Prepper Jack

by Diane Capri

  Pinto Vigo’s was the kind of face that small children conjured in their nightmares. Pockmarked cheeks, deeply scarred. Hard eyes stared from beneath heavy brows drawn together, frowning over the sneer on his full lips. In other photos, she’d seen his teeth. Two were gold crowns, one top and one bottom, left and right of center. What dentists would call numbers nine and twenty-six.

  Having seen Pinto Vigo once, you’d steer clear if you had any sense at all.

  Finlay said, “Pinto Vigo is one of Mexico’s most notorious drug lords and leader of an extremely violent criminal cartel. He learned his trade at his father’s knee. Machado Vigo was one of the FBI’s most wanted fugitives for two decades.”

  Kim nodded. If Vigo was involved, the situation just became a thousand times worse. The shudder coursed through her body now in a continuous loop, like a taser charge to the belly.

  “After an extensive manhunt, Machado Vigo was charged and convicted of killing two DEA agents. He died in a federal prison two years later at the hands of a rival gang.” Finlay sounded like he was briefing a task force. “His son, Pinto Vigo, was twenty-seven when he took over the family business.”

  Vigo’s cartel had infiltrated large swaths of the country, usually settling in small rural communities that attracted migrant workers. Once they’d settled in, they trafficked drugs and laundered money. In some of the larger areas, the cartel trafficked guns and humans, too.

  Vigo’s cartel hadn’t reached Detroit yet, but the field office there was vigilant. They expected him to make the effort. And when he did, he was likely to succeed. The demand for drugs seemed insatiable. It was basic Business 101, supply and demand. Vigo had the supply and he’d go where demand already existed.

  “All of these elements tied together somehow?” Kim asked when Finlay finished reciting facts she already knew about Vigo.

  Finlay nodded. “And a few more. Bear with me.”

  The next slide was an aerial photo of what could only be described as a compound of some sort.

  “This is Glen Haven,” Finlay said. “It’s what’s called an intentional community these days. Sort of like a self-sufficient commune. It sits north of Albuquerque.”

  She counted eight large buildings arranged in a horseshoe shape. The three at the toe of the shoe looked like McMansions, with the one in the center about twice the size of the two that flanked it. The other five were outbuildings of some sort. Three smaller ones on one branch of the shoe and two on the other branch. The U shape opened onto a field planted with crops she couldn’t identify from the bird’s-eye view.

  “At last count, there were twenty-seven full-time Glen Haven residents, including Mason O’Hare. There are three kids, all about the same age. The rest are adults. Residents live in the three mansions. All of the buildings have full basements. The two bunkhouses are for migrant workers who help with the harvest of plants used in the manufacturing of herbal supplements,” Finlay explained. “The other outbuildings are used for the herbal business and to store hot air balloon equipment.”

  Finlay put up another slide. Two photos side by side. Both men. Obviously brothers. Dark hair, dark eyes. Both late thirties, Kim guessed. Only the port wine stain birthmark on the younger brother’s forehead easily distinguished them.

  “Gavin and Bruce Ray are the co-founders of Glen Haven. Their father was James Ray. Called himself Gavin,” Finlay said. “You read about Gavin Ray in the reports Holly Johnson gave you. Gavin Ray saved Reacher’s life back then and paid the price. He almost died trying. Holly thinks Reacher would take a dim view of threats to Gavin Ray’s sons. She thinks Reacher might show up to help them out of a jam like this.”

  “And Pinto Vigo is threatening the sons?” Kim asked, frowning.

  “We’re not sure what’s going on, exactly.” Finlay shut down the slideshow and turned to face her. “Ten days ago, Mason O’Hare called in an anonymous whistleblower complaint on the tip line. He reported suspected tax evasion by renters out at Glen Haven.”

  “Renters?”

  “Apparently, Bruce Ray, the younger brother, rented the two bunk houses to some group of transients that seems to be evading taxes, according to O’Hare.”

  Kim nodded. “How would O’Hare know they were evading taxes?”

