Hot on the Trail

by Vicki Tharp

  Damn.

  Quinn tossed a couple more bundles onto a stack. More adrenaline dumped into his system. His veins burned, his scalp tingled, and his stomach dropped somewhere beneath the table. He forced himself to look at Hank.

  “My wife, my daughter, and my what?”

  Quinn’s stomach rolled around under the chair legs, refusing to go back into his body, where it belonged. Stalling until he came up with a believable lie, he said, “Forget I said anything.”

  “My. What?” Low, exact, deceptively calm.

  That extra two-point-five seconds he had bought himself did nothing except draw a savage snarl from Hank, who would gladly beat the truth out of Quinn.

  “Your baby.”

  Quinn could have said “penguin” or “kangaroo” and Hank wouldn’t have looked any more confused. “Jenna told me Mac’s pregnant.”

  “Pregnant…” Hank said it with a kind of wonder, as if a whole new universe had been unveiled before him and it was a magical, mesmerizing, marvelous place. Hank blew out a breath, and a vein in his neck started throbbing. “Excuse me,” he said as he got up and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got a phone call to make.”

  Quinn jumped to his feet and wrapped a hand tight around Hank’s bicep. “You can’t call her.”

  Hank glared at the hand and then back down at Quinn. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “What are you going to do? Order her to come back?”

  The expression on Hank’s face told Quinn that was exactly what Hank had planned to do. Either that, or Hank planned on roaring up the mountain and dragging her back.

  “You can’t do that, Hank. Jenna’s up there. Boomer and Mac could make the difference between Jenna coming home alive, or her coming home in a body bag.”

  Selfish.

  Selfish for being willing to risk Mac and Hank’s unborn child for the one who was living. The one who was here now. The one he loved.

  Holy hell.

  He loved her.

  Still didn’t deserve her.

  But that didn’t change the facts.

  Hank doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. Quinn went to help him back to the chair, but Hank swatted his hand away. It took Hank a minute, his breathing ragged as he caught the tail end of his unraveling composure.

  By the time Hank straightened, he’d carefully blanked the emotion on his face. His only expression was a hard, singular focus, and Quinn knew that Hank would do everything in his power to make sure his family, his entire family, made it out alive.

  * * * *

  Once Jenna was shoved in the Jeep, the guy relieved her of her gun. No surprise there. Too quickly, the streets and buildings gave way to trees and houses, which gave way to pastures and outbuildings. As the road wound up the mountain, civilization fell away, until it was only the stream following the two-lane road, the trees, the rocks, the gullies, the jagged cliffs.

  Completely numb, Jenna didn’t know how long they drove, especially since her watch was dead. Which seemed kind of fitting, because she had the funny feeling she might be next. This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. They were meant to have found Kurt’s killer, not gotten herself and Pepita kidnapped.

  What kept her from jumping off a mental cliff and diving into complete freak-the-hell-out, was knowing that if Finn was right, if El Verdugo was Pepita’s father, at least the girl would be safe. She could live with that.

  Barely.

  Or, as the case might be, die with that.

  Jenna tamped down the fear, while the dread that fought and roiled in her belly made her mouth taste sour and allowed nausea to thrive.

  Finn, Soto, Quinn, and the rest of the task force would come. In the meantime, she had a simple objective: Stay out of trouble, find Pepita, and stay safe until they were rescued.

  Moose slowed and pulled off the pavement onto a gravel road only one-car wide that wound up and up and around until they reached a plateau. They were high up, but not so high that the trees weren’t thick, the estate home all but hidden until they came around the circular drive.

  A helicopter arrived, the sound deafening as it eased by overhead and disappeared. Moose drove by the front entrance, past the black town car, the Bentley, and the Bugatti, and pulled through a porte cochere to a parking area on the side of the mansion.

  Moose shoved the gearshift into Park, looked at her in the rearview mirror, and said, “Do what you’re told.” The “or else” was implied by the narrowing of his eyes.

