The Triple Frontier

by Marc Cameron

  The killings at the camp had rattled Justino. Angelica had handed down harsh sentences, but she’d never killed anyone, so far as he knew. He didn’t know what to say to her, so he said nothing, sitting across the room instead, watching and waiting to be told what to do.

  A small fan at the corner of the desk oscillated back and forth, caressing her bare shoulders and jostling her hair with every pass. Had Justino not been so terrified, it would have been sexy.

  Angelica stared at the monitor for a long moment, then closed her eyes, canting her head in thought. Justino knew this look, and it made the back of his head throb. Defendants in Judge Medina’s courtroom all knew they were doomed if she closed her eyes and turned her head just so.

  “What?” Justino said from his spot on the uncomfortable hotel couch. “What have you found?”

  Angelica rose from her chair, her head still canted, one eye half closed. Justino started to speak again but she held up her hand to shush him.

  She shrugged the dressing gown back over her shoulders. Justino couldn’t help but notice her fingers trembled as she knotted the cord. He’d never seen her kill someone before, certainly not people in her own employ. It made sense that she would be a little shaky after that.

  “I am merely exhausted,” she said. “We should get some rest before returning to the camp.”

  “But you found something?” Justino pressed. “Is it a problem with the ransom?”

  Angelica sighed, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Eva Turcott is a problem,” she said. “I’d hoped to keep everyone alive for a few days in case we needed them, but I think we need to go ahead and have Jelly take care of her.”

  Justino’s mouth fell open. He’d hoped there would be some way out of this madness, some way that didn’t leave a half dozen unmarked graves in the back of his cattle pasture. “Why so soon?”

  “Eva is not who we thought she was,” Angelica said. She picked up her mobile from the desk. “The sooner Jelly makes her disappear the better.”

  Chapter 12

  Soledad had Jericho and the others fed and watered and back en route to the cattle market by two-thirty in the morning. There’d been plenty of coffee and milanesa, but Quinn could only pick at his food. Soledad convinced him to eat a few bites and take a to go mug of yerba mate, which tasted to Quinn like hay and hot water, but at least it woke him up.

  They arrived in the rundown Mataderos neighborhood of Buenos Aires a half hour later, parking among rusty livestock trailers and junked pickups behind the block and stucco colonial building that housed the banks that financed the various cattle sales. The business side of the operation had yet to open at the early hour, but the whistle of gauchos and the lowing of cattle drifted through the warm darkness. Mataderos meant slaughterhouse—a convenient term for Quinn’s mood.

  Thibodaux took a deep breath. “Smells like money.”

  Miyagi shot him a sideways glance.

  Soledad smiled. “Money indeed,” she said. “We Argentines each consume, on average, a hundred and fifty pounds of beef per year.” She pointed beyond a two-story office building to the right. “My contact will be inside. This man, Viscacha, will probably be out working the lanes, sorting the cattle as they are dropped off at the far end of the facility. I will go into the office and tell them I am doing research for a news story, ask permission to look around.”

  She had changed into a fashionable white cotton blouse, form-fitting jeans, and only slightly more sensible flats, explaining that while they were skilled in the use of guns and knives, she was quite comfortable using the weapons God had given her.

  She returned from the office a few minutes later with something long and white in her hand.

  “Free calendars,” she said, holding up the roll of cardboard. “People are always giving me things.” She pointed behind her with the calendars. “This place is very large, but we have permission to walk the catwalks to look around. I told the office manager that I might want to chat with a few of the gauchos, and that I was looking for someone with a unique look for the camera—not handsome. He said there is one named Rudolfo who looks like a viscacha. He’s calling him on the radio now. We can meet him up on the catwalks.”

  “Outstanding,” Quinn said, tapping the hilt of the gaucho knife under the tail of his shirt.

