Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Quit being a punk.

  You don’t have to like the authorities, but you do need to respect them.

  Tell only what you saw when you invaded your grandmothers house the second time.

  His first foray into Zapopas house didn’t pertain to the shooting incident, but the kid must be shaking in his sandals in fear that she would expose his theft of her money and credit card.

  She ought to. The juvenile thief had a little justice coming. Still, Zapopa would need someone to look after her—that’s if Manuel had enough decency left in him. Desi gritted her teeth as they took another Mario Andretti corner.

  Tony, I need you now!

  She should never have taken this commission for the Mexican government. Failure stared her in the face. Worse, she didn’t care if she flopped. What was the matter with her? Desiree Jacobs never accepted defeat as an option.

  What was the matter with him? Tony jiggled his computer mouse to bring up the screen. Maybe Desi couldn’t phone, but she might have sent an e-mail. The hotel in Mérida should have Wi-Fi.

  He opened his account and scanned his messages. Not many—nothing important and nothing from Desi. He blew a sharp breath. What’s up, woman? You need to contact me soon, or I’m going to…do what?

  Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. Time for that heart-to-heart with—

  “Lucano!”

  Tony’s eyes popped open. Bernard Cooke, the assistant special agent in charge, filled his doorway. Tony came to his feet.

  The bulky black man stomped in. “I understand the need for a little shut-eye in this zoo, but Immigration just radioed with breaking news on that human contraband case. A small freighter belonging to Jagre Shipping docked in Boston harbor just before this weather hit. An informant claims they’re going to unload the women tonight.”

  “Are they crazy?”

  “Crazy like a fox. But were the hounds, and we’ve got ’em treed. SWAT is going in first to eliminate any sentries on deck—water approach. Then your squad will join them—land approach. Everything’s got to run like a Swiss watch. We need to wait until the transport truck shows up so we can nab those guys, as well as the slavers aboard ship. But then we’ve got to charge in before they start shooting the sick ones and dumping the bodies overboard.”

  Tony came around his desk. “Any chance we can use the satellite imaging truck? Eyeball surveillance isn’t going to work in this mess. We’ll need heat signatures to tell us when the truck arrives and the smugglers board the ship.”

  Cooke smirked. “It’s all set up. We lucked out. The CIA is testing one of their infrared satellites smack dab over this handy-dandy blizzard we’ve got going on. They decided to play nice and let us use it for a few hours tonight…unless, of coure, they yank it away at any given moment. So get cracking. Time’s awasting.” He walked to the doorway, then turned and jabbed a finger at Tony. “If there’s any drugs aboard the ship, find the stash before the DEA decides to join the party. We can give ’em a late Christmas present and have one up.”

  Tony rubbed the bridge of his nose. The ASAC made interagcncy rivalry an art form. He headed into the bull pen to gather the troops. Sorry, Des. Praying would have to wait, because those poor women on that ship couldn’t.

  How did a simple plan to duck out of sight turn into a three-ring circus? Even a decade ago, when Desi was last here, the poorer barrios hadn’t been so drug infested. Thanks for nothing to that airport official who directed her to poor Zapopa. Desi bit her lip and watched the night duty sergeant at the police precinct.

  The porcine man across the desk stared at her photo ID and passport taken from the luggage and laptop case. He shook his head, chins waggling. “So you claim you are Desiree Jacobs, even though you do not look like her.” He leaned across the desk. “I think you are a not-so-clever imposter. What have you done with Señorita Jacobs?”

  Desi rubbed her forehead. A dull ache throbbed between her eyebrows. Outside the sergeant’s cubicle, the chaos of a Mérida night reigned. Curses and whimpers of prisoners. Barks of harried officers. The tramp of feet. The smells of sweat and fear. Desi’s skin itched to leave the depressing place. “Allow me to change in the bathroom.”

  The man snorted. “You will try to escape. You have already caused much trouble.” His scowl would have made a real Myra-type quiver in her tourist flip-flops.

  Desi stripped bobby pins from beneath her wig. “And what makes it my fault that young people have so little hope for their future that they turn to drugs and gangs as a way of life?” She tore off the wig, ripping out a stray pin and some real hair. Scalp stinging, she flung the hairpiece on the sergeant’s desk.

