Authors: Michelle Gagnon
Sorting through, his eyes locked on one labelled Tyr.
He knelt on one knee and flipped it open with his right hand, using his left to keep the LMT aimed at the side of the trailer. Inside, he could hear Gente panting, still fighting to catch his breath.
There were subfolders inside, each with a name. Flores flipped open the topmost one. Inside, the blueprint of a house had been sketched out by hand. The next page held names and dates. He was shocked to recognize one of them: Wysocki. Rain smudged the ink.
“Damning, isn’t it?” Gente called out.
“Doesn’t mean jackshit. You could have gotten all this from Wysocki.”
“Take the flash drive. On it you will hear Calderon selling his own clients’ freedom.”
There was a flash drive tucked into a pocket inside the folder. Flores scooped it out and crammed it in his pocket. “Shame I didn’t bring my computer.”
Gente laughed again. “Come inside, you can use mine.”
Flores scanned the truck bed for something that would drive Gente from the trailer. There were markings on the outside of one box. Carefully keeping the trailer door covered, he reached out his free hand and dragged it toward him. Popped the top and looked inside. What he saw made him smile.
“I’ll need more men after this,” Gente said. “You could be my second-in-command. I can make you a wealthy man.”
Flores dug inside the box. It sounded like Gente was moving around in the trailer, probably preparing some sort of ambush. Maybe he really did have some training. “Interesting offer,” he called back, then he yanked out the pin with his teeth. “But where you’re going, I don’t think they’re hiring.”
Flores counted to three, then tossed the grenade inside the trailer door and raced for cover behind the truck.
A shout of surprise. Gente appeared in the doorway, his face panicked. He made it down the first step, and then the entire trailer erupted. Flores covered his head to protect it from the debris raining down. Some of it was stained dark red.
Flores cautiously looked up. The rear half of the trailer was gone, the rest was a smoldering ruin. There was a dark pit where Gente had been standing, the stairs had disappeared entirely.
“All right, then,” he said. Scooping up the other guard’s LMT, he checked the truck. A set of keys rested in the ignition.
With a grin, Flores climbed inside and started the engine.
Thirty-Two
Mark and Decker overtook Jake as they raced down the line of pens. The fallen guard lay askew, arms and legs flung out, his rifle on the ground beside him. The rain clouds parted briefly, moonlight casting the blood-stained ground dark gra
“Stand back,” Mark said. A shadow shifted inside the cage. Mark held his gun inches away from the lock and squeezed the trigger once. The metal blew apart and the door swung wide. Mark ducked his head inside.
“Christ, I hope this is the right pen,” Decker muttered.
A figure stepped forward into the light.
“It’s the right one,” Mark said. “Mr. Calderon, we’re here to save you.”
Calderon was shaking. “Just in time,” he said unsteadily. “They were about to kill me.”
“Where’s Flores?” Mark asked, peering around him.
“Already gone.”
“He left you? Doesn’t sound like Flores.”
A noise sounded in the pen next door. They all spun, guns ready. A tiny man, white hair wild, threw himself against the bars of his cage. Jake jerked back as he sputtered at them in Spanish. “Ayúdenme!”
Mark looked at Calderon. “This a buddy of yours?”
“There are no friends in here,” Calderon replied. It was hard to see his eyes in the dark, but his tone was flat.
“Your call,” Mark said.
Jake didn’t wait for a response—he might not be able to save all the prisoners, but this one he could manage. He motioned the man back with his gun and shot off the lock. The prisoner fell out of the pen and dropped to his knees, grabbing at Jake’s pant legs as he said, “Gracias” over and over.
“No problem,” Jake interrupted, reaching out a hand to help him up. “Can you walk?”
“Sí, señor.” The man scrambled to his feet, then bent over, racked by coughs. Even fully upright, he barely reached Jake’s chest.
“He’s your problem,” Mark said before turning back to Calderon. “Which way did Flores go?”
“Out the back. He cut a hole in the pen. Please, we should really—”
“How long ago?”
Calderon shrugged. “Minutes.”
“Probably already out the exit.” Decker was facing away from the pen, keeping an eye on their back. “What now, Chief?”
“Isabela’s father.” Mark turned back to Calderon. “We need to find another prisoner, Francisco Garcia. Any idea where he might be?”
