Get Back Jack

by Diane Capri

  Once again, she heard no sound at all.

  Instantaneously, she thought: Bullet. Silencer. She watched another puff slightly below the first. She hit the deck and rolled under one of Neagley’s huge Spanish tables.

  “Gun!” she screamed.

  A line of puffs and craters raced toward Gaspar. He ducked behind a heavy chair and fell onto the floor below the line of fire and landed with a millisecond to spare.

  Kim belly-crawled to the front wall and peered out the bottom corner of the nine-foot glass windows. Paul was running for the house along the sidewalk, flashing in and out of the pockets of gloom created by the heavy canopy of oaks.

  “Frances! Frances!” he shouted.

  He was in a total, frothing panic. Must’ve broken free of Berenson, and now the peaceful exchange had exploded.

  Craning her neck, Kim could see Neagley crouched behind a heavy Spanish armoire hugging the side wall just inside the front entrance, scanning for the shooter’s location.

  “Paul! Get down!” Neagley screamed.

  Paul kept running.

  A volley of shots rang out from a second gun.

  Neagley fired back, but didn’t have a clear sightline to the shooters. Kim and Gaspar repositioned to provide cover fire through the broad open front door. Team members outside must have released a bullet-wall, too. Front windows shattered, spraying glass everywhere. The noise was deafening.

  Paul was still coming, all pumping arms and knees, zig-zagging wildly. Half a dozen feet shy of the threshold, he launched himself like a baseball player diving head-first for home plate just at the moment Neagley moved and he landed square on his sister’s upper chest where she crouched near the armoire. The impact blasted her off her feet and the two of them crashed backward to the floor while the bullet storm never let up.

  Returning fire along with the outside team toward the invisible shooters, Kim saw Neagley trying to struggle out from under her brother. Too much blood spurted—from Paul, she guessed. A lot of blood. A major artery hit. His or hers?

  Then only Neagley’s outside team was firing—the shooters had pulled back. Kim glanced out the window and saw the slope of a body loping fast toward what might have been a dark van parked down the block moments before the vehicle sped off. Neagley’s team charged off in pursuit. Gaspar dashed outside.

  Kim rushed to help Neagley and Paul, but Morrie got there first, dragging him off of Neagley. Neagley only shoved Morrie aside, slipping through the lake of blood to pull Paul to her and cradle his head in her arms.

  It was the first time Kim had seen Neagley touch her brother. Kim wondered how many years it had been since she or anyone else had done so. Paul could bear it now. He was completely limp and still, like his clothes were empty. His eyes were wide open, moving slowly, searching side to side.

  “Frances?” he whispered. His voice was very quiet, but alert. “Are you okay?”

  Kim’s eyes welled up. She hard-blinked to clear them. But no tears streamed down his sister’s face.

  Neagley’s voice was strong. “I’m fine, Paul,” she said.

  She slid her hand under his neck, where the blood was pulsing out in a warm, hard jet. Neagley’s hands were strong. She applied pressure as she’d been trained to, directly to the wound, attempting to stop the blood flow.

  “Medic,” Neagley called softly. A soldier’s reflex.

  Paul’s chin fell to his chest. Blood flooded between the folds of his skin and soaked his shirt. Pooled on the ground around Neagley’s legs and soaked into the plush carpet.

  “Medic!” she called again, louder.

  “On the way.” Kim watched helplessly because she knew they’d be too late. Paul weighed about one-sixty-five, which meant he had about ten to twelve pints of blood in him. Most of them were already gone. His heart was doing its job, valiantly pumping his life straight out onto the carpet around his sister’s lap.

  “Medic!” Neagley screamed it this time. Nobody came.

  Paul looked straight into his sister’s face. “Remember?” he whispered.

  Neagley bent closer.

  “I love you, Sissy,” he whispered. “Remember?”

  “I remember, Paulie,” she said.

  Paul smiled weakly, like her answer satisfied totally. He was very pale now. Blood soaked everything in a widening pool. It was warm and slick. His eyes settled on her face.

