by Diane Capri
After the establishing shot, the next few frames showed Charlie sleeping in a bed that looked like a race car from an animated movie. His room was decorated in primary colors bold enough to be recognizable even in the dim nightlight’s glow. The car was bright red, the sheets were bold red stripes, and the pillowcase was blue.
The next brief scene was Angela sleeping alone in a pricey, wrought iron, king-sized bed. She was covered with an ivory damask comforter. Her hair fanned the pillow and blended with the shiny white pillowcase so that she almost looked bald.
The next scene was half a second of Charlie’s empty bed followed by a shorter view of Angela’s empty bed.
“Subtle, aren’t they?” Gaspar deadpanned.
“They put Agent Otto’s name on the envelope,” Morrie said. “How did they know she would collect the envelope and the message?”
Kim said nothing. Neagley said nothing.
Next was the hospital ward again. Five cots. Five patients. Five IV lines feeding who-knew-what into their veins.
Once again, the cameraman approached the elderly woman. Again, today’s Spanish language newspaper was placed on her chest, which rose and fell with her shallow breathing.
After the video lingered long enough to establish she was still alive, the cameraman’s straight right arm raised from his side into the viewfinder. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt and a black glove so that not even a slice of skin was showing. He held a black gun in his hand. Glock 19, Gen 4. Utilitarian, tough, reliable. Comfortable grip, controllable recoil, easily concealed. Used by law enforcement because of its stopping power. The same perfect choice Sanchez had made to kill O’Donnell. Probably the same choice the killer had made to eliminate Downing, the New York PI.
Kim knew what was about to happen, but she was powerless to stop it. She glanced briefly at her companions. Gaspar’s eyebrows pointed toward his nose and his mouth set into a hard line. Hands clasped, Morrie seemed to be holding his breath as his nostrils flared. Only Neagley seemed clear-eyed and unconcerned.
The cameraman pointed the Glock directly at the woman’s head and waited a moment, as if he thought they might not be watching closely and he didn’t want them to miss anything. The film was morbidly mesmerizing. At this point, Kim couldn’t have torn her gaze away if she, herself, had been forced at gunpoint to do so.
After he’d waited long enough, he slowly pulled the trigger once, twice, three times. Kim heard the deafening noise of the gunshots in her mind, but the audio remained silent even as the woman’s head flew apart like a melon. Blood splashed everywhere.
He lowered his arm out of the camera’s eye but left the video feed running for a few moments more. Then, as before, he left the camera running and panned the room as he retreated to the exit. So deep were their medically induced comas that the patients in the remaining four cots never stirred.
The video ended with two single slides delivering a clear, unmistakable message.
The first slide was a graphic depicting a digital clock with the date and time reflected: Monday, November 15, 6:00 a.m. CST.
The second slide was similar to the one that had ended the prior flash drive video, but the graphic was slightly altered. It said: 24 Hours Left to Return My Money.
Kim automatically checked her Seiko. 6:02 a.m. Only 24 hours to find and recover the hostages.
Neagley said, “How long will it take us to fly to Valle Alto?”
Morrie replied, “Doesn’t matter. We can’t do it. The pilot won’t fly his equipment into Mexico. Period.”
“Buy the jet,” Neagley said.
“The jet doesn’t belong to the pilot. And even if it did, he told me when we hired him back in Houston that he wouldn’t fly into Mexico,” Morrie insisted. “The security guys won’t go, either. Nobody is interesting in dying down there. Or spending any quality time in a Mexican prison.”
“What’s your idea? Let seven more hostages be slaughtered in their sleep?”
It was the first time Kim had heard Morrie refuse Neagley anything. She didn’t respond well when thwarted. Kim watched the scene unfold to see how far the two would go. What would Neagley do?
“Of course not. But we don’t know where they are. Shouldn’t we confirm the location first?” Morrie’s suggestion was reasonable, but Neagley was a woman of action. Her instincts were to strike first, declare victory, and sort it out much later, if at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Monday, November 15
10:00 a.m.
