The Triple Frontier

by Marc Cameron

  La Pulga, Bo mused. The Flea. That suited this little squirt better than Ivy League.

  “Not yet,” the fat one in back said, still focused on Bo. “But if I am right, and you are worthless, I will be the one to put a bullet in your eye—after my friend and I show your girlfriend what it means to have a real man.”

  Bo heaved a deep sigh. “You’ll have to hunt a real man, because that ain’t you by a long shot.”

  The fat one lunged across the van. Bo fell forward to meet him, landing with the full weight of his body against the broken leg. It would probably get him beaten to death, but he couldn’t remember anything so satisfying.

  The fat one recoiled as if he’d been set on fire, yowling and cursing. “Pelotudo! I will cut off your head!”

  Bruno grabbed Bo and pulled him back across the van, cuffing him hard in the ear and cutting the inside of his cheek against his teeth.

  Bo spit a mouthful of blood onto the van floor in contempt. “A real man?” He glared. “I just kicked your ass with my hands cuffed behind my back.”

  The injured man growled as if to attack again, but La Pulga pushed him back. “Sit down, Toro,” he hissed. “He only tries to make us angry. Be patient. We will have some fun with them this evening.” The Flea spoke in English, no doubt so Bo could understand.

  Toro, Bo nodded to himself. That made sense. The fat piece of shit looked like a baby bull. Bo had been awake for five minutes and he already knew three of the kidnapper’s names, or at least their street names. If he got a chance, Bo would kill The Flea first. He was evil, even more so than Toro. But being evil didn’t make you a pro. These guys were all thugs—even if they did wear designer clothes—but their behavior made Bo doubt they’d ever kidnapped anyone before. The Flea bounced with excitement at the opportunities that lay before him. In some ways, their inexperience was a good thing. Common burglars would surely make more mistakes than a group of polished kidnappers. But amateurs sometimes realized they were in over their heads. And if they got bored with whatever torment they had planned and decided to throw in the towel, Bo and everyone with him would end up in some remote pasture, buried under Argentine dirt.

  It was obvious they knew who Steven Grey was, but sooner or later, somebody was going to figure out who else they had, and when they did, things were liable to go from bad to bloody very fast.

  Chapter 4

  “Not a chance in hell, Chair Force,” Thibodaux said, throwing his small duffel bag in the backseat of Emiko Miyagi’s Acura MDX. “We’re not letting you go down there all by yourself. We like Bo too, in case you forgot.”

  Quinn shook his head. “We’ll have no support from Palmer on this,” he said.

  Miyagi looked on passively. She’d changed into a navy blue three-button polo and jeans that looked tighter than they actually were, hugging her hips while still allowing her freedom of movement in a fight. Both Quinn and Thibodaux wore button-down shirts they could leave untucked and 5.11 khaki slacks, absent the shoot-me-first cargo pockets that identified the wearer as possible law enforcement or, at the very least, a gun guy.

  “That is all the more reason for us to accompany you, Quinn-san,” Miyagi said. “One of your loved ones is in trouble, so you are in trouble. Would you not do the same for us?”

  Quinn sighed and threw his bag into the back with Thibodaux’s. Emiko drove so he could continue with his calls.

  Both Jericho and Jacques kept go bags at Miyagi’s, obviating the need to return to their respective homes if they were suddenly activated. Quinn’s decidedly non-tactical looking Haley Strategic FlatPack didn’t have much inside, the bulk of the room taken up by a change of clothes—another pair of khakis, a second no-iron button down shirt, underwear, socks, and a Smartwool quarter-zip sweater. In addition to the extra clothing, he had a small trauma kit, a Leatherman Wave multitool, a half-roll of toilet paper, fire-starting rod, two flashlights, a Riot fixed-blade knife, duct tape, cordage, and several pairs of black nitrile gloves.