  The man’s wheeled chair grumbled backward, and he stared at the wig like she’d tossed him a rat. He squinted at her. “But your face. It is not—”

  “Im good with makeup, okay? And my eyes are hazel beneath these contact lenses. I suggest you call the number on the card you found in my laptop case. You will reach Señor Ramon Sanchez, the government agent assigned to me by Presidential Aide Esteban Corona.”

  The sergeant eyed his phone like it might bite him. “But we will wake him up.”

  “Would you rather disturb an aide to President Montoya?”

  The chins jiggled from a visible swallow. “We will wait until morning, and then—”

  “Fine. I can sit in your office all night. Or better yet, you can stash me in a cell with the group of prostitutes that just came through. I’m sure Señor Sanchez will thank you for endangering his guest in order to guard his sleep.”

  “But—”

  “What would I gain except extra jail time by lying about something like this if Tm the thief you think I am? And what will you gain but a demotion if you don’t believe me?”

  The sergeant cleared his throat. Frowning, he tapped in the number with a pudgy finger. They waited. At last, someone picked up, and the sergeant began a skeptical and apologetic explanation. A voice blasted, and the man held the handset away from his ear. He flushed red. “At once, señor. Sí, it shall be done. Señorita Jacobs is safe with me.” Sucking in air, he cradled the phone. “A car is coming to pick you up, Señorita Jacobs.”

  “May I have my belongings now?”

  “Sí, it shall be done.”

  Amazing how a low-echelon bully started repeating himself as soon as a bigger kid on the playground barked an order. “And the young man brought in with me needs to be released and taken to the hospital where his grandmother is being treated.”

  “Sí, it shall—”

  “I know.”

  Twenty minutes later, Desi had removed her makeup, changed clothes, and given her statement. Now she stood in the foyer with an officer, waiting for her government car. After a night like this, if Clayton Greybeck picked up her trail, she’d just give him a black eye and be done with it.

  The inner set of glass doors opened, and Manuel slouched through them. He glanced at her and the armed officer, and his gaze slid away.

  “Young man.” Desi stepped forward.

  Zapopa’s grandson peered at her, no recognition in his eyes.

  “Do what is right.” She handed him a thousand pesos.

  His fist closed around the bills.

  “Go to your grandmother,” Desi said

  Manuel stared at the money and licked his lips. Desi could practically hear his thoughts. A thousand pesos could buy some good drugs. Why waste it on taxi fare and taking care of an old lady? A huge dilemma for a youth barreling down the wrong road.

  Desi sensed the officers gaze jab between her shoulder blades. He knew that lesson all too well. Was she acting the fool to trust this kid, or would the Hispanic reverence for family ties override the powerful undertow of rebellion?

  The young mans shoulders squared. “I will honor my abuela.”

  Desi nodded, and Manuel hustled out the door. The officer uttered a foul word.

  A limousine pulled up, and the officer hefted her suitcase. laptop on her shoulder, she followed him
into the gentle warmth of the Mérida night. Salsa smell spiced the air from a street vendor kiosk, closed until daylight brought tourists. The limo driver opened the passenger door. She slid onto the supple leather seat, let her case slip to the floor, and closed her eyes.

  Desi felt the limo slide away from the curb and laid her head back. What next and where was she being taken? The answers didn’t matter as consciousness faded.

  A lurch jerked her body and brought her eyes open. Through the clear plastic partition that separated her from the driver, she watched him lower his window. A deep voice growled a command to get out, followed by a sharp click.

  Desi’s neck hair stood on end. That sounded like—

  The snout of a gun poked through the open window.

  Seven

  The limo driver got out, hands climbing upward. A dim streetlight revealed they’d been accosted near a park, deserted except for scattered trees and an empty bench. The back door jerked open, and a ski-masked head popped inside. Desi’s heart did a tap dance.

  “Where is he?” The masked mans voice crackled with cold authority.

  Desi swallowed. “Where’s who?”

