Authors: Michelle Gagnon
“Same as always, I followed the money.” A hint of pride in his voice as he said, “I was the third P.I. they hired, the other two didn’t turn up jackshit.”
“But his personal accounts were seized.” Kelly’s brow wrinkled. Maybe this was just a scam.
“Sure they were, but you folks forgot about his so-called church. Couldn’t touch that cash, it was protected under some bullshit federal law for houses of worship. That account got cleared out by one of the Moonies drinking his Kool-Aid.”
It made sense. They hadn’t kept tabs on Stefan’s devotees, and he’d had hundreds when he vanished. “So why Mexico?”
“The guy got a cashier’s check when he closed the account, then a few days later his credit cards showed charges in Mexico City. So I headed south. Tracked him to a dive hotel. And guess what? He conveniently turned up dead, victim of a ‘mugging’ the same week he got there. He’d been stabbed.”
Kelly sucked in a breath. Stefan had always preferred knives. “But maybe he just saw an opportunity and ran with the money.”
“Yeah, except the money never turned up. And someone was still using his cards for a few weeks after he bought it. So I checked out some of the other charges. Found some folks who had seen a guy matching Gundarsson’s description. Trust me, there aren’t a lot of guys like him running around down there. I told the Kaishens, and they called you people. And then they fired me. Said that ‘my services were no longer needed,’” he scoffed. “Tell you what, you folks did your job better, you’d have this guy.”
“I can’t believe they just gave up,” Kelly said. She’d met the Kaishens briefly. They’d been stricken by their daughter’s death.
“What I can’t figure is why you’re so gung ho now,” Caruso said. “It’s been months since I called that in.”
“I was…on another case. I just found out about this recently.” Kelly paused. “So do you think there’s a chance he’shere?”
“Maybe. Easy to get lost in Mexico. But after he offed that guy, he’d be nuts to stick around.”
Kelly’s heart sank. He was right, the chances of Stefan remaining in the area were slim, especially if he’d gotten wind of the fact that someone was tracking him. “Can you think of anywhere I should start looking?”
A pause as Caruso thought it over. “Lot of bookstore charges, guy was a reader. Mainly the ones that sell foreign language books. Try them, you might get lucky. But I gotta be honest, I doubt it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Caruso. This has been extremely helpful.”
“Yeah, sure. Just make sure to send the cash.”
He hung up.
Kelly realized she was twisting her engagement ring around and around with her thumb and forced herself to stop. It was a long shot, but she was already here. If she headed back to New York, all she could do was sit around an empty apartment waiting to hear if Jake was okay.
Kelly took a deep breath and went through her things. She still had her go-kit, along with an H&K sidearm and extra magazines. She could leave everything else, it was better to travel light. If she uncovered any sign that Stefan was still alive, she’d contact the FBI and wait for backup. Catching him would be a huge accomplishment, maybe enough to get her back on active duty.
She shrugged on the backpack and headed out the door to find an internet café.
Fifteen
“We need to get moving.” Linus impatiently paced the narrow channel between the bed and the bathroom. “This is ridiculous.”
“It would be ridiculous if we went out there unprepared.” Brown sat calmly at the motel room desk, playing a game of solitaire. Their departure had been delayed when they couldn’t get some equipment that Brown deemed essential to their mission. What those things were, he hadn’t shared. Linus suspected he was stalling to save face. Now it was nearly dusk, and there was no sign that they were leaving anytime soon.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something?” he finally exhorted.
As Brown slowly stood, glowering down at him, Linus was struck by the realization that anything could happen to him down here, and Brown could spin it however he wanted. His own men could riddle him with bullets and blame the Zetas, or they could claim that he never showed up. He swallowed, hard. “Sorry, I’m just—”
A knock at the door interrupted him. Brown opened it a crack after checking through the curtain. One of his men stood there looking agitated. They exchanged a few words in low voices, then Brown shut the door again.
“There’s a complication,” he said, frowning.
“Another one?” Linus couldn’t contain his exasperation.
“I’ll be right back,” Brown said, stpping on his sidearm.
“I’ll come with you,” Linus insisted.
