Reckoning for the Dead (5 page)

Mustering his contempt, he glared at Rosas. “Go to . . . hell.”

“Very well. You leave me no choice.”

In Spanish, Rosas gave an order, and the American was hung by his arms, suspended in chains from a massive wooden beam, and his body was doused with water. When an electrical generator was powered up, Guerrero knew what would come next.

Garrett Wheeler would be taken to the edge of death by electrocution. The American flinched when he saw one of Rosas's men touch two metal paddles together. A loud pop erupted, and a spark of electricity cast an eerie light into the murky cell.

The American narrowed his eyes and glared at his tormentor, Rosas. When Wheeler tensed his jaw, he didn't say a word, mustering what little defiance he had left. All that changed after the order was given. When the paddles sparked, volts of electricity shot through the American's body, making him jerk like a macabre puppet. Smoke drifted in the stale air, and the smell of burning skin and hair hit Guerrero's nostrils.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Rosas eventually ordered his men to stop. Wheeler's body collapsed, still rippling with spasms. After he grunted in pain and fell unconscious, Rosas walked toward Guerrero and stood at his shoulder, speaking in a low voice.

“You do not approve of my methods. I can see it in your eyes.”

Guerrero kept his dislike for Rosas in check. Looking into the man's eyes reminded him of the time he had confronted a rabid dog, an animal he would never turn his back on. With a man like Rosas, he had to tread carefully. One wrong word could ruin everything he had hoped to gain, or worse, put him in the crosshairs of a man he would rather not cross paths with again.

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove.” Guerrero avoided looking at the man standing next to him.

“It is good that you know your place,” Rosas said.

If the man had not looked so smug, Guerrero might have kept his mouth shut. But when Rosas ordered one of his men to awaken the American with a bucketful of water, Guerrero said what was on his mind. He could not help himself.

“It's just that this American, Garrett Wheeler, has many secrets worthy of your efforts. My sources tell me he is the leader of a very influential U.S. agency sent to spy on us. And who knows what someone would pay for a man like this.”

“Yes, I know what you reported, but Pérez believes this American might be a diversion for a bigger assault on the cartels. The United States would do anything to stop the violence in our country.”

“What are you saying?”

“What if the CIA or this agency Wheeler works for is planning to assassinate the leaders of the cartels, pick them off one by one, making it look like a drug war? Pérez doesn't care about what happens to the other cartels, but having advance information is very important.”

“And I suppose if the competition is eliminated, that would not be a bad thing.”

“Yes, of course.” Rosas smiled. “So as you can see, our job here is very important.”

Before Guerrero replied, the man looked over his shoulder at the waking prisoner hanging in chains. He ordered his men to hit him with the paddles again. Wheeler's body jerked with another jolt of electricity. He cried out, unable to hold back.

In reflex, Guerrero grimaced and noticed that Miguel Rosas was watching him. With the American dangling and jerking like a caught fish, Rosas only smiled at Guerrero, displaying a strange cruelty that caused the hair on the back of Guerrero's neck to stand.

At that moment, he knew that Miguel Rosas was a man who truly enjoyed his work.

Outside Guadalajara, Mexico

“We lost his signal, sir,” his man reported as he knelt by him in the dark.

Following a burst transmitter signal, Hank Lewis and his team had crossed the border into Mexico and were positioned on a nearby ridge overlooking a large hacienda near Guadalajara. The estate was located on the northern shore of Laguna de Chapala, where his team was conducting a covert surveillance operation for the Sentinels, tracking an operative under deep cover who was being held prisoner inside.

As to who their operative was—or the purpose of their mission—Hank had no clue.

His team had been monitoring thermal imagery, tracking the movements of the men inside the compound, when he got the bad news about the transmitter. The device sent a burst of data at regular intervals via satellite, transmitting coordinates for his team to follow once an hour, but it also served a secondary purpose. It recorded the operative's vitals to make sure the unlucky bastard was still alive. From what Hank had been told, the transmitter had been implanted under the skin of their target.

The tracking device was damned small, an upgraded, high-tech version of the ones used to track the migratory patterns of wildlife. And unless someone knew what to look for, the transmission frequency was very hard to trace since it wasn't a constant signal. This version passed a bug sweep without a problem for the same reason. It only powered up once an hour, long enough to gather vitals, compress the data, and transmit it. That also meant the battery power would be minimal, which translated into a tracking device that could be injected under the skin with a hypodermic needle. A perfect piece of technology for this mission, until it failed.

“What do you think happened?” he asked his man.

“Don't know, sir. I'm trying to figure that out. Got cut off midtransmission.”

“Keep trying, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hank didn't like being in the dark on a sensitive mission like this one. His team was on the front line of the op. If they couldn't find out what had happened, the mission could be scrapped. And Hank didn't want that to happen on his watch.

