A sputter of gunfire a few rows over. Someone screamed. A second passed, then more rounds. The scream was abruptly silenced. Mark and Decker slowed. Jake matched their pace.
“Sounds like some of our friends hung around to execute prisoners,” Decker said.
At the sound of the shots, the murmur surrounding them ascended to a fever pitch. Prisoners threw themselves against the wires, clawing at the pen doors in their desperation to escape. Jake gritted his teeth and kept going.
They turned down the last row. Twenty yards away, a guy in fatigues braced an LMT against his shoulder as he aimed into one of the pens.
“Alto!” Mark shouted, sighting his own weapon.
The muzzle of the gun swiveled toward them.
“Get down!” Mark shoved Jake hard. He flew through the air, rolling a few times before slamming against the metal side of a pen.
A sputter of machine-gun fire, and Mark dropped to the ground.
Flores froze, his legs still inside the cage. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to squeeze all the way out and run for his life. But if he did that, Calderon would be killed. And in spite of everything, he didn’t know if he’d be able to live with that.
Of course, chances were the guard would shoot them both anyway.
“Métanse!” the guard yelled, pivoting the gun back and forth between them.
Calderon locked eyes with Flores. His held a look of infinite sadness. “Vaya con Dios, amigo,” he said before turning away.
“Wait,” Flores protested, but Calderon was already walking toward the entrance to the pen. He kept his hands held high, chin jutted up. The guard shifted as if anticipating an attack, although the door remained locked. The barrel of his gun aimed directly at Calderon’s chest. His body shielded Flores, at least for the moment.
Flores channeled the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He dug his elbows into the dirt, clawing his way forward. His hips shifted through the opening. The sheared wires rended his pant legs as he dragged himself out. As his feet cleared the gap, gunfire erupted behind him. Without looking back, he leaped up and ran like hell.
“Mark!” Jake cried out.
Decker was already firing. The guard’s body was buffeted by bullets, making him jump and twitch like a rag doll. His rifle went off in a sputtering arc, bullets ripping into the trees overhead as he toppled over.
Jake crawled to his brother. The impact of the bullet had thrown him on his side. His eyes were closed, and he didn’t appear to be breathing.
Jake’s hands shook as he rolled Mark onto his back. He couldn’t see any blood.
Decker squatted next to him. He reached out a steady hand, feeling for a pulse. Then he shook him.
“Hey!” Jake cried.
Mark suddenly shifted, and his eyes popped open. He looked up blearily.
“What happened?”
“Got your bell rung,” Decker said brusquely. “Looks like your vest stopped it, though.”
Mark lifted his head. There was a quarter-sized hole in the front of his shirt. He stuck a finger in and tapped his vest. “Good thing they weren’t using hollow points,” he said.
“Good thing,” Decker agreed. “Scared the piss out of your brother, though.”
“Yeah?” Mark shifted to look at Jake. “I didn’t think you’d be shedding any tears over me.”
“I just wasn’t in the mood to carry you.” Jake cuffed his shoulder.
“I’d feel the same way.” Mark grinned.
“We better keep moving,” Decker said.
“Sure.” Mark winced as he staggered to his feet, shrugging off help. He looked down the line of pens, getting his bearings. “Should be twelve pens down.”
“Crap,” Decker said. “That’s where the guard was.”
Thirty-One
Kelly sat in the corner nursing a mug of coffee. It was lukewarm and weak, with a greasy film that probably portended a serious case of Montezuma’s revenge down the line. But she didn’t want to offend their host, so she gambled and took a few sips. It didn’t actually taste that bad. There was a hint of something…cinnamon, maybe? At least she hoped that’s what the floating brown flecks were.
She examined Rodriguez’s Uncle Pablo over the lip of the cup. He was tiny, birdlike, the few sparse hairs on his head carefully combed across the top. An enormous moustache dominated his face, as if overcompensating for his baldness. Bright red pants were cinched above his waist with a belt, and he wore white leather loafers with black socks.
