When she arrived at the hotel, Abby went straight to the elevator, not bothering with calling Emm’s cell phone, which Ross had told her Emm had turned off. When she arrived at Emm’s door, it was almost eight o’clock. She knocked firmly. She heard someone stirring inside, and then the door was flung open. A handsome young man in a suit blinked at her. She blinked back, noting two still latched suitcases near the door. “Excuse me, is Emm Rothschild available?”
He looked mystified. “I just checked in. Did you ask at the desk?”
Her heart sinking, Abby apologized and hurried back to the elevator. When she reached the desk, she had a hard time getting the clerk to tell her much until she flashed her business card and said she was there at the behest of Ross Sinclair, and that Ms. Rothschild was a material witness in a case.
The clerk pulled a stapled packet from the checked-out box on her counter and appraised it. “She checked out this morning and fetched her bags, which we’d held for her, several hours ago,” the pretty young brunette clerk said crisply. “She didn’t mention where she was going, and I didn’t ask.” She moved to turn away, shoving the packet back into the box. She didn’t see a small pink memo fall from the packet and curl beneath the desk, nor did Abby.
Abby slapped her hand down on the desktop to forestall her. “Please make a note of my phone number. If you hear from her again or get any messages, please be sure you call me with that information. It’s possible she may be the victim of foul play. And one more question—was she with anyone when she took out her bags?”
The brunette hesitated, then nodded. “Some tall blond guy. I’ve seen him before. I think he’s a reporter. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She turned back to her work. Abby had already turned away, almost running. In the meeting she’d just conducted with the heads of the various agencies involved, she’d shared her latest data, painstakingly assembled by various informants and intelligence sources. The evidence was not in Curt Tupperman’s favor. In fact, it had been so glaringly incriminating—including many calls between his cell phone and Brett Umarov’s, a man Curt claimed not to know, and many more deposits going back over two years, totaling over a million dollars—that Chad had convinced the Texas attorney general to issue a warrant to bring Curt in for questioning. Given the way Curt traveled the state, they needed statewide jurisdiction. The authorities were looking for him now.
If Emm was jetting to Mexico with a man she thought was her friend, she’d find out too late that Curt Tupperman didn’t love Yancy. Despite what he said, he had zero motivation to help find her.
Curt Tupperman was probably the man who’d had her kidnapped.
Emm tipped the transport agent generously. “Your driver will be careful with my car?”
The agent looked offended. “Of course. And we are well insured.”
“Okay. My dad will be your contact in Baltimore. Please text me when it’s safely delivered.”
The agent nodded wearily. “Yes, ma’am, I assured you we would. Mr. Tupperman as well.”
Curt, hovering over her, winked at the agent. “Hers still has the new car smell. But mine is pretty damn special, too.” Emm was so busy reviewing the papers a final time that she didn’t notice Curt reaching for the outside pocket of her bag as he chatted amiably. Or that he dropped something into the trash can next to the desk.
With the assurances that both vehicles would be driven to their destinations by hired drivers who were trained to take extreme care, Emm and Curt got into the waiting taxi outside. Emm didn’t know how he’d done it so quickly, but Curt had convinced his charter service to send a jet from Dallas to pick them up at the private strip of a wealthy local rancher he knew. In an hour, they’d be on their way to Mexico City, on a flight too hard for the agencies to track. At least not in time to stop them. The jet service still had to file a flight plan, but they were going direct to Mexico City.
Curt had to sit in the front because half of the backseat was loaded with bags. Emm’s fit in the baggage compartment, and she was surprised to find Curt had brought so much stuff with him to Amarillo. For a moment she wondered if she was making a mistake going with him to Mexico City, but even if he was somehow involved with the cartel, surely he’d never really hurt her. He wasn’t the type.
Besides, in the war between caution and concern, concern for Yancy and Jennifer won hands down. If she hesitated, all she had to do was think about that photo and the two torn fragments of their evening gowns.
