Faroe counted four closed-circuit television cameras on wall mounts positioned to cover the entire interior of the warehouse. Red status lights burned on each camera, a warning that they were transmitting to a control center.
The camera mounted above the warehouse door swiveled to follow Faroe’s movement. He pulled Grace close and breathed down her blouse.
“Transmitter check.”
The radio on Faroe’s belt beneath his shirt popped twice.
“I’m going off the air,” he told Grace’s bra.
Two more pops.
Faroe kissed her fast and hard and deep. She kissed him back the same way.
Then he turned his back to the closest camera, reached under his shirt, and switched off the radio. He walked toward the sandbagged defensive position that had been created by pallets of beans and rice.
Except for the soft drumroll of rain on the roof, the place was silent.
The offices were empty.
The door to the bathroom was locked.
Unless there was somebody already inside the bathroom, the warehouse was deserted.
“Anybody home?” Faroe called out.
Silence.
Pulling his cell phone off his belt, he punched in numbers as he walked back to Grace and Franklin.
“No noise,” he said to them.
He punched the send button and listened for the telltale sounds of another phone ringing somewhere in the warehouse.
Silence.
After two rings, Hector answered. His voice was slurred, like he was loaded.
Good news and bad news in one, Faroe thought grimly.
“We’re in the warehouse,” Faroe said. “Nobody’s home.”
“We close, pendejo.” Hector chuckled.
“Put Lane on.”
“You give me Franklin with the files.”
It wasn’t a question.
“With my blessings,” Faroe said.
“You have him?”
“You’re looking at the TV displays, what do you think?” Faroe said impatiently. Then he said to Franklin, “Wave to the cameras.”
Sullenly Franklin lifted his cuffed hands toward the nearest camera.
“Now put Lane on,” Faroe said.
“I no like orders. I am el jefe.”
“You’re in charge the moment I see you and the kid,” Faroe said. “Until then, we’re just two men bullshitting over the cell phone.”
Over the invisible link that reached up to a communications satellite in space and back down six hundred feet to the south, Faroe heard a moist noise as Hector sucked on a Mexican cigarette and drew the cocaine smoke into his lungs.
Enjoy it, Faroe thought. With a little luck, it will be your last.
“Okay,” Hector said, his tongue thick. “You talk to Lane. Then I send Jaime. If he like what he see, we make next step.”
The connection rattled hollowly for a moment, then Lane’s voice came over.
“Mom, Dad?”
“It’s Joe,” Faroe said. “You okay?”
“I guess.” Lane’s voice sounded shaky. “At least I, uh, have everything I left with.”
“Got you. Can Hector hear me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Watch your mom. Don’t take your eyes off of her. Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do what she tells you to do,” Faroe said. “Don’t pay any attention to your dad. Just your mom. Got that?”
Lane started to say something, but his words turned into a sharp cry of pain.
“Don’ worry, gringo,” Hector said. “He jus’ fine. I show him manners, tha’s all.”
Faroe’s grip on the cell phone made his knuckles white. “Send in your man.”
He looked at his watch and started counting.
OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:11 P.M.
80
FOR WHAT SEEMED LIKE an eternity, Faroe, Grace, and Franklin stood in the glare of the overhead lights. By Faroe’s watch, the eternity was only one minute and forty-nine seconds.
Faint sounds, metal on metal, muffled.
Fifteen seconds.
A toilet flushed.
“Who will it be?” Grace asked under her breath.
“Jaime,” Faroe said. “Hector has to send someone he trusts, someone who already knows both ends of the tunnel. That means family. With people like Hector, blood is all that counts.”
And blood is what screws them every time.
Faroe would have felt sorry for Hector if the man hadn’t earned a slow death fifty times over.
The doorknob of the bathroom squeaked.
The bathroom door swung open. Jaime Rivas—blow-dried and splendid in an Italian suit and loafers without socks—strolled out of the darkened room, zipping up like he’d just finished filling a urinal. In his left hand he carried a silver-plated semiautomatic pistol.
Jaime never took his eyes off Faroe.
“Hola, Jaime,” Faroe called out. “¿Qué pasa?”
“Shut up,” Jaime said. “I don’t like to chat as much as my uncle does.”
When Jaime was ten feet away, he snapped his pistol up to eye level and stared over the sight into Ted Franklin’s face.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Jaime snarled. “I ought to whack you right now.”
Franklin made a primal sound of fear.
“You kill him and nobody is happy,” Faroe said. “Especially Carlos Calderón.”
Jaime stared through the pistol sight at the patch of skin between Franklin’s eyes. “Where’s the file?”
“It’s on a hard drive, pendejo,” Faroe said. “All decrypted and ready to go.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“What?” Jaime’s face flushed.
“You heard me,” Faroe said. “Hector gets the file, not you. You don’t like the deal, complain to him.”
Jaime lowered the pistol an inch. The muzzle now stared at Franklin’s pale, trembling mouth. “Where is the hard drive?”
“When we see Lane, you see the hard drive,” Faroe said. “That’s the deal.”
Jaime turned his head and stared at Faroe. The look in Jaime’s eyes made Grace want to step backward.
