The remaining decorations were sparse, things normally used around a cattle ranch—an Argentine saddle with a sheepskin cover just inside the heavy front door, a hooked bull goad and several rawhide quirts on the wall, and a braided lariat hanging over the saddle. The place had the feel of a cabin, and should have been cozy, but, considering their captivity, the leather gaucho equipment took on a sinister air.

  The room was relatively small, maybe twelve by fifteen, forcing the prisoners to bunch together as they came through the door. With no direction, they milled in place, waiting to be told where to go.

  They didn’t have long to wait.

  The Flea gave a sharp clap of his hands and a gap-toothed man called Tigre grabbed Eva by the hair and hauled her back to the front door.

  Steven yelled in protest, starting after her, but got knocked to the floor for his trouble. The two remaining guards pulled pistols and pointed them at the prisoners.

  Tigre stopped in the threshold of the door, shoving Eva to her knees. Backlit, she slumped there, hands behind her back, while Tigre held a gun to her head.

  Steven cursed. Matt cringed and looked away. Alma offered a whispered prayer in Spanish. Bo stood where he was and glared at La Pulga.

  “It occurs to me,” The Flea said, his voice breathy and hoarse, “that none of you have been properly searched. Your handcuffs will be removed one at a time and you will take off your clothing so that we may check you for weapons. Cooperate fully, and Eva will remain unharmed.”