Dead Heat (38 page)

Sam’s dad had been a cop, her mother had been a dispatcher, her sister was a federal prosecutor in DC. She’d been recruited by the DEA in college. She’d thought it was noble to fight the war on drugs. She thought she could make a difference. She was smart, she was dedicated, and now she had eighteen years’ experience and was in leadership.

And they were losing the war. The losses that had piled up in those eighteen years haunted her.

Now she understood Brad in ways she hadn’t when they were sleeping together. She understood his obsession in ways she couldn’t before someone she cared about was taken.

A knock on her door made her jump, and she mentally admonished herself.

“Come in.”

It was Tom Saldana. “Clark made it out of surgery. He’s in the ICU. If he survives the next twenty-four hours, the doctors think he’ll make it.”

“Good.”
Thank God.

Tom closed the door. “I need to tell you something in complete confidence.”

“Of course.”

“We were set up.”

“I figured that out,” she snapped. She rubbed her eyes. She shouldn’t be taking her anger and exhaustion out on this agent who almost lost his partner.

“But I know how.” He sat down across from her. “Clark and I have cultivated several CIs. One, Lana, is a prostitute who has never given us bad information.
Never
. I don’t say that lightly, because no one else is that good. She’s the one who gave us the information about the warehouse.”

“We also confirmed it at Peña’s house.”

“Yeah, but it was too neat. That had to be part of the setup.”

“Tom, I’m too tired for vague. Tell me straight out.”

“When all this came down on Saturday, with Sanchez, Donnelly asked us to keep our eyes and ears open. Clark and I talked to Lana, told her what she needed to know, and said there was a thou in it if she had verifiable information, five grand if it led to his capture. She wasn’t interested—she knows who Sanchez is. Doesn’t want to cross the wrong people.

“After we had confirmation that Sanchez was in McAllen—through Donnelly’s own CI—she came to us, said she had heard about a deal at the warehouse. It was a place we were familiar with. We knew it was used by the cartels, and it fit what we knew about Sanchez.”

He paused. “She’s dead.”

“So Sanchez killed her because she ratted him out.” Tom shook his head, and was about to say something when Sam put her hand up. It clicked. “He wouldn’t kill her if he set the whole thing up.”

“Exactly.”

“But she could testify against him, right?”

“No. She didn’t get the information from Sanchez; she said she got it from another client of hers, an associate of Sanchez. There would be no reason to kill her—if she was effective for them. She didn’t know enough to be of use to us, so they’d simply let her be, using her as they needed.”

“So they killed her to tie up loose ends.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’m sure it’s directly related to the ambush. That maybe she knew something else, about the setup. It’s the way she was killed that has me suspicious. She was shot in a motel off the freeway. Shot three times center mass when she opened the door, this afternoon.”

“I still don’t see what you’re saying.”

“Three times in the chest. That’s classic federal firearms training. You, me, every DEA and FBI agent use the same firearms instructors at Quantico. Her purse was missing. The clerk said she came in and paid cash. I went back tonight and asked to see the money. He wasn’t happy, but he let me buy it off him. Two crisp twenty-dollar bills.”

“From an ATM?”

“Maybe. Or maybe from whoever killed her. I hadn’t paid her yet, that would have come after the takedown. So
someone
paid her. Look, if it’s someone inside, where are they going to get the money? Money they could put back?”

“Shit,” Sam muttered. “Do you have the twenties? I can run them.”

He handed her a plastic evidence bag with two twenties.

The information sank in. Maybe if she wasn’t so tired she would have picked it up before. “It’s one of us.”

“I want to say that I trust everyone in here. I really do. I can’t see any of them setting us up. But you and I both know it happens. The cartels have a shitload of money, and having an agent on their payroll is not unheard of. Between the two of us, we could name a half dozen corrupt agents in Texas alone who were caught in the last decade. Money or threats. It’s not me or Clark—that I can promise you. But that’s all I can promise. What we do know is that the traitor is someone who knew Lana was my CI, who gave her information to give to us. Once the person knew we’d taken the bait, he or she killed Lana so she couldn’t identify them.”

