Книга - Kidnap and Ransom

Kidnap and Ransom
Michelle Gagnon


When the world's foremost kidnap and ransom negotiator is snatched by a ruthless drug cartel, Jake Riley becomes ensnared in the effort to save him.

But he's up against Los Zetas, an elite paramilitary organization renowned for its ferocity and skill. Now he and his colleagues must navigate the dark underbelly of Mexico, from raging street wars to perilous jungles, in an effort to rescue him before time runs out. After nearly losing her life on her last case, FBI Agent Kelly Jones may never do fieldwork again.

Determined to regain her confidence, she joins Jake on his mission - and quickly realizes she's in over her head. Then in the slums of Mexico City, she encounters a former nemesis who's enacting a nightmarish ritual on the weak and vulnerable. Now she has one last, desperate shot to prove herself - by taking down a killer.






Praise for the novels of

MICHELLE GAGNON


THE GATEKEEPER

“High stakes, tension, excitement—I loved The Gatekeeper.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

BONEYARD

“I defy anyone to read the first chapter of Boneyard and put the book down. Pure reading pleasure—creepy, terrifying, and utterly believable.”

—New York Times bestselling author Douglas Preston

“A compelling page-turner that pays due attention to the human heart. It’ll keep you up all night.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver

THE TUNNELS

“A stellar work of mounting suspense and terror…. Not to be missed!”

—New York Times bestselling author James Rollins

“Michelle Gagnon is a fresh and confident new voice in crime fiction.”

—New York Times bestselling author John Lescroart

“Michelle Gagnon’s stellar debut is an edge-of-your-seat story of suspense and intrigue. Highly recommended.”

—New York Times bestselling author Sheldon Siegel

“A brisk pace and likable leads…. Gagnon’s characters hold promise for an enjoyable series.”

—Publishers Weekly




MICHELLE GAGNON

KIDNAP & RANSOM








For Taegan




Contents


DECEMBER 15

Chapter One

JANUARY 25

Chapter Two

JANUARY 29

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

JANUARY 30

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

JANUARY 31

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

FEBRUARY 1

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

FEBRUARY 2

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

MARCH 15

Chapter Forty-Eight

Author’s Note



DECEMBER 15




One


Cesar Calderon stepped outside to light a cigarette. It was a gorgeous night, unseasonably warm for December, even in Mexico. He took a deep drag and tilted his head back, aiming the smoke toward a waning moon.

“Quieres?” he asked, turning to his bodyguard. Moreno had stationed himself a few feet back, just outside the restaurant door. For this trip Cesar had selected one of his less imposing employees, determined to maintain a low profile despite the circumstances.

“No, gracias,” Moreno said.

Calderon nodded, then inhaled. Thalia would be apoplectic if she knew he’d taken up smoking again—even if it was only socially, on business trips like this one. Before returning home he’d have to make sure his clothes were laundered or he’d catch hell for it. Out of habit, he kept a close monitor on the surrounding area. The dinner was being held around the corner from their hotel in the Zona Rosa. It was one of the most exclusive sections of Mexico City, although in his opinion these past few years it had slid into tackiness, upscale antique stores ceding to kitschy tourist traps. Shame that they had booked the St. Regis instead of the Four Seasons.

A couple strolled arm in arm, the woman tilting her head back to release a giggle as her companion guided her into a bar down the street. A few storefronts away, a pair of feet jutted out of a doorway. Cesar’s eyes narrowed at the sight of them. He turned back to Moreno and raised an eyebrow. Taking the cue, Moreno went to investigate. Grumbles from the doorway, a tirade delivered with the slurred speech of an addict.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Moreno said in a low voice before falling back into position.

Heroin, Calderon thought, shaking his head. It used to be that the drug only passed through Mexico, but in recent years addiction levels had spiked. The latest law decriminalizing small amounts of heroin and cocaine hadn’t helped matters, in his opinion. An already poor country was now being ravaged by the same disease as its wealthier neighbor to the north. A decade ago, the sight of a stoned man collapsed in a Mexico City doorway would have been an oddity. Today it was rapidly becoming the norm.

Back inside the restaurant, someone laughed loudly—probably Leonard. Bastard always got drunk and inappropriate at these conferences. The other night he’d actually asked Cesar to share a hooker; he shuddered at the memory. The sad truth was that his field attracted people from a wide range of backgrounds, some shadier than others. After recent events, Calderon had decided this was the last time he’d appear as the public face of the company. These business trips were draining, dangerous and put too much of a strain on his already fragile marriage. From here on out he’d leave the heavy lifting to Linus.

Calderon turned at the sound of screeching tires. A white van careened toward him. He frowned and automatically panned right, to the opposite end of the street…where he discovered a garbage truck blocking the intersection. Calderon’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. He spun on his heels, braced to dash into the restaurant. Saw Moreno’s head tilted back at an odd angle, hands clutching his throat as blood jetted from between his fingers. The addict stood behind him, brandishing a knife.

Clearly no escape that way. Calderon tossed his cigarette, scattering a trail of embers as he swiveled and bolted across the street, hoping the sudden move would throw them off.

Too late. Hands gripped him from behind, dragging him toward the van’s open door. His calves smacked the metal frame as they pulled him inside. The last thing he saw was the shocked expression on the maître d’s face, frozen behind the host stand. Then a hood was yanked over his head, the van door slammed shut and a voice barked in Spanish, “Wall one, wall one, we have him! Wall two, move in behind us.”

Calderon let out a yelp at the sudden, sharp pain in his thigh. Mierda, he thought, they’re drugging me…

Then everything went black.



JANUARY 25




Two


Riley adjusted his grip on the MP-5. It was almost dawn. Aside from the sound of an occasional car, the streets below were silent. Almost eerily so, considering Mexico City had more than eight million residents. Riley looked down the line of men in the hall. Four of them pressed against the wall in tight formation, wearing urban camouflage and night-vision goggles. Outside he had Decker manning the wheel of their getaway van, and a sniper and observer in the building opposite. Eight total: more than enough to overwhelm the team holding Cesar Calderon. Still, despite the weeks of planning to set this operation in motion, it was hard for Riley to shake the sense that something was off.

Just nerves, Riley told himself. He had good intel that they were only dealing with three kidnappers. Monroe and Kaplan, his sniper/observer team, would create a distraction, taking out at least one of the bad guys at the window. The rest of his unit would swarm the apartment using a five-man cross-button entry strategy, eliminating the other two kidnappers and egressing with their hostage. All told, the operation should be over in less than five minutes. An airfield ten miles away had a plane waiting, and they’d be stateside by noon. Easy, just like Smiley had promised.

Riley’s earpiece buzzed. “Target confirmed. Are we green?” Kaplan asked in a low voice.

“Confirm green, we are in position,” Riley replied.

“Roger that. Sighting in.”

Riley glanced at his watch. Despite the early hour, he worried that one of the other apartment doors might open, ruining the element of surprise. They were in a run-down tenement building in Iztapalapa, one of the worst slums in Mexico City, which was saying something. The walls were riddled with holes, they’d sent rats scurrying in the stairwell as they ascended, and the whole place stank of piss and rotten meat. All things considered, there were sections of Baghdad he’d feel safer in.

Plus, the kidnappers they were about to engage were no ordinary hacks. Los Zetas was an elite paramilitary organization, former Mexican army soldiers who defected to work for a drug cartel. The men he was about to confront had been through the same training as his unit. They had attended the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation in Fort Benning, Georgia, learning firsthand from the best in the business the very techniques he was about to employ. All of which made this one of the most dangerous rescue attempts he’d ever participated in. And, officially at least, it was the first he was solely in charge of.

The hostage was something of a unique case, too. Cesar Calderon was the CEO of the Tyr Group, the world’s premier Kidnap and Ransom organization. Calderon had personally negotiated the release of hundreds of people over the course of his career. Then, five weeks ago, he’d been snatched from a security symposium where he was the keynote speaker. He walked out of a restaurant, disappeared into the back of a white van and hadn’t been heard from since. The rescuer became the victim—ironic, Riley thought. He’d never met Calderon personally, but in addition to being his boss, the man was a legend in K&R circles.

From inside the apartment, Narcocorridos music blared at top volume. Riley guessed that the neighbors were either Zetas sympathizers or too frightened to complain. The music provided good cover for the kidnappers, and had the additional benefit of disorienting and demoralizing their hostage. On the plus side for Riley, it meant his team didn’t have to worry about a stealthy approach. Hell, they could be escorted by a ten-piece band and still not be heard over the racket emanating from the apartment. Amazing that anyone could sleep through that, but after a while they probably tuned it out.

His earpiece buzzed: “Request permission to engage,” Kaplan asked. The spotter was probably itching to get this over with. He and Monroe, the sniper, had to keep their focus on the apartment from across the street, without any backup, putting them in the most vulnerable position. Especially in this barrio, where each building was more dangerous than the next.

“Permission granted. Fire, fire.” Riley turned and gave the rest of his team the Go signal. Two of them moved forward to flank the door, a compact battering ram between them. He’d act as point man—first through the door and ready to take out whatever lay on the other side. The clearing man would follow, covering his back. The rest of the team would split up to sweep each room, securing the hostage and eliminating any hostiles with extreme prejudice.

Over the din inside the apartment, he heard the distinct sound of shattering glass. Monroe must have shot out the window, hopefully eliminating one of the hostiles at the same time. Riley nodded. The ram swung back, and the door burst inward with a splintering of wood.



“What the fuck was that?” asked Monroe.

Kaplan refocused the Elcan scope on his M-16 rifle, most spotters’ weapon of choice because it provided the best night vision. He was spotting for Monroe, arguably one of the world’s best snipers. Monroe had come up through the ranks of the Army’s elite Olympic sharpshooting team, racking up medals until he got tired of firing at bull’s-eyes and joined the private sector. The two of them were ensconced in an apartment across the street from their target. They’d built their nest a few feet back in the room so the gun muzzle wouldn’t be spotted, and covered most of the window with strips of burlap. The figure they’d zeroed in on had vanished, the window he’d been standing in front of now completely shattered.

“You got him.”

“Bullshit, I didn’t get anyone,” Monroe said. “I haven’t fired yet.”

“What?”

“I was about to, when the window blew.”

“So what the—”

The door behind them suddenly exploded. Kaplan’s hands jerked instinctively to cover his head, before he regained himself and swung the M-16 around.

A sharp pain in his shoulder, followed by one in his chest. Something wet smacked into his face, and he jerked sideways away from it. Men swarmed the room, faces covered by masks attached to black helmets, giving them a wasplike appearance. They all carried machine guns. Kaplan slowly raised his hands in the air, gasping slightly from the pain in his chest where the second bullet had hit. It didn’t seem to have penetrated his vest, but a stream of blood flowed from his shoulder.

They rolled Kaplan onto his back. He winced: Monroe hadn’t been as lucky. There was a big hole where the back of his head used to be. Kaplan recognized the damage: hollow point bullets. And they were brandishing military-issue LMT modular weapons—almost impossible for civilians to get their hands on, even in Mexico.

They zip tied Kaplan’s hands together behind his back and yanked him roughly to his feet. As they jerked a hood down over his head, Kaplan wondered why they hadn’t killed him yet.



Riley swept into the apartment. The hallway was empty, which was surprising: breaking down a door usually brought someone running. The music was loud, but not enough to cover that.

He waved the rest of the men down the hall to search the bedroom on the right. Jordan stayed on his heels as he paused outside the door on their left, which according to their intel led to a living room. Once they entered the room he’d break right while Jordan moved left, hopefully throwing off any hostiles waiting inside.

Riley took a deep breath, then lunged quickly around the door frame and into the room, automatically panning from side to side with his gun. It was also empty, and if the blueprints were accurate the apartment wasn’t that big. Jordan lifted his eyebrows, and Riley shrugged. He motioned for them to approach the door at the far end of the room silently. Jordan nodded.

Riley heard the rest of the team heading away from them toward the kitchen. No gunfire yet, so they hadn’t encountered anyone, either. According to plan, they’d check the kitchen and adjoining bathroom, while he and Jordan entered the bedroom where they expected to find Calderon.

Riley moved as silently as possible, rolling through his feet. Music blared from the back room, underlaid by a sitcom laugh track. At this proximity the noise made his ears smart, and that was through a helmet. The door leading to the bedroom was closed, a simple padlock securing it from the outside. Jordan stepped forward with his shotgun. Riley raised his gloved hand, counting down: three…two…one…

The lock blew away, taking a good chunk of the cheap door with it. Riley swept into the room. Aside from a bed, there was no other furniture. The windows were boarded up. On the right, another door led to the bathroom. Jordan moved to clear that while Riley held his MP-5 steady on the room’s sole occupant.

The hostage was lying on a bed, hands and feet trussed. The black hood covering his head was knotted loosely around his neck. His clothes were filthy, an undershirt mottled brown with stains and a pair of suit pants that were nearly reduced to shreds. The head jerked toward him, and he heard muffled pleas.

Jordan stepped out of the bathroom and nodded: all clear. Despite this, he wore an expression of concern. Riley felt the same way: they should never have been able to enter the apartment without encountering resistance. The abduction of Calderon had been done with precision by a skilled team. No way they would leave Calderon alone and unattended. And still no gunfire from the other side of the house, yet the rest of his team hadn’t reappeared. Riley glanced at his watch: ninety seconds since they’d entered the apartment. The little voice in his head was screaming at him to grab this guy and get the hell out.

Riley nodded for Jordan to cover him. He shouldered his MP-5 and unholstered his sidearm. Crossing the room in two steps, he aimed the gun with one hand while untying the hood with the other. He yanked it off and stepped back, keeping his weapon leveled at the man on the bed. The guy was bruised almost beyond recognition, cheeks sunken and gaunt. His eyes were wild, hair matted with blood, mouth duct-taped. He didn’t look much like the hale, robust man in the company photos, but it was hard to tell. Six weeks as a hostage would ruin anyone’s good looks.

Riley barked, “Don’t move!” He edged in again, ripped off the duct tape. “Where are the hostiles?”

A slow smile crept across the guy’s face. At the sight of it, Riley went cold. “Behind you, amigo,” the man said.

