Maggie guided the boy over to an armchair. “An ambulance will be here soon.” Christ, she needed a box of tissues and a painkiller.
His lips moved, the words tortured and strained. “You can’t just leave me here,” he rasped.
“And what were you going to do to me?” Maggie said, raising her eyebrows. “I reckon you’re getting a bargain, amigo.” Trembling, he sat down, clasping the pillow.
Maggie didn’t see her laptop bag anywhere. She didn’t have time to look for it. She’d have to disable it when she got a chance.
“We need to get out of here, Maggie,” John Rae said. “Before the cops show up. We can still make the bank. I’ll call and have backup send someone out to pick us up.”
“From downtown? In Quito traffic?” Maggie shook her head. “It’ll take forever. Besides, you need your manpower down there to grab Cain. And they’re not too far ahead of us anyway. We can grab a taxi. I hope you have cash.” Maggie was already on the liberated cell phone dialing 105—operator assistance—as they pulled what was left of the front door shut. She got the number for a radio taxi and started punching in numbers as they descended stairs. As Maggie predicted, no other residents were out. Just eyes at windows, looking through cracks in blinds as she and John Rae hustled.
She jumped when she saw Señora Gomez trudging up with sacks of shopping. She was more than a little surprised to see Maggie as well. “Buenos días, Señora,” Maggie said, flashing a brilliant smile as she and John Rae tore by. “There’s a bit more cleaning for you to do up there now, I’m afraid.”
Señora Gomez stood on the stairs, mouth open, watching the two of them dash out into the unfinished street.
Within a few minutes, an old yellow cab trundled up the dirt road, puffing exhaust.
~~~
“There it is,” Maggie said. “Cain’s van.” On the ride into Old Town, she’d cleaned up as well as she could and her nose felt a little less congested, but her words were still coming out nasally and painfully.
From their vantage point in the taxi on the adjacent side of the palm-tree-lined square in the Plaza Grande, Maggie and John Rae watched the Chevy van parked on the south side of the plaza, across the street from the National Bank of Ecuador. They couldn’t see the driver.
Scratchy music seeped from the taxi’s radio.
“Chevy van,” John Rae said into the red walkie-talkie, the device now in range. “South side of the plaza.”
“Check,” Achic replied, he and his team positioned around the plaza, ready. “The woman went into the bank with Beltran about fifteen minutes ago.”
“No sign of Cain?”
“Must be in back of the van, if he’s here.”
“He’s here,” John Rae said. “He’s not going to let that money get too far away.”
“Could take quite a while,” Maggie said. “If Cain’s account isn’t set up right. And especially if they’re planning to take some cash with them. Which I bet they are.”
“She had an empty shoulder bag.”
“Well, they can’t take all of it. Not even close.”
“How much can she carry?”
“In a shoulder bag like she has?” Maggie gave it some thought. “A million, if it’s shrink-wrapped and packed tight. But that would take the bank quite some time. Hours. They’d have to put a couple of people on it, supervise it. It would also create a huge alert if she attempted to collect that much in one visit without prior notice. And what is Grim Harvest going to do with a million cash in the jungle? Guard it round the clock?” Maggie shook her head. “So she might grab a hundred K or so. That wouldn’t raise a red flag. The rest will be transferred to an account. Which Cain will control.”
“So we could be here a while,” John Rae said.
“Maybe.” But not likely. Maggie smiled to herself with grim satisfaction. Cain didn’t know what lay in store. None of them did. She’d made sure of that.
“And there are my guys,” John Rae said with a note of pride, nodding at operatives stationed around the plaza. One sat on a park bench, in dark sunglasses, pretending to read a newspaper. Another stood outside the tourist office next to the bank, daypack over one shoulder, browsing artisan crafts in the window. Achic was somewhere unseen. “As soon as Lita and Beltran appear and head to the van, that’s when we move in, make the arrest.”
“Is this is a milk run?” Maggie said wryly.
“Not quite the one I planned.”
