Boxers’ hands hovered in the air, then he put the gun case back into the bag. “Charge?” he said with a derisive chuckle. “Did you really just say charge? If I knew we were gonna play cavalry, I’d have brought my friggin’ bugle.”
* * *
Roman’s stomach flipped when they brought Ciara into the barn. She didn’t look beaten, but she looked thoroughly whipped. Her eyes looked scarlet in the dim light, and she was somehow thinner than before. She walked awkwardly, shuffled really, with her head down and her gaze unfocused. Her hands had been bound behind her back. The brute Guzman ushered her over to where Roman was trussed and ordered her to sit.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Her look seared his brain.
“I mean, are you hurt? Did they—” He didn’t know how to phrase the question, so he stopped asking.
“Nobody touched me,” she said. No eye contact at all. “They’ve had me chained to a bed in a bedroom like an animal. I kept expecting someone to come in and, well, you know. But no one did.”
Roman felt relief, but it was not as profound as it probably should have been. At least she got a bed.
“How about you?” she asked, though she didn’t seem really to care.
“Better than him.” Roman gestured with his forehead to the broken man on the ground. He’d been moaning for quite a while now, but he never quite woke up.
“I’m sorry for getting you involved with this,” Ciara said.
“I don’t even know what this is,” Roman said. “Beyond the obvious. Why did they take you in the first place?”
“Something about my father,” she said. “But he’s not rich.”
“I thought that guy was your friend.”
“I did, too. My father’s friend, anyway.” Her eyes grew wet again. “What do you think—”
“I don’t know,” Roman interrupted. For whatever reason, he didn’t want to hear the question. One thing he knew for sure was that Mr. Jonathan would pay the ransom if he could. He had no idea how much that was, but from what he could tell and from what he’d heard, Mr. Jonathan had more money than God.
“But I think we’re going to be okay.”
“My parents don’t have any money,” Ciara said. “They can’t pay anything for me.”
Roman didn’t reply. What could he say? He’d lost track of the number of times Mr. Jonathan had told him that as long as you never gave up, there always was hope.
Guzman had walked back to Mr. Silva and was talking quietly about something. Roman didn’t like the way the killer kept looking back at him.
“Can you understand what they’re saying?” Roman asked.
“I can’t hear a word.”
“Can you lip read?”
“I’m not that good with Spanish,” she said, not bothering to look at them at all.
“Can you at least try?”
She drilled him with another glare. “What difference does it make, Roman? They’re going to do whatever the hell they want to do. We can’t stop them.”
“It’s better to know than not know.”
“I’m not sure that’s right,” Ciara said.
* * *
“Here is the plan,” Silva explained to Guzman. “We need to load the boy and the girl into a car, and we’re going to head for Ahome. At midnight, once the family has seen their precious little boy and the money is in the account, we’ll push them both back into the car and then you will be on your way into the jungle with them.”
“What about Alberto?”
Silva sighed and swallowed his anger as he looked at the broken man on the floor.
“I’m sorry I went too far with him,” Guzman said.
“I know you are.”
“He will never recover.”
“Fine,” Silva said. “Dispose of him, as well. But next time . . .” He let his words trail off because it made no sense to complete the thought.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Right. Get to work.”
“Why leave so early?” Guzman asked. “We have hours before the drop-off.”
“I want them out of here,” Silva said. He didn’t want to go into the details, but the sooner he had these kids off his land, the better they all were going to be.
“Are you expecting trouble here?” Guzman asked. “Is that why you summoned all the men?”
“I have concerns, yes. I have an idea that Mr. Roman’s Mr. Jonathan may be the same man who burned down the club earlier today.”
Guzman’s brow showed concern, but he knew better than to press for details.
“Take most of the others with you,” Silva instructed. “Leave me with five. Travel as a motorcade, then stop somewhere at least five kilometers from the drop-off point. Wait there in silence until midnight approaches.”
“Do you want us to leave now?”
“Right now,” Silva said.
“How will I know when it is okay to leave the drop-off site?”
“I will call you when I get confirmation that the ransom money has been placed in the proper account.”
Guzman turned to the children and flipped the hammer in the air and caught it, as if it weighed nothing.
“I’ll be with you two soon,” he said.
* * *
Roman felt the panic building as Guzman approached. This was it. He wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he somehow knew that this was the beginning of the end. There’d been too many glances, too many secretive conversations.
The fact that after all these hours—or was it days—they’d finally brought Ciara out to join him meant that something major had changed.
Guzman walked first to the broken man on the floor. He’d stopped moaning a while ago, about the same time as he’d stopped moving. Guzman tapped the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. When he didn’t move, he tapped a little harder. Then he kicked.
“Oh, my God!” Ciara cried.
Guzman whirled at the sound of her voice and lifted his hammer. He was too far away to cause her harm, but the message was clear.
“You need to be quiet,” Roman whispered. “This guy is crazy.”
“Not crazy!” Guzman yelled in English. “Thorough!”