Riley spun. On the other side of the entryway, five men had assault rifles fixed on him and Jordan.

“Fuck,” Jordan muttered.

Riley debated for a second, tightening his grip on his weapon. One handgun against enough firepower to take out a village—he didn’t like his odds. Still, he’d faced worse.

“Don’t be a fool, señor,” the man continued. “We have your other men. Surrender and they all survive.”

Slowly Riley lowered his weapon. The guy’s wrist bonds must have been faked, for he was suddenly at Riley’s side, yanking the handgun from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, Riley linked his hands behind his head. Gunshots, right by his ear. He whirled around in time to see Jordan’s body collapsing to the floor. The bastard was standing over him, grinning.

“Lo siento,” he said casually. “You brought too many.”

“Fuck you,” Riley spat, unable to contain his rage.

The guy ignored him, barking orders to his men. The hood he’d just pulled off was tugged over Riley’s face. It was difficult to breathe through the thick fabric. His hands were zip tied behind him. They pushed and prodded him down the hall. Riley considered yelling, but knew they were in Zetas-friendly territory; there was little chance any locals would come to the rescue. In this town, it was hard enough to gauge whose side the police were on.

He stumbled a few times on the stairs. Hit a landing and heard a door clank against the wall. They must be leaving through the same service exit his team had used to enter the building. The sound of an engine running, and Riley was suddenly sent flying forward. He smacked his head against something hard. Hands shoved him against the far wall into a sitting position. Other people crashed into him, muttering curses. An engine roared, and the vehicle they’d been loaded into peeled away from the curb.

Riley swayed, bracing his feet hard against the floor to stay upright. It felt like a van—probably the one they’d requisitioned for their own getaway. He wondered how many of his men had survived, and what was going to happen to them. Most of all he wondered why the hell any of them were still alive. Clearly they’d walked into a trap—someone knew they were coming. Riley resolved right then and there to find out who. And if he managed to come through this in one piece, he fully intended to hunt them down and kill them.



JANUARY 29




Three


Kelly Jones relaxed. The water surrounding her was warm, womblike. She let herself drift as images flashed across her mind’s eye. Agent Leonard barking a command as he ran alongside her, before vanishing in a flash of light and heat. Her former partner, Rodriguez, laughing at his own jokes. Her family, all together again, making pancakes. And finally Jake Riley, the man she had promised to marry. She was focusing on his easy grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, when a voice jolted her back to the present.

“That’s not bad. Now raise and lower it one more time.”

Kelly opened her eyes. She was floating on her back. The ceiling above the pool danced with the shadows of ripples. From this distance it almost appeared alive, like some great writhing beast. She gritted her teeth and tried to do what she was told, focusing on her right leg, forcing it to resist the hand pressing against her quad. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead and into the water.

“Not bad. But try to raise it all the way up.”

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stopped pushing it down,” Kelly muttered, teeth clenched.

“Sure would, but that’s not my job. Remember our goal?”

Kelly had disliked the physical therapist on sight, and her chirpy voice with the irritating habit of emphasizing every other word had only become more grating over time. Still, she was supposed to be the best in her field. And to get back on active duty, Kelly would tolerate almost anything. Even a she-devil named Brandi.

“One more time and we’re done.”

“That’s what you said before the last one,” Kelly protested.

Brandi shrugged. “I lied. C’mon, you can do it!”

Kelly closed her eyes again. She strained hard, clenching her leg muscles and gluts. There was a splash: her stump had broken the surface of the water. She let her head drop back down, still unaccustomed to the sight of it. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Brandi exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “All right, now you’re done. See you on Thursday.”

“I thought we could meet tomorrow instead,” Kelly said. She hated the pleading tone in her voice, but she needed this. The more PT she did, the faster she’d be able to get back to work. Seven months off and she was climbing the walls. At this point it felt like another few weeks would kill her. And the only person who could clear her for active duty was standing in front of her, ponytail pointing straight up like an exclamation point, glossy pink lips pressed firmly together.

“Now, Kelly.” Brandi shook her head disapprovingly. “Remember our chat about recovery time?”

“I’m never sore the next day anymore,” Kelly protested.

Brandi’s expression didn’t soften. “No way, missy. I will see you on Thursday.” She leaned in. “But if you like, I’ll sneak in an extra half hour.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She watched Brandi swim fluidly over to the ladder. The pool wasn’t kept locked, she reasoned. There was nothing to keep her from sneaking in tomorrow to do the exercises herself.

As if reading her thoughts, Brandi called back over her shoulder, “And don’t even think about coming in here alone. I’ll have Ray at the front desk buzz me if you do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kelly sighed.

“Sure you wouldn’t. See ya!”

Kelly watched Brandi bounce toward the locker room. What she’d give for her sidearm at a time like this. Not that she’d actually shoot the girl, but the thought of scaring the smug grin off her face was tempting. Of course, then Kelly could definitely kiss her job goodbye.

With a deep sigh Kelly dived, kicking hard with her good leg and digging her right arm in deep with each stroke to keep moving in a straight line. Reaching the side of the pool she gripped the ledge hard, using her triceps to haul herself out of the water. Her upper body was strong, more defined than it had been before the accident, thanks to months in a wheelchair. She flipped herself around so that she was sitting, then drew her left leg out of the water and used it to push herself back. Kelly kept her eyes averted as she reached for a towel.

Thanks to a grenade explosion, her right leg now ended just below the knee. It happened on her last case, back in July. Kelly had been chasing a skinhead who was determined to blow up a dirty bomb at the U.S./Mexico border. They’d managed to stop him, but at the last minute he pulled the trigger on a grenade. Four FBI agents had been killed instantly, including Agent Leonard. Another agent had suffered serious injuries, but pulled through. He was back on active duty already. Sometimes it was hard for Kelly not to resent him.

She’d been running away from the truck when the explosion occurred, which probably saved her life. Unfortunately a chunk of metal landed on her leg, crushing it, and she’d sustained internal injuries. The doctor claimed she was lucky to have come out of the coma, plus they’d been able to save most of her leg. Kelly dried herself off, then snapped on her prosthetic. Without the skin-toned polyurethane foam cover, the carbon fiber pylon that substituted for her lower leg made her look like a cyborg. Lucky was not the first word that came to mind.

As Kelly made her way to the locker room, fighting the limp that took over when her muscles were tired, she focused on the floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone she passed. Everywhere but here she was able to keep the damage out of sight. She’d thrown away every skirt, dress, and pair of shorts she owned. She even wore sweatpants to bed now, removing the prosthetic under the covers when the lights were off.

She flashed back on Jake. He’d been the portrait of compassion, staying by her bedside during the entire healing process, then having his apartment reconfigured to suit her new needs. He’d even offered to support her financially if the FBI refused to put her back in the field. The problem was, he’d become such a good nursemaid that sometimes it seemed like that was all they were anymore, and she hated feeling like a patient. Occasionally Kelly caught him looking at her with pity, but when she confronted him, he always protested that his feelings for her hadn’t changed.

And yet, he’d barely touched her since the accident. Not that she blamed him. If she couldn’t stand looking at herself, how could she expect anyone else to feel differently?

In the locker room Kelly dressed quickly. The showers here were public, so she always waited to wash off at home. She tugged a scarf around her neck as she pushed through the door to the street, instantly swept up by the mass of people swarming Fifth Avenue. The physical therapy center was located on a tiny block in Midtown, across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Christmas had come and gone, holiday cheer vanishing along with the fancy window displays. After a week of steady sleet the streets were a mess, puddles of filthy, freezing brown water pooled along the curbs. Everyone pushing past Kelly looked as miserable as she felt, shoulders hunched against the cold, bundled up so that only their eyes were visible. Because of that, it took a minute to recognize the woman grabbing her elbow.

“Kelly? God, I can’t believe it’s you!”

“Monica?” For a second Kelly experienced one of those surreal moments where she thought she might be dreaming. She’d worked a case with Monica Lauer the summer before last, a nasty one where dueling serial killers squared off in the Berkshires. She hadn’t seen her since. “What are you doing here?”

“I should ask you the same thing. Wait, don’t tell me. You married that gorgeous man of yours and live here now.”

“Kind of. Well, no, not married, but…we’re living together. And engaged.”

“Well, good for you.” Monica pulled off a glove and waved her left hand at Kelly. “Just took the plunge myself. Howie and me meet up here, since it’s about halfway between Bennington and D.C.”

“You married Howie?” Kelly said. The brash lieutenant and the forensic anthropologist were the definition of an odd couple. But then, maybe that’s why it worked.

“Yep. He was so great all through Zach’s recovery.” A flash of pain crossed Monica’s face. She waved it away. “Anyway, a guy like that you gotta lock down, know what I mean?”

“Sure. How is Zach?” While they were working together Monica’s son had sustained serious injuries, almost becoming the final victim in the case. Kelly suddenly felt badly about falling out of touch. The last time she’d contacted Monica was over a year ago, by email. Of course, at least for the last seven months she had a decent excuse.

“Better. Not a hundred percent yet, but he’s taking classes at the community college. His short-term memory is still a little ragged, but…” Monica shrugged. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

“Right.” Kelly cleared her throat, thinking that was an easy sentiment to express when you hadn’t faced the alternative. “Anyway, I should—”

“Oh my gosh, I must be keeping you from something. But listen, I’d love to grab coffee sometime. I leave tomorrow, and Howie and I have dinner plans tonight, but maybe the next time I’m in town? I come down every few weeks.”

“Yeah, sure. That sounds great,” Kelly responded mechanically. She dutifully entered Monica’s mobile number in her phone, knowing full well that she’d never call it, and that any messages Monica left would go unanswered.

“All righty, then. Great seeing you, Kelly. Can’t wait to sit down and have a real chat!”

Kelly watched Monica vanish back into the throng. It was nearly dusk and rush hour was about to start in earnest. She’d have to hurry if she didn’t want to end up standing in the subway car the entire ride home.

Before tucking her cell phone back in her purse, she reflexively checked the call log. Nothing today. Jake was out of town on business, but he usually called by now. She considered dialing, but a hard shove from behind almost sent her flying. Kelly gritted her teeth and put the phone away. All she wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine and a Vicodin. Everything else could wait.



Jake Riley kept his eyes closed, listening to the bustle outside the door. If he concentrated he could distinguish voices, individual conversations. Someone at the water cooler was complaining about stalled negotiations in Colombia. Another voice was speaking Russian, a one-sided conversation over the phone. From down the hall, the distinctive sound of coffee brewing, accompanied by loud laughter. Above all that he registered stiletto heels clicking toward him. That gait he’d recognize anywhere.

He opened his eyes just as the door to his office was thrown open.

“Where are we on the Stanislav case?” Syd asked.

“Hello, Syd. Nice to see you, too.”

Syd Clement shut the door behind her, crossed the room and plopped down in the chair facing him. She eased her feet out of her heels and propped them up on the desk, inches from his own. At this distance, he could almost feel the heat coming off her stocking feet. He caught himself examining her perfect toes.

“The Stanislav case?” she prodded.

“Dubkova is handling it. He thinks one more week, max.”

“Yeah? Dubkova’s an idiot.” Syd’s toes tapped the air impatiently.

“Syd, he’s been a rock star for us so far. Three successful negotiations, no casualties.”

“Those were in Russia. The Ukraine is a whole other beast. I know the Ukraine.”

Jake repressed a sigh. This pattern had become all too familiar. A month or so stateside and Syd got antsy. He’d already had to stop her from intervening in two other active cases that, in her opinion, were taking too long to resolve. What she failed to grasp was that in the private sector, patience and diplomacy usually produced better outcomes than strong-arm tactics. Syd was always a fan of the more forceful approach. Jake weighed his words before speaking. “I think Dubkova deserves another week. The kidnappers are starting to cave. He’s already talked them down another million. One more and we’re in the range that Centaur is willing to pay.”

“Fine. But if they don’t come down in a week, we send in a team.”

“Sure,” Jake agreed, knowing full well that by the end of the day Dubkova intended to have the ransom terms decided, which rendered the entire debate moot. And the prospect of an operation was guaranteed to preoccupy Syd until then.

The company they had co-founded a little more than a year earlier, The Longhorn Group, had taken off in leaps and bounds. They specialized in Kidnap and Ransom cases. Insurance companies that issued K&R insurance kept them on retainer.

Last July they had been the only two in the office. Now there were more than thirty full-time employees on payroll. When one of their clients was kidnapped they mobilized a team to respond, including specialists who coached the families on the negotiation process, and bodyguards to provide protection in case the kidnappers tried to snatch more victims. And if the negotiations fell apart, or the kidnappers became too volatile, The Longhorn Group sent in a recovery team comprised former Special Forces operatives. Their success rate thus far had been impressive: more than forty cases handled in less than a year. Most of the hostages were ransomed out at a price the insurance company was willing to pay. In ten cases they’d been forced to send in units to recover the hostage. Only one case had gone south, thanks to a trigger-happy kidnapper. That one still haunted Jake, but in the grand scheme of things, The Longhorn Group’s record couldn’t be better.

Of course, part of the boom could be attributed to the explosion in kidnappings worldwide. From the waters off the coast of Somalia to beach resorts in the Philippines to the sleepy streets of Silicon Valley, nowhere was completely safe anymore. In the past year they’d handled cases in Colombia, Guatemala, Italy, Spain, the United States and, increasingly, Russia, where kidnappings were becoming as ubiquitous as those nesting dolls hawked as souvenirs. There were rumors that in the recent elections, one party’s entire campaign was financed by ransom money.

Most people were unaware of what a successful ransom negotiation required, especially when an insurance company was involved. The kidnappers invariably made exorbitant demands, either financial or otherwise, in the first stages of negotiation. A frantic family, desperate to see their loved one released, would try to meet those demands. The problem was that paying the full ransom almost guaranteed that the same victim or another family member would be targeted in the future. In the mid-90s, a Hong Kong billionaire was snatched. His family paid the $10 million dollar ransom without any negotiation. A few years later, he was taken again, and this time the kidnappers wanted double the amount. Even though that ransom was also paid, the businessman was killed.

