Читать книгу Hostage Situation - Debra Webb - Страница 7
ОглавлениеChapter One
Chicago Monday, April 30, 5:15 p.m.
“Stop the car!”
Renee Vaughn shoved a fistful of cash at the taxi driver and scrambled out of the car. She sucked in deep, ragged gulps of air…still unable to get enough oxygen into her lungs. Her body shook with the news that had chilled her to the bone.
It’s not right.
The judicial system had failed.
She had failed.
The execution would not be stayed.
At midnight, an innocent man would die, and there was nothing she could do to help him.
Nausea roiled in her stomach. She took the few steps across the sidewalk to brace herself against the nearest building. She closed her eyes and tried to block the painful memories churning in her head.
She was a murderer.
The sounds of evening’s rush-hour traffic filtered through the haze of emotions, ushering back time and place. Renee forced her eyes open and blinked to focus.
She’d been down this road already. This wasn’t her problem any more. She should go home, put it out of her mind. She’d been taken off the case two years ago. Her former client’s new attorney had taken out a restraining order to ensure she kept her distance.
There was every reason for her to forget…to put the whole damned mess behind her.
But she couldn’t. The man sitting on death row awaiting execution was her brother. She knew the truth, or at least part of it, and he would not allow her to stop this. No one would listen to her.
The wind whipped around her, urging her to move…to pull herself together. She glanced around to get her bearings. Madison Street. She could walk home from here. Her place wasn’t more than ten blocks away. Her legs still felt a little unsteady, but she’d be okay just as soon as the initial shock wore off.
Her gaze landed on St. Peter’s. Of all places for her to decide she needed out of the confines of the taxi. Before the thought could completely evolve in her brain, she was walking through the door. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in church. Or the last time she’d prayed, for that matter.
Her mind in a chaotic battle of emotion against reason, she moved up the aisle between the rows of pews, her movements on autopilot. She approached the chapel at the back of the church and knelt in front of the icon. She lit a single candle, offered a silent prayer for the innocent man who would die a few hours from now. It would take a miracle to save her brother now and, as an attorney and former prosecutor, she knew better than to believe in miracles. Her chest constricted and a flood of tears pressed against the backs of her eyes.
Her mistake. No matter what anyone said, she knew where the fault lay.
She didn’t have to be present in Huntsville, Texas, to imagine the scene. A crowd would be gathered already. Newspaper and television journalists from across the state. Protesters, those for and against the death penalty, with their signs and chants. The family members of victims, anticipating the moment when a convicted killer would finally pay the price for his crimes.
Renee rose from the kneeler and slumped onto the front pew and sat there for a while, thankful for the anonymity and silence in the empty church. She should go home. In another hour, the church would be filled with parishioners attending Mass. But somehow she couldn’t find the strength to haul herself up and walk out the door. Instead, she sat there and stared at the flame. Reaching up with a shaky hand, she ruthlessly brushed back the lone tear that managed to escape her stronghold.
“Damn it,” she muttered, then immediately railed at herself for the slip.
Why should she punish herself for the actions of others? Her brother had caused this. She had tried to stop it once she knew the truth, but he had not allowed her to do the right thing. That was masochistic. She had promised herself that with this new move, she would not permit the past to take over her life again. If only someone would tell that to her foolish emotions.
A hand settled on her shoulder. Startled, she glanced up to find Jim Colby standing in the aisle. “You trying to beat the rush?” he asked.
She straightened, cleared her throat. Having him appear here was about as unexpected as finding herself at this church. He moved around her and lowered himself onto the pew scarcely an arm’s length away. How could he sneak up on her so effortlessly? When had she so completely lost her edge? She blinked back the new burning tears. She would not let him see this kind of fragility. This display of weakness was not who she was. She had to get back on track.