Silva had nearly exited the barn when the outburst brought him back. The two men discussed something in Spanish. As they did, Guzman looked troubled. Embarrassed, maybe. It ended with Silva shouting something and storming away.
“What did he say?” Roman whispered.
“He said to just leave him there. That he—Mr. Silva—will take care of the body. He also said something about not getting carried away again.”
Guzman didn’t move for a long time, maybe thirty seconds. He stood with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. In a weird way, he reminded Roman of a dog who’d been scolded.
When Guzman straightened again and turned, he was as scary as ever, even more as he smiled. “Now, children,” he said in English. “It is time for us to take a ride.”
Oh, shit.
“W–where are we going?” Roman asked. His voice sounded reedy and whiny.
Guzman’s smile spread. “Someplace other than here.”
“Did Mr. Jonathan pay my ransom?” Roman asked.
Guzman said nothing. Instead, he pulled the boy’s body forward till his head nearly touched his knees and worked on the chain that held him in place in front of the stable wall. The lock clicked, and Guzman pulled Roman’s head back up by his hair.
“Stand,” Guzman commanded. “Both of you.”
When Roman had difficulty getting his feet under him, Guzman pulled harder on his hair. It helped with his balance, but it hurt like hell. He didn’t yell this time, though.
“Can you uncuff my hands?” Roman asked.
“So that you can fight me again? Do not insult me, boy.”
“What about me?”
“You have only been in them for a short time,” Guzman said. “You will be out of them before you need to get used to them.”
“A
re we being set free?” Ciara asked.
“He won’t give you the satisfaction of an answer,” Roman said, earning a hard shove that made him stumble over the dead man on the floor. This time, he got his feet under him quickly, and he turned away from the corpse. He told himself that he didn’t really see those broken bones move the way he knew he had. His stomach tumbled, but whatever was in there stayed down.
“Now,” Guzman said. “You will keep your mouth shut, and you will walk out through those doors and stand until I join you.”
Ciara waited for Roman to join her, then they stepped shoulder to shoulder out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Holy shit,” Dawkins called from the backseat. “That’s them! They just stepped out of the barn. Both of them. Roman and Ciara.”
They’d just climbed into the Durango, and Boxers was easing the vehicle back out onto the road. At the sound of Dawkins’s words, Big Guy hit the gas and launched them all into their seats.
“Big Guy, stop!” Jonathan commanded. He whirled in his seat and beckoned for Dawkins to hand over the laptop. When he got it, he handed it to Boxers. Together, they watched their precious cargo being led to one of four SUVs, all of them lined up nose to tail. The kids walked like prisoners on their way to their executions. Heads low, Roman’s arms bound to his sides, Ciara’s behind her back.
“Why are we waiting here?” Boxers demanded.
“Because they have all the advantages,” Jonathan said. “Even if we got there before they all drove off, there’s no way to protect the kids if a firefight breaks out. It’s too risky.”
“So, we do nothing?”
“Hell, no,” Jonathan said.
Dawkins said, “We know where they’re going. We get there first and lie in wait.”
“That’s not all true,” Jonathan cautioned. “We know where they say they’re going. That doesn’t mean they’ll actually go there. Can you imprint the kids’ vehicle on Roxie so she’ll track them wherever they go?”
Boxers clacked a few keys. “Already done,” he said.
* * *
As Silva watched the caravan of vehicles snake through his main gate, a sense of calm settled over him. This whole mess had dragged him and his business in directions they never should have gone. The damage caused by the terrorists at his gentleman’s club was only now beginning to clarify for him.
Two police officers numbered among the dead. Their demise was going to cause ripples through all of his businesses as word spread among politicians that the cartel’s armor was not as impenetrable as everyone believed. Sooner than later, Silva was going to have to brief Señor Cortez himself on the scope of the disaster. That was something that could wait until tomorrow—until he had final news to report on the Kelly girl. Cortez had no need to know this business with Roman Alexander, however. That was all on Silva, as were the profits flowing therefrom.
He turned to walk back into his home—and a fine glass of scotch—when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller ID showed PRIVATE NUMBER. Ordinarily, Silva would have ignored it, but he thought he might know who this was.
He pressed CONNECT. “Yes?”
“Is this Cristos?”
“Antonio Filho?”
“No one other.”
“Yes, this is Cristos. It has been a long time.” He continued his stroll toward the scotch.
“Those pictures,” Filho said. “When were they taken?”
“Earlier today.”
“Do you know where those sons of whores are?”
“Not exactly. But I believe they are nearby. They torched one of my businesses today. Are they American military?”
“I do not know who they work for,” Filho said. “But I want their heads separated from their shoulders. I want to turn them into lamps for my nightstand.” Antonia Filho was not a man of emotion. He was not one to easily spin up into anger, but even from a thousand miles away, Silva could hear the emotion in his voice.
“Why are they there in your business?” Filho asked.
