Harper looked over his shoulder at Blondie, who nodded once.
“Fine, then. This is Trey Godwin. It’s his op. If you want in, you understand that it’s his show. His orders.” The subtext was clear: Jake couldn’t ask about the man’s training; he either accepted the situation or he didn’t.
He examined the man, who met his gaze without flinching. He’d never come up against any of HSE’s operatives, but like most security companies, Harp tended to recruit former military. No question that’s where this guy had come from. And despite his youth, there was a coldness to him that bespoke a deep immersion in violence.
“All right,” he said at last. “It’s your op.”
“Good.” Trey checked his watch. “I’ll call Reno and see what he’s got for us.”
He stepped out of the waiting room with its multiple “no cell phone” signs.
“Trey’s former Army. A Ranger,” Harper said, apparently willing to volunteer information since Jake had not asked. “And he’s a medic. I think you need to be prepared for your friend’s situation to be fairly grim.”
Not like he didn’t know, but hearing it said so baldly brought the fact home hard. He lowered himself into one of the chairs.
“What do you have so far?”
“They’re definitely in Mexico. Chihuahua. Somewhere outside Juárez. Reno—he’s our communications and tech guy—he thinks he should have an exact location within forty-eight hours. But that land is heavily cartel-controlled. Between the Zetas and the Hijos . . . even the Juárez cartel is a possibility. They’re down, but not out.”
“I thought the Hijos were on the wane,” Jake said.
“Who are the Hijos? And the Juárez?” Lucy asked.
“The Juárez were big in the nineties,” Harper explained. “Their leader died in, oh, ninety-seven or ninety-eight, I think. They faded for a while, but they seem to be back on the upswing. And with Z-40 in custody, there’s a good chance they’ll try to take over a portion of the Zeta profits.”
“And the Hijos?”
“Los Hijos de la Madre Muerte—Sons of Mother Death. Sort of a cross between a cartel and a cult. Like the Knights Templar. But there’s plenty of evidence they’re heavily into cocaine and heroin production and distribution. Their first leader came over from Colombia in the sixties. When he died, his son took over. But here’s the problem: no one, and I mean no one, knows who their leader is these days. Juan Carlos Muñoz, who took over from his father, married an American girl from Idaho, if you can believe it. They stayed married for about fifteen years, near as we can tell, and then daddy died and she suddenly got a taste of what it meant to be married to a cartel boss. At which point she either ran, or he had her killed.”
“No kids?” Jake asked.
“A ten-year-old son with his long-time mistress. But with Katherine, the Idaho wife . . . there are rumors. We’re almost certain they had a daughter named Elina, and they might have had a son named after his father. But neither of those kids was ever confirmed. Never photographed, never even seen in public. If they existed at all, they disappeared with their mother. They’d be in their late thirties or early forties now if they lived, though, too old for any of Owen Stephenson’s apostles.”
“When did Juan Carlos die?”
“Seven years ago. The cartel took a hit, the way they always do, and the Zetas took over, but the Hijos only had about a two-year hiatus. Then they came back, more brutal than ever.”
“That has to be when they got involved with Owen and Samuel. Maybe they were looking for a new distribution channel to fund their power struggle.”
“Makes sense,” Lucy agreed.
“Still, we don’t know what home base is for them. Reno is looking at a couple of different big houses in the area. The problem with an area that’s seen so much violence over the years is that anyone with bucks builds themselves a damned fortress, so we can’t just point to one and go, ‘That’s it.’ When he pinpoints the spot, we’ll go.”
“Forty-eight hours is too long. Tara could be dead in two days.”
“She could be dead now. You wouldn’t be ready if we left today anyway. You’re barely able to stand. You were shot in the head. That the bullet bounced off your skull is a miracle of physics. If the shooter had been in front of you instead of below you, you’d be toast. Use the time to get better.”
“Well I’m not getting better in here.” He looked at Lucy. “Get me out. I need real food, and real clothes.”
• • •
At gunpoint, hands still bound, Tara was taken down to a basement room that reminded her of the isolation sheds in the Chosen’s compound, with a few upgrades. In the corner squatted a stained and chipped sink and toilet—the industrial type, with no tank she might be able to disassemble for weapons. A metal table and chair dominated the rest of the small space, and chains hung from u-bolts in the cement walls. The man who brought her down snapped one end of a pair of cuffs to her left wrist, the other to a link about halfway down the chain. It left her enough room to sit without having to have her arm in the air, but she couldn’t get near the door. Once she was safely snapped in, he pulled out a hefty knife and used the serrated back edge to cut through the duct tape around her wrists.
He left her alone, and she immediately began looking for anything she might use to open the cuffs. The chains were thick and heavy, each link probably two inches wide, with not a single spot of rust; no breaking those. A bobby pin would be ideal—her first instructor at the academy had taught them all how to create a cuff key from a bobby pin—but her hair fell loose around her shoulders. She hadn’t even put a rubber band in it when they’d run from the bedroom during the raid. The floor had been swept clean of any objects, though a layer of sandy dust covered everything.