  Acres of cattle, separated into holding pens of the same color and grade, ran along broad driving lanes below the metal catwalks. Buyers would be able to look down from ten or fifteen feet above and bid on the cattle as the auctioneer moved from lot to lot. The pens were already filling to capacity with animals bunched tightly in each one. Men in gaucho berets sat on sheepskin saddle pads, riding up and down the lanes on thick-necked Criollo horses. Some worked livestock, others were buyers who’d arrived early to survey the product without being rushed. Cowboys on foot moved up and down the alleys, driving small herds of newly unloaded animals, sorting them with long poles with plastic bags fastened to the ends.

  Torture had given the cattle prod a bad reputation in Argentina. Soledad walked out in front of the group, with Quinn and Thibodaux—and their much more imposing looks—bringing up the rear. Miyagi remained in the shadows, disappearing as only she knew how to disappear. Her job was not to look for Viscacha, but to watch for incoming threats—the “goats” from Thibodaux’s story.

  Even the best plans had a way of evaporating at the slightest change of wind, and this one was not even really a plan. Unfortunately, Viscacha was in the middle of a smoke break instead of where his boss thought him to be. Instead of meeting them head-on, he climbed up the catwalk from behind them. He’d been told over the radio that Soledad San Martín wanted to talk to him, but when he caught sight of the mountainous Cajun and an extremely serious Jericho Quinn, he jumped the pipe railing of the catwalk and ran into the darkness.

  “Watch him!” Quinn hissed to Jacques as he vaulted over the side, and straight into a pen full of milling black cattle.

  Quinn pushed his way through the frightened cows, feeling the heat and humidity that surrounded their bodies. They were packed too tightly to stampede or do much of anything but bawl and take a few terrified steps from one side of the pen to the other.

  Viscacha hopped the wooden corral as if pursued by the devil, never once looking back. Quinn could hear Thibodaux running above. Maybe Miyagi was somewhere she could get ahead.

  Viscacha cut back under the catwalk, making it impossible for Thibodaux to follow without going halfway around the yard or coming off the catwalk altogether. He didn’t slow down when he reached the alley, darting in front of a herd of oncoming cattle. Quinn pulled up short, narrowly avoiding being trampled. The cowboy at the back waved his stick and shouted something in Spanish but Quinn ran past as soon as the bulk of the cattle went past, waving his hands to cause the last few animals to shy and stop in their tracks.

  He wasn’t about to let the only clue he had slip away.

  Running again, Quinn bowed his head and dug in to pick up speed. In front of him, Viscacha ducked around a small outbuilding at the back of the yard.

  In different circumstances, Quinn might have slowed down, made a more cautious approach. This guy could very well have a weapon.

  Quinn swung wide instead, minimizing a possible ambush from running straight around a blind corner. He nearly tripped over the prone body of the man he’d been chasing. A large figure towered over him in the shadows. At first he thought it was Thibodaux, but he wasn’t quite that large—and the big Cajun was behind him.

  Quinn was surprised by little in the world, but took a half step back when the man stepped out of the shadows with both hands raised.

  “Dad?”

  * * *

  “What’d you think I would do?” Pete Quinn said once they’d secured an unconscious Viscacha and stowed him in the trunk of the elder Quinn’s rental car.

  Both Miyagi and Thibodaux seemed amused at Jericho’s sudden loss of composure. Neither had ever seen him this off kilter, but the appearance o
f his father had caught him on the back foot.

  “I honestly don’t know,” Jericho said. “Maybe call me and let me handle it.”

  “Does that sound like something anyone in this family would do? Put yourself in my position.”

  “How did you know to come here and look for Viscacha?”

  “Your brother had me down as an emergency contact,” Pete Quinn said. “I was at the boat show in LA and hopped the first flight to Buenos Aires. I rented a car and went to the spot where Bo was taken. There’s a little guard shack there. I assumed whoever was in it at the time of the kidnapping probably saw something. There was a calendar inside for this cattle auction with today’s date circled. I figured I’d come here and see what I could find out. It was slim, I know, but my gut said it was worth looking into and I ended up running into this meathead.” He looked at Thibodaux with a narrow eye. “And anyway, what’s a viscacha?”

