She despaired as she tried more doors, certain she was already past the room where Jennifer had lain screaming, but then she heard the elevator ping and ducked inside the last empty room. She cracked the door and watched two Mexicans dressed like gang members pass. One carried a small automatic pistol, and they eyed both ends of the corridor warily, as if they didn’t want anyone to see what they did next. The other used a key to open one of the locked doors across the hall. A rustling of what sounded like sheets, and then the taller one exited with a bundle of sheets over his shoulder. As he passed, Yancy saw long blonde hair swinging limply almost to the floor.
She had to cover her mouth and bite her palm to stifle her own groan so she could listen.
If she’d had any doubt about who it was, the brief conversation between the Mexicans settled it. “What do we do with the body?”
“Same quarry as usual.”
“What happened?”
“The Chechens gave her drugs to shut her up and she used them all. Waste of a pretty mujer. Tomás was finished with her and said I could have her next.”
And then they were in the elevator, leaving Yancy with a buzzing in her ears and, finally, no more fight. She slipped down the wall to the filthy carpet and buried her face in her knees, sobbing. Uncaring that the sounds she made could bring someone to investigate.
Then blood dripped down her arm to the floor. She used the blanket to dab at it, but it only welled up again. It wasn’t a huge wound, but she knew from past experience that she needed a specialized shot from a hospital to stop it. Within a day or two, she’d be past the point of no return.
Her eyes hazed over as the ugly red tinted her world. Red blood, red roses in the garden, her red lips as she kissed a man with a greedy, grasping red tongue, hungry for more, always more . . . Her grief hardened into a cold, pure hatred.
Arturo.
He’d done this to them. Kidnapped her, subjected her to his filthy abuse for months on end, letting his son brutalize Jennifer and turn her into an addict too weak to keep fighting to live.
Everyone was terrified of him. But she wasn’t. Not any longer. Because now he had nothing to threaten her with. If she didn’t get medical attention soon, she’d be dead in a day or two anyway, and she wasn’t sure she cared anymore.
No one was coming. She was alone.
What did she have to lose? She went to the scummy sink, the only plumbing in the tiny room, and turned on the faucet, scrubbing away the residue of tears and blood from the last few days. Her mouth was sore and split, but she slathered on the red lipstick she found there to cover it. Then she used a bit of powder to disguise the bruise on her cheek. She washed between her legs and under her arms, spraying on a heavy dose of perfume. Then, wrapping the mantilla more closely about her face, she slipped into the stilettos and down the hall to the elevator, wearing a black jacket over the wound to disguise the blood.
She’d used her feminine wiles for many months to survive.
She’d only have to use them a few hours longer. . . .
On the threshold of the bathroom, Arturo Cervantes shook Emm’s hand, and if she’d been outside looking in, she would have been bemused at this bizarre propriety between a murderous drug lord and a supposedly pampered society girl. But she was all too involved, and scared right down to her designer pumps. Even her quirky sense of humor couldn’t find anything funny in this scenario. Especially when he pocketed the card and smiled. A smile that reminded Emm of a knife balanced on its tip, ready to cut or clatter away, depending upon the next fifteen minutes—and her deceit and negotiation skills. She skirted past him as she obeyed Arturo’s still polite gesture, indicating she should precede him down the stairs. Emm was eager to reach the study, to have Curt’s company again. What she had to say now would take fluency on both sides.
And a prayer. And luck. Voicing the soundless prayer, and glad she still had her grandma’s four leaf clover, Emm entered the study. Shadows were gathering outside, so they’d been here most of the day. Surely time enough for Ross to arrive if he’d taken an agency jet.
If he’d received her message.
At the secure government portion of the enormous airport in Mexico City, while workers unloaded all the equipment, Chad and the other task force leads gathered around the Mexican Marine general who’d been tapped to spearhead the raid.