Valle Alto, Mexico
The Las Olas compound was located fifty-two miles inside Mexico. As with almost everything in life, getting in promised to be much simpler than getting out. Neagley had made the arrangements. Morrie executed them. They’d picked up the armored panel van in Houston and now the four traveled in silence, Morrie at the wheel, Neagley in the navigator seat.
Gaspar had been sleeping since they left Houston. He’d slept on the jet to Brownsville and slept since then in the back seat behind Neagley. Kim was bone tired and Morrie seemed more subdued than usual. Great, Kim thought. When we launch our plan, Morrie will be sleep-deprived beyond safety levels, Neagley will charge the place as if she commanded an entire battalion, and Gaspar will be rested and looking for breakfast.
Kim sipped stiff coffee and munched the candy bar she’d collected at the airport vending machine and drew her mind from fatigue by rehashing what she’d learned and the plan they’d made, hoping rote memorization and mental rehearsal would serve well enough when the time came. Not likely.
The compound was not as far from civilization as Kim might have expected, but still remote from the modern world. Satellite images rarely lie and the ones Kim pored over were retrieved from secure government sites. Which meant they were reliable if not reassuring.
Kim’s research exposed a near-perfect fortress surrounded by nothingness. Had Neagley managed to persuade Cooper to deploy a predator drone, rank amateurs inside the Las Olas compound would have plenty of time to defend themselves. Dean had been a rocket scientist for New Age Defense Systems. He knew all about missiles. Smart money would bet he’d developed a missile with an error margin sufficient to down drones well before they launched a payload.
Breaching that security would be a challenge, even for Neagley. Retrieving hostages and removing them as short a distance as fifty-two miles across flat terrain was certain to produce collateral damage. But the effort had to be made. Kim would feel like she’d pulled the trigger on Sanchez’s family if she failed to try.
From Brownsville, they’d traveled the Veterans International Bridge and crossed the border into Mexico through the larger city of Matamoros and headed further south along Carr/Federal 101. Every mile south of Matamoros revealed more open space while the population steadily declined. At Valle Hermoso, population 48,918, they turned west on highway TAM 12 and covered exactly what the satellite images reflected: miles of nothing but farmland. The last reasonably-sized hamlet before their destination was El Riolito, population 3,208.
Twelve miles west of El Riolito was the village of Valle Alto, population 273, according to the sign at the village limits. Four miles beyond the village, Morrie stopped the panel van where a mile-long northbound private road intersected with TAM 12. The overhead sign crossed through blue sky above the single lane blacktop and proudly proclaimed it: Las Olas Boulevard.
Under different circumstances, Kim might have laughed at the word “Boulevard,” but she was too tired to even grin. Neagley betrayed no such fatigue. She seemed hard-wired for constant action. Maybe she was fueled by anger over her brother’s murder. Maybe she felt duped by Dean and Berenson because she’d set them free five years ago when she shouldn’t have. Probably she was ticked at Reacher because he hadn’t responded to her call for assistance when she felt she could have used the help. Whatever kept Neagley going, she demonstrated an abundance of energy and battle readiness Kim had rarely felt. Watching Neagley was unnerving.
The single lane blacktop road le
d straight north from TAM 12 to the compound and stopped. One way in. One way out. Not ideal.
On the south side of TAM 12, and on every side of the Las Olas compound, was two miles of nothing but open farmland.
They’d checked the satellite feed the Boss had supplied. Although details were less clear than she liked, the clarity was sufficient to survey the compound, determine how many Las Olas members were on the property. Maybe figure out which of the outbuildings were holding cells for hostages.
The Boss had supplied thermal images of the buildings. Several showed interior heat signatures consistent with human occupation. Meaning there were people in at least six of the buildings. But were they hostages or cartel?
The compound had seven large buildings and at least four smaller structures, any one of which could house the hospital ward where Berenson and Dean were holding the hostages.
