“Since when do you hang with felons, Judge?” Cook asked.
“They come through her courtroom all the time,” Faroe said. He leaned close to Grace and breathed in her ear, “We’re in.” Then he looked at Steele. “Any warrants?”
“They’re working on it,” Steele said dryly.
“What are we working on?” Faroe asked.
“Oh, you’re all lawyered up,” Cook said. “Your lawyers are talking to ours, and we’re talking to each other. But hey, I don’t have my legal dictionary and I can’t remember the U.S. Code sections that cover interfering with a federal officer, impeding a federal investigation, and—oh yeah, violations of the Neutrality Act. I love that one. Is it a capital felony, Judge?”
“Since I’ve already called corporate counsel,” Steele said, “I was just suggesting that Agent Cook discuss those matters with him.”
“I don’t talk to lawyers,” Cook said. “I leave that to the U.S. Attorney.”
“You don’t talk to lawyers?” Faroe said. “Then how do you cut a deal with the likes of Ted Franklin?”
“Franklin’s not a defendant, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you. You’re going down like you did last time, only this time you ain’t coming out.”
“Turn down the volume,” Grace said flatly. “You don’t have any warrants. You don’t have any probable cause. You don’t have anything but a badge that’s so heavy it’s a wonder you can stand up straight.”
Both Faroe and Cook looked at her in surprise.
“I’ve had a gutful of your bullshit,” Grace said evenly, staring at Cook. “We don’t have the time, I don’t have the patience, and you don’t have the authority. Either get back on topic or get out of St. Kilda’s bus and off its property.”
Steele rubbed his mouth and looked bland, but his eyes actually twinkled.
Faroe looked at Grace like he’d never seen her before. And he hadn’t. Not this Grace, the one who would go toe-to-toe with a supervisory special agent and rip his face off.
“And the topic of the day is…?” Faroe asked into the shocked silence.
“The FBI’s fabricated case against St. Kilda,” Grace said, “which we’ve already shot down. We were just opening the topic of Ted’s computer files, without which no one has a case against Hector Rivas Osuna and Carlos Calderón. No files means no one seizes fifty million dollars along with the kind of headlines that advance careers.”
“Fifty million, huh?” Faroe asked.
Grace nodded.
“A lot of money” was all Faroe said.
Apparently the task force didn’t know there could be twice as much money. Faroe saw no need to point it out.
“Did you get to the part where the task force’s mismanagement of their informant could well cost the life of a U.S. citizen, Lane Franklin, presently a prisoner in Mexico?” Faroe asked.
Cook stared at Faroe without blinking. No surprise there.
“No, we were closing in on that issue when the chopper landed,” Grace said. “But Cook’s expression tells me he already knows and doesn’t give a damn.”
“He will,” Faroe said.
Cook shrugged. “You cooperate with us, get me the files, and I’ll make a call to the school. The kid will be on the next flight home.”
Grace went still. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly. The FBI is willing to use a child as—”
“I didn’t say that,” Cook cut in.
She turned to Steele. “Did you hear Supervisory Special Agent Cook offer to trade Lane’s freedom for the computer files?”
“I do believe I did,” Steele said. “Shocking to think the American government is complicit in the kidnapping of an American child.”
“We didn’t kidnap anyone,” Cook said impatiently. “The Mexicans didn’t kidnap anyone. The kid is a screwup who is in school in Mexico until his father signs him out. That’s not kidnapping, that’s old-fashioned discipline.”
“Nice story,” Faroe said. “Only Lane isn’t at the school anymore. Mexican federales dragged him out and took off with him. Want to look at the sat photos?”
“We lost him in Tijuana,” Steele said quietly.
“I figured you would,” Faroe said, but his eyes never left the FBI agent.
Cook didn’t want to believe what he was hearing.
“Yeah,” Faroe said, nodding. “Your snitch Ted lied to you. Want a hankie?”
“Prove it,” Cook said flatly.
Faroe glanced at his watch. “In less than three hours, Hector will kill the boy. How about the kid’s head in a box? That enough proof for you? But, oh, yeah, if that happens, you can kiss the files, your career, and your handsome ass good-bye. Lane is my biological son.”
Cook’s eyes widened. He looked at Grace, at Faroe, and back at Grace.
“Yes,” she said. “Ted is Lane’s legal father. Joe is Lane’s biological father.”
“He knows?” Cook asked.
“Lane? No,” she said. “Ted knows. He has for years.”
“Judas Priest,” Cook said, raking a hand through his black curls. “You mean Ted is lying about that school?”
“He put Lane in All Saints as a hostage to ROG. At the time, I didn’t know it was more than a school.” Grace hoped her tears didn’t show, but knew they did.
So what? I can cry and still get the job done.
“Man, in two years running this task force, I thought I’d heard it all.” Cook blew out a hard breath. “I have kids of my own. I’d kill anyone who…” His voice dried up.
“But if your kid was in Mexico,” Faroe said, “you couldn’t do shit. How many times have you gone south without ROG knowing exactly what you’re doing and where you’re doing it? For that matter, how many times have you been able to go south of the line with your own pistol on your belt?”
Cook’s mouth flattened. “You know the answer.”
