Kidnap & Ransom Read online

  “You’re so beautiful,” he said. “I love you so much.”

  Kelly didn’t answer, just watched as he threw his head back and moaned. One way or another, she knew this was goodbye.

  JANUARY 31

  Fourteen

  “Crap.” Syd swore as she slipped on a pile of rotting leaves. “I hate the jungle.”

  “Right there with you, boss.” Maltz extended a hand to help her up.

  Jake didn’t say anything. He was already second-guessing the decision to accompany them. Kelly was behaving strangely, too, which didn’t help. First, she initiated sex last night. Not that he was complaining, but even before her injury she’d never been the first to make a move. And the way she’d looked at him as he closed the door that morning—it was like she never expected to see him again, even if he survived.

  He shook it off. No matter what, he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Kelly was probably already on a flight back to New York. She’d be safe, that was the important thing.

  That morning they’d exchanged their rental car for two jeeps. The road into the mountains wound for hours, the surrounding foliage growing greener and thicker as the city receded in the rearview mirror. At times they slowed to a crawl, edging around potholes, going off road in places where the pavement had failed. They’d only passed a handful of other cars, mostly trucks, farmers headed toward the city and buses overloaded with passengers. As far as he could tell, they hadn’t drawn any attention: just another group of adventurous tourists on their way to visit the ruins at el Tajin. In truth, they passed that turnoff and headed south instead, weaving up into the mountains. Mark was in the lead car, Isabela navigating. An hour or so past the turnoff, they pulled over to the side of the road.

  “We have to go the rest of the way on foot,” Isabela had explained. They hid the cars, covering them with brush for camouflage. Hopefully they’d still be there when they got back. If they got back, that was.

  “How much farther?” Syd grumbled as she lost her footing again.

  “A few more miles, I think,” Isabela replied.

  “Great,” Syd said. “Three more miles of mud.”

  “Good for your skin, boss,” Maltz offered.

  “Go to hell,” Syd said.

  “We should pipe down,” Mark said. “Might be patrols.”

  At that they fell silent.

  Jake had to give Isabela credit, for someone with no training she was holding up pretty well. Mark and Decker helped her over the toughest spots, but she usually refused their assistance. It was nasty going, too. The ground was uneven, rocky and wet. By the end of the first hour they were all soaked through and caked in mud. Blisters throbbed on Jake’s feet, and his arms ached from continually batting away the swarms of no-see-ums determined to feast on him. All in all he figured this was the perfect site for a prison camp. No one would come here voluntarily.

  Someone suddenly pushed him from behind, sending him sprawling.

  “Hey!” Jake protested, knee-deep in mud.

  Mark had landed on top of him. He clamped a hand over Jake’s mouth and shoved his head down.

  Jake was wrestling him off when he heard voices. This section of the jungle was so thick, Kane had been leading the way with a machete. Now Jake was grateful for the coverage it offered. He nodded, showing that he understood, and Mark released him. Ahead of him Kane, Fribush and Jagerson were pressed flat to the ground. Syd and Maltz were behind him with Isabela. He couldn’t see Decker.

  The voices continued approaching: definitely male, speaking Spanish. At first Jake thought they were arguing, then one of them laughed out loud. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted past. Shit, Jake thought. Looked like Isabela’s estimate of the camp’s location was off.

  He sensed movement and turned to find Syd signaling to their men. Mark shook his head vehemently and gestured back. Jake made a mental note to sign up for a Special Forces hand-signals class if he came out of this alive. It was like being stuck with a group of pitchers and catchers, he never knew what the hell they were talking about.

  Mark suddenly rolled off him and vanished into the wash of greenery. Jake turned to raise his eyebrows at Syd, only to discover that she and Maltz had disappeared, too. He and Isabela were left mired in the mud. She wore an expression of abject panic. Jake tried to look reassuring, but part of him wondered if they’d just been abandoned.