Whatever his intentions, Curt was her fastest way out of the country. And since the morning’s little chitchat with Elaine Gottlieb, Emm refused to dwell on Ross Sinclair’s reaction when he found her gone. Whether he reacted as a lover or a Texas Ranger, when he got her last-minute SOS, he’d take appropriate action.
The next morning, Ross ignored his family’s protests and drove into town to meet Abigail. She’d called him early to tell him she had bad news about Emm but they needed to discuss tactics in person. When he arrived at the DPS headquarters, he wasn’t surprised to see Chad’s car, even this early on a Sunday. But his twinge of unease about Emm became a kick to the gut.
Bracing himself, because he already had an idea of the news, he knocked on the large office they used as a conference room. When he entered, he saw it was full of high-level task force leads: the DEA, Border Patrol, Homeland Security, the FBI Agent in Charge he’d worked with before, a woman by the name of Rosemary. And, of course, the Texas Ranger head of the task force, Chad Foster.
After a brusque hello all around, Ross pulled up a chair and fell into it. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” he said.
Abby explained her exchange with the desk clerk at Emm’s hotel. “I didn’t call you yesterday because it was very late after I followed up on the logical leads. When I left, I immediately checked all the flights to Mexico City. She wasn’t on the manifest of any of them. However, I traced her car to a local transport agency when her license plate popped up as recent activity. She apparently hired them late yesterday to drive her car back to Baltimore.”
Now Ross’s unruly heart was a tom-tom in his ears. “So when she left, she didn’t intend to come back . . . How the hell is she getting to Mexico City? I can’t believe she’d go any way but by air. Do you think she used a false ID?”
Abby shook her head. “When I didn’t get any hits on her name, I went to the airport and surveilled the security backups. She wasn’t on the only two flights that could connect with Mexico City.”
“And Curt Tupperman? Have you brought him in yet?”
Abby looked at Chad.
Chad shook his head grimly. “He’s checked out of his hotel, and his car came up on the same database as Emm’s.”
Ross paled. “So you’re pretty sure she’s with him? Did you track her phone?”
Everyone else looked away, but Abby stared at him unwaveringly, nodding. “Yes, but unfortunately it was static. This morning we found it in the trash at the auto transport agency.” Abby nodded at the evidence bag on the table.
Clearing her throat at his expression, she offered Ross a short list of two names and two private airfields. “However, when we couldn’t find Ms. Rothschild on any of the commercial flights, I alerted the FAA to watch for any private flights heading to Mexico City, and late yesterday there were two originating in the Amarillo area. Do you know these men?” She recited the names on the list, glancing up at Ross. Both extremely wealthy oil and gas ranchers had private airstrips long enough for large private jets. He knew both men slightly. Amarillo’s moneyed interests were a small, intimate group in which he’d always been included, if sometimes reluctantly.
Ross dismissed the first one. “Raoul has many interests in Mexico and travels on a weekly basis between here and there. He’s as forthright and honest as they come. But Jimmy Patton . . . he was on one of my golf outings with Curt, and they were buddy-buddy.” He scowled blackly. “The sneaky bastard has Emm. . . .”
Ross leaped to his feet to pace. “How could she be that fucking stupid? He’s part of the
money-laundering end of Los Lobos, I’m sure of it!”
Abby said gently, “In my brief acquaintanceship with Ms. Rothschild, I’d say there’s very little she won’t dare when someone she loves is in danger. I would also be extremely surprised if she didn’t have serious suspicions about her supposed ally and prepare accordingly. She is the one who identified him first as a suspect. . . .”
Ross rubbed his aching forehead, opening his mouth to say he needed access to a jet, immediately, but a knock at the door forestalled him. A junior FBI agent hurried in, carrying a printed e-mail marked “secure server” at the top. He went straight to the FBI Agent in Charge, Rosemary Reed, a svelte blonde who looked more like a model than a dedicated G-man. “Ma’am, the Mexican authorities just notified us that Ms. Rothschild and Mr. Tupperman’s passports were stamped at a private executive airport outside Mexico City.”