  Neagley held him until he bled out and died in her arms.

  Paramedics had arrived and helped Neagley to her feet. Neagley laid Paul’s head gently on the blood-soaked carpet and moved away while the paramedics handled the rest.

  Official vehicles had been steadily arriving since the van sped off. Gaspar returned from a swift canvass of Neagley’s team and the outdoor stations. He had conferred with the first responders and now met Kim and Neagley at the front entrance as the paramedics removed the gurney.

  Neagley looked down at her blood-coated hands. Her clothes were soaked in Paul’s blood and clung to her lithe body. She smelled of a mix of coppery blood and gunshots.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Kim said.

  “Of course it was,” Neagley said, matter-of-factly. “That bullet was meant for me. Subsonic bullet. It would have bounced right off my vest.”

  “Yes and no.”

  Neagley looked at her.

  Gaspar’s right eyebrow inquired.

  Kim said, “The bullet wasn’t meant for you. They don’t want you dead. Yet. They want their money back first.”

  “Dixon is the one who can help them with that, and they already have her.” She sounded weary, almost beaten. Kim’s heart went out to her, even knowing she wouldn’t be pleased to know it. “I’ll get cleaned up. Meet me in the security office in ten minutes.”

  Remembering Sanchez’s tortured body, Kim shuddered to think about Dixon and the other hostages in Dean and Berenson’s hands. If the same memories concerned Neagley, she didn’t show it. Her self-control was nothing short of robotic.

  Kim watched her back as she headed to her room upstairs.

  Then, she turned to Gaspar and asked, “They had a lot of firepower going. Any evidence that Reacher was helping them outside?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday, November 14

  3:36 p.m.

  Chicago, IL

  Law enforcement vehicles continued to flood Neagley’s driveway and the street. Personnel worked the crime scene inch by inch outside. Kim watched, saw nothing amiss in their procedures from her vantage point inside the house. She saw Morrie deep in conversation with the officer who appeared to be in charge. Neagley’s team had not returned since they dashed after the surviving shooters and experience said the longer they were gone, the less likely they’d return alive.

  Gaspar tilted his head closer to report on his brief crime scene inspection for her ears only. “Two dead—one ours, one theirs.”

  Kim nodded. Waited for something worse, which she sensed was coming.

  “Berenson’s dead crew member sported visible gang tattoos on his neck and chest. The Las Olas Mexican cartel,” he said. “You know them?”

  “By reputation. I’ve seen the FBI estimates they’ve killed more than two thousand of their enemies, using our guns and ordnance fighting over drug distribution in Mexico and the U.S. No personal experience. They don’t reach all the way to Detroit.”

  “Lucky you. They also specialize in kidnapping for ransom and home invasions. The full menu. They’ve been involved in a turf war with a rival gang for about six years. Last time I had a case involving Las Olas was back in the summer. The cartel targeted Miami law enforcement vehicles to steal firearms, vests, ammo, ID. Never recovered any of it. We lost two good agents and never made an arrest.”

  “Terrific,” Kim replied. “If we were old enough to be nostalgic for the Mafia, Las Olas might get us there.”

  A second officer joined Morrie and the officer in charge. Morrie might have been describing the Las Olas attack and Paul’s murder, but she couldn�
��t hear the content of their conversation.

  Neagley’s team had been in pursuit for too long. Kim guessed they’d been overtaken somewhere shortly after they left Neagley’s home and more bodies would be discovered very soon. With any luck, at least a few of those bodies would be Las Olas, too, though in Kim’s experience, cartel members had nine lives.

  “It gets worse,” Gaspar said.

  “Of course it does.”

  “The cartels have been recruiting in prisons all over the country, as you know. So the crew members shooting at us could theoretically have been locals. Except the Illinois State Police officers outside didn’t recognize the tats.”