A seasoned hostage negotiator described it to Jake as roughly equivalent to buying a rug in a Moroccan bazaar. The kidnappers initially wanted something outrageous. A negotiator’s job was to bargain them down, convincing them that the family didn’t have that kind of money available, the insurance company refused to pay that much or that what they were asking for was simply impossible if it involved something like the release of political prisoners. A great negotiator wore the kidnappers down, until both parties agreed on an acceptable ransom. And with luck, the time and trouble involved meant that the hostage would be safe from future targeting.

Of course, the fact that human lives were at stake made the game more challenging. Walking away was simply not an option, although going in for a snatch and grab was. Which was why The Longhorn Group employed both highly trained negotiators and commandos. Always good to cover your bases.

“So. What else is on the docket?” Syd said.

Jake glanced at the papers on his desk, although he could cite their current cases off the top of his head. “Fribush just left Colombia, the tourists are all safe and sound. We’ve got Manchester handling that thing in Sardinia, and Jacobs is still in Croatia. Sumner called in from Pakistan, things aren’t going well over there.”

“Really?” Syd perked up. “I love Pakistan this time of year.”

“It’s January, no one loves Pakistan now. Besides, I thought we agreed you were on desk duty for a while.”

“It’s been a while. If I stay much longer, I’ll lose my mind. Look, I’m even starting to get fat.” Syd pinched a fold of cashmere sweater over her taut stomach.

Jake grinned. “You could use a little flesh on those bones.”

She tossed a paper clip at him. “Go to hell, partner.”

Jake’s phone buzzed, interrupting his retort. He pushed the speaker button. “Riley.”

“Your brother is here to see you.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had more than one.” His new secretary sounded flustered. “I’ll ask.”

“No, that’s okay. Send him in.”

Syd let out a low whistle. “One of the infamous Riley brothers, huh? This is exciting.”

Jake didn’t answer. His younger brother opened the door, a wrinkled overcoat draped over his arm. He was a younger, heavier version of Jake: same salt-and-pepper hair, same blue eyes. His face was flaming red, either from the cold or nerves. Jake walked around his desk to greet him. “Chris!” He embraced him. “What are you doing in town?”

“I, uh…” Jake followed his eyes and sighed. Syd tended to have that effect on men.

“Syd Clement.” She dropped her feet to the floor and extended a hand in one fluid motion. “I bet you’ve got some good Jake stories for me.”

“I guess.” Chris looked completely bewildered.

“Let me take that.” Jake peeled the jacket off his brother’s arm and hung it on the back of the door. “Have a seat.”

Chris nervously perched on the chair beside Syd, sticking to the edge farthest away from her. As Jake sat back down, he took inventory. He’d missed the family Christmas celebration since Kelly wasn’t up for it, so it had been over a year since he and his brother had seen each other. About that long since they’d spoken, too. Chris was an accountant, married his high school sweetheart, still lived in the town they grew up in. Other than their blood, they had nothing in common.

“So, Chris. What brings you to New York?” Syd asked, breaking the silence.

“Well, it’s kind of…private.”

“Really?” Syd arched an eyebrow and leaned forward in her chair. Chris shied away. “The plot thickens. I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Syd, take a hike,” Jake said. “We’ll finish up later.”

“I always miss the good stuff,” Syd huffed dramatically. She slipped on her heels one at a time, then pointed at Jake. “Remember, one more week and I’m on a plane to the Ukraine. You promised.”

“Bye, Syd.”

“Lovely meeting you, Chris.” She winked at him, then turned and left the room.

“So that’s your, uh…”

“Partner.”

“Right.” Chris looked around the office appreciatively, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of Central Park, plush carpeting, oil paintings on the walls. Jake could almost see the calculator in his head tallying it up. “Looks like you’re doing okay.”

“It’s been going well. Better than I hoped, actually. How about you? Susie and the kids okay?”

“Oh, they’re good.” Chris examined his hands, chapped and ruddy from the weather. “Sure is cold here this time of year.”

“Sure is.” Jake fought the urge to grit his teeth. Chris always took forever to get to the point. He’d start with the weather, then move on to something equally innocuous, like sports. “So what’s this private thing?”

He hoped Chris wasn’t going to announce that he’d left his family and needed a place to stay. He had one of the most stable marriages Jake had ever seen, and besides, Kelly wasn’t really prepared to handle company yet.

“It’s Mark.”

Jake went cold. His older brother had joined the military straight out of high school. He was a lifer, ended up a Navy SEAL. And with wars going on in multiple countries, this wasn’t the best time to be an enlisted man. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Chris plucked at the pleats in his corduroy pants.

Jake’s heart clenched. “Did you get notification?”

Chris shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. He’s out of the service, anyway.”

Relief swept over Jake. He’d been braced to hear that Mark had been killed by a suicide bomber or an IED. “When did he get discharged?”

“About six months ago. He’s been working for this company.”

Jake couldn’t picture his rugged older brother in a suit and tie. “What company?”

“I have it here.” Chris dug around in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

Jake had to squint to read it. “A tire company?”

“No, it’s Tyr Global.”

“You’re kidding,” Jake said. Tyr Global was the world leader in K&R work. They’d been in business for almost four decades, and pretty much wrote the book on hostage negotiation. “Doing what?”

“He didn’t say. But he showed up at our door a week ago, told me he was going out on an operation. If I didn’t hear back from him by the twenty-seventh, something went wrong. That was two days ago, Jake.” Worry furrowed his brow. “So I figured I’d better come see you. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Jake leaned back in his chair, frowning. “So he left the service and went to work for one of my competitors. Typical.”

Chris shrugged. “Probably reckoned you were still ticked off at him.”

“He would have reckoned right.”

“Would you have hired him?”

Jake’s face flushed. “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Well, there you go, then.”

“So what do you expect me from me?”

Chris leaned forward in his chair and jabbed the desk with his index finger. “He’s our brother, Jake. And this is what your company does, right? You go in and save people.”

“You could have just called to tell me what happened.”

“I could’ve. But I wanted you to say no to my face. And if you won’t help, I leave for Mexico City tonight. End of story.” Chris crossed his arms and glared at him.

Jake drummed his fingers on his desk. “Even after what happened, you’re willing to risk your life for him?”

“Yup.”

“You don’t even speak Spanish.”

“Neither do you,” Chris retorted. “You know it’s what Mom would have wanted.”

The words hung in the air between them. Jake deliberated. The thought of Chris navigating the underbelly of Mexico City, one of the most dangerous metropolitan areas in the world, was laughable. He’d wind up getting himself killed. Jake sighed. “Tell me everything he told you. Where he was going, what was supposed to happen.”

“Yessir.” Chris looked relieved, and Jake felt a wave of pity. This had been a big burden for Chris to carry. He of all people knew that Mark would never want help from Jake. But whatever Mark had gotten himself into, it would take more than an accountant to get him back out.



Ten minutes later Jake eased closed the door to his office. After relaying everything he could remember, Chris had passed out cold on his couch—chances were he hadn’t slept much the past few days, sitting there waiting for his phone to ring. Jake walked down the hall to Syd’s office, waving off a few employees who tried to approach him. He rapped twice on the door before letting himself in.

Syd was lying on her couch, flipping through a magazine. “How’s the reunion going?” she asked without looking up.

“Not good. Look’s like my older brother has been kidnapped.”

“What?” She sat up. “Where?”

“He was running a snatch and grab for Tyr south of the border. Mexico City, Chris thinks, but he’s not a hundred percent sure. Something must have gone wrong. He was supposed to check in two days ago.”

“Maybe he’s holed up in some Tijuana bar celebrating,” Syd said skeptically.

“Not Mark.” Jake shook his head emphatically. “If he could call, he would have. You hear any chatter from Tyr?”

“No, but I can put out some feelers. I’ve got a guy over there.” Syd crossed to her desk, all business now. “Wasn’t Calderon snatched in Mexico City?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Jake said. Although it wasn’t public knowledge, the head of Tyr Global had been kidnapped six weeks earlier. Tyr had gone to great lengths to keep word from getting out—after all, having their frontman snatched wasn’t good for business.

“They’d send their best to get him back,” Syd said thoughtfully as she tapped through screens on her computer. “Your brother that good?”

“Maybe. He spent more than two decades as a SEAL, tours in Somalia, Afghanistan, Iraq.”

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” Syd said approvingly.

“I’m sure he’d love you,” Jake said.

“Well, then, we’ll have to arrange a meeting. Give me ten minutes.”

Jake let himself out. He fought the urge to pace the halls while he waited. A few people looked up from their desks quizzically. Switching direction suddenly, he headed to the front desk, grabbing his jacket from the closet on the way out.

“Mr. Riley, are you—” his secretary called after him.

He ignored her, marching into the outer hall. He hooked right by the elevators and threw open the door to the roof. It wasn’t supposed to be accessible, but one thing he and Syd learned early on was that this line of work attracted smokers, and providing a place to indulge went a long way toward keeping them happy. With that in mind they’d struck a deal with the building’s management company to construct a small, sheltered space on the roof. Ducking in, he was pleased to find it unoccupied. He eschewed the chairs, preferring to pace the few feet back and forth.

Even in this weather, the view was striking. Central Park sprawled out below him, all stark branches and grass blanched gray. In the distance off to his left, he could see whitecaps on the reservoir, while to his right the Midtown skyline marched toward the glare of Times Square. Farther on, the tip of Manhattan merged with the horizon. Jake gnawed his lip, checking his watch. Jesus, Mark, he thought to himself. What the hell did you sign up for?

The creak of a door behind him and Syd appeared. She held the collar of an enormous fur coat up to shield her ears.

“Seriously, Jake, the roof? Make it a little harder on me, why don’t you.”

“What is it?” He could tell by her eyes the news wasn’t good.

Syd shook her head. “Tyr lost a team four days ago. They had good intel on where Calderon was being held and decided to move in quickly. Lost the whole team. Three found dead on site, the other five are missing.”

“Mark?”

“Not one of the DOAs. He was the team leader, so chances are they’d keep him alive.”

“What are they asking for him?” Jake’s chest had gone tight. In spite of himself, he pictured Mark swinging from a rope above the river they used to swim in, letting go at the top, arms pinwheeling as he vaulted through the air.

“That I couldn’t get—Tyr is going to great lengths to keep this quiet. You don’t want to know what I had to promise my guy for this intel.”

“Do they know where they were taken?”

Syd said, “Rumor has it they were all snatched by a Los Zetas offshoot. They pretty much own the eastern delegaciones, so Tyr is sending a team there.”

“Crap. This just keeps getting better,” Jake said.

Los Zetas were mercenaries who did the dirty work for Mexican drug cartels. They had kidnapping perfected to a science, executing the initial grab flawlessly, constantly moving their prisoners to thwart attempts to track them…They were the world’s best at what they did. None of which boded well for Mark and his unit.

“What do you want to do?” Syd asked, studying him.

Jake shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we call Tyr, offer to do a joint operation?”

“They won’t go for that.” Syd shook her head. “They’re still pissed off about the Lodi case. I doubt they’ll even take our call.”

“Well, shit, Syd, Mark’s my brother.” Jake ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t just leave him down there to rot.”

“So let’s go get him.”

“That’s nuts. Tyr will go ballistic.”

“If we run into them, we make it clear that if they want trouble, we’re more than willing to give it to them—one press release about what happened down there, and they can kiss all their major contracts goodbye. And that’s if we even run into them.” Syd snorted. “Doesn’t sound like they’re the best of the best anymore. No offense,” she added.

Jake thought it over. The steady sleet tapered off, replaced by chunky white snowflakes. “All right,” he said finally. “But we’re not taking anyone off an active case. Who does that leave?”

“Fribush is already in the air en route to Texas, we can have him dropped off in Mexico City instead. So we’ve got him, you, me—”

“I need you to stay here and hold down the fort,” Jake protested. “We can’t both go.”

“The hell we can’t.”

“I mean it, Syd. One of us has to stay.” Jake didn’t add what they both knew he meant—if things went south, someone had to survive to keep running the firm.

“This is your brother, Jake. You need the best we’ve got on it.” Syd stared him down. “That’s me, and you know it.”

Jake started to argue, then thought better of it. Of all the trained operatives they had, Syd was the best by far. And she managed to inspire a blind loyalty in the men that no one else could duplicate. “Fine,” he finally agreed. “But I want Jagerson and Kane backing you up.”

“Perfect, I was going to suggest them,” she said. “And Maltz.”

“No way.” Jake shook his head. Michael Maltz had nearly been killed on their first case the previous July. Ever since he’d been undergoing extensive physical therapy. As far as Jake knew he hadn’t been cleared to go for a long walk, never mind conduct special operations.

“He’s fine, I checked him out myself,” Syd insisted.

“Checked him out how?”

“Ran him through the course at Langley, plus a few others. Trust me, he’s ready to come back. And aside from him, everyone else is committed to other cases.”

Jake mentally ran through their roster in his head: she was right, short of hiring a freelancer, all their other field operatives were assigned elsewhere. And freelancers were notoriously iffy. “That makes a team of six,” he said dubiously.

“Lean and mean, just how I like it.” Syd grinned.

Jake wished he shared her conviction. One thing about Tyr, they attracted top talent. If Mark had been ambushed, anyone could be. Considering the adversary they faced, he’d prefer going in with a small army.

“It’ll be fine, Jake. Trust me.” Syd glanced at her watch. “Nearly six o’clock. I’ll handle the travel logistics, you contact the rest of the team and reroute Fribush’s plane.”

“Okay.”

“Great. We’ll be out of here by midnight.”

Jake watched her head toward the stairwell. Unless he was mistaken, there was a distinct bounce in her step. Nothing cheered Syd up like the prospect of an armed confrontation.

His cell phone buzzed and he glanced at the caller ID: Kelly. Jake groaned inwardly. He’d arrived home late last night from a business trip to California and had opted to sleep at the office instead of going home. Jake told himself he didn’t want to wake her, but deep down he knew it was more than that. He gazed blankly out at the skyline. Kelly wasn’t going to like this. Since the accident it was almost overwhelming how needy she’d become. It was understandable, considering what she’d been through, but still. He barely recognized her anymore. Sometimes it felt like the Kelly he’d fallen in love with died in that explosion, and now he was living with her shadow.

