Stealth Attack

by John Gilstrap

  She’d first met Jonathan Grave when she was a sheriff, pursuing him to arrest him, tracking the pattern he didn’t even realize he’d established.

  She took in as many details as she could as she approached the Kellys’ front door. The yard held no toys, so there likely were no small children about. The walkway needed to be edged. Gardening tools and ancient outdoor furniture that clearly had not been used in months if not years cluttered the front porch, concealed from the street by a line of shrubs.

  Gail saw no button for a doorbell, so the used the peeling brass knocker. Just three quick raps, nothing urgent. As a last second inspiration, she pulled her FBI credentials case out of her pocket and held it up where it could be seen.

  She was reaching again for the knocker when the door opened a sliver and stopped against the chain. An eye appeared in the gap, but not a face.

  Gail held up her creds. “Is this the Kelly residence?”

  The door closed, the chain slid, and then the door opened again to reveal a woman in her forties who looked like she’d been crying. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “Please, come in. Have a seat.”

  A stairway hugged the wall to Gail’s left, and on the right, the foyer opened up onto a living room, and beyond that, a dining room. The kitchen lay at the back of the house, a straight shot from the doorway. Gail was willing to bet that a family room lay to the left of the kitchen with doors that led to the backyard.

  The furniture in the living room had an eclectic feel, and not in a good way. In an early marriage way, where she’d brought her stuff and he’d brought his, and they’d never replaced anything.

  Gail headed across the living room to sit in an orange-patterned sofa that judging from the butt-feel had to be a foldout sleeper. She preferred this to the more comfortable-looking La-Z-Boy because this gave her the best view of the door. Never have your back turned to the door if you can avoid it.

  “Can you tell me what is happening?” the woman asked.

  The question startled Gail. She held up a finger. “First, is this the Kelly home?”

  “Yes, of course it is.”

  “Home of Patrick and Ciara Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who are you?”

  The hostess looked surprised. “I’m Karen Kelly. Patrick’s wife.”

  Karen Kelly was wrapped tighter than a square knot. She sat on the lounger, but on the first three inches, causing the whole chair to teeter forward. She wanted answers.

  Gail wanted to know what the question was.

  “Please tell me what is going on,” Karen said.

  “Is Patrick Kelly here?”

  “He was, but he’s not anymore. He left just a few minutes ago.”

  Of course he did. “Do you know where he went?”

  “He was very upset.”

  “About what?”

  “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t know.”

  Gail settled herself with a breath. “Let’s dial back the clock a little. Why do you think he’s upset?”

  “I already told you that.”

  “No, how do you know he’s upset? What did he do? What did he say?”

  Karen broke under the pressure. She brought her hands to her face and coughed out a sob. Then she got it back together. “We’ve been married for twenty years. I know when he’s upset, and he was upset.”

  “Angry?”

  “More scared, I think. He wouldn’t tell me about anything. He just came in, grabbed a rifle and a pistol, and stormed back out to his car.”

  Gail recoiled. “That’s it? He just stormed out with weapons? Was there a phone call first? An argument of some sort?”

  “No. When I got up this morning around eight-thirty, he was already gone.”

  “Does he disappear often?”

  “He’s almost always out of the house before I get up. I don’t have to be to work till one in the afternoon. I’m off today.”

  “So, when he came back . . .” Gail hoped the lead would inspire more story.

  “I saw him pull into the driveway very fast. I thought maybe he was going to be sick or something. He came in through the garage and didn’t say anything to me. You know, normally, there’s a jokey hi, honey, I’m home, but not this time. He just stormed in, went upstairs, and then came down with guns. I asked him where he was going, and he didn’t say anything. It was like he didn’t even know I was there.”

  “He didn’t mention any names? Didn’t say—”

  “Anything,” Karen interrupted. “He didn’t say anything.”

  Gail noticed that there’d been no mention of Ciara going missing. If you’re going to be spun up this tight over an issue, that would be the lead one, right? She decided to go for it.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with Ciara?”

  Karen clearly hadn’t been ready for the question. “Ciara? Why would this have anything to do with Ciara?”

  Right away, Gail regretted bringing it up. Now she was trapped. You can’t mention someone’s child in conversation and then not expound.

  Then Karen got it. “You’re not here about Patrick, are you? Has something happened to Ciara? And who are you again?”

  Gail smiled gently as she retrieved her creds case from her pocket. “Gerarda Culp. I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

  Karen pretended to look at the credentials, but she clearly did not read what she saw. “And what does anything have to do with Ciara? She’s in Texas, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I don’t know that anything does,” Gail said, though everything had everything to do with everything else. “I’m just following up on a call we received that Ciara and a boy she was with didn’t rejoin their group during their field trip.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed to slits. “She’s still on her field trip. I told you that. She’s in El Paso, Texas.”

  “Do your husband and your daughter get along, Mrs. Kelly?”

  Panic and anger were forming a stew inside Karen. “Of course they get along. She’s our daughter.”

  “So, she’s biological kin?”

