Roman didn’t know exactly what that meant, but one thing that was certain was that he wasn’t supposed to be here. The kidnappers, whoever they were, hadn’t been interested in him. They took him, he supposed, to get him off the street and to someplace where he’d make less noise. Had people started to gather at the fence to watch? He thought he’d seen that.
But maybe not. His balls were still tender from the kick they’d taken. That kind of pain pushed memories out of the way and made the ones left behind pretty fuzzy.
He should have done more.
Better to die in the street than get into the car.
That was the extent of Mr. Jonathan’s stranger danger instructions. That, and never allow yourself to get tied up.
Once you were off the street, whatever advantage you might have had because of fighting skill or weapons reduced dramatically. Once you lost the use of your hands and feet, all advantage was transferred to the other guy. This was precisely why Roman had been so focused on his self-defense classes. To prepare for this moment.
And when the moment came, he completely screwed it up.
And how is this helping? Mama Alexander’s voice asked that question inside his head with all the clarity of actually being there. He looked behind just to make sure he was still alone.
Mama had been through a lot in her life, and she’d overcome all of it. She’d never spoken of his grandfather, and he knew better than to ask. The one time he posed the question to his mom, the rebuff was short, stern, and non-negotiable. Roman knew that Mama had been Mr. Jonathan’s nanny when Mr. Jonathan was little and that Mom had given Mama some rough times. He also knew that people in Fisherman’s Cove who never showed respect for anybody or anything showed respect for Mama.
Even Mr. Boxers seemed afraid of her.
Mama looked at the world as a problem to be dealt with. The past stops mattering as soon as now happens.
It made no sense for Roman to beat himself up over what happened in the street yesterday—that was yesterday, right? If it couldn’t be undone, then it made no sense to worry.
So, if worrying wasn’t working, what could work?
You’ll never walk again.
Guzman’s voice popped into his head with equal clarity.
Roman jumped when he heard the sound of the door opening behind him. “Good morning, Mr. Roman Alexander,” a voice boomed from behind him.
He did his best to pivot around and twisted his body to see Cristos Silva striding toward him. Guzman was with him, a step behind, carrying a gym bag in one hand and the sledgehammer in the other. Now that Roman could see it, he realized that it was even bigger than he’d feared. The metal face looked dented and chipped. The wooden handle looked well used.
“I hope you slept well,” Silva said.
“Not really,” Roman said. “I can’t move very well chained like this.”
Silva walked around the boy to look him straight on, a smile on his face. “That is the point of using chains, don’t you think?”
“Can I have something to eat?”
“In time,” Silva said. “First, we have to make a movie.”
Roman wasn’t sure he understood.
“You look confused,” Silva said. “It will make sense in a few minutes. Please stand.”
It was a harder task than Roman had expected. The shortness of the chains, combined with limited use of his hands and the stiffness from being on the floor for however long that had been, got the best of him. By leaning forward and using the massive beam for support, he finally got his balance and stood facing Silva.
“Very well,” Silva said. Smile still beaming, Silva launched a slap that drove the heel of his hand into the bone under Roman’s left eye.
Roman saw a flash of light, then he was back on the ground, unaware that he’d fallen. He smelled blood in his sinuses. As his head cleared, he saw Guzman standing over him, squinting to get a better look at whatever he was trying to see on Roman’s face. Guzman said something in Spanish, then he reached down to grab Roman under the collar of his T-shirt. He gave it a yank, and the fabric tore. From the neck ring to the middle of his chest.
Silva appeared in Roman’s field of view next, and he at first looked concerned, and then he looked satisfied. He delivered a command in Spanish, and Guzman backed off.
“Sit up now, please,” Silva said.
Roman didn’t want to. What the hell had he done to deserve a punch?
“Would you prefer Guzman to convince you?”
That did the trick. Roman grunted through a sit-up to pull himself upright and he started to stand.
“No, stay seated for now,” Silva said. “I want that blood to drip down your face.”
Pain started to bloom before Roman was fully aware that he was injured. His left cheek felt numb and achy at the same time. It was getting harder to see through that eye, and his teeth weren’t meeting quite right when he locked his jaw. When he leaned forward, he saw blood dripping onto his thighs before he felt it running off the angle of his jaw.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, and he leaned farther forward to explore the wound with his fingers.
“Stop!” Silva said. “Don’t touch it. It looks great just as it is.”
“What are you talking about?”
Silva ignored him and disappeared out of view. Roman thought about turning to watch him, but not moving his head was a good thing for now. When he heard the zipper on the gym bag opening, though, he figured he had a right to see what they were going to do to him next.
Guzman pulled a cheap camera tripod out of the bag. While he extended the legs and locked them in place, Silva busied himself with an expensive-looking digital camera.
We have to make a movie.
Now, at least, something finally made sense. But why did they have to hit him like that?
When the tripod was standing and ready to go, Silva said something to Guzman, who picked up his sledgehammer and walked over to Roman.
“No,” Roman said, trying to scoot away. “I’m doing what you told me.”
Guzman’s lips twisted into an unnerving grin as he lifted the hammer high, head down, and let it drop.
