That Maddy had been targeted because of her association with Rocco was clear.
I’m sorry, Maddy.
YOUR EYES ONLY, the photo’s caption had read. CALL THIS NUMBER OR YOUR GIRLFRIEND DIES.
That Tran mistakenly thought Maddy and Rocco were still a couple was a moot point. She was a colleague and a friend. And she was in trouble because of Rocco.
A quick search revealed that the publicly listed, international phone number belonged to a popular commercial messaging service based out of Latvia.
For two euros, typically paid with untraceable gift or stolen credit cards, a forty-five-second message could be left. With layers of high-tech-scrambling security, across multiple servers, the system was virtually impenetrable, making it popular with illicit lovers and criminals alike.
The access PIN provided allowed Rocco to retrieve the recording and then punch in a callback number. The succinct voice message, playable only once, had been left by one of Minh Tran’s English-speaking minions.
“We will trade this female for you and one other.” The message went on to outline the two-for-one swap.
In recompense for the death of Tran’s youngest son, a trigger-happy punk Rocco had killed during a recent mission in Bangkok, Minh Tran demanded Rocco’s surrender. No surprise there. Rocco and Minh Tran had been stepping on each other’s toes for years.
But it was the second part of Minh Tran’s demand that was the kicker. In order to secure Maddy’s release, Rocco had to bring along Dr. Rufin, the scientist Tran’s dead son had shot during that same mission.
As the developer of the designer drug SugarCane, Dr. Rufin was key to Minh Tran’s financial future. The sole distributor of SugarCane, Tran’s empire threatened to crumble as his supply of ’Cane dwindled.
That Tran fed a growing segment of the illicit drug market in the U.S. typically fell under the domain of the Drug Enforcement Agency. The C.I.A. had gotten involved when Tran started wholesaling dope to terrorist groups who used the drug profits to fund their attacks on allied troops in the Middle East.
Rocco couldn’t have dreamt up a more hopeless situation. If he honestly believed that Maddy’s safety could be secured with such a swap, he’d have had Rufin hog-tied on the couch and been awaiting further instructions. Except it was never that neat, that easy.
The truth was, Rufin was recuperating on Uncle Sam’s dime at a top-secret location, unknown even to Rocco.
As the perceived repository of the works of the late Russian scientist Viktor Zadovsky, Dr. Rufin was wanted by every country on the planet. His value was off the charts.
Though Rufin had been covertly granted asylum in the U.S., the Agency denied the fact and employed countermeasures ranging from offering rewards for Rufin’s capture to planting rumors of his demise.
While those tactics were fooling others, Minh Tran seemed to know better. Precisely how Tran had linked Rocco to Rufin, and Maddy to Rocco, was to be debated another time.
Within minutes of his retrieving the voice message and leaving a callback number, Rocco’s cell phone had rung. The conversation had lasted less than twenty seconds. Rocco had demanded to speak with Maddy, proof of life as well as an opportunity to buy time.
The reply, “She is not available,” had rattled him.
Please let her be alive.
As difficult as it had been, Rocco had stuck to his guns, refusing to negotiate until he spoke with Maddy. The caller had promptly disconnected, only to call back a few seconds later with a promise to have Maddy available at 11:30.
But at 11:25, a different man had called, changing
the time to midnight. Rocco looked at the clock again.
Seven more minutes
. Would someone call at 11:55 and blow him off again?
Needing to move, dying to take action, Rocco pushed to his feet. Two steps brought him to the front window. The blinds were drawn, but the slight gaps at either edge allowed him to peer out. Beneath the moth-surrounded streetlights, the night appeared normal. Which didn’t mean squat.
Living in a so-called gated community might give most residents a sense of security but Rocco had exploited that same blind trust more than once. Simply giving the gate attendant a name and an address earned you a visitor’s permit.
Turning away from the window, Rocco let his eyes readjust to the town house’s darkened interior. Then he began to pace.
Like a leopard prowling, he moved by instinct, focused. He had the layout of the sparsely furnished town house memorized. Five steps put the coffee table to his left, the pole lamp to the right. A ninety-degree turn brought him to the hulking shape that was a recliner. The one Maddy had openly mocked, calling it “too awful for the junkyard.” And she had felt terrible later, after learning the recliner had belonged to Rocco’s grandfather.