  “O’Hare’s a CPA. He does freelance accounting for a few clients.”

  “Including Pinto Vigo’s cartel and Glen Haven and the Ray brothers?”

  “We don’t know what connection O’Hare has to Vigo and the cartel. But yes, O’Hare keeps the books for Glen Haven and the Ray brothers,” Finlay said, “All three are in full compliance with the tax code as far as we know.”

  “So who is O’Hare blowing the whistle on for tax evasion? And please don’t tell me Pinto Vigo,” Kim replied. “Saying drug cartels violate the tax code is like saying ice cream is cold.”

  Finlay grinned. “Just because it’s obvious doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Kim scowled toward him. “And let me guess. Lawton called FBI Special Agent Ross for intel because he’s local.”

  “Probably that, and they’re buddies. Known each other awhile and worked together before. We don’t know exactly because they never got a chance to discuss any of this,” Finlay explained, waving his hand toward the big screen.

  Kim frowned. “Why not?”

  “Lawton called Ross at home. Presumably because he didn’t want the FBI Albuquerque field office knowing his business. He didn’t tell Ross why he was in town, but he planned to meet Ross later.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “It does. But it didn’t work out that way.”

  “Again, why not?”

  “Because Lawton connected with O’Hare at a place called the Last Chance Saloon. That was Monday, early afternoon.” Finlay paused. “Lawton hasn’t been seen since.”

  Kim felt a hard gnawing in her belly. Should she have known something had happened to Lawton? Sensed it somehow? “Has Ross tried to follow up?”

  “He’s called Lawton a couple of times. Left messages.”

  She didn’t ask how Finlay knew about Lawton’s phone activity. No reason to ask. Every single phone call that happened inside the US was recorded somewhere these days. Finlay’s resources were vast. He’d have located and heard the actual conversations and the voice mails, too.

  He was worried. Which meant Lawton had something to be worried about, too.

  “What does O’Hare know about the Vigo cartel operating at Glen Haven?”

  “That’s one of the things you’ll need to find out. And it won’t be easy.”

  She shrugged. “Seems simple enough to me. Just ask O’Hare. If he’s willing to blow the whistle on some things, he probably knows a lot more.”

  “Possibly. But O’Hare disappeared a few hours ago,” Finlay replied gravely.

  Every piece of intel Finlay shared made the situation worse. How the hell was she supposed to deal with this alone?

  “Why aren’t the FBI and IRS looking for Lawton? He’s a federal agent. They can’t just hang him out to dry.” Kim was angry and made no effort to conceal it.

  “Assuming they’ve figured out that Lawton’s been abducted, which we’re not clear on just yet. Then the answer is the same reason they didn’t go after Holly Johnson when she was abducted with Reacher fifteen years ago. Too risky.” Finlay shook his head. “SWAT teams armed to the teeth storming a peaceful commune doesn’t make good television. One screw-up and things can get really ugly, very fast. That’s where political and agency careers go to die. We’ve all seen it happen before. Nobody’s willing to take that bet. Not without better intel than we have now, anyway.”

  He was right. What he said made no sense to a reasonable person, but she understood it. She knew how politicians think. Agency heads, too, for that matter. Nobody wants to risk doing the right thing if it means their own heads on a platter unless they’re damn sure first. Especially when civilians are involved.

  Kim waited a moment to let everything he’d said sin
k in. She glanced at the clock. The flight would land in Albuquerque in about an hour, give or take. Not much time to get herself fully up to speed.

  “So you think all of this is somehow connected to Reacher and that’s why you pulled me in?” Kim cocked her head.

  Finlay shrugged. “We never know for sure where Reacher’s going to turn up. Most of the time, I doubt that he knows before he gets there. Usually he just steps off the bus or out of a ride he’s hitched along the back roads and walks into trouble. Tough to track a guy like Reacher, as you well know.”

  Kim narrowed her gaze to study his micro expressions. In half a second, she’d reached her conclusion.

  He knew Reacher would come. Might even be there already.

