The Devil's Bounty

by Sean Black

  Julia’s parents and a young man from the US consulate were sitting outside in the sun as the hotel staff scuttled around their table, trading anxious glances. It wasn’t just that a guest at the resort had gone missing – presumed abducted: it was akin to having wealthy relatives visit, when their worst suspicions about how you lived were confirmed and your dirtiest secrets were laid bare before them.

  Julia’s father was a tall, lean man in his fifties with a shock of white hair and frameless glasses. The girl’s mother was, Rafaela guessed, a few years younger, with long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was clutching a picture of her daughter, taken only a few days before, the backdrop of the hotel’s pool visible from where they sat. Julia was standing next to her father, one hand raised to shield her eyes. She looked tanned, happy and relaxed. Her smile, a little forced, a little over-sincere, suggested a young woman who was mature enough to understand her parents’ need to cling to her as she began to carve out a life apart from them.

  Rafaela began by asking the father to take her through the period before his daughter had gone missing. She didn’t interrupt him. He was already frustrated at having to tread again over old ground. He wanted his daughter back.

  She made notes as he talked. The young man from the consulate tapped his fingers on the table. A glance from the mother stopped him as the father concluded his story, his voice cracking as he told of the last time he had seen Julia.

  Rafaela cleared her throat and thanked him for his patience. Her next job was to offer some reassurance. ‘I already have at least a dozen officers making enquiries. I want you and the US government to know how seriously we’re taking this. That’s the first thing.’

  The mother leaned forward. ‘So you think something’s happened to her?’

  This was where things got difficult. Rafaela didn’t think, she knew, but sharing that information wasn’t going to help them.

  Straightening in her seat, Rafaela made sure she met the woman’s gaze. ‘I don’t know anything for certain other than that your daughter is missing.’

  The father stiffened. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The young consular official intervened: ‘I think for now we have to—’

  The father cut him off: ‘I’m believing shit from these people.’ He stared straight at Rafaela, whose heart was racing now. ‘You know something, and don’t tell me you don’t because I can see it in your eyes.’ His hand shot out across the table and grabbed her wrist.

  ‘John, please!’

  Rafaela made a quick calculation. ‘I don’t know anything for definite,’ she said, ‘but I have my suspicions based upon recent events here.’

  His grip loosened a little. He must have felt he was getting somewhere. ‘What events?’

  ‘Kidnap for ransom is a growing problem. I’m not saying that’s what this is but it’s a possibility.’

  He let go of her and slumped in his chair. ‘I’ll pay whatever it takes. You hear me? I’ll sell the house, take out a loan if I have to.’

  ‘It may not be that. But, as I said, it does happen now. And if someone has Julia, you can help me.’

  The father looked at her, his eyes wet. He swiped at them with his sleeve. ‘How?’

  ‘By staying away from the press for a start. Often these cases can be resolved quietly. A lot of publicity can spook the kidnapper,’ she said.

  The official raised his hand, palm open. ‘She’s right. This is something that needs to be handled carefully.’

  ‘So if we do what you tell us we’ll get Julia back?’

  ‘I can’t promise you that. It wouldn’t be fair if I did. But there will be a better chance, yes.’

  The father’s chin was resting on his chest. He took his wife’s hand. ‘We understand.’

  Outside the hotel, Rafaela sat alone in her car for a few moments. She could have told them that she knew where their daughter had last been seen and whom she had been with. She could have told them those things and more. Would she have wanted the truth if she’d been them? It went without saying.

  What right had she to deny them the truth? Who was she to decide?

  Questions. Those were her problem. Did the men behind these things calibrate their choices like this? No. They took action. They made decisions. They stuck to them.

  She was about to turn the key in the ignition when she stopped. She’d been so preoccupied that she had forgotten the routine that had become like a reflex. She opened the driver’s door and, using a mirror she kept on the back seat, checked beneath the car.

  Her husband had died four years ago when the cartels had ramped up the violence. A bomb had been planted under his car. He had been a newspaper reporter whose crime had been to report the news. At first he had reported on the cartels with no problems. But as the violence had escalated the public had become more indignant at the failure of government and politicians to stop it. In turn, the cartels had grown more sensitive to how they were covered in the newspapers and on television. Like pushy celebrities, they wanted to use the media but on their terms. Her husband had received two threats. The third time they had made good on their promise and blown him up. She even knew who had planted the bomb but, as she had told Lock, knowing wasn’t enough. Not if the person was powerful or connected to those who were.

  Satisfied that there was no bomb, she got back behind the steering-wheel, started the engine and pulled away from the hotel, leaving the girl’s parents to their tear-stained vigil. No more questions, she told herself. That time was gone.

  Forty-four

  THEY MET IN a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. The first there was the chief of police, Gabriel Zapatero. He slid into a chair and immediately ordered a whisky, which evaporated almost as soon as it was placed in front of him. He ordered another, then a third.

  Manuel Managua arrived five minutes later, greeting the hostess with a kiss on both cheeks and shaking their hands with the vigor of a career politician, then settling in to stare at the menu over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Zapatero often imagined him shaking his family’s hands at breakfast, pledging cookies for all if he could count upon their support. It had made his continued presence at these festivities all the more surprising. Even a whisper of his involvement could end his career.