Jake ran a hand across his face, wiping away stray drops of water. Dodging the issue wasn’t going to make it go away, but he couldn’t deal with it now. He had to save Mark. When he came back, they could have that talk.

He shook his head and went back inside.




Four


Mark Riley came to with a jolt, reflexively reaching for his weapon. His fingers fumbled, finding nothing. It always took him a few seconds to remember.

He rolled his head from side to side as he took inventory. The surviving members of his team were in the same positions as when he’d fallen asleep. Kaplan, the spotter, lay on his back by the door, wheezing slightly thanks to his broken ribs. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, too, but so far there were no signs of infection. Flores and Wysocki were on their sides, foot to foot along adjoining walls. Decker, their driver, was the lucky bastard enjoying a turn on the cot. Aside from that, the room was bare: four walls and a filthy mat that might have been white once. The door to the bathroom had been removed, the only window was painted black. A radio in the corner blasted music nonstop. Hard to believe, but it barely registered. His hearing would probably never be the same again.

Mark shook his hands, trying to increase circulation. So far they’d only removed the zip ties binding their hands to allow them to eat, and then only one at a time. The Zetas were nothing if not cautious. Tough to scarf down food with the barrel of an LMT aimed at your chest, but he’d gotten used to that pretty fast, too. The food wasn’t bad, surprisingly. He’d even swear the tortillas were homemade.

This was the third dump they’d been stashed in. By the street noise he surmised they were still somewhere in Mexico City. Soon after being tossed in the first van they’d been drugged. He’d come to in a room much like this one, all of them stacked against the wall like cordwood. A few hours later they were moved again. No drugs that time, but the Zetas drove in circles for hours, obviously intent on disorienting them. They could have ended up in an apartment next door to the first and Mark wouldn’t have been able to tell.

Something must have happened to convince their guards that the last place wasn’t secure, because they were hustled out in broad daylight. Mark caught a glimpse of ugly tenement buildings through the weave in his hood before being stuffed back into the van. Another few hours of jostling against each other through turn after turn, the driver muttering under his breath until someone barked for him to shut up. Then this place.

Wherever they were, the Zetas seemed to feel they were safe from discovery for the time being. Three straight days they’d been trapped in this eight-by-eight-foot cell. They’d been forced to strip on the first day, so instead of black commando gear they now sported a motley assortment of clothing that suggested their captors had a sense of humor. Kaplan was given a T-shirt two sizes too small with Britney Spears grinning from the front. Decker wore a UNC Tar Heels sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of red sweatpants. Flores had a white dress shirt, missing the buttons, and Wysocki was stuck with jean shorts. All in all, they looked like refugees from a zombie film.

Mark lumbered to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom, trying not to wake the others. In order to kill time, they spent much of their captivity napping. Judging by the dim light filtering around the edges of the window, dusk was falling outside. In another half hour or so the Zetas would serve dinner, then leave them alone for the night.

Mark took a piss, never an easy feat with bound hands, and splashed some water on his face. There was a curtainless stall in the far corner that spit out a thin stream of tepid water. Despite hailing from different military branches, they’d all been conditioned to appreciate the comfort of routine. On day one Mark had set the schedule for showering, exercise and shitting. So far no one had questioned his authority to do so.

That morning had been Decker’s turn, followed by Kaplan, Flores, Wysocki and him, staggered three hours apart so that the towel they shared had time to dry. Tomorrow Kaplan got the dry towel, and they went back through the rotation.

Hopefully by the time his turn rolled around again, they’d be headed home. Mark heard a muffled grunt followed by an oath.

“Stop kicking me, asshole,” Flores growled.

“I was sleeping, asshole, it was an accident,” Wysocki mumbled back.

“Both of you shut the fuck up,” Decker called from the cot.

Mark stepped into the door frame. “Your turn to shit, Sock. Use it or lose it.”

“Aye aye, cap’n.” Wysocki, or “Sock,” was already clambering to his feet. He was a huge bear of a man, six-five, with a nose that had seen one bar fight too many. He’d come up through the SEALs like Mark, although they’d never served together. Rumor had it that Sock had received an involuntary discharge, but there was no mention of it in Tyr’s file. Not that it would surprise him. Sock wasn’t the type of guy who handled authority well. Mark had him in his crosshairs as a possible troublemaker.

He moved to the opposite door, putting some distance between himself and whatever Sock was about to deposit. That might have been the worst part of the ordeal so far, five men on a steady diet of beans sharing a bathroom with no door. Thank God none of them had developed dysentery, otherwise it would have been truly unbearable.

“So, Riley—” Flores said. He was the smallest of the group, just shy of six feet with a thick mop of black hair.

Mark waved him quiet, picking up a noise on the other side of the door. They all waited, ears cocked. After a minute, he nodded for him to continue.

Flores kept his voice low. “Like I said earlier, I got people here. We storm the door when they unlock it for mealtime, secure a vehicle and once I figure out where the hell they are—”

“You know the city?” Mark asked.

“Not well. Lived here for a while when I was a kid, though.”

Mark shook his head. “I’ve counted five guys so far. We’ve got to assume they’re all here, all the time, even if they might be working shifts. These aren’t some campesinas who couldn’t handle a .22, they know their shit and they’ll be expecting something like that. We can take one of them, but that leaves four to deal with and one weapon between us. Plus for all we know this whole sector is a Zeta nest. According to company intel they own entire barrios. So say we overwhelm them here, then we’ve got to get out of the building and into friendly territory. Bad odds.”

Decker was nodding in agreement. Sock reappeared in the doorway and leaned against the jamb. “So what, we sit here with our thumbs up our ass waiting for the cavalry? ’Cause I gotta tell you, I’ve been with this organization a long time. And they’re not coming for us unless someone’s willing to pay.”

“For all they know Calderon is with us,” Mark argued.

“Bullshit. They probably already sent in another team and got him stateside. And we’re written off as a loss.” Sock snorted.

Mark shook his head. “We’d already be dead.”

Sock looked away, but didn’t say anything.

“What’s the plan?” Decker asked.

Mark examined him. The former Marine had barely spoken a dozen words the entire time they’d been here, so he hadn’t gotten a read on him yet. According to his file he served two tours each in Iraq and Afghanistan, mid-forties, no family. A lifer, like him. “They’re going to have to move us at some point—that’s the weak link. Fewer guards in a contained space, transportation is covered. It’s our best shot.”

He looked at each in turn. Decker and Flores nodded.

“Sounds good,” Kaplan said. “I’d rather die in a van than this shithole, anyway.”

After a few beats, Sock shrugged. “Yeah, why not.”

Mark figured it was as close to an endorsement as he was going to get. “No more chatter until after dinner,” he said. “Then we’ll map it out.”



“Absolutely not,” Jake said.

“Why not?”

Kelly glared at him, jaw set. He avoided her eyes as he said, “The doctors haven’t even cleared you for desk duty yet. And we don’t know what we’re in for down there.”

“You don’t think I can do it.” Kelly crossed her arms over her chest.

“I didn’t say that—”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

Jake ran a hand across his face. This wasn’t going well. It seemed like lately, all they did was fight. “I’m thinking that I almost lost you seven months ago. And the last thing I’m going to do is pit you against a bunch of paramilitary goons in Mexico.”

“So you’re leaving me behind for selfish reasons, then.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Jake moved past her and dropped onto the couch, exhausted. He’d been prepared for the fact that Kelly wasn’t going to take the news of his trip well. But the last thing he’d expected was that she’d ask to come along. “I mean, Jesus, Kelly. My brother is missing, and now I’ve got to fight with you?”

Her eyes softened. He held out his arms and she went to him, obviously trying to mask her limp. Kelly dropped into his lap and rested her head against his shoulder. “I feel so useless,” she said.

“You’re not useless.”

“I am. At least, everyone treats me like I am. I’m so sick of people feeling sorry for me, giving me that look.”

“Putting yourself in danger isn’t going to change that,” Jake said.

She stiffened. “You used to say that if you could have anyone watching your back, it would be me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Jake shifted. “But…”

“But what?” Kelly said. “Now that I’m a cripple, you don’t feel that way anymore?”

“You’re not a cripple.”

“As long as everyone else insists on treating me like one, that’s exactly what I am.”

She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, even though hers were the ones that felt cold. “I need this, Jake. Let me prove I can still do this.”

There was an intensity to her gaze that Jake hadn’t seen in a long time. He thought it over. If he said no, the way things were going it would be the death knell for their relationship. Plus if Kelly was this determined, she might follow them anyway. At least he’d be able to keep tabs on her if she was part of the unit.

“We leave in twenty minutes,” he said. “Pack light.”

Kelly’s face split in a grin. He hadn’t seen her this happy since before the bombing, Jake realized with a pang.

“You mean it?”

“Nineteen minutes and counting.”

Kelly popped off his lap and loped toward their bedroom. Jake winced internally at the thought of how Syd would react to this development. “Damn it, Mark,” he muttered under his breath. “Still nothing but trouble.”



“Anything?”

“Not yet, Mr. Smiley. But they cleared another sector.”

Linus Smiley snorted derisively and waved the assistant out. It had been four days since his team was snatched. He was having a hell of a time keeping the latest fiasco from the board of directors. The loss of an entire unit in addition to Calderon would send them into crisis mode, and that was the last thing he needed. Especially now. He had to hold them off for a few more days, long enough for the new team to clean up this mess…not that they’d made any progress so far. He’d sent in a double unit of men, the best of who he had left, and all they’d managed to do was figure out where the captives weren’t.

As it was, there had been too many delays. The board had insisted on waiting nearly six weeks before sending a team after Cesar, convinced that at some point the kidnappers would contact them with a ransom demand. But so far, nothing—and by the time he’d managed to mobilize a team, the trail had gone cold. They’d been fortunate to get that tip about the Zeta apartment—or at least, that’s what he’d thought at the time. Clearly someone had been setting them up. The question was, why? Cesar Calderon was worth a substantial amount, and not just in monetary terms. Smiley had lain awake the past few nights trying to figure out the end game here.

He sighed and dropped down in the chair behind his desk, tapping his fingers in a steady cadence. After a moment, he pressed a button on his phone. “Emerson, get back here.”

Emerson scuttled in, looking harried. “Yes, Mr. Smiley?”

“Who do we know high up in Mexican military command?”

Emerson shrugged. “I’m not sure, sir. Mr. Calderon always dealt with those contacts directly.”

“But you’ve worked with him for years, right?” Smiley emphasized each syllable.

“Yes, sir.” Emerson was visibly uncomfortable.

“So unless you’re completely incompetent, you should be able to find those names in his files.”

“That depends, sir.”

“On what?”

“On how high up you want to go. Mr. Calderon kept most of the top tier names somewhere else.”

“Where?”

Emerson shrugged in reply. Smiley fought the urge to hurl a paperweight at him. With Calderon gone, he’d had to step in and fill the vacuum. What he’d consequently discovered was that the layers of separation instituted by Cesar had prevented anyone from realizing how scatter-shot and disorganized the company really was. While each individual quadrant performed well, if one manager was removed the whole house of cards collapsed. Which was happening now, unless Smiley could figure out a way to shore the damn thing up. Typical of Cesar to keep his top contacts in his pocket. He always wanted to play hero.

“Get me whoever you can,” Smiley snarled. “Someone has to be running those Zeta assholes. I want to find out who.”



JANUARY 30




Five


“This is bullshit. You should have cleared it with me.”

“The way you clear everything with me first?” Jake grabbed his duffel bag off the carousel. He’d managed to avoid her until now, but with Kelly in the bathroom and their men staggered around the room waiting for luggage, Syd had cornered him for a dressing down.

“This isn’t a goddamn holiday, Riley, it’s a mission.”

“It’s my brother we’re going after,” Jake retorted. “And I thought we could use another set of arms.”

“Another set of legs would help, too,” Syd said under her breath.

“What?” Jake said sharply.

“She’s just going to slow us down,” Syd said. “And if she does, I don’t have any problem leaving her.”

“For the record, I didn’t want you coming along, either,” Jake said.

“Now I’m sorry I did.”

Kelly reappeared over Syd’s shoulder, and Jake forced a smile. She looked past him. “Oh, there’s my bag.”

Her limp was more pronounced after the long overnight flight, and she moved clumsily toward her duffel. Jake went to help her, but she stopped him with a sharp look.

“So, Kelly.” Syd watched her struggle. “All better?”

Kelly set her jaw. “Absolutely.”

“Jake probably told you what we’re in for.”

“I’ve been briefed,” Kelly said.

She tried to push past, but Syd blocked her. “Just so you know, things are different down here. We won’t be following any rulebook.”

“Happy to hear it,” Kelly said.

“Yeah?” Syd raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you’ll feel that way when we’ve got a hostile tied to a chair.”

“Quit it, Syd,” Jake said, stepping forward.

She opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the approach of Michael Maltz, flanked by Jagerson, Fribush and Kane.

“We ready?” Maltz asked, eyeing the three of them.

“Yes,” Jake said. “Let’s pull out.”



Kelly brooded in the rear of the rental car. She had known going into this that Syd would be less than thrilled to have her along. The two women had managed to avoid being in the same room for more than five minutes ever since The Longhorn Group was formed. Kelly hadn’t trusted her from the beginning. Syd Clement embodied the complete lack of moral standards that Kelly associated with CIA agents. Success at any cost. The end justified the means. Never in a million years would Kelly have started a company with someone whose world view was defined by “us versus them.” She’d told Jake as much, but he’d gone ahead and established the partnership anyway.

Syd would go out of her way to make her life difficult on this mission. On top of everything else, she still had an ax to grind with Kelly for forcing her off a case. Not that she’d actually managed to—Syd had gone ahead and done what she wanted anyway, consequences be damned. And because of her actions, a lot of people in Phoenix had lost their lives. More than once in the past few months, Kelly had toyed with the idea of turning her in for that. She’d only kept her mouth shut for Jake’s sake.

