Sinclair Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  She struggled up the ramp, glad when a young FBI agent with an improbably cherubic face took the laptops from her as she boarded. His name was Al, as she recalled. He nodded shyly at her thanks, giving her the opportunity to listen to the voice mail she’d just received. Her eyes widened, and she was so excited that she didn’t realize everyone else was belted in and ready for takeoff.

  Ross called out at her expression, “What is it?”

  “When she checked out, Emm left a message for us,” she said, going to a different function on her phone. “They didn’t find it until this morning, after the janitor cleaned last night. It had fallen beneath the desk.” She brought up the scanned attachment to the e-mail and showed it to Ross. The big smile that stretched her angular face, making it almost pretty, was the happiest expression Ross had ever seen her wear.

  He looked down at the message and read off for the others: “ ‘Ross and Abby, by the time you read this I’ll be in Mexico City. If I meet Arturo Cervantes or his son, I’m going to offer to ransom Yancy and Jennifer and will stall the negotiations as long as I can. Here’s the GPS tracker ID I brought.’ ” And she gave the coordinates to her device, signing it Mercy Magdalena Rothschild.

  Ross slumped back in his seat next to Chad, never so relieved as he was at this moment. Nothing would stay a drug dealer’s murderous instincts better than an offer of a huge ransom from a Rothschild . . . As they taxied toward takeoff and Abby belted herself in, Chad leaned over to whisper in Ross’s ear, “Told you she was a good fit for you. Now she’s too valuable to kill. She’s one smart cookie.”

  “And she could be added to the merchandise if things go sour.”

  Chad agreed, “Exactly. But that’s what she wants, isn’t it? Maybe she’ll find the two women just in time for us to track them all and save the day.” When Ross nibbled at his lip, obviously still worried sick, Chad added, deadpan, “She’ll be okay. Or as someone said, ‘I do not believe in using women in combat. They’re too fierce.’”

  Ross finally smiled, as Chad had hoped. “Patton? Omar Bradley?”

  “Margaret Mead. I’ve been reading her so I can keep up with Jasmine, and I figure if anyone understands the species, it’s a female anthropologist.” Chad winked and went back to his own laptop.

  Ross looked at Abby, knowing he didn’t have to say a thing, but he still held his breath as she opened her laptop and entered the coordinates. The rest of them relaxed just a bit as they took off. Despite his impatience, Ross gave it some time, knowing that even with the plane’s advanced satellite technology, the tracker software would take a moment to synch with Emm’s location.

  But the second they reached cruising altitude and the pilot allowed them to unbelt, he whipped off his seat belt and knelt next to Abby’s seat. “Did you pick up the signal?”

  Abby looked at the little blip on her screen, and her face was drawn again when she looked back at Ross. “Yes. It’s in the hills. Very near the compound and getting closer.”

  Ross took a deep breath. “Great. Well, at least we have strong evidence of her whereabouts.” He went back to tell Chad.

  While he talked to Chad, the other task force members discussed the new development. They’d already made contingency plans for a likely hostage situation, but now instead of two potential American citizens, they might be dealing with four . . . Still, there was a potential bright side: Maybe Arturo Cervantes would be distracted with the negotiations enough to give them time to get in place to storm the compound. Maybe this interfering woman all the others had been viewing as a liability would really be an asset.

  As they walked inside the compound, Emm stayed true to her role and snapped a picture of the exterior of the building with the camera she’d purchased from a drugstore on the way. The suspicious older man who met them in the courtyard didn’t seem to recognize Curt. He snatched her camera away, growling at them. Three more men hovered over them with machine guns at the ready, but they relaxed a bit when Curt gave them his card.

  Emm’s Spanish wasn’t as good as his, but she understood enough to realize Curt was citing a mutual acquaintance and explaining why they’d come. Emm heard her name, “Mercy Magdalena” only, and was relieved he hadn’t revealed her surname. The second they heard that, they’d know why she’d really come. For that reason she intended to give her card only to Cervantes senior.

