Kidnap & Ransom Read online

  “Thanks for getting us out of there,” Mark said. “Now we gotta get back to our friend.”

  “I didn’t hear about any Americans getting kidnapped recently.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you don’t look like turistas.”

  Decker was tearing open the packaging for the phone they’d taken from the store. He squinted at the instructions. “Do I need a code or something for this thing?”

  “It only works if it’s activated at the register.”

  “Crap,” Decker said.

  The girl drew a cell phone out of her jacket pocket and tossed it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Isabela Garcia,” she said. “Who are you calling?”

  “A friend.”

  Mark waved him over, keeping an eye on Isabela. “I don’t think we should call Tyr,” he said in a low voice.

  “Why not?” Decker’s brow furrowed.

  “Because there’s a leak. The mission went south because someone set us up. Until we know who, I don’t trust the organization.”

  “Then how the hell do we get out of here?” Decker asked dubiously.

  “We call my brother,” Mark said. “He’s got his own K&R firm, he can help.” He didn’t add that they hadn’t spoken in years. Jake could be a jerk sometimes, but in a situation like this he’d put his personal feelings aside. At least, Mark was hoping he would.

  “All right.” Decker handed him the phone. He jerked his head toward Isabela. “What do we do with her?”

  “We wish her the best and send her home.”

  He started to dial, but was interrupted by Isabela. Arms crossed over her chest, she said, “You’re here for Cesar Calderon, aren’t you?”

  The room erupted in smoke and blinding lights. Flores squeezed his eyes shut. His ears rang, which he took as a good sign. A real grenade would have separated them from his head. A flashbang, then. Thank God for small favors.

  Shouts all around him. Flores squinted to see through the tears streaming down his face. Latino men in a motley assortment of camouflage streamed through the door, bandannas tied over their mouths. They were brandishing automatic weapons. He groaned—déjà vu all over again.

  Sock was facing the wall. He’d dropped the gun and crossed his hands behind his head. One of the guys kicked his knees in from behind, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Sock replied in a low voice. The man glanced up, saw Flores watching. He walked over, swinging his gun back as if it were a bat.

  A thousand stars exploded in Flores’s head as the butt of it made contact with his skull.

  “What now?” Jake asked.

  They’d emerged on the outskirts of Iztapalapa, in a neighborhood labeled San Miguel Teotongo on the map. The blood trail they’d been following had petered out on the other side of the tree line. Either Mark’s team had made more of an effort to cover their tracks, or somehow they’d managed to stem the bleeding. There was a third option, that whoever had been spilling so much blood was abandoned, but knowing his brother Jake doubted it. One thing Mark had always taken seriously was the precept to leave no man behind. Syd had someone in her network checking local hospitals just in case.

  They were back to square one.

  “Maybe they already made contact with Tyr,” Jake said. “We could call them directly and ask.”

  “I doubt they’d tell us anything,” Syd snorted. “Besides, my guy there said he’d call if anything changed. And I haven’t heard from him yet.”

  “We could canvass the area,” Fribush said.

  “And what, ask if anyone saw a bunch of injured Americans stumbling around?” Syd shook her head. “We stay out here, we risk running into the Zetas looking for them. We need to regroup.”

  “If one of them is bleeding, they’d start by trying to patch him up,” Jake said thoughtfully. “We could scope out the pharmacies.”

  “Good.” Syd spun on her heels. “Let’s get back to the cars.”

  Maltz had reported their position via radio a few minutes before. Syd led the four of them through a dusty lot and around an adobe building that was in the process of melting back into the earth. She stopped short, and Jake nearly crashed into her.

  “Christ, Syd,” he grumbled. Then he saw what had stopped her. Kelly and Maltz were next to one of their cars, hands on their heads. They were surrounded by more than a dozen men bearing automatic weapons.

  Syd reacted before he did, an H&K materializing in her hands. She shoved Jake back, ducking down beside the building. Kane, Fribush and Jagerson followed her lead, guns ready. Jake fumbled with the Glock tucked in his ankle holster.