  The intruder slid in beside her. “Are you his sancha?” His silky tone conveyed intimate insult.

  Desi’s fingers clawed into the leather seat. “I have never met the owner of this limo—making it rather difficult for me to be his kept woman.”

  “Then you will give him a message.” The man leaned close, and her nostrils filled with the smell of cheap cigars. He gripped her chin in merciless fingers.

  Desi bit her tongue against a cry. Great! A bruised face and a sore mouth to add to a scraped elbow and tender bottom.

  He smiled with all the warmth of a crocodile. “Tell him how easy it was to stop this vehicle and get to the passenger. He will understand the point.” The man released her and slithered out of the car as if he were part snake. Not a bad analogy.

  The vehicle jiggled, and the driver resumed his place behind the wheel. Snake Man slammed her door, and the limo leaped forward with a screech of tires, leaving the pit of her stomach somewhere on the pavement. They drove for another ten minutes at ridiculous speeds.

  Finally, the car slowed in front of a barred gate that barely swung out of the way fast enough to admit them to a horseshoe drive in front of a large brick home. The portico light glowed between a pair of entry columns. Hope of safe haven quickened Desi’s breathing.

  She rubbed her sore chin. Maybe this local government poobah could tell her why she’d been robbed, accosted, and assaulted from the moment she arrived in Mérida, a city that trumpeted its low crime rate in the glossy brochures. This last incident was directed right at Mr. Poobah. What was going on? Corruption? Not much of a shocker. Or something more sinister?

  The driver opened her door, and Desi climbed out. His scowl could have soured milk.

  She went up the stairs toward the front door. A dog growled, joined by another, both animals hidden in the shadows. Ant feet crawled across Desi’s skin. The driver issued a sharp command, and the growls ceased.

  Then a smiling, bobbing Hispanic woman in a long housecoat filled the doorway and beckoned Desi inside. Friendly face much appreciated, thank you very much. Desi staggered more than walked into the foyer.

  To her left, dimly lit stairs swooped upward in a graceful curve. To her right and ahead lay darkened rooms. She checked her watch. Three a.m.? Oh, brother, no wonder she was tired. About two hours of sleep in as many days, and precious little before that in the planning stages of her caper in Mexico City. The Pakal fiasco seemed long ago and far away.

  Housecoat Woman led her toward the stairs, high cheekbones and broad nose denoting a citizen of Mayan extraction. Desi went up the carpeted stairs on the woman’s heels. The chauffeur tromped behind with Desi’s bag. At the top of the stairs, they stopped at a white door. The woman pushed it open and stood aside. Desi stepped into a spacious bedroom. Her feet sank into smooth carpeting, and a large, canopied bed drew her with a silent siren song.

  She turned to thank her escorts, but the hall was empty. Her bag sat by the door. Silence cloaked the house. Strange that no one had spoken a word to her. She shrugged. Was the woman the housekeeper or mistress of the home? Desi guessed the former.

  Her jaw creaked around a yawn. She glanced at the bed, but an open door invited her into a bathroom fitted with every convenience known to man—or woman. Should she shower or bathe her face and fall onto the mattress? The face-splash won. A shower sounded like too much effort.

  She threw off her outer clothes, clicked off the light, and crawled between sheets so sleek and crisp they had to have been ironed. The pillow cradled her head in blessed softness.

  Oh, crumb! She stiffened. She forgot to try calling Tony. Sighing, she clicked on the bedside lamp and dug out her cell phone. Aack! The battery was dead, and her charger had been in her carry-on. She needed to find a house phone, but it wasn’t a good idea for a stranger to go prowling around in the dark. Oh, well, morning was almost here.

  She rolled onto her side. What was the big lug up to? Her eyes drifted shut. Probably twiddling his thumbs in his sixteenth-floor office, watching snowflakes fall. She smiled. At least one of them was enjoying an uneventful night.

  Inside the satellite imaging van, Tony passed out cups of hot coffee to his squad. Outside, the storm shrieked, but it barely rattled the FBI vehicle sheltered between a pair of warehouses on the pier. “Enjoy the java now, kiddies. When that transport truck arrives, no more lounging in the warmth. Dell will stay with the van, but the rest of us’ll have at least a block to cover on foot.”