Sam’s heart raced as she extrapolated. “And that person would have to be part of the team because we didn’t set the day and time until
after
we raided Peña’s house. But—there were cameras in the junkyard. They were watching.”

“Yeah, but did you read the forensics report yet?”

“No.”

“The cameras were duds. They didn’t know Tom and I were in the junkyard—unless someone on our secure frequency told them.”

The weight nearly suffocated Sam, but she shook it off. Traitor? On
her
watch? Hell, no. She would find the individual and cut off their balls. Put them in prison until they rotted.

“I have to call Houston. Don’t say anything to anyone.
No one
.” She stood and walked to her temporary desk. She was about to pick up the landline when she realized that she didn’t know what or who to trust. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

Tom said, “I’m going to shower and go back to the hospital. I left Clark’s wife there. She’s six months’ pregnant, and she shouldn’t be alone. But if you learn anything, let me know. I want to be there when you nail the bastard.”

CHAPTER 32

Family was complicated, but when your brother was an ex-Marine turned mercenary who’d seen more violence, blood, and evil than 99.9 percent of the people on the planet, it became more complicated.

Temperatures dropped drastically at night in the desert. They had jackets, but Sean was grateful it wasn’t raining. The air was colder and drier here than it had been in Texas, possibly because they were in the middle of nowhere, Mexico.

There was a time when Sean had seen Kane as a noble hero and wanted to join his brother in the battle against corruption, cartels, and criminals south of the border. He still viewed Kane as a hero—there were few people who would consistently risk their lives to save others in a violent world few Americans knew existed.

But Sean wasn’t Kane, and he didn’t want to be. He wanted a life. He didn’t want to risk everything he was, everything he had, each and every day. Kane was hard—and there was no coming back from that hardness. That his brother had to be one of those people—one of the unsung heroes who cared about the money only because money funded their operations of saving people—both hurt and made him proud.

Kane would never have a woman like Lucy, and now that Sean
had
a Lucy, he was sad for his brother. Kane couldn’t stay in one place long. The nightmares, both real and in dreams, ate him up. But that didn’t matter: Kane had never been able to turn his back on violence and desperate poverty, nor could he walk away from punishing those who used the violence and poverty to further their own greedy agendas. But there had to be a line, a way to help the innocent and a way to live; a balance between evil and hope.

Lucy had been on the precipice when Sean first met her. She could have become like Kane, not a mercenary in the deserts and jungles of another country, but a mercenary within their own borders, fighting to save everyone but herself.

And that’s what Sean feared now. That she would lose herself to the demons she still battled because she would do whatever it took to save the boys, to save Agent Donnelly, to save Bella, no matter what the cost. And the cost could be great—and not just her life.

Sean would do anything to spare Lucy from what lay ahead … but he knew that was impossible.

He could only be there for her when all this was over.

They were on the makeshift runway where he’d landed the plane, waiting for Kane’s men to meet up with them. It was pitch-black, no moon, and the stars peeked out of high clouds. It could have been romantic, if he and Lucy were alone; instead, Sean was hyperalert for an attack.

Kane approached. “I can hear your tension.”

Sean glanced around, made sure Lucy wasn’t within earshot. Still, he whispered. “Lucy.”

“She can’t handle it?”

“She can.” What did he want to say? What
could
he say? He didn’t want Kane’s focus divided, but he also needed to protect Lucy. And not from the physical dangers they all faced. “I don’t want her to lose herself.”

At first Sean didn’t think Kane understood what he meant, but he couldn’t think of any other way to explain it. Of course Lucy was capable and trained—and even though the situation was dangerous and unpredictable, Sean trusted her instincts.

It was everything else. She’d already closed down her emotions, she’d already gotten that dark look in her eyes. He wanted her back, fully, not just part of her.

Then Kane said, “It’s the hazard of our lives. We chose this path.”

