Just Beyond Reach

by Candace Irvin

  The first, the month before. The last two, just this week.

  "Damn, you're good, Gray. Really good."

  "That's what I keep telling you, honey."

  "Get the warrants."

  "I'm gone."

  By the time she glanced up, he was. And as her gaze sank back down to the photo at the corner of her desk, so was the flush of victory.

  Damn it, just call him. This was case-related. At best, official business. At worst, an update. It was not an excuse to just hear Joe's voice.

  As she picked up the phone, she almost believed it.

  There were eight this time, all already in their hospital beds.

  For that was, indeed, what the interior of this former barn had been remodeled to resemble. A makeshift hospital.

  Joe studied the twenty-by-forty-foot room openly. Since he had already indicated that he was not averse to the monstrous scheme detailed to him over the past hour as he and Hernández traveled to this deserted ranchero, he did not bother disguising his interest.

  He did, however, work fiercely to conceal his disgust, as well as his fury.

  A man, his wife, their three sons and two daughters, as well as the man's brother, were laid out in succession, already cleansed and no doubt unclothed beneath the white sheets tucked neatly to their chins. All were also deep in slumber by virtue of the steady drip from the intravenous solution inserted via needles into the backs of those exposed left hands resting atop the sheets. Eight bodies, lined up like a well-tended garden awaiting the harvest. But this crop would yield no vegetables, but human organs.

  Both kidneys this time.

  And why not? As the technician had so forthrightly stated—this new "improvement" to the scheme would yield twice the profits with less than half the effort.

  Considerably less risk, as well. For there would be no recovering donors to ferry across the border and assist with the beginnings of their new lives. Even better, no one to confess to all, should a donor suffer complications in the coming weeks, months or years ahead…since he was to bury the evidence.

  Hernández stepped up beside him, ever the farmer surveying his domain. "Not bad, huh? And who knows? If we can get the pipeline in place, we may be able to branch out. Harvest the other organs, too. Waste not, want not."

  Joe strove to mask his rage as he turned into the satisfaction that was on Hernández' face. This man was more than evil. He was Satan himself. To prey upon others, much less one's own kind, was vile enough, but to do so upon those who were so desperate as to willingly submit to the lie? Madre de Dios, give him strength.

  The strength not to kill this man before it was time.

  "I outfitted everything myself." The technician approached the closest bed and tapped the monitor. "Wasn't even difficult. Hardest part was putting everything together." He shrugged. "Of course, I had help with the surgical follow through."

  That would be from the medical student who had agreed to this scheme. Again, in exchange for immigration status.

  This last was the most difficult for him to accept.

  Hernández and Arthur Brohm's involvement he could almost understand, for he had seen greed at its strongest since taking his oath with the DEA—even more so than as an innocent boy coming home from school that day. But for a man who professed to want to help heal his fellow man to sink so low, was unimaginable.

  How could someone who wished to call himself doctor, save one life as he stole another?

  The monitor beneath the technician's hand bleated in distress. The bastard did not even bother checking on the father attached to it. Hernández simply cleared the alarm then reached to his waist to unhook the phone that had begun bleating as well. "Yeah? Yup, he's here…okay." He severed the connection. "Wait here. I'll be back soon."

  Joe nodded.

  He waited for the door to close before approaching the victims in rapid succession, lifting their eyelids in turn as he assessed their vital signs. He checked the IV bags next. Propofol. The anesthesia had already taken effect as well, for none would rouse.

  Joe reached the rear of the makeshift operating room and glanced behind the rolling partition. A row of small white, individual coolers lined the shelves of the wall, all with the words "Human Organ for Transplant" stamped in red upon them.

  He ignored the coolers in favor of a nearby stainless steel cabinet, intent on retrieving a scalpel from within—but the doors were firmly locked.

  Turning back to the shelves, he began a systematic search for a telephone, as well as anything he could use as a weapon. Unfortunately, by the time he reached the father's bedside, he had achieved no success with either.

  Footsteps. Then the lever of the door turning down.