Brown looked ready to object, then shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”
Linus followed him along the corridor and down two rooms. Brown knocked on the door to Room 17. It opened.
This motel room was identical to the other: a sagging queen-size bed, a desk marred by years-worth of accumulated abuse and a rickety chair. Two members of the Tyr team stood at opposite ends of the room. A large man dressed in ratty jean shorts and a soiled T-shirt tilted back in the chair, feet on the bed opposite. At the sight of Brown he slowly rose to his feet. He looked familiar, but it took Linus a second to place him.
“Wysocki,” Brown said. “So you finally made it home.”
“Hey, boss.” Wysocki’s arrogant smirk faded slightly at Brown’s approach.
“Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Dunno.” Wysocki shrugged. “Kaplan got himself shot, so Riley and Decker went out for meds. They were taking a long time, so I left Flores with Kap and went out for food and a phone. Came back, and everyone was gone. Waited awhile for Riley and Decker, but they never showed. Then I called you.”
“Funny you didn’t call as soon as you got away.” Brown’s eyes narrowed.
“I was under orders.”
“Whose?”
“Riley’s.” Wysocki lowered his voice. “I think he might’ve been in on it, sir. We were ambushed at the site. The Zetas had a mole.”
“So who planned the escape?”
“Mostly Decker and me, sir. Man, I hope Decker’s okay. Riley might’ve just handed them all over to those assholes again.” Wysocki glanced at the other men in the room. “Heard you were headed into the jungle after them. I’d love to come along.”
“I’m not sure—” Linus interjected.
“We’re already down one man,” Brown said. “Suit up, Wysocki.”
With that he turned and left the room.
Something flashed across Wysocki’s face. Linus couldn’t be sure, but it looked like triumph. He scurried after Brown, who strolled back to their room as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Brown plunked back down in the chair and shuffled the deck of cards.
“I know he’s one of your men,” Linus said, “but what makes you think—”
“I don’t trust him, either. Friends close but enemies closer, right?”
“I suppose. But what if he reveals our plans to the Zetas?”
“He’ll be under surveillance the whole time, without a functioning radio. If he is working with them, he could be a valuable source of intel.”
“What about Riley?” Linus asked. “I know he hasn’t been with Tyr l—”
“As far as I’m concerned, every one of those men is a liability,” Brown said. “When we find them, they’ll be treated as hostiles until proven otherwise.”
Flores scraped the bottom of his plate with a rusty spoon, making sure to get every last morsel of the sparse cornmeal. He definitely preferred the hospitality of the Zetas’ city branch. The food was a hell of a lot better, and there had been more of it. With these rations, no wonder Calderon was a sack of bones.
Calderon had already finished and was carefully rinsing his plate and spoon. They were only allotted two small water bottles apiece per day, so every drop was precious. Suddenly one of the guards appeared outside their pen.
“Venga conmigo,” he said, gesturing toward Calderon.
Calderon stood, his expression tough to read.
“What do you think they want?” Flores asked.
“Tough to say. Proof of life, possibly? This might be the beginning of negotiations.” Calderon smiled thinly. “Hopefully I will return with good news for both of us, amigo.”
“Good luck.” Flores shook his hand, then watched as he was led down the aisle.
Next door, Ramon Tejada monitored Calderon’s departure, but he didn’t say anything.
Flores paced as he waited. He’d already quietly begun planning their escape, familiarizing himself with the guards’ shifts, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of the camp from what he could observe from their cell. That morning Calderon had mentioned that periodically army helicopters skirted low overhead. It was the only time the guards seemed distracted, he claimed. Perhaps enough to mask their escape, if they timed it right.
But what if they were actually moving him to a different pen? If Calderon didn’t come back, Flores would be forced to leave without him. Anything else was too risky. Not a decision he relished making.
A siren blared, and there was a commotion at the end of their row. A line of guards appeared. In ragged formation they trotted forward, each breaking off to stand in front of a different pen. One stopped directly across from Flores. The guard raised his rifle to his shoulder and aimed for his chest.
Flores’s heart nearly stopped. His mind raced as his field of vision narrowed to the guard’s finger, watching pressure increase on the trigger. He’d never know his child. His body would likely never be found. Maryanne would have no idea what had really happened to him. He wasn’t going to get a chance to say goodbye.