Ross watched as Chad explained the new wrinkle. The general brigadier, who sported four silver stars and a gold eagle insignia, scowled but bit off orders to his subordinate. Ross’s Spanish wasn’t as fluent as Chad’s, but he thought he understood well enough that the general was telling his men to take the infrared imaging equipment so they could try to figure out where each person was inside the compound. Their spotters had confirmed that Curt and Emm had arrived in the morning, in a cab that still waited outside the gates.
Ross was itching to get started, but he tamped down his impatience, well aware he was a guest in another country. He was just happy they’d let him keep his guns, even if they inspected them carefully and noted what he carried, including model and ID numbers, in a file. They’d done the same with all their weapons. With the virulent drug wars in Mexico, too often lost or seized weapons ended up in the hands of the cartels, so he couldn’t blame the authorities for being extra cautious.
When the general was finished, Chad came over and briefed them. “We’re going in three vehicles—two panel vans with the lead truck armored. The road has a sharp ess curve right before the compound, and we’re going to shut off our lights and coast until we stop probably a quarter mile away. We’ll have to hoof it up the hillside from there, but it’s our only chance to surround the place unseen. They have state-of-the-art security beginning right past that curve, so once we crest the hill, we’re committed and have to move quickly. I asked about interrupting their power, but the general says Cervantes likely has generator backups, so it wouldn’t gain us much and would probably alert them. We’ll just do it as a diversion as we move in.”
Ross cleared his throat, his heart hammering. “And Emm? How are we going to protect her?”
Chad looked a bit uncomfortable. “She’s your responsibility,” he said. “They’ve been planning this op for weeks and one woman, no matter who she is, may have to be expendable if Cervantes tries to use her as a shield.” Chad offered tablets to Ross and the others. “But he did give us a schematic of the mansion, and they’ve had the place under surveillance, too. He says this exterior wall—” Chad zoomed in on part of the ground-floor plan—“is the study where Cervantes conducts most of his business. If the infrared imaging shows several bodies in that room, we can assume that’s where he’s holding Emm and Tupperman and make one of our entries there at the same time the marines go in the front and rear.”
Chad looked at each of the task force leads from the various agencies. “Remember, assuming we get the chance to do a search, our priority is any information we can get on who the splinter groups are back home. Who heads them, how the drugs and women are being smuggled, the trail of funds—”
“Particularly look for the names of Curt Tupperman and Brett Umarov,” Ross inserted.
They nodded, now all grim professionals. Even Rosemary wore the new body armor, though she looked thinner still in the heavy equipment, like a model playing soldier.
Ross hesitated, knowing Chad might not like him butting in, but he had to do this. For Emm . . . And Chad was so new to the task force, he probably hadn’t had time to get fully up to speed.
He pulled out a file from his pack and handed around pictures of Emm, Yancy, and Jennifer. In happier times, true, but it would be enough to identify them. “Here are pics of the hostages. The two Russell women, if they’re here, have probably undergone months of abuse, so we need to be ready with medical attention.”
Rosemary nodded at her medic. He held up his bag and tapped the mike in his ear. “Just say the word and I’ll storm up the hillside.” He’d been instructed to hold back until summoned as he wasn’t a field
operative or combat specialist.
Almost as an afterthought, Ross added a stock photo of Curt. “Tupperman, we think, is one of their top American contacts, but we’re not sure. Just take him into custody, but don’t trust him. We’ll sort it out after we have the situation secure.”
They all nodded and got into their assigned transports.
Chad had pleaded for, and received, permission for him and Ross to ride in the front armored truck. As they began the long trip from the airport, Ross was relieved to get a text from Abby, who was in the rear panel van, saying that the tracker was still live and hadn’t moved. The over-the-counter electronic device wasn’t sensitive enough to pinpoint Emm’s exact location, but Abby knew she was still at the compound.
Inside the study in the compound, Emm forced herself to meet Cervantes’s obsidian eyes. They’d turned on all the lights as it was now dark outside. Curt was translating, as needed, between the two of them. The thought crossed her mind that he might censor some of what she said for his benefit, but she had little choice but to trust him at this point; he was the only ally she had.
