Friendly Fire (The Echo Platoon Series, Book 3) (20 page)

The sound of footsteps drew their gazes to the door. Bert reappeared, followed by two guerillas. His refusal to look at Jeremiah suggested he'd struck a deal with their captors—but what sort of deal?

Holding a collective breath, the hostages watched as the guerillas crossed to Joan's hammock. With Bert fussing on the fringes, they lifted the unconscious woman and toted her toward the stairs. Bert followed right behind them. Directing one final glance back at the remaining captives, he lifted a hand in farewell and disappeared.

The guard at the top of the stairs followed after him, suggesting the interviews were over, at least for the moment.

Processing what had happened, the remaining captives stared at one another in shock. They all knew they might never see Bert and Joan alive again. Just what had he promised the guerillas in exchange for their release? Had he given them information that might put their lives in danger?

And would the leader really release them, or would he kill them the instant the money was wired?

Going by Jeremiah's grim expression, the latter was more likely.

* * *

With all of the guerillas downstairs for the moment, Jeremiah crossed to one of the boarded windows at the front of the building. Curling his fingers over the top of the plywood, he gave it a determined yank. The panel gave a crack, and then a piece near the top broke off.

Rolling on to the balls of his feet, he peered outside for his first look at their surroundings. Activity in the yard below caught his attention. There was Bert, stooping to slide into the back seat of a rust-colored Corolla. The two guerillas carrying his wife passed her in to him. One of them jumped behind the wheel while the other went to unchain the gate.

The car then exited the yard. After the man at the gate chained it once more from the outside, he slipped into the front seat, and they drove away.

Watching the car disappear, kicking up a small dust cloud, Jeremiah attempted to remote view in the hopes of seeing where it was headed—probably straight to a bank. But with his emotions in turmoil, he couldn't retain an image for more than a few seconds. Dismay banded his chest as he considered Bert and Joan's fate. Would anyone ever hear from them again?

Shifting his attention to their whereabouts, he took a good look around. Viewed through the small jagged window he'd created, Mérida reminded him of Palenque, where Echo Platoon had stormed
El Cuchillo's
compound the previous year. This was obviously a larger city, with palm trees that betrayed its proximity to the coast. Run-down buildings, trash in the street, and a stray dog sniffing at the gate all testified to a socio-economic situation that gave rise to thugs like
El Cuchillo
and Craterface in the first place.

If the worn Fanta sign abandoned in the dirty yard below meant anything, then the building they were in may have been a bottling plant. The wall it had been propped against was made of cinderblock, like the building, only it was topped with barbed wire to keep intruders out. Only one taller building stood within the vicinity, but it was too far down the road to offer decent vantages for snipers.

"Someone's coming," Emma whispered from a few feet away.

He quickly jammed the bit of plywood back into place and spun around. He'd seen enough to realize that a staged rescue would pose tremendous challenges.

"
Médico
," called the guerilla, resuming his stance at the door and waving him over. "
Tú y tu señora abajo ahora.
"

Jeremiah nodded. As expected, they were taking him and Emma together. He was grateful that Sammy had lied when interrogated.

He watched Emma give her daughter a swift hug. Then he crossed the room, took her hand in his, and together they headed downstairs to face their captors.

* * *

"
Quién es?
" The male voice coming from inside the locked door wobbled with fear.

Tristan glanced at the police detective who stood to one side of the door as a precaution against bullets. Standing on the other side of the door on the flower-covered patio, he put Juliet behind him, blocking her from moving with his arm.

"Inspector Canché,
Policía
," the detective called with authority.

A lock slid back and the door cracked open. Dark eyes pinned the detective mistrustfully then darted toward Tristan and Juliet.

The home belonged to Nacho Nuñez, employee of Yucatan Tours, who ought to have been on the missing tour bus. According to Canché, Nuñez had called his employer at seven o'clock that morning to tender his resignation. His actions, Canché had explained, suggested he knew something of this incident. This had to be Nuñez speaking to them through the four-inch opening.

"What do you want?" he asked.

Canché sent him a steady stare. "I think you know," he said.

Nuñez hung his head, stepped back, and pulled the door open. "Please, come in," he mumbled, his eyes darting toward the street.

They all stood in a miniscule living room. Tristan could hear a woman humming as pans rattled in the adjacent kitchen. A baby babbled happily. Why would Nuñez quit his job when he had a young family to support? Unless he'd known what was going to happen, as Tristan suspected.

Young and wiry, Nuñez gestured to the only furniture in the room, a sofa still covered in plastic. "Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water? Juice?"

"No, thank you." Canché perched on the edge of the sofa, prompting Juliet to do the same. Tristan remained standing, his eyes taking in their surroundings and the nervous man who attempted to offer them hospitality.

Wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt and looking as though he hadn't slept well the night before, Nuñez stood uncertainly before them, his hands tucked under his armpits.

Canché studied him a moment before speaking. "I'm investigating the incident of the hijacked tourist bus, the one you accompanied to Tulum yesterday."

Nuñez's Adam's apple rose and fell.

"You know that it went missing," Canché prompted.

"Yes."

"This is the sister of one of the missing tourists," the detective continued, introducing Juliet. "And this man's colleague was also on the bus," Canché added.

When Nuñez acknowledged him with a jerky nod, Tristan wanted to grab him by his shirt and shake the information out of him. Instead, he crossed his arms and waited.

"Why weren't you on the bus when it left Tulum,
Señor
Nuñez?" Canché asked.

The tour guide's brow furrowed. His chest rose and fell as he contemplated his reply. "Because I knew it wasn't safe," he finally answered.

A chill ran up Tristan's spine, and he glanced at Juliet, who seemed to slump slightly where she sat.

