by Jonas Saul
They must’ve known Sarah was heavily protected. With firepower like this, how did Casper not hear any resistance?
Another man came into view. Casper raised his weapon. His little gun was like bringing a knife to a gun fight. The M4 carbine would cut him in half before he could get two shots off.
His vision blurred again. The floor wavered left, then right, slanting, then tilting. His leg stung like a bee had attacked him.
He looked down and saw a dart protruding from his calf below the knee.
What the hell?
He understood what happened as his equilibrium wavered. They shot him with a tranquilizer instead of bullets as he ran for his hotel room.
His legs weakened and his stomach turned as dizziness settled in over his system.
It had to be Special K. What else worked that fast? Unless they meant to kill him like the guard by the elevator.
Casper dropped his gun as he fumbled with the weight of it, then fell sideways from behind the door. The room’s ceiling spun.
Five masked faces entered his room and stood in a semi-circle, looking down. Their faces filled up the part of the ceiling he had been trying to focus on.
“Where’s Sarah Roberts?” one of the men grunted in a Spanish accent.
Casper closed his eyes, fading fast. Sarah made it. She got out. They wouldn’t have asked that question if they had her. Sarah had left, not just him, but them, too.
Good luck out there Sarah … run, baby, run.
One of the men ordered another to take Casper to the vehicle. They would learn what he knew, one way or another.
His eyes closed.
Chapter 3
Old cars littered the street in front of the Baja Café. Sarah felt like she’d gone back in time. Most were from the fifties with a few of them from the sixties. One vehicle stood out. A shiny new Mercedes parked near the front of the café. One man sat behind the wheel puffing on a cigarette. Two men guarded the entrance to the café—and the Mercedes as well—along with at least two more men across the street.
Sarah eased farther back in the shadows, watching, waiting. It was prudent—life-saving—to know how many men guarded the front and how many were stationed at the back.
Whoever the lieutenant was, the man inside the Baja Café that she had come to meet, he was important enough to warrant his own security detail. Would this lieutenant know about Aaron and would he be willing to impart any of that information? The probability of learning anything willingly was remote. She would have to convince him to tell her. But how could she accomplish that and make it out of the café alive?
Their agenda was to capture her. Her agenda was to remain free. There had to be a better way than what Vivian had planned. But with Casper’s people—the authorities—tied up behind bureaucracy, and Vivian offering this chance, Sarah had to move forward, reckless though it may be.
Covered head to toe in the nun’s habit, Sarah emerged from the darkness, walked across the street and slipped alongside the building. The stone walkway to the back was old and cracked. Litter strewn along the edges of the stones hadn’t been picked up in months. Only weeds survived where they could.
At the back of the building, she stopped to listen. Other than the dull thud of music from inside the café and the crickets chirping outside, nothing moved or made a sound. Something heavy like a truck drove by slowly on the street out front.
Sarah lowered to her haunches, touched each weapon she carried to make sure everything was secure and then continued to wait. She studied the darkness beyond the single light that floated above the back door of the café. After ten minutes, convinced the back wasn’t guarded by anyone outside, she got up and approached the door.
Headlights flashed along the road behind her.
She darted back to the safety of darkness to wait out the approaching vehicle.
It sounded like the same one from moments before. A heavy truck of some kind. The engine’s growl eased off as it got closer, gravel crunching under its tires.
Sarah slipped her hand inside the nun’s habit and gripped her semi-automatic. If need be, she could lift, aim, and shoot the weapon through the habit with ease.
The vehicle came into sight. An H2 Hummer. American made.
She remained where she was as the vehicle stopped outside the back of the café, the engine idling. It could be her people looking for her. But how would they know to come here? She’d told no one where she was going.
It could also be cartel members driving an armored vehicle. Maybe they had arrived at the back door to pick up the lieutenant. If that were the case, was this a wasted trip?
She waited. The Hummer idled.
The café’s back door opened. As if on some sort of cue, the Hummer pulled out and drove away maddeningly slow.
Sarah took her chance and crept toward the open back door. Voices resonated from inside the café, growing louder as she eased closer.
With her right hand holding the semi-automatic, a finger inside the trigger guard, she walked around the open door and stopped in front of a huge man. The butt of a handgun protruded from his belt and at least a twelve-inch blade was strapped to his thigh.
His dead eyes turned to her. Playing the role of a nun, Sarah edged past the man as he said something to her in Spanish.
Vivian translated in her head.
You’re up late, Sister.
Sarah nodded as she meandered through the grimy kitchen, past a tiny Mexican boy cleaning a burnt pot in a large sink, and through two swinging doors that led into the main café area.
