Get Back Jack

by Diane Capri

  The leader looked briefly confused by Gaspar’s reply. In that instant, Gaspar slid his Beretta from behind his thigh and slammed its butt across the sentry’s temple. He crumpled to the ground. Gaspar pulled him into the shadows, bound wrists to ankles with heavy cable ties, and collected the AK-47.

  Kim had pulled her Glock and now, crouched low, was hurrying toward Gaspar. On her right, she felt rather than saw Neagley and Morrie approaching from behind a parked van and a parked Toyota. She kept her field of vision trained on Gaspar, prepared to shoot the fallen guard if he stirred.

  The second team of east-side guards continued marching toward Gaspar as if they hadn’t seen anything. Maybe they hadn’t. They had a clear sight line to the open space where their leader had been, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Nor did they slow their rate of advance.

  When Kim reached Gaspar, he said, “One down, seven to go. No pun intended.”

  She grinned, but said nothing.

  He bobbed up again, resumed his drunken saunter and headed closer to the east-side pair of sentries. This time, the two stayed together, suggesting neither was the second in command.

  Kim advanced by tucking between parked cars until the pair was ten feet from Gaspar, who was five feet ahead of her.

  The first north-side pair had to be close to the turning point now, too, Kim thought, and glanced over in time to see Neagley and Morrie subdue the pair and lie in wait for the second pair.

  Kim heard Gaspar say, “Knockout,” again. As before, she dashed toward him. Gaspar took down number three and Kim subdued the startled number four with a sold whack of the sap.

  The second east-sider continued marching away. He’d be at the southeast turning point in three seconds. The pair coming toward him would learn he was alone. What would they do next?

  Kim left Gaspar to pull guards three and four into the shadows and hobble them while she loped up silently behind number two. She flattened her back against the east side of the main house and waited until he turned at the pivot point. He marched ten steps north, came even with her and she thumped his temple with the heavy sap she’d found in the van’s cache of weapons. She pulled him into the bushes and cabled him. While she worked, she heard the crowd cheering in the center compound.

  Half the project was finished. Eight more sentries to handle and they could enter the building. Which took another four minutes. Fifty-three seconds after that, they’d entered the house through the front door with the booing crowd a Greek chorus behind them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Monday, November 15

  8:22 p.m.

  Villa Alto, Mexico

  Once inside the main house, they split up, each following a direction of the compass. Kim hurried counter-clockwise from the entry door. She found the house alight but empty as she scanned each room. She met up with Gaspar at the back. He lifted his shoulders as if to say, “Who knows?”

  Thirty seconds later, Neagley and Morrie had searched the second floor with the same result. Kim had located a locked door that might have led to a basement. She gestured for Gaspar to handle the entrance. She pulled back the deadbolt, pushed the door inward, and slipped her night vision down over her eyes before she crept slowly down into what could have been a dungeon. It smelled close, damp, musty. Cold. No windows. No light.

  Neagley and Morrie followed.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they found a single cavernous room. The eerie green glow provided by her night vision revealed the scenes Kim remembered vividly from the flash drives. Everything was there—except the hostages. No mistake about it. Cots, IV poles, cinderblock walls. Newspapers. The same total silence. Not even the noisy boxing spectators could be heard down here.

  Sensory deprivation was a form of torture and this was purposely constructed as a perfect spot to apply those methods. Something like a vortex sucked Kim into the maw. She stood at each footlocker and cast her gaze on each cot.

  The first thing she noticed was five beds, not eight. Meaning the Sanchezes had been here but not Dixon or the Franzes. Briefly, she wondered where Dixon, Angela and little Charlie had been held and where the seven remaining were being held now.

  The second thing she noticed drew her to cot number five. Dark splotches amid the green glow drying on the walls, the floor, and the bed, but still shiny-wet on her pillow could only be the grisly remains of the grandmother’s murder.