Apparently Pablo spent his spare time stocking weaponry. Once Rodriguez explained the reason for their late-night visit, he led them to a back room that was an NRA member’s wet dream. Wooden shipping crates were crammed into every available space, some stacked nearly to the ceiling. Pablo flung open the closest crate to reveal a stack of gold-plated AK-47s. A second held grenades. A third, handguns.
Kelly didn’t ask where all the artillery came from, or why he was in possession of it—she figured she was better off not knowing. She watched Rodriguez sift through the crates, appreciatively examining a rifle scope as they discussed terms in Spanish. From what Kelly could gather, although they qualified for a friends and families discount, none of this stuff came free. Which was a little worrisome. Thanks to the federales, she had less than a few hundred dollars on hand, and she doubted Rodriguez had much more. She suspected this wasn’t the kind of deal sealed with an AMEX card.
She caught Pablo eyeing her. He said something to Rodriguez in Spanish. Danny’s brow darkened. The two of them started arguing. Rodriguez was easily a full head taller than his uncle, but Pablo still jutted his chin forward and shouted back. Kelly wondered if there was anyone else in the house. Personally she thought arguing with a guy who owned this much artillery was a bad idea. It struck her again how different things were down here, how she could simply vanish. No one would have any idea where to start searching for them. She wondered if Danny had told anyone where he was going. Probably not—or if he had, they would have no idea that their night ended with a stop at Uncle Pablo’s.
They were interrupted by a sudden pounding from the front of the house. Pablo smiled, exposing a line of gold teeth. He said something in Spanish, then swept out of the room, brushing her shoulder with his hip as he passed. Kelly shied away from the contact.
“What was that all about?” she asked in a low voice, relieved to finally set the coffee mug aside.
“Nothing,” Rodriguez said, but he looked enraged.
“Why does he have all this stuff?”
“He’s the biggest arms dealer in town,” Rodriguez said without meeting her eyes.
“Oh.” Kelly was taken aback. That kind of association could prove career-ending at the Bureau. After a second, she added, “Don’t worry, I would never tell McLarty.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” he said. “Otherwise I never would have taken you here.”
Kelly held up a finger and they both fell silent: a conversation was being conducted in low voices in the other room. “You don’t think he’ll come back armed, do you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Rodriguez muttered. After taking in her expression, he said, “Relax, Jones, I’m messing with you. My mother is his favorite sister, and I’m her only son. He could never get away with killing me—the whole family would come down hard on him.”
Kelly wanted to point out that the whole family had no idea they were there, but she held her tongue. “Is he your mother’s favorite brother?”
“He’s no one’s favorite anything.” Rodriguez glowered. “And after what he just said, he’s officially off my Christmas-card list.”
“What’d he say?”
“You’re better off not knowing.”
“Okay.” Kelly decided to leave it alone. She took in the array. “What can we afford?”
“One LMT and two handguns. Or two handguns and a grenade.”
Kelly’s right leg twinged at the mention of grenades. She’d avoided looking at them since enterin
g the room. “The handguns are all we need,” she said. “We’d attract too much attention with the LMT anyway.”
“Agreed.”
Pablo entered the room again as if on cue. Kelly suspected that he spoke more English than he let on.
“Qué pasa?” Rodriguez asked, his grip tightening on the rifle in his hand.
Kelly suddenly realized that Pablo wasn’t alone.
“More customers,” Pablo said with a thick accent, flashing the shiny grin again. He stepped aside to reveal two hulking figures. One of them stepped across the threshold into the room.
“Maltz?” Kelly asked, astonished.
“Ms. Jones.” Maltz swept the room with his eyes, taking in Danny and the open boxes of weapons. “Thought you headed home.”
“No, I got…delayed.”
“Uh-huh.” His eyes narrowed. Maltz said something in rapid-fire Spanish to Pablo, who shrugged but shrank under his gaze.
“Who the hell are you?” Rodriguez asked.
“I could ask the same,” Maltz said. Kane filled the doorway behind him.
“They work for Jake,” Kelly said.