The buildings were arranged like a rectangle with an open space inside, maybe 100 yards wide and 130 yards long. The perimeter of the open space was surrounded by stadium lights, as if work often continued late into the night. Perhaps it did.
The main house reflected an earlier era. Two-story, painted wood construction, metal roof, rambling style. It faced east on Las Olas Boulevard. A wide paved driveway, large enough to accommodate semis, ran along the north side of the house and through the center of the yard beyond the far west edge of the property.
Four similar buildings, two on the north side and two on the south, flanked the house. Each was cement block construction, one-story, no windows, and shingled roofs. They might have housed equipment or livestock. Or hostages.
Opposite the main house across the open yard, the sixth building closed the rectangle. A seventh building aligned behind the sixth. Kim guessed these two contained the Las Olas cartel drug inventory and perhaps some portion of its revenue. Both buildings were enormous open warehouses surrounded by a chain link fence with a spiral of barbed wire around the top and an electronic gate across the east side.
Kim felt if they had any chance of succeeding here on the Las Olas compound, the cover of darkness was the only time it might happen. Unless they could be sure the compound was unoccupied during daylight. Even from the undetailed satellite photos, Kim had concluded a daylight raid was a suicide mission that would get them all killed. The only joy in that prospect was knowing that Dean and Berenson would never retrieve their money. Somehow, that knowledge didn’t lighten Kim’s mood.
Neagley wasn’t always right, but she was rarely wrong. Maybe they should have gone into Angela Franz’s condo before four o’clock in the morning, but Neagley had insisted. Something about the old Army way, she’d said. If they’d arrived an hour earlier, they might not be sitting here in the hot panel van now. Maybe that mistake would make her slightly more willing to listen to reason now.
Kim checked her Seiko. “We’ve got time. It’s 11:32 now. We’ve got nineteen hours left before Las Olas kills another hostage. We go back to Matamoros, as we planned. We check into the hotel. We get some sleep. And we come back after dark. We’ll be well inside our deadline if we get here by six o’clock. It’s the only way we’ve got a chance in hell of completing this mission,” Kim said.
For once, Neagley didn’t challenge her.
Morrie made a U-turn at the foot of Las Olas Boulevard and returned along the TAM 12 route they’d traveled inbound. The countryside began to take on familiar markers. Kim recognized the towns, the road signs. She could find her way along the route in the dark. Probably.
On the outskirts of Matamoros, Morrie pulled into a traveler’s hotel. They checked into separate rooms under false names and paid in advance and agreed to meet in the diner on the main floor at five o’clock to go over the plan one more time.
Less than five minutes after she entered her room, Kim fell onto the bed and into the deepest sleep she’d experienced since the morning she discovered Dave O’Donnell’s murder. Was that only five nights ago? It seemed like a lifetime.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Monday, November 15
5:00 p.m.
Matamoros, Mexico
Gaspar and Morrie were seated in the diner when Kim arrived. Two pots of coffee and two extra coffee mugs were on the table in front of the two empty chairs. This diner was like every diner. Open floor plan, no privacy, brightly lit, inexpensively furnished, kid friendly. Breakfast served all day, sandwiches for lunch and dinner. No alcohol. Constant coffee. Which was the only attribute that mattered to Kim at the moment.
After she’d poured her first cup and sipped, Neagley arrived and did the same. Gaspar said, “So let’s order, now you’re finally here.”
Neagley scowled. “Cheap motels don’t do it for me anymore. Haven’t for a long time.”
The waitress took their orders. Pancakes with eggs on the top and bacon on the side for Neagley and the guys. Kim ordered a breakfast burrito, which was identified on the menu as the specialty of the house. She figured if it was the specialty, maybe it would be cooked well done and not swimming in grease. Always best to eat when you can; you never know when you’ll get the next chance. Although if this was to be her last meal, Kim would have preferred a good steak and a gallon of Brunello.
The waitress left and they moved on to business.