She carefully formulated the words she’d mentally rehearsed. “Yancy is my sister, as I said. Half sister, but I love her dearly and she’s my only sibling. I’ve already cleared this with my father—” she was getting pretty good at lying, Emm thought, for her voice didn’t even falter—“and we’re prepared to pay richly to get her and Jennifer back.”
Cervantes snapped something. Curt paled slightly but translated, “He wants to know why he should trust anything you say when you invaded his home under false pretenses.”
Emm pulled the envelope from her bag. “A deposit in good faith. Fifteen grand.” She extended it and one of the guards took it, counting the money. “If he’ll allow me to confirm Yancy and Jennifer are okay, to see them with my own eyes, I’ll contact my father and have him wire half of whatever ransom we all agree on to the account of his preference. We promise not to go to the police or any other agency, either here or in the States. Once we have Yancy and Jennifer safe, that will be the end of it. We’ll arrange our own transport out of the country, and when we’ve boarded the plane, my father will wire the other half.”
As he listened to Cervantes, who used his hands again as he talked, Curt sighed. “The women are very valuable. Especially the younger one.” He listened, swallowed, and added, as Cervantes looked Emm up and down, “And if he adds you to his inventory, you won’t be a threat and he’ll still make a lot of money.”
Emm had been ready for this one. “He can do that, but my father and grandfather know where I am.” Another lie. There had been no time, and Emm barely knew the wealthy side of the family. “My great-uncle has many businesses in Latin America and knows many people. Including governors and other business owners. Yancy is not a Rothschild by birth, so they looked the other way. But I am . . .” Emm lifted her chin as that gaze raked her again, hoping, for once in her life, that she looked as regal and snotty as people always said.
Cervantes laughed and made an aside to his men. Curt looked away rather than translate. Emm said through her teeth, “What did he say?”
Curt muttered, “He said all women are alike between the legs. And he thinks you just haven’t been mounted enough.”
Cold sweat broke out on Emm’s brow, but she lifted her chin a bit higher and said coolly, “And you can tell him that despite the insult, he needs to recall that the Rothschilds have made billions with our business acumen. We deal fairly with partners. He can check that independently if he likes, along with this—Mayer Rothschild, who founded our banking dynasty in the late seventeen hundreds, was orphaned at twelve and grew up in the ghetto. He, like Señor Cervantes, was a self-made man. His five sons took his teachings around the globe, leading to the empire we have today in finance, publishing, wines, and many other ventures. My grandfather would respect a man of Señor Cervantes’s determination and ability, as do I. I am not afraid . . . and I’ve dealt with him truly and fairly. But no matter what, I love my sister and niece very much. I am resolved to leave Mexico only with my sister and niece safe beside me. I can be Señor Cervantes’s asset—or a very big liability.” Emm bowed her head before the despicable man in a gesture of both respect and challenge. Wouldn’t Yancy be proud of her desperate new ability to bluff? They played Texas Hold’em together when they could, and Yancy usually beat the socks off her . . . once quite literally when she’d demanded Emm’s Christmas socks as part of her winnings.
She was relieved when Curt finally said, “How much? He wants to know how much you offer.”
Yancy got to the lobby easily enough, but as she’d feared, it was full of guards. And also as she feared, it wasn’t easy to exit. When the elevator pinged, she peeked outside the still opening elevator door. A scowling guard started toward her, so she pushed the close button on the elevator and tried the lowest button. Nothing happened, so she figured the basement level was off limits and pressed the fourth-floor button again, trying not to think of Jennifer, of somehow saving her body from being thrown on top of many others like waste in some rock pile. She held grief at bay only with cool calculation.
This entire disgusting building was based on a very tawdry form of free enterprise, but prostitution had always been about money. Therefore, if she wanted to leave in one piece, she needed to be on the arm of one of the johns who funded this business. Part of the enterprise, not an escapee.