  “You think they saw us?” he asked.

  As if in response, a spray of bullets sent chunks of masonry jumping off the building a few feet away. Jake scrambled back. Kelly yelled something, and his jaw clenched. If they were hurting her…

  “Zetas?” Syd asked.

  “Couldn’t tell.” Jake grunted.

  “Kane, you and Jagerson circle around. Fribush, see if you can get up high, find a nest to snipe from.”

  “This is nuts, Syd. There are at least a dozen of them,” Jake protested.

  The other men exchanged glances. Kane shrugged, then the three of them trotted toward the rear of the building.

  “They’ll kill Kelly and Maltz,” Jake said. “You’re setting us up for a bloodbath.”

  “We don’t have a lot of other options.”

  “We have one.” Jake dropped his gun. Before Syd could stop him, he stood and rounded the corner, hands held high.

  “No dispare!” he called out, hoping that was the polite way to ask them not to shoot.

  Two of them kept their guns trained on Maltz and Kelly, the rest swiveled, aiming for his chest. Jake stopped ten feet away. “Soy Jake Riley,” he said. “Americano.”

  A tall black man stepped forward. He lowered his gun slightly, but kept his finger on the trigger. “Good for you,” he said. “Now maybe you can explain what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “What about Cesar Calderon?” Decker raised the LMT, pointing it at Isabela’s chest.

  She looked back at him defiantly. “Everyone knows he was kidnapped. Los Zetas have him.”

  “Lady, we don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mark said. “Now why don’t you—”

  “They have my father, too,” she said. “That’s what the cocaine was for. I was trying to raise the ransom money.”

  “Sorry to hear about your dad,” Mark said. “But we’ve got to get back to our friend.”

  “They’ll kill him now, because of you.” Her chin quivered. “They’ll know I helped you. You’ve ruined everything.”

  “Tell you what,” Mark said. “I’m going to call my brother, and he might be able to help.”

  “The way you helped Calderon?” she spat.

  “That’s not very nice,” Decker commented.

  “I heard what you said…you don’t trust your own organization.”

  “Yeah, well, my brother’s part of a different one,” Mark said. “And him I trust. Tell us where we can reach you, and we’ll make sure someone helps your father.”

  “I know where they are keeping Calderon,” Isabela said. “Take me with you, and I will tell you.”

  “Lady—”

  “It’s not safe for me here now,” she argued. “I cannot go home, they will be waiting there.”

  “What about relatives?”

  “There’s no one besides my father. If you do not take me, I will be killed,” she said flatly.

  “Crap.” Mark rubbed his forehead with one hand. He’d done missions all over the globe, in places as far-flung as Panama and Bali. He’d thought nothing could get worse than the disaster that was Somalia. Yet none of his missions had ever gotten as messed up as this. What he’d give for a nice little underwater raid.

  “Fine,” he said, after processing it for a minute. Decker started to object, but Mark cut him off with a sharp look. “She’s right
, we can’t leave her.”

  He moved in close, lowering his voice and filling it with menace. “But if it turns out you’re lying, and you don’t know where Calderon is, or if we find out you’re working for the Zetas, I’ll put a bullet in your head myself.”

  Isabela’s eyes widened and she nodded once, stiffly. Mark stepped back and dug the plastic bag out of his pocket. One of the morphine bottles had shattered, but everything else remained intact. He flipped open the phone and dialed. Stepping away from the two of them, he waited as it rang.

  “I need to talk to Jake Riley. Tell him it’s his brother.”

  Decker and Isabela watched him, standing in silence a few feet apart.

  “No, the other brother.” Mark’s brow furrowed at the response. “What the hell is he doing in Mexico City?”

  Nine

  Flores awoke with a throbbing headache. He groaned and shook his head to clear his vision.