* * *
Patrick Kelly entered Fair Oaks Mall on the upper level, via the entrance nearest the Cheesecake Factory. The stores hadn’t opened yet, so the only other people to be seen were a few dozen intrepid souls who used the mall as an ersatz track, walking their rounds and racking up their strides. He wasn’t from around here, so he didn’t know the real numbers, but he imagined from the size of the place that if a walker caught all the nooks and crannies, he could cover at least a mile.
This cloak-and-dagger stuff unnerved him. On the one hand, it seemed silly—why on earth would anyone be following him?—but on the other, Cristos Silva was not a man to cross. They’d been friends for years, in a predatory sort of way, but Patrick had witnessed what the man was capable of when he felt that he’d been crossed.
Start with the fact that Silva had taken Ciara hostage. That was an unnecessary step, but classic Silva. Patrick was willing to go along with the fraudulent bail bond. It was good business for all of them, but Silva had decided that putting Ciara’s life on the line was somehow necessary to get Patrick to do the job as he’d agreed to do it.
The plan all along had been for Fernando Pérez to bolt when he got out of jail, and in recompense for taking the risk and providing the bond, Santiago Pérez would pay him the cash value plus twenty percent more. But the $1.2 million that was supposed to be deposited in Patrick’s account by Santiago Pérez had never materialized. A deal was a deal, and when Fernando failed to make his first court appointment, Patrick was going to be on the hook for that money.
As far as Patrick was concerned, that was what this clandestine meeting really was about.
The instructions he’d received for this meeting were both specific and complicated. Right turn at the end of the first hallway, then take the stairs down to the first floor. At the bottom of the s
tairs, he was to buttonhook to the left and walk to the unoccupied store whose front glass wall was covered with brown paper and whose glass door bore a white building permit.
Patrick didn’t relish the notion of meeting a stranger in a strange place. He’d upgraded his carry gun from his usual Glock 42 to a much larger Glock 19. Nine-millimeter instead of .380, sixteen rounds instead of seven. If the morning included the throwing of lead, more was always better, but the bigger Glock was heavy and threatened to pull his pants down.
He made his way to the store, and as advertised, the door was unlocked. He checked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, then realized he was being stupid. Dozens of cameras were likely recording his every move, anyway.
He stepped inside the store under renovation and looked around. Either the place had been a shoe store and was going out of business or it would soon be a shoe store. Dusty display racks lined the walls. At the back of the room, in the center, in the spot designed for a cashier’s station, a guy in an expensive business suit sat in a tall director’s chair.
“Good morning, Toby,” the man said.
“Good morning, Billy,” Patrick said. “I didn’t expect this meeting to be with you.”
“Who did you think it would be?”
“I guess someone more used to getting construction dust on his clothing.”
Billy Monroe was one of the local attorneys who made buttloads of money defending the interests of the cartels and their operators. His most recent client was Fernando Pérez. Within that world, Patrick preferred to be known simply as Toby Jackson, bail bondsman.
“Is this where you tell me that Señor Pérez has deposited a big check in my account?”
Monroe forced a smile. There was probably a time—maybe twenty years and fifty pounds ago—when he had been a handsome man. There was a ruggedness around his eyes and a sharpness to his jaw, but age and weight had softened all of that. Now, his ruddy nose and the puffiness under his eyes made him look just old and tired.
“I can see how that is what you would like to hear,” Monroe said. “But, alas, the reality is far more complicated.”
* * *
Roman yelled as the sledgehammer landed with a heavy thud on the dirt floor between his knees. There was no way it would not have broken a bone if it had landed on his leg.
Without saying a word, Guzman stooped at Roman’s feet and removed the shackles from his ankles. As soon as he was free, Roman scooted backward, away from the pillar and the sledgehammer.
“Where are you going, hijo?” Silva asked. Roman could hear the smile in his voice.
Roman spun on his butt to look at him. “Nowhere,” he said.
“Guzman is a scary man,” Silva said. “You are wise to keep your distance from him. Come, you can stand now.”
“Are you going to hit me again?”
Silva looked to his enforcer. “Guzman?”
“No!” Roman shouted. “I’m doing it. I’m getting up.” He pulled his legs under him and worked hard to get his feet under him again. “Can I have a little help, please?”
“No,” Silva said. He was preoccupied with some up-close detail of the camera or maybe the tripod.
Roman nearly pitched over onto his forehead as he struggled for balance, but he recovered. Why were they being so mean to him? He hadn’t done anything wrong. Finally at his full height, he lifted his knees high, one at a time, in a marching motion, trying to work out some kinks and get blood flowing in his legs again.
The bleeding had all but stopped from the cut under his eye, but the vision there was almost entirely gone. He hoped it was because of swelling and not because the punch had knocked something loose inside of this head. Could he have been bit that hard?
Silva gave an instruction to Guzman, who wrapped his fist around Roman’s biceps and pulled him forward, stooping for the gym bag as they passed it. Silva lifted the camera and tripod and led the way out of the barn and into the blistering sunshine.
Roman squinted against the light.
“Go over there,” Silva said, pointing to nowhere, the middle of an empty yard.