  Yeah, like high-heeled cowgirl boots were fabulous footwear in which to launch an escape. She would wait for as long as she could for the help, but if she and Pepita had to run down the side of a mountain, they’d take that risk.

  The goon with the gun took her by the arm and dragged her across the middle seat and out of the Jeep. They followed Moose into the house with the other man behind them. The house was all dark woods and slate floors and high ceilings and chandeliers. Might have been beautiful under different circumstances.

  They passed through what looked like a large den-type area, but there were only a few chairs here and there. Tables were laid out with fresh white linens, and a bank of blank television monitors was situated in front of the two-story stone fireplace, with a PA system off to the side.

  Exactly how did someone score an invite to a cartel dinner party?

  Moose continued through the room and down another hall, and stopped at a set of closed double doors. He knocked. The door opened, and the four of them went through.

  She’d expected a tuxedoed butler with a white cloth over his arm, not a man in fatigues, finely accessorized with a pistol in a holster on his thigh and an AR-15 strapped across his chest.

  They were in some sort of office or library. Books and shelves and a desk the size of Rhode Island that Jenna guessed compensated for someone the size of a baby carrot.

  Moose gave orders to the guy in Spanish. Santos had taught her enough of the language that she understood it if it was spoken slowly and they used simple words. Whatever Moose had said, though, was too fast. She couldn’t comprehend it.

  The guy and his AR-15 retreated through a side door, and the four of them stood there, the goon’s hand on her bicep. A few minutes passed, and she heard footsteps approaching.

  A Hispanic man with a mustache walked in. Shorter than her, but she wasn’t going to stand back to back with him to point it out. Without the mustache, he closely resembled the photo of the police sketch she had in her phone. El Verdugo.

  El Verdugo walked over to her. The smell of cigars and spicy cologne arrived a couple of steps before he did. He looked her up and down, spun his hand, and the goon turned her around like she was tender meat on a spit. Her face flushed, more anger than embarrassment, and she bit back the smart-ass remark before it sank her into worse trouble.

  He caressed the fabric of her cotton dress, and his lip went up in distaste. What the—?

  El Verdugo gave the goon some instructions. The goon started to take her out of the room, but she dug her heels in and said, “Where is he taking me?”

  El Verdugo didn’t answer her directly, but to his goon, he said in English, “Take her away. Use force if you have to.” El Verdugo’s accent was thick, though he was easy enough to understand.

  She didn’t go willingly, but she didn’t fight too much, either. Mainly because the goon had the gun, he was bigger and stronger, and he didn’t look the type who was afraid to hit a woman.

  Or shoot one, either.

  He led her up a back staircase to a third-floor hallway. Up there the ornate wood gave way to simple wallboard, the chandeliers to more functional lighting, the soaring ceilings sunk to about eight feet. Definitely not an area where guests were meant to wander. Like servants’ quarters, perhaps.

  A row of doo
rs lined either side of the hall. A woman came from the other end with one of those rolling clothes racks found behind the scenes of a fashion show. The rack was full of dresses of different colors and styles.

  The goon stopped and said something to the woman before she passed. The woman looked Jenna up and down with an expert eye, then plucked something off the rack and handed it to her.

  “What’s this for?”

  The woman didn’t answer. The goon shoved Jenna forward again. Through an open door on her right, Jenna heard voices. Inside the room, a blond woman stood stripped down to her panties, tears on her face as another woman tried to dress her.

  “Are you okay?” Jenna asked before she thought better of it.

  The goon reached in and closed the door, then pushed Jenna two more doors down. What was going on? What kind of place was this? The goon unlocked the door and pushed her inside. He pointed to the dress and said, “Put on.”

  He closed the door and turned the key in the lock. She tried the handle anyway. It didn’t budge.

  She sank against the wall and forced a breath. You got this. You can do it. Quinn is coming. She repeated it over and over until a tiny part of her believed it.

