Kidnap & Ransom Page 13

  “Why are you looking for this man?” he asked, his English formal but succinct.

  “His family has been trying to find him,” Kelly said. She’d opted against identifying herself as an FBI agent, figuring that wouldn’t endear her to the locals.

  “I see.” He extended his arm out to squint at the photo.

  “He might have come in a few years ago,” Kelly said.

  “As you can see—” he swept his arm in an arc “—my customer base is small. If it weren’t for the internet…” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I keep the store open anymore.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” Kelly fought to keep the impatience from her voice. “So, do you recognize him?”

  He eyed her. “You don’t look like family.”

  “I’m a family friend.”

  “I doubt that. This man—” he jabbed the photo “—he is not one to make friends.”

  Kelly’s heart leaped. “So you do know him?”

  “He hasn’t come in for months. But yes, he used to be one of my best customers.” The man sounded regretful. “I ordered the Berlingske Tidende regularly for him, along with some other texts. Then one day, he stopped coming in.” He peered around the store, as if perhaps the reason why lay hidden in its shadows.

  “Do you have any idea where I might find him?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I do, but it is very dangerous. No place for a lady.”

  “Please,” she said. “It’s very important.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “You must promise not to go there alone, or ever at night.”

  “Of course,” Kelly lied.

  “Very well, then. I could never understand it, since clearly he was a man of some means. One book alone cost nearly four thousand pesos. But from what he said, I gathered that he lived in Bordo Poniente, among the pepenadores.”

  “Where’s that?” Kelly asked.

  “The city dump.” His nose wrinkled. “Less than a mile away. You can smell it quite plainly when the wind blows from the east. But I must warn you, señora, it is enormous. Finding one man in there will be difficult. And it’s one of the most dangerous places I know.”

  Coming from someone living in this neighborhood, Kelly guessed that was saying something. “Gracias, señor.” She reached out to shake his hand. His eyes widened when she handed him a five-hundred-peso note.

  “Please, be careful,” he called after her.

  Kelly was already out the door, bells tinkling in her wake.

  Flores tried to stay calm as he was led along the row of pens. They’d bound his hands in front of him with a zip tie, not something they did to Calderon, but he was probably considered more of a security risk. Other prisoners glanced up from their meal trays as he passed. Some appeared envious, others disinterested. Apparently it wasn’t all that unusual for prisoners to come and go. He scanned each cage in passing for Sock and Kaplan.

  Flores wondered what was going on. Had Tyr negotiated his release? Did they even know he was here? What had shaken Calderon so badly?

  They reached the end of the row and emerged into some sort of main corridor. The camp was more massive than he’d imagined. There was an exterior fence on his right. Long lines of pens extended into the distance on his left. He counted off twenty rows before the guard ordered him to halt.

  They were standing in front of the sort of prefab trailer used by managers at construction sites. The guard stepped forward and rapped twice on the door. After a moment, it swung open and Flores was shoved inside.

  He staggered up the steps, knocking his knee hard against the metal. Flores swore as he caught himself. He managed to climb the last step to enter with a shred of his dignity intact.

  The inside was sparsely decorated. Sheets of paper were taped to the wall: mainly guards’ schedules, from what he could make out. No windows. An enormous locked cabinet piqued his interest. Weapons cache, maybe? Filing cabinets flanked it on either side.

  At the far end, an enormous man sat behind a large metal desk. Rolls of flesh bulged out the collar of his camouflage jacket. He wore an absurdly small beret on his head and an ugly sneer on his face.

  “Siéntese.” The man gestured to the folding chair opposite him.

  The guard nudged him forward. Flores sat down.

  “What’s your name?” the obese man asked in English.

  Flores debated for a minute: name, rank and serial number were even permitted in the military. He only had one of those anymore anyway. “Flores. Enrique Flores.”

  “Hola, Señor Flores. I am General Gente. Are you thirsty?”

  Flores shrugged. He was, in fact, dying of thirst, but figured this might be their way of messing with him.

