Kidnap & Ransom Page 14

  “Lo siento,” Kelly had said, backing away as she lowered her weapon.

  They had only been the first of many. Apparently a significant portion of the city’s population couldn’t even afford the run-down housing she’d seen over the past two days. As she navigated the dank corridors among the trash mounds, she became adept at spotting ramshackle shanties cobbled together. Snores or arguments issued from a few. Others appeared empty, but she could sense the presence of people inside. People who were probably as afraid as she was, clutching something to defend themselves with. Stefan was undoubtedly not the first predator to stalk this ground. The few denizens who materialized at the shanty entrances gaped at her. She’d never felt more out of place.

  Kelly got back to her feet, weaving slightly. She was exhausted, starving and filthy. What was she doing? She didn’t even speak enough Spanish to ask anyone she encountered about Stefan. He could be fast asleep in one of the shanties she’d already passed by, and she’d never know it. She should go back to the motel, or to the airport. She could call her old boss at the FBI, try to persuade him to send a team of investigators. But the only new lead she had was slim at best, and the P.I.’s report had been ignored before. Unless she came up with something solid, chances were the FBI wouldn’t act. Better if she could give them an exact location, something to work off of. And for that, she had to stay the course. She moved forward.

  Kelly tripped again, nearly landing on the jagged top of a rusty can. One thing was certain: Mexico City was not a recycling mecca.

  A strange noise broke the silence. Kelly froze, straining her ears. It repeated, faintly. There was no mistaking it, someone was screaming. With renewed energy, she made her way toward the sound.

  Mark settled into his bivy sack and closed his eyes. He hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours, but couldn’t manage to drop off. He shifted, careful not to make any noise. He and Decker had ensconced themselves in the nook of a cliff. It was the perfect spot, ground cover rendering it invisible from above and below. The only danger was rolling off. They’d each tied a hand to a root jutting out from the dirt beside them. Chances are it wouldn’t hold them, but at least if they started to roll the arm tug would wake them. And hopefully no more guards with bladder problems would stumble past.

  Decker had crashed out almost immediately. That was something they were conditioned to do: given a safe opportunity during a mission, grab some shut-eye. It could literally save your life, and was a hell of a lot more effective than pills at keeping your brain sharp. Not that Mark hadn’t gone the pill route on occasion; they all had. But given a choice, he preferred sleep.

  Tonight it eluded him. They’d spent the hours since dusk casing the camp, making the most of the cover of darkness. As Mark gazed at the swaying trees above him, intertwined branches forming a dark ceiling, he reflected back on what they’d seen.

  None of it had been good.

  They hadn’t been able to locate any of their men, including Calderon. The camp covered over a square mile by his estimation and was cleverly constructed in two parts, an outer circle surrounding an inner one. The outer circle was penetrable, surrounded by a low chain link fence. The problem was that it was composed entirely of guard barracks and training grounds. Apparently this was where the Zetas trained and stationed the bulk of their forces. Even at two in the morning there had been active patrols, two men each and no more than three minutes between each pass. If that wasn’t enough security, every hundred feet there was a guard tower, complete with generator-fed lights and sirens.

  So to access the prisoners’ holding pens, you had to infiltrate that outer circle, getting past the guards and patrols. It wasn’t impossible: he’d already gone back and stripped the fatigues off their kills, just in case they ended up needing them. But both he and Decker would stick out like sore thumbs in there. If Flores was still with them, he would have had a shot posing as a guard. As things stood, however, there was no way.

  They’d also witnessed something that turned out to be a drill. The siren that had sent Syd and the others scurrying away had summoned hundreds of guards armed with automatic weapons. Each took a position outside a pen, gun ready. Mark’s guess was that if a competing cartel or police force actually did raid the camp, orders were to shoot the prisoners. The guards stood there for a full five minutes before the siren issued a staggered series of bleats, obviously the all clear.

  So a small force was no good, and a small army would be even worse. He’d sent the intel to Syd, hoping she’d come up with something. Because based on what he’d seen, there was no way in hell they were getting anyone out of there.

  After everything that had happened, he felt personally responsible for Flores and Sock. The prospect of being forced to abandon them rankled him.

  Mark shifted onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to find sleep, but his mind continued to race. He should have been more insistent about sending Jake home. It had been a conscious decision, going to work for Tyr rather than The Longhorn Group. He knew that if Jake ever got wind of it he’d be pissed, but figured that was a small price to pay. Despite what Jake thought, it hadn’t been a decision he arrived at lightly, or out of revenge. This line of work, bad things happened. Mark never wanted to leave his blood on his brother’s hands. Which made him showing up here even worse.

  Decker snored slightly, and Mark dug an elbow into his back. The noise subsided. Decker grumbled once, then the snoring recommenced. Mark watched a line of ants give them a wide berth. They balanced leaf cuttings above their heads as they marched along the cliff edge, then vanished over the side. He closed his eyes again and prayed for Syd to come up with a plan.