  The other part—the majority part—knew she was totally screwed.

  She heaved herself off the wall and onto shaky legs that threatened to drop her on her butt at any second. She stumbled to the center of the room. Luckily it wasn’t far.

  A twin bed angled out from one wall with a built-in shelf and a reading lamp beside it. Across from the bed was a closet that would hold all of her clothes if she owned fewer clothes than fingers.

  A toilet and sink tucked behind another door rounded out the mini tour. That room at the convent was looking mighty luxurious.

  She spread the dress out on the bed, a dark emerald-green number that shimmered in the light overhead. Form-fitting. The dress would hit her above mid-thigh. She wiped the sweat off her palms and tried not to think about it.

  Turning to the window, she looked out over the back of the property. A pool. Some landscaping. Being this high up on the third floor gave her a view over the tops of some of the trees, and she saw where the backyard fell away.

  The house was perched on the side of a cliff.

  Like a fortress.

  Impenetrable.

  Behind her, a key turned in the lock and the same woman who had helped dress the sobbing woman, entered the room. The woman pointed to the green dress. Then to Jenna. Then to the camera up high in the corner of the room.

  Jenna locked her knees. Thought about running. The woman would be easy to knock down, but the goon stood in the hallway behind her. She wouldn’t blast past him.

  When Jenna didn’t move to put on the dress, the woman picked it up and put it back in her hands. Jenna nodded that she understood, but the woman crossed her plump arms over her ample chest and tapped a foot. Waiting.

  Crap. Jenna started to undress, glanced at the doorway. It was partially closed, but the angle was right, and the goon had a direct line of sight. Jenna would love nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face, but for the moment there was nothing she could do except give the guy a peep show.

  Acid clawed up the back of her throat, and she choked it back down, letting it blaze a trail of fire down her esophagus. Adrenaline dried her saliva, and she couldn’t spare a drop to douse the flames.

  * * * *

  Quinn didn’t know what he’d expected when he drove up to the address Moose had given him. A remote cabin came to mind. A place where no one would witness the deal. Not a monstrous estate house lit up like the Vegas Strip at night, with a circular drive filled with cars and waiting drivers. He parked Kurt’s Mustang behind a long line of cars that each cost more than what he’d made the last few years combined.

  Through a thinning in some of the trees, he saw where the forest ended at a drop-off. The place reminded him of some medieval fortress protected by cliffs and moats and drawbridges.

  A sharp pain hit his gut as dread gnawed chunks out of the lining of his stomach. Mac and Boomer would have a hell of a time finding a back way in.

  Clouds had moved in, and light rain splattered on his shirt. Shouldering the bag of money, Quinn cut through the line of cars to the entrance. On either side of the front door stood a man dressed in fatigues and heavily armed. Before he could knock, the door opened, and another armed guard ushered him inside, where he was patted down, relieved of Boomer’s gun, and given a claim ticket like he’d checked his coat at the White House New Year’s Eve Ball. All very civilized.

  From there, he was led farther inside by another man. At least this guy wasn’t armed, but there were plenty of those scattered around the large den.

  A tall, thin man with a polite smile approached him. “If you’ll come with me, we’ll give you a receipt for the money and assign you your auction number.”

  Auction number?

  Quinn wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, but whatever the hell it was, it didn’t give him the warm fuzzies.

  The man reached for Quinn’s bag of money. Quinn took a step back. “I’ll hang on to it for now.”

  The man bowed his head and said, “If you change your mind, I’ll be over there.” He pointed to a corner of the room where another man handed over a briefcase and was given a paddle with the number eleven.

  Twenty to twenty-five men crowded the room. All in suits or tuxes. Getting drinks from a bar, filling plates with finger foods from a long table. Quinn shoved through the crowd, as out of place and ill prepared as if he’d walked into a costume party when he thought he was going to a friend’s house to study.

  Except with high-capacity assault weapons.