“Did we?” Kane did what he did because he was not only former military, but had lost his beloved sister to drugs and violence. Sean barely remembered Molly; Kane was only a year younger than her. Lucy did what she did because of the attack on her. She’d planned on being a linguist and traveling the world. Instead, she battled evil in her own backyard. Their fears, their anger, their need for justice—whether mercenary or legal—drove them. They couldn’t change it. There was no real choice.

He heard a whistle, then Kane whistled back. A minute later a jeep approached, no lights.

Kane glanced at Sean. “We good?”

Sean nodded. What else could he do? Maybe Kane would never understand that for Lucy this was different; she had more of herself to lose.

Two men, dressed in black, jumped out of the jeep. Kane made introductions. Skipper and Blitz. Did anyone use their real names on Kane’s squad?

“It’s quiet, four guards ID’d. We have to bypass the town, it’s controlled by Trejo.”

“Can we drive in?”

“Partway. We have a hole for the jeep, need to walk half a kilometer.”

Skipper walked over to Padre, and they hugged and smiled, but Sean couldn’t hear what they were saying. Kane approached, gave Padre a gun and radio, then walked to the jeep. The six of them crammed into the vehicle with Blitz driving.

It didn’t take long to reach the hole Skipper had mentioned. The hiding spot was a ravine between two small hills that overlooked the old prison. The town was to the north, about three hundred people living in ramshackle houses. According to Skipper, they were bought and paid for by Trejo, and they needed to avoid the place. Their goal was to take out the guards, rescue the boys and Agent Donnelly, and return to the plane without alerting anyone in the neighboring town—or alerting Trejo.

They were south-southwest of the dying town of Los Ramones, about thirty kilometers as the crow flies from the much larger city of Monterrey. But here, on the opposite side of the small Papagonos mountain range, they might as well be in the middle of nowhere. Good for stealth; bad because Sean didn’t know the area.

He’d helped Kane on and off with missions—primarily as a pilot, and mostly with the sanction and backing of Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid Protective Services. Kane’s specialty was hostage rescue, and Sean had aided as needed. But he wasn’t generally on the ground; if he was, he guarded the plane, as Padre was doing now.

If the operation went south, they were dead. And Lucy’s presence only complicated things. She was an agent of the U.S. government; if she were captured, she’d be tortured and killed. If she survived, she could lose her job. He knew none of that had registered with her, or if it had, she hadn’t let it sink in. She’d
said
she didn’t fear the Office of Professional Responsibility, but Sean knew her career was important to her.

Just not as important as doing the right thing, no matter how dangerous.

He studied her as she listened to everything Kane said. She wasn’t smiling. She was focused on the complex spread in front of them. Based on the information Michael and his team gave him, Kane drew a plan in the dirt.

Michael was Sean’s responsibility. He’d gotten them this far, but Sean didn’t trust the kid. Not completely. He was holding back something, and Sean couldn’t figure out what. Kane sensed it, too. At the same time, the story was true—or close to true. Based on the information that Lucy had obtained, and Kane’s knowledge of how the drug cartels operated, Michael was indeed a pawn, or a slave. But there was something more about why he escaped. Sean knew it. And so did Lucy and Kane. No one called the kid on it, and maybe that was the right call, but Sean didn’t like the sense that they were all being manipulated.

Blitz whispered, “Two guards are sleeping, passed out by the looks of things, in the structure to the far north of the complex.” He drew an X in the dirt with a stick. “Two are walking around, smoking and drinking. You’ll be able to smell them a mile away. They seem to stay between here”—he pointed to the southernmost structure—“and here.” He pointed to the central building, a crumbling two-story structure. “It’s here that the boys are kept. There’s a lock on the door, but it’s crap. There’s also something going on here.” He pointed to a small shack to the west. “There’s someone in there, better dressed, not a guard but consider him hostile.”

“Did you count the hostages?”

“Negative. We had ears, no eyes.”

“Michael,” Kane said. He waited until the boy looked at him. “You were here one month ago. You said sixteen boys?”

He nodded and pointed to the two-story structure. “That’s where we live. It’s like a dorm. There are cells, but no doors. Most of the bars are missing. But they lock us in the building.”

“What about this building?” Kane pointed on the dirt to the shack west of the prison.