  He buried his head in the moss as one of the men approached. The Mexican was no more than twenty, dressed in camo pants and a Metallica T-shirt. The guard stopped on the other side of a patch of giant ferns, an arm’s length away. If he glanced down at the ground, there was no way he could miss seeing Jake.

  Jake willed himself invisible. He tried to regulate his breathing, but it still sounded unbearably loud.

  The guard unzipped his fly, letting loose a stream of urine two feet from Jake’s head. As he pissed he focused back over his shoulder, still talking to his friend. They both broke into guffaws: must have been a hell of a punch line, Jake thought.

  Something rustled a few feet behind him: Isabela. The guard started at the noise. He took a step toward it, then barked in surprise. Jake jerked his head up: Isabela had leaped to her feet and was bolting back the way they had come, black ponytail swishing across her back. The guard stepped through the ferns, swinging a rifle to his shoulder. He was less than a foot away, so focused on Isabela’s retreat that he didn’t notice Jake.

  Isabela tripped and went flying, landing on all fours in the mud. The guard aimed for the center of her back.

  “Wait!” Jake jumped to his feet.

  Startled, the guard swung his weapon around. At the sight of Jake, his eyes narrowed.

  Jake held up both hands. The second guard came around a tree, still zipping up his pants. He was older, with a nasty scar bisecting his face.

  They jabbered back and forth, then the older guard tore through the undergrowth in pursuit of Isabela.

  The younger guard prodded him with his gun muzzle. Jake stood and crossed his hands behind his head. The guard jabbed him hard in the back to propel him forward.

  Great, Jake thought. Apparently he’d found the perfect way into the camp: as an inmate.

  Kelly dialed again, staring out the motel-room window as she waited for an answer. By now she had the number committed to memory. Ten calls in the past few days, and each time she was redirected to a voice-mail system where a bland female voice announced that Global Investigations was currently on another call, and to leave a message. Either they were the busiest P.I. organization Kelly had ever encountered, or it was one guy who didn’t bother checking his messages. Based on the area code, the firm was located in New York. Which made sense—she vaguely recalled that Lin Kaishen’s father had been some sort of diplomat with the UN. The family had hired Global Investigations to continue following up leads on Stefan Gundarsson after the FBI closed the case. Kelly’s boss at the time, a smarmy so-and-so named Bowen, declared that the family refused to accept the truth because they were Chinese and had no respect for American police work. Privately Kelly thought they had good reason to doubt that the FBI had done its job. She wished the file provided more information on why the P.I. was convinced that Stefan was still alive, but there had only been a short report written by the agent who fielded the call. “Global Investigations claims to have evidence that suspect Stefan Gundarsson survived and is living in Mexico. Kaishen family requests that field agents follow up.” A note scrawled at the top read: Case Closed, Do Not Pursue.

  A click, and the voice-mail message started to play again. Kelly hung up, frustrated. She cracked the window and lit a cigarette. Jake didn’t know that she’d fallen back into the habit. She’d been careful to hide it from him, never smoking in their apartment, sneaking drags on the roof or by the service entry to their building. She knew he’d never tell her to stop, but hadn’t wanted to deal with the weight of his disapproval.

  Kelly inhaled deeply, causing the embers to flare. She tried not to stare at the tangl
e of sheets on the bed. God, she hoped Jake came out of this all right. But she’d let him go because this was what they did, who they were. Which was precisely why she was so focused on Stefan. She needed closure on this case, once and for all.

  She held the smoke in her chest for a long moment before releasing it. Perhaps she should just head to the airport and try to catch a flight home. She felt the darkness starting to encroach upon her, the almost overwhelming sense of futility and purposelessness that she’d struggled with ever since waking up in that hospital bed.

  Maybe she was so fixated on the possibility that Stefan was alive simply because without a case to pursue, she really didn’t have a reason to go on anymore. When she’d first met Jake three years ago, she’d been at the top of her game. Her professional reputation was spotless, her solve rate the envy of her peers. Since then she’d lost a high-profile case, her lower leg and very nearly her life. The FBI didn’t want her back. Jake was staying with her out of a misguided sense of obligation. Her entire family was dead. Aside from Jake, there was no one in the world who cared if she lived or died. She didn’t even have any real friends.