“Tell Hector the deal is ready to go down,” Faroe said.
Jaime switched the pistol until it was pointed at Faroe’s face. “Hector won’t mind if I kill you.”
Faroe looked bored. “Calderón will. He wants that hard drive. You start whacking people, you don’t get it. Claro, homeboy?”
Jaime turned the gun on Grace. “Give me the file and she lives.”
“Shoot her and you die,” Faroe said. “Now stop jerking off and go tell Hector to bring Lane.”
A slow, thin smile changed Jaime’s mouth. “You are a very clever man, gringo. I give you that.”
Jaime lowered the pistol and pointed it again at the floor. He stared a long time at Grace’s face, trying to read her expression. She hadn’t flinched under the gun and she didn’t flinch under his eyes.
“Hector likes you,” Jaime said. “He’ll fuck you before he kills you.”
Grace just looked at Jaime.
“My uncle will be here in a few minutes,” he said.
Jaime turned and strolled back across the warehouse to the bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder at Faroe. “I see you soon, gringo. Look for me.”
The bathroom door slammed behind him.
Faroe let out a long breath. “Keep your gun handy, amada.”
He turned and walked swiftly toward the front door, sliding silently through light and shadow, light and shadow, until there was only darkness.
“What do I tell Hector?” Grace called after him.
“That I went out for a smoke.”
OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:14 P.M.
81
BY THE TIME FAROE ran across the parking lot he was well on his way to being wet. He ignored it. He’d be a lot wetter before he got dry again.
Cook, wearing green
and brown cammies and carrying a matte-black submachine gun, stepped out of the hedge. Another operator in a ghillie suit lay on the ground, a backpack radio in front of him. He was listening to what was going on in the warehouse.
Grace was saying something to Franklin. Faroe couldn’t make it out, but he knew it was her voice.
“Sounds muddy,” Faroe said to Cook.
“Not on a headset.” Cook pulled a flat combat radio set from the cargo pocket of his cammies. “That Jaime is a real piece of work. For a minute there I thought we’d have to go in before Hector showed.”
“Jaime was just testing. Life would be a lot easier for him if he had the files rather than Hector or Uncle Sam.”
Cook stepped behind Faroe, slid the radio’s clip over his leather belt, and fed the cable and earpiece over his shoulder. Faroe hooked the receiver over his ear and slipped the clear plastic earpiece into place.
“Volume is on your right, squelch in the center on top,” Cook said.
“I know. St. Kilda field-tested these things before they were delivered to the Bureau.”
Faroe turned the volume dial and after a second heard the ragged sound of Ted Franklin breathing quickly, shallowly. His fear came across in each ragged breath.
“Relax,” Grace said. “Joe knows what he’s doing.”
Faroe tapped the earpiece and nodded to Cook. “Good to go. What about the tunnel?”
“You should get reception when you cross over to this side of the fence, but I won’t guarantee anything before that.”
Faroe nodded.
“If we have to blow the doors,” Cook said, “I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety.”
“No shit.”
Counting off seconds in his head, Faroe ran toward the border fence.
OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:15 P.M.
82
FAROE SLOGGED THROUGH THE strawberries and leaped the shallow ditch separating the field from the dirt road that ran along the fence. Through sheets of rain he saw what looked like ghosts. He ran toward them. The hollow metallic sound of an aluminum extension ladder being laid against the heavy chain-link fence told him he was heading the right way.
Mary and two other St. Kilda operatives were trying to brace the bottom of a long ladder that barely reached to the top of the border fence. A long-barreled bolt-action rifle with a telescopic sight hung upside down across Mary’s back. It was a sniper’s rifle, .50 caliber, capable of dropping elephants before they heard the shot.
Everyone but Faroe was dressed in cammies that shed rain.
“I told you I was going south alone,” Faroe said, reaching for the ladder.
“Wait,” said one of the ops. “It’s sliding like a bitch in this mud.”
Mary gave Faroe an angelic smile. “I’m using the fence as a benchrest. I’ve got your back.”
Faroe watched the ops struggle to place the ladder securely in mud that was slicker than snot. “A fifty-caliber round will go halfway to Ensenada.”
“Not if I don’t aim halfway to Ensenada,” she said. “I won’t fire unless I have a clear shot and see that you need it.”
Faroe gave up on keeping Mary out of the game. “Did you see Lane?”
“Just a peek through the scope, when they took him inside. Handsome kid beneath the bruises.”
Faroe’s mouth flattened. “What about a Mexican wearing long hair and an Italian suit?”
“He ran a squad of gunmen around the perimeter of the Tijuana warehouse half an hour ago,” Mary said. “A few minutes ago the gun handlers got in some SUVs and split.”
“So far, so good.” Faroe smiled darkly. “After this goes down, if you get Jaime in your sights, drop him. He’s not as mean as Hector, but he’s a whole lot smarter.”
“Will do. Jaime is still over there, sitting in a black Murano with another man. Here.” Mary pulled a pistol from the ballistic nylon holster she wore and handed the weapon butt first to Faroe. “It’s cold.”
