Then things would get ugly.
Hector turned toward Grace and Faroe and said in English, “So, wha’ you think?”
“You’re very efficient,” Faroe said, ignoring the trails of blood on the white marble floor and the grim humor of the men dragging out the body. “Shall we set up the details of our trade?”
“Si, but first, you come with me. I show you efficient. Then you know don’ fock with Hector Rivas Osuna.”
Faroe didn’t have any choice, so he started after Hector.
Grace followed.
“No,” Hector said, waving her off. “You puke.”
Grace looked at Faroe.
“Stay here,” he said instantly.
“Why? What could be worse than seeing a murder?” Though her voice was steady enough, her skin was pale beneath all the makeup.
“Plenty. Stay, amada. You don’t need new nightmares.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll squint.” Then he added very softly, “Work on Jaime. Find out what pushes his buttons.”
38
TIJUANA
SUNDAY, 10:48 P.M.
FAROE FOLLOWED HECTOR THROUGH a door leading to a short, brick-lined hallway. At one end of the hall a circular metal staircase wound down to the lower level of the house, which was also walled with brick.
Hector, less angry now but getting higher with each toke, reverted to Spanish. “This is a wonderful building. Very expensive, very solid. It belongs to a wealthy judge here in Tijuana, although he has decided to let me borrow it for a few months.”
The traficante’s amused smile told Faroe that the judge hadn’t had any choice.
“He would like it back someday, but he is not man enough to ask,” Hector said with a laugh. “Not like the ball-breaker upstairs. Aiee, that is a strong woman.”
Faroe hoped that Grace would continue to amuse Hector…but not too much. Hector’s reputation with women depended on how high he was.
There was a heavy metal door at the base of the staircase. The door was guarded by a blank-faced man carrying an assault rifle. Without a glance Hector brushed by the man.
Faroe followed and found a spacious wine cellar converted to a torture room. Beautiful wooden wine racks were attached to the walls with heavy wrought-iron supports. A big, unshielded lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. The intense glare fell on the slumped body of a man dangling from chains strung up over the wine racks. The prisoner had longish dark hair that was slick with sweat. He was dressed in a white shirt that was red, covered with his own blood.
Faroe recognized him instantly-the bomb layer from Ensenada. One of the guards was wearing his solid gold diamond-rimmed watch.
Hector grasped a handful of the prisoner’s sweaty black hair and jerked his head upright.
The bomber’s face was a swollen, gross balloon. Bruises had gathered below and around his eyes, closing them darkly. His jaw hung slack and awkward. Broken.
Hector twisted his handful of hair and the bomber grimaced in pain, showing bloody, broken teeth.
“Are you ready to talk?” Hector asked, his voice gentle.
The hair on Faroe’s neck stirred. He would rather Hector had screamed.
The bomber made a ragged sound. Behind swollen lids, his eyes glittered dryly, like those of a coiled rattlesnake. His tongue worked behind bloody teeth. He tried to spit in Hector’s face.
His mouth was too dry.
Hector patted the bruised and bloody cheek and said tenderly, “There, there, it is almost over. Just tell us who paid you and we will take away all your pain.”
Faroe felt the chill of danger and the heat of adrenaline sliding into his blood. He wondered what his chances were of getting one of the automatic weapons before they got him.
Hector was nuts.
“So, what you think?” Hector asked Faroe. “Is this the man who tried to kill me and my family?”
Faroe’s face was a mask. He carefully studied the man but finally shook his head. “I doubt his mother would recognize him now.”
Hector laughed and nodded. Then he signaled to the shadows.
One of the waiting men stepped into the cone of light. He had a barrel chest and the emotionless eyes of a picador in the bullring. He mustn’t have been as stupid as he looked-he wore tight latex gloves to protect him from his victim’s blood.
The torturer held a stripped electrical wire in each hand. He looked at Faroe, then at the bomber, and touched the two copper conductors together. Dazzling blue-white sparks arced and showered over his hands. He grinned and waved the two wires in front of the bomber’s face. He touched them together again.
“Would you care for a little of this, perhaps?” he asked, polite as a waiter presenting a dessert tray.
“This man, Tomas, he really enjoys his work,” Hector said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “My Torquemada.”
Faroe looked into the torturer’s eyes and knew Hector wasn’t bragging. It was the simple truth.
“This one has been disloyal for a long time,” Hector said, gesturing toward the prisoner. “He works for a band of marijuana farmers down in the mountains between Sierra de la Laguna and the ocean. They use my plaza but they do not pay. I think I will hang his body from an overpass on the Ensenada toll road for all his friends to see on their way to work tomorrow morning.”
Faroe waited, wondering if Hector had a point or if he simply got off on blood and death.
“Should I bring my Tomas upstairs and introduce him to your judge?” Hector smiled. “Should I tell her that her son will be my gift to Tomas?”
Only years of living undercover kept Faroe from going for Hector’s throat. Only hard-won discipline kept Faroe’s voice neutral.
“As you pointed out, the judge is not without her own power,” Faroe said. “If Lane is harmed, there will be an international crisis. That is not good for business.”
