The Wrong Hostage

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “The boy would live only as long as Tomás and I decide to keep him alive. And after we finish with him, somebody will tell the gringo authorities that the boy was a bad one who simply ran away and, like so many other unfortunates, was never heard from again.”

  Faroe didn’t doubt a word of it.

  And if Lane got hurt, Faroe would hunt Hector down and execute him where he found him.

  “What you said is true,” Faroe said, “but it will not get you Ted Franklin on a golden platter with a roll of hundreds in his mouth.”

  “Yes.” Hector ground the spent cigarette beneath his heel. “That is why you are still alive.”

  OVER THE U.S.

  MONDAY, 1:00 A.M. CST

  39

  STEELE SAT IN THE part of the Learjet that had been transformed into a flying office for the use of whichever St. Kilda consultant needed it. The wheelchair was a tight fit in the working space, but it didn’t matter. If he needed anything, Dwayne would get it before Steele even knew he wanted it.

  Dwayne handed over a satellite phone. “It’s Mazey with the land and cell phone taps. Something is going down.”

  “Steele,” he said calmly, taking the phone. But his heart kicked in the hope that they’d caught a break. “Go ahead, Mazey.”

  “We’ve had multiple hits on her home and cell phone, all from Ted Franklin, all within the last hour.”

  “Messages left?”

  “He wants his ex-wife to go to Lomas, where he’ll call her at midnight.”

  “What, where, or who is Lomas?”

  “We’re working on that, sir. It’s a fairly common name in the area.”

  “Midnight.” Steele looked at his watch and folded his lips unhappily. “We’re not going to be on the ground in time to help you with this one. Call Faroe and see what Grace knows.”

  “His phone is off. Hers is ‘out of area.’”

  “Mother of—” Steele bit off the curse. “Where is Faroe?”

  “Assuming that he’s still carrying the phone, our satellite monitor puts him in Tijuana.”

  “That’s a large place. Do better. What about the boy?”

  “Still at All Saints. Assuming—”

  “That he has the bloody phone with him,” Steele finished impatiently.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The team watching Sturgis’s office saw him get in a car whose plates came back to the U.S. government. The driver shook the team. We didn’t have enough assets in place to tail a real pro. No one has seen or heard from Sturgis since.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “John told me the feds have withdrawn surveillance from the La Jolla house, but the Mexicans are all over the place like a rash. He left a message on Dwayne’s phone, but—”

  “The phone is turned off,” Steele finished. Since John was Mazey’s husband and the head of all surveillance teams on this consultation, Steele knew that the information was solid. “Dwayne is with me. Forward all intelligence to the number he’ll give you.”

  Steele handed over the phone to Dwayne, called up the satellite monitor, and split the screen. One dot stayed put above Ensenada. One dot was mired in Tijuana.

  He tried Faroe’s number himself.

  Nothing.

  Grace’s number.

  More nothing.

  “Anything on Lomas?” he asked Dwayne.

  “Too much. We’ll never get it sorted out by midnight California time.”

  “Can you override Faroe’s off switch?”

  “If he hasn’t dicked with it, yes,” Dwayne said. Then he told his frustrated boss what Steele already knew. “But if Faroe shut down his phone, he had a good reason. The life-and-death kind.”

  Steele didn’t argue. “What do you make of the fact that the feds withdrew from the La Jolla surveillance?”

  “It means they know more than we do.”

  “Precisely. Get someone monitoring all government communications channels within sixty miles of the border. Key words ROG, Hector Rivas Osuna in any combination, Faroe, Grace, Judge Silva, Ted or Theodore Franklin, Calderón, Lane Franklin, All Saints or Todos Santos, Bank of San Marcos, Banco de San Marcos.”

  Dwayne leaned against the desk, punching in numbers, waking up the St. Kilda consultants who specialized in monitoring scrambled federal channels.

  “Think it will do any good?” Dwayne asked as he waited for someone in Texas to answer.

