The Wrong Hostage

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “I just—”

  “Yeah,” he cut in. “I know. You just don’t want to believe. Neither does anyone else. Yet it’s all there for anyone who reads Mexican newspapers. The most notorious of the good cop–good cop battles were between Mexican federal drug agents on one side and Mexican army soldiers on the other. The prize was a jetliner loaded with six tons of Colombian cocaine. The federales were outgunned and massacred. People on the inside said the federales were more interested in the resale value of the cargo than in law enforcement.”

  “How can that happen?” she demanded. “Mexico is a civilized country with laws, a constitution, elections, paved streets, electricity, highly developed arts, and—”

  “Mexican federal or state judicial policemen are paid a thousand dollars a month by the government,” Faroe cut in impatiently. “They can make five to ten thousand a month by riding shotgun for the traffickers. In Mexico, like most of the world, police corruption is common. But here in Baja, the corruption is systemic, institutionalized. Venality is god and there’s no lack of money for the collection plate.”

  “Words,” Grace said. “Rumors. Opinions. Prejudices.”

  “Facts. A federal comandante’s badge costs a half million dollars. Of course, the average dude can’t come up with five hundred thousand dollars all at once. He has to mortgage his future and use his badge to raise the installment payments. He has to impose his own tax on the criminals in the street, then pass a portion of his earnings up the chain of command. That’s how you get hired in the first place. You always kick back part of your street taxes.”

  Reluctantly, Grace looked at Faroe. He was watching the road with the relaxed intensity that was his hallmark.

  “Are you listening, amada?” he asked without turning toward her. “Really listening? Despite the crooks that swaggered or tiptoed through your court, you don’t know shit from shoe polish when it comes to living in the Mexico that drug money has made.”

  “I’m listening. I’m just not liking anything I’m hearing.”

  “Did I ask you to like it?”

  “No.”

  Faroe checked the mirrors. “In Mexico, bribery used to be called la mordida, the little bite. Now it’s called el sistema and the system reaches all the way up the chain of command to Mexico City. And since the system moves anywhere from a quarter to half a trillion dollars a year—”

  “Don’t you mean billion?” she interrupted.

  “No, I mean trillion, as in one thousand billion, the kind of number only astronomers and dope dealers work with. Think of it. One. Thousand. Billion. You could count grains of sand on the beach for a thousand lifetimes and still not get to a trillion.”

  “It’s—it’s hard to get my mind around it. Impossible, frankly.”

  “Yeah. That’s how the traffickers get away with it. When the average citizen hears the facts, his eyes just glaze over and he goes back to the TV remote to find a friendlier world. But that doesn’t change the other world, the shadow world, where the little bites of corruption get bigger, richer, harder to digest as a society. Money pours through the streets like half-digested banquets washed through the gutters of a Roman vomitorium.”

  Grace grimaced.

  “That’s why you don’t like going to Tijuana,” he said. “At a gut level you know the city is feral. You can’t trust it.”

  “Not all of it. But some of it, surely.”

  Faroe shrugged. “Drug lords like Hector and his clan live in the best neighborhoods. Just like the mob does in Chicago or Manhattan. The difference is, the mob doesn’t actually own whole police departments and judicial courts the way the narcotraficantes do in Mexico.”

  Grace thought of Hector and Lane. “If you know, or even just believe, what you’re saying, why did you choose to work in Mexico?”

  “It’s because I know, and believe, that I wanted to put whatever bit of weight I could on the side of civilization,” Faroe said. “To be effective, I had to understand the reality on the streets, to accept the reality of violence. I had to control my own fear of death or fear itself would kill me.”

  She looked at him. His hands were like his voice, calm and relaxed.

  I had to control my own fear of death or fear itself would kill me.

  “It’s not that I don’t care about dying,” he said. “It’s just that in order to survive, I’ve become pretty much a fatalist. When it comes, there it is. Until then, it isn’t anywhere.”

  “Like the chubasco,” Grace said, gesturing to the clouds slowly seething over the ocean. “The storm is and it isn’t. It may never get here, to me. So fearing or anticipating it wastes my energy, my life.”

  He smiled slightly. “You’re getting closer.”

  “To what?”

  “The followers of the Code of Bushido have a saying: The only really effective way to fight is to understand that you’re already dead. Accept that and you’re free to fight as a warrior of the mind as well as the body.”

  “But what should I do about my fear for Lane? How would you handle that?”

  Faroe was silent for a long time. Then he reached out and slid his fingers through her hair, down her cheek. “I hope I’d do as well as you have.”

  “Have I?”

  “Sure,” he said, giving his full attention back to driving. “You found the best help you could and then you went looking for throats to rip out.”

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  21

  THE BLACK CHEVROLET SUBURBAN had moved from the shoulder to the center of the dirt road, blocking it completely. The same Mexican in blue jeans and a dusty guayabera leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, his M16 rifle slung muzzle down over his shoulder. A second guard slouched in the driver’s seat of the Suburban.

  Faroe decided the second guard was the boss—he had the most comfortable chair. Another weapon propped against the frame of the window had a flash suppressor.

  Nothing but the best for these boys, Faroe thought as he ran down the SUV’s tinted windows so the guard could see inside.

