Lucy read the report, moving her finger along the text to keep her place in case he interrupted with questions, which he frequently did.
“The cops followed the car of the guy who picked up the cash which was driven back into the city in a circuitous route designed to detect surveillance.”
An SDR. Max assumed the CIA had trained Lucy in surveillance detection routes.
“Once satisfied he wasn’t being followed, the kidnapper drove to a property south of the city, and the police waited for Camilla Marquez to be released.” Lucy hooked her hair behind her ear and leaned toward him.
He found himself watching her lips.
“It says here that the police tailed all the male occupants of that house for two days and eventually they were led to another more remote location in a poorer neighborhood south-west of the city. Camilla Marquez and some of the other victims described the place where they were held as rural and poor. Camilla had spied fields and someone else said they’d smelled goats.” Lucy frowned. “I don’t know what a goat smells like.”
Max smiled in amusement.
“Once they were convinced they had the right place—as determined by the amount of booze and women seen arriving that Friday night, they waited for the women to leave and stormed the place in the early hours of Sunday morning.”
Max took the other photographs out of the file, but he didn’t show them to Lucy, and she didn’t ask to see. The kidnappers had all been shot dead. Some had weapons in their hands, but many did not. And not all the women had vacated the premises. Had they been girlfriends of gang members or sex workers? They were possibly innocent victims of the police raid. No one had mentioned them as such.
Max had a feeling the cops were performing clean up and delivering a message to anyone who contemplated committing this sort of crime in the future. He found a photo of a thin pallet and a pair of manacles attached to a heavy radiator via a thick chain. A dirty dog’s bowl sat beside the makeshift bed—apparently the hostages’ water supply. A red plastic bucket was nearby that the hostages were expected to use as a toilet.
Camilla Marquez had been released, but the kidnappers looked like they were all set for the next victim.
A lot of the money appeared to be spent partying on the weekend, although Max had no doubt a portion would have been funneled back to the gang’s leaders.
He placed the photo of the radiator on the table and Lucy stared at it.
“It was a business for them.” She sounded numb. “They didn’t care about the victims at all.”
“Nope, they didn’t.” Max put the photographs and files back into the box and placed the lids carefully on the top. These boxes told the story of untold damage and heartbreak—exactly the sort of things he tried to mitigate. The Argentine police had done a good job at shutting this kidnap ring down, but had someone survived and decided to revive what had been a profitable endeavor?
He checked his watch and pushed back his chair. “I’ve had enough of this for one day. How about we grab something to eat before we check back in with the troops?”
Lucy blew out a breath that caused the tendrils of hair around her face to flutter. “I wonder if there have been any updates?”
The good thing about not having access to his phones was the lack of interruptions. He could concentrate better.
“We’ll check on the way out. But I need to eat.”
Lucy nodded and hung her jacket over her arm.
“Let’s go find Cabral.”
When they reached Hector Cabral’s office, the door was open, and he seemed to be holding some sort of meeting as ten to twenty people were crammed into the small space while he held court from behind the large desk.
Max knocked on the door, not wanting to interrupt but also cognizant that the man had specifically asked to be informed when they were finished and ready to leave.
Cabral looked up and raised his hand to interrupt the person talking. “You are finished?” he asked.
“Yes. I appreciate you letting us examine the files.”
“Did you see anything that led you to believe the ambassador’s daughter’s kidnapping was related?”
“It’s a little early to say but, at this stage, I’d say it was unlikely.”
Cabral’s eyes widened a fraction. “Really?”
“There are similarities but also some stark differences.”
The man smiled grimly. “Let us hope so.”
Max returned the look. The last thing anyone wanted was the two girls being raped and tortured. “We’ll get out of your hair. Thanks again for letting me examine the files.”
“Keep us informed of your progress.” Cabral barked, “Agente Ramon. Show the FBI the door.”
A few barely concealed sniggers suggested Cabral was flexing his muscles in front of his subordinates, but Max was too old for pissing contests. The guy had done what Max wanted, and that’s all that mattered to him. That was the art of negotiation. First, remove your ego from the situation. Then figure out what you wanted.
Agente Ramon came into the corridor and the male eyes inside followed her like iron filings to a magnet. She was short, probably only 5’2” with shiny black hair that hung all the way down to her waist. She wore skintight, black jeans, short-heeled boots, an electric blue blouse that was tight enough and unbuttoned enough to reveal the upper curves of her breasts. A deadly Glock-17 rode her hip.
Her eyes were tilted, darkened with kohl lines that curled up at the outer edges. Her mouth wore a coat of cherry lipstick. The woman was a knockout.
“Follow me, please.” Proving she also spoke perfect English.
Was that why Cabral had asked this woman to show them out when there was a roomful of men there?
She led the way with an exaggerated sway to her hips.
Or maybe that was why. Cabral was playing a game of temptation, hoping Max might spill a few secrets to the hot brunette.
Max glanced at Lucy, but her mouth was pinched, and her eyes were once again downcast. Impossible to read.
“Are you working the kidnapping case, Agente Ramon?”