  “In the next hour? Doubtful. Do it anyway.”

  Steele stared at the red dot mired in Tijuana.

  Damn it, Joseph, call in.

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  SUNDAY, 11:04 P.M.

  40

  IN DARKNESS, LANE STARED at the whitewashed ceiling. Sweat ran cold on his ribs. The phone Joe Faroe had given him was under his pillow, along with an alarm clock Lane didn’t think he would need anytime in the next century.

  He was so wide awake his eyeballs burned.

  He told himself he wasn’t going to check the clock under his pillow again. But he did.

  About two hours until Faroe called.

  If he called.

  Call me, he prayed silently. I’m going postal here in the dark, thinking about—

  I won’t think about it.

  Won’t.

  Won’t.

  Won’t.

  His silent chant kept time with the waves piling against the beach, chubasco waves shouting the storm to come.

  He hoped the tropical fury would wipe out the school.

  Cigarette smoke and something sharper, more chemical, slid through the open window. The guards were just outside, laughing and talking among themselves.

  Taking bets on whether Lane would survive the coming day.

  Call me. Please!

  TIJUANA

  SUNDAY, 11:06 P.M.

  41

  THE SILENCE IN THE Escalade was thick enough to slice and serve on bread. Even with every window open, the SUV stank of sweat. Meeting with Hector did that to men, no matter how tough they thought they were.

  Faroe and Grace sat close, close enough that she could use his body heat to warm herself. Whenever she started to say anything, he squeezed her silently.

  Don’t talk.

  The vehicle finally stopped by the bright lights of the hotel where Faroe and Grace were registered. Faroe lifted her out and then turned toward Mustache.

  Grace couldn’t hear what Faroe said as he drew Mustache slightly away from the other gunmen, but she did see the exchange of something, palm to palm. As soon as Mustache climbed back into the Escalade, the driver shot out of the light like his tires were on fire.

  “What was that all about?” she asked Faroe.

  “Recruiting.”

  “What?”

  “St. Kilda needs more contacts in Mexico.”

  “Spies.”

  Faroe shrugged.

  “The lies and betrayals never end, do they?” she said quietly.

  “There’s plenty of lying and betraying to go around on both sides of the line.”

  Grace looked at Faroe. He’d let his game face slip. He was weary with something deeper than a simple lack of sleep. He handed the bellman a claim check for the car and waited silently, staring at the tips of his new boots.

  “What happened?” she asked softly, stepping closer to him. “What was Hector so eager to show you?”

  “A body that’s going to hang from a freeway bridge sometime tomorrow morning. Only it isn’t a body yet. It’s mostly still the guy who laid that bomb down in Ensenada.”

  “We have to tell the—” Her voice broke. She let out a ragged breath. “Never mind. Old reflexes.”

  “Don’t worry, amada. He’ll welcome death.”

  Grace closed her eyes against the bright lights of the city.

  “You leave anything at the hotel that you can’t live without?” Faroe asked.

  “The only thing I can’t live without is my son.”

  OVER THE U.S.

 
MONDAY, 1:20 A.M. CST

  42

  “GOT HIM!” DWAYNE SAID triumphantly.

  Steele took the phone. “Joseph?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s about time you turned on your damned phone.”

  “I’ve been talking to Hector Rivas Osuna. An interruption could have been fatal.”

  “Is Judge Silva with you?”

  “Yes,” Faroe said.

  “Tell her to turn on her damned phone.”

  “Won’t do any good. Her service ends near the border.”

  “Then get there fast,” Steele said. “Ted left a message on her machine.”

  “What is it?”

  “Your faith in St. Kilda is touching.”

  “Look, we just saw one man murdered and I met the next body to be hung from the freeway overpass, so excuse me if I’m not—”

  “Who died?” Steele cut in.

  “A guy who dissed Hector. Bang, bang, bang, bang, you’re dead.”

