Dean led her down a long hall past closed doors and wide openings with eight to ten cubicles set back in a work group arrangement. He opened a back door and led her outside to where the garage was bustling with activity around a burned-out SUV.
Dean took her hand and walked her around the side of the garage to where they had a modicum of privacy. It was dark; the sun had completely set. Sonia hadn’t realized it was nearly ten at night. External lamps lit the entire area.
“Victoria Christopoulis is going to cooperate in exchange for immunity.”
“Thank God. It’s about time we had a big break. Does she know where the women are? What did you say about a mine?”
“She doesn’t know the specifics, but she said they were taken to a mine. If we are right in our analysis and they are on Rio Diablo land, we’ll have some major issues, but—”
“Homeland Security has jurisdiction in matters of national security. I’ll take the heat. I’ll take anything if we get to them in time.”
“No need to do that. I think we have cause, and at this point, I’d rather ask for forgiveness than permission. I’m going to play with the time line a bit, contact the tribal council as we approach Rio Diablo boundaries, tell them what’s happened and hope the council doesn’t have huge loyalties to this little tribe.”
“Charlie came through?”
“I hate to admit it, but yeah, he scared her half to death. It put her in the right mind-set to cooperate.”
Sonia took Dean’s other hand and squeezed. “We’re close, so close, why the long face? She didn’t tell you they were already gone?” She tensed. “Or worse?”
He shook his head. “No, no, no. Not that. I have every reason to believe they’re still alive. It’s about your father.”
Sonia stifled a cry. “My dad? What’s wrong? Is he okay? Is it his heart—”
“No, not Owen. Sergio Martin.”
“Oh.” She glanced down, breathed deeply. She was going to have to get used to this. Once it all got out—She’d just have to develop a thicker skin, a stronger spine than she already had. She looked Dean in the eye. “Just spill it. I need to know.”
“He’s Noel Marchand.”
Sonia stared at Dean blankly at first, then the information—the name Noel Marchand—sank in.
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t believe you. Marchand is the most notorious human trafficker in the hemisphere. Some people in ICE don’t think he exists, at least as one individual. Some think the name represents a gang, not a person. It’s not—not—not possible,” she stumbled over her words.
“Victoria Christopoulis confirmed it. She met him that day in the photograph. She’s scared to death of him, believes he’ll kill her. Believed he was capable of killing Jones and Greg Vega. I’m sorry, Sonia, but I wanted you to hear it from me.”
She turned and dry heaved, covering her mouth to hold in a sob. No. No!
Her father had sold her. Why was she surprised that he was infamous? But the knowledge that his blood ran through her veins chilled her, humiliated her, made her feel tainted and dirty. How could she face his victims? How could she look at herself in the mirror?
She braced herself with both hands on the cinder-block wall of the garage and took deep breaths as silent sobs of anger and sorrow wracked her body. She wanted to forget, she wanted to disappear. Self-pity invaded her mind. Why me?
“Sonia, you didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. But I had to tell you, even if you hate the messenger.”
She shook her head wildly back and forth, her chest tight. “Why would I hate you? I hate myself. Hate that I didn’t know!”
Dean took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “I never want to hear that again. You’re not God. You’re not all-knowing. You are Sonia Knight, a top-notch investigator, a compassionate cop, a beautiful woman. You are Owen Knight’s daughter, and that man is a damn good dad. Don’t forget it.”
She wrapped her arms around Dean and held on tight. She sobbed, releasing the pain and anguish. Dean absorbed it, shared it. She loved him for it. He had reminded her of what was truly important. Her family wasn’t the man whose genes ran through her cells, but a mother and father who wanted her, who’d taken her into their home and loved her unconditionally, treated her as much as their own as they did their two sons. Owen and Marianne were her true family.
She whispered into his chest, “Thank you … for reminding me.”
“I love you, Sonia.”
She breathed in sharply, holding his declaration inside, felt his love and devotion. He’d already shown her how much he cared. She’d shared her secrets, her fears, her frustrations, and he not only understood but made her stronger by telling him. As if he’d made her past his own. She never realized how much she needed to have someone in her life to trust explicitly, to love beyond family. That she could be this lucky amazed her, but she wasn’t a fool. She wasn’t going to turn Dean away.
They heard voices in the courtyard around the corner. “Has anyone seen Hooper?”
Dean called, “Over here, Sam!”
Sonia let him go.
Sam ran around the corner. “We found it. I’m certain it’s where they are, if Christopoulis can be believed. It’s an abandoned mine right on the edge of the Rio Diablo property. And get this: it’s not tribal land. They bought it along with several other adjoining parcels over the last few years, probably with Jones’s illegal money.”
“Good work, Sam. Let’s go.”
Mr. Ling approached Noel as he finished loading his favorite gun.
They were both dressed in black. Once they were out in the night they could blend into the surroundings.
“They agreed,” Noel said. “We have one hour.”
“Mr. Marchand, the news.” Ling turned up the volume of the television with a remote.
“… Bob Richardson earlier this evening,” the newscaster was saying.