“Jake’s down here? You didn’t mention that.” Rodriguez sounded annoyed.
“It’s complicated. He’s working a case.” Kelly turned to Maltz. “Danny used to be my partner.”
“Okay.” Maltz kept an eye on Pablo the whole time he questioned her. “You two are a pretty long way from the airport. Jake know you’re here?”
“No,” Kelly said flatly. “How’s it going with the operation?”
Maltz shrugged. “We’re here to re-up on equipment. Figured mi amigo Pablo could help. We’ll wait for you to finish up.” He nodded to Kane, and they stepped back into the other room.
Once they left, Pablo turned back to Danny and rattled something off in Spanish. Once again, Kelly felt herself at a deficit. She was sick of not knowing what everyone was saying.
Rodriguez pulled a roll out of his back pocket and palmed off a few hundreds. Pablo counted them, then raised an eyebrow. Rodriguez forked over one more, and they were the proud owners of two new Glocks. Pablo leered at her one last time before disappearing into the other room.
“I’d prefer an H&K,” Rodriguez said, sighting down the scope.
“I would, too.” Kelly shuffled the slide a few times to check the spring and pulled the trigger to dry-fire it. “They look clean, though.”
“No way to test them, we’ll have to take Tío Pablo at his word.” Rodriguez eyed her. “Why didn’t you call Jake to bail you out?”
“Because he would have tried to make me go home,” Kelly said.
“Smart man. How come he can talk you into things and I can’t?”
“He wouldn’t have been able to. I just didn’t feel like having that fight.” Kelly glanced at her watch: it was nearly midnight. “We should get going.”
They exited through Pablo’s living room. Crude paintings of nude women dotted the cheap wood paneling, and the maroon shag carpet had seen better days. Despite the ramshackle appearance of the house from outside, the room held thousands of dollars’ worth of electronic equipment. An enormous flat-screen TV dominated one wall, with a complicated array of video game consoles and stereo equipment trailing from it. Two Barcaloungers faced the TV. Maltz perched on the edge of one, Kane stood beside him. Pablo occupied the other. They all fell silent when Kelly and Rodriguez entered.
“All set,” Kelly said. “Good luck with your mission.”
Maltz stood and came over to her. Kelly flushed at his proximity.
“I don’t feel right leaving you like this,” he said in a low voice. “Seems like you’re up to no good.”
“I’ve got her back,” Rodriguez said.
Maltz looked him over. He didn’t seem reassured. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to tell Jake that we ran into each other.”
“That would be best, thanks.” Kelly swallowed hard.
“You sure you’re okay here?” Maltz probed her eyes. She nodded once, and he stepped back. “Good luck,” he said.
“Thanks.” Rodriguez ushered her out of the room before adding under his breath, “We’ll need it.”
Flores peered cautiously around the edge of the pens. He was next to what appeared to be a barracks building, long and narrow with windows set high along the side. He’d managed to make it this far without encountering any guards, except for a dead one an aisle over. Other prisoners cried out to him, but he ignored them. He hated doing it, the memory of Calderon’s sacrifice fresh in his mind. But he had to get out of here, back to Maryanne. One man traveling alone had a shot at escaping. If he added anyone to that equation, the risk increased exponentially. Flores figured that from the sound of it, Tyr had the Zetas on the run anyway. Hopefully the casualties wouldn’t be too high.
There was a gate about fifty feet away on his right, guard towers flanking it. To get out, he’d have to get past those towers and across an open expanse. Beyond the clearing he could see the edge of the jungle, where the road plummeted into darkness. The Zetas had cleared a hundred-foot swath surrounding the camp, forming a sort of no-man’s land.
This was probably where they’d brought him in. The heavy fighting was coming from the opposite end of camp, leaving this his only option.
A light rain was falling; Flores blinked it out of his eyes as he watched for movement. Nothing: no gun muzzles, no sign of any guards. It struck him as odd that the Zetas would have pulled men off their stations, especially if they were under attack. Maybe Tyr had already cleared this sector. But then why weren’t their men holding it down? He wondered how the battle was progressing, how many of his Tyr buddies were back there fighting. Now that Calderon was dead, there wasn’t much point hooking up with them—they’d raise a lot of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, like how he’d let Calderon die after everything they’d done to try to save him. He was better off forging ahead on his own.