“Why not just arrest Cain now?”
“For what? Sitting in a van?”
“Sitting in a van, running a terrorist organization.”
“The guys upstairs want to do it this way, make sure Beltran is freed, make sure Cain doesn’t have any recourse whatsoever in a court of law. We need to catch him with the money—or attempting to get the money. Proof positive.”
Maggie nodded.
John Rae ran a thumbnail along his bottom lip. “Hurry up and wait.”
“Any idea who turned you in?” she asked. “Back at the airport?”
He gave a soft laugh, followed by a frown. “No.”
“Me neither,” Maggie said. “But I think whoever did it has a hand in running this op.”
John Rae squinted. “I’m reserving judgment.”
“Sinclair knew of your plan to capture Cain.”
“Hell, no. I kept that on the down low.”
“I’m sure he could have found out easily enough.”
“Found out from who?”
“Sinclair knew all your movements.”
John Rae frowned. “He also knew yours. You weren’t turned in.”
“Because he wanted Beltran freed. But he didn’t want Cain arrested. Once he found out about your covert op to capture Cain, you were conveniently sidelined.”
John Rae seemed to mull that over. “Why would Sinclair want that?”
“Because he’s protecting Cain.”
“Why? You may not like Sinclair, Maggie, but his patriotism is not in question.”
“Sure it is. Everyone believes in the convenient fiction that this is all just business, but it’s anything but.” Maggie flashed on Yalu and Ernesto and Lita, all pawns on Cain’s personal chessboard, even Abraham, his second-in-command. Just as she and John Rae and Ed were all pawns on someone else’s chessboard. “Everyone’s playing their own game in their own way for their own ends.” She paused, then said, “The Agency let him go.”
“So his fondness for applejack made him a target with the suits back in D.C. They gave him early retirement. I can’t tell you how many times that’s happened. The Agency takes it out of you. But Sinclair is highly respected and still in demand as a contractor. He’s also invested most of his career in this part of the world.”
“Yes, I know.” Did she.
“He’s committed. Why would he foul up an op?”
“Who knows what he’s thinking? But I’m going to find out.” She still wondered who her mysterious driver had been, back when she first escaped Quito. That was connected too, somehow. Not to mention all the ICE pings.
“Well, find out, then.” John Rae let out a breath. “If anyone can, it’s you. You contacted Ed, got me popped from the brig. You’re a rock star. When you leave that boring desk job of yours, I better be the first person you call. We need more like you.”
“You don’t know how fondly I’m thinking of that dull desk job right now,” she said. “I can’t wait to get back and look for a few missing cents while I sip my nonfat latte and think about where to go for lunch. If I still have a job. And my freedom.”
“I’m just glad you got word to your mysterious friend and he got word to Ed. And the access code you made up: UIO593—the combination of the Quito airport code and the area code—just in case they couldn’t pinpoint the GPS.”
She smiled. “Thanks for covering my back there at the safe house. I got past that kid, but wouldn’t have made it past Paavo without you blowing in the front door and creating a diversion.”
“And you wer
e supposed to head straight back home right off the bat if something went wrong.”
“It’s about Tica,” she said. And a promise she’d made.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
Maggie just hoped Tica was still alive. “You’ll probably have to remind Beltran, since I was left back at the ranch for MIA.”
“As soon as we nail Cain and his psycho girlfriend,” John Rae said. “First order of business.” John Rae’s radio crackled. He picked it up post haste. Someone spoke in his ear. He pulled the walkie-talkie away. “You can stop your frettin’, darlin’. They’re on their way out.”
Maggie stared across the plaza: Lita and Beltran leaving the bank. Beltran’s dazed frown and Lita’s empty shoulder bag did not bode well for either of them, or Grim Harvest.
“She doesn’t look too happy,” John Rae said.
“She shouldn’t,” Maggie said.
“Her money bag is empty.”
“That’s right.”
John Rae turned to Maggie. “You seem to know more than I do. They just got a two-million-dollar payday— didn’t they?”