“I sure do. One inch south of the razor wire in Spring Canyon, you lose ninety-five percent of your authority,” Faroe said. “It’s been that way for fifty years. But I have a way to tweak things just long enough to make you a hero.”
“A hero is a dude with his head so far up his butt he can’t see the light of the oncoming train.”
“Spoken like a true FBI bureaucrat,” Faroe said. “You ever heard the saying, ‘Faint heart ne’er fucked the fair maiden’?”
“I’ve heard it from guys who thought they could catch lightning in a bottle.”
“So you’re not interested in Hector Rivas Osuna?” Faroe said.
“Hell yes, I want to take Hector out of the game,” Cook said roughly. “You see the reward posters wallpapering the port of entry? Five million bucks. No federal agent can collect that reward, but I don’t care. I just want that narco asshole in an American prison.”
“Even if you come up with those files,” Grace said, “you’re still a long way from getting your hands on Hector.”
“We’ll get him,” Cook said.
“Which century?” Faroe asked. “He’s been indicted in the United States for six years. He’s still king of the dunghill down south. What’s one more piece of paper calling him Supercrook? He frames them and hangs them in his bathroom.”
“Realistically,” Grace said, “all Ted can give you is the fifty million dollars in his files, correct?”
“I take the long view,” Cook said.
“My view doesn’t go past twelve-thirty today,” Faroe said coldly. “Work with us and you’ll get the files, the fifty million, and good old Hector on this side of the line.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Cook said sardonically. “You’re going to put on a stretchy blue bodysuit and a red cape, grab Hector, and shove him through a hole in the fence.”
“Close enough,” Faroe said.
“When we took custody of the dudes who killed Kiki Camarena that way, the American judges crapped in their robes,” Cook said. “Sorry, Your Honor.”
She shrugged. “I resigned from the federal be
nch this morning.”
Cook started to ask something, then thought better of it.
“What I’m going to do,” Faroe said, “won’t ruffle the feathers of any except the most irrational of federal judges.”
“What’s your plan?” Cook demanded.
“I’ll grab Hector on this side of the line, where he’ll be caught in the commission of a federal felony.”
“Superman you might be,” Cook said, “but you ain’t Santa Claus. I know Santa Claus. He’s a fat guy with a big red suit and elves.”
Faroe waited.
“No hole in the fence?” Cook demanded.
“Just a hole in the ground. Hector’s tunnel.”
Cook’s eyes widened. “Who told you about the tunnel? Who was it? I’ll bust his ass right out of the agency.”
“I heard about it south of the line.”
“Where is it?”
“The tunnel?” Faroe asked.
“Shit, yes, the tunnel!”
“Do we have a deal?”
“Deal? What deal?”
“You produce Ted Franklin at the time and place of our choice. We’ll give you Hector Rivas Osuna and his tunnel.”
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 10:05 A.M.
71
FAROE GRABBED A SATELLITE phone in one hand and gestured with his head at Grace.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said to Steele and Cook. “You don’t need me for the nitpicking.”
She stood and walked away from finalizing the last details of the informal deal she and Steele were hammering out with Cook. When she caught up with Faroe, he was knocking on the door to Steele’s suite.
“Harley, it’s Joe,” Faroe said. “Let’s trade places.”
A moment later the door opened and Harley walked out. Grace and Faroe went into the suite and locked everything up behind them.
“I still can’t believe you got the feds to give St. Kilda any funds they seize over fifty million,” Faroe said in a low voice.
“There may not be any. Ted is lying slime. Hector is worse. But no matter how much is in the fund, St. Kilda will get the reward for Hector and you’ll be repaid for—”
“I don’t want it.”
She gave Faroe a dark, level look. “You’ll get it anyway. It’s the least I can do for dragging you back into the very world you wanted to escape.”
He shrugged. “Somehow that doesn’t seem important to me anymore.”
“Then what is?”
“Lane.” Faroe pulled Grace into his arms. “You. Us. We’ve got a lot of sorting to do, amada. Once Lane is safe, I want a chance to see what we have going.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her. “Just that easy?”
“Easy? Us? Bite your tongue. Never mind. I’ll do it.”
He took the playful kiss, deepened it, and didn’t let go of her until they were both breathing too fast.
“Hold that place in your mind,” he said huskily. “We’ll go back as soon as we can.”
She licked her lips. “And here I thought you were going to let me play with your cell phone again.”
Faroe laughed, hugged her hard, and stepped back before he changed his mind about letting go of her. “You can hold that place along with the other one. Right now we have Hector to deal with.”
“How?”
“Father Magón gave me some numbers for Hector. I’ll call the first one and you take it from there.”
“Why?”
“Hector underestimates women. It’s a cultural attitude that goes bone deep. It gives us an edge.”
Grace looked at the phone like it was a snake. “What are my talking points?”
“First, we have Ted sacked up and ready to chat with Hector about the missing millions.”
“That should get Hector’s attention.”
“Second,” Faroe said, “the price of that conversation is Lane, alive and well, on this side of the line. We won’t go south to do this deal. If Hector wants the money, he has to come north.”
“He won’t like it.”
