Stealth Retribution

by Vikki Kestell

  Ducking Zander was the best way to avoid aggravating that raw, painful place. I figured that he felt the same way.

  Instead, I forged ahead in my Bible and, while I had lots of questions, it also seemed like everything I read filled in a piece, a gap, or hole in my faith. Better than the answers to important questions were the moments when God’s character filled me with awe. Yes, I was learning a lot, but so much of it was learning to know him.

  I began to experience great reverence toward him—and I started to grasp his deep love for me. Sometimes, in those intimate encounters, I wept and didn’t fully comprehend why . . . except that who Jesus was to me was changing. Growing. Expanding. Enlarging. And when it was all too much to contain, the tears would come.

  I was re-reading the part of the Bible I found most fascinating: the gospels. I loved reading the very words Jesus spoke! This morning I was deep in the Gospel of Matthew, studying about seeking and asking, true and false disciples, and wise and foolish builders.

  After I finished my Bible study, Dr. Bickel and I ate breakfast, and then I went for that long, vital run. As I set my pace, I continued to mull over Jesus’ words regarding wise and foolish builders. I had memorized the chapter and, as I ran, I mouthed the passage. The comparison between the two kinds of builders helped me to grasp the point Jesus was making, which was how hearing what he said differed from doing what he said.

  It was evident that the difference in outcome was nothing short of catastrophic.

  “. . . Everyone who hears

  these words of mine

  and puts them into practice

  is like a wise man who built

  his house on the rock.

  The rain came down,

  the streams rose,

  and the winds blew

  and beat against that house;

  yet it did not fall,

  because it had

  its foundation on the rock.

  But everyone who hears

  these words of mine

  and does not

  put them into practice

  is like a foolish man

  who built his house on sand.

  The rain came down,

  the streams rose,

  and the winds blew

  and beat against that house,

  and it fell with a great crash.”

  “Lord, please help me to do what you tell me to do. Don’t let me build my house on anything other than your firm foundation, the rock of your certainty. When the winds blow and beat against me, please help me to stand strong in you.”

  I was on my fifth mile when the nanomites broke in.

  Gemma Keyes, someone has uploaded additional content to Soto’s website. It is a message for you.

  Air whooshed out of my lungs. “Show me the page?”

  It appeared before me. The message was short. Terse.

  If you want the kid to live past today, park alongside Netherwood Park on Princeton Dr. NE. Leave your vehicle and walk to the corner of Schell Ct. NE and Morrow Road. Be standing on the corner at 4 p.m. sharp.

  We will be watching from a distance. If we don’t SEE you, we make a call and the kid dies. If we see anyone else, the kid dies. Try any disappearing tricks, and the kid dies—and I guarantee you’ll never find his body.

  If you obey my instructions to the letter, a car will pick you up at 4:05.

  You have one chance to save the boy. Don’t blow it.

  Below the paragraph were these words: I agree to your terms followed by a check box and a Submit button.

  “Send our response, Nano.” I kept running, but turned toward the safe house. “Were you able to trace the upload?”

  I held my breath. Web content is created offline; it would have taken mere seconds for the site’s owner to publish it to the website—a task so quick that even the nanomites might not have been fast enough to backtrack the point of origination to its source.

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. We have the IP address of the computer from where the page was uploaded and have pinpointed the computer’s location.

  “Show me.”

  Like a large topical map, a satellite image of Albuquerque appeared before me. The nanomites zoomed in on the image, and we traversed I-40 westbound, out beyond Unser, beyond 96th, to somewhere between Atrisco and Rio Puerco, which bordered the Cañoncito Navajo Reservation.

  We turned north and traveled on unmarked roads far out onto the west mesa, making lots of turns. I estimated that Double Eagle Airport and the City of Albuquerque’s shooting range were somewhere east of our “whereabouts,” but beyond those vague markers in my mind, I didn’t know where we were.

  Didn’t matter. As we floated over the satellite photo, I memorized the route.

  Gemma Keyes, this is the origination point of the message uploaded to Soto’s website.

  I zoomed in closer, scanned the area, took in the large excavated hole and nearby mounds of crushed rock in varying sizes. An old conveyor belt led from the edge of the hole to a rock crusher. Both pieces of equipment were rusted. Dilapidated. I homed in on the squat concrete building a couple hundred yards from the hole.

  “This building?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes.

  “This place . . . looks like an old gravel quarry.”

  Yes, rock excavation to produce gravel was the initial purpose of this site, Gemma Keyes. The quarry was abandoned six years ago due to noncompliance with safety regulations.

  “So, the owners just left their machines?”

  These machines were old and unsafe when they were left here, costly to repair or dispose of.

  I hovered over the boxy building. “Can you call up schematics for this structure?”

  A minute later a diagram appeared. From it, the nanomites created a 3D model and superimposed it over the building. I saw two floors and a large basement level.

  I rotated the model and examined it from every angle. The first floor appeared to be typical office space; the second floor could have been a caretaker’s quarters. The basement was partitioned into five rooms. For what purposes, I couldn’t tell.

  A red outline appeared around an interior room below ground.

