Kidnap and Ransom (6 page)

Kaplan wheezed beside him. Mark drew his knees up to his chest, then lengthened them as if stretching. He didn’t hit anything, there was a clear path in front of him. So far, so good, he thought.

A mutter from the front seat: the driver, sounded like the same one as before. They’d dubbed him “Crybaby” since he constantly complained.

Someone snarled for him to shut up. That would be “Scarface,” the guy who liked to wave his gun around. He’d been in the room when they were first grabbed, and accompanied them on every move so far. Mark figured he’d be the toughest to deal with—guys like that were always itching to pull the trigger.

Mark waited, but the van lapsed into silence. Blood roared in his ears. They had decided to wait at least ten minutes before making their move, allowing time for their captors to settle into complacency. It was a gamble, though. This time, they might only be taken a few blocks. There was no way to tell if they’d be in the van for hours or minutes.

The street noise outside was muted. Mexico City was comprised of sixteen boroughs sprawled across almost six hundred square miles. Add in the surrounding area, and you were facing another ten million people in three thousand square miles, an area larger than the state of Delaware. It was a hell of a haystack for anyone to find them in, which reinforced the realization they were more or less on their own.

The van picked up speed. Mark recognized the familiar sound of tires bumping over reflectors, and his heart leaped. They were on a highway, almost too much to hope for. Even if another car was following them, their ability to interfere would be limited. It was now or never.

He doubled over suddenly and groaned. There was no response. Mark clutched his gut and moaned louder.

“Cállate!” Scarface growled.

“Jesus, my stomach!” Mark gasped.

A murmured exchange in the front seat—he’d guessed right, there was someone else up there. The muzzle of a gun nudged his leg. Scarface barked something in Spanish.

“He wants you to be quiet.” Flores sounded panicked. “If you don’t shut up, he’ll shoot you.”

“Tell him to put me out of my misery,” Mark said through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth as if convulsed by spasms. “I swear I’m going to shit myself.”

Flores repeated what he’d said. Scarface talked over him as he translated, sounding increasingly irrit

“He said, go ahead, Yankee swine, you deserve to wallow in your own shit.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Mark spat.

Apparently Scarface knew enough English to understand that. The muzzle of the gun returned, this time pressed against his chest. Mark held his breath as the van rocked them back and forth, praying the safety was still on. Scarface’s leg brushed his as he called out to the front seat. The Zeta on the passenger side was clearly in charge, a low voice ordered Scarface to stand down.

Too late, Mark thought, taking advantage of the distraction. While Scarface argued with his boss, Mark grabbed the muzzle of the gun with both hands and thrust up sharply. At the same time, he swept sideways with his legs, knocking Scarface off his feet.

A grunt as Scarface landed, air squeezed out of his lungs. The sound of the rest of the Tyr team scrambling. Mark struggled for a second with the hood covering his head. The van swerved sideways as his fingers finally found a purchase and yanked it off.

Chaos reigned in the rear of the van. Sock and Flores were struggling to hold down Scarface, who bucked against them, nose broken and bleeding. Sock punched him, three swift blows to the head. Scarface’s eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Decker and Kaplan were engaged in a battle with the driver and passenger. The LMT had come to rest beside Mark. He flipped it around in one smooth motion.

A gun went off in the front seat, the explosion so loud his ears rang. Kaplan collapsed backward. Mark shoved past him and drove the muzzle of the LMT against the passenger’s head. “Drop it!” he yelled. “Flores, tell this motherfucker to drop the gun!”

The driver had slowed. “And he needs to keep driving at the same speed,” Mark snapped.

The Zeta in the passenger seat had dropped his Glock, but still wore a shit-eating grin.

“What are you smiling at, asshole?” Mark shoved the muzzle farther into the guy’s chest.

The guy gave him another bemused look, then said something to Flores. Both he and the driver blanched. The driver began muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“What did he say?” Mark demanded.

“He said the van is wired to blow. All he has to do is push a button,” Flores said.

“Bullshit,” Mark said.

The guy held up his other hand. A transmitter was nestled in his palm. Mark wasn’t a demolitions expert, but he’d been around enough to recognize the real deal when he saw it. He swore under his breath.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Sock asked.