“He’ll take it. He doesn’t have any choice. Third, it happens now. We do the high-noon thing at the border. Hector chooses the place.”
“Got it. What part of the plan aren’t you telling me?”
Faroe blew out a hard breath. The drawback to a smart woman was that she was smart.
“Hector wants the meeting for obvious reasons,” Faroe said.
“Money.”
“Yeah, but he also wants to kill Ted.”
Grace’s eyelids flinched, but all she said was, “Can he kill Ted and not kill everyone else who’s there, including Lane?”
Faroe smiled the kind of smile that wasn’t reassuring. “You learn fast, amada. I’m betting Hector will try to kill everyone, including Ted’s FBI handlers if they insist on going into the tunnel with him.”
“What will you do to prevent Hector from killing everyone in sight?”
“You’ll be the second to know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the best I can give you,” Faroe said. “I’ve designed a trap that Hector can’t refuse—he’ll use his tunnel to bring Lane north and kill Ted. But Hector doesn’t know what we know.”
“Which is?”
“A paranoid warlord on crack will think he can set up the exchange in his warehouse over on Otay Mesa, kill everybody who’s there just for shits and giggles, and run back south like the weasel he is.”
“From here, Hector’s plan looks good,” Grace said bluntly.
“His plan will only work over my dead body.”
“That’s not funny.”
“At least if I die,” Faroe said, “there will be a good reason. I’m not sure I can say that about some of the other times I nearly bought it.”
Grace looked at him for a long time. Then she closed her eyes and told herself that if she could play showdown poker with the head of a federal task force for fifty million dollars, she could do it with the Butcher of Tijuana for her son’s life.
Couldn’t she?
Faroe waited for one of the longest ten counts of his life. When he couldn’t take anymore, he said, “Amada? You okay?”
“No. Call Hector.”
“You sure?”
“Just do it!”
Faroe punched in the number, hit the transmit button, and held out the phone.
Grace took it and began counting rings.
On the fourth ring, a male voice said, “Bueno.”
“I need to talk to Hector Rivas,” she said in English.
“¿Quién habla?” the man demanded.
“Grace Silva.”
“What you want?” the man asked.
“Hector knows what I want. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Get him.”
Faroe waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Just when he thought Hector wouldn’t take the bait, Grace began talking.
“Hello, Hector.”
“Ah, Your Honor, how strict you are,” Hector said in Spanish. “Poor Fernando is whipped. He takes such good care of your son, too.”
“He’d better. Without a live and healthy Lane, you’ll never see your hundred million again.”
Hector made a rhythmic, juicy sound.
“Put Lane on the line,” Grace said.
“No es possible,” Hector said in Spanglish, loudly, like a man trying to get through to a very dim person.
She grimaced. His words were a little slurred, a little hissed. He’d been drinking as well as smoking. “It’s very possible. If I don’t have proof of life, you don’t have Ted’s files.”
“The boy, he fine. Take my word.”
“And here’s a hundred million. Take it to the bank.”
Hector laughed out loud. “Aiee, a ball-breaker.”
He shouted an order in Spanish.
Grace hit the mute button. “He thinks I’m a ball-breaker. He’s telling someone to bring Lane.”
She released the mute just as Lane’s voice came on.
“Mom?”
“Are you okay?” she asked quickly.
“Yeah, I guess so. They even brought me a Big Mac for dinner. Whoopee.”
“Do you have everything you need?” she asked carefully.
“Uh,” he hesitated, then understood what she was asking. “Yeah, I’ve got everything I need. I’m—Wait a minute. I wasn’t done!”
“You see?” Hector asked in Spanish. “Your son is good. Now, where is your husband?”
“You mean my ex?” she asked. “Last time I saw Ted, he was folded into a car trunk, in handcuffs and leg chains and with a gag in his mouth. Joe Faroe is nothing if not thorough.”
Faroe laughed silently.
“Que bueno,” Hector said, chuckling. “You bring him to me right now and I give you Lane.”
“No.”
“¿Qué?” he asked sharply.
“I’m not going to do business with you in any part of Mexico. That is not negotiable.”
“I so sad. You no trust Hector.”
“Yes, it’s sad, and it’s not going to change,” Grace said crisply. And her fingernails dug into her palms. “You pick a place on this side of the line for the exchange. You have two hours to set it up.”
“Ah, you worry I kill the boy after noon.”
“I think you’re too smart to be that stupid,” she said. Especially if you lay off the booze and crack. “The problem is Ted—we can’t keep him in the trunk forever.”
Hector laughed so hard he choked. “Aiee. Such a woman! But I no can cross the border.”
“If tons of marijuana can, you can. You have millions of reasons to.”
“Do you have the information?” Hector asked in rapid-fire Spanish. “The banks, the transactions, all the numbers—you understand?”
“I understand. We have what you need. Faroe, ah, persuaded Ted to talk.”
“These records, you truly have them?”
“The records will be present at the exchange.” She gave Faroe a cold, lawyerly smile.
There was a humming silence.
Grace’s nails dug deeper into her hands.
Faroe pried apart her left hand and rubbed the scarlet crescent marks.
The Wrong Hostage Page 33
