The Triple Frontier

by Marc Cameron

  Bo had known this was coming. He’d been worried they might separate the women, and was actually relieved when La Pulga ordered them all searched as a group. He’d already decided that he would go down fighting rather than submit to watching either of the girls being violated. Alma must have read his mind, because she looked at him and shook her head.

  “Just stay alive,” she said. “No matter what happens.”

  “Good advice,” La Pulga said. “Now get on with it. Tigre grows tired of not shooting your friend.”

  Tigre chuckled and cuffed Eva in the head with his free hand. She looked up and tried to spit, but her mouth was too dry, leaving her to sputter impotently and earning a round of derisive laughter from the men.

  Bo shrugged off his riding jacket as soon as the cuffs were removed, taking a short moment to massage the circulation back into his hands. The men seemed transfixed by the tattoo of a black octopus on his forearm. The Flea let out a low whistle when he pulled the t-shirt over his head, revealing the scars that mapped his chest and torso. He didn’t have near as many as Jericho, but there were enough to know he’d survived some serious contact with people that wanted to kill him. Alma and the others in the group had seen them before, swimming or at the hotel hot tub. It was a good thing, he’d thought, for the man charged with security to have plenty of battle scars.

  His arms were yanked behind his back and the handcuffs replaced as soon as he’d removed his boxers.

  “Interesting, don’t you think?” The Flea observed. “How stripping away a thin layer of cloth can shatter the idea of security.”

  Bo thought of a dozen threatening comebacks. The image of what he wanted to do to this guy shone bright in his mind’s eye. But he willed himself to keep his mouth shut, for Eva’s sake.

  Alma’s cuffs came off next.

  “Makes me wish I’d skipped that ice cream yesterday,” she whispered a moment later, as she slipped off her own t-shirt, drawing leering murmurs from the men.

  Matt fumed, staring daggers. It had not gone unnoticed that Alma had decided to stand beside Bo.

  Steven’s eyes stayed locked on Eva, rattling the chain on his handcuffs as soon as Alma was undressed. “Let’s hurry and get this over with,” he said.

  Matt snapped at him. “Easy for you to say. Your dad is the reason we’re all in this mess.”

  “Come on,” Alma said, visibly shivering, even in the warm air. “We’re all scared here.”

  “Phht,” Matt said. “You sure don’t look scared.”

  The Flea clapped his hands again, eyeing Matt. “I seem to remember you saying your father was wealthy as well. You said he would be happy to purchase your freedom. Perhaps you are the reason for all this, and Mr. Grey is just a fortunate coincidence. I wonder,” he said, scratching his hairless chin. “Would your wealthy father be willing to pay for the release of your friends as well?”

  “My father would,” Steven said without pause. “He’d pay for all of them. No doubt.”

  “That may be true,” The Flea said. “But the question is for Matthew.”

  Matt shrugged “Would he pay for all of them?” He nodded, a little too slowly. “Sure. I guess so.”

  “We will know soon enough,” The Flea said. He smiled, the smile of a child who pulls the legs off live baby birds. “Now, you all behaved very well . . .”

  Tigre forced Eva to strip, then stood her naked in front of the fireplace with the rest of the group. Steven looked as though he might cry, but Eva stood beside him, chin up, defiant.

  The men went through everyone’s clothing piece by piece. La Pulga searched Steven’s clothing, and Bo saw him stuff the expensive engagement ring into his pocket. Bo said nothing, thinking this little bit of information might come in handy in the long run. After they’d searched the clothes, the guards led their prisoners individually to the far corner of the room for a more thorough search, in full view of their friends. Quinn wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d been to jail before, but the event did give him experience being strip searched. There was a method to it. These guys had no idea what they were doing. Or if they did, their reason behind the search was to intimidate and titillate, not to find contraband. Searching Bo, Steven, and Matt went quickly, each earning a few half-hearted boots and fists to maintain compliance. The process took much longer for the women, with Flea and his men stifling giggles, turning their captives around and around and studying them like inquisitive schoolboys poring over an anatomy textbook.