They’d opted for two cars, ostensibly to have more options if something happened to one. Kelly suspected it was also meant to keep her and Syd separated as much as possible. Jagerson was driving. He was small for a former Delta guy, but sported the same sheared head, thickly muscled arms and boxy jaw as his compatriots. Jake sat in the passenger seat beside him. As if sensing her gaze, he turned and gave her a thin smile.

Kelly shifted her eyes away and pretended to fiddle with her phone. Under her lashes she took in Michael Maltz. Funny that Syd had been so opposed to her joining the team, yet had insisted on Maltz. He’d nearly been killed in the Phoenix incident, and still looked much the worse for wear. A mottled mass of burnt flesh ran across the left side of his face into his scalp. He’d lost the hearing in the ear on that side, and was missing a finger off his right hand. According to Jake, the rest of his body was largely held together by titanium pins. Kelly couldn’t believe that after all that, he was still willing to work with Syd. Hell, she couldn’t believe he wanted to keep doing this sort of work at all. Of course, under the circumstances she was hardly one to talk.

Kane, Fribush and Syd were in the other car. They’d offered to gather the equipment and meet them back at the motel. Kelly wondered for a moment what kind of equipment they were getting, and where it was coming from—then decided that if she ever wanted to go back to the Bureau, she was better off not knowing.

When Jake showed up yesterday he’d nearly caught her digging through a stack of case files her former partner had swiped for her. Just being in possession of those without formal permission could cost her job, but Kelly was going nuts sitting at home without anything to do. She figured if she could spot something that had been missed, she’d be forgiven for not filing the proper paperwork. And with any luck, that might help get her cleared for active duty again.

So far the search had been unproductive. All she’d ended up with was a mass of paper cuts and the conviction that sometimes the follow-up from her people had been less than thorough. For instance, a case she’d been involved with a few years earlier had been marked as Closed, even though the killer’s body never turned up. She’d argued for more resources, but her boss at the time was more interested in filing one in the “win” column. Stefan Gundarsson had last been seen falling into a river, bleeding from a gunshot wound, and that was good enough for him. Kelly remained skeptical. Sometimes people who had been shot in the head continued walking around as if nothing had happened. She’d have felt better about it if a body had turned up.

One victim’s family apparently agreed. They’d hired a P.I. to investigate further. Last year while Kelly was in a coma, the investigator had contacted the FBI. He claimed to have stumbled across irrefutable evidence that Gundarsson was alive and well in Mexico. But the FBI refused to reopen the case without more proof. Reading through the file last night, Kelly couldn’t help but think that if she’d been on active duty when the tip came in, the results might have been different. And then Jake walked in and announced that he was headed to Mexico on the next flight. It had seemed like fate.

A horn blared, jerking her back to the present. Despite the predawn hour, they were trapped in a bleating, smoggy mass of cars in various stages of dilapidation. Vendors edged through the gridlock selling candy bars, key chains, cigarettes and a host of other random items, from gum to razors. A guy in a ratty T-shirt materialized and rubbed filthy rags across their windshield, ignoring blasts from the car horn to get him to stop. As Jagerson guided them forward in fits and starts, Kelly was suddenly overwhelmed by the noise and strangeness of her surroundings. A vise clamped around her chest, and she struggled to breathe.

Not now, she thought, gritting her teeth. She pulled her backpack onto her lap and dug through it for her pills. When she couldn’t find them Kelly experienced a moment of panic so intense she nearly passed out, terrified that she’d forgotten them in the mad rush to get ready. Then her fingers closed on the smoothness of the bottle and she exhaled hard. She palmed a pill and slipped it in her mouth. Glancing up, she discovered Maltz watching her. Wordlessly he handed her an unopened water bottle. She nodded her thanks and took a swig. Kelly tried to hand it back, but he waved it away.

“Keep it,” he said in a raspy voice.

“You okay?” Jake shifted in his seat again, voice laden with concern. He knew that she had these attacks, although she’d never let on how frequently.

“I’m fine,” Kelly replied. “How much farther?”

“Next block,” Jagerson answered.

“Good thing,” Maltz said without looking at her. “This traffic is killing me.”



It happened sooner than Mark expected. He awoke to the door being thrown open by a Zeta brandishing an LMT. Had to be close to dawn; despite the fact it was still dark outside he felt well rested. And after years of early-morning drills, Mark’s internal clock always jarred him awake at 0500 hours.

The guard jabbered at them in Spanish.

“What now?” Sock grumbled from the cot.

“He wants us to get dressed. They’re moving us again,” Flores translated, casting a sidelong glance at Mark.

Mark nodded, his pulse quickening. It was time.

In two minutes they were all awake and seated side by side on the cot.

Another Zeta came in with the hoods and pulled them over their heads while his partner covered them. Mark waited his turn, staring down at the floor as directed, praying they would leave their hands zip tied in front rather than changing them to the back.

Time must have been pressing, because as soon as Mark’s head was covered, hands pushed him out the door. He and the others were jostled along a hall and down a flight of stairs. A temperature shift, cool air raising the hair on his arms as they were propelled into the night. Same drill as before, they were shoved into a waiting van. The door slid closed, then a screech as they pulled away from the curb.

Mark strained his ears. It was critical to determine how many Zetas were in the van with them. The last time he was pretty sure there had been three. He hadn’t heard anyone else fall in line with them, but there hadn’t been a delay so a driver was probably already at the wheel. They’d planned for three, including sack boy and the gunman. Any more and their plan would probably fail.

Kaplan wheezed beside him. Mark drew his knees up to his chest, then lengthened them as if stretching. He didn’t hit anything, there was a clear path in front of him. So far, so good, he thought.

A mutter from the front seat: the driver, sounded like the same one as before. They’d dubbed him “Crybaby” since he constantly complained.

Someone snarled for him to shut up. That would be “Scarface,” the guy who liked to wave his gun around. He’d been in the room when they were first grabbed, and accompanied them on every move so far. Mark figured he’d be the toughest to deal with—guys like that were always itching to pull the trigger.

Mark waited, but the van lapsed into silence. Blood roared in his ears. They had decided to wait at least ten minutes before making their move, allowing time for their captors to settle into complacency. It was a gamble, though. This time, they might only be taken a few blocks. There was no way to tell if they’d be in the van for hours or minutes.

The street noise outside was muted. Mexico City was comprised of sixteen boroughs sprawled across almost six hundred square miles. Add in the surrounding area, and you were facing another ten million people in three thousand square miles, an area larger than the state of Delaware. It was a hell of a haystack for anyone to find them in, which reinforced the realization they were more or less on their own.

The van picked up speed. Mark recognized the familiar sound of tires bumping over reflectors, and his heart leaped. They were on a highway, almost too much to hope for. Even if another car was following them, their ability to interfere would be limited. It was now or never.

He doubled over suddenly and groaned. There was no response. Mark clutched his gut and moaned louder.

“Cállate!” Scarface growled.

“Jesus, my stomach!” Mark gasped.

A murmured exchange in the front seat—he’d guessed right, there was someone else up there. The muzzle of a gun nudged his leg. Scarface barked something in Spanish.

“He wants you to be quiet.” Flores sounded panicked. “If you don’t shut up, he’ll shoot you.”

“Tell him to put me out of my misery,” Mark said through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth as if convulsed by spasms. “I swear I’m going to shit myself.”

Flores repeated what he’d said. Scarface talked over him as he translated, sounding increasingly irritated.

“He said, go ahead, Yankee swine, you deserve to wallow in your own shit.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Mark spat.

Apparently Scarface knew enough English to understand that. The muzzle of the gun returned, this time pressed against his chest. Mark held his breath as the van rocked them back and forth, praying the safety was still on. Scarface’s leg brushed his as he called out to the front seat. The Zeta on the passenger side was clearly in charge, a low voice ordered Scarface to stand down.

Too late, Mark thought, taking advantage of the distraction. While Scarface argued with his boss, Mark grabbed the muzzle of the gun with both hands and thrust up sharply. At the same time, he swept sideways with his legs, knocking Scarface off his feet.

A grunt as Scarface landed, air squeezed out of his lungs. The sound of the rest of the Tyr team scrambling. Mark struggled for a second with the hood covering his head. The van swerved sideways as his fingers finally found a purchase and yanked it off.

Chaos reigned in the rear of the van. Sock and Flores were struggling to hold down Scarface, who bucked against them, nose broken and bleeding. Sock punched him, three swift blows to the head. Scarface’s eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Decker and Kaplan were engaged in a battle with the driver and passenger. The LMT had come to rest beside Mark. He flipped it around in one smooth motion.

A gun went off in the front seat, the explosion so loud his ears rang. Kaplan collapsed backward. Mark shoved past him and drove the muzzle of the LMT against the passenger’s head. “Drop it!” he yelled. “Flores, tell this motherfucker to drop the gun!”

The driver had slowed. “And he needs to keep driving at the same speed,” Mark snapped.

The Zeta in the passenger seat had dropped his Glock, but still wore a shit-eating grin.

“What are you smiling at, asshole?” Mark shoved the muzzle farther into the guy’s chest.

The guy gave him another bemused look, then said something to Flores. Both he and the driver blanched. The driver began muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“What did he say?” Mark demanded.

“He said the van is wired to blow. All he has to do is push a button,” Flores said.

“Bullshit,” Mark said.

The guy held up his other hand. A transmitter was nestled in his palm. Mark wasn’t a demolitions expert, but he’d been around enough to recognize the real deal when he saw it. He swore under his breath.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Sock asked.

“Tell him to give me the transmitter.” Mark kept his gaze locked on the guy. “He doesn’t want to die any more than we do. He hands it over, we’ll drop them off at the side of the road. He can tell his boss we overpowered them.”

“They’ll kill me anyway,” the man said in thickly accented English before Flores could respond.

“Then run. Get the hell out of here,” Mark said.

The man just shook his head. Mark recognized the look in his eye. He’d seen that same expression on a kid’s face at a roadblock outside Baghdad, right before the blast that took out half his unit.

Mark dived forward a second too late. There wasn’t even time to shout a warning before the guy pressed the button.




Six


They’d been at the motel for over an hour when Syd knocked on the door. Jake opened it to find her, Kane and Fribush loaded down with two duffel bags apiece.

“A little help?” she grunted.

Jake took one of the bags from her, staggering slightly under the weight. She hauled the other into the room, Fribush and Kane at her heels. Jake slammed the door behind them and double-bolted it.

“That was quick,” he said.

“Ya gotta love Mexico,” Syd said. “They were even having a sale on C4. We cleaned them out. Figured we were doing the country a favor, getting this stuff off the streets.”

“I feel like a patriot.” Fribush pulled an Uzi out of one of the bags and looked it over appreciatively.

Kelly sat on a threadbare comforter mottled with stains. Her jaw had tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Jake wondered again what the hell he’d been thinking, allowing her to come along.

“So what’s the plan?” Maltz asked. He was sitting on a chair in the corner, methodically cleaning his nails with a knife.

“I heard from my contact at Tyr. They narrowed the search down to two boroughs.” Syd unfurled a map of the city on the bed. Kelly shifted to make room for it.

Syd pointed at two boroughs on the Eastern side of the map. “Iztapalapa and Iztacalco. Think of them as the South Bronx of Mexico City. Both Zeta-friendly, lots of safe houses there. The initial raid took place in Iztapalapa, and Tyr thinks they hung around.”

“Where’s the Tyr team?” Jake asked.

“They’ve spent the past week combing through Iztapalapa block by block. They came under fire a few times, thought they might be close.”

“What about the AFI?” Kelly asked.

“Who?” Maltz said.

“The Agencia Federal de Investigación. They’re kind of our—” Kelly caught herself. “The FBI’s counterpart in Mexico City. Is Tyr coordinating the search with them?”

“I doubt it, since a quarter of their agents work for the Sinaloa Cartel,” Syd snorted.

“But I thought—”

“This isn’t the United States, Jones. The police don’t help you here. In fact, they’re usually the first to put a bullet in your head.”

Kelly started to say something, then abruptly shut her mouth. Jake considered interceding, but unfortunately Syd was right. With every K&R job they had done in Mexico, their main goal was to avoid the authorities as much as possible, paying the right ones to look the other way. Tyr probably functioned on the same model. The neighborhoods they were talking about were basically war zones. If a Mexican cop wanted to last more than a week on the job, he avoided them at all costs. The Zetas were an occupying army in those territories. And considering that, some C4 might actually come in handy.

He could see Kelly trying to reconcile that, and felt for her. This was way past anything she had ever been involved with. With any luck she was already considering booking a flight home.

She surprised him by saying, “So we’re avoiding the Tyr team, too.”

“Naturally,” Syd said.

“Where do we start?” Maltz asked.

Syd pointed to a spot in the upper right section of the map. “Tyr is here now, and moving north. I say we start above them and move south. There’s a rumor that some Americans are being held in a building in the northeast quadrant. Zetas are known for moving captives around, but we might get lucky. We’ll ask around, see what stones we can overturn.”

“Where did you hear the rumor?” Kelly asked dubiously.

“Sorry, hon. That’s classified,” Syd said smugly.

“Syd has a lot of friends who owe her favors,” Jake explained. He didn’t add that he referred to them as her “shadow network.” He’d long ago learned better than to doubt her information. In his experience, those rumors were always right on the money.

“Why do you think anyone will talk to us, if the Zetas control everything?” Kelly pressed.

Syd dug into one of the duffels and withdrew a handful of cash. “Because we’ll be paying them. And if cash doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

Kelly abruptly stood and went to the bathroom. Jake followed her. She stood in front of the mirror staring down at the floor. He could hear the rest of the team suiting up in the bedroom.

“You don’t have to stay,” Jake said gently. “We both know this isn’t your kind of thing.”

“Is it yours?” she asked, raising her head to meet his eyes.

“My brother is out there,” he said, although that rang hollow even to his own ears. The truth was, aside from The Longhorn Group’s first case, Jake hadn’t done much work in the field. He usually left this sort of thing to Syd and her cohorts. He never questioned how any specific job had been accomplished, probably because in the end he didn’t want to know. As long as the hostage ended up safe and sound, he figured they’d done their job. But now that he was here, facing the reality of paying off criminals—or worse—the reality of what they were about to do struck home. Maybe he should book them both on a flight, and leave the rescuing to Syd.