  After the underlings gave both Emm and Curt a quick, professional search, finding nothing in the way of weapons, the head guard unhooked the radio on his belt and said something into it in very rapid Spanish Emm couldn’t follow. A more measured response came back and, to her vast relief, they were escorted inside the soaring foyer. In other circumstances, Emm would have loved the gorgeous architecture, which was indeed a wonderful blend of European and Mexican elements, but then their two guards, still heavily armed, shoved them inside the study off the foyer.

  Finally, Emm came face to face with the monster who’d been behind the kidnapping not just of her family but of so many innocent young girls. She wanted to spit and claw at him, but she instead took a deep, calming breath and waited, like an obedient female, looking around as if fascinated.

  Cervantes spent a moment grilling Curt, and then her name arose. Curt nodded at the camera the guard held and said something more. Cervantes relaxed, but only marginally. He gave a commanding look at his guard, who indicated to Emm that she was to open her blouse. Her eyes widened as she became the focus of all the males in the room, including Curt. When she resisted, he said out of the side of his mouth, “We have to show them we’re not wired. Just open your blouse and turn around slowly.” The men took her jacket and his, turning them inside out and looking for anything electronic.

  Curt lifted his shirt, even pulling his pants up to the knee. Emm’s fingers shook but she did as told, wanting to run when she saw all the intense dark eyes fixed on her as if she were prey. Which was all she was to men like these . . . She spun around, looking over the heads of each man as if she were alone, and then she pulled her blouse closed, buttoning it with shaky fingers.

  Cervantes’s full mouth curved at her obvious unease. He said something to his men, which Emm caught as “bonita” and something less flattering. Emm shrank against Curt, as if afraid, which was not a difficult emotion to portray. Next, they demanded to search her purse. Emm had been afraid of that, and she’d done what she could to disguise the tiny tracking device. She handed her purse over. The guard fingered through it, including the envelope bulging with cash. Cervantes lifted an interested eyebrow, but when the guard held the envelope up hopefully, Cervantes shook his head. The disappointed guard put the money back, searching each cavity, finally unzipping the side pocket where Emm had hidden the device. She held her breath, carefully tucking her blouse back in her long skirt so they couldn’t see her tension, but the guard’s questing fingers moved away as if scalded when he brought up the two tampons she’d put on top of the device. He dropped them back in and handed the purse to the head guard. When Cervantes nodded, they gave the purse back to her.

  Finally, Cervantes seemed satisfied. He waved them into chairs, but his four guards took stances on each side of him and behind Curt and Emm. Only then did Cervantes allow Curt to pull out a pad and make a few notes. Emm waited her turn, content to let the clock tick, as Curt conducted an apparent interview. From what she could see, Cervantes did not seem to even know Curt, so maybe she’d been too hard on her former friend.

  As Emm half-listened, she couldn’t help wondering if Abby and Ross had gotten her SOS. If they hadn’t, well, she’d cleaned out her savings account and had plenty of Yankee greenbacks to barter for information and transportation. But for now, the ball was in Curt’s court. She was glad to see that Cervantes seemed more relaxed. He gestured with his hands while he described in rapid Spanish what sounded like a traumatic boyhood, but Emm couldn’t keep up. She began looking around the study, already cataloguing the locations of windows and another door she could see far down the hallway.

&n
bsp; All in all, it was going pretty well so far.

  At least they hadn’t been shot.

  At least Cervantes seemed to buy their ruse.

  Or he didn’t and was toying with them while he debated whether to cut their hearts out . . .

  Deeper inside Mexico City, Yancy had yanked so hard at the handcuffs that her wrist had finally started bleeding. After Arturo had given her the new prescription, she’d only had time for a few doses of her meds before they took her, and now Arturo was so angry with her that he obviously didn’t care if she lived or died. He hadn’t alerted the Chechens to her illness, or sent the meds along. So she’d been without them, what was it, almost three days?

  The wound had been trickling for over an hour, but it also made her wrist slick. Yancy barely paid it any mind because the continued silence down the corridor tormented her. She’d tried calling to Jennifer, but that had only resulted in a vicious blow from one of the Chechen thugs. She’d seen neither the tall, thin, younger Chechen nor the smaller, stout, older one for over twenty-four hours now, and she assumed that was a bad sign.