  Michael Maltz shifted in his chair. Holding any position for too long hurt, it didn’t matter if he was standing, sitting, or lying down. All night long he awoke every hour or so, the pressure from even the softest mattress felt like spikes against his damaged joints.

  He watched as Jake and Syd pored over the sheets of paper spread across the table. It was nearly 0400. Based on the intel from Mark Riley, Syd had scrawled out some diagrams, enlargements of images Mark emailed her: primitive maps of the compound, a rough sketch of guard stations, the works. Didn’t matter, Maltz thought. He’d spent the bulk of his career doing this sort of snatch-and-grab operation. It was what he was trained for, what he was best at. And he’d been doing it long enough to recognize an impossible situation when he saw one. The camp might as well be Fort Knox. They weren’t getting in there without cluster bombs, drones, the works. Anything less would turn into the Alamo.

  Syd and Jake weren’t ready to admit that yet, although he could tell they saw it. They’d spent the past half hour arguing, hashing out details of one plan after another. Each was ultimately rejected as unfeasible.

  Syd leaned over to examine a drawing on the far side of the table, her hip brushing Jake’s. Riley jumped like he’d been shocked, and Maltz thought, huh. Not that it was surprising. Syd tended to get what she wanted, and she’d wanted Riley for a while. Maltz didn’t really get why. Riley was a decent enough guy, but Syd could do better. Had done better, that he’d seen. But then, he’d never been accused of understanding women.

  Shame about the fiancée, though. She seemed nice enough.

  “We could try a variation on Operation Jaque,” Jake said.

  Syd tilted her head to the side, thinking it over. Jaque was an operation led by the Colombian army a few years earlier. A relatively small unit had successfully rescued three U.S. contractors and a slew of high-ranking Colombian officials by posing as humanitarians. They choppered them right the hell out of there. But that had been an ad hoc camp, run by a bunch of kids with visions of Che Guevara in their heads. “I don’t think the Zetas give a crap about their prisoners’ well-being,” she said. “And they’re supposed to be a hell of a lot smarter than the FARC.”

  Maltz pushed off the arms of the chair, lumbering to his feet. “We get hold of some C4, punch a hole in the perimeter here.” He
jabbed at the map. “And here, and here. Then we have a few guys in uniform infiltrate.”

  “Won’t work.” Jake was already shaking his head. “Mark said they line up to shoot prisoners if there’s any sign of trouble.”

  “Then we just need better intel. You know where your guys are, you get to them first.”

  “And what about the other prisoners? We’re just going to let them be massacred?”

  Maltz shrugged. “You see another option?”

  “Either way, we need Riley and Decker to get the exact coordinates of the friendlies.” Syd brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes as she bent over again. Maltz caught Jake watching her, and flashed him a broad grin. Jake flushed and looked away. “Mark said he’d try to get closer today. Not much we can do until then except gear up. Maltz, I’m sending you and Kane back into town to scare up some more firepower. Pablo should be able to spare a few M203 grenade launchers. Try to get a Barrett fifty sniper rifle, too.”

  “Gotcha. Anything else?”

  Syd thought for a second, lips pursed. “Would a helicopter be too much to ask?”

  “Probably. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “If not, then an up-armored Hilux—something big.”

  “Sure.” Maltz left. He felt someone at his heels, and turned to find Jake following him from the room, as if the guy was scared to be left alone with Syd. Maltz had to smile at that. Wise man.

  “I want to thank you for staying.” Jake fell in step beside him as he walked back toward his room. “You and the other guys didn’t have to.”

  “Not a problem,” Maltz said. “Anything for Syd.”

  “Still, thanks.” He fell silent. Maltz stopped outside his door and waited. “The thing is,” Jake continued, “I can’t see any way for this to work.”

  “That’s ’cause it can’t,” Maltz said.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Jake looked past him, toward the neon sign mounted in front of the motel that featured a constantly erupting volcano. “My brother’s going to get himself killed.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Mark. Guys like him can handle themselves.” Maltz turned the knob and flicked on the light in his room. “I gotta wake Kane. Hold tight until we get back.”

  Cesar Calderon awoke to something sharp pressed against his throat. He opened his mouth to yell, but fingers clamped down, stifling him before he could make a sound.

  “Relax, señor.”

  It was Flores, his new cell mate and, apparently, employee. Calderon shut his eyes and sighed. The minute they’d reopened the gate last night, ushering Flores back in after his meeting with Gente, he’d known it would come to this. There had been something different about the young man’s expression, a hardened look. They’d made him an offer, and he’d accepted.

  “Gente wants you to kill me,” Calderon said.

  The pressure on his throat eased. He could make out Flores’s silhouette against the chicken-wire ceiling. He didn’t respond.

  “Please make it quick.” Calderon grabbed Flores’s wrist to draw the knife closer.

  “Why would I kill you?” Flores asked after a pause.

  “Because they’ll release you. I don’t blame you. If the situation was reversed, I’d do the same. But I’d prefer not to suffer if possible.”