“When?” asked Rosemary sharply.
The agent checked the e-mail. “Two hours ago.”
Ross looked pleadingly at Chad, who nodded. “Confirm that the registration number of the jet is the same one that left the Patton airstrip and see if Mexican customs will hold it until we arrive.” The young agent hurried back out.
Ross looked at his friend. “I realize it’s a bit irregular, given I resigned from the task force, but I need to be on this operation. I . . . know her better than anyone else.”
Chad looked at each task force member one by one. Rosemary eyed Ross’s drawn and pale features, opened her mouth, then closed it and nodded reluctantly. It was apparent to all the lead agents that Ross Sinclair was definitely not objective in the matter of Emm Rothschild’s possible alliance with a man now wanted by at least five federal agencies, but they kept their reservations to themselves. In over twenty years of brilliant and unblemished service to the State of Texas, Sinclair had always been a stickler for details. The fact that he’d resigned from the task force because he knew his feelings were compromised convinced all of the men in the room that he was still a professional law enforcement officer, not just a man in love.
But Rosemary eyed Ross critically as they began making a plan of action that would have to be coordinated with Mexican authorities.
Under the circumstances, Ross didn’t take time to go back to the ranch to pack. He called his dad and asked him to organize things as the reunion ended and to convey his regrets, telling him curtly only that he had to make an emergency trip out of town. He picked up a few things in Amarillo and stuck them in a DPS pack, along with his state-issued Sig Sauer P226 .357 and his own custom Ed Brown handmade 1911 .45 with rosewood grips. He also had two extra clips for each pistol. Others would be carrying shotguns and machine guns.
Would it be enough? Given Mexico’s strong anticarry laws, the Mexican authorities didn’t like them bringing in weapons, even for a joint op, but they’d allow it this time because of the huge firepower they’d likely be facing, and the fact that there were likely American hostages involved.
But then Chad knocked and entered with a full set of protective gear on one arm, wearing another set, and Ross’s sense of urgency increased. “The latest from DC.” Chad pounded on his own chest as hard as he could. “Some type of hybrid material. They say it will stop damn near anything. I wanted to try my own out before we go and thought you should, too.”
Chad set the gear down on Ross’s desk. Ross nodded at him to close the door. Chad complied, looking resigned, as if he knew what was coming.
Ross said, “As former head of the task force, I think I’m now up to speed on the latest intel. Please assign me just to this operation instead of you. I have to go; she’s my woman. You don’t. You have a family.”
Chad scowled. “I was half-expecting this from you, but you’re not my daddy, so back off.”
Ross frowned right back. “I never said I was, but with all the personnel on this op, we don’t both need to be there, and it would be smart to have someone manning everything from central control. That way if we need to request more Mexican troops or get more equipment trucked in, or need to scramble for more intel we didn’t expect, you can coordinate all that.”
Chad made a rude noise. “Yeah, right, while y’all get the collar on the meanest SOB in Mexico City, I’m minding the kitchen. Not hardly.”
“Dammit, Chad—”
“No. That’s final. I’m responsible for this op and I can’t supervise remotely. I do promise to stay out of the way of the Mexican Marines. The president just gave us his approval to include them, but they’re supposed to lead the raid. It is their country, and we have to be careful not to step on any toes.” His voice softened a bit. “Besides, Jasmine would never ask me to stay. She knew I was a Ranger when we got together, and she’s not clingy. It’s one reason I love her so much. She doesn’t try to change me.”
Ross bit back the logical response: Yes, but what about little Trey? Instead, he turned to the new gear. As Chad helped him try it on to be sure it fit properly, Ross’s thoughts fixed yet again on Emm. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t have made the trip without a detailed plan, but what could that possibly be? She didn’t even know where the compound was, much less how to get inside, and even if she did, it was likely Yancy and Jennifer had been moved.
He knew from bitter experience that planning only carried so far. And even if Curt was by some miracle just an investigative reporter, Emm’s life was in extreme danger.
