Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  Ramon pulled one out for her, then took a seat opposite. “I understand from Luis that you had an unfortunate encounter on your way here last night.”

  “A series of unfortunate encounters that began on the plane to Mérida.”

  Her hosts brows knotted. “Enlighten me.”

  “We can start with last night and work backward. I assume Luis is your chauffeur, and that he told you we were waylaid by a group of armed men.”

  Ramon nodded, gaze veiled by dark lashes.

  “One of the thugs got into the car,” Desi went on, “and said he was demonstrating how easily they could access the passenger. He expected to find you in that seat. Do you often drive around the city in the middle of the night?”

  He flushed. “I was told you were astute. Most would have demanded to know who accosted them and what I was going to do about it.”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  Ramon grimaced. “Very well. You are owed an explanation. Yes, the midnight hour too often finds me on the streets.” He paused and sighed. “Looking for Carlos. He has become involved with bad people. I have been using all my power to remove this evil, but the gang wants me to stop interfering in their business. Last night was only another threat among many. My apologies that you found yourself in its path.”

  A picture began to form in Desi’s mind, and not a pretty one. She tapped her upper lip. “Would these ‘bad people’ be in the employ of a gang leader who calls himself El Jaguar?”

  Ramons eyes widened. “Where did you hear of this man? This parasite!”

  Desi clasped her hands in front of her. “There was an explosion and fire last night in a poor barrio not far from the airport. I was lodging with a woman there—”

  “You were not at the hotel downtown?”

  “Señor Corona must not have called you to explain my change of plans.”

  Ramon frowned. “It seems there has been a lack of communication, but Señor Coronas schedule is not often his own.”

  “Of course. But he didn’t try to call you this morning, either?”

  The cultural affairs director lifted his hands. “I have no explanation, but I will request one. Please continue with your story about last night.”

  Desi filled him in on the conversation she’d heard at the scene of the fire.

  Ramon got up and paced the length of the patio. “So these men believe the fire was ordered by El Jaguar because one of his dealers did not deliver some trinket?”

  “Probably more than a trinket. Does this gang leader collect antiquities? Perhaps he is behind the rash of cultural-heritage thefts.”

  Ramon stopped by his chair. “We have heard the rumor that he is a collector, but we—”

  Desi’s voice rose. “You knew, and your government sent me into this situation anyway?”

  “El Jaguar collects antique Spanish jewelry. He is loco for it.”

  “Antique jewelry?” Desi subsided against her chair. No wonder dealers had been eager to buy her medallion and angry when she refused to sell. Albon Guerrera could have warned her, but then, why spare the daughter of his enemy from the attention of a dangerous man?

  “On the flight to Mérida, I was robbed of an antique medallion by an Englishman who introduced himself as Preston Standish. He claimed to be a history professor on holiday. Could he be working for El Jaguar or planning to sell him the medallion?”

  Ramon shook his head. “A foolish move for a foreign professor. El Jaguar despises Anglos. He would shoot him, take the medallion, and call it a day well spent.”

  “Who is the gang leader? His real name, not the cartoon persona.”

  Ramon demonstrated the elaborate Latino shrug. “This we would like to know. His headquarters lie in the Yucatán jungle, but we have not found the location.” He resumed his seat. “You must finish your story about last night. How did you end up at the police station?”

  Desi told him about her stolen luggage, the confrontation with the three pandilleros, the shooting, and the grandson who promised to honor his abuela. She skipped the part about her Myra disguise. No need to confuse an already complicated situation.

  Ramon sat back with a long exhale. “I am mortified that you were subjected to such behavior in my country—my city.” His fingertips beat a tattoo on the tabletop. “The pandillas are pale imitations of the real thing—the Fraternidad de la Garra or simply the Fraternidad. This gang is popping up all over the United States and South America. Here, El Jaguar is their leader.”

  Desi’s scalp prickled. If Zapopa had been shot by a wannabe gangster, what must the genuine be like? She knew. Like the man who slithered in and out of the limo last night. Held done nothing but pinch her face and speak words of menace, but he made the drugged, jittery pandilleros look like mamas boys.

  “The Fraternidad is organized,” Ramon continued. “They are focused. Their violence is not random, and they have no conscience or fear of the authorities.”

  “This bullyboy’s got a private army. No wonder he’s tough to root out.”

  Ramon inclined his head. “You have said it.”

  “Will you check on Zapopa?”

  “Most certainly. And call Señor Corona.” Ramon’s face hardened. “Also, if Señor Standish is still in the Yucatán, he will be found. It is not acceptable that you have been treated so ill. I wish you to know Mexico’s friendly face. There is much to see, to do—”

  “Mexico is beautiful. I’ve been here before and plan to return.”