  “Bloody wonderful.”

  “You’re half right.”

  “Grace saw it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is she holding up?” Steele asked.

  “Better than we have any right to expect. What is Ted’s message?”

  “He’ll call her at Lomas at midnight. Find out who, what, or where Lomas is and call me back.”

  Steele punched out and stared at the red dot in Tijuana as if he could move it faster by sheer force of will.

  TIJUANA-CALIFORNIA BORDER

  SUNDAY, 11:22 P.M.

  43

  FAROE PUNCHED THE END button and drove quickly, closing in on the border crossing at Otay Mesa.

  “Who, what, or where is Lomas?” he asked Grace.

  She rubbed her face wearily, trying to stay awake. The adrenaline of being with a murderous madman had worn off, leaving her limp.

  “Grace?”

  “I’m reviewing a Lomas case, I know of at least five streets with that name, plus a town or two.” She yawned. “Give me context.”

  “Ted left messages on your home phone and your cell phone telling you to be in Lomas at midnight for his call.”

  She snapped upright. “Lomas Santa Fe. Our ranch. I haven’t been there since I picked up Lane’s computer. Ted had it with him while he was doing his kingmaking thing over ribs and beer, then he ‘forgot’ to return it to La Jolla.”

  “Turn on your phone. We might be close enough for you to get service. Listen hard to Ted’s message. You know the man. Listen to what he doesn’t say, how he breathes, what his voice is like.”

  Grace turned on her phone.

  Nothing.

  “How far is the ranch from here?” Faroe asked, accelerating.

  The glow that was the Otay border crossing leaped closer.

  “Even if you do the Nascar thing,” she said, “we won’t make it by midnight. Once we get over the border, it’s at least forty minutes on I-5. The good news is that the Otay entry is closer.”

  Faroe punched a button on his phone and handed it to Grace. “Give Steele the location of the ranch.”

  While Grace talked, the Mercedes rocketed through the night, closing in on the dark and light-splintered chaos that was the border. She shut off the phone and handed it back to Faroe.

  “We’re almost there,” he said. “Try your cell again.”

  She looked at the phone in her hand. “Nothing.”

  Planes on final approach to the Tijuana International Airport dropped down from the night and materialized in the runway lights. Just to the north, U.S. border patrol helicopters flew orbits over Spring Canyon, their spotlights stabbing down to the deep footpaths that braided the canyon floor.

  “Lane should see this,” Grace said.

  “Why?”

  “Add some artful wreckage and you have the opening of T2.”

  “T2?” Faroe asked as he pulled into the short line at the port of entry.

  “The second Terminator movie. It begins in a world at war, pretty much like Tijuana, except that Tijuana is real. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen T2?”

  “I’ve lived it.”

  “Your choice.”

  “Your benefit.”

  “Win-win, huh?”

  He would have laughed but it wasn’t funny.

  The cell phone in Grace’s hand beeped. “Three missed calls.” She punched in numbers. “Ted.”

  “Messages?”

  “Just one.” She retrieved it and listened with a growing sense of disbelief. “You slimy son of a bitch.”

  She hit replay and handed it to Faroe.

  Ted’s voice sounded cheerful, nonchalant.

  Faroe wanted to throttle him.

  “Hey, Gracie-girl. We need to meet real soon. It’d be good for everybody, especially for Lane. But it wouldn’t hurt your career, either. I’ll call you at Lomas at midnight and we can set it up. Ciao.”

  “Gracie-girl,” Faroe said neutrally, handing the phone back to her.

  “It’s Ted’s way of feeling superior.” Her voice was even. Her eyes told Faroe that if he used that nickname, she’d clock him.

  “Is he as smiley as he sounded?” Faroe asked.

  “There was a lot of strain in his voice.”

  “Good. He deserves it. Is he lying?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “He’s serious when he’s lying.”

  “Who’s at Lomas right now?”

