Kidnap & Ransom Page 2

  Riley barked, “Don’t move!” He edged in again, ripped off the duct tape. “Where are the hostiles?”

  A slow smile crept across the guy’s face. At the sight of it, Riley went cold. “Behind you, amigo,” the man said.

  Riley spun. On the other side of the entryway, five men had assault rifles fixed on him and Jordan.

  “Fuck,” Jordan muttered.

  Riley debated for a second, tightening his grip on his weapon. One handgun against enough firepower to take out a village—he didn’t like his odds. Still, he’d faced worse.

  “Don’t be a fool, señor,” the man continued. “We have your other men. Surrender and they all survive.”

  Slowly Riley lowered his weapon. The guy’s wrist bonds must have been faked, for he was suddenly at Riley’s side, yanking the handgun from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, Riley linked his hands behind his head. Gunshots, right by his ear. He whirled around in time to see Jordan’s body collapsing to the floor. The bastard was standing over him, grinning.

  “Lo siento,” he said casually. “You brought too many.”

  “Fuck you,” Riley spat, unable to contain his rage.

  The guy ignored him, barking orders to his men. The hood he’d just pulled off was tugged over Riley’s face. It was difficult to breathe through the thick fabric. His hands were zip tied behind him. They pushed and prodded him down the hall. Riley considered yelling, but knew they were in Zetas-friendly territory; there was little chance any locals would come to the rescue. In this town, it was hard enough to gauge whose side the police were on.

  He stumbled a few times on the stairs. Hit a landing and heard a door clank against the wall. They must be leaving through the same service exit his team had used to enter the building. The sound of an engine running, and Riley was suddenly sent flying forward. He smacked his head against something hard. Hands shoved him against the far wall into a sitting position. Other people crashed into him, muttering curses. An engine roared, and the vehicle they’d been loaded into peeled away from the curb.

  Riley swayed, bracing his feet hard against the floor to stay upright. It felt like a van—probably the one they’d requisitioned for their own getaway. He wondered how many of his men had survived, and what was going to happen to them. Most of all he wondered why the hell any of them were still alive. Clearly they’d walked into a trap—someone knew they were coming. Riley resolved right then and there to find out who. And if he managed to come through this in one piece, he fully intended to hunt them down and kill them.

  JANUARY 29

  Three

  Kelly Jones relaxed. The water surrounding her was warm, womblike. She let herself drift as images flashed across her mind’s eye. Agent Leonard barking a command as he ran alongside her, before vanishing in a flash of light and heat. Her former partner, Rodriguez, laughing at his own jokes. Her family, all together again, making pancakes. And finally Jake Riley, the man she had promised to marry. She was focusing on his easy grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, when a voice jolted her back to the present.

  “That’s not bad. Now raise and lower it one more time.”

  Kelly opened her eyes. She was floating on her back. The ceiling above the pool danced with the shadows of ripples. From this distance it almost appeared alive, like some great writhing beast. She gritted her teeth and tried to do what she was told, focusing on her right leg, forcing it to resist the hand pressing against her quad. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead and into the water.

  “Not bad. But try to raise it all the way up.”

  “It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stopped pushing it down,” Kelly muttered, teeth clenched.

  “Sure would, but that’s not my job. Remember our goal?”

  Kelly had disliked the physical therapist on sight, and her chirpy voice with the irritating habit of emphasizing every other word had only become more grating over time. Still, she was supposed to be the best in her field. And to get back on active duty, Kelly would tolerate almost anything. Even a she-devil named Brandi.

  “One more time and we’re done.”

  “That’s what you said before the last one,” Kelly protested.

  Brandi shrugged. “I lied. C’mon, you can do it!”

  Kelly closed her eyes again. She strained hard, clenching her leg muscles and gluts. There was a splash: her stump had broken the surface of the water. She let her head drop back down, still unaccustomed to the sight of it. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Brandi exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “All right, now you’re done. See you on Thursday.”