  Calderon closed his eyes again, determined not to see death coming. He uttered a silent prayer, pictured his wife, Thalia, and felt a pang of sorrow. He should have given her children. He wondered if notification would be immediate, or would months pass before the news reached her? Hard to say how the Zetas would play this. He used to consider himself an expert on his opponent. That had been his gift, sizing up the man on the other side of the phone line, discerning when he was bluffing, the best time to make an offer. Now, when it mattered most, he appeared to have lost that particular skill.

  A trickle of blood down the side of his neck distracted him. His breath came in shallow gasps.

  “My wife is pregnant,” Flores finally said softly.

  “Felicitaciones.” Calderon swallowed hard. “There is no other option for you, then. You must return to her.”

  Still, the young man waited. Calderon frowned. Better to have his throat slit in his sleep than to suffer through this. “They will kill you if you do not complete the task,” he finally said. “I know Gente. He is as good as his word.”

  “How do you know him?”

  The question was sharp, accusing. Calderon half smiled at the vehemence of it. “Let me guess. Gente told you we were collaborating.”

  “Do the other prisoners know? How many are here because of you?” Flores spat.

  Calderon sighed. “They’re supposed to cover this in our training. A seasoned kidnapper will say anything to get you to help them.”

  A pause, then Flores replied, “He could have just threatened me with death.”

  “Yes, but this gives you an opportunity to absolve your conscience. If what he said was true, and you believed it, you would feel justified killing me, wouldn’t you? Especially since I’m the only reason you’re here.”

  “I guess so.” Flores sounded uncertain, but still wary. A roving spotlight caught the tip of the knife, making it glint. It was the one he’d used to whittle his chess pieces. Clever.

  Calderon’s lips tweaked. Strange that he could smile in such a situation, but there it was. It was fitting that he was about to be murdered by an employee wielding his own tool against him, the knife he had gone to such great lengths to procure.

  “What were you thinking, anyway, taking a business trip to Mexico? A guy like you has a bull’s-eye on him.”

  “So I should just stay home? How long have you been working for us, Enrique?”

  “Six months.”

  “Then you’ve met some of the other men, heard about the jobs they were working. Europe. North Africa. The former Soviet bloc nations. South America. Silicon Valley. East Asia. Where could I travel without risk of being kidnapped?”

  “Nowhere, I guess.”

  “Exactly. I took the appropriate precautions, but as you yourself learned,” he said pointedly, “Los Zetas are far better trained than some of our other adversaries.”

  “And here you are.”

  “Yes. Here I am.” Calderon sighed.

  After a long pause, Flores spoke again. “They told me you cut a deal for more money with a competing cartel.”

  “Did they? Well. That would have been clever of me.” Calderon folded his legs and clasped his wrists around his shins. “So, what now? You kill me, and they set you free?”

  “Something like that.” Flores twisted his wrist, sending the knife in a slow arc. “What I can’t figure out is why they want me to do it. They could shoot you themselves.”

  Calderon half smiled. “You’re not the only one Gente offered a deal. When he called me in, he proposed forming a collaboration with Tyr for client lists and information. If I refused, he’d kill me. That’s why there haven’t been any negotiations, no proof of life. If I agreed, he said they’d make it appear as if I escaped on my own.”

  “What did you say?”

  “No, of course. Such a deal would compromise everything I’ve built Tyr to stand for.” Calderon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. This was taking too long, dawn was breaking. “We must come up with a plan.”

  Flores scoffed. “What, other than killing you?”

  “Clearly you’re not going to be able to do it, amigo. Soldiers these days…” Calderon shook his head. “They can bomb a village to oblivion, but are unable to kill a man face-to-face. That’s what happens when warfare is conducted at a remove. But if you don’t complete the task, we both have a problem.”

  Flores lowered the knife. “Fine,” he said after a minute. “What do we do?”

  “General Gente is first and foremost a businessman,” Calderon said. “I’ll request a meeting to tell him I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You seriously think that will change anything? That he’ll just let us go free?�
�

  “No, but it buys us some time. Hopefully enough for you to get us out of here.”

  Nineteen

  Kelly skirted mounds of trash the size of large hills. She paused frequently, shifting course a few times as she tried to pinpoint the source of the screams. They had increased in volume, then abruptly abated. The last had been a few minutes ago.

  The first rays of dawn were breaking over the dump, casting everything in an oddly ethereal glow. Kelly spun slowly, trying to get her bearings. She was relatively certain the screams were coming from the west. She had the disconcerting realization that she had no idea how to get out of this maze, but shoved it away: she’d figure that out later. Now, she had to find Stefan—if it even was him, and not some other thug trolling the dump for victims. In a place like this, crime was probably a way of life. If the federales didn’t respond quickly to an incident like their shootout in Iztapalapa the other day, it was hard to imagine they’d police the city dump. All the more reason to be careful, she reminded herself.

  Kelly switched her grip on the H&K. Her fingers ached, but she didn’t dare holster it. She pivoted in a slow circle. The silence was broken by a fluttering of wings: vultures, soaring past above her. She repressed a shiver. The morning air was damp, and she was only wearing a thin Gore-Tex shell over her T-shirt.