Obviously, they hadn’t had “guests” for a while. Lucky her. A small window high on the wall had thick, chicken-wire fencing outside as well as bars on the inside. If she could convince them to let her off the chain, she could reach between the bars, break the glass, and pull free the fencing to unlock the cuffs. She’d still have to find a way out of the room, but it was a start.
Hearing voices in the corridor outside, she quickly dropped her head to her knees. It wouldn’t do to let them see her studying the window.
“You have been a real pain in the ass, Tara Jean Black, or whatever your name really is,” said Samuel as he entered. “And don’t think I won’t find out. Things will go a lot better for you if you just tell me right now.”
Oh, right.
“Don’t worry,” said Deborah, propping a hip on the table and pulling out a small black case. “She’ll tell you anything you want.”
“Truth serum?” Tara asked. “Really? How pedestrian.” And how seriously fucked she was if crazy Deborah had access to Sodium Pentothal. “Given all your fancy games, I would have thought you’d have a much more nifty experiment planned.”
Deborah laughed. “We don’t play games. And we don’t bother with ‘truth serums.’ Everyone knows they’re unreliable. No, we have much more effective means of getting information. But for now, I have to be sure you don’t . . . expire . . . before it’s convenient.”
Hell. She’d managed to forget the suicidal side effect of withdrawal. How long had she been without the damned tea? Outside the tiny window, the light was already dimming. She’d lost most of a day.
Deborah pulled a vial and needle from the black case, along with a piece of rubber tubing, and Samuel reached for Tara. She ducked away from his arm, but the chain yanked her back and he slammed her into the wall, which left her left arm outstretched. “Perfect,” Deborah crowed, tying the rubber tightly around Tara’s arm. “We’ve never tried the antidote in injectable form before, but it should work fine. We don’t have time to have you drink it.” She drew about a quarter of the vial into the syringe. “Now, let’s check out your veins.”
And
damned if she wasn’t cursed with excellent veins. With an O negative blood type, she made sure to donate regularly, and the hospital lab techs always told her how good her veins were.
Apparently, Deborah agreed, because she jabbed the needle smack into the hollow of Tara’s elbow and depressed the plunger. “Does it burn?” she asked, tilting her head to watch Tara’s reaction.
And yeah, it burned. But that was the least of Tara’s concerns. “Doesn’t this crap occasionally kill one of your subjects? The guys who go out into the desert with Aaron and never come back?”
Deborah shrugged. “You know what they say. Only the strong survive.” She collected her works, and Samuel let go of Tara. “See you in the morning.”
“Wait!”
“What?” Samuel asked.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” Which she’d originally said out of desperation, but once the words were out, her bladder woke up and started screaming.
“You really think we’re gonna fall for that?”
“Just hook her farther down the chain so she can reach the toilet,” Deborah said impatiently. “She won’t be in any shape to cause a problem.”
“You’re awfully fucking relaxed,” Samuel muttered, but he did as she ordered, unlocking Tara’s handcuff and reattaching it at the end of the chain so that she could reach the toilet, if not the door.
And she could reach the window, which she did the moment she’d taken care of the rest of her business. Unfortunately, as she watched, booted feet passed by. She waited a few minutes, and more feet passed. Guards. They would undoubtedly hear the glass breaking if she tried to reach the wire.
And then the shaking started, and she collapsed onto the dirty cement floor. The chain rattled with each wave of tremors, and the rattles echoed in her head. Her stomach heaved, and she crawled over to the filthy toilet. Waves of nausea and cold sweat rolled over her. When the cramps started, she seriously thought she might have been better off dead.
• • •
THE NIGHT WENT on forever. At some point, sleep snuck in and carried Tara off, and when she woke she lay on the floor beneath the window, the sun already high in the sky. At least she hadn’t passed out in the toilet. The trembling had subsided into the occasional quiver in her hands. Exhaustion begged her to remain on the floor, but she forced herself to stand. She splashed a couple of handfuls of tepid water across her face and wiped her gritty eyes on the shoulder of her T-shirt.
On tiptoe, she peered out the window, looking for guards. None she could see. Time to get to work on the cuffs. She shucked her tee and wrapped it around her hand, then tapped lightly on the glass. If she could break out a small corner, it would be less noticeable when Samuel came back. No luck. She hit it a bit harder. But the glass refused to break, taunting her. Her third try shattered the glass into hundreds of pieces. Damn. That would be extremely noticeable.
In fact, the very sound had attracted attention. Footsteps pounded down the hallway. She grabbed the biggest piece of glass she could find and stuffed it quickly into the center of the cardboard of the toilet paper roll that sat on the edge of the sink and yanked her shirt back on.
Two strange men rushed into the room, guns drawn. A moment later, Samuel arrived, followed by Deborah.
“Really? The window? What did you think, you could call for help?” Deborah shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you? There’s no one here who will help you. You’re on your own.” She surveyed the broken glass and gestured to one of the men. “Clean that up. And make sure she didn’t keep any of the pieces.
“Now, let’s have a little chat. Before you waste your time lying to me, we already know your name is Tara Jean Dobbs and you are—or were; that part you can clarify for us—a cop.”
Tara kept her mouth shut.