The shot cut to film of FBI headquarters, evident from the seal on the podium and the American and California State flags behind him. The ticker moving along the bottom of the screen repeated:
FBI SAC Bob Richardson is releasing a new Sacramento Most Wanted list with a public plea for help in finding a dangerous fugitive.
Richardson said, “Tonight the FBI has learned that notorious human trafficker Noel Marchand is in the greater Sacramento area. We have a witness who puts him at the scene around the time philanthropist and lobbyist Xavier Jones was shot and killed near his restaurant in Clarksburg.”
An old picture of Noel was put on-screen and Richardson’s voice-over said, “We’re releasing the first known photograph of Noel Marchand, taken seven to ten years ago in Mexico.”
Noel turned red. Where had the FBI obtained that photo? He never allowed himself to be photographed, but it appeared posed. Then he remembered. He’d been fishing with friends in Tres Palos. On his own property. Tobias had a new camera. A present from their father as the old man died, half out of his mind with syphilis. Noel had let Tobias take pictures, but he’d destroyed the film every night. The hobby lasted less than a month, when Tobias broke the camera. Who had kept the film?
Jones. It had to be. The FBI was at his house, they’d found it. Not for the first time, he wished he’d made Jones suffer.
A computer-generated enhancement came on-screen with the voice, “An FBI forensic artist has aged the picture to what Marchand may look like now. Marchand is between five foot nine and five foot eleven inches tall and approximately one hundred seventy pounds. He has light brown or graying brown hair and blue eyes. He’s approximately fifty-five to sixty years of age. He may be traveling with a Chinese American using the name Sun Ling.” An old, shaded photograph of Ling popped onto the screen. “If you see either of these men, do not approach. They are armed and dangerous. Call the FBI or your local police department. A special tip hotline has been set up and will be answered by a trained agent.”
Richardson came back on the television and the hotline number ran on the ticke
r.
“Marchand is the leading suspect in multiple felonies in the United States, Mexico, and Central and South America. He uses multiple aliases, including Sergio Martin and Pierre Devereaux.”
Noel fired his .45 into the television. In rapid French, he swore. “That bitch! How dare she give them that name! I will tear her apart limb from limb. I will cut off her fingers and stuff them down her throat and leave her dying for the coyotes to eat for dinner. I hate that girl. I should have drowned her after I slit her mother’s throat!”
He pressed the trigger again and again, until his ammunition was gone. He threw the gun across the room, picked up a knife, and cut deep gouges into the handmade leather couch that graced the small cabin. When he was done, the only sound was his rapid breathing.
“We should leave now,” Ling said quietly.
“Right. The buyers.” He shook his head to clear it.
“I mean, we should leave the country.”
“No.”
“Sir, it’s too dangerous—”
“I said no! I’m not walking away from my money. I had to pay out of pocket to change the day and time. I’m not leaving half a million dollars behind.”
“The first half million is already in your bank. I think—”
“No. Let’s go to the mine.”
“I would not do well in prison.”
“You won’t be going to prison.”
“I will get your plane ready.”
“You will be coming with me!” Ling looked at him with defiance. Noel fumed. How dare he disobey. Contradict him. Noel was in charge!
“I believe you’ve lost sight of the goal,” Ling said.
Noel forced himself to breathe slowly. Lower his heart rate. Take it easy.
“Perhaps.”
Ling relaxed. “Very well. Let’s go to the airstrip.” He turned his back to Noel.
That was his second mistake.
Noel threw the knife. It hit Ling right where he aimed, between the shoulder blades. It went in deep, deep enough that Ling couldn’t scream or make any sound.
His first mistake was telling Noel what to do.
Noel never ran away, especially from a woman.
He retrieved his gun, calmly reloaded it. He felt much better now that he had a game plan. Headlights cut a swath of light across the room, then stopped. One long, three quick beeps of the horn and Noel was assured Ignacio had arrived.
He’d lost half his U.S. team during this operation. Someone had to pay for his losses. Hell, a lot of people were going to pay.
Noel stepped over Ling’s body without giving him a second thought, for the years of service, for the people he killed on command, or for the friendship.
If he felt a twinge of regret it was only because he would miss Ling’s perfectly steeped morning tea.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
At Dean’s command, FBI SWAT team leader Brian Stone pulled together a team of tactically trained agents within fifteen minutes. Dean had Sam Callahan dragging the curator of the Calaveras County Museum out of bed to meet them at the sheriff’s department. Warren Shef field had the only known map of the closed mine. Dean wanted to consult the man because Callahan’s quick research told them the mine was severely unstable.
It was an hour before midnight when they gathered at the Calaveras Sheriff’s Department in San Andreas, twelve miles from the abandoned mine off Salamander Gulch Road. Unfortunately, the twisting road was narrow and treacherous in places, and the sheriff said it would take thirty minutes.
“Do you have a helicopter?” Dean asked.
“Yes, Agent Hooper, two. We use them primarily for search and rescue.”
“I need them.”
“One of our pilots lives quite a ways—”
Brian Stone said, “I can fly a chopper.”
The sheriff cleared it and called in the on-call deputy pilot. While they readied the equipment, Dean spoke to the curator.
Sheffield was skeptical. “The Grouch is dangerous. No one goes there.”