If he managed to get past the gates alive, Flores could make his way through the jungle parallel to the road, following it all the way back to Mexico City. From there, he’d have to find his way home—not easy, but not impossible, either.
But first, he had to get through without being shot.
Odd that the gate had been left open, but that worked in his favor. He couldn’t detect anyone in the guard tower, but that didn’t mean it was empty. For all he knew it was a functioning sniper’s nest. He scanned the ground around him and spotted a rock a few feet away. Scrambling forward as silently as possible, he scooped it up and tossed it near the entrance.
Nothing.
He’d have to risk it.
Flores started forward, then jerked back when he sensed movement in his peripheral vision. Keeping low, he edged forward. On his left about fifty feet away, two guards were loading up a Toyota Hilux. He breathed out, hard. Lucky break—if they’d seen him, he’d be dead for sure.
The guards were clearly in a hurry, loading file boxes in the rear of the truck. Someone he couldn’t see barked an order at them. Flores frowned: he knew that voice. General Gente was apparently ducking out of the battle, abandoning his men. Typical, Flores thought. All that talk about his elite training, and at the first sign of trouble Gente headed for the hills. He’d served under commanders like that and had nothing but contempt for them.
He edged forward as they moved out of his line of sight. Gente’s trailer was ten feet past the Hilux. The soldiers disappeared inside.
Flores could chance it, running for the exit before they reappeared. The gate was tantalizingly close. Less than a minute and he’d be free. In a few days he’d be back in Maryanne’s arms.
That would be the smart thing to do. But then, no one had ever accused him of being a genius.
Mentally apologizing to Maryanne for what he was about to do, Flores flipped his grip on the knife so that it was clenched in his fist, blade forward. Bent low, he double-timed it, running as quickly and silently as possible, heart pounding in his chest.
&
nbsp; The guards re-emerged from the trailer. Peering under the truck bed, he could see their boots. Their chatter didn’t abate. Hunching down beside the truck’s rear left tire, Flores listened. They sounded agitated, babbling about Sinaloan bastards getting the jump on them.
“Why the hell are we even bothering with this crap?” one grumbled in Spanish.
“Three more and we’re done. Hurry up so we can get out of here,” the other replied.
The sound of retreating footsteps. Something heavy dropped into the truck bed, the Hilux rocked slightly in response. Flores glanced around the edge of the tire. A guard was with his back to him. An LMT dangled from his shoulder strap.
Flores came up behind him. Belatedly the guard spun, reaching for his weapon. Flores already had a hand across his chest, blocking the move. Before the guard could make a sound Flores slit his throat, jerking the knife across his neck from left to right. As he dragged him back to the other side of the truck, the man’s hands grasped futilely at the wound. He gurgled plaintively, jerked a few times, then went still.
Flores dropped the body into the truck’s shadow and waited. He checked the LMT, making sure it had a full clip and was ready to fire. It felt good to be armed with more than a whittling knife. The heft of it in his hands was reassuring.
Less than a minute later, the other guard called out for help. Flores watched the man’s legs from beneath the truck—he appeared to be staggering.
“Come get a box, you lazy bastard!” the guard yelled.
Flores straightened to peer over the lip of the truck bed. The guard had stacked three boxes on top of one another, apparently determined to finish the job in a single trip. Thank God for small favors, Flores thought grimly.
He stepped forward. The guard couldn’t see him over the towering boxes.
“Take the top one, I can handle the other two,” the guard grunted. Obligingly Flores knocked the top box off the stack. The guard’s expression rapidly shifted from relief to shock. Without hesitation, Flores fired a series of rounds into his face. The rest of the boxes toppled down as the guard stumbled back. He made it five feet before dropping to the ground.
Kidnap & Ransom Page 21