  Flying on Grey’s Citation rather than going commercially allowed him to keep the blades in the carry-on bag. Even so, it would be impossible to get firearms into Argentina without some advanced planning. Quinn preferred not to dwell on what couldn’t be helped. If Bo had been kidnapped, there were bound to be weapons around when he needed them.

  He called back the emergency transponder company, gave his reference number, and was connected with the same dispatcher he’d spoken with before. Buenos Aires City police had found five motorcycles, all still loaded down with gear, in the middle of the residential street, all on their sides. The one with the SOS device—Bo’s Harley—had some damage to the front forks, and a substance they believed to be blood on the fender. They were in the middle of interviewing residents in the area, but had no witnesses so far. The police commander on scene suspected it was all a traffic accident and had his men checking nearby hospitals.

  Quinn thanked the dispatcher and said he would call back in fifteen minutes for an update.

  “Perhaps it was a simple accident,” Miyagi said.

  “Perhaps,” Quinn said. He closed his eyes, trying to picture a set of circumstances where Bo would activate the SOS button, abandon all the motorcycles and gear on the side of the street, and then not answer his cell. Either he and everyone else in the group were so badly injured that they couldn’t make telephone calls—or they’d been kidnapped. Jericho knew his brother. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. The probability of him surviving a kidnapping where he was in charge of security was slim to none.

  Quinn tried to push the odds stacked against his brother out of his mind and called Ronnie Garcia.

  She picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey you,” she said, her voice husky from sleep. An intelligence officer for the CIA, she’d been on assignment in the Philippines for the past three weeks. She should have been coming home, but the job had gone long—as they usually did.

  “Sorry,” Quinn said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s okay,” Garcia said. “It’s just after eight here. I have an op tonight so I was just grabbing a short nap. Need my beauty sleep, you know, because I’ll be seeing you in a week or two.”

  Quinn could picture her broad smile, her long black hair across the pillow.

  “A couple of weeks, huh?”

  He brought her up to speed on the situation with Bo.

  “Jericho,” she gasped. The bed squeaked on the other end of the line as she sat up. A hint of her Cuban accent emerged when she was excited or nervous. “This is awful. I’ll grab a flight out right away.”

  “No,” Quinn said. “Jacques and Emiko are coming with me. You stay put and finish your op. I just needed to hear your voice.”

  “But Jericho, I—”

  “I’m serious, Ronnie.” Quinn cut her off. “We’ll be on the ground in thirteen hours. I’m hoping this will all be a good war story by the time you could even make it to us.”

  “I could help with the Spanish though.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” Quinn said, “Jacques speaks Italian. He’ll be able to get the gist of everything.”

  “E la veritá,” Thibodaux said from the back seat, keeping things light even in the middle of a crisis. “Mi speaka the Italiano.”

  “Buenos Aires, right?” Garcia said. “You’ll be there this evening.”

  “Correct,” Quinn said. He glanced at his Aquaracer. “I’m estimating around ten or eleven tonight Argentina time.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Hear me out before you say no. I have a friend in Buenos Aires who I went to college with in Florida. She speaks fluent English and has enough contacts throughout the government that she can cut through some of the red tape. There are just two problems.”

  Quinn leaned back against the headrest. “I’ll take all the help I can get to help me find Bo. What’s the problem though?”

  “She’s beautiful,” Garcia said. “I hate hooking you up with someone as gorgeous as Soledad San Martín.”
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  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Quinn said.

  “I know you wouldn’t. You get to hang out with Soledad.”

  “Anyway,” Quinn said, wanting to change the subject. He worked in the world of espionage, but he wasn’t James Bond. “It will be good to have someone on the inside of Argentine law enforcement.”

  Garcia’s sigh was audible over the line. “That’s the other problem,” she said. “Soledad isn’t law enforcement or intelligence. She’s a reporter.”

  Chapter 5

  Justino Medina rubbed bloodshot eyes with the palms of his hands and read over the email, checking for at least the hundredth time that he’d not accidentally used his actual email account. The kidnapping made it obvious that he was somewhere in Argentina, but he wanted the message to bounce around the world before it dropped into Riley Grey’s inbox. Sending a ransom demand via email to a man who was a billionaire because of his computer expertise was a harrowing task.