Maggie shook her head slowly.
“They didn’t?” John Rae said.
Maggie smiled.
John Rae turned to Lita, then back to Maggie. “What are you up to, Maggie?”
“There is no money.”
John Rae blinked in apparent confusion. “And why is that?”
“Because I never set up the transfer in the first place.”
-32-
“Say what, Maggie?” John Rae said, mouth open. “You never set up the money transfer?”
“Afraid not.”
“But why?” John Rae’s voice conveyed the most surprise she’d ever heard from him.
“Because I started to distrust this whole setup—and Sinclair in particular.” She nodded at Lita and Beltran, about to cross the street to Cain’s van. “Shouldn’t you be keeping track of those two?”
John Rae turned back quickly, bringing the walkie-talkie up to his ear. “The deal was a bust, boys,” he said, hand on the car door handle. “But let’s grab Cain and Lita, and whoever else is in that van. Achic—separate Beltran from the rest, make sure he’s safe.”
Excited chatter popped from the walkie-talkie.
All of a sudden, a puff of smoke billowed out of the Chevy van’s tailpipe. The boxy vehicle squealed out into traffic.
“Cain’s taking off!” Maggie yelled, though she wasn’t really surprised. “He must have gotten a signal that the transfer didn’t happen. He’s bailing, leaving Lita for the wolves—just like I predicted.”
“Christ!” John Rae flung open the car door as he shouted into the walkie-talkie. “Cain’s pulling a runner! Grab Lita and Beltran. Backup unit—follow the van.” John Rae jumped from the taxi, narrowly avoiding a speeding car that veered around the open door, horn shrieking. He yelled into the walkie-talkie as he tore across the street toward the plaza.
The cab driver turned around in his seat and eyeballed Maggie suspiciously. “Now what?”
The cab wouldn’t make any headway in this traffic, already ground to a halt with all the commotion. But she was damned if she’d let the man who held her hostage get away scot-free. “We’re good, vato.” She tossed a hundred-dollar bill over the front seat and threw open her door. Just that small motion sent shivers of pain through her injured wrists.
Out on the street, she dashed across the plaza, taking a diagonal path in front of the cathedral. She looked around and saw the two ops who had been waiting for Lita and Beltran hustle toward them, guns drawn, along with John Rae. Lita jerked her head from side to side, watching the men close in. Beltran broke away, but was caught by Achic, appearing out of a doorway.
“Hands in the air!” John Rae shouted, gun leveled at Lita.
Lita hesitated, her left hand holding up the hem of her bow-collared blouse, right hand reaching down her blue pants.
“Don’t do it!” John Rae barked. “Slowly raise your hands!”
The van was speeding up Venezuela, dodging cars, hitting one with a loud pang before it pulled into the opposing lane and an onslaught of traffic, forcing vehicles out of the way. Maggie followed on foot, exiting the plaza onto Venezuela.
Maggie turned her head as she ran, saw Lita shaking a fist in the air.
“¡La venganza es la justicia!”
John Rae kicked her legs out from under her and she fell to the ground, shouting. The other ops converged on her. Achic moved Beltran to one side.
“It’s about time!” Maggie heard Beltran yell.
Maggie charged up the hill after the van. Oncoming traffic had stopped. Horns exploded. People packed the sidewalks, but were staying a healthy distance from the action. Even with her fatigue and pain, and at the nearly two-mile elevation, Maggie moved like a greyhound. She was coiled up like a spring and it felt good to air out her lungs and stretch her legs and sprint.
The van disappeared over the rise. Maggie raced after it, but hit a wall of onlookers. She shot out into the street, weaving between stopped cars, reaching her legs out further as she followed the yellow line up the hill.
A cacophony of car horns pulsated from the other side. The sparse air forced her to breathe deeply, but she was keeping pace and knew the van would have to hit traffic sooner or later.
She crested the top.
In the middle of the street just over the hill, a blue pickup truck seemed to be trying to negotiate a three-point turn, effectively blocking traffic in both directions. Cain’s van had cleared it, though, and was speeding away in a lane freed up of immediate cars.