  “I thought we could meet tomorrow instead,” Kelly said. She hated the pleading tone in her voice, but she needed this. The more PT she did, the faster she’d be able to get back to work. Seven months off and she was climbing the walls. At this point it felt like another few weeks would kill her. And the only person who could clear her for active duty was standing in front of her, ponytail pointing straight up like an exclamation point, glossy pink lips pressed firmly together.

  “Now, Kelly.” Brandi shook her head disapprovingly. “Remember our chat about recovery time?”

  “I’m never sore the next day anymore,” Kelly protested.

  Brandi’s expression didn’t soften. “No way, missy. I will see you on Thursday.” She leaned in. “But if you like, I’ll sneak in an extra half hour.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She watched Brandi swim fluidly over to the ladder. The pool wasn’t kept locked, she reasoned. There was nothing to keep her from sneaking in tomorrow to do the exercises herself.

  As if reading her thoughts, Brandi called back over her shoulder, “And don’t even think about coming in here alone. I’ll have Ray at the front desk buzz me if you do.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kelly sighed.

  “Sure you wouldn’t. See ya!”

  Kelly watched Brandi bounce toward the locker room. What she’d give for her sidearm at a time like this. Not that she’d actually shoot the girl, but the thought of scaring the smug grin off her face was tempting. Of course, then Kelly could definitely kiss her job goodbye.

  With a deep sigh Kelly dived, kicking hard with her good leg and digging her right arm in deep with each stroke to keep moving in a straight line. Reaching the side of the pool she gripped the ledge hard, using her triceps to haul herself out of the water. Her upper body was strong, more defined than it had been before the accident, thanks to months in a wheelchair. She flipped herself around so that she was sitting, then drew her left leg out of the water and used it to push herself back. Kelly kept her eyes averted as she reached for a towel.

  Thanks to a grenade explosion, her right leg now ended just below the knee. It happened on her last case, back in July. Kelly had been chasing a skinhead who was determined to blow up a dirty bomb at the U.S./Mexico border. They’d managed to stop him, but at the last minute he pulled the trigger on a grenade. Four FBI agents had been killed instantly, including Agent Leonard. Another agent had suffered serious injuries, but pulled through. He was back on active duty already. Sometimes it was hard for Kelly not to resent him.

  She’d been running away from the truck when the explosion occurred, which probably saved her life. Unfortunately a chunk of metal landed on her leg, crushing it, and she’d sustained internal injuries. The doctor claimed she was lucky to have come out of the coma, plus they’d been able to save most of her leg. Kelly dried herself off, then snapped on her prosthetic. Without the skin-toned polyurethane foam cover, the carbon fiber pylon that substituted for her lower leg made her look like a cyborg. Lucky was not the first word that came to mind.

  As Kelly made her way to the locker room, fighting the limp that took over when her muscles were tired, she focused on the floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone she passed. Everywhere but here she was able to keep the damage out of sight. She’d thrown away every skirt, dress, and pair of shorts she owned. She even wore sweatpants to bed now, removing the pr
osthetic under the covers when the lights were off.

  She flashed back on Jake. He’d been the portrait of compassion, staying by her bedside during the entire healing process, then having his apartment reconfigured to suit her new needs. He’d even offered to support her financially if the FBI refused to put her back in the field. The problem was, he’d become such a good nursemaid that sometimes it seemed like that was all they were anymore, and she hated feeling like a patient. Occasionally Kelly caught him looking at her with pity, but when she confronted him, he always protested that his feelings for her hadn’t changed.

  And yet, he’d barely touched her since the accident. Not that she blamed him. If she couldn’t stand looking at herself, how could she expect anyone else to feel differently?