“That is a long and complicated story,” Silva said. “I will not bore you with the details. What it boils down to is the fact that I somehow ended up with his . . . Let’s say I had custody of his adopted son. As we were negotiating a ransom, this Jonathan Grave found his way to Mexico. It seems he does not respect the way business is conducted here.”
“Did you say you have his son in custody?”
Silva saw no reason to complicate the conversation with the confusing details of Roman’s relationship. “Yes. Well, I did. They demanded proof of life before they would deposit the ransom. He is on the way to the agreed-upon place as we speak.”
“You’re giving the boy back?” Filho sounded horrified.
“Of course not. The boy will be . . . taken care of.”
“I want him,” Filho said.
“Excuse me?”
“The boy. I want him.”
This was not what Silva had been expecting. “I don’t understand.”
“It is not a complicated statement, Cristos. I want the boy. I will pay you for the boy.”
“For what purpose?” Even as he asked the question, Silva realized that he had no right to do so.
“That man—what did you say his name was?”
“Jonathan Grave.”
“That Jonathan Grave set my operations back two years. He cost me millions of dollars. I want to put his boy to work for me in the coca fields.”
Silva issued a low whistle. Working the Colombian coca fields was torturous work from which few people emerged alive. Those fields marked the first step in the production chain that fed the world’s demand for cocaine. Silva had visited only one such production field, and he still marveled at the efficiency of production even as the children’s hands bled from the effort of picking, and their backs bleeding from the flogging scars if they did not work hard enough.
“Tony, I understand your anger, but I have already negotiated an amount with his father. At this point, we are talking a business transaction.”
“How much?”
“How much what?” Silva thought he knew what Filho was implying, but he wanted to hear the words.
“What do I need to pay you for the boy to be sent to me instead of being sent home with his father?”
“It is a large number, Tony. Please do not be offended when I tell you. The family will be paying me two million U.S. dollars.”
“For one boy?”
“Their only boy,” Silva corrected. “They are wealthy people.”
“I will pay three for the boy to be sent to me.”
Even for cocaine farmers, three million dollars was a lot of money. The desperation in Filho’s voice told Silva that there was room for negotiation, but he opted not to. That extra million dollars, offered so quickly and without hesitation, told him that Filho was speaking from the heart. He would honor the offer he made.
“Can you do a transfer directly from your account to mine?” Silva asked.
“I can,” Filho said. “It is a ridiculous amount of money to spend, but I cannot think of a better way to spend it.”
“All right, then,” Silva said. “May I ask a favor as well?”
“I am already paying you three million dollars for a child who cannot possibly earn his keep in three lifetimes,” Filho said. “Is that not a favor already?”
Silva shrugged his phone into the crook of his neck as he uncorked the bottle of Balvenie scotch and poured two fingers into a crystal whisky glass. “There is another child involved in this mess,” he said. He lifted the glass and took a sip. “I don’t want to go into the details, but she is the daughter of a friend. Unfortunately, if she stays here, I must kill her. Can you take her, as well?”
“For how much?”
“No charge. Of course, no charge. She is fourteen years old and quite beautiful.”
“Ah,” Filho said. “Can you not earn a lot of money from her?”
“I could,” Silva replied, “but th
ere is the matter that she knows me. That complicates things.”
“I see. Very well, then. Who can say no to a beautiful fourteen-year-old young lady?”
“Thank you, Tony.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Filho said. “There are some difficult details for you to deal with. Are you familiar with El Colorado, along the coast?”
“I am.”
“A boat will be leaving shortly from just off the coast,” Filho said. “Write down these coordinates.” He spouted a string of map coordinates.
Silva jotted them down.
“Don’t bother even looking at a map. Use your GPS system. This place is the middle of nowhere. Tender boats will make trips from the shore to my vessel, beginning in forty-three minutes.”
“Is this boat for . . . product?” It was none of Silva’s business, but why not ask?
“The boat is my property,” Filho snapped. “It’s too big to come in close to the shore, which is why we supply it via tenders. Have your guests on that boat. When they are on board my vessel, you will get paid. The vessel will not wait for you.”
“When does the vessel leave?”
“Precisely at ten o’clock.”
Silva looked at his watch. Eight-fifteen. If he remembered properly, the drive to El Colorado would take about an hour. As the crow flies, it was less than twenty miles away, but the roads out here could be a challenge, especially at night.
“All right,” Silva said. “I will make that happen. Thank you, Tony.”
The phone clicked off, and Silva made another call.
Guzman picked up on the second ring.
“Change in plans,” Silva said.
* * *
In this part of Sinaloa, the only roadway of note was Los Mochis Higuera de Zaragoza. Running roughly east to west, the highway terminated at the Pacific Ocean to the west and just sort of died out in the east. Every other right-of-way, it seemed, was a narrow country road that threatened the side-view mirrors of every vehicle that traveled down them. The kidnappers had chosen an all-night bar in Ahome for the location of the proof-of-life transfer. If the bad guys came through on their end and released Roman and Ciara, there’d be no violence. It’d be too risky with the kids in the mix.
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