“Tell him to give me the transmitter.” Mark kept his gaze locked on the guy. “He doesn’t want to die any more than we do. He hands it over, we’ll drop them off at the side of the road. He can tell his boss we overpowered them.”

“They’ll kill me anyway,” the man said in thickly accented English before Flores could re

“Then run. Get the hell out of here,” Mark said.

The man just shook his head. Mark recognized the look in his eye. He’d seen that same expression on a kid’s face at a roadblock outside Baghdad, right before the blast that took out half his unit.

Mark dived forward a second too late. There wasn’t even time to shout a warning before the guy pressed the button.

Six

They’d been at the motel for over an hour when Syd knocked on the door. Jake opened it to find her, Kane and Fribush loaded down with two duffel bags apiece.

“A little help?” she grunted.

Jake took one of the bags from her, staggering slightly under the weight. She hauled the other into the room, Fribush and Kane at her heels. Jake slammed the door behind them and double-bolted it.

“That was quick,” he said.

“Ya gotta love Mexico,” Syd said. “They were even having a sale on C4. We cleaned them out. Figured we were doing the country a favor, getting this stuff off the streets.”

“I feel like a patriot.” Fribush pulled an Uzi out of one of the bags and looked it over appreciatively.

Kelly sat on a threadbare comforter mottled with stains. Her jaw had tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Jake wondered again what the hell he’d been thinking, allowing her to come along.

“So what’s the plan?” Maltz asked. He was sitting on a chair in the corner, methodically cleaning his nails with a knife.

“I heard from my contact at Tyr. They narrowed the search down to two boroughs.” Syd unfurled a map of the city on the bed. Kelly shifted to make room for it.

Syd pointed at two boroughs on the Eastern side of the map. “Iztapalapa and Iztacalco. Think of them as the South Bronx of Mexico City. Both Zeta-friendly, lots of safe houses there. The initial raid took place in Iztapalapa, and Tyr thinks they hung around.”

“Where’s the Tyr team?” Jake asked.

“They’ve spent the past week combing through Iztapalapa block by block. They came under fire a few times, thought they might be close.”

“What about the AFI?” Kelly asked.

“Who?” Maltz said.

“The Agencia Federal de Investigación. They’re kind of our—” Kelly caught herself. “The FBI’s counterpart in Mexico City. Is Tyr coordinating the search with them?”

“I doubt it, since a quarter of their agents work for the Sinaloa Cartel,” Syd snorted.

“But I thought—”

“This isn’t the United States, Jones. The police don’t help you here. In fact, the’re usually the first to put a bullet in your head.”

Kelly started to say something, then abruptly shut her mouth. Jake considered interceding, but unfortunately Syd was right. With every K&R job they had done in Mexico, their main goal was to avoid the authorities as much as possible, paying the right ones to look the other way. Tyr probably functioned on the same model. The neighborhoods they were talking about were basically war zones. If a Mexican cop wanted to last more than a week on the job, he avoided them at all costs. The Zetas were an occupying army in those territories. And considering that, some C4 might actually come in handy.

He could see Kelly trying to reconcile that, and felt for her. This was way past anything she had ever been involved with. With any luck she was already considering booking a flight home.

She surprised him by saying, “So we’re avoiding the Tyr team, too.”

“Naturally,” Syd said.

“Where do we start?” Maltz asked.

Syd pointed to a spot in the upper right section of the map. “Tyr is here now, and moving north. I say we start above them and move south. There’s a rumor that some Americans are being held in a building in the northeast quadrant. Zetas are known for moving captives around, but we might get lucky. We’ll ask around, see what stones we can overturn.”

“Where did you hear the rumor?” Kelly asked dubiously.

“Sorry, hon. That’s classified,” Syd said smugly.

“Syd has a lot of friends who owe her favors,” Jake explained. He didn’t add that he referred to them as her “shadow network.” He’d long ago learned better than to doubt her information. In his experience, those rumors were always right on the money.

“Why do you think anyone will talk to us, if the Zetas control everything?” Kelly pressed.

Syd dug into one of the duffels and withdrew a handful of cash. “Because we’ll be paying them. And if cash doesn’t work, we’ll try something else.”