  Cristo.

  No time left, he returned to the first bed in the row. When the door opened, he was standing beside the father's monitor, as if studying it intently. He turned to the door as it closed, carefully assessing the man who now stood four feet away with hands clasped behind his back, clearly assessing him in turn. The sharp gray eyes, the overly thick brows, the once-black hair, now mostly silver and thinning at the top. The edge to that narrow mouth.

  Though he did not know the man personally, he did recognize his face, for it was the same one contained within photographs Daniels had brought to their meeting that morning. But just as he knew this man was Arthur Brohm, he was also certain something was wrong. Perhaps it was the way Brohm did not move forward, much less introduce himself. He simply stood beside the door.

  "Just who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"

  For lack of a better response, Joe allowed the terse silence that fell between them to remain untouched for a good fifteen seconds. "It was my understanding, Señor, that you wished to see me." He shrugged. "And now that I know you do not—" He headed for the door, only to halt abruptly as a manila file came from behind Brohm's back to land at his boots. He joined the CBP officer in staring at it.

  "Pick it up."

  Keeping his eyes on Brohm, he complied.

  "Open it."

  ¡Madre de Dios!

  Despite his efforts to prevent it, he felt the blood drain from his face as he stood there, staring at yet another photograph of yet another agent. A photograph of an agent that he knew exceedingly well. Almost as well as he knew himself. For though the face staring up at him was not his, it resembled his own.

  It belonged to none other than Tomás Vásquez. His friend and, more importantly at this moment, fellow DEA agent.

  What in God's name was he to do now?

  Joe raised his gaze slowly, staring silently into that one of iron.

  "Now, Agent Vásquez, I'm an understanding man. So I'm going to give you another chance to answer my question. But first, I'd like you to remove that switchblade from your boot and kick it across the floor. And in case you get any ideas, it might help you to know that one of my associates is already on his way to retrieve your 'wife'."

  13

  Something was wrong. Despite the fact that Tess could see Joe's truck parked in front of Eddie's house as she turned down the street, she was sure of it.

  Joe was missing.

  The clincher was the ten other cars and trucks surrounding it, as well as the trio of beach-wear models heading up the walk for yet another party. If Eddie was simply throwing another booze and drug-fueled blowout, there was no way Joe wouldn't have been able to find a way to distract the man long enough to answer her texts.

  All eight of them.

  Tess parked her Jeep and reached into the well of her steering wheel. She didn't dare retrieve her Glock or DEA credentials, but she did grab several plastic zipcuffs, lifting the hem of her sundress to thread them into the strap securing her switchblade to her right thigh. She bailed out of the Jeep and used her spare key to pop the lock on Joe's truck. A quick check of his own modified center console, and the reinforced safe within, revealed Joe's weapon, cuffs and credentials—but no phone. She didn't know whether she should be relieved or even more wo
rried.

  She opted for both as she headed up the walk to ring the bell, only to settle firmly on worry as the door swung wide.

  None other than Miss San Diego greeted her, complete with midriff-baring bikini and an even more expansive—if vacant—smile. A swift glance at her pupils confirmed it: Krissie was stoned.

  "Hi." Those wide blue eyes blinked several times, each more slowly than the last. "I don't remember inviting you."

  "You didn't. Is my husband here?"

  "Nope."

  Tess waited for a follow-up that might explain the obvious fact that Joe had at least been here. Obvious to anyone who could focus past their nose, that was. When none was forthcoming, she sighed. "I see my husband's truck is here. Was he here?"

  "Yup."

  Tess held fast to her temper as that smug, sleepy smile deepened. "When did my husband leave?"

  That one earned her an equally slow, sleepy shrug.

  "May I please speak to Eddie?"

  Another vacant smile. "He's not here."

  Good God, what was this woman on?

  Whatever it was had sucked what little brains Krissie possessed and puréed them into mush. Tess kept a lock on her smile as well as her patience as someone in the den beyond cranked up the stereo to a cop-calling decibel. "Where is he?"

  The girl blinked. "I told you, I don't know."