  When the sentry noted the California license plate on the Mercedes, he straightened up and said something over his shoulder. Then he strolled toward the Mercedes looking confident and suspicious. He studied Faroe without expression, then Grace.

  Surprise flickered across the guard’s face. He slid his hand down the strap of the rifle, lifted the weapon, and let the muzzle move slowly past Faroe’s face before stopping at a point somewhere in the neutral territory between him and Grace.

  “What you want?” the guard demanded. His English was rude but functional.

  “Judge Silva needs to check on the welfare of her son,” Faroe said.

  “No is possible.”

  Faroe dropped his chin and looked hard at the Mexican. There was a badge on his belt. Faroe studied the badge like a man memorizing something.

  “Of course it’s possible,” Faroe said.

  “No, man,” the guard said. “No es—is not my order.”

  “Check your orders again. Señor Calderón and Señor Rivas assured the judge that she could visit her son at any time. We’ll wait while you confer with your superior officer.”

  With that Faroe turned away, ignoring the guard and his weapon equally. With a wink the guard couldn’t see, Faroe reached over and touched Grace on the knee. It was an unmistakable gesture of intimacy, a lover’s touch.

  “Who are you, señor?” the guard demanded.

  “A close friend of the family,” Faroe said over his shoulder. “Real close.”

  He turned back to Grace, smiled, stroked her knee, and ignored the guard. Frustrated, the federale walked back to the Suburban. He spoke briefly to the man behind the wheel. The supervisor stared across the gap between the two vehicles. Finally he reached for a cell phone and punched in a number. When the call was answered, he spoke for a time, listened, then all but saluted.

  “Sí, mi jefe,” Faroe said under his breath, reading the officer’s lip
s. “That tells us Hector and his boys aren’t interested in pissing you off.”

  “What do you call kidnapping my son—a playful pat?” Grace retorted.

  “In this game, you use anything you can lay your hands on. Did you notice that he didn’t even blink when I mentioned Carlos and Hector Rivas in the same breath?”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” she said automatically.

  “Here we go again,” Faroe said, shaking his head. “I can hear it dancing on your tongue. ‘Carlos is a member of one of the most prominent families in all of Mexico. He couldn’t be involved with traffickers. He just couldn’t.’”

  “Billionaires don’t hang out with gangsters.”

  “Bullshit. There are a lot of places in the world where billionaires and gangsters are the same dudes. Or do you have a better explanation for the fact that we’re staring down two members of the Mexican federal judicial police who are actively involved in the kidnapping of an American citizen who happens to be the son of a billionaire and a federal judge?”

  “Damn you,” she said hoarsely. “It’s bad enough to know I’m going up against Hector Rivas Osuna. Add the Mexican government and I’m so afraid for Lane tha—”

  “Breathe,” Faroe said softly. “That’s it. In and out. You can get through this, amada. But you’ll have to lose your illusions about a government’s invincible correctness. Government is made up of people. Some people are crooks. Pretty simple, actually.”

  Grace let out an explosive breath, took in one, let one out.

  And got through the moment.

  The guard gave his boss a casual salute and came back to the Mercedes.

  “You visit,” he said curtly. “El niño, he is in the cottage of the beach.”

  “Gracias,” Faroe said carelessly.

  The supervisor glared at them as he started the Suburban and backed it out of the way.

  “Have a nice day,” Faroe said out the window as he drove past.

  Grace almost smiled. She suspected that Faroe’s take on the clichéd exit line was about the same as an upright middle finger.

  “Turn left here,” she said. “Then drive to the parking area next to that big building.”

  “Those boys are really going at it,” Faroe said, gesturing to the soccer field.

  She looked at all the players and didn’t know whether to be relieved or more anxious because Lane wasn’t on the field.

  “What?” Faroe asked.

  “You read me too well.”

  “Only some of the time. Now, for instance.”

  “I’m just surprised Lane isn’t out there. You’d enjoy watching him. He’s like a gazelle, only not at all fragile. Quick and strong despite being lean.”

  “Maybe it’s harder for his guards to keep track of him on the field, so they’re keeping him at the cottage.”

  “Or maybe he got tired of being thumped on by the big ‘boys’ that showed up three weeks ago. Hector’s relations. Thugs.”

  “If Hector wanted Lane on the field, he’d be there. Hector doesn’t want Lane beaten, or he’d be bloody and bruised. Hector just wants to keep you focused.”

  “El jefe chingón.”

  “Don’t forget it.”

  “Carnicero.”

  “That too. But he loves kids and small animals.”

  Grace made a sound.

  “True fact,” Faroe said. “It’s just adults he whacks. Usually.”

  Faroe parked, got out of the Mercedes, and began memorizing the grounds. His eyes swept the grounds, measuring distances and judging angles, a tactical planner looking for fields of fire and killing zones.

  Grace joined Faroe, but she watched him, not the school.

  “What do you think?” she asked after a few minutes. “Can it be done?”

  “I’ll let you know. What’s the quickest way to the bluff?”

  She led him down the paved path to a cluster of cottages at the edge of the bluff.