On the end table beside the chair was the now long-dead cactus Maddy had brought over during the I’m-gonna-put-my-mark-here phase of their relationship. Neither the plant nor the phase had lasted long.
The two-year course of their on-again, off-again relationship had been mostly off. The fact that deep down Rocco still cared for someone else had been the death knell.
“Maddy, I—” The apology had lodged in his throat.
“If you say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time, I’ll kill you,” Maddy had threatened more than once. “It’s not what I want to hear and you know it!”
Yeah, he knew. All she’d ever wanted was a sincere “I love you.” The same three words Rocco had permanently stricken from his vocabulary. Oh, sure, he was always up front about it, with Maddy and any other woman he’d dated for more than a week.
And in the beginning, Maddy had seemed okay with that, had even thanked him for being honest. Until she pieced together the
why
after Rocco called her by another woman’s name. Dumb-ass, dumb-ass, dumb-ass. The Freudian slip became a noose.
“You still love Gena, don’t you?” Maddy had accused.
He wasn’t going there. Not now. Whom he did or didn’t love in no way diminished his responsibility to Maddy.
Reaching out, Rocco stroked the desiccated cactus. The dead spire was smooth, the last of the prickly spines having finally dropped off. The symbolism hit like a baseball bat to the head. Rocco killed relationships with the same callous lack of attention with which he offed his houseplants.
Maddy deserved better. But had she found it? Was there a Mr. Right lurking offstage, some new guy who had prompted Maddy’s roommate to label her preoccupied?
Rocco had heard she was dating and had left her alone. Or tried. The problem was, he genuinely liked Maddy, would call her just to talk. They’d agreed to be friends, and that’s what friends did.
Except not everyone got that memo. Which was also Rocco’s fault.
He recalled the party in Key West they’d attended as “friends” not too long ago. Everyone assumed they were still a couple and Rocco had done nothing to correct those assumptions. Maybe the path to hell was also paved with ego gratifications.
The bottom line was Maddy was in danger because of him. And Rocco was willing to attempt the impossible to save her. Because if not him, who?
The Agency’s response would be 100 percent predictable. There were policies for this type of scenario, a set of procedures to minimize the fallout of lose-lose situations.
Plainly stated, from the Agency’s perspective, Maddy wasn’t worth as much as Rufin. Sure, they’d
try
to save her. But not at the risk of revealing that Rufin was in U.S. custody.
And if Maddy was aware of the demand, she’d deduce that for herself. She knew the score. How many times had she and Rocco joked about how the Agency’s unwritten “good-of-the-many” weighted hierarchy sucked when you were “the few” on the bottom layer?
Don’t worry, Maddy. I won’t forget you.
He moved his black rucksack closer to the door, mentally inventorying the contents. It was difficult to plan an offense at this stage, so he’d stuck to basics. Lots of cash stashed in hidden pockets, two sets of fake IDs and passports, one for himself and one for Maddy.
While the packing crate wasn’t proof positive that she’d been smuggled out of the country, Rocco felt certain that Maddy was being held at one of Minh Tran’s strongholds in Thailand. Talk about a home-field advantage.
Frustrated, Rocco looked at the clock again. One minute, forty-five seconds.
Call now, damn you. Let’s do this.
To his surprise, his cell phone started vibrating, the ringtone delayed. Rocco hurried back to the coffee table and activated the digital recorder he’d wired to his cell phone, simultaneously praying this wasn’t another delay tactic on Tran’s part. If the caller said Maddy still wasn’t available, Rocco would have to assume the worst.
Picking up his phone, Rocco groaned when he saw the number illuminated on caller ID. His former boss and friend: Travis Franks. That Travis was calling this late meant little. The man never slept. Travis had most likely just gotten wind of the fiasco at the office.
Rocco hit IGNORE and watched the screen fade to black. He would call Travis back in a few. For now, this line had to stay open.