  Justino had been up most of the night researching Virtual Proxy Networks and various computer programs that would anonymize emails. He thought he had it figured out, but there was only one way to be sure. He’d heard that the police kept a record of people who purchased such programs. He would, were he a policeman. It seemed like the smart thing to do if one wanted to catch kidnappers.

  Angelica hovered above him, hand on the computer desk, thick hair brushing against his face. A red silk robe hung open to reveal the swells and valleys where her black nightgown clung to the contours of her body. The odor of her rosewater soap usually intoxicated him, but he could think of nothing now but the two possible outcomes that lay before him—prison or the loss of his toes to Fernando Richter’s blade.

  Convincing pregnant women to give up their babies for a modest fee was illegal, and, if Justino thought on it for too long, despicably immoral, but it was relatively safe. Angelica was a judge. She could protect them from any fallout from a crime so petty as belly hunting. And anyway, it was a service to society. Oh, they might weep and sling snot at the thought of giving up a baby, but in the end, even the women knew it was best for their little bundle of fat to go to a rich couple. What was it to them if the Medinas made a few dollars for their trouble?

  Kidnapping was a different story. Justino had never done anything remotely so dangerous. Moving the drugs for Fernando Richter had been a horrible mistake—but the danger lay in the association with a madman, not in the crime itself. Local law enforcement cared little about a few hundred pounds of drugs going downriver, especially if Judge Angelica Medina was involved in the transaction. Money trickled down from her schemes, and so long as the trickling continued, no one in the province of Misiones took much of an interest.

  But a kidnapping scheme meant physical violence to take the hostages into custody—sucking them up, the army used to call it—and then more brutality to keep them there. Justino had defended enough criminal thugs to know that violence was a stampeding horse. Once running, the beast was nearly impossible to turn.

  “There is no turning back once I push send,” Justino said, imploring his wife to reconsider this reckless plan.

  Her beautiful lips trembled as if in anticipation. She’d always been excited at the prospect of danger. “Mi amor,” she said. “Jelly has five North Americans tied up in the rear of his van. It is far too late to turn back.”

  Justino took a deep breath in and out through his mouth, attempting to slow his runaway heart. “Read it over once more, then, to make sure I have typed what you wish to say.”

  Angelica pushed a pair of purple glasses lower on her nose and leaned in closer, one hand squeezing her husband’s shoulder, her lips nibbling his ear as she read.

  “Dear Mr. Grey:

  Your son, Steven, now finds himself the unwilling guest of some very dangerous people. We offer our assistance in negotiating his safe return from these monsters.

  Please reply to this email immediately.

  A one-time fee of three hundred thousand U.S. dollars . . .”

  Angelica took a half step back to stare at him. “That cannot be right. You ask only for three hundred thousand?”

  Justino gave an emphatic nod. “Two hundred thousand for what we owe Richter, and one hundred thousand to pay for Jelly, La Pulga, the pilot, and the remainder of our expenses.”

  “Oh, my darling,” Angelica sighed. “You think on much too small a scale.” She bumped him aside with her hip so she could get to the keyboard, reading as she corrected the email.

  “. . . A one-time fee of three million U.S. dollars will facilitate the negotiations. Instructions regarding the transfer of these funds will follow.

  We humbly await your speedy reply.

  Please note, involving the police in any way would put your son in grave danger during the negotiation process.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Magoya”

  “Magoya” was the Argentine version of John Doe.

  Justino put a hand on top of his bald head, feeling an immediate flush of sweat.

  “Three million? I think that might be asking too much.”

  “Nonsense,” Angelica said, pressing the send key before Justino could prevail. “Riley Grey’s empire is worth billions. A few million dollars is pocket change to such a man.”

  “That kind of money changes people,” Justino said.