  Gente nodded to the guard, who brought over a Dixie cup filled with water. Flores used both bound hands to raise it to his lips. Clean water. It tasted unbelievably good. He drank it in one gulp and set the cup down on the desk, hoping they’d refill it.

  “So, Señor Flores,” the general said after watching him drink. “I understand you came here to rescue Señor Calderon.”

  Flores didn’t respond.

  “He already told me as much.” Gente waved a hand. “But did he tell you why he’s here?

  Apparently Flores wasn’t expected to hold up his end of the conversation, because Gente continued without pause. “You were a military man, like many in your line of work. That we have in common.” The folds of flesh surrounding his mouth shifted slightly as he attempted to grin. “I very much enjoyed my time in your country, Señor Flores. Best training in the world. One thing Americans have always understood is how to turn men into soldiers.”

  It was hard for Flores to picture Gente surviving basic training, never mind the grueling punishment undergone by elite units.

  “The thing about soldiers,” Gente continued, “is that they are instruments serving a larger purpose. You might have thought that, after leaving the military, your days as a pawn were over. You would be mistaken, my friend.”

  Chess again, Flores thought. What is it about chess in this place?

  “So you are probably unaware of our previous…arangement with Señor Calderon.”

  “Was it for a larger pen? Because if so, I have a complaint to lodge,” Flores said.

  Gente chuckled. “I appreciate a sense of humor. We don’t see it much with our guests.” He leaned forward, crossing his pudgy hands. “Señor Calderon came to us a few years ago with a proposal. He saw an opportunity for a mutually beneficial relationship.”

  Flores’s mind raced. The thought of Calderon colluding with this cartel was repugnant. He reminded himself that you could never trust an interrogator. They would say anything while attempting to extract information. Turning prisoners against each other was a time-honored tradition, one he’d been advised about during training. He hardened his features, opting to play along. “What kind of arrangement?”

  “There’s an inherent problem with your line of work, my friend.” Gente leaned back, causing his chair to creak in protest. “You rely on others’ misfortune. If people are not kidnapped, Señor Calderon has no opportunity to ride in and play hero, no? And if we kidnap someone without significant resources, well…” He held his hands palms up and grinned. “Hardly worth the effort, ve?”

  Flores shrugged, acknowledging the point.

  “So.” Gente’s eyes glinted as he said, “Señor Calderon shared a list of your clients. We were provided with names, schedules, security information. Once they became our guests, he negotiated their release and the insurance companies paid their ransom.” He jabbed the desk with his finger. “Señor Calderon was the savior who rescued them from evil kidnappers. His clients were relieved to have their employees returned unharmed, and we got paid. Everyone was happy. Entiende?”

  Everyone but the poor schlubs who spent months suffering in camps like this one, Flores thought. He had to admit, it made sense. Kidnappings had spiked in recent years—even in a bad economy, Tyr was doing well. It was one re
ason he’d joined up. At the enlistment meeting, they’d even given a little speech, bragging about being recession-proof. The cardinal rule of the K&R industry, the one they hammered home, was that client lists were sacred. If it was known that a business had taken out insurance, their employees obviously made more tempting targets for kidnappers. After all, a large insurance company could muster bigger ransoms than most individual families could afford. For that reason, security companies like Tyr never advertised their client list—even employees weren’t privy to them. If Calderon really had shared that information with a kidnapping cartel, he’d betrayed everything the business stood for. Not that he would have. It didn’t take a genius to see the obvious flaw in what the general was saying.

  “So why’d you kidnap him, if he was identifying targets for you?”

  “Señor Calderon betrayed us.” Gente’s features darkened. “A rival organization offered him a larger cut if he shared the list with them instead. He decided to take it.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Flores finally said.

  “Because if you’re planning to help him escape, I hope this would dissuade you.”

  “How could I escape?”

  Gente chortled. “Please, Señor Flores. I very much doubt there’s a camp that could hold you, should you set your mind to it. But be aware, you will have to travel many miles before you are out of our territory. And I will not take it kindly.”