  As he walked, Faroe memorized the grounds. He doubted the beach or the bay had been officially mapped, but he made a mental note to check that possibility. Ocean waves broke cleanly on a reef a hundred yards offshore. Breaking waves humped up beyond the reef. Any rescue boat would have to stand offshore and launch inflatables.

  Might be better to hike in from up the coast, with a chopper standing by offshore to dart in for a fast pickup.

  Depending on the guards, of course. How many, how close, how good.

  Faroe looked around. Nobody visible but the three Mexican cops around Lane’s cottage. Two were armed with pistols and assault rifles. The third carried a twelve-gauge riot shotgun. Pistoleros, professional gunmen. They handled their weapons like gardeners handled rakes, no thought required.

  The men had been warned to expect the guests. One stepped out in front of Faroe and stopped him with a raised hand.

  “What?” Faroe asked.

  The guard motioned that he wanted Faroe to raise his hands. Faroe shook his head as if he didn’t understand. The guard brought the muzzle of his shoulder weapon up. Faroe looked surprised, then shrugged and raised his hands.

  The guard patted Faroe down, then looked at Grace speculatively.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Faroe said coldly.

  The guard looked startled. He wasn’t used to taking orders from civilians.

  “Show him your purse,” Faroe said to Grace. “That’s as much of a giggle as he gets.”

  She opened her purse and handed it over. The guard grinned at her breasts, glanced into the leather bag, and waved them through.

  Grace pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped in. The little house once had held four residents, with a small common area and individual bedrooms. But now, only one of the bedrooms was occupied. The beds in the other rooms had been stripped.

  “Lane? It’s Mom. Are you here?”

  A muffled sound came from the occupied bedroom.

  “Jus’ a min’,” Lane said. He sounded like he’d been sleeping. Hard.

  She went quickly to the bedroom door and looked in. Lane was stumbling out of bed, moving with a lack of coordination that frightened her. He looked at her groggily.

  “Wha’ you doin’ here?” he asked, slurring the words.

  Faroe joined her in the doorway and measured Lane.

  “I had to make sure you were okay,” Grace said.

  Lane Franklin lurched across the bedroom and picked up a pair of green shorts. He hopped on one foot and then the other, nearly falling as he dressed. Then he straightened up and pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

  Faroe saw a handsome teenager, lean and athletic, a boy just growing into a man’s body, just beginning to show evidence of peach fuzz on his young jaw. He had his mother’s long torso and a pair of strong legs that were well proportioned and suggested speed.

  But at that moment, Lane’s legs weren’t much good for anything. He could barely stand up.

  Loaded, Faroe thought. Screwed up to the max.

  Lane stared at his mother and mumbled something.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” Grace asked.

  She’s not used to seeing him like this, Faroe thought. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It just was. He glanced around the living space.

  “I’m fine…I guess.” Lane’s tone was as uncertain as his balance. “Haven’t felt…good…since just after you left.”

  Grace hugged her son close. Then she held him out at arm’s length, inspecting him. His skin was pale and his grin was lopsided. Everything about him was lopsided. She sniffed his breath and gave a relieved sigh. No alcohol.

  Unlike Ted, who had become way too fond of booze through the years.

  Faroe looked past the boy to the surrounding room. The walls were covered with posters, mostly of soccer players. The exception was one of a musician, Johnny Cash. The country and rockabilly legend was holding his guitar like a machine gun and saluting the photographer with a raised middle finger.

  Defiant, maybe, Faroe decid
ed, but at least he isn’t into the usual doper fare of headbanger rock and nihilist roll. Or worse, the narco-corridas making heroes out of drug traffickers.

  In one corner several Huichol death masks watched over the desk where Lane did his homework.

  Faroe grinned. He’d felt the same way about school.

  A blanket covered something underneath the table like a hasty shroud. Faroe lifted the blanket and found a laptop computer.

  Lane lunged toward Faroe. “That’s mine!”

  Faroe turned, catching the boy before he fell. “Take it easy. I’m not hurting anything.”

  The boy stepped back and squinted at Faroe. “Oh. Sorry. Thought you were one of my pistolero babysitters. They’re not allowed to come in the cottage. The coach told me.”

  “Father Magón?” Faroe asked.

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Lane, this is Joe Faroe, an old friend of mine,” Grace said. “Joe, this is my son, Lane.”

  Lane finally remembered he had manners. He pulled himself together, stepped forward, and offered his hand.

  “Hi, uh, Mr. Faroe,” he said. “Sorry. I was just…taking a nap.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lane,” Faroe said, looking at the boy’s eyes. Clear, but the pupils were too dilated. “Where are your roommates?”

  “Huh? Oh…they all moved…three weeks ago. I don’ know…maybe I have body odor or something.” He laughed weakly at his own joke.

  “How about those dudes outside?”

  “They showed up at the same time.”

  Faroe nodded. “But they don’t come inside?”

  “Not allowed.” Lane frowned and fought to focus his fuzzy thoughts. “They sit on the benches out there, playing with their guns, talking about girls, smoking cigarettes, eating pork rinds.” He grinned. “Their hearts must look like cans of Crisco. I call them the Chicharrones Brigade.”