  “Means Las Olas has no presence here. Berenson must have imported her own crew for the job.” Kim ran a weary hand over her still-tight, sleek chignon and rolled her shoulders. She was bone tired. She’d been awake almost 36 hours. Gallons of coffee could only carry her so far. Very soon now, she’d require sleep. “Which means Berenson and Dean are long gone. Probably back in Mexico by now. If they haven’t already killed her, they’ve taken Dixon with them.”

  “And we’re damned unlikely to get her back alive,” Gaspar said. He held something in his closed fist and dropped it into her palm. Kim recognized it from FBI anti-terrorism training. A polymer cartridge subsonic bullet, military prototype. “Picked it up off the ground near the first body. There’s plenty more out there, so don’t worry about evidence. Not that anyone will ever be charged with killing Paul, regardless.”

  Kim caressed the bullet, said nothing. The cartels were frighteningly adept at acquiring U.S. weapons and ordnance. Possible sources for these prototypes were endless. Still, she’d ask the Boss and Neagley for answers.

  Gaspar said, “Neagley had to know Berenson’s crew were Las Olas.”

  “No way she’d have missed that,” Kim agreed as she turned and headed toward the coffee pot first and then Neagley’s security office. Neagley shed no tears for her only brother, but Kim had brothers, too. Brothers she loved like crazy. She told herself it was exhaustion, but she could barely hold it together. She had to think about something else. She cleared her throat. “Come on, Chico. Daylight’s fading fast out there. It’s about time we figure out what’s really going on here and whether Neagley’s on our team, don’t you think?”

  “We might only get good intel from her at gunpoint,” Gaspar said.

  “Fine by me,” she said, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sunday, November 14

  5:36 p.m.

  Chicago, IL

  When Neagley returned to the security room, she was dressed in a black suit and crisp white shirt. Her hair was wet from the shower and combed straight to her shoulders. She had collected coffee from the kitchen as well. She looked resigned, perhaps.

  “We are very sorry for your loss, Frances,” Kim said. “I can’t imagine how devastated I would be to lose one of my brothers.”

  “Don’t imagine you and I are anything alike, Otto. And don’t imagine my brother was anything like yours, either.” Her words were harsh, but her tone was flat, lacking affect, as the psychologists say. She drank the coffee and stared at the blank television screens, as if she was considering a weighty decision.

  Kim knew Neagley was hurting. Paul was a difficult kid, to be sure. But a brother is a brother and Kim had seen Neagley’s loyalty in action already. She was loyal to her Army unit, loyal to her team, and loyal to Reacher. No way she was untouched by her only brother’s death, whether she showed her grief outwardly or not. No way.

  Neagley needed action.

  “Let’s get to work,” Kim said. “Start by telling us the rest of the story. There’s a dead Las Olas outside. You knew Berenson and Dean were associated with Las Olas, didn’t you? Were Sanchez and O’Donnell involved, too?”

  Neagley’s response was devoid of denials or excuses. “O’Donnell, probably not. Sanchez is possible. We have no evidence either way so far.”

  Gaspar allowed his anger to surface. “You knew Berenson and Dean were Las Olas-connected and you didn’t tell us that before we agreed to help you get Paul back. That’s a lot of gall, Neagley, even for you.”

  “Quit whining,” Neagley said, without rancor. “You didn’t die, did you?”

  “You think you can take credit for that?” Gaspar snapped.

  Neagley looked unruffled, but Kim sensed she was exercising a level of control that could easily snap at any moment like breaking brittle steel. Kim wasn’t afraid of Neagley, exactly. But getting her off-track and angry couldn’t help.

  Kim interjected before full-on combat broke out between them. “You must have located Berenson and Dean’s Mexico headquarters. Where is it? We can start with that and move forward.”

  “Sanchez was living openly with his family in a small town called Colina near Camargo City, three hundred and forty miles south of New Mexico. Berenson and Dean were headquartered hundreds of miles away, southwest of Matamoros, near Valle Hermoso. Across the Rio Grande from Brownsville, Texas. The entire Sanchez family is missing. Sanchez seemed to believe they’d be killed if he failed in his mission to recover the money. So my best guess is that Tammy and the kids, and her mother, were kidnapped and taken to the Las Olas compound in Valle Alto about two weeks ago. Doubtful they’re all still alive.”

