“That’s the name the Brazilian gang always insisted we use when negotiating with them,” Cabral admitted.
“But they were all killed,” Powell interjected.
Cabral smiled at him condescendingly. “Those at the house at the time of the tactical assault were killed, and any we could track down after that, but these animals are like cockroaches coming out of the cracks in the sidewalk when the sun goes down. They could be back. I will review the old files and talk to my people.”
“May I be permitted to view the files?” asked Max.
Fuentes and Cabral exchanged a look.
Cabral opened his hands. “I don’t see why not. Although my superior might want to have them redacted first.” He looked at Fuentes.
Tit for tat for the ambassador pulling diplomatic status with her daughter’s phone.
Fuentes seemed to realize this was an easy win for him. A show of cooperation and willingness that cost him nothing. “If Inspector Cabral has time out of his busy day…”
Cabral smiled. “Of course. Come down to Jefatura today and I will arrange it.”
“Thank you.” Max leaned forward to put his coffee cup on the table.
“The files are in Spanish.” Cabral’s expression looked slightly mean. “I don’t think you speak the language, am I correct?”
“You are correct. Your English is perfect by the way. Where did you learn?” Max’s smile hid all sorts of secrets. Lucy realized she wasn’t the only one wearing a mask in this room.
Cabral shrugged. “I went to college in Florida for four years.”
Max looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but Catherine Dickerson interrupted.
“What actual progress has been made in finding my daughter?” the ambassador demanded impatiently.
Fuentes leaned forward. “Ambassador, I assure you we are doing everything we can. We will find these people before any harm comes to your daughter.”
“Do you have any suspects yet?” the ambassador pushed, clearly unappeased.
Fuentes sat back and let Cabral take over. “The van was wiped clean with bleach, and the men wore gloves in addition to masks. We are investigating links to street gangs, organized crime, terrorists who hate the US.”
Lucy saw Max’s expression tighten a notch at that. Lucy did not want to consider what would happen to Kristen in the hands of Hezbollah or other terrorist cells, and there were definite links in the region.
“And we are making lists of other individuals who might have something to gain personally from taking the US Ambassador’s daughter.”
The air seemed to go out of the ambassador’s chest, and she sank back against the cushions of the couch. “All the technology in the world, all the progress and surveillance and satellites, and we’re no better off than we were half a century ago when trying to track down bad people doing bad things.”
“We will find your daughter, I guarantee it,” Fuentes said fervently. He and Cabral both stood. “We need to get back to work.”
Cabral turned to Max. “Come down to the precinct if you want to get an update on the investigation, SSA Hawthorne. The coffee isn’t as good.” Cabral sent Lucy a look she couldn’t interpret. “But we can fill you in on any progress and perhaps you can do the same for us.”
“Of course. I’m here to assist. This is your investigation, Inspector Cabral.”
Cabral nodded, apparently satisfied.
They made their way out of the door and the DS agent escorted them out.
When the doors closed, the ambassador shifted her gaze to Max. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing, ma’am. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s a process that will take time.”
“Did the kidnappers let you talk to Kristen or Irene?”
Max shook his head. “No, ma’am. They demanded ten million dollars for the two girls’ safe release.”
Catherine’s eyes widened frantically. “I don’t have ten million dollars. If I did, I wouldn’t be working for a living.”
“Well, yesterday they wanted twenty million,” Max said. “It’s my job to get us to a realistic number.”
“Phillip went to talk to a representative of our bank here in Buenos Aires. To see how quickly money can be transferred, but we don’t have anything close to that amount.” The color drained from Catherine’s face.
“I know it isn’t easy,” Max said gently. “I’m confident I can bring the ransom down to an amount you can afford. I also need to talk to Irene’s parents this morning. Given Irene’s dad’s position in his company, I suspect they have a K&R negotiator working with them. We need to be on the same page.”
“Do you want me to talk to the British Ambassador again?”
“If you wish,” Max said neutrally. “Like the Americans, the Brits won’t negotiate with terrorists, and they will be happy to let us take the lead. They know that our usual position won’t hold with the victim being your daughter, Ambassador. I’d like to try and meet up with their negotiator and see if we can collaborate. Make sure the kidnappers don’t try to play us off one another. Especially as the kidnapper mentioned this morning ransoming Irene and selling Kristen off to a terrorist organization.”
Catherine’s hand went to her throat. “Just when I think it can’t get any worse…” Her eyes reddened. “What do you think they are doing to her?”
Max pressed his lips together. “I don’t know. No one can know until we get her back.”
For a brief moment, the ambassador looked like a terrified mother rather than a powerful diplomat. Then she stiffened her spine and looked squarely at Max. “Do you have sufficient manpower?”
She’d placed the negotiator in an awkward position between her and the Legat.
Lucy watched Max calmly finish his coffee. “Considering the Argentines are in charge here and bearing in mind that the might of the Diplomatic Security Service and a team from SIOC are assisting us back in the States, then these extra agents who are arriving today should be enough to work any local leads. I will need a reliable and trusted interpreter if I’m to work closely with local police. Is there someone you can recommend at the embassy? Someone with some level of security clearance?”