  Zapatero had often wondered about Managua until Federico, Zapatero’s childhood friend, had pointed out that many politicians seemed to seek out, or at least flirt with, the seeds of their own destruction. Managua’s flirting was overt, but that, Federico said, was merely a reflection of where they lived and at what point in history. In comparison to the Roman Empire under Caligula, or the Holy Church under the Borgias, things were not so extreme. The rich had always craved decadent pleasures. It was entirely natural.

  As the politician fussed over the menu Federico, the boss of bosses, arrived with his two bodyguards. Of course, they all carried security, but Federico’s was of a different magnitude. The joke was that if he woke in the middle of the night and rolled over, he would find a bodyguard beside him, rather than his wife or mistress. He took his seat at the head of the table and dismissed the guards – one headed for the door that led back into the restaurant and the other took up a position just outside in the courtyard. He accepted a menu and a waiter took their orders while another poured the wine. Then they were left alone.

  Managua took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses. Zapatero checked emails on his BlackBerry, until a look from Federico prompted him to power it down. The rule was that all cell phones had to be turned off. Finally, Federico spoke.

  ‘I see from the newspapers that a young American woman is missing,’ he said, his gaze bypassing all of them and settling on the far wall of whitewashed stone.

  Zapatero cleared his throat, his eyes shuttling back and forth to his powered-down BlackBerry. ‘I have assigned one of my best people to find her. A woman. The family and the American government have been reassured,’ Zapatero said.

  ‘Really, I do
n’t know what the world’s coming to,’ Federico said, with a sigh.

  Managua put his glasses back on. ‘We wouldn’t have a picture of her, would we?’

  Zapatero glanced towards his BlackBerry. ‘With your permission, Federico?’

  Federico couldn’t contain his smile as he nodded. They all knew what Managua was like when it came to women. A regular Bill Clinton.

  The police chief turned his BlackBerry on, opened an email attachment, full-screening a picture of the girl, and handed it to Managua, who studied it. ‘She’s pretty,’ he said. ‘I hope she’s still alive.’

  ‘Still alive?’ Zapatero mused. ‘Of course I hope she is, but nothing has been confirmed one way or the other.’ He turned his gaze to Federico, who was staring fixedly at the silverware laid out on the table in front of him.

  Managua put down the BlackBerry. Zapatero could see the girl’s face staring up at him but he, too, turned to see what Federico would do. Would he pick up his knife or his fork? Pick up one, and the girl would be allowed to live, at least for the time being – and, no doubt, to satisfy Managua. Pick up the other, and she would be disposed of.

  Federico drummed the fingers of his right hand on the table, his thumb nearest the fork, his pinkie nearest the knife. He took a sip of red wine, enjoying the attention and his role as final arbiter between life and death. That was what it was all about, thought Zapatero. For Managua it was an appetite. But Federico was the one who had sanctioned it. He had brought along the first girl, and had let things get out of hand when she had tried to escape from the bedroom. He could have called a halt to it at any time. But he hadn’t. He enjoyed the power too much.

  ‘I think it is mostly likely,’ Federico began, his hand shifting slightly, ‘that she will be returned to her family.’

  ‘Alive or dead?’ Zapatero asked, unable to endure any more tension. After all, he would have to call Hector and alert him to the decision.

  Forty-five

  TWILIGHT. APART FROM the gardener and a few flitting shapes at the rear of the house, they had seen no one all day. Rafaela had called to say that she had scoped out the two other likely locations and come up with as much as they had: nothing. There was no sign of Charlie Mendez, and no sign of the girl. She had also told Lock how her boss had put her in charge of the hunt for Julia.

  Lock walked to the back of the room, picked up his light canvas jacket and put it on. Ty reached into one of the black canvas bags, pulled out a radio and threw it to him. Lock caught it one-handed.

  ‘You sure this is a good idea?’ Ty asked.

  ‘Nope. But it beats sitting here watching leaves float to the bottom of a swimming pool.’

  ‘Want some company?’ Ty said, shifting in his seat.

  ‘On my signal,’ said Lock. He tucked a baseball cap on to his head, the brim low, checked his weapon and dialled down the volume on the radio. He walked out of the apartment.

  He took the steps two at a time, eager to get as much distance between himself and the apartment door before someone saw him. He had no need to worry. The communal stairs and ground-floor hallway were empty, apart from a couple of bags of rotting garbage placed outside one of the doors. He picked the bags up as he passed, a good neighbor on a mission, and headed out into the street.

  It was quiet there too. A dog skulked uncertainly near a tree while simultaneously eyeing a nearby fire hydrant. Decisions. Decisions. Lock knew how he felt.

  The high wall of the narco-mansion was to Lock’s left. He stayed on the opposite side of the street but walked parallel to it, still carrying the bags. At the end of the street there was a narrow alleyway with a dumpster. He dropped the bags into it. As he wiped his hands on his jeans he looked across at the front of the house. The wall here was broken by high metal railings that ran for about eighty feet before the wall began again, took a ninety-degree turn and continued to circle the house.