“Ensures the best seat in the house,” she said, playing along and forcing a tight smile. Don’t think about it anymore. There is nothing you can do. Focus on now. What was Jim doing here? She wouldn’t have taken him for a guy who bothered with Mass. Even so, that wouldn’t be his reason for showing up like this. Her new boss was not a happenstance kind of guy. He was focused, intense, deliberate.
Jim smiled that slow, half tilt that she’d come to associate with him. She got the distinct impression that smiling was not typical of him, though he seemed to like to do it more and more as time went by. She’d been working for Jim Colby for a couple of months now. He was different—edgy, almost dangerous. Case in point: those penetrating blue eyes. Eyes that kept folks on their toes in his presence. Not that she was intimidated by her boss, but on some instinctive level she understood that he was not a man to be taken lightly.
“How’d you know I was here?” The idea that he would have followed her from the office didn’t seem plausible.
“The mechanic dropped off your car.”
Her car? She deflated a little more. How could she have forgotten about that? “Oh…I—” She gave her head a shake. “I was supposed to call to see if it would be ready.” The mechanic had picked up her car at the office that morning with a simple instruction: call before leaving for the day to see if it’s ready. But then, that had been before she’d got the news that the stay of execution had been denied.
Don’t think about it.
“Since you hadn’t made it home and weren’t answering your cell, I called the cab company. Dispatcher said the driver dropped you off here. I thought I’d come give you a ride back to the office to pick up your car.”
Her cell…it was on Silent. She nodded her understanding, still a little rattled. “I appreciate that.” She had a feeling there was more to this than just letting her know her car was ready.
As if she’d voiced the thought aloud, his gaze locked with hers. “We have a new client. The job’s going to require a somewhat dicey field assignment. At least a few days on location.” He studied her for a moment, then added, “I was thinking you might be right for this one, if you feel you’re ready.”
Renee sat up straighter. She’d been waiting for this opportunity. She moistened her lips, swallowed at the emotion still hovering in the back of her throat. “I’m ready.” No way was she going to let the past mess this up. The call she’d received less than one hour ago echoed unnervingly, but she pushed it away. Her brother’s mistakes and decisions weren’t her problem anymore…hadn’t been in two years. She couldn’t change what was going to happen…no matter how wrong. He had seen to that.
“I know you’ve been anticipating your first field assignment,” Colby said.
Admittedly, running background checks and following up on cheating spouses was not how she’d seen things going at her new job. Still, paying one’s dues was not a new concept to her. “I’m confident the past couple of months aren’t an accurate measure of what’s to come.” Despite having changed jobs twice in the past two years, even she had her limits on how low she would take her career expectations.
“This one may be a little tricky.”
Their gazes met. Anticipation hummed inside her.
“Tricky?” She tried to glean something from his expression, but it was impossible. Jim Colby was far too good at camouflaging whatever was on his mind.
“There could be complicating factors.”
Complicating factors? She didn’t have a problem with complications. In fact, she had more of a problem with a lack of them; it gave her too much free time to allow the past to invade her present. She tamped down the ache that instantly attempted to intrude. If Jim was worried about her ability to defend herself, he shouldn’t be. She’d faced physical threat in the past and she’d learned from it. A comprehensive self-defense class should be mandatory for all attorneys and prosecutors.
“What kind of complicating factors?” she ventured.
“This one means you’d have to take on a whole new identity and deliberately mislead a man in order to lure his only brother into a trap.”
Her curiosity spiked, sending a surge of adrenaline roaring through her veins. She’d been looking for just this sort of case. Something out of the ordinary. Something exciting…dangerous. The last startled her just a little. Would living on the edge help her put the past more firmly behind her? Make her trust herself again?
Only one way to find out.
“When do I start?”
He studied her, his eyes searching hers for some glimpse of uncertainty or maybe hesitation. She allowed none. She knew betrayal and deceit intimately. Using that painfully gained knowledge to get the job done wouldn’t be a problem. If someone innocent got hurt…who cared, right? As long as the job got done and the case got closed…the end justified the means.