  Otherwise, Finlay wouldn’t have spent five minutes thinking about O’Hare or Ross or the commune or even Pinto Vigo. Fighting drug cartels across America was a constant game of whack-a-mole. Finlay wouldn’t be on the ground in that effort. That’s what federal agencies were for. He certainly wouldn’t have bothered to scoop her up and personally bring her out here. No doubt in her mind.

  He wanted Reacher.

  Like Gaspar said, Finlay was using her to get Reacher. Which meant he couldn’t get to Reacher on his own.

  Same as the Boss. They wanted her to lure Reacher into the open.

  And then what?

  Didn’t matter just yet. For once, she was hoping they were both right.

  Because she couldn’t leave Lawton to die at the hands of Vigo’s cartel. No matter what their relationship was or wasn’t, she would not abandon him.

  Nor could she do this alone. Vigo’s cartel was one of the most ruthless gangs on this or any other continent. They’d killed two mothers and four children in cold blood simply for driving where they didn’t belong in Mexico. They’d done worse to countless others.

  She wouldn’t abandon anyone to that fate. And certainly not Lawton.

  Once she retrieved him, she could think about their relationship going forward. Or not.

  She’d need help finding Lawton and getting him out of whatever he’d gotten himself into.

  And Reacher just might be the right man for the job.

  First things first.

  She said, “Start over. Tell me everything you know. Don’t leave anything out this time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thursday, April 14

  6:30 a.m.

  Glen Haven, New Mexico

  The kidnapper had marched Mason across the compound, into the first barracks, and shoved him down the steps into the dark basement. He tumbled awkwardly to the concrete floor and landed hard on one shoulder. The pain forced a yelp from his lips before he could squelch it.

  He looked around wildly but saw nothing in the all-consuming blackness. Even his night vision would have been useless here because there was zero ambient light to be amplified.

  He lay on the cold floor, rubbing his sore shoulder, hoping it wasn’t broken, listening for sounds he could name. He heard nothing recognizable in his dank prison.

  From time to time, heavy footfalls crossed the floor above, and a toilet flushed. Aside from the cold seeping through the concrete, he suffered total sensory deprivation until his eyelids grew heavy and he dozed off.

  A quick, hard push from a boot to his belly awakened him. Mason’s eyes popped open. At first it seemed the basement was flooded with light. He blinked a few times and shielded his eyes from the glare with his forearm.

  “Get up, O’Hare,” came a rough command as the man moved away.

  Mason almost recognized the voice. He’d heard it before, but where? He moved his forearm slowly, allowing his pupils to adjust in short bursts until he could peer into the semi-darkness.

  He was lying in a cone of light but the edges of the room were shadowed. He crabbed slowly to his feet, kneading his sore shoulder, checking his joints for dislocations and the like.

  “How long have I been out?” he asked, peering into the shadows.

  “About four hours, give or take,” the harsh voice replied.

  Which was when Mason remembered. Lawton. The Treasury agent he’d met for lunch at the Last Chance Saloon. He relaxed slightly. A government agent wasn’t likely to kill him in cold blood, he figured.

  His brain started to work again. Mason had been in the basements of both barracks buildings before. He squinted and tried to recall the layout.

  Migrant workers showered and slept here and relaxed for a bit before bed. Nothing fancy was required or provided. Bunk beds lined the walls. The left side of the room was furnished as a small sitting room. A television was mounted on the wall. There were two bathrooms with showers on the opposite side.

  Lawton’s voice had come from the direction of the sitting area.

  Mason cleared his throat and asked, “You’ve been watching me all this time?”

  “Not necessary. You aren’t capable of killing me in my sleep, even if you had the guts to try. Which we both know from our experiences in the desert that you don’t have,” Lawton replied harshly.

  Mason shot back, “What did you want me to do? You’re the one with the training. You couldn’t get us out of there. What could possibly give you the idea that I might have done something more effective?”