Jake shook his head, dismissing the thought. He couldn’t expect others to risk their lives for his brother if he wasn’t willing to do the same. But getting Kelly to understand that… “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “But—”

A loud rap on the door interrupted him.

“We’re moving out,” Syd said, voice tinged with impatience. “You kids coming along?”

Kelly replied, “We’ll be right there.”



Mark opened his eyes. The van was filled with dense, acrid smoke. He coughed to clear his lungs, struggling to see.

He was lying on his back with a body sprawled across his legs. The van had come to rest on the passenger side. The driver’s head split the windshield, glass shards fragmenting the night sky into a dark constellation. It didn’t look like he’d be coming around anytime soon. Or probably ever again.

A muffled groan as the figure by his feet shifted: Decker.

Mark turned his head. No sign of the guy who had triggered the explosion. He looked for the LMT, couldn’t find it. Shit.

Mark struggled up to sitting and nudged Decker’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, think so.” Decker said blearily.

“We gotta go,” Mark said.

“Right.” Decker awkwardly pushed off his legs and climbed stiffly into the rear of the van. Mark followed him.

There was an enormous hole in the middle of what had been the van’s floor. So the bomb hadn’t been wired to kill everyone, just them, Mark thought. Flores and Kaplan were crumpled on top of one another. Scarface, or what was left of him, was scattered across the interior. He must have been directly above the bomb when it blew, absorbing most of the blast. Thank God for small favors.

“Where’s Sock?” Decker asked. There was no sign of him. The rear door was open; through it Mark could see dirt and scrub brush. He heard a car passing by, not too far away. The van had rolled a few times, but they were probably still close to the highway. Mark went to check Flores and Kaplan.

They were both covered in blood, though it was impossible to tell how much of it had come from Scarface. He eased Flores off Kaplan. Flores started in response.

“Wha—”

“You okay, man?” Mark asked.

Flores raised a hand to his face. It came away bloody. “This mine?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Anything hurt?”

“Shit, everything hurts.” Flores slowly moved his arms and legs. “But I don’t think I’m bleeding.”

Decker was bent over Kaplan. “He’s hurt,” he said. “Pretty bad.”

Mark joined him. Kaplan was still unconscious, his face so pale it glowed in the dark interior. Carefully they turned him over. A bloodstain the size of a quarter marked the exit wound.

“At least it passed through,” Decker said.

“You have EMT training, right?” Mark asked. Decker nodded.

“All right.” Mark checked the interior again, hoping to find some sort of weapon, but there was nothing useful. “We’ve got to move out. Chances are hostiles will be here soon. Do what you can to stop the bleeding. We’ll take shifts carrying him.”

“What about Sock?”

“What about him?” A voice boomed from outside. Sock suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“What happened to you?” Decker asked.

“Came to and that asshole was heading out. Thought I’d try to stop him.”

“So where is he?” Mark asked. Sock looked largely unharmed, which was almost miraculous considering how close he’d been to the blast.

Sock looked away. “Bastard was too fast. But we gotta get moving. I think he had a phone on him. Got this, though.” He held up the LMT.

“I didn’t hear any shots fired,” Mark said.

“Couldn’t get a clear line of sight,” Sock retorted. “Figured I’d save the ammo.”

“Kaplan got hit,” Flores said.

“Yeah?” Sock glanced over. “We leaving him?”

“Never leave a man behind,” Mark said, surprised. “We’ll take shifts carrying him.”

“Carrying him where?” Sock asked dubiously.

Mark didn’t answer. He climbed out of the van, easing past Kaplan, Flores and Decker. The air felt cool on his face. Dawn was breaking over the mountains. To the west, city lights shimmered through a smoggy bubble, casting a yellow glow toward the brightening sky. Still Mexico City, he noted with relief—he’d been right, they hadn’t been moved far. That should make it easier for Tyr to arrange air transport out.

The van had come to rest in a dusty field fifty feet from the highway. Not good—anyone driving by could see it, especially now that day was breaking. A hundred yards away stood a shabby adobe building that appeared abandoned. Another stretch of field and trees, then the city reared up again. He had no idea where they were. Hell, he didn’t even know what time it was.

“Which way?” Sock pressed.

“Back toward the city,” Mark said with more conviction than he felt. “We’ll be able to contact Tyr and get medical supplies for Kaplan.”

“I vote we head east,” Sock argued. “Zetas own that town, we head back there they’ll grab us again.”

“We won’t have to lay low for long,” Mark said. “Once we make contact, they can have us out in under three hours. There might be another unit here already.”

“Yeah? You sure the first door we knock on won’t be opened by el Jefe?” Sock turned to the others. “Outside, we got a shot. We can hunker down at a farm somewhere, get Tyr to send in a chopper. The city, we gotta deal with cops and other assholes who’re gonna wonder why our buddy has a hole in him.”

Decker and Flores looked uncertain. Mark considered for a minute. Sock was right—they might have a better shot surviving in the rural areas surrounding the city. Urban warfare was a bitch; he’d be the first to admit that. But if he ceded his authority now, he knew from experience there was no getting it back. And he didn’t like the thought of Sock as their de facto leader. Something about him was off, Mark could smell it. He wasn’t about to follow someone he didn’t trust with his life.

“We head west, back to the city,” he said firmly. “Move out.”

Sock appeared ready to argue, but Flores and Decker were already moving, Kaplan cradled between them. Sock eyed Mark for a second as if sizing him up for a fight. Mark watched his hand, saw the index finger move toward the trigger of the LMT by his side. After a beat, it relaxed back down.

“You’re the boss,” Sock said. “But if we get pinched again, I’m saying I told you so.”

“We get pinched again, we won’t live long enough to talk about it.” Mark reached for the LMT. Another pause, then Sock handed it over. Mark slung it over his shoulder and they headed across the field.



“All due respect, sir, I’m not buying it.” Linus Smiley listened to the voice on the other end of the receiver, mouth tightening. “If Cesar Calderon was such a friend to the Mexican people, I don’t understand why you’re refusing to assist in his release.”

Linus had spent the morning being rerouted to different people in the hierarchy of the Mexican government, each of whom eagerly pawned him off on someone else. He had no idea at this point if he’d managed to ascend the ladder to someone who could actually accomplish something, or if he was still dealing with a low-level bureaucrat annoyed by the interruption of his breakfast. “I understand that initially we refused outside assistance. But clearly that situation has changed. Now we have three dead employees, and another five who are presumed hostages. At what point do you folks actually get off your asses and do something about it?”

There was a long pause. Finally the man on the other end said in heavily accented English, “Mr. Smiley, in the past year more than two hundred of our citizens were kidnapped in Mexico City, and another eight hundred nationwide. And those were only the ones reported, the real number is likely two or three times that. We have had five hundred homicides, more than a hundred in Mexico City alone. Are you implying that the loss of Americans is more important?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Linus said. “We’re not talking about some guy running a taco stand, Mr.—” he glanced at his sheet of handwritten notes “—Ortiz. Cesar Calderon is a major player on the global scene. If anything happens to him—”

“I don’t believe I can assist you, Mr. Smiley,” Ortiz interrupted. “Allow me to transfer you to someone who can.”

Linus fumed as mariachi Muzak once again poured from the receiver. He slammed it down. Jesus, he hated Mexico. Bunch of incompetent bastards whose third world status was more than deserved. Russia and the former Soviet bloc nations had problems, but at least money talked over there. Pay off the right person, you could get nearly anything done. Had Calderon been snatched in Kiev, Linus would have had him home in less than a week.

He pressed the intercom button. “Get the team on the line.”

Linus paced while he waited for the connection to come through. He’d sent sixteen men down there, led by Ellis Brown. Cesar had personally lured Brown from his career as a Navy SEAL into K&R work, and Brown was his go-to guy for snatch-and-grab operations. He would have led the first team, had even called to volunteer, but Smiley wanted him to finish up another operation in Colombia. A mistake, maybe. One he was now able to rectify.

“Brown here.”

“Secured line?”

“Yessir.” Brown’s tone implied that the question itself was offensive.

“Progress?”

“Still no sign of the whale,” Brown said.

“Whale” was the code name for Calderon. “What about the rest of them?”

“We think we found a safe house where they were kept, but there’s no movement. Probably gone already.” There was a pause. “One of our contacts said we’re not the only ones looking for them. You send in another unit?”

“You’re the only ones down there.” Linus’s brow furrowed.

“That’s what I thought, sir.”

“Americans?”

“Definitely. Asking a lot of questions about the minnows.”

The minnows were the missing unit. That was odd. Linus slumped back into his chair. What the hell was going on down there?

It was already beyond strange that someone had snatched a hostage of Calderon’s caliber without providing proof of life, or contacting either Tyr or his family with a ransom demand. What could they be after? Had they simply killed him as a warning to K&R companies working in the region? If so, his body should have turned up by now. When a local police chief crossed Los Zetas, his head was found in a cooler outside his precinct. Los Zetas weren’t shy about sending messages. And why seize the rest of the unit alive, then not attempt to ransom them out, too? Fucking Mexico, Linus thought. He’d never understand it.

“New orders, sir?”

“No, stay the course. The whale is your primary objective, minnows are a bonus.”

“What about the other team?”

“You run across them, find out what the hell they’re doing down there.”

“Any limits?” Brown asked.

Linus pondered for a moment. “None,” he finally said. “They’ve got no business interfering. Do what you have to.”

He hung up the phone and glanced at the clock. It was an hour earlier in Mexico City, just before 10:00 a.m. Linus wasn’t accomplishing anything by phone. The board meeting was less than a week away. By then, he’d have to have Calderon back, dead or alive, and news on the missing unit. He buzzed the intercom again. “Book me a flight to Mexico City.”



Kelly tensed on the edge of the backseat as Syd and Kane approached the bodega. Syd’s contact claimed the owner was Zeta-friendly. Apparently he and his wife stowed hostages in the apartment above the store. He was responsible for making sure they didn’t escape, she kept them fed.

Nothing about this was sitting well with Kelly. They only had the word of one of Syd’s shadowy connections to go on, and God only knew what his motivation was for ratting out the bodega. “What if they’ve got nothing to do with Los Zetas?” Kelly had asked back at the motel.

“Then we go on our merry way,” Syd claimed.

Kelly very much doubted that was true. The bodega door closed behind them. Almost subconsciously she began to count, trying to keep herself from imagining what was going on inside.

What the hell am I doing here? Kelly wondered. She’d been so gung ho to feel useful again, she hadn’t thought through what kind of moral compromises working with Syd would present. Already she felt dirty, and they hadn’t even done anything yet. She was no Pollyanna; she knew there was a seamy side to Jake’s new line of work. She just hadn’t realized how seamy.

Kelly had hoped that coming down here would restore her sense of purpose, and that after they found Mark she’d have a chance to look into the allegation that Stefan Gundarsson was still alive. But the reality of that suddenly seemed absurd. Jake would flip if she told him she intended to track down a fugitive alone. And the truth was, she didn’t even know where to start looking. She hadn’t been able to get in touch with the P.I. who provided the earlier lead. She didn’t speak Spanish, and based on what everyone was telling her, the Mexican authorities wouldn’t be helpful. On top of which she didn’t have the authority or clearance to be doing any of this. She’d wanted to dig up enough concrete evidence to convince her boss to reopen the case and put her in charge of it. But that possibility seemed increasingly remote.

Out of the corner of her eye she examined Jake. His face was inscrutable. For a second, it seemed as if he were a total stranger, and she was seeing him for the first time. She flashed back on the day they’d met, in the command-center trailer during her campus case. He seemed colder now, harder. It had been a long three years for both of them. Had he really changed so much since then? Or was her mind messing with her again?

Kelly shifted in her seat. Her leg was sore. The pressurization on the plane had caused it to swell and the socket of her prosthetic felt unusually tight. The lack of sleep wasn’t helping, either. The Xanax had worn off and she could sense the panic lurking, waiting for an opportunity to rush in. It felt like there was a spotlight on their cars, as if everyone passing by had pegged them as intruders. Kelly knew she was being paranoid, but she couldn’t help herself. Half of her was afraid that at any moment someone might open fire, drilling their cars with automatic weapon fire. The other half was worried that the people inside the store were involved in the kidnapping of Mark’s team. And she could imagine what Syd would do to them if that turned out to be the case.

Syd emerged from the store with Kane at her heels. She pulled on a baseball cap, their signal to meet her at a prearranged location a block away.

“Must have gone well,” Jake commented from the front seat.

“How do you know?” Kelly asked.

“No shots fired,” Maltz said from beside her. They were in the same seating arrangement as before, with Jagerson driving. She had yet to hear him say a word, and was starting to wonder if he even spoke English.

Kelly gazed out the window at the passing storefronts. They were in the northeast quadrant of Iztapalapa. To her eyes it was indistinguishable from the rest of Mexico City: row after row of run-down buildings, streets riddled with potholes, choking smog and horns and blaring music. Her only other trip to Mexico had been a vacation in Puerto Vallarta years before. This is a far cry from that, she thought wryly.

Jagerson eased the car over to the curb.

Syd approached Jake’s window. She leaned over as she spoke. Kelly’s eyes narrowed at the peek of bra revealed by that maneuver.

“Shopkeeper is dirty all right. He didn’t have them there, but he probably has others.”

“How do you know they weren’t there?” Kelly interrupted.

Syd barely glanced at her. “Because he heard a rumor that the guys we’re after were in a van crash on the Mexico-Puebla highway early this morning. They were being moved out of the city. He thinks the hostages got away.”

“He’s sure?” Jake asked.

“Sure enough,” Syd said. “I made a call, we should have a copy of the accident report within the hour.”

“Are they all okay?”

“Apparently.”

“How’d you get him to tell you all that?” Kelly asked. “How do we know he’s not lying?”

Syd grinned at her. “I asked nicely.” She turned back to Jake. “I’ve got the general location of the crash. I say we head out there, see what we can find. It’s only a few clicks east.”

“What about the other people?” Kelly asked.

