“Which pen is Garcia in?” Mark asked fiercely.
Tejada gazed back blankly. Mark grabbed him by the shoulders. “Give me some direction and I won’t have to take you along.”
“Pen nine. Count from the back of the row,” Tejada stuttered.
“Okay.” Mark turned to Jake. “Get him out of here. I’ll meet up with you.”
Without another word Mark sprinted away, headed straight for the spot beneath the chopper. Jake hesitated. Tejada was so petrified he was literally shaking. There was no way he could subject him to that kind of assault. Mark disappeared around the next corner. “C’mon,” Jake said. “Please, señor. I can’t—” Tejada’s cheeks were streaked with tears.
“I know. We’re heading back.”
Tejada cast a quick look toward where Mark had disappeared. Without another word, he fell in behind Jake.
As they headed back the way they came, Jake felt like he was moving through cement. Half a dozen times he spun, prepared to race back to help Mark. Each time, the sight of Tejada’s raw terror stopped him.
They had almost reached Calderon’s empty pen when a massive explosion threw them to the ground. Jake rolled on his back. Over the tops of the pens, right where Mark had vanished, a huge fireball roiled.
“This is déjà vu all over again,” Rodriguez grumbled.
Kelly didn’t respond. She’d forgotten how sulky Rodriguez got on stakeouts, especially when he didn’t have snacks. Not that she blamed him. She was second-guessing the line of reasoning that led them here, too. What seemed like a stroke of genius last night at the restaurant now just felt like a stretch. They’d been hunkered down in the shadows near the main entrance to the Templo Mayor museum for nearly three hours and hadn’t seen any sign of Stefan.
The ruins of the Aztec temple encompassed a full city block. It was a sunken labyrinth, rough-hewn stone passages descending in tiers. The way they were constructed reminded her of sea jetties, small dark rocks held together by concrete. A modern building stood off to one side: the museum, Kelly guessed. In the center rose a flight of crumbling stairs, all that remained of the original temple.
“I’m calling it,” Rodriguez said, checking his watch. “Nearly dawn, rush hour starts soon. Even Stefan’s not crazy enough to try anything then. Let’s head back to the hotel and grab some sleep before calling McLarty.”
“Just a little longer,” Kelly pleaded, but she suspected he was right. The links seemed much more tenuous upon reflection. But then, this was the only lead they had.
“Maybe he’s waiting until…what was that date again?” Rodriguez stifled a yawn.
“March 6. Maybe.” That was more than a month away. Hard to imagine Stefan would wait that long to seize another victim, especially since he knew Kelly was in Mexico. Of course, he might be assuming she was still locked up, so perhaps he felt safe enough to stick around. “He could have gone back to the dump,” she offered.
“They’ll kill him if he does,” Rodriguez said. “Seems like a stretch, anyway.”
“You’re right.” Kelly blinked back her exhaustion. Her entire body had stiffened up after hours of sitting in the same position, combined with the beating she’d received yesterday. Despite the half dozen Advil she’d swallowed, her right leg throbbed.
“Well, we can’t hang around here until March,” Rodriguez said. “I’ve got to get back to L.A. and find out if I still have a job.”
“I understand,” Kelly said, defeated.
“That sounded like you aren’t planning on coming with me.” Rodriguez’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t our deal.”
“If McLarty agrees to send backup—” Kelly froze. Something had darted across her sight line, headed for the locked entrance to the museum. “Danny, look.”
He followed her eyes. “Could be anyone,” he said. “You want to get closer to check?”
Kelly didn’t need to get closer, she recognized Stefan’s gait. But she nodded.
They approached the temple from the street lining the western side. A long wall separated the museum from the road, topped by a metal banister. The stones cast long shadows in the moonlight. While Kelly watched, a dark shadow vaulted the banister and disappeared into the darkness below.
“That’s him,” she said.
“He’s alone. That’s a good sign.” Rodriguez seemed uncertain. “The temple grounds are private property. We could call the federales. There’s probably still trace evidence on him from the boy.”
