Not a good sign.
The pulse in her temple tapped like a hungry woodpecker, portending a hellacious migraine. She pressed an index finger to the side of her head.
“Where’s my son?”
FBI Special Agent Warren and ATFE Special Agent Benson exchanged anxious glances. Warren said, “We think he’s in Mexico.”
Her vision telescoped and threatened to shut down completely. She staggered back and clutched at the wall with her left hand. The faux grass wallpaper rasped against her fingertips, the tiny paper cuts bringing her back to reality and the present. She could not fall apart when her son needed her.
After Jake’s dangerous birth, it was a wonder he was alive, happy, and extraordinarily healthy. A wretched childhood with her obsessed, delusional father ensured that as soon as she discovered the real world outside her father’s religious cult that she’d go a little wild. Before Jake, she had sampled every forbidden fruit, including a long series of sexy but emotionally cold one night stands with strangers—and a red hot love affair with cocaine. But everything had changed when she found out she was pregnant. She wasn’t that woman anymore. She was Jake’s mommy now, a new and improved version of herself—thanks to a lot of help from her program and from Dan, the father of her son.
Feeling like a boxer on the ropes, she pushed herself away from the wall, shook her head to clear away the tunnel vision, and glared at the agents.
“As soon as I reported my one-year-old son stolen from the day care center, I told you my father would try to get out of the country. Why didn’t you stop him?”
“We followed established protocol.” Teeth gritted, Benson, the ATFE Agent monotoned, as if he thought removing all emotion from his speech would keep a crazed mother calm. “We’ve been investigating the owner of this ranch, a known member of the Recreationist Cult, for over a year. We tracked all weapons and ammunitions sales to him and tried to get search warrants for probable cause. But the judges in that county said they wouldn’t have anything to do with another Waco.”
Fists clenched, jaw clenched tight, Angie’s muscles thrummed with the tension of her restrained rage. “And?”
Warren cleared his throat and picked up the story. “Using extensive calculations, the joint task force was able to ascertain exactly how many guns, rounds of ammunition and explosives the cult had stockpiled in the ranch house, barns, and outbuildings.” He paused, looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
Angie’s stomach rolled. She said nothing.
“There was a truck labeled ‘Water’.” Benson continued the story, his voice somber. “It was, in fact, filled with aviation fuel. The owner of the ranch shot at the Texas Rangers’ helicopter, trying to lead them away from the plane. When the chopper closed in on the tanker, he blew it up.”
She struggled to envision where the little plane had been in relation to the truck-turned-giant flame-thrower. Her teeth clenched and unclenched in sync with the contractions of her arms and legs. Control, that’s what her martial arts training had drummed into her. Fight only when you must. Find the calm within.
“Where was the plane when the explosion occurred?”
“We don’t know for sure.” Benson glanced at Warren. “They didn’t get a tail number, but we do know a small plane matching the description of the one with your son in it crossed the border into Chihuahua.”
Her stomach plummeted in free fall. Not again. Last year her crazy father, Reverend Edmonds, had kidnapped her son as a newborn, claiming the child was the Chosen One, the one who would heal the world, as prophesized in the Book of Enoch. After an ordeal and manhunt, the so-called holy man had been imprisoned in Baltimore’s most secure penitentiary, the super max, a prison within a prison. He escaped by feigning a heart attack. Then he and her mother had bee-lined to the daycare center, and with the unwitting assistance of a temporary receptionist, abducted her son—again.
“I’m sorry.” Warren shook his head. “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.”
As Angie listened to the gray-haired man apologize, she fought to keep her palms at her sides and her feet planted on the ground. This was not a good time for her to be arrested for assault. She bit back the words she really wanted to spit out: “incompetent bureaucrats” and “gutless morons.” The lawmen had underestimated her father and enabled him to escape with Jake under the cover of a martyr’s pillar of fire. How very Biblical. Her father must be so pleased. He’d see this as yet another sign that God was on his side, instead of the truth—his followers were no better than demon worshippers.