She went back to the room she’d entered before and left the door cracked so she could hear better. She also took the time to do a more thorough search, hoping she might find some sort of a weapon. Thirty minutes later, she heard a door open down the corridor and a male voice. She’d found a long and sharp nail file of sturdy steel, but it would be pathetic against Arturo’s army.
Still, she stuck the file in her jacket pocket and sashayed out into the corridor. She caught up with the businessman in a wrinkled suit who had pressed the elevator button. He looked at her nervously, shying away a bit, but Yancy only ran her hand down his arm and then down his hip. She lifted the veil and widened her lovely green eyes. He stared into them, fascinated.
“I’ll give you whatever you want if you’ll let me leave with you in your car,” she whispered seductively, still caressing. “I am one of the most popular girls here.”
She felt the frisson that went through him, but he looked around uncertainly. “I have no more money.”
“I don’t want money. I want to go to—” and she named the main street near the compound. When he still hesitated, her hand drifted closer to his groin. She brought his hand to her firm breast.
“That’s all? I want . . .” and he named several disgusting acts.
Yancy lowered her veil again but nodded to hide her revulsion.
This time, when she entered the lobby, she was latched onto the arm of one of the brothel’s best clients, who had his own arm around her, his free hand caressing her breast. They whispered to each other as they slowly made their way to the exit.
She heard the guards debating her identity as they passed and held her breath as her john opened the front door, but they exited unmolested. Then she was seated in a nice Lincoln sedan and driving through very crowded streets toward the compound.
They hadn’t gone far when the john pulled to an empty side street and stopped. He demanded a blow job. Yancy hesitated, eyeing the keys. She moved closer to him on the wide bench seat, as if to comply, but she whipped the nail file from her jacket pocket and held it to his carotid artery, leaning over him as if to whisper sweet nothings.
Instead, she said, “Get out or I swear I’ll give you a mark to remember me by. You disgust me. Do you know some of the girls in that place have been kidnapped?” She pressed the sharp edge into his throat. Swallowing harshly, he fumbled for the door. He tried to grab the keys at the last minute, but she cut his neck enough for him to bleed. He bleated and reared his head away. Blood dripped onto his shirt and he screamed, covering his scratch. But his gaze fell to the
blood flowing now from beneath her black sleeve. He looked at his hand, at the few dots of his own blood, then back at her wound. His expression changed from anger to horror as he realized it wasn’t his blood. Frantically, he reached for the car door and fell onto the pavement outside.
She drove off, well aware that the first thing he’d do was call the police and report his car stolen. Good. She hoped he made all the papers when he described who took the car. Even better, she always liked a police escort when she was going to kill drug dealers . . . Yancy laughed, but strangely her voice sounded broken. However, she still had the presence of mind to pull over long enough to search the car. She found a thick wad of napkins and tied them around her wrist as she drove with her free hand. It wouldn’t stop the blood but would help with the mess.
The center of attention in the luxurious study, Emm tried a low number first, like a true monied Rothschild. “One hundred thousand.”
Cervantes scoffed a laugh and bit off a nasty remark. Curt said, “He can make that on Jennifer in six months. He wants five years’ worth of revenue or he isn’t interested.”
Emm did some quick calculations. “He wants a million just for Jennifer?”
The drug lord smiled broadly. His English was apparently good enough when it came to hard, cold Yankee dollars. He nodded. “Sí.”
The cold sweat had extended to Emm’s hands, but she only said coolly, “And for Yancy?”
Curt interpreted. “Half that. Take it or leave it.”
Together, that would be 1.5 million; a lot of money even for a Rothschild heir. Emm debated negotiating longer to give Ross more time, but the truth was she was frantic to see Yancy and Jennifer. She needed to start that process. There was something about Cervantes’s attitude that made her uneasy, aside from his obvious lack of scruples. He was hiding something.
Sinclair Justice Page 23
