Читать книгу Kidnap and Ransom - Michelle Gagnon - Страница 11

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.”