  The upload came from this room, Gemma Keyes. The computer is located here.

  “Do you think what is left of Soto’s gang is operating out of the basement?”

  This image is not recent; however, we have counted three houses within a quarter mile of the rock quarry. If Soto and his gang are using this facility, perhaps he feels they would attract less attention at night by keeping below ground. Unexpected lights from a deserted quarry would generate unwanted curiosity.

  “Good point.” I went back to the web content and the computer that uploaded it. “Soto’s computer. Is it still on?”

  Yes.

  “Does it have a camera?”

  You have asked an astute question, Gemma Keyes. We shall hack into the camera remotely.

  A moment later the satellite image gave way to the sights and sounds of what I hoped was Dead Eyes’ headquarters. I said “sights,” but the laptop sat on a table that faced the interior of the room. No one was presently sitting behind the computer—which meant that, at the moment, the laptop’s camera gave me a great view of an empty chair and a rough cement wall rather than a look into the room.

  The camera’s audio, however, was more productive.

  Three men spoke from the other side of the desk. I recognized Soto’s voice immediately, even though the men conversed in Spanish.

  I should probably take the time to learn Spanish. I speculated how quickly I might master the language, given my present rate of reading and memorization. A couple of weeks, maybe?

  “Nano, can you identify who, other than Soto, is speaking?

  We can tell you that the accents of the other two men differ from Soto’s. We believe them to be American Hispanic males.

  “Can you tell me what they’re saying?”

  Yes, Gemma Keyes. Soto is complaining about the condition of his hand.
The many broken bones are causing him ongoing pain and he is concerned that the bones will knit improperly. He has need of a bone specialist. The more outspoken American male insists that Soto can get adequate medical care in Mexico and is pressing for immediate departure. Soto, however, says he will not be returning to Mexico—that Mexico is not safe for him.

  The nanomites paused. Gemma Keyes, Soto just called the other man “Benally.” Benally is angry because Soto promised that he would pay Benally money and then he could escape to Mexico. Benally says it is too hot for them in New Mexico.

  Gemma Keyes, is New Mexico temperature significantly warmer than that of Mexico? This does not seem consistent with historic temperature records.

  I snickered. “It’s slang, Nano. Benally was one of the APD gang unit officers who helped Soto escape. The FBI wants them pretty badly and is putting a lot of effort into finding them. The increased effort is called ‘heat.’ That’s what Benally means by saying it’s ‘too hot’ in this state.”

  The tone of the conversation has become quite tense, Gemma Keyes. It appears that Soto has no intention of paying Benally until he has “taken care of certain business issues,” and Benally is unhappy at the delay.

  “What of the third man?”

  We believe he is an older member of Soto’s gang, as evidenced by his frequent and sycophantic affirmations of Soto’s statements.

  How the nanomites used fifty-dollar words but managed to stumble over common idiomatic expressions would never fail to amaze (and amuse) me. “Sycophantic affirmations,” my left foot!

  The nanomites broke off and then added, Soto has asked his man to go into the other room and print out yesterday’s accounts. Soto told Benally that he wished to recruit Benally and his men into joining his organization. The accounts are to demonstrate that his business is flourishing.

  “Soto is running his drug business from the quarry.”

  It would appear so, Gemma Keyes.

  “That’s enough, Nano. Please keep monitoring them, but I would like to see the satellite image again.”

  It appeared.

  What are you looking for, Gemma Keyes?

  “Those.” I pointed to the trail of powerlines leading away from the concrete building. “Soto needs electricity and bandwidth to manage his business. I needed to see where it was coming from.”

  I wanted to confirm that we had plenty of juice available for our needs.

  ***

  It was almost noon. I knew I was cutting it close, but I also knew Gamble wouldn’t pass on this opportunity.

  The phone rang on his end and his familiar voice greeted me. “Special Agent Gamble.”

  “Hey, Gamble.”

  “Hi there. Haven’t heard from you in days.”

  “I haven’t had a reason to call you, and you haven’t posted the Bat Signal.”

  Gamble chuckled softly. “No; I haven’t needed you just yet. But it’s your dime, Gemma. What’s up?”

  For the next twenty minutes, I chose my words carefully.

  When I hung up, I called the phone number Miguel Soto had emailed the nanomites. I knew I would have to be even more judicious with my interactions with Miguel Soto’s associates and how I coordinated my plan. In some respects, I was playing the part of a square dance caller—only this dance, if I made a wrong call, could prove deadly.

  The phone rang.

  “Sí?”

  “Señor Miguel Soto asked me to call this number.”

  The voice on the end, although heavily accented, switched to English. “You are the sender of the emails?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know where is our mutual friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “How we find him?”

  “I will text instructions to you, and you must follow them carefully. Do not deviate from the timing or the details. Is that clear?”

  “One moment, please.”

  He muted the call on his end. I figured he was conveying my message to his superior. When he came back on the line, he said, “Now I, too, have a message for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I am instructed to tell you: Do not, as your American movies say, ‘jerk us around.’”

  “It is not my intention to do so, but I must first satisfy Soto’s demands in order to get close to him. When the timing is right, I will deliver him to you as promised.”