She turned and waited for him and Lucy to catch up, but Lucy deliberately hung back.
“We were all called back in to work.” Her voice was deep and throaty.
“That’s too bad your vacation was put on hold.”
“Actually, considering we’re being paid overtime, no one minds too much. The criminals earn a lot more than we do.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. Max had the feeling she knew exactly how incredible her body was and used it for best effect. Max wasn’t immune to beauty, but he didn’t like being manipulated. That was his job.
“Agente Ramon,” he said. “The FBI appreciates all the help the PFA is giving us. We care very much about getting these girls safely home to their parents.”
She gave an affirmative jerk of her head. “No one likes kidnappers. Hopefully, the ambassador pays the ransom as requested and the girls are released unharmed.” Another shrug told of the fact she knew what happened when kidnappers didn’t get their money.
“Hopefully, we can come to some sort of agreement with the kidnappers. There’s no way the ambassador can afford millions of dollars.”
She shot him a sharp look. “The American government won’t pay? I thought that was just a public show of bravado.”
Max held her gaze before they started down the stairs. “Would the Argentine government pay?”
Agente Ramon laughed, and the sound echoed off the walls. “That would depend on exactly who was taken and who was in power.”
Max smirked. “Do the Argentines have any leads they haven’t shared with us?”
Agente Ramon shook her head, and her ebony hair rippled in a wave around her shoulders. “I wish we did. Do the Americans?” she countered.
Or the Brits, for that matter, he thought.
“No.”
She pulled a face that suggested she didn’t believe him.
They reached the lockers, and he pull
ed out his phones and turned them on. His work cell started binging like a pinball machine.
One of the messages was from Eban. The lab had confirmed the presence of two DNA profiles on the ring Max had found in the alley yesterday afternoon. One belonged to Kristen Dickerson. The other was unknown.
“Hey, Ramon.”
She paused on her way back up the stairs.
“We have a DNA sample from a possible suspect that we’d love to run against your databases. How’s that for sharing?” He smiled, and she gave him a long, sultry look in return. Lucy stood beside him, pretending she didn’t exist. It irritated him for no tangible reason.
“If you can talk to your evidence lab, I’ll arrange for Quantico to forward the profile. With luck, you could have a hit to take back with you to the meeting.”
Her eyes narrowed, clearly contemplating where this particular break might put her in the investigation.
“Fine. Come with me. We will talk to one of the DNA experts who is usually happy to do me a favor.” She jerked her chin to indicate they follow her. Then she seemed to register Lucy for the first time, and her finely arched brows rose. “I don’t know who dresses your friend, but my grandmother has some clothes she can borrow.”
Lucy glanced at Ramon, eyes wide in surprise.
“My friend is standing right there listening to every word,” Max bit out. “She dresses however the hell she wants.”
Lucy looked back at the floor, and he watched the line of her throat ripple as she swallowed.
Had Ramon hurt her feelings? Lucy was such a mystery to him he couldn’t tell. And he was skilled at reading people. It was what made him good at his job.
Agente Ramon shrugged like she didn’t care how her words impacted Lucy. Then she led the way down the stairs to the lab.
Max stowed his anger. He’d thought something similar about how Lucy dressed yesterday morning. He was trying to pinpoint exactly when his opinion had changed and realized it was about the time he’d seen her pissed off at the Legat when wearing her workout gear which had hugged every inch of her body.
So maybe he wasn’t quite as sanctimonious as he was trying to make out.
Chapter Seventeen
“You didn’t need to defend me back there, you know.” Lucy took a quick drink of water to cool down. “With that police officer.”
Max’s lips kicked up in a grin. He grabbed his beer and raised it in salute. “Noted.”
Dear god, he was gorgeous. And kind. She speared a lettuce leaf. She’d already polished off an enormous Milanesa a caballo as Max tried a selection of world famous barbecued Argentine asado.
The female agent’s snide remarks about her clothing were actually a compliment to Lucy’s skills at disguise. She’d met women like that before, plenty of them. The derogatory remarks in the past had carried a different type of barb. The favorite theme had been to mock her intelligence due to her “Barbie-doll” looks and long blonde hair. Certain men had treated her like an airhead for the same reason—the same guys who often hit on her for a date later. Forget her ability to speak six foreign languages or her accelerated Master’s degree. They’d labeled her a bimbo and the most frustrating thing was, she’d gone and proven them right.
The Old Lucy had fought back and made a lot of enemies, which was not a good way to cultivate a career in an organization that relied heavily on contacts and cooperation. She’d learned all her lessons the hard way and was inordinately proud at how she hadn’t responded to Agente Ramon, not even on the inside.
But Max hadn’t known any of that. Physically, he saw what the detective saw, but he viewed Frumpy Lucy with a lot more compassion than anyone else had over the last year or so.
As a reward, she’d brought Max to one of her favorite restaurants on the outskirts of San Telmo. It would have been easier to grab a sandwich somewhere on the way back to the embassy, but they’d worked through lunch and would probably both be working long into the evening.
This area was the first to have been settled by Europeans and boasted cobbled streets and low-story colonials. It was in these narrow streets and shady squares where the world-famous tango had been born.
