“Nah.”
But she called again, and he reconsidered. What if she’d picked up something on the scanner? The local police didn’t have wind of this, as far as Rowe knew, but it was always possible someone had slipped up. If so, he needed to know that.
“Rowe,” he growled into the phone.
“South Lamar is off. The new meeting place is the Quick Stop at Riverside and I-35.”
“How the hell—”
“Cecelia Wells is trying to reach you. She’s with John McAllister, and they just got a phone call changing the plan.”
He was speechless. That damn reporter had pulled Kate into this mess.
“You’re sure it was her?”
“It was McAllister. And yes, I’m sure. They said to come fast.”
Christ, this was turning into a circus. And now he and his team would have to pull this thing off without getting tripped up by the goddamn media. Or the rain. Or the utter lack of planning.
“Listen up, Kate. You stay away from this.”
No response.
“I mean it. You’re endangering yourself and other innocent people if you get involved. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Rowe put his hand over the phone and turned to Stevenski. “Call Cecelia Wells on her mobile. Tell her to meet us four blocks east of the Quick Stop. Tell her not to make contact until she’s received our package.”
Kate was babbling in his ear.
“Did you hear what I said, Kate? This is getting more dangerous by the minute. Stay out of it.”
“I said, I hear you.”
“But you’re not listening.”
“It’s my job to report the news. Federal agents busting prominent members of the Saledo cartel is news.”
Goddamn it. “I’ll give you an exclusive interview. Tonight. Just stay away from the scene and let me call you.”
“Sorry, Rowe. Gotta run.”
John watched Celie’s face in the intermittent streetlights as they sped across town. She was sitting right beside him, but her thoughts looked to be a million miles away.
“So,” he asked her, “what’d the fertility clinic charge you? Thirty? Forty thousand?”
She glanced over, obviously surprised. He was an asshole for bringing it up right now, but if she didn’t know he was an asshole by this point, it was high time she learned.
“I figure you’ve been here almost eight months,” he said. “That’s what? Two rounds of in vitro? Plus meds and office visits?”
She looked away and mumbled something.
“What?”
“Three,” she said. “Three rounds. It came to about sixty-eight thousand.”
Sixty-eight thousand dollars to get pregnant. That was some fucking determination. She must really, really want to be a mom. Enough to rip off a drug kingpin. Enough to risk getting in trouble with the FBI.
Enough to lie to him.
“Are you pregnant now?” It was possibly the most inappropriate question he could ask her at this moment, but he had to know.
She looked at him apprehensively. “I’m not sure. It isn’t likely, though. I’ve tried everything, and my body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate.”
He gazed out the window and shook his head.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”
He sure as hell didn’t understand. He understood even less how she could lie to him repeatedly. For an entire weekend. How she could twine herself around him naked and tell him—
“I wouldn’t expect anything. You know, from you.”
Resentment bubbled up in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down. “You try to manipulate me into conceiving a child with you, and you don’t expect anything?”
She brought the car to a halt at a red light. They were less than a mile from the interstate. It was crazy to be having this conversation right now.
“It was something I wanted for myself. I mean, I still want it. If it ever happens.” She looked at him with those big green eyes—the eyes he’d once thought were so sweet and sincere. A little knife turned in his chest.
“I know this thing we have isn’t something serious for you,” she continued. “I would never ask you for anything, even if by some miracle I am pregnant.”
He stared at her. “Un-fucking-believable. You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
He wouldn’t look at her now.
“Shit. It’s over. It’s done,” he said. “Just drop it, okay?”
What was over? Their relationship? She’d kind of caught on to that already after the way he’d treated her at his office. Not to mention the past three days.
The light turned green, and she stomped on the accelerator. They had less than two minutes to get there. She suddenly had a terrifying thought.
“Oh, no! Which side of the interstate is it on? I have no idea where we’re going!”
“Northwest side,” McAllister grumbled. “I used to stop there for smokes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. It’s half a mile from police headquarters, which means these guys are extremely stupid or they’ve got some kind of plan we don’t know about.”
“What kind of plan?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Who knows what they’re thinking?”
Celie chewed her lip and considered this complication. She didn’t like the possibility of some cop—uniformed or otherwise—stopping in for coffee and jumping into the middle of things.
Her phone chirped, and McAllister grabbed it from the console. He checked the number and flipped it open.
“Yo.” He looked at Celie. “That’s going to make us late.” Pause. “Yeah, I got it. We’re almost there now.”
He closed the phone and pointed up ahead. “See that apartment complex? Pull into the lot right there.”
“But—”
“Do it,” he ordered. “That was Stevenski. They’re waiting with the money.”
John watched from inside the Volvo as Celie took a black duffel from Special Agent Rowe. He spoke to her a few moments, gesturing emphatically to underscore whatever point he was making. The man looked pissed off and disheveled, and John didn’t know whether it was because of the late hour or the fact that he was wearing jeans and an FBI windbreaker instead of his usual suit. Judging from Rowe’s bedhead, Celie’s call had probably dragged him out of a sound sleep and torpedoed his plan to get undercover agents and a team of sharpshooters in place before the money drop. Now it was up to Rowe, his partner, and John to keep Celie safe and make sure Enrique came back unharmed. Two measly feds and a reporter who hadn’t fired a pistol in well over a year. What a joke. John held Celie’s .38 against his thigh, wishing he’d taken the time to visit his grandfather’s ranch and shoot up beer cans sometime in the past twelve months.