He nodded, checked the round in the chamber, and shoved the pistol in his belt, butt forward.
Like Hector.
Faroe took two steps up the ladder.
It slipped.
While the ops cursed and threw their weight against the ladder, he kept going.
The last rung of the ladder was tangled in the razor wire that looped along the top of the barricade fence.
“Leather gloves,” he called down.
Within seconds the ladder shivered under the added hundred and twenty pounds of female sharpshooter.
“Here,” Mary said, passing up a pair of gloves. Then she saw the top of the ladder. “Wait! Let me get canvas or something to throw over the loops. They’ll tear the hell out of you.”
“No time.”
Faroe yanked on the gloves. Like his borrowed running shoes, they were a little small. He pried apart two loops of wicked wire, then eased up the ladder and stepped through the separated coils with their razor-blade edges and barbs.
“Joe, you can’t—”
“I have to.”
Straight ahead, brace yourself on the coils, one foot on the top of the barrier fence, then over and into thin air.
No sooner thought than done.
Except the razor wire collapsed, then lashed back at Faroe as he leaped. He twisted in midair and landed hard in the mud. He made himself push past the wrenching fall, forcing himself to breathe, to move, to stand.
Pain stabbed, telling him what he already knew: he hadn’t dodged enough of the razor wire. His right sleeve was wet with more than rain.
“Oh, man,” Mary said. “You’re cut bad. Stay down until I—”
“No! That’s an order.”
Quickly Faroe checked the cuts for the deadly pulse of arterial blood. So far, so good.
He took off running.
OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:18 P.M.
83
“I DON’T LIKE THIS,” Franklin said.
“Nobody asked you to,” Grace said.
“I’m getting out of here. I’m a sitting duck!”
“You’ll be a dead one if you run.”
The tone of Grace’s voice made Franklin turn and look at his ex-wife. She had her back to the nearest camera. She was holding a gun.
It was pointed at him.
“You’re kidding,” Franklin said.
“You’re all that stands between Lane and death.” She flicked off the safety and took up slack on the trigger. “You gave him as a hostage to the Butcher of Tijuana. What makes you think you should live and Lane should die?”
“I never meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” she cut in ruthlessly. “I have to deal with reality, and reality is that you’re a money launderer to murderers, and a coward who put a boy on the firing line to save your own ass. I’d feel more compassion for a rabid dog, but I’d kill it just the same.”
Franklin looked at Grace’s eyes, the flat line of her mouth, and the darkness around her eyes from tension and lack of sleep.
She gestured slightly with the gun. “Sit on the floor behind those bags and stop whining. When Hector comes, don’t show yourself and don’t talk unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”
“You’re crazy.”
“My gun is quite sane.”
Without a word Franklin walked away from the only safe exit, across an expanse of cold concrete cut by circles of light and pools of black, and sank down in shadows behind burlap bags of rice.
Grace hid the gun behind her purse and faced the camera again.
TIJUANA
MONDAY, 12:20 P.M.
84
FAROE GRINNED DESPITE THE blood dripping down his right arm and pooling in his leather glove.
You tell him, amada. He’ll never underestimate you again.
And neither would Faroe.
He clamped the gloved fingers of his left hand over the deepest slash on his arm and kept running south. The airport runway lights glittered in the rain like a beacon. He sp
rinted across the cement between planes and ducked under the eaves of an anonymous building. Breathing deep and steady, he searched through the rain for sentries around the Grupo Calderón warehouse and hangar.
A black car was idling in front of the Grupo Calderón building, the same kind of SUV Mary had seen Jaime driving.
The lights flashed once.
I see you soon, gringo. Look for me.
Headlights flashed again.
Faroe pulled his pistol and ran toward the vehicle. The driver’s electric window slid down. There was a man in the passenger seat.
“So, you came alone,” Jaime said, ignoring the drawn gun.
“One riot, one ranger,” Faroe said. “How many men does Hector have with him?”
“None. He doesn’t want any witnesses. Even me.”
Faroe hoped Jaime wasn’t lying, but didn’t count on it.
The passenger leaned forward. It was Carlos Calderón. “I want that money!”
“Sue the U.S. government,” Faroe said. “All I promised you was Hector.”
“The hangar is open,” Jaime said. “The bathroom is—”
Faroe was already running. He knew where the tunnel entrance was.
He was inside the hangar before Jaime left the parking lot.
The wooden door of the lavatory stood ajar at the back of the hangar. The floor and the toilet were filthy. The cubicle stank. The mirror over the tiny sink was flyspecked and grimy. It reflected a man who looked like he’d been used to mop up a bloody murder scene.
Faroe shoved the stinking toilet to one side. The stool was connected to a concrete waste pipe by a section of flexible hosing that leaked and dripped. There was a puddle of raw sewage in the bottom of the hole that was the mouth of the tunnel. The metal rungs of a ladder were shiny with foul moisture.
No point in worrying about gangrene in a few days when I’m likely to be dead in a few minutes.
As soon as he dropped below floor level, he lost radio contact.
OTAY MESA
The Wrong Hostage Page 36