  “Is there a way to confirm?” Kim asked. “And can we find out if Dixon is there now?”

  “Probably.”

  “Not that it helps to know the answers to those questions,” Gaspar said. “Mexico wouldn’t extradite Berenson or Dean or any of the Las Olas cartel even if we could get the paperwork, which we can’t. The Boss isn’t going to send troops or a Seal team into Mexico to collect a few civilians. And there’s no way the three of us can get them out of there without half a dozen M1A1 tanks.”

  Neagley actually smiled at the image of traveling with half a dozen tanks. Kim took that as a good sign.

  Kim noticed Gaspar didn’t say anything about the extensive multi-agency investigation of Las Olas. The FBI had been involved in the deep undercover project for two years. ATF and IRS and Homeland Security and others had been working longer. The man-hours already devoted to bringing Las Olas down would prevent Cooper from helping Neagley, even if Cooper and Neagley were best buddies. Under the circumstances, elephants were more likely to appear on the moon.

  “You’ve got intel on this Valle Alto compound, right?” Kim asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then let’s see it,” Gaspar fairly growled.

  Neagley didn’t move so much as an eyelash before the panel slid open again and Morrie entered the security room alone. “What’s the status out there?” she asked him.

  “Locals are directing evidence collection and crime scene. Paramedics are gone with Paul’s body to the hospital and then the morgue for autopsy.”

  “News on the rest of our team?”

  Morrie hesitated a split second. “Found both vehicles torched two miles north at the landfill. All five dead by gunshots to the head.”

  Neagley’s lips pressed into a strong line. Eyes narrowed. She placed the coffee cup on a nearby table and folded her hands together as if she might otherwise attack something. Her self-mastery was amazing to behold. Kim might have kicked something, at least.

  Morrie continued to stand in his formal at-ease posture, waiting.

  “Something else?” Neagley asked.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a glassine evidence bag containing a brown envelope. He handed the envelope to Neagley, who turned it over a couple of times and pressed through the glassine bag to feel its contents before passing the bag to Kim.

  Kim first looked at all sides of the contents through the evidence bag. The brown envelope was two inches by four inches. An unbroken Las Olas wax seal sprawled across the longer lip on the back side. The smaller lip had been glued by the manufacturer. She flipped the evidence bag over. The front side of the brown envelope contained flowing cursive
script in black ink: Frances L. Neagley. She felt the small, padded envelope through the glassine bag as Neagley had done.

  When she finished, Kim passed the bag along to Gaspar who repeated the same steps before he returned it to Morrie asking, “Where’d you get this?”

  “Found it in the pocket of the dead Las Olas guy,” Morrie replied.

  Gaspar said, “So they either planted it on him after he died or they intended to leave his body here and probably killed him to make sure we found this.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” Morrie replied and, turning to Neagley, said, “I’m turning this over to them. They’ll be outside a bit longer and then they’ll be processing in the house. They’ve got probably three or four hours of work yet tonight. They’ve been asking to interview you, but I put them off. I told them you were too distraught tonight and you’d contact the chief personally. Call me if you need anything.”

  Neagley said nothing. Morrie turned to depart. When he reached the panel, it slid open of its own accord.

  Before he stepped through and the panel secured the room from observers again, Kim called to him. “Morrie?”

  He turned his big body a bit to enable eye contact. “Yes?”

  “Where’s the copy you made of the drive before you put it in that evidence bag?”

  “Already uploaded for you, Agent Otto,” he replied on his way out.

  Neagley picked up the remote, pushed a couple of buttons, and the screen they’d watched earlier came to life once more, this time with images unfamiliar but no less disturbing.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Sunday, November 14

  6:52 p.m.

  Chicago, IL

  The room is dimly lit. Like a decades-old hospital ward, five single cots are lined up in a vertical row, headboards against the cinderblock wall and footboards ten feet in front of the videographer.