  Bo shuddered to think how bad it would be had the men not feared repercussions from the judge.

  At length, The Flea licked his lips and gave a shuddering sigh. He tore his eyes away from Alma long enough to look at his watch. He croaked something in Spanish. Bo recognized the word for judge.

  “What are you afraid of?” Bo asked, unable to contain himself. “Are you worried your boss is going to come back and catch you in the middle your fun and games?”

  Tigre grabbed Eva and started to drag her toward the doorway. Her defiant attitude vanished and she began to sob, pedaling against the tile with her bare feet, begging not to be taken away from her friends. She surely thought they were taking her away to rape her, but Bo knew men like this would want an audience.

  Steven rushed forward, but Tigre kicked him in the chest. Unable to catch himself, he fell across the saddle just inside the door, dragging it and the wooden rack to the floor on top of him.

  Bo took a half step. “How about you use a different hostage this time?”

  Flea shook his head. “Do you volunteer?”

  Bo took another step. “I do.”

  Flea gave a flick of his hand and one of the men drove a brutal fist into Bo’s kidney.

  Bo staggered sideways, overwhelmed with nausea and explosive pain. Alma used her body to keep him upright.

  “Just stay alive,” she whispered again.

  “You would not make such good insurance,” Flea said. “Apart from Miss Cortez, I am not certain anyone cares enough about you to keep you from getting killed. I would prefer to have a hostage everyone does not want to see shot in the head.”

  Eva calmed when Tigre placed the muzzle of his gun to her temple.

  “Hey,” Matt said. “What if I had some information that could make you a lot of money?”

  Alma’s face fell. “Shut up, Matt.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Matt said.

  “Information?” The Flea said.

  Matt gulped. “It’s good shit,” he said. “Something you won’t be able to find out unless I tell you.”

  “Is that so?” The Flea mused.

  “Come on, Matt,” Bo said. “You can’t bargain with these guys.”

  “Of course he can,” The Flea said. “But first, we should take care of a few things.”

  “I’m telling you it’s good—”

  Tigre turned his pistol toward Matt, shutting him up.

  The Flea held up an open palm. “Oh, we’ll talk. I promise you that. But later, my friend.”

  One of the men led Bo to the center of the room, while the others were moved to the fireplace and forced to kneel on the hard tile. Bo raised his hands away from the small of his back, but instead of removing the cuffs, one of the men grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head backward, arching his neck and pulling him to the floor. He landed on his back, hands trapped beneath him, the wind driven from his lungs.

  Before he knew what was happening, a rawhide quirt was shoved between his back teeth, making it impossible to close his mouth. Tigre held his pistol on the rest of the group, while the other two tied Bo to one of the heavy timber chairs in the main room. The quirt was lashed in place like a bit and bridle, and then tied to the back of the chair, rendering his head virtually immobile—and the nerves of his broken tooth exposed to the air.

  Only after Bo was restrained did The Flea step forward. He held a small plastic cooler in one hand and a pair of channel-lock pliers in the other.

  Bo was vaguely aware of Steve
n shouting, of Eva crying again, and Alma cursing in Spanish. La Pulga, The Flea, ignored them all, focused entirely on Bo.

  He dipped into the plastic cooler with the pliers.

  “When I was in school,” he said, “my rugby coach told that cold is recommended to treat a variety of injuries.”

  He leaned in, pressing a small piece of ice against the jagged tooth.

  Bo jerked and thrashed but he could barely move his head, let alone escape. Saliva and blood drooled from the corners of his open mouth as he cursed and spat around the rawhide quirt.

  The Flea touched the ice to the tooth again and again, lighting up the exposed nerve. Bo arched his back as if he were being shocked.

  The Flea loomed above, pliers and ice poised just inches from Bo’s cracked lips.

  “I should mention,” The Flea said. “The judge is busy seeing who is and who is not worth our trouble. She will not return for some time. So, as you can see, I can go about my studies for hours without interruption.” He touched the ice to the throbbing nerve again.

  “What was it you were saying about fun and games?”