Tension filled the air in the room the second the swinging doors stopped. The bartender was serving two men at the far side of the bar. He placed their drinks down tentatively, his eyes on Sarah.
There had to be fifteen men in the café, which at this hour doubled as a bar. All eyes were on her. To hide her identity and the weapons, the nun’s habit was perfect. But it was an attention grabber as well.
She strode along the length of the bar and found a seat near the front where her back could be at the wall. Then she pointed at the bottle of gold tequila and nodded.
With her head hung low, she waited them out. Eventually, the noise rose to a pre-Sarah din.
A moment later, the gold tequila was placed in front of her.
“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the bartender said. “I know all the nuns from the church.”
“I’m with the Order of the Holy Christ Church,” she whispered, hoping there was such a thing and hoping there weren’t any religious experts among the crowd. Although from the looks of them, the likelihood of a religious expert was dim.
“English,” he said. “American. Here visiting?”
He had spoken English to her without her catching on. He’d pegged her as American before they’d even said one word to one another.
Some of the others still watched them. One man stood out. He sat in the middle of the café surrounded by three men who belonged on the glossy covers of protein drink containers. All three were obviously armed, their shoulder holsters revealed behind their open jackets. That had to be the lieutenant and his muscle.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Visiting.” She swished her beverage, stared down at the gold liquid, her right hand still inside her habit.
The bartender moved away. Maybe she should leave. Wait for the lieutenant outside. She’d only have to deal with his guards then. Inside, she would have to deal with over a dozen men.
Before she could drop a foot onto the dirty floor of the café, someone sidled in beside her.
“Hey Sister, how can I help?”
He was young, early twenties, clean shaven and spoke English without an accent.
“You’re from around here?” she asked, keeping a careful eye on the lieutenant and his bodyguards.
“Born in California, but Mexico is my home now. What’s a nun doing here at this hour?”
“Please tell me that’s not a pick-up line.”
He studied her with a scru
tiny borne of suspicion, distrust. Could the entire café be filled with Enzo Cartel men? If so, why were they walking distance to the hotel Casper had her holed up in for the past week? Why didn’t the authorities raid this place?
After a moment, the young man glanced at the lieutenant’s table, then looked away. Something changed in his face. He acted flustered, fiddled with his hands for a brief second, then twisted in his chair and turned to leave.
“Look, Sister,” he whispered. “You should leave and never come back. The men here don’t care much for religion getting involved in their business.”
Sarah turned, her face pensive, offering nothing. “Their business is with God whether they like it or not. We all have business with God.”
The man walked away, hit the front door and left the café. She turned back in her chair and swished her drink again.
What next? Leave? Wait outside?
C’mon Vivian. Speak to me.
Since nothing was forthcoming, Sarah decided to leave. Outside she would have less men to deal with. Outside they would be more cautious with their weapons. Inside, the café walls shielded them. There were simply too many men to handle on her own.
This feels like a mistake, Vivian. Why am I here?
Sarah sampled the tequila. She wondered if this would be logged as one of the stupidest things she had ever done. Entering the Baja Café where over a dozen cartel members were lounging after searching for her.
This task was different, though. This one was a rescue mission. Aaron was in trouble. The men around her knew where he was being held. At least one of them had probably seen him recently. It was even possible that the man who cut Aaron’s finger off was here, in this café. This was as much a personal war as when she had freed the victims of human trafficking in Toronto and Europe. And she did that with the risk of great personal harm. So why not be a little reckless in the quest to locate her Aaron?
But that wasn’t all of it. Aaron’s abduction was partly her fault. Stopping the Torture Club in Toronto had hurt the cartel’s money laundering partner. When she shut them down in Toronto she cost the cartel considerable time and money and they wanted recompense.
But what they didn’t realize is that Sarah never offered recompense, and by demanding it of her, they had forced her hand. She would stay. She would find a way to isolate the lieutenant and get the answers she needed. She would find Aaron even if all law enforcement agencies worked against her. She would do it because she had to. There was no other option. If she risked her life for strangers as much as she did, she could damn well risk her life for Aaron—ten times over.
She drank the rest of the tequila in one gulp and dropped the glass on the top of the bar harder than she wanted to.
The bartender glanced her way, then started over.
“Do you plan on being a nun for the rest of your short life?” he asked.
“Short life?”
“Why are you here?”
“The tequila.”
“That could be a dangerous drink.”
“How dangerous?”
He turned away and refilled her glass. After it was placed in front of her, he walked to the end of the bar, grabbed a stained-white towel and began wiping glasses down.