  “Why didn’t you just kill us?” Flores asked. “If Calderon betrayed you, why bother keeping him alive?”

  “Because we’re hoping to reestablish a relationship with your company.”

  “I’m just a pawn, remember?” Flores said. “Not much I can do.”

  “I’m aware of that. I feel badly keeping you here. But you are now a bargaining tool. And, I hope, someone who can provide unique assistance. Should you agree to help us, I can have you across the border by this time tomorrow.”

  “Help you how?” Flores asked. The offer sounded too good to be true—which meant it was probably some sort of setup.

  A knock at the door. Gente appeared irritated by the interruption, but nodded for the guard to open it. Another man in fatigues poked his head in.

  “Han llegado, General.”

  Gente’s expression brightened. “So sorry, Señor Flores, this is a busy day.”

  Flores stood. “Thanks for the water.”

  Gente held up a hand. “Sit. We still have time to discuss what you can do to secure your freedom.”

  Seventeen

  Jake stripped off his pants and looked around for a place to hang them, finally draping them over the ancient TV in the corner. The cuffs dripped muddy water onto the matted green carpet. He was in another crappy motel room, nearly as bad as the last. Not that he cared: right now, all he wanted was to scrub off the dirt and get five solid hours of sleep. Although, after all he’d been through, the temptation to just drop into bed was overwhelming, shower be damned. From the look of things, the sheets had already seen their share of filth.

  Hours earlier they’d filed back into the jungle wrapped in silence, leaving Mark and Decker behind. As the shadows grew, they quickened their pace. Still, most of the way they were forced to stumble through the dark, afraid to use flashlights. Jake had never been so wet and muddy in his entire life.

  After making it back to the jeeps, they drove to a town ten miles down the road, an enclave filled with the sort of souvenir shops that sprouted like mushrooms near tourist attractions. Shabby taco stands and motels sporting a variety of pyramid motifs dotted the landscape. This time of year, there were few other cars. They had eaten in silence, the only customers in an open-air restaurant. As Jake choked down rice and beans, a dog wandered in and nonchalantly pissed on the leg of their table. Which pretty much summed up the entire experience for him so far.

  He was about to turn on the shower when there was a knock at the door. Jake wrapped a towel around his waist and opened it. Syd leaned against the doorjamb. She’d already changed, her blond hair was still wet.

  “I was just about to chip the mud off,” Jake said.

  She came in, closing the door behind her. “Want to borrow my chisel?”

  “Girls don’t have chisels. Even I know that,” Jake said.

  She grinned at him. “You’d be surprised.”

  Jake was suddenly hyperconscious of his nudity. He took a step back, gesturing to the only chair in the room. “Have a seat.”

  Syd eyed it. “That thing looks like it could walk on its own. No, thanks.”

  “So what’s up?” Jake asked. He was a little discomfited by the way she was looking at him, like a cat appraising a meal.

  “What’s that scar from?” she asked finally, pointing to his chest.

  “Mark, actually.” Jake looked down at the rough circle. “Shot me with a BB when I was twelve.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Yup. I told him he couldn’t aim for shit.” In spite of himself, Jake smiled a little at the memory. They’d been out squirrel hunting with their Christmas presents, matching BB guns. They both kept missing, goading each other about it. But Mark was the one with the temper.

  “So he shot you?”

  “What, he doesn’t seem the type?” Jake raised an eyebrow, and she laughed.

  “Ah, sibling rivalry.”

  “I don’t even know if you have any brothers or sisters,” Jake said. “You never talk about your family.”

  She stiffened almost imperceptibly before saying, “Nothing to tell.”

  “C’mon, let’s have it. You’ve seen my scar.”

  “We should try to come up with a plan.”

  “See? Whenever I ask, you change the subject.”

  “Why do you want to know?” Syd stepped closer. It was a small room. She was a foot away, the bed right behind him.

  “Just curious,” Jake said, suddenly overly aware of his breathing. He tried to force his mind back to Kelly, but she suddenly felt infinitely far away, more a memory than a reality.