“And then there’s your boyfriend. He’s been a little harder to track, but we found him about two this morning. FBI. So we have a few very simple questions for you: Exactly what did you tell your friends on the outside, when, and how?”
Tara crossed her arms, clanking the chain, and stared Deborah in the eye.
Samuel walked over and leaned close to her face. “Answer her.”
When Tara refused to speak, he clocked her in the temple with a massive fist. She stumbled to the side, catching herself against the wall.
“I said, answer her.”
No fucking way. The minute they got the information they wanted, she was dead. Her only way out of this mess was to delay until they left her alone again so she could free herself from the cuffs.
“You’re only making this harder on yourself,” Deborah said. She jerked her head at Samuel, who left the room, a smirk on his face. Bozo One cleaned up the glass and then left, too. “When Samuel comes back, things are going to get very bad for you, Tara Jean. Very bad. So I advise you to give it up now.”
Tara continued to stare until Deborah sighed elaborately and shook her head. She leaned up against a wall behind the table with a faint sneer on her face and glanced at her watch.
Samuel entered the room carrying a hefty, battered toolbox.
Not good, TJ. Her mouth went dry, but she kept her expression neutral.
The toolbox screeched out a nails-on-a-chalkboard warning as Samuel dragged it across the metal table toward the end where the chair was positioned. Tara refused to look at the various items he was laying out with great care. She let her gaze drift to the ceiling and counted the spider webs clinging there, but she could still see his movements out of the corner of her eye.
“Bring her here,” he said at last.
Bozo Two grabbed Tara’s left arm, and she reacted without thought, slamming the base of her right palm up into his nose. He dropped her arm and howled, backing away. “What the fuck?!”
“What did you think she was going to do, you moron?” Samuel asked, though Tara saw him jump a little and move two steps back. She didn’t blame him. She’d kind of surprised herself. But now that she couldn’t avoid looking at the damned table, there was no way on earth she was going to let them tie her into that chair without a fight. “Get Juan and Curt down here.”
Bozo Two left, cursing steadily, and Tara moved to the farthest corner from the table and the pliers, hammer, knives, and mallet laid out there. If they used any of that shit on her, no way was she going to be able to keep from telling them whatever they wanted. She knew her limits.
“Do you know that there are certain places on the human body where nerves cluster very close to one another, very close to the surface?” Samuel asked, picking up the pliers from the table and tossing them from hand to hand. “One of those very sensitive spots is the tip of your finger.” He studied his forefinger as if he were looking for his own nerves. “Have you ever lost a nail? Closed your finger in a car door, maybe? Or hit it with a hammer? Hurts like hell. But your nail doesn’t come off for a few days. It turns black and blue underneath, swells up, your nail separates from the skin naturally, and the new one starts to grow in. Eventually, the one you damaged just falls off.
“But when you rip a nail off, now, that’s a different matter entirely. Your nails are quite firmly attached, you see. The body doesn’t like to give them up. There’s a remarkable amount of blood. And quite a bit of pain, I understand. I’ve never experienced that part myself.”
Two men entered the room, one dark, one fair. Tara pressed herself even farther into the corner.
Even in peak condition, Tara doubted she’d be able to take on the two thickly muscled men, and she was far from her peak. Still, they approached carefully. Probably they’d had a good look at Bozo Two’s face. The thought gave her a little thrill of triumph despite the circumstances.
The men glanced at each other, then rushed her. One reached for her arm, but she ducked under and grabbed the roll of toilet paper with the shard of glass in it and struck out, using the roll as a handle. She felt it connect, drag, and
pull as it sliced through skin, and one of the men shouted. Then a forearm slammed across her throat and pinned her to the wall. She tried to knee her attacker in the balls, but he just leaned harder against her, cutting off her air supply until black spots swam in front of her face.
“Don’t kill her,” said Samuel.
“Not a problem,” replied the blond. “But I’m not planning on letting her fuck up my face. I saw Tom’s upstairs, and now she got Juan, too.”
“Bitch!” The dark-haired man hissed. “She fucking cut me.”
“I see that. Just strap her in the damned chair and go clean yourself up.”
The two men dragged her across the room and shoved her into the chair, tying her down with leather straps, one across her chest and under her arms, another over her thighs, and the third and fourth binding her legs to the legs of the chair.
She was still gasping for air when they left, and Samuel leaned on the table and got up into her space. Not so close she could head butt him in the nose, but close enough that she could feel his breath on her face. “Now, let me tell you how this is going to go. I’m going to hurt you. You’re going to scream. You can’t answer questions while you’re screaming, so I won’t bother asking. When we’re done, Deborah will ask. You’ll answer. If you don’t, you and I will spend some more quality time together.”
Tara straightened her shoulders. “You do know that studies show torture doesn’t work, right? You hurt me, I’ll tell you whatever I think you want me to say, whether it’s true or not.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about our questions,” Deborah said. “You’ll either be able to answer—in which case you most certainly will—or you won’t.”
“For example?”
“She’s stalling,” Samuel said.
“So what if I am? You claim you’re going to get your answers one way or another. So try me. What is it you want to know?”
“Let’s start small,” said Deborah. “You obviously know about the tea. Tell me what it does.”
Lost Page 21