“What other people?”

“You said he was keeping other hostages above the store.”

“Yeah?” Syd gazed at her levelly.

Kelly turned to Jake. “There has to be someone you can call.”

He paused a beat before saying, “Kelly, no one’s supposed to—”

“Someone must be looking for them. Maybe one of the other K&R companies.”

“Not if they’re local,” Syd snorted. “Hell, you don’t even have to have money to get kidnapped down here. Some of the gangs offer a layaway plan.”

Kelly stared Jake down. Finally he said, “I’ll have Demetri drop the AFI an anonymous tip.” Syd started to protest, but he cut her off. “Meanwhile, we go check out that crash site.”

“What if the cops are still there?” Maltz asked.

“They won’t be,” Syd said. “Happened early this morning, everything’ll be cleared up by now.”

“And if some of the Zetas are there?” Kelly asked.

“Then we consider ourselves lucky,” Syd said. “I’m dying to talk to one face-to-face.”




Seven


Mark Riley hunched in the shadows beside the pharmacy. One of the great things about Mexico was that you could get almost anything in their drugstores, from Botox to antibiotics. Until recently, most were poorly guarded. But lately addiction levels had spiked, and there had been a corresponding rise in pharmacy robberies. Many, like the one he was currently facing, had taken security precautions: an armed rent-a-cop was perched on a stool inside the doorway. He was clearly bored, eyes glued to the television set behind the counter. Still, he had a gun, which complicated things. Mark would prefer getting what they needed without hurting anyone. Hopefully this guy wouldn’t want to play cowboy.

“What do you think?” Decker asked in a low voice.

Mark had nicked a baseball cap from a sidewalk cart, and he pulled it low over his eyes. “We could try another one. Not a fan of dealing with a guard.”

“We could. But Kaplan doesn’t have a lot of time,” Decker pointed out.

He was right. It had taken longer than expected to find a safe place to hunker down. They’d left Kaplan, Flores and Sock in an abandoned building a few blocks away. Kaplan was losing blood too fast for them to stick together. And Mark wasn’t willing to leave him alone with Sock. So he and Decker set off to raid a pharmacy for meds and a cell phone. According to the locals, this was the only one open for blocks in any direction.

“How’s your Spanish?” Mark asked.

Decker shrugged. “I can get by.”

“All right, you do the talking. Make sure they know we don’t want anyone to get hurt, we’ll just take what we need and be gone.”

“Got it.”

Mark took a deep breath. It was a little after 1000 hours. Despite the fact that it was late January, the sun beat down, baking the scene in a shimmery cast. A river of sweat ran down the center of his back. He was light-headed from hunger, tired and shaky in the aftermath of the crash. He’d never stolen so much as a candy bar in his life, and here he was about to knock over a drugstore. He shook his head.

Mark slid the LMT up from the ground beside him, holding it close by his side as he stood. He lined it up with his leg as he approached the door, Decker at his heels. Of the remaining team members, Decker struck him as the most capable and trustworthy. Hopefully he wouldn’t be proven wrong.

The guard glanced their way as the door opened with a tinkling of bells. Small guy, early twenties with a scraggly moustache. His gaze started to slide away, but then he frowned: something about them had registered. As he shifted back toward them, Mark slammed the butt of the gun hard against his temple. He crumpled off the stool, landing on the floor with a thump.

Decker locked the door behind them. The store was empty. Mark frowned. There had been someone behind the register when they cased it five minutes earlier. Bathroom break, maybe?

A chunk of plaster blew off the wall behind his head. Instinctively he dived, hitting the floor. Decker landed beside him.

“You okay?” Mark asked.

“Holy shit!” Decker said, checking out the hole punched through the wall above where the guard had been sitting. “What was that, a missile launcher?”

“Double barrel loaded with triple-ought buck, I’m guessing,” Mark said.

Another chunk of plaster exploded, a few feet lower than the last. Mark slid the LMT to Decker and signaled for him to move to the far side of the store, near the bandages. From there he’d have a better angle to cover him.

Mark commando-crawled toward the cheap plywood counter, praying it wouldn’t occur to the shooter to fire through it. After a few feet he entered a long aisle of cold and cough supplies. The good thing about a double-barrel was that after two shots it had to be reloaded, and reloading was a pain in the ass, especially if you were an amateur all hopped up on adrenaline. Mark scooped a bottle of cough syrup off the shelf by his head and hurled it toward the door.

Another explosion, the shot wild. The window shattered, glass peppering the floor by the door. Movement across the room—and another shot. A puff of packaging exploded a few feet above him.

Mark jumped to his feet and lunged for the counter. He slid across it and landed in a crouch. Turned and found himself facing a girl in her twenties. Shorts peeked out the bottom of her white coat. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, glasses askew on the bridge of her nose. She fumbled frantically with a shotgun shell, trying to chamber it.

He grabbed the gun by the muzzle and pulled, yanking her off balance. She splayed out on all fours, glasses falling to the floor. One more tug and the shotgun was his. He palmed a few shells, tucking them in his pocket before chambering two.

“Por favor, señor,” she said, scrambling away from him. “No me moleste.”

“Tranquila,” he said, before calling out, “All clear!”

Decker’s head popped up above the counter. “Jesus. Annie Oakley, huh?”

“Yeah.” Mark glanced at her. Both hands covered her head, as if she were attempting to ward them off. “Tell her to relax. We gotta scramble, cops’ll probably be here soon.”

“Sure.” Decker rattled off something in Spanish. Whatever he said didn’t make the girl noticeably calmer. On the other side of the counter, the guard moaned.

“I’ll handle him.” Decker vanished. Mark grabbed a plastic bag from a stack below the register. He kept one eye on the girl as he scanned the locked, refrigerated cabinets. “Antibióticos?” he finally asked.

She didn’t answer. He came closer, kneeling beside her. She avoided his eyes.

“Lady, the faster we get this stuff, the faster we leave,” he said.

“You’ll kill us anyway,” she replied in surprisingly good English. “Fucking junkies.”

“We just want to help our friend,” Mark said. “Morphine, coagulants, antibiotics and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Your friend was shot?”

He nodded. “We were kidnapped.”

“So go to the police.”

“I don’t trust the police.”

“Got the bandages and the phone,” Decker called. “We ready?”

“Almost.” Mark turned back to the cabinet. Toward the end of the row he spotted a bottle marked Morfina. He used the butt of the shotgun to shatter the case, causing the girl to suck in her breath sharply. Mark carefully stuck his hand in, avoiding the broken glass, and drew out two bottles.

Kaplan could live without anticoagulants, but antibiotics were crucial. If they could get him through the next few hours, Tyr would be able to reach them and he had a shot at surviving. But once infection started, it was tough to beat.

“Antibiotics?” he asked again. The girl refused to look at him. He reached back into the cabinet, swept an armful of bottles out and sent them crashing to the floor. They shattered in quick succession like bottle caps.

“Ay!” she cried. “They’re over there!”

He followed her pointing finger and spotted the antibiotics in the opposite cabinet. Punched a hole in the glass again, then drew out two bottles. “Syringes?”

She motioned toward the drawers below the cabinet.

Mark tried one: locked. “You got a key, or should I shoot the lock?”

The girl fumbled in the pocket of her jacket. She drew out a key ring and tossed it to him.

He caught it, unlocked the drawer and slid it open. Grabbed a box of syringes and tossed them in the bag with the other stuff. Turning to leave, something caught his eye. He bent again, shifting the other boxes aside. The girl stiffened as he drew out a package: white powder wrapped in layers of plastic.

“Dude, we gotta bolt.” Decker reappeared on the other side of the counter. “What’s that?”

“The cops aren’t coming, are they?” Mark asked.

The girl slowly shook her head. “Los Zetas?”

Her expression shifted at the name, but she didn’t reply.

“Shit,” Decker said.

Mark’s next words were interrupted by a spray of automatic weapon fire. He dived to the ground, landing hard. The counter in front of him bucked and splintered as dozens of rounds pumped through it. Over the barrage, he heard the girl screaming.



“They’ve been gone too long,” Sock said. “Something went wrong.”

“It’s only been an hour,” Flores replied. “Maybe there wasn’t a pharmacy nearby.”

“Yeah, or maybe they got smart and decided to ditch us. It’d be a hell of a lot easier to get out of this shithole if we weren’t dragging around a guy with a gunshot wound.”

“They’ll be back.” Flores turned his attention to Kaplan. The T-shirt he’d been using to apply pressure to the wound had soaked through. He replaced it with another from the stack Sock had stolen on his foray outside. Kaplan wasn’t looking good. He was getting paler by the minute, more waxy-looking. He’d probably lost a few pints of blood by now. It was giving Flores a bad sense of déjà vu. A year ago he was in the mountains on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan, running interference between the local warlords while trying to determine which of them was still Taliban. When their convoy was coming back from the nearest village, one of his buddies got hit by a sniper. They waited more than three hours for a Medevac chopper. As it was landing, his friend bled out. Kaplan had that same look now. If Riley and Decker didn’t get back soon, he was done for.

Sock wasn’t making the situation any easier. He’d returned ten minutes earlier with the T-shirts and some tacos he’d scrounged up, and hadn’t stopped pacing since. This was Flores’s second mission with Tyr, and the first time he’d worked with Sock. The guy struck him as a typical SEAL asshole, convinced he was better than everyone else because he could wear a scuba tank. He’d run into the type a lot since entering the service: didn’t like them then, and couldn’t stand working with them now.

The irony was that Flores had taken this job because it was supposed to be safer. He was sick of getting shot at in some sand-blasted country where everyone hated Americans. Now here he was, in his hometown, facing the same situation. You had to laugh.

He thought for a minute of Maryanne, six months pregnant and waiting for him. Wondered if Tyr had even told her that something went wrong. They promised to take care of relatives if anything happened to him; he’d felt pretty good filling out a whole stack of paperwork attesting to that. But you had to wonder. If the company could screw up an operation this badly, how good was their word?

Kaplan groaned. Flores lifted his head, forced the mouth of a water bottle between his lips and got a few drops down his throat.

“We should leave him,” Sock said. “Riley and Decker might have gotten picked up again—we’re probably still in Zetas territory. We get our hands on a phone, we can call in, get help.”

“Why didn’t you come back with a phone?” Flores asked.

“Didn’t see any,” Sock said defensively.

Flores didn’t answer. It seemed off, that Sock could find T-shirts and tacos but hadn’t managed to get his hands on the cell phone they really needed. But then, this whole operation had been screwy. None of them had discussed it yet, but clearly someone had set them up. That raid had gone too wrong too fast, like the Zetas knew they were coming. The question was, who told them? A member of the team, or someone higher up in the organization?

Flores furtively eyed Sock. Riley and Decker seemed okay, and Kaplan was just plain unlucky, first the broken ribs, now this. But Sock had been exhibiting odd behavior from day one.

Sock went to the doorway again and eased it open an inch to peer out.

“Shit.” He yanked his head back.

“What?” Flores asked.

“We got company,” Sock said grimly, pulling a handgun out of the waistband of his jeans shorts.

Before Flores could ask where the hell he’d gotten another gun, the door blew inward. Something hit the floor, then rolled toward them. He instinctively threw himself over Kaplan as the grenade came to a stop a few feet away.



“See? Nobody here,” Syd said as they pulled on to the shoulder at the side of the highway.

Kelly didn’t respond. Jake was driving, Maltz was beside her in the backseat. This time Syd had insisted on riding with them. “I know where we’re going,” she’d tossed over her shoulder, jumping in the front seat beside Jake.

It galled the hell out of Kelly, but she didn’t say anything.

A steady stream of cars whipped past. Kelly realized she had yet to see a single police car, despite all their driving around the city.

“How do you know this is the spot?” Jake asked.

“GPS,” Syd said. “Plus those.” She pointed at a set of skid marks that started in the middle of the road and zoomed off the shoulder past them into the desert.

It was a desolate stretch of road, dusty scrub brush and trash running a few hundred yards to a line of dying trees. The building on the far end looked abandoned. Past the trees, Kelly discerned the bleats and rumbles of the city. To her left the terrain climbed sharply, barren foothills hunching out of the gritty soil.

They got out of the car. Kane had pulled up behind them in the second vehicle. He, Jagerson, Fribush and Maltz followed Syd as she marched off into the brush. They spread out, examining the ground in formation. Kelly picked her way behind them, avoiding a soiled diaper and empty fast-food containers. The van’s tracks in the dirt were marred by the wheels of other vehicles and footprints: probably from emergency units that had responded to the crash.

“You okay?” Jake asked, coming up beside her.

“I’m fine,” she lied. The constant sitting around in cars was wreaking havoc on her leg. It had stiffened up to the point that every step was torture, but she wasn’t about to admit that to anyone.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“There hasn’t been much to say,” Kelly retorted. “What with torturing storekeepers and leaving kidnap victims with their captors.”

Jake grabbed her elbow, stopping her. “Why did you want to come?”

“You know why.”

“I don’t,” he said, shaking his head. “I know you want to prove you can still do your job. But this isn’t your job. This is my job. And clearly you hate it.”

“It’s not what I expected,” she finally said.

“Outside U.S. borders things go down a little differently. Whether you like it or not, that’s just how it is. If I want to save my brother and whoever else is with him, I’ve got to respect that.”

“I know,” Kelly said. “It’s just—”

“Got something over here!” Syd was waving her arms a dozen yards from the tree line.

Jake took off at a trot. Kelly struggled to keep up, running a few steps alongside him before falling back. When she finally reached them, her face was flushed from the effort.

“Blood trail,” Syd said. “They did a pretty good job covering it in the immediate vicinity of the crash, but it was probably still dark, they missed some spots.”

“Where does it go?” Jake asked.

“More over here!” Fribush yelled from the tree line.

“So they went back to the city. Interesting choice,” Syd said.

“They probably thought it would be easier to hide there until they got in touch with Tyr,” Jake mused.

“Maybe they’ve already been picked up,” Kelly said. “Is there any way to find out?”

“I would have gotten a call,” Syd said. “Let’s split up. You and Maltz each take a car and wait for us on the other side of these trees.” Syd bent down and gazed through them. “Looks like there’s a road a few hundred feet away, it should show up on the GPS.”