“Ms. Edmonds, we’re doing everything in our power to find your son.” Warren wiped sweat off his red face. Benson shuffled his feet and looked away.
“So you’ve contacted the Mexican government?” She stared at Warren, not blinking. He glanced down. He was hiding something. What? What could be so awful that he wouldn’t share it with a terrified mother of a kidnapping victim?
Warren exchanged furtive glances with Benson. A long silence filled the foyer. At last he looked her in the eye and said, “Yes.”
Her empty stomach yawed and pitched. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“They said they’d look into it, but the drug wars and murders in Juarez and elsewhere are consuming most of the police force’s time and manpower.”
Rage bubbled up, plucked at her sanity, and threatened to overcome her restraint. This wasn’t happening. Her only hope of recovering her son stood in front of her, telling her they couldn’t help. Was everything reduced to an accountant’s calculations of time and labor costs? How about factoring in a little compassion?
“No,” she shouted. Warren jumped back, as if he expected her to attack him. Keeping her hands balled into fists at her side, she took two steps closer and got into his personal space. His sweaty face was so close to hers, she could smell his pungent perspiration mixed with the odor of minty mouthwash. “You are going to Mexico. You are going to get my son. Do you understand me? You are going to do your job!”
Gray eyes wide, his face now crimson, the FBI agent shook his head. “Once they made it into Mexican airspace, they were beyond our reach. It’s a private kidnapping. We’re working with the State Department. I swear we’re doing everything we can.”
Useless. They were completely, utterly, useless. “Get out of my house.” Warren tried to press a business card into her palm. She let it flutter to the floor. “Leave me alone.” She slammed the door on their retreating backs.
How could drug wars take precedence over her baby? Was she never going to see him again? What had she done to deserve this? She’d paid her dues, made her amends. Where was the justice? Where was the humanity? Where was a divine intervention? Nowhere. If there was going to be an intercession on her behalf, the time was long past. The only thing she could rely on was herself—and her connections. The discovery of her son’s abduction at the day care center had sent her into a tailspin. Enough. She’d had enough of being jerked around by her father and the authorities. She had to stay strong, channel her hopelessness and helplessness into anger—and action.
She picked up her phone and choked back a sob. “They’re in Mexico.”
Dan, her ex-lover, and Jake’s father, gasped. “What happened?”
Angie filled him in about the firefight at the ranch and the loss of the Texas Rangers. “They won’t go after them. Said they’re working through the State Department.”
“What about a press conference? Get the media involved? Beg for Jake’s safe return?” His voice rasped with emotion.
She took a deep breath before responding. Dan still didn’t understand how the cult worked. “First off, I don’t want to escalate my father and his followers’ insanity. We need them to believe we’re defeated, that he’s smarter than we are and have given up.”
“Jake could be an adult before we see him.”
“As long as he’s with my father and mother and the cult, at least there’s a chance we’ll see him again alive.”
“Wha
t are you talking about?”
“Kidnapping and holding wealthy victims for ransom is rampant in Latin America. Even if you pay off the kidnapper, there’s no guarantee the victim will be set free.”
“I thought that was only in movies—”
“Based in reality. If we call a press conference, some thug is going to hear that the son of a rich American physician is being held by a cult leader. How long do you think it will be before some creep decides he wants to make some quick money? We might as well paint a target on Jake’s back.”
Dan choked back a sob. She knew this was hitting him hard, too. He loved Jake as much as she did.
She plunged onward. “I’m going after him. I can’t just sit here in Baltimore and wait.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Not happening.” She wiped a tear off her cheek. “You need to stay with your wife.”
He started to protest. “No—”
“Sarah’s about to explode. If you aren’t here for that baby’s birth, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“If something happens to you and Jake, I won’t forgive myself, either.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I have a plan. But I’m going to need Sarah’s help.”
