by M. A. Lawson
If he started to yell for his guards she was going to hit him with the candleholder. She didn’t want to do that, but she’d have no choice. But he didn’t yell. He just shook his head as if he was trying to toss off the effect of the chemical, which appeared to be working on him faster than it had on the marshals at Pendleton, probably because she’d sprayed it not only on his skin but directly into his mouth and nostrils. He took another step toward her, saying, “You—”
Then he fell, and she rushed to catch him and let him down gently because she didn’t want his security people to hear the thump of a body hitting the floor. If the drug worked as it had on the marshals, he would be unconscious for two hours. Unless the drug killed him because he was allergic to it.
As far as Kay had been able to determine, all of Caesar’s security people and other staff members were either outside the house or on the first floor; she and Caesar had the second floor to themselves. She didn’t think his servants would come upstairs, now that dinner was finished, unless he called for them. The servants and his security people were all expecting Caesar to take Kay to his bedroom and make love to her for the next few hours.
Now she needed a weapon—a gun—and this was the weakest part of her plan. This was the part of her plan that she had absolutely no control over.
She was betting a man like Caesar Olivera—a man whose life had been filled with violence and defending himself against his enemies—would have weapons in his house where he could reach them easily. But she didn’t know for sure. Caesar also had young children, and it was very possible that because of them, if he did have guns, the guns could be in a lockbox—in which case Kay was probably going to die.
She took a glance at Caesar to make sure he wasn’t moving, then went to the door of the dining room and looked down the hallway. It was empty. She slipped off her high heels and ran down the hall in the direction of his den, the room where he met her when she arrived at the house.
She figured one logical place for him to have a weapon would be in his desk, and she found one immediately, in the uppermost right-hand drawer—but it wouldn’t do. The gun was an enormous nickel-plated .45 with a barrel that was at least eight inches long. She had to find a smaller weapon; she’d never be able to pull off Caesar’s capture with a .45 caliber hand cannon. She rummaged through the rest of the drawers in Caesar’s desk and searched end tables and cabinets that were in the room, but she didn’t find another weapon.
The only other rooms on the second floor of the house, besides Caesar’s den/library and the room where they had dined, were two bathrooms and a media room with a massive television set and eight theater-type seats. There were no weapons in the bathrooms. In the media room there was a wet bar and floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with DVDs, but again no weapons. She even looked under the seats in the media room to see if there might be a pistol taped beneath one of them, but there wasn’t.
She looked at her watch. She had wasted thirty-five minutes. She ascended the stairs to the third floor.
Up there were bedrooms and more bathrooms. The first two bedrooms, judging by the décor and the posters on the walls, were clearly used by young girls. One of Caesar’s daughters appeared to be a horse lover, as photos of horses dominated one room. She didn’t bother to search these rooms.
She entered the master bedroom. There was a large walk-in closet, filled with men’s and women’s clothes, which would take her an hour to search. The bed was a king-size model with an elaborate headboard—the bed where Caesar had most likely been planning to make love to her. On each side of the bed were nightstands, and she immediately went to the one on the right-hand side of the bed.
This was the one place she was sure Caesar would have another gun—next to his bed so he could reach it quickly and defend himself if his home was attacked at night. As soon as she opened the drawer in the nightstand, she could see it was the one used by Caesar and not his wife—and her heart sank. There was no gun in the nightstand. There was a management book written by the guy currently running GE, a pair of reading glasses, a bottle of chewable antacid tablets, and a box of condoms. It looked as if Kay was going to have to use the huge .45 she’d found in Caesar’s desk, even though she knew that probably wasn’t going to work.
Not expecting to find anything, she went to the other side of the bed, where she suspected Caesar’s wife slept when she was at Rosarito Beach. The drawer contained a tube of lubricant and three paperback Spanish romance novels. Under the novels was a small, pearl-handled .32. Kay let out a sigh of relief. The gun was perfect. Kay wondered if philandering Caesar knew his wife kept a loaded pistol next to her bed.
She ran back to the dining room holding the little .32. Caesar still hadn’t moved. The next thing she needed was a cell phone—Caesar’s cell phone. She wanted a phone with a number that Mora might recognize on his caller ID when he saw it. Finding the phone was easy. It was on Caesar’s belt. She removed the phone and turned it off, then placed it back on Caesar’s belt. It would be fine there until she needed it.
Now all she could do was wait for Caesar to regain consciousness—and pray that none of his servants or guards would need to see him.
42
It was eleven-thirty p.m., and Raphael Mora’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong.
After the girl tried to escape, he had Perez move her from the house in central Tijuana to another house on the west side of town, closer to the border. The house belonged to another man who worked for Caesar. The girl was upstairs in a locked bedroom and apparently behaving herself.
For the last two hours, Mora had been sitting alone in the living room, chain-smoking. He had turned all the lights off so he could think, and also so he wouldn’t have to look at the absurd religious pictures on the walls. He wondered why poor Mexicans always seemed to have a picture of Jesus or Mary in their living rooms. Was it a matter of taste or something they felt compelled to do, as if God would be offended if there wasn’t at least one picture of the Virgin prominently displayed? But what he was really wondering was why he hadn’t heard from Kay Hamilton.