Damn!
Maggie breathed thin air and found a reserve, the one that got her across marathon finish lines in less than two hours, the same one that got her across Quito a week ago. She lengthened her stride and pumped her arms. And found she was able to pick up speed. Eventually, Cain’s van had to slow down, if not stop, in Quito’s congestion.
Two blocks passed by in a blur, the back of the van getting closer. She pressed on.
Her heart pounded as the Panecillo came into view, the virgin on the hill looking down with her mournful stare. Blood rushed in Maggie’s ears. The clots in her nose gave way and she tasted blood. She must have been a sight to the drivers and passengers in the cars she kept passing. Gray morning fog billowed around the bottom of the incline. Maggie hurtled down what was left of Venezuela, to where it split around the base of Panecillo hill. Cain’s van made a screeching left, disappearing from view.
But traffic was building. Maggie fought to maintain her pace. The road was slippery with the fog. Come on, she told herself.
Nothing like a few days without sleep, a firefight in a safe house, another in the jungle, a couple of punches, to take it all out of you, make you feel your almost thirty years. Add on a pair of Doc Martens instead of ASIC Gels and 9,000 feet above sea level at high speed.
But finally, finally, around the next bend, Cain’s van got stuck behind a blue city bus. Yes! Traffic in the opposite direction blocked it from passing.
Gasping for air, Maggie jogged up to the van, drawing her pistol. She climbed up on the rear bumper, gun up in one hand, hanging on with the other, peering in through the window.
A man in a ball cap at the wheel. Cain, in the bench seat behind him, turned around, looking directly at her, Maggie looking back at him. Staring into each other’s eyes.
She jerked down on the rear door handle. Locked. Pounded on the van with her fist.
Cain raised a small pistol, the Lercker, resting his gun arm on the back of the bench seat to steady his aim.
Maggie flinched down, hanging onto the door handle.
Two shots ripped through the back of the van, one right through a door window inches above her head. The window cracked into a web of shattered glass and she swore she heard the other bullet zip by her ear. The van lurched forward, and she lost her grip, the van throwing her off and she landed, skidding back, arms out for stability, slipping on fog wet r
oad, trying to regain her balance but losing the battle, flat on her butt in the middle of the street.
That hurt.
Cars behind her. Honking up a storm.
Sitting on her derriere, raising the .38 in both hands, her bandaged wrist smarting, blood still running from her nose, she fired into the back of the van, punching a hole the size of a nickel.
Return fire popped from inside the van, two more much smaller holes peppering the back doors. Twenty-five millimeter. Small, but deadly. She cringed down onto the asphalt. Near prone, gripping the .38 in both hands again, Maggie took aim, fired. Another hole was punched into the back door.
The van’s side door screeched open. The driver’s door followed suit.
Both men fled the vehicle at the same time, one each side, leaving the van to idle in traffic, tail pipe puffing. The driver skewed off to the left, ball cap flying off his head, into a throng of people across the street from a white church where a crowd was ballooning out through the tall doors. Forget him.
Maggie scrambled to her feet, gun in hand, unsteady. She lumbered around to the right side of the van. Cain was running away, black jacket flapping. She saw the small pistol in his right hand.
Crowds of people in front of the Mission-style church. Men in suits. Women in gowns. A wedding. Church bells rang out.
Winded, she kept after Cain, ducking in and out of the multitude, pocketing her pistol. It wouldn’t do to be seen with it. And she couldn’t fire, not with all these people.
Cain was fresh. She wasn’t. “Stop!” she yelled, breathless. “Stop that man!”
Cain ducked behind a clump of churchgoers. Then he leaned back out, gun pointed at her. Fired off a round.
Maggie ducked, which slowed her down. She heard screams as people bolted, tripping over one another. One man in tails tumbled, taking a woman in a blue chiffon dress down with him. But no one seemed to be hit.
The Cain File Page 28