“Is he a client?” Calderon asked.
“He’s a friend of a friend.”
“Then I don’t see why—”
“This is part of the deal, Mr. Calderon.”
“I know Señor Garcia,” the little white-haired man interrupted. “He’s being held by the rear gates
“Which gates?”
The man pointed south, where the worst of the battle raged.
“Great,” Decker said. “It couldn’t be easy.”
“Decker, take Calderon out the gate we came in,” Mark said. “Jake, go with him.”
“You’ll need someone to watch your back,” Jake said.
Mark weighed the suggestion. Something exploded nearby, the tang of sulphur wafted toward them.
“Take him,” Decker said. “You’ll need backup more than I will.”
“Fine,” Mark said. “Let’s go.”
It was nearly 1:00 a.m. Kelly peered out the window as Rodriguez paid the cabdriver.
“I don’t see a temple,” she said.
“I had him drop us off a few blocks away. Figured better safe than sorry,” he replied.
The Templo Mayor was located in el Centro, a section of town thronged by tourists during the day, but deserted at this late hour.
“We should do a quick check of the grounds once we get there. If we don’t see Stefan, we’ll find a place to watch for him. Maybe there’s a hotel with a good sightline,” Rodriguez added hopefully as he ran a hand through his hair. “I could use some shut-eye.”
Kelly took him in. His suit was badly rumpled, and removing his tie had revealed a salsa stain on his shirt. He looked exhausted. “Thanks for doing this,” she said, suddenly moved. In retrospect she’d been a terrible friend, shunning him during her months of recovery and missing his wedding. Yet here he was marching into a dangerous section of Mexico City with her in the middle of the night, chasing after a serial killer. She’d never had a friend willing to do anything like that. Except for Jake, she reminded herself.
“Sure.” Rodriguez forced a smile. “And if we don’t find him tonight, tomorrow I’ll see if McLarty can arrange for some cooperation from the local authorities.”
“What makes you think he’ll believe me now?”
“Because now it’s not just you saying it. Let’s get going.”
She followed Rodriguez as he broke into a trot, taking a left down the next block. He didn’t stop moving until the street dead-ended on a public square. He motioned for her to follow him into the archway of a building.
Rodriguez eyed her. “Just so we’re clear, the goal here is to arrest him.”
“Of course,” Kelly said, surprised. “What did you think I was going to do?”
“Nothing. But I know you’ve got history with this guy. You went after him on your own, without telling anyone. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I was just following up a lead. If I got a fix on him, I was going to call
“All right. But no cowboy shit, got it?”
“Got it.”
He motioned toward the square and said, “It’s this way.”
Flores gunned the engine and the truck leaped forward. He spun the Hilux in a tight circle, kicking up gravel. For a second it bogged down in the mud on the side of the road, but he shifted into four-wheel drive and it lurched free.
“Gotta love a Hilux,” he muttered through gritted teeth. This one appeared armored, which was a bonus, and had a nearly full tank of gas. The Hilux was a workhorse, the vehicle of choice for this sort of potholed terrain. If he was lucky, it would take him all the way to the border without breaking down.
Flores tore through the open gates, braced for a sputter of gunfire from above—even if the sides were armored, chances were the roof wouldn’t be. When nothing happened, he released a lungful of air. Looked like he was home-free.
Just as he was thinking it, the side of the truck was suddenly pummeled by gunfire. Flores swerved, trying to avoid it, but a shot pinged the car door inches from his left knee. The driver’s-side window cracked and he ducked. He reached out his right hand, trying to grab the LMT, but it had slid to the floor of the cab.
Flores kept his foot on the accelerator as he leaned over to retrieve it. Unfortunately the sudden motion sent the truck off the road. It slammed hard into a ditch. He pressed the gas. The front tires spun uselessly in the mud.
“Damn it!” He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
“No se mueva,” said a voice. A gun muzzle pressed against his ear.
He raised his hands, hopes shot to hell.
“Flores?”
He turned to find Decker standing there. The big man’s face split in a grin and he lowered the rifle. “Holy shit, am I glad to see you.”
“Me, too. Want a ride?”
“Hell, yeah.” Decker turned and waved someone over. “Get in.”
