Abducted:Reconnaissance Team (Texas Rangers: Special Ops) (5 page)

Liz paused outside a door, the first that she’d found ajar. Faint light shone through the two-inch crack between door and jamb. If—when—she found Larissa and Adam, she would thank Larissa for inviting Nina Bruno, then usher Ben from the mansion. Her best chance of extricating Nina Bruno Designs from this situation was to act as if nothing was wrong.

She tightened her grip on her evening bag and peeked through the crack. The edge of a desk came into view. “Hello?” Liz inched open the door and stared into an empty room lit by a small desk lamp.

Straight ahead, floor length curtains wafted and she glimpsed a balcony beyond two open doors. Anger rose, but this time the anger was directed at herself. When Adam Billings had modeled for the job, he’d been laid back, quiet, not at all forward like he’d been tonight. Her only consideration was whether or not he would make Tanya look good in their dress. But tonight, despite his oddness—despite the fact he’d flirted shamelessly with her—she had taken a liking to him. Worse, she took his betrayal personally.

Betrayal? Is that what he’d done, betrayed her? Professionally, yes. He was on a job and she expected him to conduct himself in a manner above reproach. So why did she feel as if he’d reached inside her chest and twisted her heart?

Liz started to turn, then paused at a sound from the balcony. She took two steps forward. A muffled animal cry entered on the breeze. She froze. What was that? She crept to the doors and eased aside the curtain to find the balcony empty.

She slipped through the curtains and crossed to the wrought iron railing. In the distance, El Paso lights lit the desert nearly to the Juarez Mountains, which rose high against a star studded sky. Directly below the balcony, ground lights illuminated a rock garden that stretched into dim moonlight. Movement a hundred feet away caught her attention. Her breath hitched. Was that a cat—a large cat? Liz squinted at the shadow that seemed to glide across the ground.

She released a slow breath. Maybe she was approaching this situation from the wrong direction. If Larissa Remmey entertained men outside her marriage, that wasn’t Liz’s business. As long as she and Adam were discreet, Nina Bruno Designs wouldn’t be pulled into any problems. Tomorrow, Liz would fire Adam—permanently.

“No arguments.” 

Liz stilled. The man’s voice came from the room behind her. The click of a door shutting followed.

“We had an arrangement,” came the same male voice.

“Arrangements change,” replied a man with a heavy Mexican accent.

“Carlos wants the girl moved tonight,” the first man said.

“Too hot,” the other man said. “He knows that. His men caused the problem.” 

“Fuck Carlos over and you’ll be as dead as those girls,” the American replied.

Liz couldn’t halt a gasp as she whirled toward the doors.

“What was that?” the Mexican demanded.

Liz’s heart clutched. She groped for the railing behind her, then turned, wildly scanning the ground. The balcony loomed two stories above ground. She worked out four times a week, ran two miles a day. She was in great shape, but could she survive a sixteen-foot jump? Survive, probably. But a broken leg would prevent escape. She yanked off her high heel shoes.

“What the fuck?”

She swung a leg over the railing, but iron hands seized her shoulders and yanked her against a massive body. Liz opened her mouth for a bloodcurdling scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.

“Bring her inside,” the American ordered.

Liz grabbed the man’s wrist and tried to pry his fingers from her mouth as she kicked. He lifted her off the ground and turned. The other man stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him. He stepped aside as the Mexican dragged her inside.

The American stepped into view. “I know her. She came with Billings.” 

“A cop?” the Mexican said.

The American stepped closer, hard gaze glued to hers. “He’s going to let you go. Make a peep and I’ll knock you senseless. Understand?” He motioned for the Mexican to let her go.

The Mexican removed his hand from her mouth but kept his other arm clamped around her waist. Liz released his wrist.

“Who are you?” the American asked.

Liz’s mind raced.
Murder.
These men had discussed a murder. She swallowed panic.
Think.
Could they be sure she’d overheard them mention a death? It didn’t matter. They wouldn’t take the chance she hadn’t heard. They were going to kill her.

* * *

Ben murmured thanks to the maid who set a plate of food before him and looked across the dining room table at Carlos Sanchez. When the limo eased across the US-Mexican border half an hour ago, Ben knew that entering one of the most dangerous cities in the world in the company of a Mexican Mafioso could be considered a bad idea. Sitting in a modest but expensively furnished villa on the outskirts of Juarez with two of Sanchez’s bruisers standing eight feet away, he had to admit that things had gone well beyond
a bad idea
.

He took a bite of the
Puerco con Pina
. “You didn't lie, Mr. Sanchez.” Ben lifted his glass of wine in salute. “You do know the finest chef in Texas—probably in Mexico, too.” Ben took two large swallows and set the wine glass back on the table.

“I currently make one shipment a week across the El Paso border,” Sanchez said. “I want to make four.” 