“Ha! You think that will save the boy? I have many eyes reading the diplomatic telegrams between the gringo government and Mexico City. I have many ears listening to embassy conversations for the first sign of intervention.”
Faroe agreed with a calm he was far from feeling. “This is so.”
“The boy would live only as long as Tomas and I decide to keep him alive. And after we finish with him, somebody will tell the gringo authorities that the boy was a bad one who simply ran away and, like so many other unfortunates, was never heard from again.”
Faroe didn’t doubt a word of it.
And if Lane got hurt, Faroe would hunt Hector down and execute him where he found him.
“What you said is true,” Faroe said, “but it will not get you Ted Franklin on a golden platter with a roll of hundreds in his mouth.”
“Yes.” Hector ground the spent cigarette beneath his heel. “That is why you are still alive.”
39
OVER THE U.S.
MONDAY, 1:00 A.M. CST
STEELE SAT IN THE part of the Learjet that had been transformed into a flying office for the use of whichever St. Kilda consultant needed it. The wheelchair was a tight fit in the working space, but it didn’t matter. If he needed anything, Dwayne would get it before Steele even knew he wanted it.
Dwayne handed over a satellite phone. “It’s Mazey with the land and cell phone taps. Something is going down.”
“Steele,” he said calmly, taking the phone. But his heart kicked in the hope that they’d caught a break. “Go ahead, Mazey.”
“We’ve had multiple hits on her home and cell phone, all from Ted Franklin, all within the last hour.”
“Messages left?”
“He wants his ex-wife to go to Lomas, where he’ll call her at midnight.”
“What, where, or who is Lomas?”
“We’re working on that, sir. It’s a fairly common name in the area.”
“Midnight.” Steele looked at his watch and folded his lips unhappily. “We’re not going to be on the ground in time to help you with this one. Call Faroe and see what Gra
ce knows.”
“His phone is off. Hers is ‘out of area.’”
“Mother of-” Steele bit off the curse. “Where is Faroe?”
“Assuming that he’s still carrying the phone, our satellite monitor puts him in Tijuana.”
“That’s a large place. Do better. What about the boy?”
“Still at All Saints. Assuming-”
“That he has the bloody phone with him,” Steele finished impatiently.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“The team watching Sturgis’s office saw him get in a car whose plates came back to the U.S. government. The driver shook the team. We didn’t have enough assets in place to tail a real pro. No one has seen or heard from Sturgis since.”
“Bloody hell.”
“John told me the feds have withdrawn surveillance from the La Jolla house, but the Mexicans are all over the place like a rash. He left a message on Dwayne’s phone, but-”
“The phone is turned off,” Steele finished. Since John was Mazey’s husband and the head of all surveillance teams on this consultation, Steele knew that the information was solid. “Dwayne is with me. Forward all intelligence to the number he’ll give you.”
Steele handed over the phone to Dwayne, called up the satellite monitor, and split the screen. One dot stayed put above Ensenada. One dot was mired in Tijuana.
He tried Faroe’s number himself.
Nothing.
Grace’s number.
More nothing.
“Anything on Lomas?” he asked Dwayne.
“Too much. We’ll never get it sorted out by midnight California time.”
“Can you override Faroe’s off switch?”
“If he hasn’t dicked with it, yes,” Dwayne said. Then he told his frustrated boss what Steele already knew. “But if Faroe shut down his phone, he had a good reason. The life-and-death kind.”
Steele didn’t argue. “What do you make of the fact that the feds withdrew from the La Jolla surveillance?”
“It means they know more than we do.”
“Precisely. Get someone monitoring all government communications channels within sixty miles of the border. Key words ROG, Hector Rivas Osuna in any combination, Faroe, Grace, Judge Silva, Ted or Theodore Franklin, Calderon, Lane Franklin, All Saints or Todos Santos, Bank of San Marcos, Banco de San Marcos.”
Dwayne leaned against the desk, punching in numbers, waking up the St. Kilda consultants who specialized in monitoring scrambled federal channels.
“Think it will do any good?” Dwayne asked as he waited for someone in Texas to answer.
“In the next hour? Doubtful. Do it anyway.”
Steele stared at the red dot mired in Tijuana.
Damn it, Joseph, call in.
40
ALL SAINTS SCHOOL
SUNDAY, 11:04 P.M.
IN DARKNESS, LANE STARED at the whitewashed ceiling. Sweat ran cold on his ribs. The phone Joe Faroe had given him was under his pillow, along with an alarm clock Lane didn’t think he would need anytime in the next century.
He was so wide awake his eyeballs burned.
He told himself he wasn’t going to check the clock under his pillow again. But he did.
About two hours until Faroe called.
If he called.
Call me, he prayed silently. I’m going postal here in the dark, thinking about-
I won’t think about it.
Won’t.
Won’t.
Won’t.
His silent chant kept time with the waves piling against the beach, chubasco waves shouting the storm to come.
He hoped the tropical fury would wipe out the school.
Cigarette smoke and something sharper, more chemical, slid through the open window. The guards were just outside, laughing and talking among themselves.
Taking bets on whether Lane would survive the coming day.