“It may be necessary for you to, let’s just say, get very close to the target,” he countered. “Are you sure you can do that, Vaughn? I’m certain that kind of deception wasn’t one of your electives at that fancy law school you attended.”
She did the smiling this time. “You’re right. It wasn’t. I had to learn that part the hard way. Now, when do I start?”
“Now.”
Perfect.
He went on, “You can look over the file tonight and we’ll get started on your cover profile first thing in the morning.” He pushed to his feet. “That way you can catch an afternoon flight and jump right in.”
“Do we have photos? Background histories?” Renee stood, genuflected and fell into step next to him as he moved down the long center aisle.
“Photos, histories. We have it all. Our client came prepared.”
“Excellent.” That would speed up the process. If he wanted her on a plane in less than twenty-four hours, getting up to speed ASAP would be essential.
As Renee climbed into Jim’s car, she checked her cell phone. Two missed calls and one voice mail. One of the calls was from Jim. The second had her heart thumping as she listened to the accompanying voice mail. The first three words of the message had her sagging against the seat with relief in spite of her determination not to care.
The governor called.
The stay of execution had been granted.
Renee stared out at the busy street surrounded by the eclectic architecture that set the city of Chicago apart from any other on the globe.
This was good news.
And just like that, the past nudged its way back into her life, starting the cycle of obsession and denial all over again.
Key Largo Wednesday, May 2, 2:00 p.m.
“IT’S A FORTRESS.”
A fortress. Yes. Renee studied the three-story home through binoculars from her position aboard the Salty Dog, a for-hire touring vessel. The two-acre estate of which her guide spoke was located on a desirable shore with not one, but two magnificent vessels—a speed boat and an enviable-sized yacht—moored at the private dock. The residence reminded her more of a compound than a home. Not exactly the sort of place one expected to find a self-professed starving artist. Though his work was well known in the southeastern region, he was no Picasso.
“Concrete walls. High-tech security system.” Her guide pushed up his Miami Dolphins cap and scratched his head. “A nightmare, logistically speaking, if you’re planning an unexpected visit.”
Renee lowered the binoculars and slid her sunglasses back into place. She’d spun quite a tale to explain her need to do this type of surveillance. Thankfully, her guide had accepted her bitter story of betrayal and hadn’t asked any more questions. At least her past experience had allowed her to sound genuine. “I don’t see any security personnel.” It was possible a bodyguard or guards were inside, but one would think guards would do routine rounds of the property. Maybe the security system was so state-of-the-art that walk-arounds weren’t necessary.
“He doesn’t have any bodyguards. At least not that anyone has ever spotted.” Henry Napier shot her a look that suggested he was as befuddled by the idea as she. “No one can figure out that part. He drives a Maserati Gran Sport that cost six figures. That’s new, by the way. So’s the yacht.” He gestured to the property that could easily be showcased in the glitziest of lifestyle magazines. “With all that you’d think he would be afraid to go to sleep at night without at least one bodyguard, but, apparently, he isn’t.”
Typically a man of such means would have personal security. But the man who lived in that house was no typical homeowner. She turned her attention back to the estate worth at least five million. Paul Reyes was the younger brother of Victor Reyes, a drug lord whose own compound was so carefully protected that only his closest confidants knew its location somewhere in Mexico. The concept that Paul lived so openly and clearly unprotected just didn’t fit with the facts known about his older brother.
“This is as close as I can take you,” Napier said. “City regulations. The rich folks don’t like us getting too close. You still have another hour left on your tour. You want to just sit here?”
Renee didn’t answer right away. She was too focused on the idea of the man beyond those well-fortified walls. Her target, Paul Reyes. Quiet, withdrawn, a mystery. That was pretty much all anyone knew about him, other than the artwork he sold through a local gallery. She’d stopped this morning at the gallery and looked at his work up close and in person. He was good, no question.