  Soledad stepped forward, extending her hand. “Your gut was correct,” she said, introducing herself. “I see where Jericho gets his instinct and his good looks.”

  Pete Quinn gave a shrug. “Not sure about the intellect, but he got his looks from my wife.”

  Jericho couldn’t help but smile inside. Pete Quinn never missed the opportunity to mention his bride when speaking to a beautiful woman.

  A pounding from the trunk of the rental car brought everyone back to the matter at hand.

  “You were right,” Jericho said, as Thibodaux hauled out the mortified Rudolfo.

  Soledad had found a photograph of a viscacha on the Internet, and it was easy to see where this guy got his nickname. Big ears stuck out on either side of equally large eyes. His nose was screwed up as if preparing for a sneeze that never came. The split top lip that Quinn’s father had given him only added to the look of a terrified rodent.

  Surrounded by a beautiful journalist and four extremely stern foreigners, Viscacha began talking with little prompting. He quickly identified a photograph of Bo from Pete’s cellphone, admitting that he’d seen him along with four others taken from their motorcycles early the morning before. Bo was, according to Viscacha, alive when last he saw him, though badly stunned from a blow to the back of his helmet. “I only saw his face because the kidnappers took his helmet off to make sure he was still alive.”

  Viscacha shied away from giving names at first, but, caught between the elder Quinn and Thibodaux, made the wise choice to tell everything.

  Soledad translated.

  “I did not know all the men involved,” Viscacha said, nearly in tears. “They were wearing masks, but am sure I recognized two of them. The one who hit the blonde man is very small, almost like a child. He is called La Pulga. The other one is called Jelly. I could tell by his great size and the fact that he was with The Flea. Both men work for a judge in Misiones. I only know because my sister wanted to adopt a baby and the judge sold her one. It cost ten thousand U.S. dollars, but my sister did not care. She just wanted a baby. I went with my sister to pick the child up and the men called La Pulga and Jelly were there, to make sure my sister paid her money, I think. You do not forget men like that.”

  “This judge,” Jericho said. “What’s his name?”

  Viscacha gave an emphatic shake of his head, speaking in heavily accented English now. “The judge is not a man, señor. Her name is Angelica Medina. She is quite beautiful for an older woman.”

  Soledad and Miyagi, who were both in their forties, rolled their eyes.

  Jericho snapped his fingers in front of Viscacha’s face to bring him back on track. “Let’s say Judge Medina kidnapped someone. Where would she take them?”

  Viscacha sighed, weighing his options. A look from Pete Quinn let him know he didn’t have any. “One of two places. I did a little research when I found out where my sister was getting her baby. Judge Medina is a known to be a busca panzas—one who looks for pregnant bellies—to help women like my sister who cannot have children of their own. There is a good chance your friends will be at one of two places, a yerba mate plantation east of Iguazú Falls or a cattle farm that is so close to the Paraná River it is almost in Paraguay.”

  “Draw me a map,” Jericho said.

  “It will not be exact,” Viscacha said. “But I know the general area. The locations are a matter of public record. I found them myself on the Internet.”

  Soledad gave a slight nod, letting the others know this was correct.

  “There is one more thing,” Viscacha said. “Judge Medina is married, and I cannot be certain of this, but from the whispered conversations she had with Jelly, I believe the two are lovers.”

  Chapter 13

  Hours of pain and worry eventually pushed Bo into a dreamless sleep. The warmth of Alma’s skin against his kept him there for over an hour. Both awoke to the sound of Steven’s frenzied cries as Jelly and one of the other men dragged Eva across the tile floor by her arms. It was dark in the little house, but the fire was going again outside and Bo could see in the flickering light through the open front door that she was awake, and fully conscious of the fact that she was being dragged to her death.

  Steven tried to follow but Jelly just shoved him back down. The other guard gave him a boot to the ribs to keep him there.

  “I love you,” Eva said.

  Steven continued to scream until she was out the door. And then he turned his attention to Matt, still slumped by himself on the other side of the room.