  Easy. Breath slow and easy. "Eddie. Where…is…Eddie?"

  "Oh. Mexico…I think."

  She thought? Now there was a dubious scenario.

  Another one of those hazy smiles. "Sorry."

  Tess sighed her defeat. It was no use. She'd confronted vacant, deadened eyes just like these too many times to waste any more time trying.

  She turned around to the walkway.

  "Wait."

  She reined in her hope as she swung back. "Yes?"

  "You're a nurse, right?"

  "Yes."

  Her hope fizzled altogether as the blond extended one of her too-slender arms, palm up. "What's this stuff do?"

  Tess eyed the vial of clear liquid. Whatever was in it would require a syringe to abuse it. This wasted bimbo wasn't sufficiently with it to hold a needle steady enough to pierce the rubber stopper, let alone find one of her own veins.

  Tess reached out and plucked the vial from those nerveless fingers, automatically turning it so that she could read the label.

  Potassium chloride?

  Holy shit.

  She grabbed the girl's arm. "Where'd you get this?" Please, please, let her remember this at least. She held her now blistering breath, hoping against hope Krissie wouldn't say—

  "Eddie." She giggled. "Well…sort of. I found it in his stash."

  Joe. He was missing.

  Oh God, Eddie had potassium chloride—and Joe was missing.

  Gray. The Jeep. Her phone.

  Another mindless giggle. "It's good stuff, isn't it?"

  Tess ignored her and spun around with the vial locked in her fingers, ignoring Krissie's hazy protest as she sprinted down the walkway. The tiny letters on that seemingly innocuous label were ripping through her brain as she dove inside the Jeep and fumbled through her bag for her phone.

  She punched out Gray's number, her fingers shaking and her breath still blistering through her lungs when he answered.

  "Daniels."

  "Gray—it's Joe; he's missing. I haven't been able to get a hold of him since you stopped by my desk three hours ago. His truck is here in front of Eddie's with his Glock and credentials inside—but he's not inside the house. He's missing." Damn it, she was repeating herself like a week-old rookie.

  "Calm down, little lady. No need to panic. He could be—"

  "Eddie's missing, too. I think he's in Mexico."

  "Tess, relax. They're probably not even togeth—"

  "Damn it, will you let me finish?" Regret seared into her along with the air she managed to force through her lungs. "Sorry. Please, just listen. Eddie's got a supply of potassium chloride on hand. That's used for two things, Gray, neither of which will get you high. What the chemical will do is stop your heart—leaving your organs intact for transplantation."

  For the first time since they'd met, she heard Gray curse.

  It wasn't comforting.

  "I'm on it, Tess. You caught me on the road. Came up with an interesting connection on that bank account Brohm's been dumping his profits into. I'm en route to your office now—I'll explain when I get there. Ten minutes tops. Meet me there as soon as you can. Meanwhile, I'll fire up a chopper and put out an all-points bulletin on Eddie's plates—on both sides of the damned border."

  "I'm leaving now." But the moment she severed the connection, she realized she wasn't going anywhere. At least not alone.

  Eddie.

  She knew exactly where he was—because he'd just yanked open the passenger door of her Jeep and was leaning over the seat beside her. But as she jerked up her elbow, aiming for a sharp, nose-fracturing jab, Eddie grabbed her arm and injected something through the sleeve of her sundress—right into her.

  Stunned, she tried to grab at the now empty syringe.

  What the hell was—

  He took advantage of her shock, pinning her between the door, the stick shift and the steering wheel as he clamped his hand over her mouth. "Relax, chiquita. I know you're wondering what was in that. Don't. In sixty seconds, you're not going to care."

  Wrong. She did care.

  She just couldn't seem to do anything about it. The more she struggled, the dizzier, more sluggish and weaker she got.

  Until finally, Eddie's dark, leering face blurred into the black.

  She was dreaming again. Not only did she not care, she had no intention of waking up. If she did, Joe's husky voice would fade from her ears, his subtle scent would evaporate from her lungs and his soothing touch would slip away from her face.