  They were probably arranging transport for them. Or worse . . .

  With little else she could do, Yancy began screaming, kicking at the iron bedstead. “I want to see my daughter!” She screamed a good fifteen minutes, until she was almost hoarse, before she got a reaction.

  The same thug came back in, using his machine gun butt to slam her in the stomach. Yancy curled up in a ball. She cried out, cradling her stomach with her free arm. A bruise began to bloom. He ran a hand over the tattoo on her spine, but when she shrank away and someone called for him, he reluctantly went back out, tossing a harsh command on the way out.

  She didn’t speak Russian but got the message: Shut up or die, bitch.

  Yancy was winded and hurting, but if she gave up, Jennifer would die. She raised herself against the bedstead and slammed her back against it, jolting it against the wall. The old iron headboard was rusted, and for the first time Yancy realized it wasn’t stable because the frame bowed under the force.

  Experimentally, she slammed against it again. It made a terrible racket, but so far the thug hadn’t come back in. The metal bed slat she was latched to bent slightly at the bottom, where rust had eaten at the weld. With renewed vigor, she shifted her weight against it again and again until, with a groan that didn’t make too much noise, the slat separated from the headboard. It would have gouged her, but she was expecting it and dodged aside in time.

  She slipped the handcuff off the unattached slat and was free.

  She stood so fast that the room swam. She was nauseated from the punch, sore everywhere, including between her legs, but she had one thought—get to Jennifer. She ripped the thin blanket off the bed and wrapped it, togalike, around her nudity. She was bleeding, bruised, and smelly, but at the moment she didn’t care. She’d get one chance at this . . . She slipped to the door and listened. Somewhere, classical music lilted down the hall, but other than that, she heard no signs of life. Glad they hadn’t bothered to lock the door, she eased into the corridor.

  She realized she was in an abandoned hotel when she saw all the numbered room doors and the exit sign above a stairwell. As she moved in the general direction in which she’d heard Jennifer screaming, she passed the stairway and tried the door. It was locked; no surprise. The only way out appeared to be the elevator, which was obviously guarded in the lobby.

  She listened at each door but heard only silence. From one she heard moans that raised the hairs on her neck, for they sounded sexual in nature. She obviously wasn’t the only sex slave here. Instinct screamed at her to run, but she’d never leave without her daughter. Most doors were locked, but one finally yielded, and when she opened it, she saw enough to know exactly where she was. Messy, stained sheets, tawdry underwear flung on the floor, a see-through robe on a hook. A big box of condoms, mostly empty.

  She was in a brothel. And a very low-end brothel at that . . . They didn’t intend to move her. They’d already sold her. She was too old, and too much trouble, so they’d cut their losses.

  If she didn’t find Jennifer, and fast, she’d only leave this place in a body bag and Jennifer, still young and valuable, would disappear forever.

  CHAPTER 14

  On the hills outside the City, inside the compound’s luxurious study, Emm Rothschild watched the lively way Arturo Cervantes, Mexico’s oldest and most ruthless drug lord, conveyed his story. He’d been wary at first of answering questions in any depth, but Curt, as a seasoned, nationally known reporter, had interviewed princes and popes. Adding a wary drug lord to the list wasn’t much of a challenge.

  Emm read over his shoulder and saw that he was, indeed, making copious notes that would aid in his story. Nothing incriminating; more of the history of Arturo Cervantes and how he did, indeed, support not just an army of men but their families. He’d put more than one poor boy through private school and into university.

  The morning waned into afternoon as Curt’s pad grew full. A waiter brought tea and scones and finger sandwiches. Emm would have laughed at the pretension if she hadn’t been so tense. She was too nervous to be hungry, but she forced herself to eat, not knowing when she’d get the opportunity again. The clock struck five p.m. as Cervantes obviously grew restless. Curt thanked him and then led Emm forward. Emm heard something about “casa” and more that sounded like her credentials.