  He hobbled over and plopped down on a chair close enough to see and be seen, but out of reach. Just in case. He glanced across the gloom. Even in the dim light, it was obvious that Lawton looked much worse than when they’d been pushed into that van six days ago.

  He was still wearing the same clothes, but the suit was filthy and his jacket was ripped. His face looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a competent heavyweight, but his hands weren’t scraped up. So he’d probably been restrained while they pummeled him.

  Mason shuddered when he realized his situation could have been so much worse.

  Lawton had to be hurting and he wasn’t wasting any energy. He was relaxed and staying ready. But ready for what?

  Mason took a breath, felt the soreness in his shoulder and the rumbling in his gut. He wasn’t wearing a watch and there were no basement windows to given him a glimpse into the normal world.

  How long had he been asleep? Was it daylight yet?

  When would someone notice he was missing again and come looking for him?

  Lawton might have been happy to sit quietly for a time, but Mason wasn’t. He asked, “Who kidnapped you?”

  “What makes you think I was the target?” Lawton replied.

  Mason’s breath caught. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m a CPA. Nobody would want to kidnap me. You were the target and I got scooped up by mistake. Nothing else makes sense.”

  “How so?”

  “Nobody knew I was going to be there. Can you say the same thing?” Mason said testily, because he felt a little panicked at the very thought that he might be kidnapped and killed and no one would know.

  Lawton didn’t respond.

  Mason insisted. “You didn’t call somebody? Mention where we were having lunch?”

  “I might have. Casually. Nothing more. But the chances of anyone I know working with a criminal cartel to kidnap me are exactly zero,” Lawton growled. “Can you say the same thing?”

  “They must be listening to your phone calls. Not that hard to do these days, is it?” Mason wasn’t a clandestine operative, but he did like to watch movies. He knew what was going on in the crime world. Sort of.

  Lawton shrugged.

  “Any federal agent makes enemies,” Mason said, continuing with his logic. “It was a well-planned operation. Must have taken some time to set it up. Probably based on surveillance, right? They knew where you were going. They followed you. Prepared to snatch you up. Which they did. I was just unlucky. Wrong place, wrong time. That’s all.”

  Lawton narrowed his gaze but said nothing.

  Mason’s panic kicked up a notch. “I mean, they let me go. They kept you. You’re the intended hostage.”

  “If you say so,” Lawton replied with a shrug.
>
  Mason nodded definitively, as if he’d made up his mind. “If they’d wanted me, why leave me alive out there in the desert, huh? Why wasn’t it me here in the dark waiting for you to wake up instead of the other way around?”

  Lawton remained quiet for a few long minutes, until his silence began to get on Mason’s nerves. It was one thing to sit in solitude. Quite another to sit in the dark with Lawton and have no communication at all.

  “How are we going to get out of here?” Mason finally asked.

  “Wish I could say I had a plan,” Lawton replied. “I don’t even know where we are. The only place I’ve seen since I got here is this room.”

  “We’re at Glen Haven. This is a basement. We’re underneath one of the barracks buildings we use for migrant workers when we need them for the harvest,” Mason said.

  Lawton nodded. “And you know this because?”

  “Because I live here. Well, not here in this building. But here at Glen Haven. In the main residence.”

  “Still think this has nothing to do with you?”

  Mason widened his eyes. His mouth rounded and his breath poofed out. “What do you mean?”

  “You called the whistleblower hot line. You said there were men with illegal guns who were living at Glen Haven. You said they were engaged in criminal activities. You said they were evading taxes. That’s how you got me out here.”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

  Lawton cocked his head. “No? Evidence suggests the odds are against you on that one, pal. Spill it. See if we can turn this thing around.”

  Mason took a deep breath and told what he knew, starting with his recon efforts last night and ending with the guns, drugs, and women in the other barracks building.

  Lawton narrowed his eyes and kept his comments to himself. He asked no questions until Mason finished his story. He spent a nanosecond analyzing the intel.

  Flatly, Lawton said, “So Gavin Ray came to your room for a late night chat. An hour later, you were marched over here at gunpoint and tossed down the stairs.”