  “This is your doing!” Steven hissed, spittle flying. His eyes blazed in the darkness. “You cowardly piece of shit! You got her killed. You! Do you understand?” His head sank to his knees. “Oh, Eva . . .”

  “I didn’t even tell them,” Matt said, dumbfounded.

  “But you told them she was worth a lot of money,” Alma said, refusing to let him off the hook. “And you would have told La Pulga everything if he’d let you.”

  Matt began to hyperventilate. “I just . . . I just don’t want to die.”

  Bo sighed. “We’re all going to die,” he said. “But the rest of us get to die with some dignity.”

  Steven’s head snapped up. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll kill you. If it’s the last thing I do—”

  Eva’s screams stopped him cold. They all turned to look toward the door.

  A single gunshot cracked outside. Bo’s heart sank. Everyone bowed their heads and Alma began to pray in Spanish.

  And then, Eva screamed again, this time with more gusto. Men shouted and more gunshots followed on the heels of the first.

  Bo recognized the sound of a gunfight when he heard it. The flat crack of pistol fire and the louder, reverberating booms of a rifle. Rounds snapped against the bricks outside. Men spoke in hushed tones, firing back, and then yelling something Bo couldn’t understand.

  The shooting stopped and La Pulga appeared a moment later, backlit in the doorway. Tigre, the guard with the gap in his front teeth, stood beside him leading Eva by the arm. He shoved her inside.

  Steven fell back against the wall in shock.

  “Get dressed,” La Pulga said, sneering triumphantly. He pulled his pistol and pointed it at Alma. “Tigre will remove your handcuffs. I have no time for games. If you try anything I will kill you all.”

  A man with his hair greased back like a wood duck came behind Tigre. Someone outside had built up the fire and it was easier to see.

  “There will be no need for that, La Pulga,” the man said, blue eyes shifting around the room, dwelling on Alma’s long legs. He nodded, like someone who’d found what they were looking for in a supermarket, and then gave a little smile. “We are going to a new, more comfortable home,” he said, clapping his hands, each finger wearing a ring.

  A slender woman wearing tall leather boots came in next. She was deeply tanned with flaxen hair that appeared to glow in the firelight. She whispered something into the man’s ear. He was obviously the boss.

  “Excellent,” the man said. “Violeta tells me my plane will be here momentarily. Please, Tigre, u
nhook them so they can put their clothing back on. There is a time to take away someone’s clothes—and that time has not yet come. We are not savages.”

  The prisoners huddled together as they climbed back into their clammy riding gear.

  Bo leaned in closer to Eva. “What happened out there?”

  “Jelly led me away from the fire,” she said. “He said he was sorry he had to shoot me but the judge said it was ‘a necessity.’ I never saw anybody with such cold eyes. He had his gun up and everything, about to do it, but La Pulga shot him instead. Then a bunch of other men came out of the trees with rifles. The two guys around the fire tried to shoot it out, but they were drunk and only had handguns. La Pulga and Tigre are the only ones left.”

  “The judge?” Bo asked.

  The man with the slick hair laughed at that. “I thought she would be here by now,” he said. “She owes me a great deal of money and I thought I might collect before . . . well, you know.”

  The drone of an aircraft engine overhead came in through the door. It had landed by the time Tigre had replaced the cuffs, this time with everyone’s hands behind their backs. A thickset man with a gleaming bald head peeked in from outside.

  “We are ready to go, Señor Richter.”

  “Outstanding,” Richter said, motioning toward the door with a flourish. “Please, after you.”

  “You know we’re worth a lot of money,” Matt said, unable to help himself. “My father can make it worth your while. And you already know who Eva is, or you wouldn’t have had your men—”

  “I know much, Mr. King,” Richter said. “I think it’s best you keep quiet.”

  “Okay,” Matt said. “I just wanted to make sure you’re aware of the entire situation since you’re a new player.”

  “I am,” Richter said, rolling his eyes, clearly annoyed.

  Bo smiled, trying his best to look as unthreatening as possible. “Come on, Matt,” he said. “Let’s just get to the plane.”