“What about our target's vitals, Doc?” Hank directed his question to the medic on his team. “Did we get a reading before we lost the signal?”

“I saw enough to know the target is an extremely agitated state. His breathing is irregular, and his heart rate is erratic. Up one minute and down the next. From my experience, the lower heart rate comes when the body is fighting off torture. It's a natural instinct.”

“Is he in danger from a medical standpoint?” Hank asked. “Do we need to pull the plug?”

“I can't tell you. I didn't get enough of a data feed to form an opinion other than his body is under a great deal of stress, and one other thing.” The medic fixed his gaze on Hank. “If we had to attempt a rescue, we'd probably have to carry him out.”

Hank narrowed his eyes, considering what the man had told him.

“Thanks, Doc.” And to his communications man, Hank said, “Let me know if Guerrero leaves the compound. We're still tracking his cell-phone GPS, right?”

“Yes, sir. If he moves, I'll know it.”

Ramon Guerrero was their backup plan. Intel tracked a cell-phone signal from the moment the target had been taken hostage. One of the gang members had initiated a call to report what had happened. And Hank's team was already set to take advantage of that mistake. His team monitored any cell-phone signal detected in the general vicinity. Once they eliminated any legitimate cell-phone user through a background check, they narrowed their search to phones that could not be linked to a name. It was a surveillance tactic that had paid off in the fight against al-Qaeda.

Coupled with ground surveillance of the abduction, they eventually tracked the signal into Mexico, near Juárez, the stronghold of Ramon Guerrero, a known drug-cartel leader. After another sweep of cell-phone usage inside the compound, they used the process of elimination to isolate Guerrero's cell phone and had followed him and his men to Guadalajara, to the estate of another drug kingpin in the organization. Odds were that if the target was still alive, Guerrero would be close by. It was the best they could do without knowing more.

Hank's team had been fed coordinates through a handler, a man who monitored the transmission via satellite. Until now, they had stuck close to the target, moving as ordered. But with the target being in danger, and the burst transmitter potentially compromised, Hank knew the handler would have to kick the problem to the next level, the decision maker who was running the op.

Hank reached for the encrypted phone he'd use to communicate with his handler, a middleman in the operation. Although Hank was in command of the ground team, he didn't know who they were tracking inside the drug cartel or why the mission had required the secrecy. That bit of intel was on a need-to-know basis. Only one man knew all the details and would make the final call on every aspect of the mission. Communicating through the handler, he would direct Hank's team to carry out his orders.

But if the burst transmitter's signal was gone, they were flying blind. And the poor bastard on the inside would be on his own.

“Damn it,” Hank cursed.

Chapter 4

New York City

Evening

I
nstinct had Alexa fixing her eyes on the reflection in a store window as she walked down Broadway. Display lights and neon signs cast enough light for her to see something she didn't like. She'd stopped suddenly, pretending to have an interest in a pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos.

That was when she caught the exchange.

A man had stopped short and looked across the street. Two men were following her, one in a dark business suit and the other in jeans, a Yankees ball cap, and a white T-shirt with a logo across his chest, too small for her to read. Their reaction had been subtle, but it was enough to trigger her survival instincts. From experience and training, she knew to trust her gut and take action. Indecision was not an option. And in the field, to hesitate might get her killed.

Without turning around, Alexa assessed her situation. If the men were connected to a surveillance team, they'd have a backup plan if she hailed a cab. And they could track the cab through the taxi company. Without thinking, she quickly ducked into the store and made her way to the back. When she saw a salesclerk heading for her, she smiled and waved her off.

“You got a way out back? I'm trying to avoid an old boyfriend. You know how it goes.”

“Sure do, honey.” The sharply dressed saleswoman pointed toward the dressing rooms. “We got a loading dock through those doors, and good luck ditching the jerk.”

Within a minute, Alexa was on foot down an alley. She cut through another store and changed course again until she had lost the two men tailing her, but that didn't mean she was in the clear.

When she found a main thoroughfare, she took a risk and hailed a cab. She was already late. If she didn't rush, the bank would be closed when she got there.

And without the contents of her safe-deposit box, she'd be dead in the water.

Sentinels' Headquarters

“She tried to ditch us, but we picked her up again.”

“Where is she?” Donovan Cross asked the agent who headed the second surveillance team tracking Marlowe.

“Bank of America. We've got eyes inside the bank. She's in the vault, accessing a safe-deposit box. What do you want us to do?”

Cross didn't like the sounds of this. If Marlowe was like any other good agent, she had a plan to ditch her identity and become someone else. And the contents of her safe-deposit box would help her do that. He knew from personal experience that she'd have fake passports and IDs, cash from several countries, and myriad ways for her to stay off the grid. A seasoned field agent like Alexa Marlowe would have stashed plenty of ways for her to get very lost.