What made this man the polar opposite of his older brother? By all reports, Victor was cruel and vengeful. He had achieved his fame and fortune by taking advantage of the weaknesses of others. He didn’t care who was hurt or what damage he caused to society as a whole. He cared only for himself. No one—not a single law enforcement agency—had ever come close to taking him down.
The client, Darla Stewart, who had hired the Equalizers, was the sister of a murdered New Orleans narcotics detective. Victor Reyes was responsible for her brother’s death. The police and even the DEA had failed to get this guy for using New Orleans, among other seaside cities, as ports of entry for the evil he spread. When Stewart’s brother, Detective Chris Nelson, had made stopping Reyes his personal quest, he’d been squashed and pushed aside like a pesky fly.
Desperate to bring her brother’s killer to justice, Stewart had sought out the one man her brother had insisted he trusted in all this, DEA Agent Joseph Gates. According to Gates, he had a solid case built against Reyes for his drug crimes, but Mexico refused to acknowledge his existence, which rendered the extradition request invalid. According to the Mexican authorities, they didn’t even know Victor Reyes, much less where he lived. That was possible, but it was far more probable that law enforcement south of the border had been paid off. Money could buy most anything, especially in a country such as Mexico, where poverty prevailed among the masses.
For Renee, the assignment was simple. She would use Paul Reyes as bait for luring his older brother onto American soil. Agent Gates and the DEA would take things from there. Until then, the agent’s hands were tied. The DEA had spent endless resources monitoring the movements of Victor’s brother here in Florida, his single connection to the U.S., with absolutely no results. With numerous other cases popping up every day, resources were already too thin. Reyes, until he appeared on American soil or the Mexican government changed its mind about extradition, was no longer a priority. Darla Stewart had been devastated when the Reyes case was put on a back burner by the DEA. With no other options, she had gone to the Equalizers for help. Agent Gates had promised to help in spite of his orders to refocus his energy, but ultimately there was nothing he could do until Victor Reyes entered his jurisdiction. All Renee had to do was make that happen.
Sounded like a piece of cake. But there was a hitch. The setup had to be legit as much as possible. Since Paul Reyes surely wouldn’t be game for co-operating, then the trickery used to gain his unwitting assistance had to be on the up-and-up. Gates didn’t want any snares to serve as reason to have his case torn apart by a team of legal eagles. Renee understood exactly how the legal system worked and how it could be twisted to serve an incomprehensible purpose. She had always won her cases. Even when she should have lost. She’d been set up by someone she trusted. That wouldn’t happen again in this lifetime.
Though she had an understanding of sorts with Jim Colby, and she respected him, she would never totally let down her guard to him or anyone else. Complete trust was out of the question. She wouldn’t be going there again. Hell, she didn’t even trust herself beyond a certain degree, so how could she possibly trust anyone else? She’d trusted her former boss and mentor and he’d let her down.
She pushed the troubling thoughts away. No rehashing the bitter lessons of the past.
“Thanks, Mr. Napier. We can go back now. I’ve seen enough.”
The old man nodded as he prepared to turn the vessel about. After her arrival late yesterday, she’d been told that Napier was the man to go to for the lowdown on island residents. Napier was a Key Largo native. He loved retelling island lore and made it his mission to keep up on the most famous and/or infamous residents. Judging by his weathered skin, the man had spent most of his life floating about these waters spying on those who made the exotic locale home. She had not been in the least disappointed by her guide.
The sun and wind and water made her feel more alive than she had in a very long while, she realized as they journeyed back to the dock lined with touring vessels. Or maybe it was the case. Working undercover like this was a first for her. Most of her time in her former career had been spent in an office or library doing research and prep work with witnesses, or in the courtroom arguing her case. This was definitely a change for the better. It felt far more purposeful.
It gave her the opportunity to be someone else.
She’d left her uptight—as her Equalizers colleague Sam Johnson called them—business suits in Chicago. For this assignment, her first actual fieldwork, she’d chosen to dress as the natives did. Casual and sexy. She had the figure for it; she’d simply never had the desire. A conservative mentality had gone along with her previous career, at least on a personal level. She’d been anything but reserved in the courtroom.