He watched Celie shoulder the duffel and go up on her toes to give Rowe a hug. What the hell? She was hugging the guy at a time like this? Rowe said something to her, and she nodded. Evidently they’d forged some kind of connection this past week. Or maybe she was just scared out of her mind and looking for some reassurance. John sure as shit hadn’t given her any.
Celie turned and walked back to the Volvo with a determined look on her face. She seemed unbelievably calm for a woman who was about to walk into a meeting with gun-toting killers. He looked down at Celie’s pistol and hoped he’d be able to help her if everything went to shit.
Which he was fairly sure it would.
Celie’s phone chirped from the console. John was about to answer it when she yanked open the door and leaned over his lap to get it herself.
“Hello?”
As she listened to the caller, she turned and looked at him. The determination was gone from her eyes, replaced by panic.
“Why there?” she asked. “Why do you keep changing things? I don’t understand.”
Were they moving the meeting spot again? These guys must be schizo.
/>
Or else really smart.
“Fine, I’ll be there,” Celie said, “but I want to talk to Enrique first. I need to know he’s okay.”
Her body stiffened, and for a second John thought they’d actually put the kid on the line.
“Hello? Hello? ”
She snapped shut the phone and hurled it to the floor.
Celie’s palms were sweating. Same for her back and her neck. Perspiration trickled down between her breasts, soaking into her bra.
“It’s time,” she said, glancing at the clock and cutting the engine.
She’d parked the SUV at a metered space not far from the Lamar Street Bridge, the latest meeting site. Celie had a feeling this quiet little pedestrian bridge was the place they’d had in mind all along, not the heavily traveled bridge she and McAllister had scoped out earlier.
She gazed over her shoulder at the concrete structure, which stretched over Town Lake. The narrow bridge offered scenic views of downtown Austin. On a typical evening, it was a favorite destination for joggers and couples out for a stroll. Tonight, however, it was nearly deserted, due to the soggy weather and the fact that it was 1:15 in the morning. If Saledo’s guys wanted a meeting without witnesses, they probably couldn’t have picked a better time.
The bridge itself was landscaped and lined with lampposts. Up and down the sidewalk leading to it, Celie saw pink crape myrtles and giant stone planters filled with rosemary. When they’d first driven by, McAllister had said one of the planters would make a good vantage point from which to watch the exchange.
“Not a bad meeting spot,” he said now, surveying the area from the backseat. Celie was counting on the tinted windows to conceal his presence from Saledo’s men. “Pretty smart, actually. Your car’s stuck on this side, and I bet they’re on the other. If you wanted to tail them out of here, you’d have to drive way the hell over there before you could cross the lake. And since they’ve been running you all over town tonight, they’re probably banking on the fact you haven’t had time to get a police backup in place.” He paused and looked at her. “The lighting’s not bad though. It’s pretty good, actually.”
Celie nodded. She hadn’t even noticed the lighting. She’d been too scared to do anything but think about Enrique. What if he got hurt? What if he already was hurt? Despite his tough-guy facade, he was just a little boy. It made Celie sick to think that she’d brought him into all this, that her mere fondness for him had put him in jeopardy. She thought back, trying to conjure up some moment at the shelter when someone could possibly have seen her talking to Enrique. It had to have been yesterday. She’d spent part of the afternoon outside, playing basketball with the middle-school kids. Whenever Celie worked at the shelter, she tried hard to spread out her attention. But Saledo’s guys must have homed in on her special friendship with Enrique.
God, where was he? Celie glanced all around. “I don’t see them.”
“They’ll show,” McAllister said. “They want the money.”
“I don’t see Rowe or Stevenski either.”
“That’s good. If you can’t see them, Saledo’s men probably don’t either.” McAllister picked up her hand. “Celie, look at me.”
She tore her gaze away from the bridge. McAllister’s face was shadowed, but she could still read the urgency in his eyes. “Do whatever they ask. Understand? Don’t try to save the day. If you get in trouble, I’ll be here. Along with two trained FBI agents.”
She glanced toward the bridge. The rain had subsided, but still she saw no one. They were supposed to be here by now.
“Hey.” McAllister snapped her attention back to him. “I’m serious. Be totally compliant. If these guys try to lay a finger on you, they’re dead, okay? No heroics.”
She nodded and glanced at the .38 in his hand. She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs didn’t seem to want to open. Maybe it was the Kevlar vest Rowe had given her. She wore it cinched tightly under a pink, short-sleeved button down. She also wore denim shorts and sandals. She hoped the casual summer attire would assure them she was harmless and unarmed. They’d specifically said no weapons.
Of course, they’d also said come alone.