  Cervantes’s intense stare fixed on her. Emm’s skin crawled at the way he looked her up and down. She saw the appetite in his eyes, and it had nothing to do with food. But she only accepted the camera they finally returned to her after a direct order from Cervantes. Then he swept his arm before them, and Emm realized the great man intended to give her the grand tour himself. She gave a pleading look to Curt and he moved to follow them, but Cervantes made a staying move with his hand and two guards blocked Curt. Ruefully, he sat back down in his chair, shrugging at her slightly.

  She knew that look—your idea. Good luck...

  Emm’s heart skipped a beat, but she had little choice, given everything that was at stake. She followed as he showed her around the ground floor, her shoulder purse wrapped securely over her shoulder. She found herself oohing and aahing at the huge house, which looked like something from the Mexican version of House Beautiful. She saw several flower arrangements, drooping a bit now, that looked like a style Yancy favored, but that was hardly conclusive. In the kitchen, however, she saw a recipe for tres leches flan that someone had pinned to a board on the refrigerator. While Emm stalled, pretending to focus the camera on the long granite kitchen counter, in reality she was reading the handwritten notes through the lens. Someone had quadrupled the recipe and calculated the new ingredients by hand. Her heart pounded against her ribs, for she recognized that untidy scrawl. Yancy’s handwriting was horrid and this looked exactly the same, with the backward slanted ls and ts. Still, it wasn’t definitive.

  But when Cervantes led her upstairs, he bypassed his room, allowing her to look into the second one very close to his. She peeked inside, seeing the feminine decor and the makeup vanity. She lifted the camera, rhapsodizing in her schoolgirl Spanish that the room was lovely. She pointed—could she see inside? He hesitated but let her in. Attached was a bathroom and Emm said, “Baño?” and made an embarrassed face. He eyed her carefully, shrugged, and gave her a regal nod of acceptance.

  She went inside and did actually use the facility, but when she turned on the water to disguise the noise, she did a quick search of the medicine cabinet above. Nothing distinctive except . . . She pulled the pill bottle out. It had Cervantes’s name on it, but then she read the name of the medication.

  Effluenatasis. Yancy’s new hemophilia drug, rare in Mexico City, rare even in the US, it was so new . . . Proof as definitive as she could want.

  Torn between relief and fear, she was putting the bottle back when the door opened gently behind her. Arturo Cervantes watched her close the medicine cabinet. He said in broken but dist
inguishable English, “Sí, I thought so. She no here.” He smiled, his grin bright and toothy in the vanity lights.

  Glad somehow that the charade was over, Emm took the card she’d saved in her pocket and offered it to him. He glanced down, obviously unsurprised at the name. She offered her hand as the overture to what she knew would be very tense, and very critical, negotiations. Not just Yancy and Jennifer were in danger now. So was she . . . “Mercy Magdalena . . . Rothschild. Yancy’s hermana. Mucho gusto.”

  Back in town, Yancy shook off her horror at where she was and what it meant and plunged inside the next open door. To her relief, there were clothes hanging inside. Slutty clothes, but she was used to that. She didn’t risk pulling on underwear, but the tight fake leather skirt and tank top were better than a blanket. Even the stiletto shoes fit, but she needed to be light on her feet, so she kicked them off and looked for something easier to walk in. There was nothing. With every move the handcuffs rattled, and she knew that no matter how she tried to disguise them, they’d give her away.

  She sat down, pulling at the one still latched around her wrist. Her skin was slick with blood. She bit her lip as the wound opened further. But she kept twisting her wrist from side to side, pulling . . . pulling . . . and finally her thin wrist slipped free. She wanted to toss the cuff across the room but instead wrapped it in a pillow case from the bed and shoved it as far beneath the bed on the dirty carpet as she could reach.

  She rummaged through the rest of the room and to her delight found a black lace mantilla. In a Catholic country, even prostitutes went to Mass; they had plenty of reason to cover their heads, too. She pulled it down over her face and anchored it to her blouse with a couple of pins to keep it in place. She blinked, her eyes adjusting, but finally she could see through the heavy lace well enough to brave the corridor again.