  * * *

  Bo regained consciousness a short time later, his head resting against the warmth of Alma’s thigh. The pain in his tooth pulsed through his skull like a flashing white light. His own breath passing over the nerve nearly brought him to tears. Alma brushed the hair out of his eyes and he looked up to see she’d been left with her hands cuffed in the front. Like him, she was dressed in nothing but underwear.

  “He told me to give you this,” she said, holding up a small bottle of clove oil with both hands.

  Bo nodded, turning his head like a baby bird.

  She put a couple of drops directly on the tooth.

  “More,” he said, moving his jaw back and forth.

  Alma grimaced, tipping the glass bottle to give him a few more drops. “Swish it around, but don’t swallow,” she said. “This stuff can make you sick.”

  Bo nodded, feeling immediate relief. The tooth still throbbed, but the pain was now bearable. He wanted to stay where he was, but couldn’t very well spit on Alma’s leg, so he wallowed himself into a seated position along the wall with everyone else. Steven and Eva sat together, leaning on each other for physical and emotional support. Matt was halfway across the room by himself, sulking.

  All the men were outside enjoying an asado, or Argentine barbecue, around a hardwood fire.

  Bo spat the clove oil out on the tile, on the side opposite Alma. “You okay?” she whispered.

  “I’m fine,” Bo lied. Apart from his tooth, his head was on fire and it was a good bet that his jaw and a few ribs were shattered. Still, he had a job to do, and it helped to focus on that. He motioned at Matt by lifting his chin.

  “Come on, bud,” he said. “We’re all in this together.”

  Matt sneered. “Some of us are deeper in it than others.”

  “Seriously,” Bo said. “There’s abetter chance of survival as a group. It’s dangerous to separate yourself.”

  “Dangerous to you,” Matt said.

  Bo gave up for the time being. Talking hurt his teeth—and he’d never been much of a pleader anyway. He scooted around so he could looked at Alma without turning his neck, and tried to give her a reassuring smile. With the broken tooth and the blood smeared on his face, he was pretty sure he just came off as insane.

  “You’re probably wondering what I ever saw in him,” she whispered.

  “Crossed my mind,” Bo admitted.

  “Honestly,” Alma said. “I have no idea. He’s handsome, and not so much of an asshole when he’s not scared out of his wits.”

  Bo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Okay,” Alma conceded. “He’s always a little bit of an asshole. Guess I’m just a sucker for a pretty face.” She leaned her head against the wall, exposing the curve of her neck. “How do you think this is going to work?”

  Bo shrugged. “They will have contacted Steven’s father by now.”

  Steven looked up. “I’m sure he’ll pay as soon as they tell him where to send the money. Then maybe this will be over.”

  “We can hope,” Bo said. “The judge is probably building files on each of us this evening.”

  Matt sneered again, staring directly at Eva. “I wonder how long it’s going to be until she figures out who you are.”

  “Matt!” Steven said through clenched teeth, shooting a glance toward the door and the laughing men outside.

  “What?” Matt said. “You know as well as I do that she’s our ticket out of here.”

  Chapter 10

  Riley Grey’s Citation X touched down at Ministro Pistarini International Airport outside Buenos Aires at 10:52 p.m. local time, fifteen hours and six minutes after Bo had sent up his SOS.

  Doctor Patrick stayed back with the pilots while they closed out their flight plan, finished up a few reports, and put the airplane to bed for the night while Jericho and the others cleared Argentine immigration and customs. Clearance didn’t take long since they’d brought virtually nothing into the country. Their lack of baggage might have raised eyebrows had it not been for the fact that these Norte Americanos arrived in a twenty-million-dollar business jet. There was no explaining the fiats of the rich, some of whom preferred to travel with a platinum credit card instead of cumbersome luggage.

  Thibodaux gave a low whistle when he stepped around the corner and into the main terminal.

  “Ronnie’s friend Soledad,” he said. “She happen to be a long cool woman in a black dress?”

  “Ha,” Miyagi said, stone faced. “The Hollies song . . .”

  Quinn gave a slight nod.

  “Yep,” he said.