"I knew something bad was going to happen," Nuñez qualified on a hoarse note.

"How did you know?"

Dark eyes appealed to Canché for understanding. "I was heading back to the bus when I saw César Salvador talking to the driver."

Canché sat up straighter suggesting he recognized the name.

"Who is César Salvador?" Juliet demanded. Exactly what Tristan wanted to know.

"A bad seed," Canché answered. "How do
you
know him?" he demanded of Nuñez.

"We went to school together, here in Playa del Carmen." Nuñez dropped his hands to wipe his palms on his thighs. "César was a trouble-maker. He never finished school. He went to jail for selling drugs. I heard he got out last year, and now he's worse than ever. When I saw him talking to Paulo, I got a feeling they were planning something. I didn't want anything to do with it."

Tristan moved to sit by Juliet and put an arm around her though he wasn't sure how she'd react. Surprisingly, she let him, and against his side, he could feel her heart beating hard and fast.

"Why didn't you call the police?" Canché demanded.

Nuñez looked down at the tiled floor then at the wall separating them from his wife and baby. He then stepped closer. "Listen, if I tell you what I know, you have to help me," he implored. "Otherwise, César is going to send someone here to kill me. He knows I saw him talking to Paulo, and no one's heard from Paulo since yesterday afternoon."

The reason why Nuñez had quit his job became suddenly clear. He figured César would find him at work and silence him.

Canché considered the man's predicament. "Deal," he said, before standing and holding out a hand for Nuñez to shake. "The police will protect you,
Señor
Nuñez. Please, you must tell us what you know so we can find these people and save them."

Minutes later, they stood with Canché outside of Nuñez's house deciding what to do. If Nuñez was right, then César Salvador had probably taken his victims to Mérida, where, according to Canché, he likely had connections to a larger drug ring.

Tristan could picture exactly what kind of man this Salvador was—one who killed innocents and only cared about how much money he could squeeze out of victims. And if Bullfrog was still alive, then he was no doubt trying to figure out an escape plan to get himself and all the captives away from this killer.

"Mérida's outside of my jurisdiction," Canché said. "Worse than that, the police chief there is corrupt. Half the people working for him are involved in the narcotics trade. No one can be trusted."

Better and better, Tristan thought. Now he'd be without police help in a foreign land. Just then, his phone beeped. Nodding to Juliet, he stepped aside, hoping for some encouraging news.

Master Chief's voice at the other end seemed a long way away. But what little information he had confirmed what Nuñez had told them. Thanking his master chief, he hung up and rejoined the others.

"Looks like Nuñez might be right," he told them. "Master Chief says the GPS in Bullfrog's watch puts him in Mérida. I have the coordinates."

He watched as a ray of hope dispersed the dark clouds in Juliet's gray eyes.

"We need to leave for Mérida now," she said to him, but it sounded like a question.

"Agreed," Tristan said. "Master Chief is putting together a SAR team. They'll fly in to Mérida tomorrow."

"Search and Rescue team?" she guessed. He nodded back. Smart lady.

"I'm glad to hear it," Canché said.

So was Tristan. Finally, a concerted rescue effort was underway. Perhaps by this same time tomorrow, Bullfrog would be safe and Emma and Sammy would be reunited with Juliet—if they weren't among the tourists who'd been brutally killed. Tristan kept that caveat to himself, holding onto hope.

* * *

Sweeping an eye around the lower level inhabited by their captors, Jeremiah's blood ran cold. Last night, the room had been swept and tidy. The state it was in that morning, littered with broken glass, chicken bones, and reeking of urine, suggested that their captors weren't just greedy kidnappers. They were
narcos
, drug-dealers who lacked discipline and valued nothing beyond the fulfillment of their addictions.

Most of them still lounged in their hammocks, too hungover to rise even at this hour. Craterface lifted bloodshot eyes at Jeremiah and Emma as they neared the table where he sat, wreathed in smoke from his own cigarettes. He had spread out the ship passes and credit cards on the table's surface as if playing solitaire.

An old laptop sat within arm's reach with an unfamiliar browser open, suggesting the man had Wi-Fi. At their approach, he tipped his chair back on two legs to regard them coolly.

Emma's grip on his hand told Jeremiah she was stronger than she looked.

"
Señor y Señora Winters?
" The leader sent them a crafty smile.

"Yes," Jeremiah affirmed, taking small pleasure in the sound of her name linked with his, even if it was only make-believe.

Dropping the front legs of his chair to the floor, Craterface plucked up three of the ship's card—theirs and Sammy's. He made a show of comparing Emma's photo to how she looked now, white-faced with fear, her auburn hair in need of a comb. He then tried to say her name, butchering it with a Mexican accent.

"Ju no change jur name?" he asked.

"We just got married," she replied, her voice hoarse with fear. "I haven't had time yet."

Craterface showed her a bankcard with her name on it. "How much money ju haf?" he demanded.

"About a thousand dollars," she replied.

He tsked his tongue and shook his head. "I need fifty-thousand dollars. Ju have a
pariente
who can pay me? A relative?" he translated.

As far as Jeremiah knew, her only family was Juliet. The sisters had lost their parents to a tragic car accident years ago.

"Yes," she said, sounding not at all certain.

Craterface indicated the pad of paper and pen on the table in front of them where the hostages before them had jotted down email addresses. "
Escribe tu correo electrónico
," he demanded.

She bent over the notepad and, fighting the tremor in her hand, printed out Juliet's email address. Jeremiah took advantage of the leader's distraction to inventory possible escape routes.

He made out a back door at the rear of the open space, bolted shut like the front with multiple deadbolts. Opening either door from the inside would take only a couple of seconds, but he didn't have that long, not with nine armed guerillas at his back.