“Tranquilo, amigo,” Ramon muttered in the next pen. “It’s a drill.”
“What?” Flores examined the guard facing him. The man had frozen, as if awaiting an order.
“They do this a few times a week. It’s to prepare the guards, in case the camp is ever invaded. They’re to make sure none of the prisoners survive.” Tejada’s words dissolved into another coughing fit.
“So how do we this isn’t going to be the time they shoot us?”
“We don’t.”
Flores shifted his head. Tejada hadn’t moved at the guard’s approach. He remained seated near the door, face tilted up to catch the thin ray of light that sliced across his cell.
The siren issued a staggered series of bleats, and the guard outside Flores’s pen lowered his weapon. A moment later, he trotted back toward the end of the row, falling in line with the other guards.
Flores breathed out hard and wiped a line of sweat from his brow. He resolved to be long gone before the next drill.
More coughing from next door. Flores turned to see Tejada bent double, hacking into a soiled handkerchief. “Cómo estás?” Flores asked.
Tejada waved a hand. After a moment, the fit passed. He took a sip of water, then collapsed on a pile of matted leaves. Despite his condition, he produced a cigarette from the pocket of his shirt and lit it. Lying on his back he nursed it, a thin trail of smoke rising like a wraith above his head. “This place is hell,” Tejada said after a moment. He shifted to squint at Flores. “And you’re living with the devil.”
Before Flores could ask what he meant, Calderon reappeared, the guard shoving him from behind. The door swung open and he stepped back inside. Calderon looked shaken, face pale, hands trembling.
“What happened?” Flores asked. “Did they take a proof-of-life photo?”
Calderon sank into a crouch, clutching his knees to his chest. “No, my friend,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “They wanted something else.”
“What?”
Calderon didn’t reply. Flores figured he was waiting for the guard to leave, but the door to their pen hadn’t been closed yet.
“Venga conmigo.”
Flores turned to find the guard pointing at him.
Sixteen
Jake grunted as the guard delivered a sharp kick to his ribs. He’d slipped again, and apparently falling wasn’t permitted. The guard yelled, waving his free arm wildly for Jake to get back up.
“Not my fault,” Jake said through gritted teeth as he slowly rose to his feet. “It’s damn slippery.”
The only response was another jab in the back from the gun muzzle. It wasn’t helping that the second guard hadn’t reappeared. As he propelled Jake forward, the guy cast glances back over his shoulder, obviously increasingly worried. They’d already traveled about a half mile. Jake wondered where the hell this camp was, and why the guards wandered so far afield to take a piss. Maybe they were assigned the outer perimeter, or some prisoners had escaped and they’d been tracking them down.
The jungle was even thicker here, enormous ferns rising up to meet danglinines. Steam covered everything, a fine mist that wrapped around trunks and dripped off leaves.
A sudden crashing sound behind them, something large tearing through the undergrowth. They both froze.
“Hector?” The guard called after a second.
There was no response.
The guard shouldered his rifle, aiming at some rustling bushes a dozen yards away. “Quien es?” he called out. “Sal de ahí!”
There was no response. The jungle had fallen silent. A bead of sweat rolled down the inside collar of Jake’s shirt. Syd and Mark, he thought. Has to be. His relief at the fact that they hadn’t abandoned him was accompanied by annoyance: what the hell had taken so long? Counting Decker and his team, they had six people trained to intervene in this exact situation.
The guard swiveled back around, pointing his gun at Jake’s head as he spat out a stream of commands. Jake’s Spanish was limited to finding bathrooms and ordering beers, but he got the gist of it.
Still, he shrugged in response. “No hablo español.”
The guard stepped closer, jabbing the weapon threateningly. “They come out,” he said, “or you die.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Jake said slowly. “I’m alone.”
The guard hissed in frustration and muttered to himself. He prodded Jake in the chest, nudging him forward. Jake turned slowly and kept walking, eyes scanning either side of the narrow path. It was a sea of green and gray.
Wait…he caught a flash of something brighter to his right. Jake covertly focused on it as he walked.
There was definitely something out there that didn’t belong in a rain forest.