  Ironically enough, she’d met Jake while pursuing Stefan. Her therapist would probably have a field day with that one. Kelly dropped the cigarette into a half-full water glass. She rubbed her eyes, suddenly exhausted.

  Her phone rang. She fumbled for it, knocking it off the windowsill. Recognizing the number, she scooped it up and answered just before it went to voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Mike Caruso at Global,” a voice thick with a Brooklyn accent said. “Got a few messages from you.”

  “Right, hello.” Kelly cleared her throat. “I wanted to find out more about your investigation for the Kaishens.”

  A pause, then he said, “I take client confidentiality seriously. Can’t share details.”

  “You called the FBI with a tip a few months ago,” Kelly pressed. “I’d like to follow up on that.”

  He laughed. “You got some nerve. It’s thanks to you people they fired me.”

  “The Kaishens fired you?”

  “Yeah, after one of you douchebags told them I wasn’t reputable. All because of some bullshit DUI they dug up. I still got an outstanding bill for expenses.”

  “I’m truly sorry to hear about that,” Kelly said, her voice conciliating. “I was the lead on the original case.”

  “Well, I’m not in much of a mood to help. Bye.”

  “Wait!” Kelly exclaimed. “How much do they still owe you?”

  “Three grand, give or take,” he said after a brief silence.

  Kelly was willing to bet the real figure was much lower, but she was in no position to bargain. “I can get you the money if you tell me what you found.”

  “Yeah?” Another pause. “Cash, in my account. I’ll tell you what I know when it gets here.”

  “I’m in Mexico now, I can’t send it until I get back,” Kelly said. “Please, Mr. Caruso. This is important.”

  Another long pause, then he sighed. “You bastards better not screw me over again.”

  “I won’t, I promise. How did you find Stefan Gundarsson?”

  “Same as always, I followed the money.” A hint of pride in his voice as he said, “I was the third P.I. they hired, the other two didn’t turn up jackshit.”

  “But his personal accounts were seized.” Kelly’s brow wrinkled. Maybe this was just a scam.

  “Sure they were, but you folks forgot about his so-called church. Couldn’t touch that cash, it was protected under some bullshit federal law for houses of worship. That account got cleared out by one of the Moonies drinking his Kool-Aid.”

  It made sense. They hadn’t kept tabs on Stefan’s devotees, and he’d had hundreds when he vanished. “So why Mexico?”

  “The guy got a cashier’s check when he closed the account, then a few days later his credit cards showed charges in Mexico City. So I headed south. Tracked him to a dive hotel. And guess what? He conveniently turned up dead, victim of a ‘mugging’ the same week he got there. He’d been stabbed.”

  Kelly sucked in a breath. Stefan had always preferred knives. “But maybe he just saw an opportunity and ran with the money.”

  “Yeah, except the money never turned up. And someone was still using his cards for a few weeks after he bought it. So I checked out some of the other charges. Found some folks who had seen a guy matching Gundarsson’s description. Trust me, there aren’t a lot of guys like him running around down there. I told the Kaishens, and they called you people. And then they fired me. Said that ‘my services were no longer needed,’” he scoffed. “Tell you what, you folks did your job better, you’d have this guy.”

  “I can’t believe they just gave up,” Kelly said. She’d met the Kaishens briefly. They’d been stricken by their daughter’s death.

  “What I can’t figure is why you’re so gung ho now,” Caruso said. “It’s been months since I called that in.”

  “I was…on another case. I just found out about this recently.” Kelly paused. “So do you think there’s a chance he’s still here?”

  “Maybe. Easy to get lost in Mexico. But after he offed that guy, he’d be nuts to stick around.”

  Kelly’s heart sank. He was right, the chances of Stefan remaining in the area were slim, especially if he’d gotten wind of the fact that someone was tracking him. “Can you think of anywhere I should start looking?”