  He was in the back compartment of a large truck. Wherever they were going, the road was bumpy as hell. He’d been stuffed between two rough burlap sacks, probably to keep him from flopping around while unconscious, which struck him as surprisingly courteous. His hands were bound again, this time behind his back.

  Shit, Flores thought with a sinking feeling.

  Two other men occupied the space with him, both dressed in military fatigues and bearing LMTs. One couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old. The other was the guy who tried to blow up the van that morning.

  The older man noticed he’d awoken. His eyes narrowed under the brim of his khaki cap, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Mi amigo,” Flores tried. “Con la herida de bala. Y el otro. Dónde están?”

  There was no response.

  “Adónde vamos?” Flores asked.

  The man jerked his head toward the kid. He stumbled over, bracing himself against the side of the truck as it bounced. Reaching Flores, he held up a roll of duct tape.

  “Cállete,” he said.

  The message was clear. Flores fell silent. The compartment was stuffy enough without having to struggle to breathe. They weren’t worried about him crying for help, since they didn’t insist on gagging him. They just weren’t interested in conversation.

  They drove for hours, the road worsening until their pace slowed to a crawl. At one point they ascended so steeply he had to wrap his legs around one of the sacks to avoid being thrown against the rear door. Flores had never been prone to motion sickness. But riding in that windowless compartment, head still pounding from the blow he’d received, more than once he almost gagged up the tacos from that morning.

  When they finally came to a stop, Flores felt a wave of relief. It dissipated as soon as the door slid open and he saw where he was.

  Judging by the sun’s angle it was midafternoon. Light sheared through reams of barbed wire, stretching as far as he could see in either direction. Long lines of metal pens extended away from him. They looked like kennels—but instead of dogs, people were clustered in each. Most were filthy, their clothing worn to rags.

  Next to the drug trade, kidnapping was one of Mexico’s biggest industries. Tyr had given a seminar when he first signed on, including a PowerPoint presentation filled with photos of jungle prison camps like the one he now faced. Captives were kept there for months or years as negotiations for their release dragged on. Thanks to the squalid living conditions, some of the hostages died long before their relatives managed to scrounge up a ransom payment.

  At least in Mexico City, there was a chance that Tyr would track them down and rescue them. Here, Flores harbored no such delusions. It would take an army to free anyone from this camp.

  A shove from behind sent him flying. With hands bound, there was no way to catch himself. Flores landed hard in the dirt, his knees bearing the brunt of the impact.

  A pair of boots appeared an inch from his nose. Flores followed them up to find the van passenger staring down at him. He’d pegged him as a hard guy, someone you’d never mess with in a bar fight. He looked plenty pissed now.

  “Sígame,” he said.

  Flores stumbled to his feet and followed him along the dirt road. No point playing hero, he had to survive long enough to figure out an escape plan. For some reason, they were keeping him alive. He couldn’t imagine why, but as long as it worked in his favor he wasn’t about to question it.

  People lined up at the pen doors as they passed, hands clutching the chicken wire. They watched his progress, but no one said a word. There were men, women, children of all ages.

  They were in the mountains somewhere, a swath of land reclaimed from the jungle. It was even hotter here than in Mexico City, Flores’s shirt instantly soaked through. His eyes panned from side to side, taking in his surroundings. They passed a guard tower manned by two men, then another soldier on foot patrol. The guy slammed the butt of his rifle against random cages as he passed, causing the inmates to shy back. As Flores walked, he mentally composed a map of the facility.

  The passenger finally stopped in front of a pen identical to the others. Six feet high, maybe ten feet long, eight feet wide. He nodded for the guard accompanying them to open the gate, then motioned Flores inside.

  Flores took a deep breath and walked in, head bowed. The door swung shut behind him and was rebolted. A double lock, he noted. The chicken wire wasn’t thick, but a hundred feet away stood another guard tower constructed of rough-hewn beams. He watched as a muzzle scanned the pens in a long arc, then swept back. The guards seemed to be on top of things. Still, they couldn’t always be vigilant. He’d suss out their rotations, try to determine possible escape routes. Figure out the pen’s weaknesses and how to exploit them. Then at the first opportunity, he’d slip away. Flores had years’ worth of training, and it was a hell of a lot easier to survive in a jungle than the desert. One way or another, he told himself, he was making it out of here.