“Don't let her out of your sight, do you understand?” Cross found it hard to keep the urgency from his voice.

“Copy that. When she leaves the vault, we'll be on her sweet ass.”

“Just call me when she leaves.” Cross ended the call and tossed his cell onto Garrett's desk.

Arrogant son of a bitch!
Cross had more respect for Alexa than the pompous jerk following her, and he hoped he wouldn't regret giving the assignment to a young agent with something to prove.

“What are you up to, Marlowe?” He sprawled in his chair and stared across Garrett Wheeler's office. “And what have you got stashed at that bank?”

Cross had a bad feeling he wasn't going to like the answer to that question.

Sentinels' Headquarters

Twenty minutes later

“We lost her.” Donovan Cross hated failure, especially when he had to be the one to admit he'd underestimated Alexa Marlowe. “I had a team on her when she left headquarters, but she gave them the slip.”

“Do you think she knew she was being followed?”

The man on the other end of the line was his contact deep within the Sentinels' organization, one of the anonymous members of the elite council who secretly ran the covert group from a discreet distance.

“In a word . . . yes. Bank video footage showed she entered the vault to access a safe-deposit box, but the surveillance team lost her coming out.”

“How is that possible?” The man on the phone asked the same question he had only moments ago.

“Apparently, she had a change of clothes and a wig in that box. She ditched the stuff she had on in a vault trash bin. And the disguise she used was good enough to give our team the slip when she left the bank. She was dressed like an old woman.”

Cross knew that field operatives could be real cagey and downright paranoid. If the hair on their necks got goosed, it wouldn't matter if they actually saw anyone tailing them. They'd follow their instincts and get lost in a crowd. And they had the training to carry out that slick maneuver easily enough.

“What about her apartment?”

“The surveillance team had someone there, too, but she never showed. We still have it staked out, but I don't think she'll go there now.”

“This isn't good, Cross. What are you doing to rectify the situation?”

“We may have a line on her. When I get something definitive, I'll call you.”

Cross told the man how his surveillance team had scoured digital camera feeds from all over the city after they'd hacked into the municipal traffic system. They'd picked up Alexa again—once they knew what disguise to look for—and although they hadn't pinpointed her exact location, they were getting close.

Very close.

“I don't have to tell you how sensitive our operation is at the moment. Find her, Cross. Do it, now.”

After his call ended, Cross gritted his teeth. He hated losing. And Marlowe had bested him from day one, but with the success of the mission on his shoulders, that had to stop.

Outside New York City

10:40
P.M.

After Alexa felt safe enough, she grabbed a quick bite from a fast-food drive-through and hit a twenty-four-hour pharmacy before she found a place to spend the night. Without prying eyes, she changed her hair color to brown and took a quick shower. After a couple of hours' sack time, she'd hit the road again. But before that happened, she checked in with Tanya Spencer, her only lifeline.

“Hey, it's me.” Alexa didn't say her name. “You got anything new?”

She'd used a prepaid cell, a number that Tanya wouldn't know, but she figured the analyst would recognize her voice and take everything in stride like the pro she was.

“Yeah, I think I found something.” Tanya dispensed with the usual formalities of asking questions and kept her focus. “But it doesn't make much sense.”

“What do you mean?” With a towel wrapped around her wet hair, Alexa sat on the corner of her motel bed, a room she'd paid for in cash.

“Someone with access to our internal resources is using satellite time to track a cell-phone GPS signal in Mexico. And as far as I can tell, no one at the Sentinels has an operation in that country. Normally, I wouldn't make a big deal about this, but since we're looking for anything out of the ordinary, it piqued my interest.”

“Do you have a name of the owner of the cell, or maybe the coordinates of that GPS signal?” she asked.

“No name, but I do have coordinates.” Tanya gave her a location outside Guadalajara, Mexico. “And I've got Seth Harper working this on the QT. With him being located in Chicago, he's got no one looking over his shoulder to see what he's up to.”

“Good call. Not many people connected to the Sentinels know Harper, and the guy can keep a secret.” Alexa tightened the towel that she had wrapped around her body. “So what's near there? Can you tell if the signal is coming from a residence?”

“Did some digging on that. It's not just a residence, it's an estate, honey. And the property had a few layers of corporations heaped on top of the name of the real owner. I had to call in a few markers to dig that deep.”

“And? Who's playing the shell game?”

“Manolo Quintanilla Pérez is the owner of record. He's the head of a drug cartel, an upstart group that's trying to make a name. What they lack in longevity, they more than make up for in brutality. A fun bunch.”

“So if you can't find any record of this op, what makes you think Garrett is involved?” Alexa asked.