She’d been good, damn it. She just hadn’t been smart enough to see what was coming that one time.
Again, she ordered the memories away.
Back on shore, she generously compensated her guide and climbed into her rental car. She drove directly to her hotel. The cool air inside her room was a much-appreciated respite from the Florida heat. She turned on a light and retrieved her file from its hiding place inside the ventilation return in her room.
She considered the picture of the Reyes brothers. Victor was thirty-eight, with dark hair and eyes. If she were casting a thriller with a drug lord as the villain, he would definitely fit the bill. As handsome as he was, there was an air of menace about him. Partly posture, but mainly the way he looked directly into the camera seemingly daring anyone to cross him. She’d seen his kind before, usually stationed at the defendant’s bench.
Paul, on the other hand, appeared quiet and utterly calm, harmless. Though he had been blessed with those same dark good looks, there was a serenity about him that spoke of intelligence and patience. Just two years younger than his brother, the two were, according to the reports she’d read, vastly different. Victor lived by the old rules, where women were nothing more than chattels and anything less than absolute loyalty from his followers was punishable by death. Conversely, Paul lived a quiet, reclusive life with hardly any contact with others.
The brothers had parted ways nearly a decade ago when Paul reportedly got fed up with his brother’s evil deeds and came to live full-time in the United States. Be that as it may, the family blood money, in Renee’s opinion, had to have purchased the lavish estate where he lived. As good as his artwork was, Paul hadn’t made the leap into mainstream popularity yet.
Renee put the file away and dressed for the next step in her plan. Cream-colored slacks, a matching silk blouse and strappy but practical sandals. In her purse, she had the owner’s card from the gallery she’d visited that morning. As far as she could tell, Paul rarely ventured from his estate for anything other than, in very rare instances, a gallery opening or a showing of his work. Even a large showing was no guarantee the artist would be in attendance.
That left her only one option—go to him.
She took the .22 from the box of long-stemmed roses that had been delivered by Jim Colby’s contact here in Key Largo. After strapping on the ankle holster, she snugged the weapon into position. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have to use it; but if the past was any indication, luck wouldn’t be anywhere around when she needed it most.
6:00 p.m.
OCEAN BOULEVARD was, as the name suggested, flanked by gorgeous sapphire water and dotted by enormous mansions. Near the end of the boulevard, where the most magnificent of the homes reigned over much larger portions of land, Renee pulled up in front of the massive iron gates of the residence belonging to Paul Reyes. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. Time to do this for real. She powered her window down, pressed the call button on the speaker box and then waited. Even her heart seemed to stand still as the seconds ticked by in silence.
“Yes?”
Paul Reyes. Although she had never heard his voice, the single word convinced her that it was him. The deep, velvety richness of the timbre matched the dark eyes and the quiet intensity of his face. Or maybe she just wanted it to be him, since she found the vaguely accented sound quite pleasing.
“Mr. Reyes?” She had to be sure. Her anticipation of plunging into her first case might very well be playing havoc with her reason.
“Please state your name and business.”
She looked toward the camera positioned on the wall next to the gate before saying, “My name is Renee Parsons. Mallory Rogers from the Rogers-Hall Gallery suggested I come to you in person with my intriguing proposal.” Then she smiled, the most seductive one in her limited repertoire. Looking stern and purposeful was her most frequently utilized expression.
Renee held her breath now and hoped like hell her plan would work. If he called Mallory Rogers before he allowed Renee inside, she would be in trouble.
The grind of metal jolting into movement hauled her attention to the gates. Her heart jerked back into a frantic pace on the heels of an adrenaline dump. He was going to allow her in.
Anticipation roaring through her like a freight train, she took her foot off the brake pedal, and the vehicle rolled through the entrance which now yawned open. The driveway cut through a lush lawn and ended in a circular parking patio embellished by a massive center fountain.
