White Hot: A Patrick & Steeves Suspense (12 page)

“
K
ill her
.” El Pato’s words rang in Emily’s ears as his footsteps faded away down the hall. She bit down hard, not caring if she drew blood, determined not to cry. She relished the pain in her lip. Fear would be her biggest enemy at this moment.

Garcia glanced over at her and shook his head in disgust. She was a minor annoyance that had inconvenienced his plans, nothing more.

Jack remained slumped against the wall. He struggled to stand, wiping at the blood on his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smearing it across his lips. He didn’t look in her direction. When Garcia nudged his shin with his boot, he looked up.

Emily recognized raw fear in Jack’s eyes. She’d have thought he’d have more bravado in order to pull this game off for as long as he already had.

“Get up, Jack,” Garcia said. Extending his hand, he helped him to his feet. Jack weaved and leaned heavily against the wall while Garcia paced the room.

Knowing he wasn’t going to die, at least not right away, Jack’s cocky demeanor returned. Emily watched him rebuild it right in front her eyes. He still refused to look in her direction.

“I had no idea who that bastard was,” he spat out finally. “How could I know he was related—”

“I didn’t know Luis hired him either. Shut up. Let me think.” The man continued to pace. Emily shifted to relieve the tension in her arms and Jack shot her a look that could kill. She froze in place.

“Fuck.” Garcia kicked at the ground.

“Come on, we both know he would have had him killed if he’d fucked up bringing that truck across the border. Or were those idle threats?” Jack asked.

“He never makes idle threats,” Garcia said, spinning in place. In two large strides, he put his face nose to nose with Jack’s. “And you should know that I don’t either.”

Jack held Garcia’s gaze, refusing to back down. “And you know, that I always follow orders and always get the job done. So, if it wasn’t his brother-in-law, what I did here—”

“There is no ‘if this’, ‘if that’ with El Pato,
entiendes
? Our logic is not your logic. Stop thinking like an Americano. And him deciding to kill him, and you killing him, are two different things.”

“But what about the special shipment I got him? That’s got to count for--”

“Family trumps that. He can’t let someone else beat the hell out of his wife’s kid brother if he didn’t order it. End of fucking story. Jesus.” He dropped his weight onto the weathered wooden chair in the corner, shook his head in frustration. “You’re a good soldier, I can’t change horses right now. There’s too much at stake.”

Jack drew himself to his full height and straightened his shoulders. “We’ll get this job done,” he said. “By tomorrow it will all be in place.”

Was he going to reveal what was going to happen tonight? What the plan was for all those weapons in the warehouse? Emily was desperate to know. She held her breath waiting for him to reveal more details.

Jack glanced in her direction, his eyes narrowed. Garcia followed his gaze.

“Take care of this then,” Garcia said, jutting his chin in her direction.

A shadow flit across Jack’s features. “Kill the girl?”

“Did the punch in the face affect your hearing?” Garcia rose menacingly from the chair.

Emily lifted her chin, stared in Jack’s direction. A memory of her running down the hallway in her father’s house, pigtails flying, giggling on her way to the door to greet her uncle washed over her. Surely he had some feeling left for her.

“No,” he said, clearly stalling, “It’s only that… I think she could be worth more alive than dead.”

“You’re not really in a position to be asking for favors right now.”

“Favors? Come on, I’m just looking at the best angle on this.”

“How so?”

“She looks familiar to me. I’m sure I’ve seen her face in the society pages.” He kicked her in the shin. “You rich, girl?”

She turned away, shook her head.

“Yeah,” Jack said, nodding. “Let me get it out of her. Pretty sure we can get some serious money for this filly.”

Garcia sneered in her direction. “Don’t let it take you away from more important things.” He stepped out the door, then turned back. “It better work. And you don’t have long. Pray to whatever gods you have that Emilio will be okay.”

Emily let out a breath and turned her gaze to Jack. “Jack—”

“Don’t,” he said, his eyes hard. “This is a temporary reprieve, nothing more.”

She shifted her arms. “Can you adjust this?” she pleaded. “My arms are asleep and —”

“Shut the fuck up, Emily. You have no idea what you’re in the middle of. I can’t believe you’re even here.”

He stepped to the door as someone called his name. “Coming.” Without a glance back, he hurried away. Seconds later, she was plunged back into darkness.

D
al continued
up the path toward the mine until his heart stopped racing and the shouts of the men below faded into the night. He checked the screen of Rico’s phone - he was in luck. The phone was working, showed a few bars and a little charge left on the battery.