  Kim grabbed the burner cell phone from her pocket and closed her eyes and snapped several quick flash photos. She stashed the phone and pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket, turned it inside out, used it like a glove to scoop up as much of the blood and brain and bone tissue as possible. She carefully pulled the evidence bag over her hand and zipped it closed before sliding it into her pocket. When they returned to the FBI, she’d have evidence that the woman died here, at least, whether it mattered to governments or not. She’d have something to provide closure to her daughter and grandchildren.

  If Kim got caught with any of this—she wouldn’t think about that right now.

  She felt a slight whiff of air behind her. She felt it very firmly. It was exactly the kind of whiff she’d trained herself never to miss. To her antennae it was a complex but complete assault moments before the large paw engulfed her shoulder. The kind of adverse possession she’d trained for, practiced responses to, developed a sixth sense about. The kind that could end her life unless she reacted before it happened.

  Without thinking, she raised her gun in front of her to shoot precisely where she knew his center mass would be. One shot was all she’d need. She rested her weight on her right foot and quickly pushed with her left into the pivot, aiming true. She was in the zone where her mind was fast but the physical world was slow. Which was what saved his life.

  At the last possible fraction of a second, she recognized Morrie’s giant-sized frame and forced her finger from the trigger. She felt her muscles tense with the effort of not shooting. She couldn’t muster the extra control she’d need to speak aloud.

  Morrie pulled his hand back without touching her, tilted his head toward the stairs. Kim looked in that direction. Saw Neagley’s retreating calves almost at the first floor again. Kim controlled her pulse, slowed her breathing, lowered her weapon and headed toward the stairs and the exit. Morrie followed. If he had any suspicion that she’d almost killed him, he didn’t show it.

  At the top of the basement stairs, Gaspar remained alone in the kitchen. “The last match is ending. A few early birds have already been walking past on the way out. Someone will be looking for those sentries. We’ve got to go. Now.”

  “Where’s Neagley?” Kim asked. Neagley should have been able to hear the question through her earpiece. No response.

  “There was an office of some sort on the second floor she wanted to take another look at,” Gaspar said.

  No response from Neagley again. Damn the woman. Couldn’t she just be a member of the team for once?

  Stealthy was a word that didn’t do justice to Neagley’s particular skills, but the team was functioning on borrowed time. From Neagley, non-response to the open communication channel wasn’t mere thoughtlessness. Kim figured she was likely unconscious or coerced to silence. Or worse.

  “Neagley?” She called directly. Nothing. “I’ll get her.” Kim headed toward the staircase as she said, “Morrie, get the van and pull it up to the front door. Gaspar, you see anybody coming, shoot first and talk later.”

  Morrie didn’t move. He took orders from Neagley, not from Kim. He’d made that plain more than once.

  “Which side of the house is the office, Morrie?” Kim asked. “Right or left of the stairs?”

  “Left,” he said.

  Still nothing from Neagley.

  “Make it snappy,” Gaspar said, looking out the back windows, weapon ready.

  “Morrie. Go. Now.” Kim ordered again, putting the commanding officer’s tone to the words. She looked at her watch. “We’ll be with you in twenty seconds.”

/>   She gave him a little push. It was like trying to push a brick wall. Kim thought he might refuse. But then he turned, took long strides to reach the front door in a split second and continued outside.

  Right behind him, Kim reached the foot of the stairs and bounded up two at a time.

  At the top of the staircase, she turned left, crouched low and followed along the corridor guided by nothing but survival instinct and the green glow of her night vision. Scanning, Kim led with her Glock.

  Twelve steps into the hallway, she tripped over a splayed corpse and fell across. She looked down, under her stomach. A man. Wearing fatigues and a broken neck. She checked his pulse. Nothing. Cooling fast.

  Kim pushed herself onto her knees and then stood upright. This time as she advanced, she looked ahead but checked along the floor. A few feet further, she saw a second corpse in the same condition. She bent to feel his carotid. No pulse. Stepped around.

  Kim quickly opened and closed doors along the left-side corridor. She found nothing but empty bedrooms.