She licked her lips. “If something goes wrong—”
“You’ll be fine. You’ve got three separate people with a bead on these guys.”
“But if something does go wrong—”
“I’ll be right here—”
“Just listen! If something does go wrong, there’s a note. On my nightstand. Make sure that it gets to my mom, okay?”
“Celie—”
“And I apologize. For lying to you. It was a terrible thing to do, but I just—” She glanced at the bridge, and her heart skittered.
“Enrique!” She flung open the car door and jumped out.
CHAPTER
16
Rowe watched through the rifle scope as Cecelia race-walked toward the boy. Enrique Ramos looked to be uninjured and alone.
“She’s moving toward the kid,” Rowe muttered into the radio mounted on his flak jacket. “No sign of the suspects. Where are you?”
“Security guy’s unlocking the door for me now.” Stevenski answered.
At last communication, Stevenski had been on his way to the roof of a loft apartment building just south of the bridge. From there, he was hoping to have a bird’s-eye view of the scene, which Rowe didn’t have from his position. Rowe did, however, have proximity. He was concealed behind a wet clump of foliage about twenty yards upstream from the bridge. He adjusted the barrel of his SSG 3000 against the notch of a tree branch and waited.
“Fuck!”
Rowe’s shoulders tensed. “What’s wrong?”
“I misjudged the angle,” Stevenski said. “There are trees in the way. My visibility’s for shit.”
“Can you see anything ?”
“Not from up here. I’m coming down.”
“Make it quick,” Rowe snapped.
“Wait. There’s a black Avalanche. North side, pulled up in the grass near the bridge. Taillights are red, like the engine’s running. You see our suspects yet?”
“Negative.” God damn it. “Give Abrams’s team a heads up about the vehicle. I think they’re about ten minutes out, but you never know. Then get your ass somewhere useful, fast.”
Celie clutched Enrique against her and tried to shield him from whoever might be hovering nearby. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
She stepped back to look at him. He wore his usually baggy jeans and T-shirt—both soaking wet—and his tattered Astros cap turned backward. His bony shoulders trembled under her hands.
“You sure you’re all right?”
He nodded, and she could tell he was on the verge of tears.
Celie glanced around. They were standing in the middle of the bridge, right next to a lamppost, two targets illuminated for anyone to see. “We need to get you out of here. We need—”
“I’m supposed to take your bag”—he nodded bravely at her duffel—“to the other side of the bridge. Those two dudes in the truck, they’re waiting for it.”
“I’ll take it.”
He looked up at her, his brown-black eyes fearful. “No, they said me. You’re just supposed to stand here.”
“Enrique, listen to me. You see that silver SUV at the meter over there? The Volvo?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my car. It’s unlocked. Walk straight toward it and get inside. Then lock the doors and duck low, as low as you can, understand?”
He nodded, clearly relieved to be given an alternative to going back to his kidnappers.
“When you walk past the planter, you might see John McAllister crouched behind it. He has a gun. Don’t even look at him, okay? Walk straight to the Volvo and get inside.”
Enrique hesitated a second, then nodded.
“Go.”
She pointed him toward the Volvo and gave a little shove. With every step, Celie felt a minute lesse
ning of tension. Enrique was almost to safety.
Then a man stepped into his path. He snagged Enrique’s arm and strode toward Celie, towing the terror-stricken boy behind him.
Who the hell was this guy? Rowe peered through the scope, trying in vain to place the mug. It wasn’t one of his suspects. Juan and Guillermo Barriolo were short and stocky, not tall and lanky like the figure moving toward Cecelia.
“I’ve got an unidentified male subject,” he told Stevenski. “Approximately six feet tall. Thin. Wearing black clothes and a baseball cap. Lightweight jacket possibly concealing a weapon. This guy is not, I repeat, not one of the Barriolo brothers.”
“Copy that.”
The subject slipped his free hand into his pocket. Was he reaching for a weapon? With his right hand, he gripped the boy’s arm. People typically held a weapon with their dominant hand, and roughly 85 percent of people were right-handed.
So was he armed or not? Rowe didn’t like the ambiguity.
Rowe trained the crosshairs on the base of the subject’s head as he neared Cecelia. The objective was to hit the cerebellum, causing instant, painless death before the subject had time to get a shot off. Rowe had never actually done this to a live person before, but if a woman and child’s lives were at stake, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
Cecelia reached out and grabbed the boy. She tucked him behind her, shielding him with her body. Given that Rowe had loaned her his vest, it wasn’t such a bad idea.
The woman had balls.
Rowe counted himself lucky. Whether she’d planned it or not, she’d separated the subject from the hostage, giving him a clear shot.
He mentally reviewed the surrounding conditions. The rain had stopped. A slight breeze blew out of the northwest, but not enough to be a factor. “I’ve got a shot,” Rowe reported.
“Say again?”
“I’ve got a shot of the subject. No idea who he is, though. Possibly Saledo found out about the meet and sent someone to intercept. I don’t see a weapon yet. Where are you?”
“Almost to street level,” Stevenski said.
One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2) Page 17