Call me. Please!
41
TIJUANA
SUNDAY, 11:06 P.M.
THE SILENCE IN THE Escalade was thick enough to slice and serve on bread. Even with every window open, the SUV stank of sweat. Meeting with Hector did that to men, no matter how tough they thought they were.
Faroe and Grace sat close, close enough that she could use his body heat to warm herself. Whenever she started to say anything, he squeezed her silently.
Don’t talk.
The vehicle finally stopped by the bright lights of the hotel where Faroe and Grace were registered. Faroe lifted her out and then turned toward Mustache.
Grace couldn’t hear what Faroe said as he drew Mustache slightly away from the other gunmen, but she did see the exchange of something, palm to palm. As soon as Mustache climbed back into the Escalade, the driver shot out of the light like his tires were on fire.
“What was that all about?” she asked Faroe.
“Recruiting.”
“What?”
“St. Kilda needs more contacts in Mexico.”
“Spies.”
Faroe shrugged.
“The lies and betrayals never end, do they?” she said quietly.
“There’s plenty of lying and betraying to go around on both sides of the line.”
Grace looked at Faroe. He’d let his game face slip. He was weary with something deeper than a simple lack of sleep. He handed the bellman a claim check for the car and waited silently, staring at the tips of his new boots.
“What happened?” she asked softly, stepping closer to him. “What was Hector so eager to show you?”
“A body that’s going to hang from a freeway bridge sometime tomorrow morning. Only it isn’t a body yet. It’s mostly still the guy who laid that bomb down in Ensenada.”
“We have to tell the-” Her voice broke. She let out a ragged breath. “Never mind. Old reflexes.”
“Don’t worry, amada. He’ll welcome death.”
Grace closed her eyes against the bright lights of the city.
“You leave anything at the hotel that you can’t live without?” Faroe asked.
“The only thing I can’t live without is my son.”
42
OVER THE U.S.
MONDAY, 1:20 A.M. CST
“GOT HIM!” DWAYNE SAID triumphantly.
Steele took the phone. “Joseph?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s about time you turned on your damned phone.”
“I’ve been talking to Hector Rivas Osuna. An interruption could have been fatal.”
“Is Judge Silva with you?”
“Yes,” Faroe said.
“Tell her to turn on her damned phone.”
“Won’t do any good. Her service ends near the border.”
“Then get there fast,” Steele said. “Ted left a message on her machine.”
“What is it?”
“Your faith in St. Kilda is touching.”
“Look, we just saw one man murdered and I met the next body to be hung from the freeway overpass, so excuse me if I’m not-”
“Who died?” Steele cut in.
“A guy who dissed Hector. Bang, bang, bang, bang, you’re dead.”
“Bloody wonderful.”
“You’re half right.”
“Grace saw it?”
“Yes.”
“How is she holding up?” Steele asked.
“Better than we have any right to expect. What is Ted’s message?”
“He’ll call her at Lomas at midnight. Find out who, what, or where Lomas is and call me back.”
Steele punched out and stared at the red dot in Tijuana as if he could move it faster by sheer force of will.
43
TIJUANA-CALIFORNIA BORDER
SUNDAY, 11:22 P.M.
FAROE PUNCHED THE END button and drove quickly, closing in on the border crossing at Otay Mesa.
“Who, what, or where is Lomas?” he asked Grace.
She rubbed her face wearily, trying to stay awake. The adrenaline of being with a murdero
us madman had worn off, leaving her limp.
“Grace?”
“I’m reviewing a Lomas case, I know of at least five streets with that name, plus a town or two.” She yawned. “Give me context.”
“Ted left messages on your home phone and your cell phone telling you to be in Lomas at midnight for his call.”
She snapped upright. “Lomas Santa Fe. Our ranch. I haven’t been there since I picked up Lane’s computer. Ted had it with him while he was doing his kingmaking thing over ribs and beer, then he ‘forgot’ to return it to La Jolla.”
“Turn on your phone. We might be close enough for you to get service. Listen hard to Ted’s message. You know the man. Listen to what he doesn’t say, how he breathes, what his voice is like.”
Grace turned on her phone.
Nothing.
“How far is the ranch from here?” Faroe asked, accelerating.
The glow that was the Otay border crossing leaped closer.
“Even if you do the Nascar thing,” she said, “we won’t make it by midnight. Once we get over the border, it’s at least forty minutes on I-5. The good news is that the Otay entry is closer.”
Faroe punched a button on his phone and handed it to Grace. “Give Steele the location of the ranch.”
While Grace talked, the Mercedes rocketed through the night, closing in on the dark and light-splintered chaos that was the border. She shut off the phone and handed it back to Faroe.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Try your cell again.”
She looked at the phone in her hand. “Nothing.”
Planes on final approach to the Tijuana International Airport dropped down from the night and materialized in the runway lights. Just to the north, U.S. border patrol helicopters flew orbits over Spring Canyon, their spotlights stabbing down to the deep footpaths that braided the canyon floor.
“Lane should see this,” Grace said.
“Why?”
The Wrong Hostage sk-2 Page 21
