Читать книгу Justice Run - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

Jennifer Rodriguez knew she needed a miracle.

She paced her makeshift cell and wondered about her next move. Her captors had taken away her watch and, obviously, her smartphone, and her cell contained no clocks. Combine that with the fact she was apparently in a basement of some kind, with no windows, and she really had no idea how long she’d been down here. She guessed it’d been twenty-four hours, but she couldn’t be sure.

She did know she was losing precious time. She’d come to Monaco to find answers. In the past several months, there’d been murmurs in the underworld about Dumond’s gunrunning operation expanding. A lot of the talk had been troubling because the Frenchman supposedly had begun acquiring large quantities of weapons from rogue military generals, particularly in the Middle East, where the U.S. supplied weapons to friendly nations. Dumond had a record for selling weapons to anyone willing to pay the price.

Initially, some had worried he’d sell arms to China so it could study the technology. Working undercover, Rodriguez had learned the weapons weren’t advanced enough to pique China’s interest. She’d also learned the tools of the death trade that were being trafficked also were coming from countries at odds with the U.S., such as Libya.

Once they crossed espionage threats off the list, at least as far as major powers were concerned, the problem became identifying the buyer. Was Dumond going to sell weapons to al Qaeda, Hezbollah or another major terrorist organization? They’d tried for months to get an answer, but kept coming up empty. While Dumond wasn’t discerning about his clientele, he did fret over security.

U.S. intelligence had found it damn near impossible to hack his computer. He switched phones regularly, handing the old ones to his lieutenants to carry and use. This confounded the intelligence agencies trying to track him and often kept him a step or two ahead of authorities.

That was why Washington had decided to send Rodriguez after him. She’d spent months infiltrating another arms-smuggling ring, had made lots of contacts, many of them mutual “friends” of Dumond and her. She’d put out the word she wanted to meet with him. The wheels had started turning, albeit slowly, and it had taken weeks before she got an audience with him.

She thought she’d gotten a break. Instead she’d walked into a trap.

Dumond’s people had overpowered her and searched her for a wire. The absence of one hadn’t improved her situation. They’d knocked her out and transported her from the meeting site to here, wherever that was. She had no idea whether she’d been moved across town or across the globe.

The whole thing had taken a weird turn when they’d started asking her about Fred, her first boss with the FBI. She’d tried to play stupid. That strategy had fallen apart when Dumond had held out a smartphone to her.

“Take this,” he said. “Look at the screen.”

She’d hesitated, then taken the phone from the outstretched hand and looked at the screen. Though she’d tried to keep her best poker face, she doubted she’d succeeded. The single image had triggered a flood of conflicting emotions—shock, grief, anger and fear being just a few. It had been a photo of Gruber, his wife, Kate, and Rodriguez, at Gruber’s retirement party. He stood in the middle of them, clad in khakis and a polo shirt, a tight grin on his lips, an arm around each of the two women. His successor, Donna Goldman, had shot the photo for him.

Rodriguez had noted the slight glaze of alcohol in his eyes and remembered how drunk he’d gotten that night, singing “Love Me Tender” with the karaoke machine, a record nine times. Aside from fueling his bad attempts at impersonating the King, the drinking had been notable for another reason. Gruber rarely drank and then in moderation. However, he’d arrived for his own party, seeming sullen and withdrawn. Kate later had confided that he hadn’t wanted to retire and that she was worried how it would affect his health. The alcohol had dissipated the black cloud around him and he’d loosened up, at least for the evening. The following day, though, he’d sunk back into his depression and remained there until he’d hung out a shingle as a private detective. Having a job had restored his sense of purpose and made him feel useful again.

He’d always sworn the PI gig had saved his life.

Since his death, she’d thought back on the bitter irony of those statements.

The photo had delivered a punch right to her heart.

Had she stared too long? Had her eyes glistened with tears? She didn’t think so. But, when it came to emotions, she knew the mind played tricks and the face sometimes could reveal too much information.

With little time to think, she’d made up the best story she could. She said she vaguely remembered meeting the couple at a party, but didn’t know them beyond that. Why did he have the photo on his phone? She’d shrugged and said maybe the guy was a pervert and liked looking at the picture. Her stomach had clenched as she’d uttered the words about Gruber, though she knew he’d understand.

It hadn’t taken Dumond long to shoot holes in her story. After more interrogation, he’d slapped his thighs, stood and given her a halfhearted smile.

“I don’t believe you,” he had said. “I will give you some time to consider your situation. Then I will come back and see you again. If you don’t offer a better explanation—” he shrugged “—I will use more aggressive methods of securing answers.” He turned the phone screen back in her direction. “I have friends in America. They would be happy to pay this woman a visit.”

His security chief, a man named Bellew, stood to his right. Dumond turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “What was her name again?”

“Kate,” Bellew said. “Kate Gruber.”

“Yes,” Dumond said. His lips split into a wider smile. “She’s a widow. Perhaps she would like the company.”

Rodriguez had tried her best to feign apathy and maintain her cover. When she’d spoken, her throat had felt tight and pushing out the words took effort.

“Hope those thoughts give your limp Johnson a little lift,” she’d said. “While we’re swinging things, you might want to think about what you’re doing here. I came here, with references, to transact business. If something happens to me...”

She let the sentence trail off. Dumond’s smile faltered for a moment before he caught himself and let out a dismissive laugh.

“See you in a few hours,” he said.

Dumond had left. She had no doubt things could get worse for her.

The arms dealer already had taken the leap of kidnapping someone he at least suspected to be a U.S. federal agent. He had to know he’d passed a point of no return, one where he couldn’t let her walk away alive. Either way, the U.S. government was going to hunt him down for this. From his standpoint, there was no incentive to leave behind a witness.

A chill raced through her, causing her to shiver even though the room was warm and stuffy. Without thinking, she stopped walking and hugged herself.

The weight of her situation hit her hard. There is no way out, she thought. They are going to kill me.

Her head suddenly felt light and her heart began to pound faster, speeding up in spite of the emotional and physical fatigue that gripped her.

Her chest tightened and she struggled to drag in a full breath. Jesus, she was going to die here. And she wasn’t even sure where “here” was.

She moved to the single bed, the room’s sole piece of furniture, and dropped onto the edge of the mattress.

Pull yourself together, she chided herself. If you give up, you will die. If you fight, at least you have a chance.

Granted, it was a small chance, but it beat the hell out of waiting for somebody to walk in and put a bullet in her head.

She looked around the room for the umpteenth time. Dumond’s people had removed everything from it except the bed. She could see impressions in the carpet, where there’d been shelving units standing against the wall, a small table and two chairs, a dresser. They’d stripped the mattress of its sheets. The bolts holding the metal frame in place were too tight to be removed with her bare hands. The bed’s frame also was bolted to the floor and couldn’t be moved.

They’d even stripped her belt and her shoe laces, presumably so she wouldn’t hang herself out of desperation.

Bringing her hands to her face, she massaged her temples with her fingertips. She’d been racking her brain for a solution for so long, she felt as though her thoughts just kept going in circles.

Yeah, she finally decided. She needed a miracle.

She again dismissed the thought. She’d spent too many years in law enforcement, seeing firsthand the pain and misery humans heaped on one another, mostly to steal a few bucks or to get their rocks off, to believe in miracles.

She heard a muffled sound emanating through the floor. Seconds later, it came again. Just a couple of pops in rapid succession.

Gunshots? Had somebody come to help her? Maybe she’d get her damn miracle after all.