She swished the drink, staring into it. When movement by the lieutenant’s table caught her eye, she resisted the urge to look up. They might see her watching. Notice her interest. She waited, listening to their footfalls among the noise of the patrons.
Are they leaving?
She lifted her glass and drank from it, which offered a chance to see where they were headed. One of the lieutenant’s apes followed him toward the restroom. The other two remained at the table.
This was her chance. Isolate him in the toilet. Hurt him, get answers, then leave. Other than the one guard following him into the restroom, no one needed to be the wiser.
“Where’s the restroom?” she asked.
The bartender pointed to where the lieutenant had just gone.
Sarah nodded and eased off her chair. Without noticeably hurrying, she needed to get in there in case the lieutenant pissed fast. Walking by him on the way out wouldn’t work.
With each step, her grip on the butt of the weapon hidden under the nun’s habit remained firm. The likelihood of them having made her and this being an ambush was remote, but she couldn’t take the chance.
Her heart beat like a starving, demented bird fighting against her ribcage. Inside her arid mouth, the tequila’s aftertaste nauseated her. The confrontation about to happen weakened her resolve more than any other. In the past, this sort of thing held the promise of consequences for others. But the consequences in this case would be felt by Aaron, her man, her beloved.
And that was unacceptable.
Her grip tightened until pain echoed through the joints in her hand.
These assholes had taken Aaron. They had cut him, hurt him irreparably. She had to hurt them one by one until either she felt better about it or Aaron was released. She didn’t want to think about what she would do if Aaron died while still their prisoner.
The hall leading to the restrooms was filthy. A black grime or mold crawled up the walls from the baseboards. The female door advertised a woman in a skirt and the male door had a picture of a man wearing a sombrero.
After a glance over her shoulder, she eased the knife out from under her habit. With a soft touch to avoid unnecessary noise, she pushed open the door to the men’s room. If the bodyguard had leaned against it, the scuffle would warn the others, but no one waited by the door. Sarah took one more look behind her and slipped inside the men’s restroom.
A wall abutment concealed her from the toilets, urinals, and sinks. Thankful the door had a thumb lock, she secured the door, then put her back to the wall. The knife comforted her as she tightened her grasp. She held it so the blade was parallel with her forearm, aiming outward. It allowed her to punch easily and slice with the blade without much effort. Her other hand remained available to go for either gun still concealed under the habit.
The smell emanating from the urinals was disgusting. It was worse than an outhouse at an outdoor concert. At least that had ventilation. The smell of urine-soaked walls and feces-covered toilets offered her a chance to vacate last night’s dinner without much effort.
She took two deep breaths and let them out slowly, preparing to round the corner as a toilet flushed.
A sink turned on. She took a look. The bodyguard was bent over the sink washing his hands. She eased out of hiding further. The lieutenant was nowhere in sight.
Below the guard’s shiny black shoes water had seeped out from under the filthy, water-stained wall. A small puddle had formed near a drain in the center of the floor that didn’t seem to be in the lowest spot anymore. With no caution sign, anyone could slip on that water and brain themselves on the dirty tile floor.
But something told Sarah this restroom, and by extension this café, wasn’t high on the list for tourists.
When her eyes cut to the mirror, the guard had stopped moving and was watching her, the water still running in the sink. Slowly, he turned off the sink, wiped his hands on his pants and turned to address her.
“You’re in a dangerous position, Sister,” he said.
Before she could temper her tongue, Sarah replied, “I’m a bride of Christ. Nothing earthbound is dangerous. I exist here, then I will die and exist with the Lord.”
“Who are you talking to?” the lieutenant asked from one of the stalls.
The guard’s eyes dropped to Sarah’s hand. The subtle movement, a muscle spasm under his right eye, told her he’d seen the knife.
His hand slipped inside his jacket. “Dangerous position,” he repeated.
Sarah lurched forward two steps, pumped her arms, and jumped feet first toward the water puddled on the floor as if she was stealing second base. Her right arm extended, the knife reflecting light into her eyes, Sarah slid by the guard’s feet and smacked into the wall behind him. But not
before gouging his right ankle and Achilles tendon with the sharp knife as she slid by.
A quick twist and she was on her knees, the knife up to defend herself.
When he turned around, he applied weight on his right side. His knee buckled and a look of confusion creased his face.
Sarah rapidly got to a standing position, the wall to her back. The water from the floor had seeped through the habit and the horrid smell of the toilets was even closer now.
The guard tried to stand on his foot again, but something wasn’t quite right.
“What’s going on?” the lieutenant asked.