“You said it yourself, justice is different down here,” Kelly argued. “Either way, we should try to get him off the streets tonight, before he kills anyone else.”
“I suppose it’ll be easier to extradite him if he’s already in custody,” Rodriguez said. “All right, we go in, but I’m taking the lead. And if anyone asks, we arrested him on the street.”
“Of course.” Kelly followed Rodriguez as he darted across the plaza toward the banister. He looked over the side, then jerked back. “Christ,” he said. “The things I let you talk me into. That has to be a twenty-foot drop.”
Kelly peered over. The temple ruins stretched away from them for over an acre. The archaeological excavation had carved out deep stone-lined troughs leading from one ruined structure to the next. Some had doors allowing entry while others were mere mounds of stone. Tarps stretched above a few, including the original stairs leading up the side of the temple pyramid.
“Where’d he go?” she whispered.
“Who knows? It’s a maze down there.” Rodriguez sighed. “Sure you want to do this?”
In response, Kelly threw her good leg over the banister. She eased her prosthetic after it, then lowered herself until she was hanging by her arms. Taking a deep breath, she let go.
Kelly landed hard, keeping her right knee bent so that her left ankle absorbed most of the fall. She winced as pain shot up her good foot—that was all she needed, to have both legs compromised. She rolled her foot and the throbbing eased.
Rodriguez dropped to the ground beside her with a muffled curse.
“You okay?” she whispered.
“That wasn’t as easy as you made it look,” he grumbled.
Kelly waved him silent. She’d heard a noise off to their left. She pulled the Glock out of her waistband and made sure a round was chambered. At a nod from Rodriguez, she headed toward it.
The moonlight cast shadows, throwing off her depth perception. Kelly stumbled and nearly fell more than once. The stones that remained from the original plaza were held in place by concrete, creating rough paths between low rock walls. Here and there she found herself on a more modern walkway, but it was constantly interrupted by uneven cobblestones. They reached a dead end.
“I’ll climb up, see if I can spot him,” Rodriguez offered.
She nodded. With a grunt, he heaved himself up on the parapet. His head swiveled from left to right. Suddenly he ducked back down.
“He’s near the temple steps,” he said. “Follow me.”
They stayed low as they trotted forward. The channel they were following widened into a plaza. Rodriguez paused.
“Pretty exposed here,” he whispered.
“What’s he doing?” Kelly asked.
“Hard to tell. He’s still alone, though.”
Kelly turned that over in her head, wishing they’d done more research on the temple. She’d assumed that Stefan intended to murder another victim on the steps, the way they’d seen in the picture, but even he wasn’t crazy enough to do it right out in the open. There must still be enclosed areas scattered around the temple grounds. Maybe his next victim was already concealed in one.
“Hang on.” Rodriguez cautiously peered over the lip of the wall. “All right, he’s going into one of the chambers. Probably only one way in, so we can corner him there.”
Kelly nodded again. She fought down a tremor of fear at the thought of facing Stefan again. Her whole body still ached from the beating he’d given her. But this time she had Rodriguez with her, and she was armed. Unless Stefa
n had more surprises up his sleeve, he wasn’t getting away.
Mark raced across the next aisle. Bullets tore up the ground in front of him. He dived and rolled, squeezing off a few rounds as he scrambled for cover between two of the pens. Mark checked his ammo: running low. He needed to conserve enough to get them back out.
It was eerily silent here. He peered inside the pen he’d landed next to. Dead eyes stared back from the depths of the cage. He swore under his breath—if the Zetas had summarily executed this row of prisoners, it might already be too late for Isabela’s father.
The chopper swept past again, and he pressed closer to the bars. The spotlight panned the ground inches from his feet and kept going. Mark edged forward, maneuvering around more bodies clothed in fatigues. It was impossible to tell whether they were Zetas or Sinaloans. From the sound of it, everyone was firing wildly at anything that moved.
Still, the worst fighting had shifted over a few aisles. He eased along the row, counting. In a few of the pens people were still alive, but barely, panting hard as they bled out. One pleaded for help in a raspy voice. It killed him, but Mark didn’t respond. He couldn’t risk drawing fire. Based on the wounds he could see, most of these people were beyond help anyway. He’d passed four pens so far, five to go. Hopefully inside he’d find someone alive.