Kelly abruptly stood and went to the bathroom. Jake followed her. She stood in front of the mirror staring down at the floor. He could hear the rest of the team suiting up in the bedroom.

“You don’t have to stay,” Jake said gently. “We both know this isn’t your kind of thing.”

“Is it yours?” she asked, raising her head to meet his eyes.

“My brother is out there,” he said, although that rang hollow even to his own ears. The truth was, aside from The Longhorn Group’s first case, Jake hadn’t done much work in the field. He usually left this sort of thing to Syd and her cohorts. He never questioned how any specific job had been accomplished, probably because in the end he didn’t want to know. As long as the hostage ended up safe and sound, he figured they’d done their job. But now that he was here, facing the reality of paying off criminals—or worse—the reality of what they were about to do struck home. Maybe he should book them both on a flight, and leave the rescuing to Syd.

Jake shook his head, dismissing the thought. He couldn’t expect others to risk their lives for his brother if he wasn’t willing to do the same. But getting Kelly to understand that… “I don’t like it any more than you do,” he said. “But—”

A loud rap on the door interrupted him.

“We’re moving out,” Syd said, voice tinged with impatience. “You kids coming along?”

Kelly replied, “We’ll be right there.”

Mark opened his eyes. The van was filled with dense, acrid smoke. He coughed to clear his lungs, struggling to see.

He was lying on his back with a body sprawled across his legs. The van had come to rest on the passenger side. The driver’s head split the windshield, glass shards fragmenting the night sky into a dark constellation. It didn’t look like he’d be coming around anytime soon. Or probably ever again.

A muffled groan as the figure by his feet shifted: Decker.

Mark turned his head. No sign of the guy who had triggered the explosion. He looked for the LMT, couldn’t find it. Shit.

Mark struggled up to sitting and nudged Decker’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yeah, think so.” Decker said blearily.

“We gotta go,” Mark said.

“Right.” Decker awkwardly pushed off his legs and climbed stiffly into the rear of the van. Mark followed him.

There was an enormous hole in the middle of what had been the van’s floor. So the bomb hadn’t been wired to kill everyone, just them, Mark thought. Flores and Kaplan were crumpled on top of one another. Scarface, or what was left of him, was scattered across the interior. He must have been directly above the bomb when it blew, absorbing most of the blast. Thank God for small favors.

“Where’s Sock?” Decker asked. There was no sign of him. The rear door was open; through it Mark could see dirt and scrub brush. He heard a car passing by, not too far away. The van had rolled a few times, but they were probably still close to the highway. Mark went to check Flores and Kaplan.

They were both covered in blood, though it was impossible to tell how much of it had come from Scarface. He eased Flores off Kaplan. Flores started in response.

“Wha—”

“You okay, man?” Mark asked.

Flores raised a hand to his face. It came away bloody. “This mine?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Anything hurt?”

“Shit, everything hurts.” Flores slowly moved his arms and legs. “But I don’t think I’m bleeding.”

Decker was bent over Kaplan. “He’s hurt,” he said. “Pretty bad.”

Mark joined him. Kaplan was still unconscious, his face so pale it glowed in the dark interior. Carefully they turned him over. A bloodstain the size of a quarter marked the exit wou

“At least it passed through,” Decker said.

“You have EMT training, right?” Mark asked. Decker nodded.

“All right.” Mark checked the interior again, hoping to find some sort of weapon, but there was nothing useful. “We’ve got to move out. Chances are hostiles will be here soon. Do what you can to stop the bleeding. We’ll take shifts carrying him.”

“What about Sock?”

“What about him?” A voice boomed from outside. Sock suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“What happened to you?” Decker asked.

“Came to and that asshole was heading out. Thought I’d try to stop him.”

“So where is he?” Mark asked. Sock looked largely unharmed, which was almost miraculous considering how close he’d been to the blast.

Sock looked away. “Bastard was too fast. But we gotta get moving. I think he had a phone on him. Got this, though.” He held up the LMT.

“I didn’t hear any shots fired,” Mark said.

“Couldn’t get a clear line of sight,” Sock retorted. “Figured I’d save the ammo.”