  “Hatching a plan?” a voice behind him asked in English.

  Startled, Flores spun around. A man ducked out of the sheltered rear of the pen. His clothes hung off him in shreds, and a thick beard draped down to his chest. Despite that, Flores recognized him immediately.

  “Cesar Calderon,” the man said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Ten

  “I’m Jake Riley, CEO of The Longhorn Group.”

  Jake caught a flash of recognition in the black man’s eyes. He was tall, nearly six-three, muscles bulging out the sleeves of his camos. He glared down at Jake.

  Jake started to lower his arms, but the gun muzzles weren’t coming down. He ended up with them in front of his chest, palms forward.

  “You’re clearly lost, Mr. Riley,” the guy said. “Museums are on the other side of town.”

  “You’re from Tyr,” Jake said. “Right?”

  “Jake—” Kelly called out.

  “We’re all on the same team here.” Jake chanced a small step forward.

  The man cocked an eyebrow. “Last I checked, I didn’t work for The Longhorn Association.”

  “Group,” Jake said. “The Longhorn—”

  “Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you’re doing here, you’re in our way.”

  From behind him, Syd called out, “Take it down a few notches, Brown.”

  Frowning, the man shifted his aim. “Syd Clement. Should have known.”

  “Miss me?”

  Jake turned slightly. Syd was edging out from the side of the building. Despite the odds her gun was drawn, zeroed in on Brown’s chest. She approached slowly, placing her feet like she was walking a tightrope.

  “She with you?” the guy asked, talking to Jake but keeping his focus on Syd.

  “That depends,” Jake replied. “How do you two know each other?”

  “Kiev. She nearly got my client’s kid killed.”

  “The girl was fine, Brown. I can’t believe you still even remember that.”

  “No thanks to you,” Brown retorted. “Syd nearly blew the whole raid. Told the head gu
y about it in advance, just so he’d let her at his hard drive.”

  “National security was at stake.” Syd shrugged.

  “Yeah, so to hell with everyone else. They had five hostages, including our girl,” Brown told Jake. “If I hadn’t moved up the start time of the operation, they all would have died. Fucking CIA.”

  “Never been a big fan of them myself,” Jake said. “I was FBI.”

  “They’re even worse,” Brown said. “Even you can do the math, Syd. Drop the gun.”

  “I got a whole unit ready to pick you off.” Syd jerked her head toward the nearest building. Jake looked up and saw Fribush aiming down at them. He lifted his free hand in a wave.

  “Great,” Jake muttered under his breath.

  “There are five more just like him,” Syd said. “You won’t even be able to tell where the shots are coming from.”

  “They start firing, you’re out a CEO,” Brown said.

  Syd shrugged. “They grow on trees, especially in this economy.”

  “We’re looking for Mark Riley,” Kelly called out. She’d lifted her head, but her hands remained on the roof of the car. “And we know you are, too.”

  “So?” Brown said after a minute.

  “So we should help each other.”

  Brown tilted his head back and laughed openly. “Then we can all join hands and sing a song. This ain’t the Scouts, honey. You should leave this to the people who know what the fuck they’re doing.”

  “Good point. Any advice on how to lose a whole unit?” Syd said.

  Brown looked pained. “Wouldn’t have happened on my watch.”

  “Sure it wouldn’t. Sounds to me like someone at Tyr sold them out. Maybe you’re next.”

  A van turned down the street. They all shifted their attention to it. Jake waited for the driver to pull a one-eighty when he saw the firepower on display. When the van continued forward, he frowned. “What the—”

  The street in front of them was suddenly torn up, bullets ricocheting off the pavement.