She was supposed to have called him at eleven to give him the address where she would meet the transport vehicle in San Diego, but she hadn’t called and he couldn’t reach her to find out what she was doing. He’d called the number of the phone she used the last time she’d called him—a phone registered to a man named Rodney Sheppard in Del Mar—but she didn’t answer and Sheppard, whoever he was, was not in his apartment building. Mora knew this because he’d sent men to the apartment to question him—then kill him.
Mora stubbed out a cigarette and immediately lit another. All he could do was wait, but he knew that she’d call him eventually. She had no choice, not if she wanted to get her daughter back. But why was she delaying? What was she up to?
There was something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on, and it was something he heard or saw at Caesar’s house. He’d gone to see Caesar about seven-thirty to give him an update on where things stood with Tito. Caesar was waiting for another one of his whores to arrive, and he’d been getting dressed and talking to his cook the whole time Mora was trying to brief him. Mora left the house just as the whore was arriving, a beautiful redhead wearing glasses.
But what had he seen or heard? Everything about the Rosarito Beach house looked normal, Caesar’s security people all seemed to be doing their jobs, and his household staff was behaving as they usually did preparing for one of Caesar’s “guests”—but something felt wrong. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.
Mora knew he had to stop trying to pry the information from his brain. If he thought about other things, whatever he’d seen or heard would hit him eventually. He left the living room, walked into the kitchen, turned on the lights, and poured a cup of strong black coffee. It was going to be a long night.
43
An hour and forty-five minutes after Kay sprayed him with th
e gas, Caesar stirred. He’d been lying facedown, but he rolled over onto his side. Finally, he sat up, still disoriented, then he saw Kay, standing and pointing the .32 at his face. He shook his head—as if he was trying to get his mind to start working—and started to rise to his feet.
“Just sit there,” Kay said. His eyes were a bit red from the spray; that wasn’t ideal, but there wasn’t anything that could be done about it. Kay was now dressed as she’d been when she entered the house—the gorgeous high heels on her feet, the long silk shawl thrown over her shoulders.
“Are you insane?” he said. “Do you understand who I am and what I could do to you?”
“Yeah, I know exactly who you are,” she said. “My name’s Kay Hamilton.”
“Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“That’s right. You have my daughter, and I’m going to exchange her for you.”
“What?” he said.
“Tito is dead. It wasn’t my fault; he died in the car accident outside Pendleton. So the only thing I can exchange for my daughter is you. Now, you and I are going to leave this house together and—”
“Tito’s dead?” It was as if it had taken a moment for the idea of his brother’s death to sink in, and then she saw the rage bloom in his eyes and he started to rise, seemingly oblivious to the gun she was holding.
“Don’t!” she said. “I swear to Christ, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
He stopped halfway to his feet, poised to spring at her, then took a breath, and she could see his muscles relax.
“I don’t want to kill you,” she said. “Like I said, I’m going to exchange you for my daughter. But if you resist, if you fight me, I’ll have no choice.”
“If you shoot that gun, you’ll never get out of this house alive. I have fifteen men here.”
“I know that,” Kay said. “So the best thing for you to do is to leave this house with me, then I’ll contact Mora and we’ll make the exchange, and everybody will live. But if you try to alert your guards, I’ll kill you. I know I can’t fight off all your men and I know they’ll kill me eventually, but I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you’re dead.”
Caesar simply nodded. Roman had said that Caesar wasn’t the type to get emotional on her, and it looked as if he’d gotten over the shock of his brother’s death and was suppressing whatever grief and anger he might be feeling.
“My men won’t let me leave the house alone,” he said. “I always travel with security.”
“You’re the boss. You better convince them that you want to leave alone. If you don’t—”
Caesar shook his head, but she kept talking.
“Well, there’s no point in me repeating myself. Now I want you to call whoever you need to call and tell them to bring a car to the front of the house. An open-topped car. A convertible. Not a sedan or an SUV. I need to be able to shoot you while we’re getting into the car.
“What we’re going to do is go downstairs, and I’m going to be hanging on to your arm. This little .32 is going to be pressed against your left side, so the first shot will hit your heart. You’re going to tell your security people that you’re taking me to the marina to see your yacht. I know the yacht’s there. I saw it today. You’ll insist on driving yourself, and you don’t want anyone coming with us. You’ll get in the car first. You’ll drive. And while you’re getting in the car, I’m going to be ready to kill you if you try to run or if you say something to your guards. And I’m a good shot, Caesar. Take my word on that.
“If you do this my way, we’ll meet Raphael Mora in a couple of hours and I’ll exchange you for my daughter. If you don’t do it my way, we’ll both be dead, but you’ll die first.”
She knew what he was now thinking: If he played along with her, he’d kill her and her daughter later. With his wealth and the resources he commanded, he had no doubt that he’d be able to find her.
“Very well,” he said. He was so calm that Kay found it disconcerting.