  Several doors led off to the right, south side of the corridor.

  Except for the two bodies, the entire floor seemed deserted. Kim heard nothing.

  Light seeped below one doorway at the very end of the hallway.

  Neagley had to be in that room. And she was probably not alone.

  Kim crouched and rode the wall with her back as she eased toward the end.

  In her ear, Kim heard Gaspar say, “Company headed this way. Fifteen to twenty seconds out.”

  Morrie replied, “Be there in twelve.”

  No response from Neagley.

  Kim kept moving forward. She said nothing.

  Neagley was in trouble. The woman was lethal, but she wouldn’t put her team in harm’s way. Something had gone horribly wrong.

  At the end of the corridor, Kim removed one hand from the Glock and slid the night vision down on its strap to hang around her neck. If she burst into the lighted room wearing the goggles, she’d be blinded.

  She took a breath. Grabbed the doorknob. Turned and stepped into the room. Stood crouched, ready to fire. Registered a spacious room, Spanish colonial furniture, desk, chair, loveseats facing each other, a heavy coffee table between, lamps, heavy chairs opposite the desk, large draperied windows along the wall opposite the door.

  Nothing unusual or out of place.

  Except for Edward Dean standing in her sights, behind the sofa with a Glock 19, Gen 4, pointed directly at the back of Neagley’s head.

  “Good evening, Agent Otto,” Dean said, as if he’d expected her, which he probably had. He held Neagley’s earpiece up and wiggled it around. “Loyalty’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  Kim first had to warn Gaspar and Morrie and tell them to stop using the cell phone channel. She said, “Let her go, Dean.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me? I don’t think that’s likely. At least, not until I tell you where to find the hostages.” His tone was smug.

  He thought holding a gun to Neagley’s head gave him an advantage.

  Kim almost laughed.

  “Where are the hostages?” Kim asked because she knew he expected her to.

  “Not here, as you’ve already discovered. We moved them a few hours ago,” he said.

  “Where?” she asked again, still holding her gun steady on him.

  “You brought my money?” Dean replied, as if she was both expected and prepared for a peaceful exchange instead of invasion and rescue.

  “Sixty-five million dollars,” Kim said.

  “Where is it?” Dean asked.

  “Where are the hostages?” Kim repeated.

  “You disabled my guards, yes?” Dean said. It wasn’t a question. “But I called backups when Neagley showed up here without my cash. You’ve got maybe three more minutes before they arrive to persuade you. Remember Sanchez?”

  Mentioning Sanchez was the wrong thing to do.

  In a flash of movement Kim barely saw, Neagley turned, grabbed Dean’s gun, tossed it aside, and held him by the neck in a bare-handed choke hold that threatened to crush his larynx. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

  But she didn’t kill him.

  Instead, after a moment or two of intense discomfort, she released her grip. Slightly.

  Kim said, “Tell me where the hostages are or I’ll shoot you in the head.”

  Dean’s voice croaked a whisper. “You will anyway.”

  “Oh I’d love to,” Kim replied. “But I’m an FBI Special Agent. My boss would never get over it.”

  Dean nodded as best he could with Neagley’s grip still firm around his neck. “Are we making a deal here?” he croaked.

  “Where are the hostages?”

  He waited another moment and Neagley pressed a bit harder to help him decide. His eyes bulged again and his mouth opened and closed without sound.

  She relaxed her grip slightly so he could answer.

  “Black Star,” he wheezed out with the slight bit of air that escaped around Neagley’s thumbs. “Texas.”

  Dean’s claim startled Kim.

  She knew about Black Star. It was a horse farm in South Texas. Fine quarter horses were bred and sold there. It was also a money laundering operation for the Las Olas drug cartel and two other cartels the ATF and Homeland Security had identified so far.

  Black Star had been the subject of intense multi-agency undercover work for months. Work that had stretched as far as the Detroit FBI field office. Kim had seen some of the paperwork. She’d examined the forensic accounting.