  A pause as Caruso thought it over. “Lot of bookstore charges, guy was a reader. Mainly the ones that sell foreign language books. Try them, you might get lucky. But I gotta be honest, I doubt it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Caruso. This has been extremely helpful.”

  “Yeah, sure. Just make sure to send the cash.”

  He hung up.

  Kelly realized she was twisting her engagement ring around and around with her thumb and forced herself to stop. It was a long shot, but she was already here. If she headed back to New York, all she could do was sit around an empty apartment waiting to hear if Jake was okay.

  Kelly took a deep breath and went through her things. She still had her go-kit, along with an H&K sidearm and extra magazines. She could leave everything else, it was better to travel light. If she uncovered any sign that Stefan was still alive, she’d contact the FBI and wait for backup. Catching him would be a huge accomplishment, maybe enough to get her back on active duty.

  She shrugged on the backpack and headed out the door to find an internet café.

  Fifteen

  “We need to get moving.” Linus impatiently paced the narrow channel between the bed and the bathroom. “This is ridiculous.”

  “It would be ridiculous if we went out there unprepared.” Brown sat calmly at the motel room desk, playing a game of solitaire. Their departure had been delayed when they couldn’t get some equipment that Brown deemed essential to their mission. What those things were, he hadn’t shared. Linus suspected he was stalling to save face. Now it was nearly dusk, and there was no sign that they were leaving anytime soon.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” he finally exhorted.

  As Brown slowly stood, glowering down at him, Linus was struck by the realization that anything could happen to him down here, and Brown could spin it however he wanted. His own men could riddle him with bullets and blame the Zetas, or they could claim that he never showed up. He swallowed, hard. “Sorry, I’m just—”

  A knock at the door interrupted him. Brown opened it a crack after checking through the curtain. One of his men stood there looking agitated. They exchanged a few words in low voices, then Brown shut the door again.

  “There’s a complication,” he said, frowning.

  “Another one?” Linus couldn’t contain his exasperation.

  “I’ll be right back,” Brown said, strapping on his sidearm.

  “I’ll come with you,” Linus insisted.

  Brown looked ready to object, then shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”
r />   Linus followed him along the corridor and down two rooms. Brown knocked on the door to Room 17. It opened.

  This motel room was identical to the other: a sagging queen-size bed, a desk marred by years-worth of accumulated abuse and a rickety chair. Two members of the Tyr team stood at opposite ends of the room. A large man dressed in ratty jean shorts and a soiled T-shirt tilted back in the chair, feet on the bed opposite. At the sight of Brown he slowly rose to his feet. He looked familiar, but it took Linus a second to place him.

  “Wysocki,” Brown said. “So you finally made it home.”

  “Hey, boss.” Wysocki’s arrogant smirk faded slightly at Brown’s approach.

  “Where’s the rest of your team?”

  “Dunno.” Wysocki shrugged. “Kaplan got himself shot, so Riley and Decker went out for meds. They were taking a long time, so I left Flores with Kap and went out for food and a phone. Came back, and everyone was gone. Waited awhile for Riley and Decker, but they never showed. Then I called you.”

  “Funny you didn’t call as soon as you got away.” Brown’s eyes narrowed.

  “I was under orders.”

  “Whose?”

  “Riley’s.” Wysocki lowered his voice. “I think he might’ve been in on it, sir. We were ambushed at the site. The Zetas had a mole.”

  “So who planned the escape?”

  “Mostly Decker and me, sir. Man, I hope Decker’s okay. Riley might’ve just handed them all over to those assholes again.” Wysocki glanced at the other men in the room. “Heard you were headed into the jungle after them. I’d love to come along.”

  “I’m not sure—” Linus interjected.

  “We’re already down one man,” Brown said. “Suit up, Wysocki.”

  With that he turned and left the room.

  Something flashed across Wysocki’s face. Linus couldn’t be sure, but it looked like triumph. He scurried after Brown, who strolled back to their room as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Brown plunked back down in the chair and shuffled the deck of cards.