—
Leaving the house with Caesar went well.
He made a phone call, telling someone to bring his Jeep to the door. Five minutes later, they walked out of the house and down the front stairs, with Kay clutching Caesar’s left arm and the small .32 pressed against his side. The shawl was draped in such manner that it covered her hand so the gun couldn’t be seen. That’s why the shawl had been the most important part of her ensemble—it hid the gun.
Walking next to Caesar, Kay smiled and giggled like a girl who was just a bit drunk and had just gotten laid. When Caesar told his men he was driving down to the marina alone, he got a brief argument from the woman who had frisked Kay, saying some of his men should accompany them, but Caesar gruffly overruled her.
They walked down the steps and, just before they separated to get into the Jeep, Kay checked to make sure the shawl was still concealing the gun and whispered into Caesar’s ear, “I’m not bluffing. I’ll put a bullet into your brain if you try anything.” Then she laughed for the benefit of his guards. Caesar got into the Jeep and started it; if he was nervous or afraid, he didn’t show it.
It occurred to Kay that he really wasn’t nervous. It could have simply been his ego; a man like Caesar Olivera would never believe that a woman, even a trained agent like herself, could kill him. Most likely, however, Caesar understood that he was no good to her dead, and the sooner she had her daughter, the sooner he would be able to send his men to kill them both. She also knew her death would be very painful, not only because Tito was dead but also because she had humiliated Caesar.
The gates at the bottom of the driveway were open and Caesar drove through them, not even looking at the gate guards.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Drive toward the marina,” Kay said.
—
A mile from Caesar’s house, Kay said, “Pull over and stop behind that blue Ford.” The Ford was just where Roman had said it would be.
Caesar stopped the Jeep behind the Ford, and Kay pointed the .32 at him and said, “Get out.”
Keeping the weapon aimed at Caesar, she reached down and found the keys for the Ford on top of the right rear tire. She used the remote to open the trunk and took out an olive green duffel bag and placed it on the ground. “Turn around,” Kay said.
Caesar just stood there staring at her.
“Caesar, I need you alive, but if you’re injured, that’s okay. Now, turn around or I’ll put a bullet into one of your knees. You don’t want to fuck with me, not in the mood I’m in.”
Caesar turned, and Kay took handcuffs from the duffel bag and cuffed Caesar’s hands behind his back while holding the .32 against his spine. Next, she pulled Caesar’s cell phone off his belt.
“Get in the trunk.”
“No,” Caesar said. “With my hands cuffed, there’s no reason why I can’t just sit in the car with you.”
Kay placed the pistol against his left buttock and said, “Do you think I’m bluffing about shooting you? You kidnapped my daughter, you arrogant prick. Now, if you don’t do what I say, I’m going to put a slug in your ass. I don’t think you’ll die from a .32 caliber bullet, but you never know. You just might bleed to death.”
Caesar, with some difficulty because his hands were cuffed behind his back, lowered himself into the trunk and Kay slammed the lid shut. The last thing she saw was the hate in his black eyes as he glared at her—and she imagined she was looking into the eyes of an animal peering out of a cave.
Kay got into the Ford and drove a couple of miles. She wanted to put some more distance between herself and Caesar’s estate. She saw a FedEx place that was closed for the day, pulled off the road, and drove behind the building where the trucks were parked. She stepped out of the car and took off her lovely aquamarine Christian Dior dress and her beautiful shoes and, wearing nothing but her sheer thong underwear, she tossed the
dress and the shoes onto the backseat of the Ford.
From the duffel bag that she’d removed from the trunk, she pulled out the tennis shoes, jeans, and T-shirt she’d worn to Camp Pendleton, her Glock, her badge, and her real passport. Lastly, she removed two orange vests from the duffel bag, which she tossed onto the backseat of the Ford. She got dressed, then put her badge and passport in the back pocket of her jeans, and tucked the Glock into the waistband. She looked at the little .32 she’d taken from Caesar’s place, wondering if she should keep it on her person as a backup piece. If things went well, she wouldn’t need a gun, so she certainly didn’t need two guns, and if things didn’t go well, it wouldn’t matter how many guns she had. She tossed the .32 into the duffel bag.
She checked her watch. It was midnight. She was right on schedule. She called Roman using Caesar’s cell phone.
“I’ve got him,” Kay said.
“Mother of God,” Roman said. “I really didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again.”
“Well, you know what they say: It’s better to be lucky than good. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes,” Roman said.
“Okay, then I’ll be there in a few hours, just like we discussed. And thank you, Roman. I know I owe you more than I can ever repay you.”
She called Mora next, and when he answered he said, “Yes, sir.”
Mora had recognized Caesar Olivera’s number on his caller ID and he thought it was Caesar calling.
“It’s Kay Hamilton,” Kay said.
“What?”
“Yeah, I’m using Caesar’s cell phone. I’ve got Caesar.”
“What?”
“You gotta quit saying What? Raphael. It makes you sound like a dumb shit. I said I’ve got Caesar. He’s in the trunk of my car.”