  A solitary armed guard, wearing black trousers and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a local security company, stood at the gated entrance looking bored. He was completely disengaged. He didn’t even register Lock’s presence. In terms of actual bodies, that seemed to be it. Lock walked back in the direction he’d come. Dusk was giving way to night, and as the light died, so did his patience.

  The recon had provided him with one interesting piece of information. Just as there was no way to glimpse the house from street level so there was no view of the street, or the street side of the wall, from the house. The cameras, apart from the ones at the front to monitor arrivals and departures, didn’t record what happened outside the footprint of the grounds.

  He keyed the radio. Two minutes later Ty emerged from the apartment block and joined him beside the wall. Lock vaulted up, Ty giving him a boost. Then Ty returned to the observation point from which he could warn Lock of any approach.

  Lock sat astride the wall for a moment and looked down into the grassy yard with the swimming pool. The rear of the house was closer than he had anticipated. The rooms were dark. He scanned for cameras and lights. There was a single fixed-mount camera looking out over the pool and two motion-sensor lights, both attached to the house. A set of french windows was the sole entry point to the rear of the house that he could see.

  Slowly he lowered himself into a row of shrubs. He tried not to make his movements too sudden or abrupt, while at the same time trying to limit the amount of time his back was exposed.

  With a dull thud, which seemed thunderous to his ears but was probably no louder than a cat’s landing, his boots were on the ground. He stood still for a moment, his legs partially camouflaged by a bush, and listened.

  Twenty feet away he heard scuffing. He hunkered down into a squatting position, his hand moving to the butt of his SIG Sauer 226. A Mexican male in his early forties sauntered around the corner, an AK47 hanging as casually from a leather strap at his side as if it was a man-bag. Lock could track his progress by the glowing red tip of his cigarillo. He was carrying about fifty extra pounds and was clearly relying on his weapon to get him out of any trouble.

  He wandered over to the edge of the pool, unzipped his trousers and proceeded to urinate into the shallow end. He sighed with satisfaction, zipped up, wiped his hands on his shirt and continued his patrol.

  There was more good news. Neither of what Lock had suspected were motion-activated lights had switched on.

  He waited a few more minutes, then broke cover, moving slowly towards the rear of the house, careful to skirt the area covered by the fixed security camera. From its height, the lens and the angle it was sitting at, he had estimated its coverage – and peeing in the pool was an off-camera activity.

  The up-lighters at the bottom of the pool were bright enough for Lock to take a closer look at the frames surrounding the windows. The depth and composition of the glass told him it was blast-proof. He kept moving, staying close to the building out of the camera’s range. At the doors, he cupped his hands over his eyes and peered inside. There was a large living area, with a drop-down viewing screen. The remnants of a party – empty glasses, bottles and drug paraphernalia – covered a low wooden coffee-table.

  From nowhere, a light snapped on. He hugged the wall beside the windows, pulled out his gun, and held it by his side. Seconds passed before he realized that what he had thought was a motion-activated external light was in fact the main light in the living room. If whoever had switched it on hadn’t seen him, it was by pure dumb luck. Or they had seen him and were raising the alarm. He risked taking a peek, craning his neck to the window and looking inside.

  Separated by a few inches of bomb-proof glass and less than fifteen feet of carpet, he found himself staring straight at the missing girl. She was wearing a long floral dress and looked drained but in reasonable shape. Better yet, standing behind her, weatherbeaten but still clearly recognizable, stood Charlie Mendez. Between them was the bodyguard.

  Lock ducked out of sight, a shiver of excitement running through him, like an electric current. He g
ot it now. He understood why Brady had risked everything. There was no feeling like this.

  He keyed his radio and spoke to Ty. ‘I got them both inside.’

  Forty-six

  BACK IN THE apartment, Lock weighed the options. A hostile extraction, where you take someone who is either unwilling to leave or being prevented from doing so, is hard to pull off and it sure as hell required more than two bodies. But that was all they had – three, if they counted Rafaela – and Lock was a firm believer in working with the tools at your disposal rather than cursing your ill-fortune. Under normal circumstances, a task of this nature would require ten times the resources if it was to be carefully and safely executed. The surveillance and intelligence team would be one component, the extraction team another. There would be a quartermaster, a transport coordinator and all manner of other personnel.

  Complicating matters even further, they had two targets. One would, Lock hoped, go willingly, although that couldn’t be guaranteed when you were dealing with someone already traumatized by an abduction and who might have begun to identify with her captors. Mendez, on the other hand, would go kicking and screaming.

  As they gathered together their gear, Rafaela on her way to them, Lock looked at his partner. ‘We’re going to have to forget Mendez. We take the girl, get her out of there, and deal with him later.’

  He could tell that Ty didn’t like the idea of giving up on the fugitive they had come to collect. ‘We can’t take ’em both?’ Ty asked.

  Lock tucked a spare clip into his jacket. ‘We could try, but it halves our chances and right now they’re pretty slim as it goes.’

  ‘So he gets off again?’

  ‘Maybe we can come back for him,’ said Lock.