Kim said, “I downloaded more satellite images an hour ago, while we still had good daylight. Looks like the number of people at the compound has diminished. Two of the buildings could be what we’re interested in.”
“Which two?” Neagley asked.
“The main house, and a block building north and west of the main house—probably a bunkhouse a couple of decades ago, when the compound was a working farm.”
Gaspar said, “The bunkhouse would provide seclusion. Shooting a Glock in an enclosed space like that had to be loud. Anyone inside either of those buildings would definitely have heard. Questions would have been asked. Especially in the main house.”
Neagley shrugged. “Maybe. But these cartel members shoot off guns all the time. The murder rate down here is higher than the body count on a Civil War battlefield.”
“Still,” Morrie replied, “it makes sense that they’d want to keep the hostages away from the main building. We’ve seen dozens of people coming and going from the compound, based on the satellite and thermal images. Stands to reason that not all of them would think shooting a comatose old lady in the head or keeping kids sedated for weeks is okay.”
Silence.
“We have to pick a target,” Kim said. “Logic says it’s the bunkhouse. Anybody disagree?”
Silence again.
The waitress returned with the hot food. Aromas flooded their senses and all four dug in like they were loading up for a hundred-mile bike race. The food disappeared in less than five minutes. They paid the tab, visited the toilets, and reconnected at the van in the parking lot without completing any checkout procedures, which would have drawn more attention than they wanted. Should anyone ask, they’d promised to return later.
Kim glanced at her Seiko, which was barely visible under the parking lot’s sparse lighting. Daylight savings time had ended two weeks ago and Matamoros was in the Central time zone. Maybe civil twilight here should be a bit brighter at 5:45 p.m., but cloud cover deepened the darkness to what the weather people called astronomical twilight levels. A mixed blessing. Bright flashlights were out of the question for tonight’s activities, but they certainly would be helpful.
Gaspar said, “I’ll drive.”
Morrie opened the doors with the remote and said, “Let’s get down the road first.”
Gaspar settled himself in the navigator’s seat. Neagley and Kim took the two captain’s chairs in the back. Morrie retraced the route they’d traveled twice already. The dashboard lights illuminated the van’s interior well enough.
When they were a few miles south of Matamoros and still northeast of Valle Hermoso, Morrie pulled the van off the road and parked behind a stand of trees. No one traveling the road could see them if
they left the lights off, but they were visible to satellites and drones. Couldn’t be helped.
Neagley set up her high-tech radio interference. It wasn’t good enough to block the Boss’s ears, but maybe it would work against casual eavesdroppers who weren’t specifically focused on them.
“Let’s see that bunkhouse,” Gaspar said. Kim opened the laptop. The screen glowed eerily blue in the blackness. She passed it to Neagley, who did what Kim had already done. Committed the building’s layout and surrounding terrain to memory.
Neagley handed the laptop to Gaspar.
While he studied, Neagley asked, “Where’s the equipment?”
“Behind Otto’s seat,” Morrie said. “Move the carpet and pull up the false floor.”
Gaspar opened the side door, which turned on the overhead dome light. He slipped out onto the shoulder, facing away from the van while Morrie emerged from the driver’s side and walked around the front. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder a few seconds longer than necessary. Anyone watching would conclude they’d stopped to urinate and change drivers.
While the men established their diversion, Neagley stood, bent slightly at the waist, and slid between the captain’s chairs. She rolled back the carpet, found the pull ring on the false floor, and gave it a solid yank. It came up easily, but it wasn’t hinged and she was now at an awkward angle. She couldn’t move the heavy metal false floor panel away from the storage compartment.
Kim unbuckled her seatbelt, raised the right armrest on her seat, crouched, and slid through to the cargo area. She took the false floor panel and moved it aside while Neagley unpacked guns, ammunition, night vision headsets, four untraceable cell phones with earpieces, coveralls, boots, gloves, watch caps, and Kevlar. Kim passed gear up to Gaspar and Morrie in the front seats and placed hers and Neagley’s in the rear captain’s chairs.