Hell, Rocco had even ignored his sister’s call earlier. If Adele needed money, Rocco would send it tomorrow. But if she’d broken up with another boyfriend and wanted a sober shoulder to cry on, she needed to look elsewhere. Rocco’s sympathy for drunks had declined since their mother died of alcohol-induced cirrhosis last year.
He checked the time.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Two.
One.
“Blast it, ring,” Rocco muttered.
Nothing. Then … vibration.
Buzz.
PRIVATE CALLER the display read. He snapped the recorder on.
“Taylor,” he answered.
At first no sound came across.
“Rocco?” Maddy’s faint voice hit him like a battering ram in the spleen.
“Maddy! Oh, Jesus, honey! Are you okay?” She sounded sick. Drugged most likely. “Tell me—”
“Silence!” Heavily accented English came across the line.
“Put Maddy back on the phone.”
Scumbag.
“You got your proof of life. Here are your instructions.”
“I don’t consider one word proof of life.” Rocco struggled to control his temper. Antagonizing the man might make circumstances harder for Maddy. “That could have been a recording.”
The man exhaled noisily. Static sawed at the connection, causing Rocco to worry the man had hung up. A second later the line cleared with a faint beep, confirming that electronic jammers were being employed to thwart tracing.
Rocco could hear the man shouting in an indistinct Thai dialect. There were other sounds, other voices, but he couldn’t catch the words.
Maddy’s voice came back across the phone, but this time at a distance. As if the phone was being held out.
“No!” she shouted. “Nooooo!” She was sobbing now. “Rocco … make … them—”
Maddy’s words broke off as she started to scream. Then the line went dead.
Sugar Springs, TX
October 4, 12:05 A.M.
“Last one!” Gena Armstrong slid the screwdriver back into the leather tool belt at her waist. Stepping back, she took a moment to admire the newly hung bedroom door. Appreciation was a habit she’d picked up after years of watching and working with her friend Vianca.
Prior to her untimely death three months ago, Vi had been one of the few Hispanic female commercial building contractors in the country. She’d been damn good at it, too.
I miss you, Vi.
Gena swung the door shut and checked the hinge alignment before testing the lock.
Snap. Click.
She tugged the handle. Perfect. It didn’t budge.
As locks went, this one wasn’t substantial, but neither was the door itself. The knob on the opposite side had a hole designed for easy picking in the event a young child accidently locked himself or herself in.
Cheap hollow-core doors were designed for privacy
, not security. And most of the women who would stay at the New Beginnings II shelter—once it finally opened, that is—had firsthand experience with doors like this one being kicked down. Locks only enraged an attacker.
“Don’t ever lock me out of our bedroom, you worthless slut!”
Furious that her selective memory had once again served up a nasty remnant from her past, Gena yanked the door open.
“Lupe!” Gena took a reflexive step back, not expecting to see someone there.
Lupe Del Fuego, the young woman who’d been helping paint walls and trim in the evenings, stood in the doorway, her hand poised to knock. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to, what is the word? Make you jumpy-scared.”
“Startle. And it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I am done with the paint.”
“And I am done with these doors.”
Lupe nodded at the door. “Looks like brand new.”
It was brand new. Gena had arrived that morning only to find the vacant shelter had been vandalized during the night. That was twice this week. So much for the promised increase in police patrols.
“Evidence of GMW activity in the area,” the responding officer had noted in his report. GMW was local cop talk for Gang Member Wannabe. Juveniles. Which meant the complaint was viewed as more nuisance than criminal.
Gena was grateful the damage hadn’t been worse.
The red spray paint graffiti had been confined to the downstairs family room and had been less costly
to fix since that was the one room that hadn’t been painted, thanks to drywall repairs from the GMWs’ prior visit. It had taken two coats of white primer to cover the red, but at least now it was ready for a final coat of sage-colored paint.
The upstairs damage had been more costly and time-consuming to repair. Four of the six bedroom doors the vandals had kicked in were beyond repair. And since the shelter’s construction budget couldn’t take another hit, Gena had paid for the new doors with personal funds. Call it obsessive, but it was vital to Gena that everything be perfect for tomorrow.
And what about the day after tomorrow? Once the shelter was complete, she was out of a job, which shouldn’t bother her since she’d never intended to stay in Texas this long to begin with.