  In the locker room Kelly dressed quickly. The showers here were public, so she always waited to wash off at home. She tugged a scarf around her neck as she pushed through the door to the street, instantly swept up by the mass of people swarming Fifth Avenue. The physical therapy center was located on a tiny block in Midtown, across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Christmas had come and gone, holiday cheer vanishing along with the fancy window displays. After a week of steady sleet the streets were a mess, puddles of filthy, freezing brown water pooled along the curbs. Everyone pushing past Kelly looked as miserable as she felt, shoulders hunched against the cold, bundled up so that only their eyes were visible. Because of that, it took a minute to recognize the woman grabbing her elbow.

  “Kelly? God, I can’t believe it’s you!”

  “Monica?” For a second Kelly experienced one of those surreal moments where she thought she might be dreaming. She’d worked a case with Monica Lauer the summer before last, a nasty one where dueling serial killers squared off in the Berkshires. She hadn’t seen her since. “What are you doing here?”

  “I should ask you the same thing. Wait, don’t tell me. You married that gorgeous man of yours and live here now.”

  “Kind of. Well, no, not married, but…we’re living together. And engaged.”

  “Well, good for you.” Monica pulled off a glove and waved her left hand at Kelly. “Just took the plunge myself. Howie and me meet up here, since it’s about halfway between Bennington and D.C.”

  “You married Howie?” Kelly said. The brash lieutenant and the forensic anthropologist were the definition of an odd couple. But then, maybe that’s why it worked.

  “Yep. He was so great all through Zach’s recovery.” A flash of pain crossed Monica’s face. She waved it away. “Anyway, a guy like that you gotta lock down, know what I mean?”

  “Sure. How is Zach?” While they were working together Monica’s son had sustained serious injuries, almost becoming the final victim in the case. Kelly suddenly felt badly about falling out of touch. The last time she’d contacted Monica was over a year ago, by email. Of course, at least for the last seven months she had a decent excuse.

  “Better. Not a hundred percent yet, but he’s taking classes at the community college. His short-term memory is still a little ragged, but…” Monica shrugged. “He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

  “Right.” Kelly cleared her throat, thinking that was an easy sentiment to express when you hadn’t faced the alternative. “Anyway, I should—”

  “Oh my gosh, I must be keeping you from something. But listen, I’d love to grab coffee sometime. I leave tomorrow, and Howie and I have dinner plans tonight, but maybe the next time I’m in town? I come down every few weeks.”

  “Yeah, sure. That sounds great,” Kelly responded mechanically. She dutifully entered Monica’s mobile number in her phone, knowing full well that she’d never call it, and that any messages Monica left would go unanswered.

  “All righty, then. Great seeing you, Kelly. Can’t wait to sit down and have a real chat!”

  Kelly watched Monica vanish back into the throng. It was nearly dusk and rush hour was about to start in earnest. She’d have to hurry if she didn’t want to end up standing in the subway car the entire ride home.

  Before tucking her cell phone back in her purse, she reflexively checked the call log. Nothing today. Jake was out of town on business, but he usually called by now. She considered dialing, but a hard shove from behind almost sent her flying. Kelly gritted her teeth and put the phone away. All she wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine and a Vicodin. Everything else could wait.

  Jake Riley kept his eyes closed, listening to the bustle outside the door. If he concentrated he could distinguish voices, individual conversations. Someone at the water cooler was complaining about stalled negotiations in Colombia. Another voice was speaking Russian, a one-sided conversation over the phone. From down the hall, the distinctive sound of coffee brewing, accompanied by loud laughter. Above all that he registered stiletto heels clicking toward him. That gait he’d recognize anywhere.

  He opened his eyes just as the door to his office was thrown open.

  “Where are we on the Stanislav case?” Syd asked.

  “Hello, Syd. Nice to see you, too.”

  Syd Clement shut the door behind her, crossed the room and plopped down in the chair facing him. She eased her feet out of her heels and propped them up on the desk, inches from his own. At this distance, he could almost feel the heat coming off her stocking feet. He caught himself examining her perfect toes.

  “The Stanislav case?” she prodded.

  “Dubkova is handling it. He thinks one more week, max.”