Ben looked up from his plate.
Quadruple the number of women smuggled across the border?

“That’s ambitious.”

Not only was it ambitious, but Ben wondered why Sanchez shared this important bit of information. There wasn't a chance the mobster trusted him yet.

Sanchez dug into his meal with gusto. “I am tired of the Texas Border Patrol impeding my profits.” 

Ben wanted to ask how much of a kink Border Patrol was putting in his business, but there was no good reason Adam Billings would ask that question. Instead, he asked, “What preparations have you made to implement the increase in shipments?” 

“My organization on both sides of the border is prepared to provide merchandise.” 

Merchandise.
That’s all human beings were to him. Ben nodded and took another bite of pork.  

“I pushed through two shipments every week this month and attempted a third,” Sanchez said.

“The two girls found by Border Patrol,” Ben said. 

Sanchez took a long drink, then set the glass on the table. “How would you deal with the unexpected appearance of the Border Patrol?” 

“There would be no unexpected Border Patrol, if I had been taking those girls across the border.” 

“You're very certain of yourself, Mr. Billings.” 

“I have to be.” Ben took another sip of wine to wash down the pig. It wasn’t tasting all that good anymore. “You have intelligence?” 

“As a businessman, I am on good terms with everyone.”

Sanchez wasn’t taking chances by admitting anything. They’d patted Ben down at the Remmey’s, but Sanchez had to know not all wires were detectible with a pat down.

“But Border Patrol wasn’t the problem,” Sanchez said. “Texas Rangers intervened. I have yet to discover how they knew those men were crossing the border.”

They knew because an undercover Ranger got a lead that the kidnapped girls were still in El Paso. Ben and his team went on alert in hopes of catching them in the act of smuggling the girls across the border.

Ben shrugged. “Probably a lucky shot for the Rangers. The El Paso border is heavily patrolled.” 

Sanchez shook his head. “The men were tracked.” 

Ben paused. “What do you mean?” 

“Border Patrol can track. Wouldn’t you know if they were on your trail?”

“I would.” Ben studied him as if just reaching a conclusion. “The Rangers were looking for your men before they tried to cross the border?”

Sanchez leaned back in his chair and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Now, one month later, I have the good fortune to meet a man who swears he can help me transport goods.” 

“Life has a way of bringing us what we need when we need it.” 

“I do not believe in coincidence.” 

“Life is filled with coincidence,” Ben replied. “It’s coincidence that you happened to be where you were when you met your wife.” 

“True,” Sanchez replied. “But meeting you is a very convenient coincidence.” 

“Certainly not the only convenient coincidence in your life.” 

“One that makes me nervous.” 

Ben leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure how to alleviate your fears.” 

Sanchez took a bite of pork. “My fears will be alleviated once I receive a report that says you are who you say you are.” 

Ben hoped the Feds had been thorough when they created Adam Billings.

The Mexican’s arm tightened around Liz’s waist as he demanded, “Who are you?” 

“L-Liz Monahan,” she stuttered. “I work for Nina Bruno Designs.” 

“Why were you hiding on the balcony?” the American demanded.

Her heart thundered. “I wasn’t hiding. I was waiting for Mrs. Remmey.” 

“Who’s Adam Billings?” 

That was a question she was asking herself. They’d said ‘cop.’ “He’s a model, my escort for the night. What’s going on? Where is he?”  

“Why were you eavesdropping?” the American said.

“I told you, I was waiting for Mrs. Remmey. She and I have business.” 

“She couldn’t have known we were going to use this room,” the Mexican said.

His hot breath sent a prickle of gooseflesh over her ear and Liz fought tears.

The American’s gaze bore into her. “We’ll have to let Sanchez figure this out.” 

Liz’s thoughts raced. Sanchez. Who was Sanchez?

“Maybe we should dump her in the desert,” the Mexican said.

She gasped and he clamped a hand over her mouth. “One word, and I break your neck.” He turned to the American. “Check the hallway.”

Liz stared as the man headed for the door. Surely they couldn’t forcibly remove her from the mansion without being seen? 

The American reached the door and eased it open. He peered outside then looked back at them. “All clear. Let’s go.” 

Liz’s captor hugged her close as he drew her toward the door. Her legs moved like rubber and she feared her knees would buckle. She commanded her legs to remain strong, but the thought seemed to be an echo traveling through a tunnel.

They reached the door and the American slipped out first. They turned away from the main staircase, which was hidden beyond a bend. They took another quick right down a set of narrow stairs. Liz stumbled on the second step. The Mexican lifted her feet off the stairs and her heart jumped to a gallop. Dear God, why hadn’t she kept up the self-defense courses she took in her twenties?

Think
, she commanded
.
Who were these men? They knew the layout of the house. What were they doing in a private room of the Remmey’s home? What did Larissa Remmey have to do with thugs who discussed murder and kidnapped guests?