“I’m willing to act in that capacity for you, Agent Hawthorne. Give Lucy time to catch up with the other things that need her attention.” Miranda came into the room in time to answer Max’s question.
Lucy was happy to see the slightly bemused look on Max’s face. And as much as she hated the idea of Miranda being with Max all day, and perhaps sharing experiences like the ones they’d shared, she also knew it was for the best from both a personal and professional point of view. It prevented her spending more time with the guy and made it impossible for her to fulfill the Russian spymaster’s request.
Win-win.
“No.” Catherine Dickerson stood, a determined gleam in her eye. “I need you at my side, Miranda. Lucy is more than capable of assisting SSA Hawthorne with anything he requires.”
Miranda blinked repeatedly, unable to hide her surprise.
Lucy stood there silently screaming “no.”
Max shrugged like it was no big deal and devastation rolled over her. She did not want to be in a position of trust with Max Hawthorne. She didn’t want to betray him.
* * *
Irene woke to bright sunshine and the sounds of birds chirping their accompaniment to the grinding pain in her joints from the hours spent on the hard floor. She caught her breath as a car drove up to the house, but from the unhurried closing of the door and amiable greetings, it wasn’t a savior.
Male voices drifted up from the kitchen, but they were more hushed today, the excitement having worn off. Hopefully, they’d gone off the idea of doing terrible things to her. Hopefully, she’d convinced them she was more valuable as a hostage than a dead body.
Her tongue felt furry. Her brain cloudy from the aftereffects of the drugged water which she hated drinking. It wasn’t like she had a choice. Don’t drink it and
die of dehydration? Drink it and pass out in a coma?
Catch-22 of survival dilemmas. The coma had won so far.
She frowned, vaguely remembering being woken in the night. Had Kristen really been here? That encounter felt like a dream.
Irene was pretty sure it had happened though because she remembered Kristen’s feet had also been bare, and she wondered why they’d taken their shoes?
Had her friend gone back to her room like she’d promised, or had she run like Irene had urged? Probably the former. Kristen believed in fairy tales. Irene was more pragmatic.
She should have run.
If Kristen had escaped, assuming the cops didn’t show up first, they’d either kill Irene and dump her body the way they’d originally discussed or take her to another location and continue to milk her parents for every penny they could squeeze out of their insurance company.
The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor drew her attention.
The kidnappers might not even know her friend was gone yet…
Who would it be? The older-sounding guy who seemed nicer, or the younger psycho who told her all the ways he wanted to defile her, believing that she didn’t speak Spanish. Or maybe he knew and didn’t care.
The door to her room opened.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Irene knew it was dumb to be relieved it was the nicer guy rather than the nutcase, but here she was.
This man wasn’t nice. But he treated her more kindly. She was pretty sure he was the leader, in the house at least, and therefore his authority had saved her from a worse fate—so far.
“I have your breakfast, which one of my colleagues prepared, and a small gift that I brought especially for you.”
That made Irene sit up a little straighter. So he wasn’t aware of the fact Kristen had gotten out last night yet. Or this was a vicious trick.
The noise of what sounded like a breakfast tray rattling before being put down sounded close by. Also, the smell of some sort of fried food wafted in the air. Her mouth watered despite the chemicals they were feeding her. She was starved.
Something soft brushed the air in front of her, and she reached up, chains jingling. She discovered a large cushion that he let go of with an amused huff of air. No, not a cushion—it was a dog bed. The realization made it difficult to swallow. Because she was so damn grateful for this simple comfort.
She slipped it beneath her aching butt and thighs. It felt like Heaven. “Thank you.”
Keys jangled. What she wouldn’t give to get her hands on those keys.
He released her from the chain, and she staggered to her feet. He steadied her with an arm under her elbow.
“Careful now. You are weak and tired. Doing nothing is exhausting, no?”
Ha. Funny joke.
Being drugged and chained was exhausting. Terror and subjugation were exhausting. She forced a laugh. “I guess.”
He led her to the bathroom door and let go of her. “Be quick. I will wait here.”
Irene couldn’t believe her luck but wasn’t about to argue. She quickly used the bathroom and hurriedly washed her hands and dried them on her jeans, which now felt grimy. She thought there was a window in this room but did not dare risk pulling her hood up to see. What if he’d lied and was spying on her? She needed to show total compliance. Total obedience.
Her chance would come. Maybe tonight, if she could find a way out of these cuffs.
He led her back to the radiator, and she sat meekly on her dog bed. After he’d chained her up again, she wondered if she should have tried to run. Maybe she would have been able to knock this man over and get out of the front door before he’d known what was going on. And maybe one of the others would have caught her, or this man was armed and would have picked her off as easily as shooting ducks in a barrel.
“Here. Enjoy your food while it is still warm.” He rested his hand on the top of her head like she was his favorite golden retriever. “Be a good girl, Irene, and maybe you’ll get to go home to your parents, after all.”
Then he left her.
She sat trembling with the tray of food touching her thigh. It was obvious that, for all his words, he was still contemplating killing her. It was only luck that she’d survived this long—luck and the promise of cash.