“Anything.”
His voice was as tight as piano wire. She needed him to stay calm, not snap. Using her closing argument voice, the one she used to coax, cajole, and win over juries, Angie shared her thoughts. “Juarez is a war zone. My father wouldn’t take him there. He’d never endanger the Chosen One.”
Dan cleared his throat. “So, where?”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on memories of her father’s ravings. “He’s been ranting about building a fortress in the wilderness for twenty years.”
“That’s half of Mexico. Drug lords control entire provinces, totally outside the law.”
“Exactly. And your wife knows the one person with longer arms than the law.”
Dan sucked in his breath. “Holy crap. You’re right.”
“We’re going to fight fire with fire. Tell Sarah to find Isabel Ramirez. Call in every favor she has. We need the biggest, baddest drug lord in the country to help us. If I can’t get Jake back with her help, then I’m going to die trying—and take my father with me to hell.”
****
Angie tapped the GPS for the hundredth time and tried to keep an eye out for landmarks, signs, anything that would tell her she was in the right village. At last she spotted the cheap dive with a battered sign, El Hombre Loco. A thrill of recognition ran through her exhausted body. A week of preparation and forty-eight hours of non-stop travel had finally brought her to the bar where she was supposed to meet Isabel’s underling. True to her word, Sarah had called in every favor owed her and even thrown in a few threats of sending a certain incriminating DVD to the Mexican press. Sarah had sent a photo of Angie to her former colleague, so there’d be no mistaken identity and no suspicion of undercover federales. Dan had even hired a Spanish speaking chauffeur for Angie, but the man had fled the car at the sight of the border patrol in Fort Hancock, Texas, saying he was never, ever going back to a Mexican prison. “Hellholes,” he had shouted and leaped out of the car.
She was on her own. All Angie had to go on was a name. Torres. Might as well be Smith or Jones. Without a physical description to guide her, her imagination ran wild. Was he short and beady-eyed? Tattooed? Smelly? A giant muscle-bound thug? In her practice as a defense attorney, she’d met every size and shape of alcoholic and drug addict in Baltimore. Despite the lucrative fees offered, one of the few categories of miscreants she’d refused to ever defend was drug dealers. Now her key ally in this battle to rescue her son was the supreme drug lord of Mexico. Angie felt like Alice in Wonderland, her world turned upside down.
She pulled over to the curb and parked the car. Angie tried to take the keys out of the ignition, but her hands shook and tears blurred her vision. Overcome by shaking sobs, she put her head down on the steering wheel and bawled like a baby.
Baby, baby, baby. Her baby, her one and only reason for staying clean, for being alive, taken from her. Doubts filled her mind. Could she do this? Was this the right way to go about finding him? She had to find her son and get him away from her lunatic father, if it was the last thing she did.
Someone pounded on her window and shouted in Spanish. Her heart jumped erratically, and she swiped at her eyes. Why was that cop yelling at her?
Unsure of which piece of paper he needed, Angie rolled down the driver’s side window and thrust her license at the scowling Mexican police officer.
He glanced at her Maryland document and waved it away. “El pasaporte y la visa.”
The passport and visa slipped out of her hand, fluttering to the ground.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” She attempted to open the car door, only to have it kicked back into place. The rental company was not going to be happy with that dent. She coughed and squinted at the sun’s glare. “What’s the problem?”
Clearly not happy that he’d had to bend over and pick up her now red-dust-coated paperwork, he rattled off a barrage of Spanish, waving his arms back and forth, spitting as he spoke.
Her high school Spanish was too rusty to keep up. “No comprendo.”
The officer responded by pulling out a notepad and scribbling. He showed her a number.
“Five hundred dollars?”
He grinned. “Si. Dinero. Cash.”
She’d been warned this might happen and instructed to bargain. She opened her wallet and showed him a one-hundred dollar bill. “This is all I have.”