Without his own phone and contacts, he didn’t have many choices. The only number he knew by heart was the firehouse and his best friend Kris. He dialed Kris, prayed he would pick up. The phone rang once, twice, then three times and went to voice mail. He tried again. No luck. Damn it. He called the firehouse but Kris was not on duty - could he trust someone else? The Dispatcher offered to help reach him. What Dal really needed was the number for the NSA. Would there be somewhere there off-hours for emergency calls? Would he be able to talk to someone who could help?

He asked the Dispatcher to find the number for him. “Are you all right, Dal?” came the woman’s voice.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just find me a number.”

He repeated it twice, thanked the woman and hung up.

But first, one last hail Mary. He hit redial and held his breath. “Who is this?” Kris’s voice came through the line, heavy with sleep.

“Kris, it’s Dal.”

“Dal? Shit, I didn’t recognize the number. What the hell are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know,” he said, grateful to hear his friend’s voice. “Listen, I need you to make a call for me.”

“Uh, okay… give me the number.”

“I don’t have it. Listen Kris, this is urgent. Call Senator Green and tell him—”

“I’m not going to be able to reach the Senator in the middle of the night, buddy. What the hell is going on?”

“Kris,” Dal said, “will you shut the fuck up and listen? Emily’s life depends on this.”

“What?” Dal finally had his complete attention, could hear him shift in bed, his voice fully awake.

“I only have a minute. Do whatever you have to do, but get the Senator on the phone. Tell him we don’t have any communication here and we’re waiting for backup.”

“Oh, fuck, Dal. What did you get yourself into?”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it. I’ll do it right now. Should he call you back on this number?”

Dal hadn’t considered that. “Yes,” he said. “Grab the number from your log and have them call me here. And Kris?”

“Yes?”

“Be sure to tell him it’s urgent.”

S
omething ran
over Emily’s foot and she squeaked. Actually squeaked, like she was some kind of children’s toy or a caricature of a damsel in distress. Might as well be tied to the train tracks somewhere with an evil villain in a top hat twirling his handlebar mustache. She barely recognized herself. Her whole body ached and she couldn’t find relief, shifting inches in one direction or another didn’t help.

Disgust filled her for being stupid enough to get caught. And she still didn’t have any information. What she’d heard from inside didn’t help her or prove anything, it didn’t even raise new questions. From what she’d seen, it was simply a lot of posturing from Jack.

Her mind puzzled over the conversation between Jack and Garcia and Jack’s suggestion that she might be worth something. He was already on dangerous ground with El Pato and she couldn’t see how going against his wishes was going to help him.

She replayed every word Jack had said to her, every look, but came up with nothing conclusive. Did Jack want her alive to save her or did he plan to use her as a bargaining chip? Was there a chance he was trying to help her?

T
he moon shone
a faint silver path beside the route Dal hurried along toward the mine. Using the moon to navigate, he headed straight for it, letting it guide him up through the small canyon back to the opening to the mine. He kept a steady pace through the forest of large cacti, accompanied by the clinking of the bottles in the gear bag slung over his shoulder. The strap of the heavy bag cut into his skin.

He reached the boulder, put the bag down and took a quick inventory of the things he’d collected. It had taken some time - and he’d almost been caught getting the gas out of the SUV - but he was pleased with his take. With an ounce of luck … He chuckled to himself. With a ton of luck, he might actually get this job done.

Hitching the bag back on his shoulder, he stepped past the boulder into the cold, still entrance to the mine. The small flashlight illuminated his way through the wide entrance to the T-section where he took a left until he reached the cavern at the end. Memories of last time he’d been in this space flooded him, but he shook them off. He needed to focus. There was no time to lose.

Choosing a spot near the shaft, he unpacked the supplies. He poured the gas from one bottle equally into several others. Tore the cotton shirt he’d found in the back seat of the SUV into strips and shoved one in each of the bottles. He patted his pocket for matches, pulled out the tire iron and let it drop to the bottom of the shaft. The clanging rang and bounced up the narrow walls.

Stowing the bottles carefully into the gear bag, he cradled it over his shoulders, his back buffering their movement.

There was no way to test the level of the gases below. In his job he’d had a lot of training - and even more experience - dealing with small confined spaces and he’d seen the disasters that could happen when toxic gas was present. Not just on the job, but here, in this very mine. But choices and caution were not luxuries he had at the moment.

Picking up the wide strip of cotton he’d set aside, he doused it liberally with water before tying it over his nose and mouth as a makeshift mask. He began his descent down the shaft, the small flashlight guiding his way. Counting aloud, he moved as quickly as his load would allow down the rusted rungs.