“Grouch? Don’t you mean the Gulch Mine?”
“Technically, it’s called the Second Quartz Mine. The primary mine is about five miles from there, and is open in the summer for tourists. The caverns are amazing, and you can—”
“I’m interested in this one,” Dean interrupted impatiently.
“The Grouch. The miners nicknamed it because it has a temper.”
“A mine with a temper,” Cammarata interjected, shaking his head.
Dean cringed. He hadn’t wanted to bring Charlie Cammarata with them, but Callahan said the man would be valuable since he was the only one who had recently seen Marchand. Dean relented. They needed every advantage they could get.
Sheffield nodded. “Fourteen miners lost their lives in the twenty-six months the Grouch was operational. It took nearly five years to build it, and it was open less than half that. Shafts collapsed spontaneously. It’s boarded up.”
“Are these blueprints accurate?” Dean asked.
“As accurate as they were since the last inspection, which was five years ago. During the inspection one of the geologists fell thirty feet and broke both legs. It took them six hours to get him out of the hole he’d fallen into because they had to shore up the sides, otherwise he would have been buried alive.”
“Sounds lovely,” Sonia said. “We need to get up there, Dean. If Marchand saw that broadcast—”
Dean and Sonia had tried to stop Richardson from broadcasting Marchand’s identity, but it was too late. It had been the smart thing to do … until they learned the location of the women. Now they feared they’d forced Noel Mar chand to act rashly.
“I’ll go with you and explain the blueprints.” Shef field said, pushing his glasses up on his nose for the tenth time in as many minutes.
“It’s dangerous.”
“So is the Grouch! I understand the risk, but you don’t.”
Dean didn’t want any civilians with him, especially this old nearsighted curator, but he didn’t see another way. They needed Sheffield to interpret the arcane blueprints, but they couldn’t sit around the sheriff’s station.
“You’re with me,” Dean said, “Sonia, Brian, Cammarata and three of the SWAT team. Brian, we’re going to have to send half your team on the road. Callahan will go with the other pilot and three SWAT. Trace, if you can lead the ground contingent and stay alert for any sentries. If Marchand is anywhere nearby, the longer he’s in the dark about us, the better.”
Brian pulled his team aside for orders.
Dean took out a highlighter and marked the map. “Sheriff, I need your men to put up roadblocks here … here … and here. That should effectively cut off all escape routes if someone is already up there, and prevent anyone else from showing up.”
“We can’t go there, that’s Rio Diablo land. They’re not the friendliest Indians around.”
“Get as close as you can.”
“That I can do.”
Dean glanced at his watch. “Brian, two minutes.”
“Roger that.”
Dean made a call to the Western Regional tribal counsel leader. He’d obtained his home phone from a local congressman who was friends with the chief.
“Chief Raintree?”
“Speaking.”
“My name is Dean Hooper, assistant director of the FBI. I’m calling as a courtesy to tell you that we’re engaging in an operation adjacent to tribal lands that may cross over into your property.”
“Which property?”
“Rio Diablo Rancherita.”
“Ah.”
“Sir?”
“We have our own investigation into Rio Diablo, Director Hooper. I’m not at liberty to share our ongoing investigation, but I appreciate the call, and you won’t have any trouble from the Council if there’s a need to cross into our sacred lands.”
“Thank you, Chief. I appreciate your cooperation.”
Dean hung up. That was easier than he’d expected. He hoped t
he rest of the operation would run as smoothly.
Sonia listened to the curator explain that the Grouch Mine had produced over seven million dollars in gold—a large haul for a small mine—but the preponderance of accidents had left the owner bankrupt. When the bank seized his property, he fought the police who came to remove him, then fell hundreds of feet to his death in a condemned shaft.
“The geologists who sited the mine made a critical error in judgment related to groundwater. There are hot springs a few miles from here, and we now know that they run deep underground, and because of a unique combination of rock and soil on just this small acreage, they caused underground floods and the shifting earth collapsed shafts. Had the owner simply built the mine one mile down the road, still on his property, he would have tapped into the same vein of gold without the tragic problems.”
While Sonia appreciated the history lesson, she was more interested in what the marks on the yellowed blueprints meant. “What’s this?” she asked of a red X.
“Collapsed tunnel. Here … this is elevation. The entrance itself is stable, but you’ll want to watch your footing. Right … here”—he pointed to a double red line—“the ground gave way between five and twenty feet. There are markings and warnings all over the mine, but you’ll want to watch for neon orange marks. If you see them, stop. That’s the sign for danger, and any step you take other than retracing your exact steps could land you in deep trouble.”
Sonia pointed to what appeared to be a room. “What’s this? It looks like an office.”
“It used to be. The foreman worked from there, the men would break there. It’s three stories belowground, and probably the only safe place in the whole structure.”
“That’s where they are,” Sonia said. “It’s secure, they can’t get out, it’s dark.”
“What about air?” Dean asked.
“There’s plenty of ventilation on the upper levels, but after a hundred feet I wouldn’t guarantee it. I haven’t been to the Grouch in years, it could have changed dramatically since the last inspection.”
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