His eyes narrowed, and his smile turned into a scowl.
As she reached out the window to hand him the cash, he motioned at her to get out of the car.
“No comprendo.”
He pointed to hood of the car. “Stand by there.”
The rat-faced cop obviously understood and spoke better English than he’d let on at first.
He slid into the driver’s seat and turned his back to her, obscuring her vision as he rummaged in the glove compartment.
He gave a triumphant shout. “Ha!” A plastic bag containing a white powder dangled between his fingers. “You bring drugs into my country?”
“No, no. I don’t know where that came from. It’s not mine.” Where did that come from? Had that idiot driver left his stash in her car? Or did the cop just plant it there? She closed her eyes and took a deep shuddering breath to beat back the panic bubbling in her chest. She didn’t have time to screw around with the police, even if it was a shake-down. She had to find Torres, get to Isabel, and rescue Jake. All the rest was bullshit. She wiped the tears off her cheeks with the heels of her hand. Just pay the jerk and be done with it. “You want more money? I’ll give it to you.”
“Assume the position.” Cobra quick, the cop was out of the car. He twirled her around, forced her against the hood, kicked her feet apart, and pinioned her hands behind her back with his big rough ones.
Her head spun. What was happening? She was a lawyer. She’d dealt with thousands of American cops. Her voice shaky, she tried to reason with him. “There’s been a mistake. Those aren’t my drugs. I have no idea where they came from. Honest.”
“That’s what they all say.” He leaned his hips against her butt, an unmistakable bulge pressing against her.
Her skin crawled as if a thousand cockroaches were tap dancing on her body. Bile rose in her throat. Having her son kidnapped by her crazy father wasn’t enough of a punishment, now she was being held for something she didn’t do by a horny, corrupt cop. What else could go wrong?
His breath rasped close to her ear. “You are under arrest.” And with that, manacles clicked into place on her wrists. He ran his hands up and down her chest, lingering a long time on her breasts.
She shuddered at his touch and bit her tongue to keep from screaming at him. He had already made up his mind that she was guilty. She had to find a way to get through to him.
; Then he patted down her legs and ankles, sliding his hands up to her buttocks and pressing hard on her crotch. “No weapons.”
As if she carried a Smith and Wesson in her bikini panties. His touch made her skin crawl. She needed a bath.
“You come to the station. Now.”
This wasn’t right. She leaned hard against the car and dug in her heels.
“Isabel Ramirez said I was to meet someone named Torres at El Hombre Loco. He’ll be looking for me.”
He pried her off the car and whirled her around to face him. He gave her a yellow-toothed grin. “Some paperwork. Then we go to see Professora Ramirez.”
Angie tried to shake out of his iron grasp. “Isabel Ramirez said to speak only to Torres. I’m meeting with Isabel Ramirez.” Wasn’t this guy even a little bit intimidated by Isabel’s name? Sarah had said she ran everything in Chihuahua. Had their info been wrong about the drug lord’s power?
Rat face rattled off a string of Spanish words, his face contorted with anger, and he pulled out his sidearm and pointed it at her chest. Spit flew out of his mouth. At last, in English he said, “I am Raul, chief of police. I am in charge here. You are under my arrest.”
Frozen in place, Angie glanced around the empty streets. A black tabby slunk between red stucco buildings, and a dust devil swirled further down the road. Odd. She could have sworn there were people on the street before. Where did they go?
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the huge black handgun. He could have felled elephants with it. Why would anyone need a gun that ridiculously big?
He kept the weapon trained on her as he reached into the car and pulled out her purse, then he motioned for her to walk ahead of him. They walked two deserted blocks to the small building labeled Policia. It appeared only Raul the Rodent was on duty. Her lawyer’s mind quickly cataloged the station. One desk, olive drab metal; one holding cell, empty; two doors to God only knew where. Behind her, she heard a deadbolt lock snap into place.
Obsession Page 2