  Syd reached out and ran a fingernail around the ridges of the scar, outlining it. Her gaze never left his face. His body responded to her touch. Jake readjusted the towel and edged back until the hem of the comforter brushed his heels.

  Syd half smiled. Her hand was still on him. She trailed her fingers down his chest. Jake sucked in his breath as they grazed his belly button and kept going.

  “It’s a bad idea.”

  “That’s what you said back in Livermore,” she reminded him, stepping closer. “Only then, you were more convincing.” One deft tug and his towel fell to the floor. Both of her hands were on him now. He tried to object as she sank to her knees, but as she took him in her mouth his head dropped back.

  “Oh, God,” was all he could manage.

  Her tongue was all over, teasing him. He fell into the rhythm, her hands running up and down his legs, setting the small hairs on end.

  He was getting close when something started beeping. Syd pulled her head away.

  “That’s the radio,” she said, getting up.

  “Leave it.” Jake put his hands on her shoulders, but she resisted. She kept her body close to him, rubbing her breasts against his chest as she dug the radio out of her pocket.

  Mark’s voice crackled through. “We’ve got some intel for you. I can transmit it.”

  “Great,” she said. “The satellite uplink is open. Send what you’ve got.”

  “Roger. Check back when you’ve read it.”

  Syd set the radio down on the table and turned back to Jake.

  He had retrieved the towel and wrapped it back around his waist. “So, uh…you should probably…”

  Syd was unbuttoning her shirt. “Oh, we’ve got time. At least ten minutes until the transmission comes through. The satellite reception here is for shit.” The shirt slipped to the floor.

  “Syd—”

  “I know, you’re engaged.” She unzipped her pants, and they dropped next to her shirt. She approached slowl
y, wearing only light blue panties. “If you want me to stop, I will.”

  She put both hands on his chest and pushed. Jake fell back onto the bed. As she mounted him, she nuzzled his ear and whispered, “You’re already dirty, so we might as well have some fun.”

  FEBRUARY 1

  Eighteen

  Kelly winced as she slipped again. She shone the flashlight on her elbow: blood. Crap. She panned the light around the ground until she found a relatively clean area to set down her backpack. It took a minute of digging through it to find the first-aid kit. She had to give Syd credit: the woman knew how to pack a go-kit. Inside Kelly had also found a flashlight, duct tape, a thin rope, energy bars and water. Sadly nothing she could cover her nose with. Even after five hours of exposure, the stench was relentless and unremitting. It felt like all manner of terrible creatures had crawled inside her nose and set up camp.

  Kelly rolled up her sleeve, wincing as the fabric peeled away from the cut. She doused the wound with antiseptic, figuring this was an ideal place to catch a staph infection. Kelly bandaged the cut as best she could one-handed and pulled the sleeve back down, then drew in a deep breath. She’d have to be more careful. Fatigue affected her more since the accident. Her coordination went right out the window when she didn’t get enough sleep. And tonight was definitely one of those nights.

  Kelly had concluded that this must be the main dump for Mexico City. The bookseller hadn’t been kidding, it was sprawling. In places the refuse was stacked several stories high. It was like walking through a garbage version of Manhattan. She picked her way through carefully, grateful that she still wore the combat boots Syd had given her. They were ugly, but perfect for navigating this mess. The air was so torpid with rot it was hard to breathe.

  It was nearly dawn. Kelly had been searching for hours without encountering any sign of Stefan. She had come across dozens of rats, cats, a few feral dogs that forced her to skirt around, waving her flashlight menacingly as they growled at her. Most upsetting had been the realization that people actually lived here. When the bookseller mentioned pepenadores, she wasn’t sure what he meant. But less than an hour into her search she’d spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. Kelly swung around, gun ready. Her flashlight revealed a child of no more than ten rummaging through the piles of trash. He held up a hand against the glare, then scampered away. She followed him with the beam as he disappeared into a stack of rusted metal. Kelly cautiously approached, then shone the light inside. Five sets of eyes stared back at her, all wide with fright.