  “Bueno. We will wait.”

  ***

  Genie stared at her inbox. With the exception of a few automated replies, she’d received not a single response from the twenty-three applications she’d submitted for positions from Albuquerque to Santa Fe to Las Cruces.

  It’s too early, she told herself. It’s only been a few days. Too soon to expect an answer. She toggled to another screen and stared at her bank balance.

  Tired beyond belief, Genie trudged to the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and fell into bed. She was too exhausted and disheartened to bother brushing her teeth or slipping on a nightgown.

  But, as tired as she was, she couldn’t shut down. For more than an hour, she stared at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep.

  Close your eyes, idiot, she berated herself. You can’t sleep with your eyes open.

  But when she did close her eyes, all she could see was that blasted man, Zander Cruz, whistling while he went about framing up a new back door. Or, worse yet, Zander Cruz, preaching her a sermon.

  “When you leave my office, Genie, I want you to see God differently than you do now—in fact, I want you to see yourself differently. The first step in coming to terms with God is acknowledging who and what we are. That’s good news for you, Genie, because he isn’t asking for your ‘feelings.’ Rather, he is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”

  Genie peered into the shadows of the room and, for the first time in her life, wondered—

  A weight landed on the bed. She felt it shift. Pick its way across the bedspread.

  “You!”

  Jake settled near her hip as he had the last few nights—because Genie was afraid to push him off the bed. Soon after, Jake began to purr.

  “At least one of us can relax.”

  The thing was, Jake’s presence at night wasn’t as terrifying as it had been. Listening to his contented breathing lulled Genie into a better frame of mind.

  Without realizing it, she slipped off to sleep herself.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 16

  A few minutes before 4 p.m. that afternoon, I parked my car on Princeton Drive alongside Netherwood Park. I walked to the other side of the grassy, odd-angled plot to the corner of Morrow and Schell Court. As I passed a cluster of scraggly bushes not far from the corner, I palmed my phone and tossed it deep into the shrubs.

  Six steps later, I stood at the corner as ordered. I waited passively, the nanomites calling the time as the minutes ticked down.

  It is 4:03, Gemma Keyes.

  “Thank you. Please send the text.”

  A stream of nanomites flowed from me to the bushes where I’d ditched my phone. They sent instructions and directions in two succinct text messages then powered off the device and returned to me.

  We have sent the information, Gemma Keyes. It is now precisely 4:05.

  “It won’t be long.”

  And it wasn’t. A late-model, nondescript Chevy eased up to the curb. Two men stepped from the rear doors. One of them gestured to me, and I followed him to the backside of the same scraggly bushes where I’d tossed my phone. With the shrubs shielding us from the street, the man patted me down.

  Satisfied, he pulled a cell phone and spoke into it. “She’s clean.”

  To me, he muttered, “This way.”

  I followed him to the vehicle and, at the jutting gesture of his chin, I climbed into the back seat. The two men slid in, one on either side of me. It was a tight fit, like being sandwiched between two bodybuilders on an airplane, their muscled arms overlapping mine. Then we drove.

  Gemma Keyes, these men are not re
specting the socially acceptable norms of “personal space.”

  “No duh, Nano.”

  My nose wrinkled. Gross. The guy on my left needed a shower.

  No one in the vehicle uttered a word and, since I already knew the route, I watched the scenery go by, along the Interstate and paved state roads, then dirt roads, and finally back roads, some no more than one-way tracks through the desert.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I looked ahead and noted two armed gangbangers flanking a chain-link gate. They wheeled the gate open and waved us through. The car’s tires crunched their way across an expansive lot. We’d arrived at the defunct gravel quarry.

  I slanted a glance around. To my right, I counted six vehicles—guarded by a pair of gangers. The vehicles were lined up side by side under a lengthy canvas awning in a splotchy brown and tan camo pattern. Several hundred yards to my left, I spied the rim of the disused quarry pit. We drove straight ahead toward the squat concrete building.

  Two stone-faced hoods flaunting short semi-auto rifles eyeballed us as the car pulled up to the old building. They were joined by two others, similarly armed. The door to the concrete building flew open and yet another gun-toting gangster emerged.

  Goodness. This place is positively bristling with firepower.

  The man who’d patted me down got out of the car and jerked me after him. His buddy zip-tied my hands in front of me. Then they pulled me into the building and down a dark stairwell to the basement.

  Not too gently, either.

  Soto and one of his lieutenants waited for me downstairs in a spacious, open room with ugly concrete walls. Soto’s lieutenant had a fixed-stock AR 15 slung from his shoulder, but Soto held no weapon; however, his right hand, up to his elbow, was heavily bandaged.

  Before I acknowledged my adversary, I gave the room a once-over—and observed a third occupant, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He seemed too detached and observant to be one of Soto’s common soldiers. I compared his face to images of the APD gang unit’s members.

  Ah. Benally. The APD turncoat.

  When I turned my attention to Soto, his countenance was a contradiction of manic jubilation and uncertainty. Maybe he expected Xena, Warrior Princess—and instead got Gemma, the Plain and Unremarkable?