They approached the landing and a door came into view, located in a small service entryway. They had to be in the rear of the house. The American stepped onto the landing and headed toward the door. An instant later, she and her captor reached the bottom of the stairs. Liz spotted a closed door on the right. A kitchen? A pantry? Hope surged. Liz kicked at the door as they passed and gurgled a scream through the Mexican’s fingers. He yanked her aside. Her foot only grazed the wood, and she flailed in an attempt to lunge for the door.

He drove her back against the opposite wall and Liz froze when the point of a knife dug into the flesh of her neck. Blood roared through her ears. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.

“Try that again and I’ll slice your neck,” he hissed. “Understand?” She didn’t reply and he gave her a hard shake. “Understand?”

Liz whispered, “Yes.”

He withdrew the knife and pulled her away from the door. She cast a glance back and strained for sounds of activity, but the pounding of her heart reverberated in her ears. The American opened the rear door and the Mexican clamped a hand over her mouth again. In another moment they would have her outside. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

“Go around to the side,” the American said.  

The Mexican stopped beside him at the door. “Get the car. I’ll meet you there.” 

The American glanced at Liz. “Maybe we should stick together.” 

“We have to separate to get the car. I’ll hold her here for five minutes, then meet you around the side.” He wrenched Liz’s head back against his chest and said into her ear, “The
chica
won’t make a sound, will you,
bonita
?”

He nuzzled her neck and she seized his arm with both hands. Liz startled to discover that she still gripped her small clutch bag. Tears blurred her vision. Two years ago, After Nina Bruno’s brother went down in a small plane in Arizona, Nina ordered all company employees to carry a Modu phone, a tiny telephone with a locator. That phone might save Liz’s life, just as it had Nina’s brother.

All she needed was a moment alone to make a call—before they killed her.

* * *

Sanchez shifted from business to small talk about Juarez, El Paso and food, and Ben listened for an opening in the conversation that would give him a clue to Christina Remmey’s whereabouts.

The kitchen door swung open and a man entered the dining room. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. Like Sanchez, he wore an expensive suit, but unlike Sanchez’s other lackeys, this man exuded an air of authority that sent a prickle of unease down Ben’s spine.

The man reached Sanchez, bent and whispered in his ear.

Gaze locked with Ben’s, Sanchez listened. The man straightened and Sanchez nodded. The man sent Ben a sideways glance as he passed. 

When the door closed behind the man, Ben said, “I don’t think your man likes me.”

“He is paid to be cautious.” Sanchez took a bite of his pork, then said, “You’re a wanted man.” 

Ben grunted a laugh. “If by ‘wanted’ you mean the authorities want to see me behind bars, then you’re right. But the cops don’t have enough to issue a warrant for my arrest.” 

“Why did you kill Roger Davis?” 

“I didn’t kill anyone.”  

“If you had killed him, why would you have killed him?” 

“If he made the mistake of mentioning my name to the cops.” 

Sanchez forked more of the pork into his mouth and nodded. “Then he is the man who told the District Attorney you killed his partner, David Caldaron?”

Ben’s mind came to a screeching halt. Either Sanchez was testing him, or the FBI screwed up and didn’t fill him in on all the details of his background.

He shifted his gaze from his plate to Sanchez. “I wasn’t aware Caldaron had been murdered.”

“No?” Sanchez said. “I was told you were questioned concerning both deaths.”

Ben shook his head. “Your information is wrong.”

Sanchez shifted and Ben sensed the tension in the two men standing behind him. He forced his body to stay relaxed.

Sanchez’s gaze flicked to his bodyguards. He reached for his wine glass and said to Ben, “You were not a stranger to the police.” 

“They didn’t know about
that
particular deal.” 

“Mr. Davis moved drugs into the US?” Sanchez asked.

“Roger was an importer of Mexican pottery,” Ben said.

Sanchez laughed. “I suppose your time in Huntsville Penitentiary for weapons smuggling was a case of mistaken identity?”

Ben shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time.” 

The human trafficker lifted his glass in salute. “I cannot argue with that.” He took a large sip of wine, then set the glass on the table. “You don’t seem nervous about working with me.” 

Ben laughed. “You mean the way you’re nervous about me?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m certain you’re not a cop.” 

“Straightforward,” Sanchez said. “Very good.” 

Ben looked at Sanchez as if something had just occurred to him. “I work strictly by referral, and Francis Remmey came highly recommended. The recommendation gave me a certain sense of security. I understand caution, but it suddenly occurs to me that you’re overly nervous about working with someone Mr. Remmey recommended. That makes me nervous, and I don’t like being nervous. Do you have reason to suspect he might set you up?” 

“I trust no one,” Sanchez said.

“There’s a difference in not trusting someone, and distrusting them.” Ben paused. “Maybe we’re not destined to do business.” 