As he reached the seventh pen, a figure turned the corner and tore down the aisle toward him, gun blazing. Mark lifted his LMT, aiming for the guy’s chest.
Suddenly the man stopped short, frozen in the spotlight descending from above. His body jerked and danced as a stream of bullets tore through him. He staggered a few steps, then dropped.
Mark pressed himself to the ground. He held his breath, praying for the chopper to keep going. It hovered for a second, then turned to make a pass down the next row. The sound of gunfire continued.
“Jesus,” he said, breathing hard. After a second, he forced himself to crawl forward. Six pens. Seven. The eighth pen appeared empty. Mark treated the chicken wire like a tow rope, pulling himself along it. Coming up beside the ninth pen, he drew a small maglight off his vest and shone it inside.
A man lay on his side. His chest rose and fell as he squinted into the light.
“Francisco Garcia?” Mark asked. The man opened and closed his mouth, trying to say something. The ground around him was drenched with blood. Above the churning rotors and gunfire, Mark discerned a familiar whistling noise, one that sent a chill racing along his spine.
He leaped up and started running. Got less than three yards before the missile exploded behind him. The shock wave lifted him off his feet, sending him hurtling through the air. Mark lost hold of his weapon, arms and legs churning for a purchase as a blast of heat seared his back and his ears popped. He crashed into something solid and a piercing pain shot through him. He managed to choke out three breaths before slipping away.
Thirty-Four
Jake got to his feet unsteadily. Tejada was praying again, a steady murmur. He tugged at Jake’s sleeve, desperate. “Señor, we must go,” he said.
“Mark—” Black smoke rolled over the tops of the pens. As the cloud reached them the smoke made his eyes water, clouding his vision and constricting his throat.
“Por favor, señor.”
Jake was frozen. Childhood memories flooded his mind. His brother holding the back of the seat as he learned to ride a bike. Teaching him to shoot a gun. Handing him his first beer. Sneaking him a dirty magazine. He took a step toward the destruction.
The missile had sparked a fire along the line of pens. As the smoke around them blossomed and grew, the cries from trapped prisoners increased in intensity. Jake blinked and looked around. For a second he’d forgotten where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. His mind was an utter blank.
The sight of a terrified face pressed against the wire of the nearest pen brought him back. It was a woman, hands red and worn, face streaked with soot and tears.
“We’ve got to get these people out,” he said, dazed.
Jake waved the woman back and aimed his sidearm. On the second try he hit the lock and it sprang off. The woman slammed against the door. She scurried away, vanishing around the corner.
Jake moved on to the next pen.
“Señor!” Tejada yanked at his arm, trying to drag him away. Jake shook him off. He shot the next lock. The teenage boy inside shoved his way out and fell to the ground, trying to kiss Jake’s boots. Jake ignored him, moving along to the next one.
“Riley!” someone cried. Jake barely processed the voice. He was in the zone. Mark might be dead, but he’d be damned if he was going to let all these other people die, too. It was wrong to leave them behind. He squeezed the trigger. There was a click: the clip was empty. He popped it out and started to reload. Someone grabbed his arm again, more forcefully this time. He whirled, ready to punch out whoever was trying to stop him. Caught himself when he saw Syd.
“What the hell, Jake? We’ve got to get out of here. Where’s Mark?”
“There’s a fire,” he said. “I’m getting them out.”
“But—”
“They’ll die.”
Syd turned toward the approaching fire. “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ll take the next row over.”
Tejada had disappeared, but Jake barely noticed. The fire was gaining momentum, increasing in intensity as it raced along the tree canopy. The light rain had been replaced by hot embers drifting down from above, singeing his hair and skin. He barely noticed. His whole life had been reduced to aim, shoot. Aim, shoot, reload.