Even though she was no longer hungry, she forced herself to eat. She needed to keep her strength up. Anyway, if she or Kristen were caught trying to escape, this would be her last meal. She may as well enjoy it.
Chapter Fourteen
Max was busy reading while Lucy drove.
The messages between Kristen and Miguel had been flirty, but not overtly sexual. Max felt like a voyeur on young love, but the really concerning thing was that this Miguel didn’t seem to exist. The photo he used of himself didn’t come up in any reverse image searches or in any databases the FBI could access, which was actually good news. But this kid wasn’t registered at the school he claimed to go to, and he didn’t appear to interact with anyone else on social media except for generic exchanges.
The IPS address of the computer Miguel had been using to talk to Kristen was cloaked with virtual private network, and the location wasn’t immediately obvious. Some of the techs at Quantico thought they might be able to crack the location given time if this was made a priority. Unfortunately, the FBI had several high-profile cases all needing the lab techs’ expertise. Did they prioritize the heavily-pregnant woman and toddler who were brutally abducted and murdered in Maryland, or the school shooting in Ohio? Or the serial killer operating in Alaska? Or the dark web puppeteer who was arranging online auctions where the bidders determined the fate of the victim?
The FBI was good at what it did but the amount of crime that happened on a daily basis was staggering. Max believed in the basic human decency of most people, but those who weren’t good or decent could wreak havoc on multitudes before they were captured. Max wished there was a better way than incarceration, but he’d faced down evil on multiple occasions, and there were some people who did things so depraved they should never be allowed out. Ever.
Was Miguel a computer nerd lying to impress a girl he wanted to woo? Or one of the kidnappers? Or the fat Russian sitting in his apartment in Moscow waiting for Kristen to break down and send him a naked selfie so the sextortion could begin?
Max didn’t know. Not yet.
There were a lot of sick fucks out there, but also a lot of kids doing what was now considered normal.
Lucy pulled up outside an incredibly beautiful house; Spanish-style architecture covered in warm orange stucco with weathered, wooden shutters. They got out of her car, and the sound of raised voices could be heard from behind the nearby garden wall.
Max rang the Lomakins’ doorbell as he and Lucy exchanged a glance. Whoever was arguing in the garden was getting louder. Max rang the bell again, longer and harder. The words cut off abruptly.
The Lomakins were both British nationals who lived in Palermo Soho, which was another nice neighborhood with expensive-looking houses and large, leafy parks.
A pale, tired-looking, brown-haired woman opened the door. The skin around her eyes was blotchy with tear stains. “Can I help you?”
Max held up his credentials, the gold shield gleaming in the soft morning sunlight. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Max Hawthorne. I’m a negotiator with the FBI. Is now a good time to talk?”
The woman’s brow crinkled with concern as she looked from Max to the creds, which she examined intently before finally standing aside and letting them enter.
He waved Lucy ahead of him. She was wearing one of her ugly suits, but this one was in navy blue with a white blouse. Before getting in the Mini she’d scraped her hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail.
He knew she wasn’t happy to be here, but it had taken all his acting skills not to high five the ambassador when she’d vetoed Miranda Foster’s offer. For some reason, the idea of hanging out with the other woman all day didn’t appeal—too high maintenance, too muc
h presumed authority. Lucy was a far better result for him, but she didn’t seem that keen.
He didn’t know why he felt disappointed about that. Maybe because yesterday, they’d had a pretty good time despite the near-death experiences—or maybe because of them. And even their dinner had been enjoyable.
The woman closed the door, and they stood awkwardly in a large, circular foyer.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Lomakin.” Whom he strongly suspected he was talking to.
“That’s me.” Her lip wobbled in confirmation.
Max realized she thought he was here with bad news.
“I don’t have any new information,” he quickly reassured her. “I wanted to touch base with you and your husband regarding your daughter’s abduction.” Two girls peered over the bannister at the top of the stairs. He was guessing they were about ten and twelve. “Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”
The woman followed his gaze up the stairs. “Emily, Lisette, go play in your room until Mummy calls you, okay?”
The two girls nodded apprehensively and backed away, clearly upset.
An air of despair and uncertainty hung around the elegant house. Nerves were balanced on the razor’s edge of fear.
Max and Lucy followed Mrs. Lomakin into a sitting room where a dismantled tree lay in pieces on the floor. Baubles were all neatly packed in their boxes on the coffee table. Christmas had been cancelled.
Max frowned. “Is your husband here? That way I can save time and brief you both at the same time.”
Her mouth tightened. Was she one of the people who’d been arguing in the garden?
She walked to the hallway and shouted in the general direction of what was probably the kitchen. “Russell!”
“I’m busy,” came a terse reply.
The woman shot Max and Lucy an apologetic look.
“It’s important,” Max insisted.
Mrs. Lomakin swallowed hard, then held up her hands in defeat. “This way, please.”
They found Irene’s father on the phone in the dining room. French doors opened onto a beautiful patio, and the breeze billowed filmy drapes that hung from a rod above the windows.
Cold Cruel Kiss Page 15