  Slidell didn’t stir at the mention of his name. His gaze stayed glued to the satellite screen. Typical. Tony sat down and scratched inside his thermal boot. Hot as blazes now, but he’d be glad of the footwear once his team stepped outside.

  “Walk in the park, right?” Polanski nudged Hajimoto.

  “Speak for yourself.” He grimaced. “I hate winter. Who would have guessed this far north in the middle of January would be a hotbed of the South American slave trade?”

  “Jagre Shipping has an office in Quebec too,” Slidell said, staring at his screen. “Technically, we are not the farthest north, though I believe Quebec is enjoying better weather.”

  “Thanks for the report, Dell.” Polanski snickered. “If we wanted to do an arrest in nice weather, we should have boarded this boat in Miami or Charleston. Jagre’s got presence there too. Anybody up for a transfer?”

  “What about that name?” Bergstrom spoke up.

  All eyes turned toward the new agent…except Dells.

  Haj sat forward, elbows on his knees. “What name are you talking about?”

  The kid flushed but didn’t turn away. “Jagre. Seems like it should mean something, but we haven’t found anybody named Jagre on the ownership papers for the corporation, just a bunch of foreign directors who may or may not exist.”

  Intelligent observation. Tony eyed the new agent. Maybe he’d work out. “Hopefully, well arrest somebody tonight who can give us the answer. We do know that the Fraternidad gang has its finger in this pie, but they needed someone with business expertise, not just street smarts to set it up. I’d say we’re dealing with a dangerous hybrid—a white collar-gang mix—and the quicker we shut it down, the better.”

  Silence fell, except for the slurping of coffee and the roar of the storm. Tony cradled his foam cup between his palms, absorbing warmth. They’d better perform on the cutting edge of excellent tonight, or they could wind up a bunch of empty-handed Popsicles. And those people in the cargo hold would be dead or worse than dead.

  “Incoming.” Dell leaned toward his screen. “Good-sized vehicle. Heated end for end.”

  Haj snorted. “At least they don’t plan on freezing the ladies from here to wherever they stash them.”

  “Suit up, children.” Tony grabbed his jacket. “And be careful out there when we get close to the water. I don’t want to have to fish anyb
ody out of the drink.”

  “The truck stopped,” Dell said. “Two warm bodies just got out. Moving. Moving.” He fell silent, watching the screen. “Okay, they’ve disappeared onto the boat. No other human heat signatures in the truck cab.”

  “Good break for us. Bergstrom can secure the vehicle while we conduct shipboard business.” Tony adjusted his radio headset. “Stay close together. Once we’re away from the buildings, visibility will be nil. Dell will let us know if we go astray.”

  He pulled up his parka hood and took a deep breath of warm air. Then he gripped the handle and opened the rear of the van. A white world swirled into his face. He hopped out and held the door for the others, and then muscled it closed as a wind gust fought him.

  He passed down the side of the van, the others on his heels. He stepped into driving snow and turned right, blazing a path through a three-foot snowbank parallel to the dark blob of a warehouse nearly obscured by drifts. Frozen pellets stung exposed parts of his face and lodged in his eyelashes. He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his glove. Labored grunts behind him indicated that his squad followed.

  “You’re on track. Keep going,” Dell reported in his ear. Tony didn’t answer, saving his breath for his next step.

  The transport truck wasn’t half a block away, but he couldn’t see it. Only the ship’s light bobbing on the swells. A few more steps, and headlights poked out of the haze not far ahead.

  “SWAT reports a go on their end.” Dell’s voice came through.

  So far so good. Tony reached the side of the truck, turned his back on the wind, and leaned against the solid bulk. Great to breathe without inhaling ice. The rumble of the motor barely registered over the howl of the wind.

  Who figured this as a golden opportunity bust anyway? Suicide was a closer approximation. But then, the slavers probably figured no cop in their right mind would be out in this. But a bunch of crazy feds? They were here, weren’t they? Guess that answered the question.

  A thud sounded, followed by a feminine grunt. The truck panel rippled.