He finished one line of pens. There was a steady stream of prisoners pouring down the aisle now. Some clutched each other as they attempted to run, tears streaming down their faces. Syd had freed nearly everyone on the other side. Jake crossed to the next row without bothering to check and see if there were any hostiles waiting to engage him—he no longer cared. He turned the corner safely and started freeing the next line of pens. People pressed past him, a filthy horde almost indistinguishable in their layers of dirt, fleeing barefoot through the heat and smoke. Aim, shoot. Aim, shoot, reload.
Jake was forced to stop when he dug through his pouch in vain for more ammunition. He turned to ask Syd for some, and found himself face-to-face with Ellis Brown. He looked positively enraged.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded. “My men have been pinned down for nearly a half hour! Where’s Riley?”
“I need more ammo,” Jake said dully.
“I asked you a question.”
“Lay off, Brown,” Syd said, appearing beside them.
They were interrupted by a bellowing loudspeaker. Syd and Brown fell silent, listening. Jake tried to discern what was being said, but his Spanish was rusty and the bullhorn distorted the noise.
“Shit.” Syd turned to him. “Jake, we’ve got to go.”
“Not until we get them out,” he said with determination.
“The army is on their way in, Jake. They’ll save the rest. But we need to get clear before they show up.”
Brown was already barking orders at his men, heading for the exit at a trot. A military-personnel carrier came screaming around the corner, nearly running them over. Brown froze, then raised his hands in the air.
“Don’t worry, Brown, he’ll only shoot if I tell him to,” Syd said cheerfully.
The passenger door of the truck swung open, and Kane stuck his head out. “We miss the party?”
Syd grabbed hold of Jake’s sleeve. “We need to go,” she said forcefully. “Now.”
“But Mark—”
“Jake, if you don’t get in that truck I’ll shoot you and have Kane throw you in anyway. Your choice.”
Jake hesitated another minute. The fire was increasing in force, but most of the pens in its direct path were empty. For the moment, the rest of the prisoners appeared safe. Without another word, he turned and followed her.
The truck was an old army flatbed covered by dark green canvas. He peered in the back. The benches lin
ing either side were filled with Brown’s men, some looking much the worse for wear.
“We’ll ride in the cab,” Syd said.
Kane let them squeeze inside, then took the seat closest to the window. He cradled a rocket launcher, the business end of it poking out the window. As soon as the door closed Maltz shifted into gear and the truck lurched forward.
“Couldn’t find a chopper, boss,” he said apologetically.
“This’ll do.” Syd kept her eyes focused out the windshield as she reloaded her H&K. “What about the way we came in?”
“Mexi army was up our ass the whole way here. I’m guessing that way is already blocked,” Maltz said. “Looks like we won’t miss the action after all.”
“Stick to the periphery, the fire is mostly in the center of camp.” Syd pulled open the canvas flap separating them from the rear cabin. “Brown, we’re headed into the hot zone. Get some of your men working point.”
“Roger,” Brown said. At a nod, two of his men took up positions in the back of the truck, weapons covering the road to their rear. The rest slashed some holes in the canvas sides. They jutted their guns out through the gaps after dropping to one knee on the floor of the carrier.
Maltz spun the steering wheel right and the truck swerved, nearly going up on two wheels as it took the next corner. A stream of epithets issued from the flatbed.
“A little warning would be nice!” Brown hollered.
“Sorry,” Maltz muttered. “Haven’t driven one of these in a while.”
Jake noticed sweat beading on his forehead. The sight wasn’t reassuring.
They emerged on the road lining the camp’s perimeter. Jake winced as they bumped over a pile of fatigues. Maltz did his best to avoid them, but the road was littered with bodies. No one said anything. Aside from the roar of the fire it was silent, the gunfire had abruptly ceased.
“The rest probably took off into the woods,” Syd guessed.
Kane grunted his assent. “Army sent them running.”
“Funny that the army showed up now,” Syd commented. They passed a row of pens that were lit up like a torch. Fire danced along the rooftops. As they crossed the next aisle, a machine gun sputtered at them. Jake instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying to duck, but in the tiny truck cab there was nowhere to go. A bullet pinged off the windshield, pocking but not shattering it.
Kidnap & Ransom Page 23