  “This time of night? Nobody. We have a caretaker who does the grounds during the day, and a housekeeper two days a week.”

  “So you would be alone there, waiting for his call.”

  Faroe wasn’t asking a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

  “Nearest neighbor?”

  “A quarter mile. They come and go, same as we did.”

  “Sweet,” Faroe said.

  His eyes said the opposite.

  The car in front of them pulled through the port of entry. Faroe pulled forward and gave the customs agent a bland smile. The man looked bored and end-of-the-shift sleepy. Then he glanced down at his computer screen. His eyes widened and his manner suddenly changed.

  “Where have you been in Mexico?” The question was sharp, meant to be intimidating.

  “Tijuana, Ensenada, and back,” Faroe said, meeting the inspector’s eyes straight on.

  “Pull over underneath that sign, the one that says ‘Secondary Inspection.’ Don’t leave your car, either of you. Someone will be along in a minute.”

  He frowned at Faroe, then reached for his phone as the Mercedes crept forward onto American soil.

  “Now what?” Grace said, her voice anxious.

  “The guys who followed us this afternoon probably put a border watch on us. Either they intend to pick up the surveillance again, or they just want to know when we crossed back.”

  “Does it never end?”

  “Not for a while.”

  Not while you’re breathing.

  Faroe parked under the sign. He’d barely turned off the ignition before the inspector stepped out of his booth and trudged across the tarmac to them. He gave the interior of the vehicle a cursory glance, then said, “Okay, you can go.”

  Faroe hit the accelerator.

  “He didn’t even ask for papers, which means they already know who we are, or at least who you are,” Faroe said. “How is this car registered?”

  “To Ted’s company until I get it transferred to my own name.” She shrugged. “Just one of those details I haven’t gotten around to.”

  “That might explain it,” Faroe said, “but even so, the inspector let us off too easily. No long wait, no car search, no papers, no pat-down, no body cavity search. Just a short stall at the border while he checks our faces against the ID he called up on his computer.”

  “You suspect everything, everybody. Can’t things just happen?”

  “Not if you want to stay alive.”

  “We’re in the U.S.!”

  He gave her a sideways look and kept his mouth sh
ut.

  “Right,” she said, angry with him, herself, and everything that had happened since Calderón had telephoned her about Lane. “What are we going to do about Ted’s call? We’re late.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to call.”

  “Then why would he want to make sure I’m at—” She stopped, swallowed hard, and said, “I don’t like what I’m thinking.”

  “Good for you,” Faroe said. “Your ever-lovin’ ex has your cell number. He can call you at midnight no matter where you are. I think he just wanted to make sure you’d be there at Lomas, all alone, at midnight.”

  “He wouldn’t have the guts.”

  “To do what?”

  She shook her head. She really didn’t want to go there.

  “You don’t think he has the cojones to kill you in cold blood?” Faroe asked.

  “I know he doesn’t.”

  “How about hiring it done?”

  The coastal fog gave them a clammy embrace when they dropped down onto Interstate 5. At least Grace told herself that was why she felt chilled.

  Faroe reached over the seat, snagged his jacket from the back, and dropped it in her lap.

  “Put it on,” he said. “And no, I don’t think he intends to murder you. No benefit to him. If that changes, I’ll change with it.”

  Grace pulled the jacket over her shoulders. “Should I feel good about that analysis?”

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. Grace was right. At this speed they wouldn’t make the ranch by midnight. He started checking the exit signs on the freeway.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “A nice anonymous motel. I’ll drop you off, St. Kilda will have someone with you real quick, and I’ll go to Lomas and do a little moonlight snake hunting.”

  “No.” Grace’s voice was low.

  Faroe looked over, not sure he’d even heard her speak.

  “No, you’re not going to stash me in some nice safe motel,” she said distinctly. “It would be like Ted to show up at Lomas instead of calling. If that happens, I want a little time with him.” So I can rip his face off.