“Destiny?” Sanchez laughed. “What has destiny to do with men in our business?” 

“Call it what you like. I’m thinking, I would call it a bad feeling.” 

A moment of silence passed and Ben could hear the wheels turning in the man’s head. Sanchez wanted what Ben was selling.

“Who referred Francis to you?” Sanchez finally asked.

Ben laughed. “I don’t know the government man who Remmey told you referred me, but the man who called me is Juan Soto.” 

When Larissa Remmey told Ben her story and said she would introduce him to Sanchez, Ben made a quick decision and told her that their contact must be a politician, and he would take it from there. Juan Soto was a drug dealer to the wealthy. He didn’t move drugs across the border, so he wasn’t in Ben’s jurisdiction, but the El Paso DEA knew him, and let him stay in business because he sometimes passed information. Two months ago, Ben dealt with Soto concerning a large shipment of heroin crossing the border. Ben knew Soto was currently out of the country, which meant Sanchez couldn’t contact him.

“You know him?” Ben asked.

“I know who he is and I am wondering who the government official is who gave Francis your name.” 

Ben grunted. “I asked Juan that same thing and he laughed. I couldn’t help wondering if there was no politician.” 

Sanchez frowned. “You mean Francis knows Juan directly?” 

Ben shrugged. “Why not? You can see why Remmey wouldn’t want to own up to the association.” 

“Francis is what you Americans call a straight arrow.” 

“Yeah,” Ben said. He’d been ready for—hoped for—this response. “He’s a real Boy Scout.” 

A corner of Sanchez mouth turned up with a condescending twist. “They like to act superior, as if they are better than us.” 

Bingo
! Ben had him.

“But they’re all the same.” He paused for effect. “I must admit, Remmey doesn’t strike me as a man to shop for a woman.” 

“I am not supplying Francis with merchandise. He is going to do some transporting for me.” 

Ben lifted a brow. “He’s not a Boy Scout at all, is he?” 

“I gave him, shall we say, a reason to do business with me.” 

Ben nodded. “The business offer he referred to.” He snorted. “Money talks every time. Being in the textile business, he must have some big trucks that cross the border on a consistent basis. That means he has a relationship with the border guards.” 

“A very good relationship,” Sanchez replied.

“How many shipments can he handle?” 

“One a week,” Sanchez replied.

“How long can he maintain a weekly shipment?” 

“Indefinitely.” 

Ben didn’t believe that. In order for the Remmeys to comply for any length of time, Sanchez would have to return their granddaughter. Once he did, they would ship the girl off to some obscure European country—and Francis Remmey would probably insist that Larissa go with her—then he would tell Sanchez to go to hell. Sanchez had to know that.

Sanchez leaned back in his chair. “Your police record indicates you do more than transport. Perhaps I can interest you in some business on the US side of the border.” 

“I don’t do sales.” 

“Sales isn’t what I had in mind. I need to make sure the shipments from the US continue.” 

Ben gave him a penetrating stare. “You’re talking enforcement.” 

“Motivation,” remove extra space Sanchez said.

“Motivation as in Francis Remmey?” 

“You are very perceptive.” 

“Stupid people don’t last long in this business. What kind of motivation do you have in mind?” 

“If you pass my test, I will show you.” 

“Test?” Ben repeated.

“One simple test,” Sanchez said. “Then I will show you exactly what I want.”

* * *

In her worse imaginings, Liz couldn’t have envisioned the night ending with her abduction and transportation to one of the most lawless cities in the world. She hadn’t noted any diplomatic tags on the Mercedes the Mexican drove, but they had been waved across the border as if entering a friend’s driveway. That might have been a good sign, if not for the revolver pressed against her hip. The American’s arm tightened around her shoulders. She looked in the rearview mirror as they passed a streetlight and caught the Mexican’s eyes on her.

“Eyes straight,” the American ordered. “I don’t want to get pulled over because you drifted into opposing traffic.” 

The Mexican grinned. “Nothing to worry about. The police here are my friends.” 

“I don’t much want a head-on collision, either,” the American shot back. “Forget her. I told you. We don’t make a move until we talk to Carlos.” 

“Carlos will fuck her himself,” the Mexican grumbled.

“Maybe. But if you fuck with him, he’ll kill you—then me for allowing it.” 

Liz closed her eyes and forced back the panic that had her heart pounding ninety miles an hour. The men had taken her clutch-purse. If they left her somewhere and drove off, the locator would lead to the car and not to her.  How long would it take for someone to notice she was missing? Didn’t a person have to be missing for forty-eight hours before a report could be filed? Richard didn’t expect her back at the hotel until the early hours of the morning, and wouldn’t look for her until brunch. Would Larissa notice her absence and ask questions? Liz bit back tears. Not if she was
entertaining
Adam.