She took a large sip of Malbec and tried not to moon over her companion. She really should know better.
There were only a small number of tables in the restaurant and later they’d be cleared away for dancing. Christmas lights decorated the buildings and trees around the square. She’d almost forgotten it was Christmas. It seemed wrong somehow that everything looked so festive and happy when Kristen and Irene were probably locked up somewhere dark and frightening, worried about whether or not they were going to make it out alive.
Max’s cell buzzed on the table, and he glanced at the screen.
“Word from the kidnappers?” She spoke quietly so as not to be overhead. A cool breeze lifted the tendrils of hair off her neck. She tied her hair back when she was alone with Max—she wasn’t sure if it was some remnant of vanity, or simply the knowledge he’d already seen her this way and so it didn’t matter as much. Probably a mixture of both. It was a relief to get the heavy mess out of her face on a hot day.
Max shook his head. “They haven’t called back, and I don’t expect them to yet. Adam Quinn has been manning the phones all day, and I was going to go in and spot him while he got some sleep, but he just texted to say the camp bed arrived, and he plans to sleep there tonight. He’s a good guy, but we need more people. Another negotiator arrives tomorrow. That will give us the ability to train a couple of local agents while still tracking down as much info as possible.” He carved off more of the perfectly grilled steak.
“Is it unusual for them not to call back?”
“Not at all. Especially at first. They will probably stay on the line longer when they become more confident we can’t track them. My guess is they’ll be chewing over what I told them this morning about the ambassador’s cashflow issues. I’m hoping we can come to a more reasonable agreement in the next few days.”
Lucy pressed her lips together as she remembered what she’d read in those police files today. Sadness overwhelmed her. “Do you think they’re hurting the girls in the meantime?”
Max swallowed a mouthful of food and sat there quietly for a few moments. Then he met her gaze. “It depends one hundred percent on the moral code of these individuals and how much control the leader exerts.” He frowned. “Just because they kidnapped the girls and are holding them for ransom doesn’t mean they are necessarily going to assault them. But it also doesn’t mean they won’t. I can’t say for sure.” He blew out a breath. “I know that they are likely to kill the young women should the choice be between that or the kidnappers’ freedom.”
Lucy was sorry she’d asked. She’d destroyed the peace they’d been sharing.
“The idea that they’re suffering breaks my heart and makes me feel useless.” She laid down her fork. She was no longer hungry, but she’d almost finished everything anyway. Was Kristen getting any food? Was she still alive? “I guess I need to get better at compartmentalizing.”
“No. You don’t. Empathy isn’t something to be ashamed of.” Max shook his head and carried on eating. “I deal with these situations every day so it’s not that I’m immune to suffering. I have to push it aside to deal with the problem in a way that is most likely to lead to the successful release of the hostages and less likely to lead to negotiator burnout.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t get the same frenzy-of-insanity vibe from the man I’ve been talking to on the phone that I got from reading the Brazilian gang’s MO but…”
“What?”
She could see the reflection of fairy lights in the darkness of his eyes.
“Often the person making the phone calls is not the person directly taking care of the hostages.”
The air huffed out of Lucy’s lungs. She wanted to do something concrete. Track down the hostages and break the girls the hell out. She felt so helpless carrying on as if nothing had happened.
Except Max was correct. She couldn’t function without food or sleep. And she couldn’t do the job she was supposed to do until the ambassador released her from this temporary assignment. She may as well enjoy what she could.
What if the Russians were involved? She still needed to send them some sort of update today. They’d expect it. Who knew what they’d do if she didn’t jump when they barked jump? “Do you think this could be politically motivated?”
“If it was, I wouldn’t expect the ransom demand to be for cash.” He dragged the last piece of meat through the sauce on his plate and brought it to his lips.
“Some countries like to mess with our heads,” she said carefully.
Max appeared to weigh her words as he chewed his food. “They do. And I’m not saying it’s not possible but, if a foreign adversary started to change the rules of the game, then they put all their people working abroad at risk, and all those people’s families. We do see people detained for bargaining purposes—China has been especially aggressive in this regard lately but snatching the relatives of embassy staff would produce a whole rash of blowback they probably don’t want to deal with.”
“What if they do it to stir up trouble and have no intention of getting caught in the act?” The Russians routinely denied everything, even when it was obvious to the rest of the world they were one hundred percent guilty.
Max watched her. Dark brown eyes taking in her features as if he were searching for a tell. “Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”
“What?” Lucy blinked. “No! I just…” Shit. Except, maybe she had been trying to tell him something. “We were at Boris Yahontov’s Christmas party when the ambassador received the news Kristen had been taken. I couldn’t help thinking at the time that there couldn’t have been a worse place for Catherine Dickerson to hear that information. Even though she didn’t stick around or give an explanation as to what the crisis was.” She swallowed, remembering Yahontov’s words to her and the way his eyes had filled with cool amusement when they’d had to leave. “It felt like the billionaire was enjoying her distress.”
Cold Cruel Kiss: A heart-stopping and addictive romantic thriller Page 18