  They’d arrived in between flights and the terminal was vacant but for a few people sitting at the lounge at the far end of the lobby—and a tall woman with perfectly coiffed blond hair. A black cocktail dress hit her in the middle of her deeply tanned thighs. Her makeup was impeccable, like the on-air television journalist that she was.

  “Oh ye yi,” Thibodaux sighed. “That’s our contact?”

  The woman transferred a small clutch purse to her left hand and reached out to greet Quinn.

  “I am Soledad San Martín,” she said, sounding like a reporter signing off the air. “Mucho gusto. Welcome to Argentina.” Her smile faded. “I am very sorry your visit is under such unpleasant circumstances.”

  Quinn made the necessary introductions and then asked to be taken straight to the scene of the kidnapping.

  “Of course,” Soledad said, her full lips breaking into a smile again. “My car is in the lot outside. Veronica gave me instructions as to what you would need. I only had a few hours to collect what she described. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.”

  “What did she ask you to get?” Quinn asked.

  Soledad turned as she walked. “It is probably best we discuss it in my car.”

  Her car turned out to be a small red SUV called a Ford EcoSport. There was no way Thibodaux was going to wedge himself into the backseat so Quinn and Miyagi gave him the front.

  Soledad realized the urgency of the situation and spoke as she drove, taking Autopista Luis Dellepiane to head northeast into the city. Her English was accented, but impeccable.

  “I have spoken about the kidnapping to my contact with the Gendarmería four times in as many hours. They are a national force and work in concert with the Buenos Aires Police. So far, there are still no witnesses.”

  “Thank you for trying,” Quinn said. “You mentioned something about Garcia’s instructions.”

  “Of course.” Soledad’s brown eyes were perfectly framed in the rearview mirror. “You will find a small tote in the space behind you—where you put your other bags. I could only find one pistol, but perhaps one of my contacts will locate another by tomorrow. Knives, however, are a much easier item to obtain in this country.”

  Quinn reached behind him and pulled a leather bag over the seat and into his lap between him and Miyagi
. He opened it to find a single Taurus G2 pistol, one spare 12-round magazine, and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition. He passed the gun, along with the extra mag and ammo to Miyagi, who handed everything up to Thibodaux.

  “For the goats,” Miyagi said.

  Soledad shot a backward glance. “Goats?”

  “Inside joke, chère,” Thibodaux said.

  At the bottom of the leather bag Quinn found three large sheath knives. Quinn gave one to Miyagi, who drew the foot-long blade from the sheath a few inches. She tested the edge with her thumb and nodded in approval. Quinn took out a similar knife and studied the thick carbon steel blade under the glow of passing streetlights. The heft of it in his hand brought a certain comfort.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “De nada,” Soledad said. “Veronica described you as a man with the soul of a gaucho. These knives are known as facónes, a slightly shorter version of the long fighting blades from early in the last century. It is said the Argentine gaucho used his knife for everything from opening a cow to closing a discussion.”

  “I’m sure these will come in handy.” Quinn returned the facón to its sheath, thinking about the people who held his brother captive.

  Soledad’s eyes narrowed in the mirror, growing more serious. “Veronica has never told me what she does for her job. I know at one time, she worked for your CIA in a uniformed capacity. She speaks easily of guns and knives, so I suppose I could guess if I tried very hard.”

  “I don’t want to put you in a bad spot,” Quinn said. “If you could just show us where the kidnapping took place, we’ll be fine on our own from there.”

  “Do you speak Spanish?” Soledad asked.

  Quinn shook his head.

  “Then you will need my help,” she said. “And I want to give it. I am several years older than Veronica. I was working on my masters while she just beginning her university studies. She probably did not tell you, but my father was taken off the street much like your brother. Only he was not taken for a ransom. No, he was kidnapped for the high crime of writing an article on unionization in the college newspaper. My mother was abducted and tortured for the egregious sin of being married to him. She was tortured and raped and then tortured some more before being drugged and thrown from an airplane into the Rio de la Plata. My father died of a heart attack shortly after, at the age of twenty-six.”