  “Of course it does, my darling.” Angelica batted long lashes.

  “That kind of money changes them into people with larger houses and better cars. It changes them into world travelers and people who own villas in Tuscany.”

  “But this is our home,” Justino said, struggling to keep his voice from cracking. “We would be targets here with so much wealth.”

  “We will get a new home,” Angelica said. “Better than this dump.”

  “I thought you loved this—”

  A heavy rapping at the door nearly sent Justino out of his skin. He sat frozen in his chair. “Do you think . . .”

  Angelica rolled her eyes as she pulled her robe closed and tied a knot in the sash. “No, the police have not traced the ransom note back to our computer. I doubt Grey has even had time to open the email. Now turn off the screen while I see who it is.”

  She strode across the living room on long legs, flinging open the door as if she was certain it was an old friend.

  It was not.

  Fernando Richter stood on the other side of the metal security gate five feet away, hands clasped at his waist as if in prayer. He wore his customary white shirt with the sleeves rolled halfway up his hairy forearms. His black hair was slicked with pomade and combed straight back over a high forehead. Descending from members of a colony of Germans who’d immigrated to Paraguay after World War II, he was proud of his Aryan heritage—at least the part that had not been diluted by his grandfathers’ intermarrying with Guarani Indians. Blue eyes sparkled with the sort of dark mischief of a man who enjoyed watching the pain of others. Richter was not a big man. Justino had him by a good forty pounds, but The German gave off a predatory air that made him seem much larger. His girlfriend, Violeta, stood beside him, the imprint of a pistol under the tail of her tight black t-shirt. Heavy black boots, presumably for kicking puppies and small children that got in her way, added to her height and saw her towering above Richter. He didn’t seem to mind. Violeta was attractive enough, in the way that a piece of rich mahogany lumber was attractive. Fit and trim with a bosom Angelica swore was purchased rather than inherited, her shoulder-length hair was the color of dried pampas grass and stood out in stark contrast to deeply tanned skin. She looked like a child’s Barbie doll that had been toasted in the oven. Some said she was Richter’s brain. That may have been correct, for she was certainly not his soul. Justino suspected neither of them possessed one of those.

  Two men Justino recognized but didn’t know stood directly behind the gangster.

  “How goes it, my friends?” Richter said.

  “Our debt is not yet due!” Justino blurted out.<
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  Angelica turned to shoot him a glare.

  Violeta chuckled. She licked her lips as if the meat of a terrified man might be appetizing.

  Richter raised his hand and smiled. “A contract is a contract,” he said. “We are not here to collect.”

  Angelica cocked her head to one side. It amazed Justino how she could remain so calm under the circumstances.

  “How may we help you then, Fernando?” she asked, one hand on the doorframe.

  “We are business partners,” Richter said. “Are you not going to invite me in?”

  Angelica pushed a button beside the door and buzzed open the outer gate. Stepping back, she motioned him in with a flourish. “Of course,” she said. “Our home is your home.” She pushed the door closed immediately after Richter and Violeta came through, blocking the other two men’s path. One of them, a vicious-looking brute with a bald head, stuck out his boot to keep it from closing.

  “You are not my business partner,” Angelica said, calm as if asking someone for directions. “You will have to remain outside.”

  Both the men and Violeta looked at Richter for direction.

  “It is fine,” he said, giving a flick of his hand. He wore a ring on every finger. “Violeta and I will not be long.”

  Angelica shut the door and turned to Richter. She tightened the sash to her robe. Justino knew she kept a small pistol in the pocket. He’d even made fun of her for it, but was grateful she had the little thing now.

  “May I offer you some toast?” she asked. “Some mate or coffee?”

  Richter flicked his hand again. “We are fine. Please allow me to come right to the point. I understand you have five Norte Americanos as your . . . shall we say, guests.”

  Angelica took a step backward, mouth open.

  “That is our business,” she said. “How could you possibly have known?”

  Richter shrugged. “Your husband told me.”