“My Logistics contact came up with those AWOL operatives who don't have a specific assignment. And one name got my interest. Hank Lewis. Besides you, Hank is one of Garrett's ‘go to' guys. It's just a gut feeling, but I think this is the thread of information we've been looking for. We may not get anything better, Alexa.”

For the first time since she had learned of Garrett's disappearance, Alexa felt the pang of regret. Whatever Garrett was involved with, he hadn't included her. He'd chosen Hank Lewis to confide in and lead the team that would back his play.

Why hadn't Garrett asked her?

“I know what you're thinking,” Tanya said after her silence left an awkward wake in the conversation. “And when we find him, you can ask why he was so bullheaded about not making you a part of his team, but right now we've got work to do.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Alexa took a deep breath and rubbed her temple. The tension headache that had started earlier in the day had gotten worse. “I'm going to Mexico, Tanya. I don't think we've got another choice.”

“Honey, I knew you'd say that.”

Tanya had already worked out the logistics for her trip to Guadalajara. She'd leave at first light. If Garrett was in Mexico, she would find him.

She had to.

Northern Wisconsin

Jessie gulped down the last dregs of cold coffee from a lidded styrofoam cup and ate what was left of the Cheetos as she drove through Wisconsin. With orange fingertips, she gripped the wheel of her rented Taurus sedan and watched the center stripes roll by under its high beams.

The sun had gone down hours ago, taking with it the last of the scenery worth seeing. Rolling green hills dotted with picturesque dairy farms and placid lakes that mirrored the waning sunset had been replaced by darkness and miles of self-doubt. She had plenty of time to think. In her state of mind, that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

She had paid the price for getting a late start on her drive to La Pointe. Thinking of Seth had made the trip easier, but it was hard to ignore the nagging thoughts about her past. She had talked with Seth over breakfast and explained why she'd come to Chicago. And like she had expected, Harper had plenty of questions as they sat at his dining-room table.

“Do you really think this old case might give you a lead on your mother? That's huge, Jess.” Harper leaned closer, elbows on the table, as he grabbed her hand. “I mean, how does that make you feel?”

Jess shook her head, and said, “I don't know, exactly. After all this time, a part of me wants to know what happened, but maybe this will make things worse.”

If she had to let go of the only good memory she had—the only shining moment of the woman she believed was her mother—Jessie wasn't sure she could handle that. Her whole life had been about abuse—what one sick man had done to her and what she had done to herself when she didn't feel she deserved to be happy. Jessie wanted to believe she had gotten past it, but she knew that wasn't true.

She never would.

“I can come with you,” Seth had offered. “I can have someone look after Floyd while we're gone.”

“But what about that assignment you have with Tanya?”

Harper launched into geek speak, telling her about his new laptop, courtesy of the Sentinels. He had plenty of juice to keep in touch with Tanya Spencer on the road.

“My new laptop is ubersexy. I can stay connected with New York. No worries.” He squeezed her hand and fixed his gaze on her. “I just don't think you should make this trip alone.”

Looking into Harper's eyes made anything possible. Jess thought about his offer as they sat in silence. She'd have to keep her explanation simple and something Seth would understand. She would avoid telling him the real reason she needed to make the trek to Wisconsin alone, mostly because she didn't want to hear the words come out of her mouth.

If her mother had anything to do with how she ended up with a serial pedophile, Jessie wasn't sure how she would handle that. She'd rather face that reality alone and deal with it on her own terms. And if there had been a reason why she was never claimed by a family after her ordeal as a child, maybe Chief Tobias Cook might know what it was.

“I appreciate the offer, Seth, but I think this is something I'm gonna do on my own. I hope you understand.”

Of all people, Harper would understand her need to uncover the truth about her mother by herself. For years, he'd been dealing with the fragile relationship he'd had with his father while growing up. In her eyes, Harper's father would always be a hero, but that hadn't been the way Seth saw it.

His old man was a retired cop who had been an AWOL dad when Harper needed him. It didn't matter that his father had sacrificed his personal life for the sake of his job. To a small boy, that didn't matter. And in a strange show of irony that life often dished out, now Harper was responsible for his father's care after dementia had sidelined him at a nursing home with no one else to take care of him. Seth had dealt with his burden on his own, too, even after he and Jessie had met and grown close. Sometimes, family problems hit too close to home to share with anyone.

“Yeah, guess I do. Family stuff can really mess with your head,” he said. “But I want you to call me, anytime. You hear?”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Don't say that unless you mean it, Jessie. Swear to me.”

“Pinkie swear.” She raised her hand and offered her pinkie. When Seth took it with his, she added, “I'll call you.”

Under the table, Floyd sprawled at her feet and groaned. When he moved, the dog passed gas. Jessie tried hard not to take it personally.

“Oh man, Floyd. Give it a rest, big guy.” Harper grimaced as he waved his hand. “Sorry about that. He must like you.”