Читать книгу Kidnap and Ransom - Michelle Gagnon - Страница 13

“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.