As the taxi drove them into the hills above Mexico City to investigate their first target, Emm searched frantically in her handbag for her cell phone.
Curt looked concerned when she leaned down and felt beneath the seat. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t find my phone. I didn’t have time to activate it for international reception before we left, but I know they can track it, just in case we need the cavalry.”
“Don’t worry about it; mine’s activated,” Curt assured her. “I come to the City pretty often.”
She’d seen him use it only once and thought it looked pretty antiquated. It was probably a burner phone he’d purchased with cash. Someone at his income level didn’t need to do that unless he was worried about being tracked.
Emm’s heart began hammering in her chest and they hadn’t even reached the compound yet. Dread and fear grew with every hairpin turn. She was very careful with her cell phone, and at the end of the flight she’d checked for it so she could activate it once they reached Mexican airspace. Curt had been up front talking to the crew, so he hadn’t seen the suspicious, despairing look she’d sent his way as she realized her phone was gone. She hadn’t seen him take it, but the exterior pocket on her purse fit the phone exactly, and she had to tug to remove it. No way it just fell out.
Now, as she’d tested his reaction, he’d responded exactly the way a guilty man trying to keep her on a leash would respond—reassuring her that she didn’t need it, rather than wanting her to have her own backup. As they rounded yet another curve, going higher in the hills, Emm only hoped that her last-minute cry for help had been received.
Because it looked like she would need it.
Still, as she spied a hulking red-brick compound on the hillside above, she pretended surprise and rolled down her window. “That’s it! How lucky we found it first . . .” Lucky my ass, Emm thought . . . yet another block on the towering pile of evidence that indicated Curt Tupperman was on the take from one of the world’s most powerful drug lords.
Curt nodded enthusiastically. “Okay, we agree on the script?”
“Yes; you want to do a human interest story on some of the surprisingly positive side effects of the drug trade in Mexico, such as funding village schools and lifting many people out of poverty. I’m your girlfriend, an expert on historic buildings, and I’m cataloguing all the European-style mansions built in the City since the turn of the century. I just wonder if I might have a quick tour.” When he nodded enthusiastically, Emm wanted to slap that mendacious grin off his face. To hide her disgust, she rummaged in her purse and touched up her
makeup and lipstick, thinking frantically.
She did have a plan, such as it was. If she succeeded in getting a tour of the mansion, she’d watch for any personal items that might belong to Yancy or Jennifer. If she confirmed their presence, she intended to come clean to Arturo Cervantes and offer a huge ransom for both women. Kidnapping was a lucrative side business for many of the cartels after all, so she’d be speaking his language. And when he saw her card and realized she was a Rothschild, he wouldn’t doubt her ability to raise the funds, even though she knew it was a lie. But first, she’d demand proof of life . . . and by the time they actually took her to Yancy and Jennifer, she hoped Ross and the cavalry would arrive.
If they didn’t get the message in time, well, she’d have to improvise. And she and Yancy would finally see the true Curt Tupperman based on whose side he took.
She was jolted back to the present when the taxi stopped. Curt leaned forward to pay the driver and asked him to wait.
Emm took advantage of the moment. As she put her makeup back, she unzipped a small pocket inside her purse and activated the tiny GPS tracking device she’d purchased, just in case, from Amarillo’s only advanced electronics store, prior to her luncheon with Curt.
Then, as Curt opened her door and she got out, the mansion loomed above them, blocking the early morning sun. Suddenly it didn’t seem beautiful anymore. Emm wished she’d taken time for one more purchase—a gun—even if logically it could only increase the danger to her since she didn’t know how to shoot and didn’t have a prayer of winning a gunfight.
The truth was, it would have given her great comfort as that big wrought-iron gate rolled open like the gates of hell.
Back in Amarillo, the task force members were in the process of boarding a big DEA jet saved for complex tactical operations when Abby’s phone pinged with a message. She was boarding last, burdened with three laptops, each for a different purpose, and she hadn’t heard it ring in the roar of the jet engines.
Sinclair Justice Page 21