“I’ll go with you,” Kelly said. “Have Kane take the car.”

“Kelly—” Jake said.

“Your leg is bothering you,” Syd said flatly. “Unless you rest it, you’ll be useless.”

“I’m fine,” Kelly insisted.

“You’re not. And part of the deal here is that I’m in charge of the unit’s health. You injure yourself more, it makes everyone’s life harder.”

“But—”

“It’s not a request, it’s an order,” Syd said.

The rest of the team stopped and looked up at her raised voice. Kelly’s cheeks burned. She glanced at Jake, who shrugged.

“She’s right, Kel. It’s not personal, it’s just—”

“Give me the keys.” Kelly held out her hand.

He started to say something else, then shut his mouth and handed them over.

Kelly turned on her heel and marched back to the car. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t hide the limp. She fought back tears as she slid into the driver’s seat. The worst part was that they were right: she wasn’t capable enough to be here. From the look of things, she might never be able to do her job properly again. If their positions were reversed, she’d feel the same way: what was the point of having a partner who couldn’t keep up? And if she was this useless, what the hell was she going to do with the rest of her life?

There was a rap at her window. Kelly turned to find Maltz peering down at her. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. Great, she thought. Not only was she crying, but she was doing it in front of the only person more messed up than she was. She rolled down the window.

“Syd can be a pain in the ass.” Maltz bent over and crossed his arms on the window frame.

“She’s right,” Kelly said. “I’d hold them up.”

“Maybe.” He looked past her to where the others had vanished into the tree line. “It’s tough, huh?”

“Yes,” Kelly said. “It is.”

“Hang in there.” Maltz cuffed her lightly on the shoulder. “It’ll get better.” He turned and walked back toward the second car.

“Are you sorry?” Kelly blurted out.

He stopped and turned. “Sorry that I made it?”

She instantly regretted the question, but nodded.

“Every day. But what the hell, right?” He grinned at her. In spite of herself, Kelly grinned back. He tossed her a salute, then kept walking. Kelly watched as he got into the driver’s seat. In spite of everything, she felt better.




Eight


The automatic gunfire went on and on, but as far as Mark could tell no one had entered the store. They seemed dead set on making sure there were no survivors before risking it. The counter in front of him had been punctured by dozens of bullets; it was a small miracle he hadn’t been hit yet. He hoped Decker had been as lucky.

Mark had landed a few feet from the girl. She was facing him, hands over her ears, face twisted in a rictus of fear. She hadn’t stopped screaming since the shooting started. The plastic bag full of meds had landed near him. He grabbed it, tucking it in the back pocket of his jeans. Hopefully some of the bottles had survived the fall. Mark checked to make sure he still had the spare shells for the shotgun, then reached out and grabbed her arm. She started at the contact.

“Is there another way out?” he yelled over the noise.

The girl didn’t appear to have heard him. He dragged himself closer, shouting directly into her ear. “We have to get out. Is there a back door?”

“They’ll kill me!” she yelled back.

“They’ll kill you anyway,” he shouted. He could see her thinking it over, realizing he was right.

Decker scuttled around what remained of the counter.

“You hurt?” Mark yelled.

Decker shook his head. “The guard bought it, though.”

The girl scrambled forward on her belly. Mark motioned for Decker to follow. Wherever she was going, it couldn’t be worse than here.

There was a sudden lull in the fire. Mark peeked through one of the holes in the counter and saw boots crossing the threshold into the store. He hustled after Decker.

The girl had crawled into a back room the size of a closet. Once inside, she scrambled to her feet and started tugging at a pile of boxes on the floor. “Help me!” she cried, exasperated. Decker helped push them aside. Underneath lay a trapdoor. The girl hauled it up and descended a steep flight of metal stairs. Decker followed. Mark went last, pulling the door closed behind them and turning the bolt. It wouldn’t hold their attackers off for long, but might buy them a few minutes.

The stairs ran through a concrete shaft. The air was cold, dank. The girl hit a switch and low-level bulbs flickered on.

“What is this?” he asked.

“The pharmacy used to be a bar. This was where they stored the liquor,” she said.

“Which way out?” Decker asked.

She pointed, and Mark pushed past her. Up ahead, a short flight of stairs led to a set of double doors, bolted from the inside. A smooth ramp ran parallel to them.

“For kegs,” she explained.

The sound of thumping metal behind them: someone was trying the door. Voices shouted orders in Spanish. Then the steady pound of bullets against metal.

“Where does this come out?” Mark asked.

“Follow me.” She unbolted the lock and pushed the doors open.

It took a second for Mark’s eyes to adjust to daylight. He focused on Decker, running ahead of him down the long alley behind the store. A line of metal service doors abutted overflowing Dumpsters. A few doors down a guy in a soiled apron smoked a cigarette in an open doorway. Through slitted eyes, he watched them pass.

The girl led them to the end of the block, took a sharp right down a narrow street, then hooked left. Mark and Decker trotted behind her, guns held down by their sides. At any moment Mark expected to feel bullets tearing through him from behind. The few people they passed took them in, then quickly looked away. Didn’t want to get involved, Mark gathered. He’d seen the same thing in Iraq and Afghanistan, people so acclimated to violence they went about their everyday lives as if it wasn’t happening all around them.

The girl set a good pace, weaving with the confidence of a native through a maze of crumbling adobe buildings. After five solid minutes of running she ducked under the metal fence surrounding a dilapidated warehouse. Decker and Mark followed. She eased aside a door that dangled on its hinges and came to a stop in the middle of the room.

It was an old factory, long abandoned by the look of things. In the far corner a rat scratched at something in an oily puddle. It glanced up at them, then returned its attention to lunch.

“Where are we?” Decker asked.

It was a good question. They’d taken so many turns that even with his infallible sense of direction Mark would be hard-pressed to find true north.

“El Eden,” the girl responded.

“Is that still in Mexico City?” Mark asked.

“You really were kidnapped, weren’t you?” The girl examined them more closely. “You’re in Iztapalapa. It’s one of the delegaciones.”

“The ninth borough,” Mark said, remembering the map he’d studied prior to the mission.

“Shit, we barely moved at all.” Decker barked a short laugh.

He was right. The rescue mission had been launched in the southern section of Iztapalapa. They were probably less than two miles from where this all began.

“Thanks for getting us out of there,” Mark said. “Now we gotta get back to our friend.”

“I didn’t hear about any Americans getting kidnapped recently.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you don’t look like turistas.”

Decker was tearing open the packaging for the phone they’d taken from the store. He squinted at the instructions. “Do I need a code or something for this thing?”

“It only works if it’s activated at the register.”

“Crap,” Decker said.

The girl drew a cell phone out of her jacket pocket and tossed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Isabela Garcia,” she said. “Who are you calling?”

“A friend.”

Mark waved him over, keeping an eye on Isabela. “I don’t think we should call Tyr,” he said in a low voice.

“Why not?” Decker’s brow furrowed.

“Because there’s a leak. The mission went south because someone set us up. Until we know who, I don’t trust the organization.”

“Then how the hell do we get out of here?” Decker asked dubiously.

“We call my brother,” Mark said. “He’s got his own K&R firm, he can help.” He didn’t add that they hadn’t spoken in years. Jake could be a jerk sometimes, but in a situation like this he’d put his personal feelings aside. At least, Mark was hoping he would.

“All right.” Decker handed him the phone. He jerked his head toward Isabela. “What do we do with her?”

“We wish her the best and send her home.”

He started to dial, but was interrupted by Isabela. Arms crossed over her chest, she said, “You’re here for Cesar Calderon, aren’t you?”



The room erupted in smoke and blinding lights. Flores squeezed his eyes shut. His ears rang, which he took as a good sign. A real grenade would have separated them from his head. A flashbang, then. Thank God for small favors.

Shouts all around him. Flores squinted to see through the tears streaming down his face. Latino men in a motley assortment of camouflage streamed through the door, bandannas tied over their mouths. They were brandishing automatic weapons. He groaned—déjà vu all over again.

Sock was facing the wall. He’d dropped the gun and crossed his hands behind his head. One of the guys kicked his knees in from behind, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Sock replied in a low voice. The man glanced up, saw Flores watching. He walked over, swinging his gun back as if it were a bat.

A thousand stars exploded in Flores’s head as the butt of it made contact with his skull.



“What now?” Jake asked.

They’d emerged on the outskirts of Iztapalapa, in a neighborhood labeled San Miguel Teotongo on the map. The blood trail they’d been following had petered out on the other side of the tree line. Either Mark’s team had made more of an effort to cover their tracks, or somehow they’d managed to stem the bleeding. There was a third option, that whoever had been spilling so much blood was abandoned, but knowing his brother Jake doubted it. One thing Mark had always taken seriously was the precept to leave no man behind. Syd had someone in her network checking local hospitals just in case.

They were back to square one.

“Maybe they already made contact with Tyr,” Jake said. “We could call them directly and ask.”

“I doubt they’d tell us anything,” Syd snorted. “Besides, my guy there said he’d call if anything changed. And I haven’t heard from him yet.”

“We could canvass the area,” Fribush said.

“And what, ask if anyone saw a bunch of injured Americans stumbling around?” Syd shook her head. “We stay out here, we risk running into the Zetas looking for them. We need to regroup.”

“If one of them is bleeding, they’d start by trying to patch him up,” Jake said thoughtfully. “We could scope out the pharmacies.”

“Good.” Syd spun on her heels. “Let’s get back to the cars.”

Maltz had reported their position via radio a few minutes before. Syd led the four of them through a dusty lot and around an adobe building that was in the process of melting back into the earth. She stopped short, and Jake nearly crashed into her.

“Christ, Syd,” he grumbled. Then he saw what had stopped her. Kelly and Maltz were next to one of their cars, hands on their heads. They were surrounded by more than a dozen men bearing automatic weapons.

Syd reacted before he did, an H&K materializing in her hands. She shoved Jake back, ducking down beside the building. Kane, Fribush and Jagerson followed her lead, guns ready. Jake fumbled with the Glock tucked in his ankle holster.

“You think they saw us?” he asked.

As if in response, a spray of bullets sent chunks of masonry jumping off the building a few feet away. Jake scrambled back. Kelly yelled something, and his jaw clenched. If they were hurting her…

“Zetas?” Syd asked.

“Couldn’t tell.” Jake grunted.

“Kane, you and Jagerson circle around. Fribush, see if you can get up high, find a nest to snipe from.”

“This is nuts, Syd. There are at least a dozen of them,” Jake protested.

The other men exchanged glances. Kane shrugged, then the three of them trotted toward the rear of the building.

“They’ll kill Kelly and Maltz,” Jake said. “You’re setting us up for a bloodbath.”

“We don’t have a lot of other options.”

“We have one.” Jake dropped his gun. Before Syd could stop him, he stood and rounded the corner, hands held high.

“No dispare!” he called out, hoping that was the polite way to ask them not to shoot.

Two of them kept their guns trained on Maltz and Kelly, the rest swiveled, aiming for his chest. Jake stopped ten feet away. “Soy Jake Riley,” he said. “Americano.”

A tall black man stepped forward. He lowered his gun slightly, but kept his finger on the trigger. “Good for you,” he said. “Now maybe you can explain what the hell you’re doing here.”



“What about Cesar Calderon?” Decker raised the LMT, pointing it at Isabela’s chest.

She looked back at him defiantly. “Everyone knows he was kidnapped. Los Zetas have him.”

“Lady, we don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mark said. “Now why don’t you—”

“They have my father, too,” she said. “That’s what the cocaine was for. I was trying to raise the ransom money.”

“Sorry to hear about your dad,” Mark said. “But we’ve got to get back to our friend.”

“They’ll kill him now, because of you.” Her chin quivered. “They’ll know I helped you. You’ve ruined everything.”

“Tell you what,” Mark said. “I’m going to call my brother, and he might be able to help.”

“The way you helped Calderon?” she spat.

“That’s not very nice,” Decker commented.

“I heard what you said…you don’t trust your own organization.”

“Yeah, well, my brother’s part of a different one,” Mark said. “And him I trust. Tell us where we can reach you, and we’ll make sure someone helps your father.”

“I know where they are keeping Calderon,” Isabela said. “Take me with you, and I will tell you.”

“Lady—”

“It’s not safe for me here now,” she argued. “I cannot go home, they will be waiting there.”

“What about relatives?”

“There’s no one besides my father. If you do not take me, I will be killed,” she said flatly.

“Crap.” Mark rubbed his forehead with one hand. He’d done missions all over the globe, in places as far-flung as Panama and Bali. He’d thought nothing could get worse than the disaster that was Somalia. Yet none of his missions had ever gotten as messed up as this. What he’d give for a nice little underwater raid.

“Fine,” he said, after processing it for a minute. Decker started to object, but Mark cut him off with a sharp look. “She’s right, we can’t leave her.”

He moved in close, lowering his voice and filling it with menace. “But if it turns out you’re lying, and you don’t know where Calderon is, or if we find out you’re working for the Zetas, I’ll put a bullet in your head myself.”

Isabela’s eyes widened and she nodded once, stiffly. Mark stepped back and dug the plastic bag out of his pocket. One of the morphine bottles had shattered, but everything else remained intact. He flipped open the phone and dialed. Stepping away from the two of them, he waited as it rang.

“I need to talk to Jake Riley. Tell him it’s his brother.”

Decker and Isabela watched him, standing in silence a few feet apart.

“No, the other brother.” Mark’s brow furrowed at the response. “What the hell is he doing in Mexico City?”




Nine


Flores awoke with a throbbing headache. He groaned and shook his head to clear his vision.

He was in the back compartment of a large truck. Wherever they were going, the road was bumpy as hell. He’d been stuffed between two rough burlap sacks, probably to keep him from flopping around while unconscious, which struck him as surprisingly courteous. His hands were bound again, this time behind his back.

Shit, Flores thought with a sinking feeling.

Two other men occupied the space with him, both dressed in military fatigues and bearing LMTs. One couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. The other was the guy who tried to blow up the van that morning.





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