  “Agent . . .”

  “Culp.”

  “Agent Culp, you’d be wise to—”

  “You’d be wise to answer my questions,” Gail snapped. It was time to play the role of the cop all the way. “I’m not here for my own entertainment, ma’am. I am here hoping to help your husband and your daughter. I’ll tell you what I can when it’s time, but I’ll ask you to dispense with the posturing and answer my questions. Can I be any clearer than this?”

  Karen reared back in her chair. “Ask your question again.”

  “Are you and Mr. Kelly Ciara’s biological parents?”

  “Of course we are. Do you want to see the birthing pictures?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Before today, was Mr. Kelly acting strangely? Differently?”

  “No.”

  “You answered too quickly,” Gail admonished. “Please give that one some thought. Just for the last day or two. Has he been distracted? Disturbed?”

  Karen looked at the ceiling as she considered the question. After thirty seconds or so, she said, “Maybe. I think it’s fair to say that he has not been as talkative as usual.”

  “But not enough so that you were worried?”

  “Right.”

  Gail pulled her notebook from her purse and opened it. “Bear with me for a little while longer, please. I’m going to run some names out, and I’d like you to tell me if they mean anything to you.”

  Karen answered by rolling her eyes.

  “Roman Alexander.”

  She winced as she thought. “Yes, but give me a minute. Is he a boy from school?”

  “Yes.”

  Karen smiled, as if she’d won a trivia challenge.

  “Ernesto Guzman.”

  “No.”

  “How about Santiago or Fernando Pérez?”

  Karen’s jaw clenched. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

&nb
sp; “Santiago Pérez and Patrick are business associates. They’ve known each other for years. They don’t deal with each other directly anymore, though. There’s a middleman. His last name is Silva. He invited himself to our vacation house once.”

  Gail wasn’t interested in hearing about their vacation. “And Fernando?”

  “Santiago’s son. A real piece of work. He’s a nice enough young man, but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did you know that Fernando had been arrested?”

  “I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me.” She tapped her temple with her forefinger. “Like I said, not a lot of brainpower there.”

  “You said that your husband and Santiago were business partners. What business were they in, exactly?”

  Karen had to think for a few seconds. “Well, you know that Patrick owns several different companies, right?”

  Gail said nothing. Sometimes it was best simply to stay out of the way and let people run on.

  “Aces and Eights Distribution is an importer and exporter of various goods from down south.”

  “Down south?”

  “South of the border. Our border. Mexico, Central America, South America.”

  “What kind of goods?”

  Karen moved her hands as if balancing the air from one to the other as she searched for an answer. “All kinds, I guess. I always assumed it was the usual. Textiles, toys. You know, all the stuff that comes up from down there.”

  Gail jotted a note and crossed her legs, right over left. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Is your husband in the drug trade?”

  “Are you going to tell me what any of this has to do with Ciara’s field trip?”

  Again, Gail waited for her answer.

  “No!” Karen nearly shouted her reply. “My husband is not a drug dealer. How dare you even ask such a thing?”

  “Did you know that Santiago Pérez is very much a drug dealer?”

  “Bullshit.” The word seemed to embarrass her.

  “I assure you it is not,” Gail said. She kept her tone reserved, almost flat. Matter-of-fact. “And that’s not even a secret. Feel free to Google it on your phone if you’d like.”

  Karen looked stunned. She stared at Gail, speechless.

  “He’s a lieutenant in the Cortez Cartel out of Juarez and Sinaloa,” Gail explained. “And he is not a nice man. In fact, he’s very much a murderer.”

  Realization was beginning to dawn. “Are you connecting Ciara’s alleged disappearance to the Mexican drug cartels?”

  Gail decided to go for the kill. “Did you know that your husband owns Toby Jackson Bail Bonds, Incorporated?”

  “I know he’s an investor, but he does not own it.”

  “No, ma’am, I beg to differ. He owns it outright. That is the company that pays for Ciara’s tuition at Northern Neck Academy.”

  Karen gaped. It was too much.

  “A couple of days ago, your husband put up a million-dollar bond for Fernando Pérez, who’d been arrested for distribution of narcotics.”

  “I–I’m not sure I know what that even means.”

  “From what I can tell, that is not a sum that you and your family can afford. It is not a decision he would make under ordinary circumstances.”

  Karen still hadn’t embraced what surely was obvious, but Gail felt she had to let her find her own way to the obvious conclusion.

  “You’re speaking in riddles, Agent Culp. What are ordinary—” Her eyes reddened. “Are you saying that Ciara was kidnapped to make Patrick front this money?”

  “It’s most definitely what I fear,” Gail said.

  “Is that why Patrick was so upset?”

  “I don’t know,” Gail confessed. “That—whatever had upset him—is not the reason why I am here. But in my experience, when two events happen in close proximity, they’re almost always connected.”

  Karen brought her hands to the sides of her head, as if to keep it from exploding. “Oh, my God. What do I do?”