  Behind him, the idle chatter died, and everyone turned around. Quinn did, too. A bank of screens buzzed with fuzz. Then the feed came on each screen one by one.

  Quinn’s bag dropped at his feet. Each monitor showed a different woman, dressed in expensive, form-hugging gowns as if headed for a gala. But this was no fun night out on the town. This was an auction. Not for fine cigars, sparkling jewelry, or assault weapons.

  This was an auction for women.

  Quinn picked up his bag and elbowed his way through the eager men—he’d had less trouble fighting his way to the stage at an AC/DC concert in high school—not caring whom he pushed or pissed off. At the front, he got a good view of all of the screens. The men around him were all laughing, talking, and having a good time.

  The time lag between each new feed gave the men the opportunity to focus on each woman’s reveal. The third from the last screen went live.

  A piece of Quinn’s soul died.

  Jenna.

  In a dark green dress that left little to the imagination. The dress caught the light each time she turned as she ping-ponged back and forth like a rabbit in a shooting gallery. There were murmurs of approval. One bastard clapped.

  Quinn was still focused on Jenna when a rumble went through the crowd. Grown men, many of them older, sounded…giddy. Quinn didn’t want to take his eyes off of Jenna, but someone bumped him from behind, forcing him closer to the last screen. The screen everyone had gathered around.

  Pepita.

  * * * *

  Sick.

  Fucking.

  Bastards.

  Every last one of them. This wasn’t the America he’d risked his life for. This wasn’t the America his friends had died for. This wasn’t the world he wanted his kids to grow up in.

  Multiple nationalities were represented, from the Middle East, South America, Eastern and Western Europe. Proving depravity knew no borders. From the accents he heard, there were plenty from all over the United States, too—from New York to Louisiana to California and areas in between.

  Quinn wasn’t naïve. He knew human trafficking happened, but not on this scale. Not in his America.

 
From deep within, the anger smoldered, burned. Traveling from cell to cell, synapse to synapse, muscle to muscle, bone to bone, until his entire body quaked with murderous fury. He wanted to rush the closest guard, strip him of his rifle and mow every man down, sending them back to that deep, dark recess of hell where their souls would burn for eternity.

  But what if he failed? What would happen to those women? To Jenna? To Pepita? No matter how much death and destruction he wanted to rain down on these people, he couldn’t take that kind of gamble with other innocent people’s lives.

  He stewed in his fury, his mind reeling, searching for a way out of the nightmare. Quinn cut a path clear of the mob. He had to find El Verdugo. He had to get Jenna and Pepita back.

  Off by himself by one of the windows, Moose stood. Arms at his sides. His eyes scanning the crowd for potential threats. Quinn stormed over. “What the hell is this?”

  Moose gave him a look as if Quinn had been standing in the corner jerking off when common sense had been handed out. “Business.”

  “I want to talk to El Verdugo. Now.”

  Moose stared at him for a long moment; his black eyes from the bar fight had faded to yellow. The blood rushed in Quinn’s ears, and his heart thumped in his chest faster than rounds out of a submachine gun on full auto. Finally, Moose tipped his head toward a hallway. Quinn moved out with Moose nipping at his heels. The other watchdogs stayed behind.

  “In there,” Moose said as they came to a set of double doors. He went ahead of Quinn and raised his hand to knock, but Quinn pushed past him and opened the door.

  Quinn recognized the Hispanic man behind the desk from the police sketch on Jenna’s phone. Quinn slipped a hand into his pocket and pressed the voice-record button on his phone. Low tech, but it was the best he had.

  “I’ve got the money. Give me the girl and the drugs, and I’ll be on my way.”

  El Verdugo leaned back and spread his hands. “What’s your hurry? Drink. Look at the merchandise. Something else you might like more. No?” El Verdugo said, his accent thick.

  “No.” Quinn dropped the money at his feet. “The drugs, the girl. That’s all I’m after.”