Hydrogen sulphide had a rotten egg smell that would indicate whether there were toxic gases built up at the bottom. The problem was, he’d only be able to smell it if - big fucking if - the levels were low. Not smelling it wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Not smelling it could mean either that there were no gases present or that the gas levels were dangerously high. Once the hydrogen sulphide reached higher levels, it was undetectable and could freeze your sense of smell.

It was a deadly gas, he knew he was playing a dangerous game, but the stakes were too high. At this moment, he’d trade his right nut for an oxygen sensor. He’d have to use the only thing at his disposal - his nose.

As he clambered down the iron rungs, the distinctive smell of rotten eggs surrounded him like a mist.

The second his foot hit the bottom, he lowered his gear gently to the ground, and grabbed the tire iron. With no time to waste, he examined the rotting piece of plywood covering the entrance to the tunnel. Once he found a weak spot, a large knot near the middle, he used the tip of the tire iron to bash it through, creating a hole.

He put his nose up to the hole but the rotten egg aroma had permeated his nostrils. He popped his finger in his mouth and stuck it through the hole. He felt the slightest bit of chill on his skin. What he most needed was confirmed. There was fresh, moving air behind the plywood.

Using the tire iron as a crowbar, he ripped at the plywood, ignoring the shards and large chunks falling to his feet. In less than two minutes, he had a spot large enough. After pushing his gear through the opening, he stepped to the other side and let out his breath.

The air was close, humid, laced with mold and the stench of dying things but the rotten egg smell was gone. As he moved carefully down the tunnel, his throat constricted and a heavy weight pressed on his lungs. Fuck, there was still gas. He couldn’t smell it anymore because it was heavier. But he wasn’t light-headed. His limbs continued to work, he continued to move forward, the grade of the tunnel slightly downhill. Maybe it was just his lungs. If the gas was going to take him, it would have already.

Ahead in the path of his light loomed a Y section. He’d meant to keep track of the distance he was traveling, had been too caught up in his worries about the gas. He recounted in his head to get a sense of where he might be.

The tunnels were black as coal. Decades of moisture had oozed through the rock walls leaving the stone under his feet slimy and slick. All he had to go on were the feather-thin red lines he had noticed on Jill’s map. He closed his eyes, rebuilding the map in his mind.

Traveling the mine reminded him of moving through a fire. Everything obscured by smoke. The crackle of the fire, the snapping of pipes, the crumbling of walls, all so familiar. Except in this shaft, in this darkness deep below ground, with countless tons of dirt and rock above him, there was no sound. There was nothing but silence. Oppressive and still.

T
his would be exactly
what a grave would feel like. Cold, dark, damp. Quiet. So fucking quiet. Dal squeezed his eyes shut. Come on, he groaned. Which fucking way? It didn’t come to him. There hadn’t been a Y in the red lines.

He stepped into the right branch of the intersecting tunnels. It went slightly uphill. He returned to the other branch to the left. It sloped slightly downhill. Making a decision, he hurried along the tunnel, counting out the distance in his head.

The glass bottles rattled against his back providing a reprieve from the silence. He turned a corner, and then another, and stopped to consider where he might be if he was above ground. The scratching in his throat overwhelmed him and he bent double into a painful cough. After the last big fire, the one that got him suspended, the doctor had warned him his lungs would continue to give him grief. Thank God there was no one to hear him.

If his estimates were right, he should be under the old warehouse in another five minutes. Ten minutes max. He hurried on, counting the distance out in his head. His throat tickled and he was about to lose it in another coughing fit when he saw a halo of light ahead. With his hand over his mouth, he crept forward to another junction. To his left and down about ten yards were two men passing boxes up through the floor into the back of the old warehouse.

He shifted back. It wasn’t only the two of them he needed to be concerned with, it was all the men up above as well. Damn. He checked around the corner again. There were only a few more boxes to move. When they were done, he’d move ahead. But this also meant that there were people up above in the warehouse.

Several minutes later, the last box was passed up and one of the men climbed the ladder. “You coming?” he called down to his companion, who shook his head and lit a cigarette.

Dal waited. The man paced and smoked, smoked and paced, coming dangerously close to the corner where Dal was hidden from sight. He wore a garish red shirt and mumbled to himself in Spanish. Dal couldn’t catch the words, wouldn’t understand most of it anyway. He drew in a breath, the air ripping at his windpipe and tempting another coughing fit. He slapped his hand over his mouth.

The man was at the mid-point, equidistant between the hatch in the floor and where he was waiting at the corner when the phone in Dal’s back pocket rang. The man in the tunnel halted and turned toward him.