  “Ah.” His gaze brightened. “You have a special someone to bring along, perhaps?”

  Desi laughed. “Another thing I love about Mexico. You are all romantics at heart.”

  “It is so.” Ramon pressed a hand to his chest.

  “Im engaged. Unfortunately, my ring was in the bag that was stolen.”

  “¡Ay, chihuahua! I will call the airport to see if your property was recovered. I am disturbed that the official sent you into a dangerous area for lodging. Inexcusable.” He motioned toward the pool. “Take a refreshing dip, por favor, while you wait for my report. Ask our housekeeper, Juanita, for anything you need.” He looked at his watch. “My son has gone to practice, and Pilar will be out for the afternoon with her friends. You are not disappointed about the shopping trip?”

  Desi laughed. “Muchas gracias for your kindness. But if you have a second extension, I must call my fiancé and my office.”

  “Very well. When you are done with the telephone, the password cinco blanca will let you onto our wireless network.” Her host stood. “Come with me.”

  She followed him down a hall, and they came to a small room decorated in high-end Spanish froufrou. In the midst of pink and yellow tasseled lamps, overstuffed chairs, and a pillow-drowned settee, a dainty filigree desk cowered beneath a load of statuettes and flower vases. The dark eyes of the woman in the sophisticated Frida Kahlo painting on the wall seemed to stare down in horror. A laugh started to escape, but Desi pressed her lips together.

  Ramon’s teeth flashed. “Pilar’s study. The phone is somewhere in here.”

  “I’ll find it.” She headed for the desk then stopped. “Señor Sanchez.”

  He turned in the hallway. “Ramon, por favor.”

  “This question is too serious for informality. You say you have received threats from the Fraternidad. Arerít you afraid for yourself and your family?”

  His face darkened. “Fear attacks me every moment, but I cannot allow it to paralyze me. My family can never be safe as long as this gang is free to seduce our youth and attack our citizens.”

  “You are a man of vision and couage, Ramon Sanchez.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Or perhaps an idealistic fool, as Pilar sometimes says. But a man must be willing to lay down his life for something, sí?”

  A prickly sensation came over Desi’s skin. Not an unpleasant feeling, just…urgent. A God-moment. “Sí.” She licked her lips. “How do you feel about the One who has already laid down His life for you?”


  Ramon’s eyes widened. “¿Jesús Cristo? I was baptized into the Church.”

  Desi shook her head. “I didn’t ask about your church status. How are things between you and Jesús Cristo?”

  He took two steps into the froufrou room. “I am faithful to attend Mass. I light candles, give to the poor, say prayers, go to confession. That is my part. The priest makes things right with God on my behalf. That is his part.”

  “Now is not the time to send someone else to speak to God for you.”

  Ramons brows drew together, and he stared at the carpet.

  Had she offended him? She held her breath.

  He lifted his head, gaze guarded, but not angry. “There is truth in what you say. I will think on it.” He turned and left, brisk as a soldier.

  Did I do it right, Lord? No answer except a calm acceptance that the matter of Ramon Sanchez was safe in God’s hands.

  Desi spotted the phone on the desk, an ornate object fashioned in the pole style of the early 1900s, but with buttons, not a dial. She pounced on it and rang the operator.

  After giving the woman her credit card information and the number she wished to reach, Desi settled onto the desk chair for the call to go through to the FBI office. Might as well try there first. Fidgeting with a stray paper clip, she waited.

  “Señorita Jacobs?” The operator came back on. “Telephone service is temporarily unavailable throughout much of Boston. You can try back later.”

  Disappointment weighted her stomach. “That’s all right. Buenos días—no, wait. You said much of Boston. Not everywhere?”

  “Sí. Some sectors are operational.”

  Desi rattled off the number for Tony’s apartment. “Try that one.”

  A minute later, a ring tone sounded. Hope sparked. The phone continued to ring, and her expectation ebbed. Tony’s voice came on the answering machine. She drank in the spiel until the beeps sounded. “Hey, hon. It’s me. Just calling to let you know I miss you. I imagine you’re either still socked in at the office or snuggled in bed, dead to the world. I’ll call again later. Love you beyond reason. Bye.”

  Next, she tried the HJ Securities office and Max’s house, but neither location had telephone service. Yikes! Could she get a flight to Boston? The operator put her through to the Mérida airport. A few minutes later, she hung up. No flights in the foreseeable future. The eastern seaboard of Massachusetts was buried in white, with more snow expected.

  Heart leaden, she rested her elbows on the desk blotter and put her head in her hands. God, I don’t understand. Now that I’m ready to rush home, nature won’t let me.