  “Yeah? Dubkova’s an idiot.” Syd’s toes tapped the air impatiently.

  “Syd, he’s been a rock star for us so far. Three successful negotiations, no casualties.”

  “Those were in Russia. The Ukraine is a whole other beast. I know the Ukraine.”

  Jake repressed a sigh. This pattern had become all too familiar. A month or so stateside and Syd got antsy. He’d already had to stop her from intervening in two other active cases that, in her opinion, were taking too long to resolve. What she failed to grasp was that in the private sector, patience and diplomacy usually produced better outcomes than strong-arm tactics. Syd was always a fan of the more forceful approach. Jake weighed his words before speaking. “I think Dubkova deserves another week. The kidnappers are starting to cave. He’s already talked them down another million. One more and we’re in the range that Centaur is willing to pay.”

  “Fine. But if they don’t come down in a week, we send in a team.”

  “Sure,” Jake agreed, knowing full well that by the end of the day Dubkova intended to have the ransom terms decided, which rendered the entire debate moot. And the prospect of an operation was guaranteed to preoccupy Syd until then.

  The company they had co-founded a little more than a year earlier, The Longhorn Group, had taken off in leaps and bounds. They specialized in Kidnap and Ransom cases. Insurance companies that issued K&R insurance kept them on retainer.

  Last July they had been the only two in the office. Now there were more than thirty full-time employees on payroll. When one of their clients was kidnapped they mobilized a team to respond, including specialists who coached the families on the negotiation process, and bodyguards to provide protection in case the kidnappers tried to snatch more victims. And if the negotiations fell apart, or the kidnappers became too volatile, The Longhorn Group sent in a recovery team comprised former Special Forces operatives. Their success rate thus far had been impressive: more than forty cases handled in less than a year. Most of the hostages were ransomed out at a price the insurance company was willing to pay. In ten cases they’d been forced to send in units to recover the hostage. Only one case had gone south, thanks to a trigger-happy kidnapper. That one still haunted Jake, but in the grand scheme of things, The Longhorn Group’s record couldn’t be better.

  Of course, part of the boom could be attributed to the explosion in kidnappings worldwide. From the waters off the coast of Somalia to beach resorts in the Philippines to the sleepy streets of Silicon Valley, nowhere was completely safe anymore. In the
past year they’d handled cases in Colombia, Guatemala, Italy, Spain, the United States and, increasingly, Russia, where kidnappings were becoming as ubiquitous as those nesting dolls hawked as souvenirs. There were rumors that in the recent elections, one party’s entire campaign was financed by ransom money.

  Most people were unaware of what a successful ransom negotiation required, especially when an insurance company was involved. The kidnappers invariably made exorbitant demands, either financial or otherwise, in the first stages of negotiation. A frantic family, desperate to see their loved one released, would try to meet those demands. The problem was that paying the full ransom almost guaranteed that the same victim or another family member would be targeted in the future. In the mid-90s, a Hong Kong billionaire was snatched. His family paid the $10 million dollar ransom without any negotiation. A few years later, he was taken again, and this time the kidnappers wanted double the amount. Even though that ransom was also paid, the businessman was killed.

  A seasoned hostage negotiator described it to Jake as roughly equivalent to buying a rug in a Moroccan bazaar. The kidnappers initially wanted something outrageous. A negotiator’s job was to bargain them down, convincing them that the family didn’t have that kind of money available, the insurance company refused to pay that much or that what they were asking for was simply impossible if it involved something like the release of political prisoners. A great negotiator wore the kidnappers down, until both parties agreed on an acceptable ransom. And with luck, the time and trouble involved meant that the hostage would be safe from future targeting.

  Of course, the fact that human lives were at stake made the game more challenging. Walking away was simply not an option, although going in for a snatch and grab was. Which was why The Longhorn Group employed both highly trained negotiators and commandos. Always good to cover your bases.

  “So. What else is on the docket?” Syd said.