With the vehicle in Park, she cut the engine and emerged. The air was thick and the heat hadn’t subsided with the sun’s descent. Before closing the door, she reached back inside and grabbed her purse and draped it over her shoulder. Inside her bag she carried a tiny listening device. Barely the size of a quarter, all she had to do was leave it in a strategic spot and she would be able to monitor his conversations in that room. Highly illegal, but a part of the way things were done in her new career.
Knowledge was power and since information on this man and his brother was seriously limited, getting what she needed this way was crucial. She had to learn all she could and burrow in as deeply as possible. Taking any and all appropriate steps to speed up the process, without being too hasty, was absolutely essential to the proper outcome.
She strolled across the lovely flagstone parking patio and up the steps that led to the front entrance. She took her time, made each step as sensual as possible as she surveyed the gorgeous property. He would be watching, and he needed to believe that she deeply appreciated beauty. Staying in character was another key element.
A wide covered portico ran the length of the house in front. She hadn’t been able to see this side of the grand mansion from the water, but it definitely lived up to her expectations. She pressed the doorbell and settled her attention on the lush potted plants on either side of the towering double doors. Not a single detail had been overlooked when planning this Mediterranean-style property. All had been designed to be pleasing to the eye and equally welcoming to all the other senses.
The door opened and she found herself holding her breath all over again.
Paul Reyes stood in the open doorway. Cool linen slacks and shirt designed in pure white contrasted sharply with his smooth, dark skin. “Ms. Rogers has no recall of recommending that anyone pay me an unannounced visit. Do you care to amend your reason for showing up at my door, Ms. Parsons?”
Oh, hell, she was made. But she was here. Might as well give it her best effort. She thrust out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Reyes.”
He looked at her hand, then her. Fortunately, propriety appeared to prevent him from ignoring her gesture. He closed his hand around hers and gave it a shake. His was soft but firm. Dark brown eyes assessed her closely, the slightest hint of suspicion lingering there.
“What is it you desire of me, Ms. Parsons?” he asked as he released her hand. “Your bold determination has intrigued me.”
He was intrigued. That was a start. “I’m from L.A., Mr. Reyes, and my gallery would really love to show your work. From what I’ve learned so far, you don’t show outside Key Largo, though your work sells in several neighboring states. That’s such a terrible waste of your potential. I felt the need for a face-to-face meeting any way I could get it in order to plead my case. We want Paul Reyes to become a household name on the West Coast. We can make that happen.”
Jim Colby had provided a cover for her with a gallery owner friend in the Los Angeles area. That cover profile was her one ace in the hole. If it didn’t work, she was on her own.
For several seconds, Paul Reyes appeared to consider her explanation carefully. There was no way to read what he was thinking, but at least he hadn’t closed the door in her face.
“Do you have any credentials to prove you are who you say you are?”
Relief almost made her smile. “Certainly.” She withdrew her fake California driver’s license and a business card from the gallery on Melrose, each sporting the name Renee Parsons. She passed both to him for his scrutiny. She doubted anyone outside a trained professional would recognize the license was a fake, and the card was real. The owner in L.A. had overnighted a number of things to the hotel in Key Largo to help with Renee’s cover.
“I have a contract proposal if you have the time to review our plan for your incredible work.” The proposal, also provided by the L.A. gallery owner, she carried on a BlackBerry in her bag. “We’re willing to work with you in whatever capacity you feel comfortable. We’re impressed, Mr. Reyes. We want you.” This part was true. Once Jim had shown the gallery in L.A. some digital images of Paul’s work, they had shown interest.
“All right, Ms. Parsons.” He handed her license and card back to her. “Since you’ve come all this way, you have half an hour. Convince me that I should consider your gallery’s offer more seriously and we might be able to do business.”
Half an hour. It was more than she’d hoped for. He opened the door wider in invitation. She was in.