  “Texas? Try again.”

  Unlikely that Dean and Berenson would have risked smuggling people across the border to Black Star when there must have been easier, more secluded places closer to Valle Alto. Places where hostages were common. The cartel’s daily business involved kidnapping for ransom as well as selling drugs and guns and other contraband. Anywhere inside Mexico, hostages would receive less scrutiny and less interference from US authorities.

  “Black Star,” he rasped again. “I swear.”

  “I don’t believe you. And we’re out of time,” Kim said. “Bring him, Neagley. Let’s go.”

  Briefly, Kim thought Neagley would ignore the order.

  Neagley squeezed Dean’s throat a bit harder. His eyes bulged and his mouth did the trout impression again. For a brief moment, it could have gone either way. Leave another corpse or take another hostage.

  “We need him alive to get out of here,” Kim said. “And he can help us with Berenson when the time comes.”

  Another moment elapsed before Neagley let him go. She reached into her pocket and pulled out one of the cable ties she hadn’t used on the guards outside. She yanked it hard around his wrists and shoved him between the shoulder blades.

  Kim turned and headed back the way she’d come, not sure whether Dean would be alive when they reached the front door or not. And she wasn’t sure she cared, one way or the other. Either option had its problems.

  “On our way. Meet you at the front door,” she said into the headset.

  “Ten-four,” Gaspar replied.

  “Ready,” Morrie said.

  Kim smiled and kept moving. She heard Dean stumbling along behind her. Neagley was as quiet as a ghost wearing socks.

  Gaspar waited at the ready. When they reached him, he waved all three out ahead.

  They hustled out the front door, crouched low to hide themselves as well as possible, Gaspar behind, turning to be sure no one ran out after them.

  Kim heard more cheering and booing as they raced quietly toward the armored van Morrie had parked directly at the front entrance.

  Morrie clicked the automatic unlock, they jerked open the doors and piled in. Neagley shoved Dean onto the floor between the seats. “Raise your head half an inch and I’ll break your neck,” she said.

  Neagley hopped inside and Kim jumped in after them. Gaspar slid the van’s door snugly into place, yanked open the front passenger door and struggled inside.

&nbs
p; Before Gaspar had dragged his right leg inside and slammed his door, Morrie pulled out onto Las Olas Boulevard behind a late model sedan departing at a measured pace.

  When they reached the intersection of Las Olas Boulevard and TAM 12, Morrie followed in line behind the vehicles leaving the compound and turned east. Empty tarmac stretched as far ahead of the short line of vehicles as she could see in the darkness. With this brief head start, they might have an easy trip back.

  Unless Dean’s guards figured out where he was and came after them.

  Kim said, “Let’s get this gear stowed. The last thing we need right now is to be stopped while we’re armed like an FBI extraction team.”

  Morrie unfastened his Kevlar. “Spending time in a Mexican prison doesn’t appeal to me much, either.”

  “You might want to leave that on,” Gaspar said. “We’d be lucky to make it into a Mexican prison if we get caught before Brownsville.”

  Neagley said nothing, but she put her booted foot briefly on Dean’s neck and pressed before she pulled off her Kevlar, night vision, watch cap, gloves, and coveralls and dropped them into the secret compartment.

  Kim’s gear went in next, followed by Gaspar’s. Morrie removed his gear, too, although it took a bit longer because he was driving. Kim noticed all three kept their guns within reach like she did.

  They settled into their seats as if they’d been mere spectators at tonight’s boxing matches while Neagley returned the false floor into place.

  Kim felt the evidence bag, soft and pliable, inside her blazer pocket and adjusted the sap low into her trouser pocket against the side of her thigh where she could easily retrieve it. Maybe she’d have a chance to use it. Maybe not. But just in case.

  When they reached Villa Hermosa, she’d upload the photos from the burner cell phone to the secure satellite and delete them. Manual deletion wouldn’t be enough and sending anything to the satellite was risky, but she had to do it. Only one choice.