  Forever.

  "Querida, please. Come back to me. Open your eyes."

  "No."

  Then again, maybe she wasn't dreaming. Because she could swear that she'd just felt him stiffen.

  "J-Joe?"

  When his lips brushed her temple like they had so many times before, she knew he was real. But even then, it took a bit to convince her drowsy lids to cooperate

  Joe's worried features finally wavered into focus along with the row of beds stretched out behind him.

  A hospital?

  "Madre de Dios—gracias."

  She swallowed. "Wh-Where am I?"

  "México. Perhaps ten, twelve miles south of Tijuana and the San Benito de Nursia Kidney Dialysis Center. You were right."

  "Then why aren't you smiling?"

  She tried to raise her fingers to smooth the lines of worry from his face, but couldn't quite manage it.

  He captured her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. "Because my cover has been blown—in a way."

  In a way?

  His cover was either intact or it wasn't…wasn't it? Damn it, the drug that Eddie had shot into her had fogged her brain, leaving her unable to think clearly. She refocused her thoughts and made another attempt to claw her way through the mist, this time gasping softly as she broke free long enough to realize the beds behind Joe weren't empty.

  "Shhhh." His lips brushed her ear.

  Why he'd bothered quieting her, she wasn't sure. If her vision had recovered as much as she thought, those occupants were more out of it than she was.

  She followed Joe's lead anyway, keeping her voice to a whisper as well. "What happened?"

  "Daniels was correct as well. Brohm is involved. He observed one of my meetings with Hernández from afar before we knew he was part of this. Brohm thought my face was familiar to him, but he could not place it. Until he remembered the joint DEA/ICE Mexicali taskforce from three years ago."

  "But—you weren't involved in that, Tomás was."

  She felt him nod.

  The fog cleared enough for understanding to dawn. "Oh my God, he thinks you're—" She caught herself in th
e nick of time. Whatever was in her system, she was having a devil of a time shaking it.

  Agent Vásquez. How many times had she teased Joe and Tomás that as often as they'd used their looks to fill in for one another to pull one over on some drug dealer, one day when they least expected it, the similarity would backfire?

  Well, it looked as though that day was here.

  "What did you do?"

  Joe shrugged. "I denied it. Pointed out the obvious differences: the length in hair, the differing smiles, the earring. I went so far as to claim I had been shaken down just last month by some gringo cop who had a score to settle with this agent he had mistaken me for. I dared Brohm to check it out." Despite the seriousness of their predicament, those obvious differences made a brief appearance as Joe's dimples—dimples that Tomás didn't possess—flashed. "Stan will back me up should he get the call."

  "He'll milk you for favors 'til the end of time, too." She hoped.

  Joe's smile faded as he nodded solemnly.

  "What about the patients? I take it that's the next family awaiting surgery? I should take a look at—" She tried to rise, but a wave of dizziness knocked her back.

  Joe stopped her next attempt, shaking his head as he smoothed the hair from her cheeks. "Rest. I have already checked them. For now, they are well. The propofol keeps them under—and alive. Though, unless we do something, this may change soon."

  Propofol—anesthesia.

  Surgery.

  Good Lord, her brain really was fogged. How else could she have forgotten? "Joe, Eddie has potassium chloride in his stash."

  "I suspect he has it here as well." Joe jerked his frown to the partition several feet to her right. "Behind there. Along with the necessary containers to transport the kidneys. From what Hernández told me on the way here, he receives a call when the surgeries begin—a medical student performs them. The Kidney Center sends an ambulance to pick the organs up. The ambulance driver in turn flicks on the lights and sirens before he reaches the Center, and no one is the wiser. Hernández is then tasked with ensuring those who 'donated' their kidneys are care for, and then brought across the border and given a green card as payment. But Hernández and Brohm have decided to reduce their overhead, so to speak. Eventually, they plan on branching out into the illegal supply of other organs as well. But for now, they are content to double their profits by taking both kidneys from each of these victims lying here. I am to…dispose…of what remains."