  “If you want to find your daughter and maybe save her, you’ll let me have your husband’s phone number.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I don’t buy that they took the kids across the border,” Boxers said after they’d reassembled in the rental Suburban. “When the cartels want revenge, they kill people. They don’t kidnap them. They might drag them off the street for an evening of casual torture, but they’re not going for ransom. Certainly, not across the border, with all the risks that come with that.”

  As Jonathan listened to Big Guy’s words, he offered a silent prayer of thanks that Venice wasn’t around to hear the torture talk.

  “I have to agree,” Dawkins said. “Don’t get me wrong. The cartels cross the border all the time to kidnap Americans, but those cases are all business executives. Hell, most of the big companies along the border have a budget number for ransoms, and the cartels know it. It’s a damned profitable business. Snatching a couple of kids off the street and dragging them across the Rio Grande is way outside the normal business model.”

  Jonathan nodded as he listened to their theories. They were right. In a twisted way, the cartel business was an honorable one. The rules were clear and they never changed. When the cartels kidnapped someone for ransom, they invariably released their hostage once the money was exchanged. Jonathan hadn’t heard of a single case of a double-cross. It was that reliability that made kidnapping such a viable business.

  And, on the darker side of the business, everyone knew that the penalty for crossing the cartels involved unspeakable torture and mutilation. And the rules were applied equally for cops and criminals alike.

  “We also haven’t received a ransom demand,” Jonathan said.

  * * *

  Venice’s computer dinged with an incoming email, and a notification in a yellow box popped up in the lower right corner of her screen.

  EMAIL FROM ROMAN ALEXANDER

  Her stomach cramped and her vision blurred as she clicked on the link. The email came in on a public server—not the secured server that they typically used for family business.

  As the window opened, she saw that a video file had been attached. As she read the introductory email, her chest tightened, and she wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like.

  “Mom,

  This is really me and the video is really real. Please do what they say. And don’t worry too much. It looks worse then it really is. They want me to tell you that we are in Mexico and there ready to hurt me really bad.”

  Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she tried to open the video file, but her thumb was shaking too violently against the track ball to get an accurate click. She finally hit the target on the third try, and right away, she brought her hands to her mouth to silence her approaching sob.

  He’d been beaten. His left eye was swollen shut, his shirt was nearly torn off his body, and blood streamed in heavy drops across his lips and off his chin. He appeared to be standing in a field, surrounded by grass. The only distinguishing feature of the terrain was a split rail fence far in the distance.

  As the video started, his gaze was focused off camera, and then when he got his cue, he looked down at what Venice assumed to be a script.

  “My name is Roman Alexander, and I have been kidnapped. I am in Mexico now and unless you follow these directions to the letter . . .”

  His voice cracked and his lower lip trembled. Venice hadn’t seen him make that face in years. All of the encroaching manhood seemed to have given way to his inner terrified little boy. She could barely make herself watch.

  Roman choked through the message with a trembling voice. “Unless you follow these directions to the letter, they will break my bones one at a time and send me home in pieces.” He looked off screen and begged, “Please don’t make me do this. I can’t do this.”

  Someone clearly said something, but the audio dropped out for that part as a new terror flooded Roman’s face. He shook his head as an
emphatic no, and when he tried to put both hands out in front of him to ward off what might have been an incoming attack, Venice caught a quick glimpse of the shackles that pinioned his wrists to his waist.

  “I–I’m sorry,” he said as the sound returned, but it wasn’t clear to Venice who he was speaking to. He sniffed, coughed, and spit a gob of blood onto the ground.

  He returned his eyes to the script. “The price to get you back—I think that means to get me back—is two million dollars. You will receive more instructions soon. Do not call the police, and do not take long. Every hour you delay means more of this.”

  The camera blinked—a cut in the action—and an instant later, it showed Roman on the ground, his knees up and writing in pain. That image held as a freeze frame, then the screen went black.

  * * *

  Angelina Garcia lived in Old Town Alexandria, a neighborhood of homes that sold for over $700 per square foot, despite the fact that most had built in the era of George Washington. Patrick had visited similar homes a number of times over the years, and he couldn’t wrap his head around how people lived every moment of every day in a place that creaked like it was going to break, and the concepts of being square or plumb were entirely alien.

  According to the materials given to him by Billy Monroe, she shared the house with her widowed mother and her two children, five-year-old Linus and seven-year-old Paul. The older boy went to public school, while the younger one went to a private preschool during the day. Both ended their afternoons at a daycare program at the St. Agnes Church School, where Angelina would pick them up every day between five-thirty and six.

  Patrick had decided that killing her in Alexandria was a nonstarter. Too many people and too many police. Too many cameras on every corner.

  No, he’d have to take her out near her workplace at the FBI field office in Manassas, Virginia. The office was more of a campus, actually, located more or less by itself in a newly developed corner of western Prince William County. From the outside, the place looked visitor friendly, but he couldn’t help but believe there was crushing security everywhere in and around the building. Certainly, there’d be a bajillion cameras.