by M C Rowley
Jean got down from the Tahoe first and ushered us to follow.
“No time for freshening up, I’m afraid,” she said. “My boss got the photos of the cars back and we have some clear faces.”
I gripped Eleanor’s hand. There was hope.
We passed through tougher and more stringent security, and then through a maze of corridors, before a large man, slightly overweight and with an unkempt mop of black hair and a pasty-white face, came out to meet us.
Jean shook his hand and stood beside him. “This is my direct boss, David Rose.”
Rose nodded and said, “Come. We got photos of the six cars. CCTV, but a couple of faces are visible. They split after they hit the city, and the plates were fake and seemingly untraceable. Local cops couldn’t find the cars.”
My heart sank. “They’re gone?”
Rose turned to me like an angry uncle staring down his nephew who interrupted.
He continued: “So we need to see if your boy here is any use and can ID any of them.”
We entered a small, austere room with a well-worn gray carpet, white plasterboard walls, and a ceiling that hummed under the weight of its A/C and heating systems. A camera was perched in the corner. Laid out on the table were twelve dark six-by-nine photographs.
Rose ushered Jairo over to the table and Jean stood next to him as they began looking through the photos.
“You know any of these faces, Mr. Morales?”
Jairo said nothing but looked at each one. Eleanor pulled my hand and we shuffled over to stand next to Jean and stared down at the shots.
Rose said, “You told us you had information, Morales, and now it’s time to collect. We did everything we promised at our end. We need to find this guy Reynolds faster than you can believe. Check the photos again.”
Jairo peered closely but shook his head.
I looked at the first photo. It was one of the cars passing through a crossroads, a single face illuminated at the wheel, staring forward. I’d never seen the man before in my life.
The next photo was taken from the side. This time, the passenger’s side profile was visible. A thin white face, unknown to me too.
Rose started asking Jairo about whether he had seen Reynolds before, but Jairo grunted and evaded him. Rose got worked up and pressed him harder. I scanned each photo one by one, and then froze.
The sixth photo was a side shot of the passenger window, like the second had been. But the passenger had turned and was looking right at the camera.
I knew the face.
Pastor Robert.
I stepped back. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t breathe.
Eleanor turned and grabbed my shoulder. “Scott?”
Then Rose and Jean and Jairo turned to me.
“What is it?”
“I know one of those men,” I said.
Rose stood back from the table. “What?”
“The sixth photo. I met that man. He drove me to New York from where the plane crashed. He’s a pastor. He’s a good man.”
I felt woozy, like the room was spinning around me.
“Sit down,” said Eleanor, grabbing a chair. “Tell us everything.”
I did. I recounted the story, starting with X03 at the motel and then meeting the pastor, Robert, and then the drive. Everyone stood listening in a semi-circle around me, except for Jairo, who leaned on the wall to the side, looking straight forward.
“Could be another helper. Reynolds is using people against their will,” said Rose. “I’m pretty sure that’s how he picked up the girlfriend and daughter.”
We hung our heads.
“But the guy means something. We’ll get on it.”
And Rose left the room with Jean. Jairo, Eleanor, and I sat in silence. Our family reunion, not at all as any of us had imagined it would be.
Over the next three days, we were debriefed by Jean and Rose.
Eleanor and I stayed at a small hotel near Langley, guarded by agents twenty-four/seven. Jairo was kept at Langley, in a cell by all accounts. During the day, Eleanor and I imparted everything we knew about Reynolds. Eleanor when she was shipped up to the U.S. and me, regarding the pastor I thought was called Robert.
Rose confirmed that a pastor from Deming, New Mexico, had been reported missing days earlier, although no body had been found. They confirmed little else. Both Mr. Reynolds and Luciana were ghosts. Phantoms here on their home turf, causing rampage in the south. Rose sent agents to collect the body of the leader of the cartel Código X, but there was no sign of X03 at all.
On the fourth day, I asked Jean if we’d be freed. She looked at me like a dissatisfied boss being asked for a pay rise.
“No, Dyce,” she said. “We’re your only chance of finding your granddaughter now.”
And she was right.
Eleanor and I talked only of finding her, that little girl. Our family, whether Jairo liked it or not. Eleanor had that same fire in her eyes she’d had for all those years our son was missing, even when the authorities made us declare him dead and place that damned plaque. She was intent on finding Estrella. Even though she was locked up by the CIA, her will knew no obstacles.
And for the first time in a long time I had her to give me strength again. I held her at night like she might escape with the wind. But every morning I opened my eyes and there she was.
We would find Estrella, I told her again and again.
And I meant it with all my heart.
Epilogue
The house had served him well. It had been grand enough for the Founders to believe he actually lived there, and hidden enough to run the entire operation from there without stirring even a hint of suspicion.
But Reynolds knew the plan had not gone as ordained and that frustrated him. Sure, the return on investment into Código X was pouring into the coffers, and the Founders were ready for the next stage. But things niggled him. And he hated that.
The man they called X03 had died in the wrong way.
Luciana had had to leave the country while the CIA became tangled in evidence.
And he had to return the house a little earlier than he’d hoped.
Nonetheless, he was ready for the final part. Shedding skin was what he did best.
He sat down on the leather chair and waited for the phone to ring.
It did so at the exact hour the estate agent had said she would call.
Reynolds picked up the phone and activated the voice distorter.
“Well?” he said.
A nervous voice came on. “It’s done. Please. I beg you.”
Reynolds smiled. The sound of a person begging, willing to do anything he asked, was beginning to grow on him.
“No loose ends?”
The voice quivered; the woman was holding back tears. “No, it’s all done. The owners believe it was empty the whole time. I assure you.”
“Good,” said Reynolds.
“Tell me where my family is,” said the woman, now breaking into tears. “I did what you asked.”
Reynolds held the thought for a second more than was necessary, assessing his motivation for turning the screw more. No, he decided in silence. He had bigger problems and targets.
He gave the woman the address where she would find her husband and two children being kept against their will: in a basement two hours outside of Chicago.
He hung up.
Then he opened his laptop computer and, via a secure VPN connection, accessed the CCTV camera he had set up back at his base.
The screen flickered to life and showed a small cell containing five middle-aged Mexican men, the same five he had liberated from prison only a few weeks ago.
He observed them, walking to and fro, confused, angry, and lost, and he savored it.
The time had come to finish this.
Reynolds closed the laptop, got up, and cleaned off the last of his prints. Then he picked up the red jerrycan and began dousing the room with gasoline.
He waited for it to soak into the beautifu
l oak furniture and high-end fixtures, then sparked the Zippo and threw it to the ground. A curtain of purple flames fanned out sideways and blanketed the room.
He smiled.
Shedding skin was what he did best.
And no one would find him, unless he wanted them to.
The time for his final retribution had come.
THE END