The passenger door opened. At the sight of Cesar Calderon, Flores’s jaw tightened.
“Hola, amigo.” Calderon slid inside and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you made it out alive.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Flores looked away from him, focusing back out the windshield. “Where are the others?”
Decker slid in beside Calderon and slammed the door. He kept the muzzle of his LMT aimed out the window. “Riley’s going after another prisoner. Think you can get out of this ditch?”
Flores opened the door a crack. The front tires were mired in mud, but the rear ones were free. “I think so.”
“Thank God, I wasn’t looking forward to hoofing it out of here. Let’s blow this joint.”
Flores threw the truck into Reverse and ground down on the accelerator. After a second of protest, it broke free and fishtailed back onto the road. As he drove away, Flores glanced back in the rearview mirror. The gates of the camp receded into the distance.
“Where to?” he asked after a minute.
“There’s a motel about an hour’s drive due north.” Decker clicked on his radio. “We have the package, en route to rally point two.”
After a second of static, a woman’s voice replied, “Copy that.”
Flores surreptitiously examined Calderon. It was hard to reconcile the man who had saved his life with the one who had apparently put so many others at risk. But he still only had Gente’s word for it. He had to hear what was on that flash drive.
“Everything okay, Enrique?” Calderon asked.
Flores shifted his gaze, looking directly at him. Unless he was mistaken, there was a shrewdness in the man’s eyes now.
“Just glad we made it out alive.” Flores turned his attention back to the road.
“Amen to that,” Decker said. “Hopefully Riley will, too.”
Thirty-Three
They were an odd trio, Jake allowed. Mark was in the lead, pausing occasionally for whispered instructions from Señor Tejada. The small man wasn’t thrilled to be along for the ride. He wheezed with every breath. Thanks to the lengthy confinement, his muscles had atrophied to the point where he could barely walk, never mind run. Jake kept expecting him to keel over.
As they got closer to where the main battle raged, Tejada became increasingly agitated.
“Señor,” he finally said, grabbing hold of Mark’s sleeve. “Please let me go back to the others.”
“You’re the only one who knows where Garcia is being held,” Mark said.
“But, señor…”
“If you don’t like it, I can stick you back in your cage.”
At that, the small man fell silent.
Jake was thankful that the constant din of prisoners begging for release had faded; this close to the action, most had withdrawn to the rear of their pens. He could barely make out shadows as they passed, people attempting to curl into themselves and disappear. A few still called out for help, but it happened less and less frequently. Not that it would matter anymore. The perpetual rat-a-tat of machine-gun fire overrode everything. His team could run screaming the whole way and chances were no one would hear them. The air was thick with smoke. The ground shook beneath his feet: grenade explosion. It was followed by screams.
They turned down another row to find carnage. Body parts still clothed in the tattered remains of camouflage were scattered about. Blood trailed out the doors of many of the pens, some of which stood open. Either the Zetas had started executing prisoners, or they had been collateral damage during the fighting.
“Jesucristo.” Tejada crossed himself.
“Stay close,” Mark advised, but Tejada didn’t need any persuasion, he was practically tripping over their heels.
Another explosion, so close Jake’s ears contracted from the pressure. Tejada might have the right idea. Saving Isabela’s father had been more appealing on the other side of camp.
Bullets suddenly tore up the ground twenty feet away from them. Dirt clods sputtered up in a steady line, heading their way.
“Take cover!” Mark yelled, vaulting sideways.
Jake lunged for a break in the pens, dragging Tejada with him. They fell on their sides. Tejada was racked by coughs, choking for air. Wide eyes stared at them from inside the pen. “Dónde está Francisco Garcia?” Jake asked.
A pause, then a quavering female voice said, “Una fila más.” A finger poked out of the chicken wire, pointing right.
“Gracias.” Jake tried to remember how to say, “Stay calm, help is coming,” but decided the lie wouldn’t serve either of them. He hauled Tejada back to his feet. “You heard the lady. We gotta go that way.”
A helicopter swept past overhead. Jake ducked back into the shadows as a spotlight illuminated the aisle between the pens. It panned about, clearly looking for something.
“Who is that?” Tejada asked, perplexed.
“No idea, but I’m guessing not a friend.”