Roman allowed himself to be guided to the spot that Guzman clearly recognized, dancing an awkward jig against the rocks that poked at the soles of his feet. It occurred to him at that moment that he had no idea when he’d lost his flip-flops. He knew he had them at the pool, but after that, he had no idea.
Guzman pulled him to a stop and then turned him around to face Silva and the barn behind him. It was pretty much the wreck of a structure that he had imagined, with a roof that looked far more dangerous than it had from the inside.
Silva took his time setting up the camera, pulling the view screen out from the side and making adjustments. Focus, maybe? Zoom? Whatever he saw did not please him. He waved a finger toward Roman and said something in Spanish.
From behind, Guzman swung his fist around and nailed Roman with a punch into the same spot on his eye. Maybe not as hard as Silva’s slap, but it wobbled his legs. This time, the big man caught him before he could fall and stood him up again.
Roman’s eye wound started bleeding again, and a second stream of crimson joined it from his nose. For the first time since this whole ordeal started, he started to cry.
“Why?” he sobbed. “Why do you keep hurting me?”
Silva seemed pleased. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s very good.” He reached into the gym bag, withdrew a few pieces of paper, and hurried them over to Roman. “Here. When I say action look into the camera and read this.”
The boy’s legs started to fold, but again, Guzman propped him up and whispered in his ear, “The sooner you get through this, the sooner the pain will stop.” The man let go of him and stepped away.
Roman’s left eye was swollen shut now and the vision in his right was blurred with tears. The words he’d been given to read had been drawn in block letters with a bold black marker. It was as if they knew ahead of time that he would have difficulty seeing.
“Look at the camera,” Silva instructed, and Roman did his best.
Blood dripped over Roman’s lips, and he tried to blow it away, creating a crimson spray.
“That’s very good,” Silva said. “Do it again when the camera is rolling.” He carefully pushed a button.
“Action.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jonathan felt an unlikely surge of pessimism—a surge of dread—when he pulled his phone from his pocket. Venice sounded terrible, clearly exhausted and on the verge of tears. As soon as he heard the emotion in her voice, his spirits fell even further.
“Tell me you have good news,” he said. Always put a positive spin.
“I have awful news,” Venice said, barely able to get the words out.
Jonathan’s insides tightened. Please don’t let him be dead.
“I watched the silver BMW—the silver BMW—cross the El Paso bridge into Mexico.”
“Were the kids still in the car?” Jonathan and his team were crossing the street outside the police building, on the way to the towering parking lot.
“I couldn’t tell,” Venice said. “The angle was from too far away.”
He tapped Boxers on the shoulder and indicated that he was stopping. “How are you sure it was the same car?”
“We’ll get the truck,” Boxers said. He and Dawkins left him and headed for the parking garage.
Venice explained, “I tapped into the ALPR database and was able to track their progress—”
“Stop. Which database?”
“Oh, sorry. Automated license plate readers. Those passive cameras on the back bumpers of cop cars?”
Jonathan was familiar with the cameras, but not the acronym for the database. ALPRs were part of the sweeping post 9/11 measures that started as a grand idea but had devolved into a critical element of Uncle Sam’s ongoing efforts to spy on its citizens. The cameras collected thousands of license plates per hour and cross-checked them against criminal databases. When there was a hit on a pl
ate number, that vehicle could be singled out and tracked. The grand idea was to catch bad guys. Now, overzealous prosecutors—a.k.a. politicians—had begun to use the data to track the travel habits of their opponents.
“So, I’m very sure,” Venice said. “But there’s even more, and it gets even worse.” Her voice hitched in her throat again. “The last image I have of the BMW is from Abraham Gonzalez International Airport across the border in Juarez. It was purely by luck, but I found the vehicle parked on the tarmac, next to a private jet.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. My initial thought was to panic. I mean, starting from an airport, they could go anywhere in the world, right?”
The fact that she was not sobbing—in fact, that she sounded excited—told Jonathan that there was some silver behind the cloud.
Venice continued, “The image caught the aircraft’s tail number. The plane landed at Mazatlán International Airport.”
“That’s in Sinaloa, right?”
“Correct. You guys need to get there.”
Jonathan closed his eyes and leaned back against the warm brick wall of police headquarters. This was a horrible turn of events. As bad as the corruption was in the northern part of Mexico, along the U.S. border, it was many times worse in the state of Sinaloa.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. He had no idea how he was going to pull that off, but it was the right thing to say.
“Have you spoken with the El Paso police yet?” Venice asked.
“Just leaving there now.”
“I’m sure they told you that I called.”
“Yes, they did.”
“Now, do me a favor and go back in there and tell them that if they’d bothered to listen—if they’d bothered to do their jobs—my boy would have already been saved.”
“We’ll get him back, Ven. I promise. We’ll get them both back.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Focus, Venice.” Jonathan made his tone a stern one. “We don’t consider failure, remember?” This had been Jonathan’s mantra for as long as he’d been in the business he was in. People work toward their anticipated outcomes. He’d seen far too many soldiers die over the years because their fear allowed them to lose sight of the final victory.
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