  She sat up, and the blotter shifted, jarring a flower vase. Desi grabbed it before it toppled. A familiar business card border peeped at her from the blotter’s edge. She pulled the card out. Those Greybecks turned up everywhere. Maybe Señora Sanchez was considering an upgraded security system. Made sense in light of the Fraternidad threat. But why hide the card, and why was it dog-eared from use? She flipped the card over and found a U.S. phone number written in ink. Whoa! Pretty hinky if this was a personal number.

  Curiosity drove her back to the operator. While she waited for the call to go through, Desi slipped the card under the blotter and straightened everything she’d disturbed.

  “I’m sorry The party you wish to reach is unavailable,” said a recorded female voice with a Bronx accent. “Please leave a message after the tone.”

  Desi hung up. A generic answering service. Strange.

  She left the office, shaking her head, and went upstairs. Her last thread of communication with Tony had better be intact. She snatched up her laptop, marched out of the bedroom, and nearly collided with Juanita.

  The woman jumped back, mouth agape. Desi recoiled, swallowed, and took a deep breath. No wonder the housekeeper never spoke. The woman had no tongue. Was the problem congenital or something more sinister?

  Desi worked up a smile. “Sorry for startling you. I appreciate all your kindness.”

  Juanita smiled, bobbed her head, and moved up the hall.

  Desi wandered down to the living room. Would it be rude to ask Señor Sanchez what had happened to Juanita? She booted up her computer. The password screen appeared, and she logged in. A few keystrokes later she was reading her e-mail. Tony, hon, I’d better see something from you.

  “Señorita Jacobs! Desiree!”

  Desi looked up.

  Ramon Sanchez stood at the top of the steps, face a pale mask. “Señor Coronas wife was murdered last night.”

  “Oh, dear heavens!” Desi lunged to her feet. “That nice man. Do they have any idea who might have—”

  “A burglar, apparently. When Esteban arrived home last night he found his wife clubbed to death with a marble statuette and many of their valuables missing.”

  “How terrible for him. No wonder he didn’t call you with my change of plans.”

  Ramon inclined his head, lips thin. “Excuse me, por favor. I must notify others.”

  “Of course.”

  The man hustled away, and Desi sank to the cushioned sofa, the taste of ashes on her tongue. She turned her attention to the laptop screen. More than ever, she needed to hear from…A subject line grabbed her attention. “Urgent! About Tony!” The sender was Max. Desi tapped the mouse button, and the message spread across the screen.

  Get home if you have to burrow under the earth like Bugs Bunny! Tony had an accident at work. He’s in a coma. They don’t know if he’ll make it.

  Nine

  I’m not much, God, but if You need a soul, You got a volunteer. Take me, leave him—straight-up swap.”

  The gravelly mutter dragged Tony from a dark, warm place—a place he wanted to stay. Familiar voice. Who? Think… Too hard. Go away.

  The voice continued, as if carrying through layers of cotton. “I know the docs say his insides could be real messed up, but Im not gonna believe it. Lucano’s too tough. He wasn’t supposed to make it this lo—ong…” The last word broke in the middle and trailed away.

  Blessed quiet. Good Tony drifted, sank…

  The bed jiggled. “But he looks bad, Jesus. Like nobody’s home.”

  The words carried, vague and distant, as if whispered into the far end of a long tube. He didn’t have to go toward the voice. He could turn and walk away—never go back. Maybe he would.

  Tony sank into welcome night.

  Desi gnawed the nail on her right forefinger and stared out the window of a Mexican government jet. Ramon Sanchez had made arrangements, never mind the mess he was dealing with himself.

  “We are over the United States now.” The pilots voice came from the intercom.

  She’d asked to be notified when they left the Gulf of Mexico and zoomed over home soil headed for Albany, New York. That was as close as a plane could get to the blizzards squall line. How would she cover the 160-plus miles between Albany and Boston? Desi bit down hard on the nail and left a drop of blood behind. Beg, borrow, or steal a tank.

  I’m on my way Tony Don’t leave me.

  “Wake up, Lucano. You’re sleeping on the job.”

  The male voice bellowed down the tube again. He’d tell it to shut up, but he couldn’t talk. Couldn’t move. Someone stuff a sock in it for him.

  “Quit your slacking. Wake u-up.” The command descended into a thin plea.

  Silence. Tony faded.

  Desi climbed out of the plane onto the tarmac in Albany. A wind blast reacquainted her with New England winter. She snuggled into Pilar’s parka and boots left over from a vacation to Aspen.

  She hurried toward the terminal, head ducked, stomach churning.

  Tony had been submerged in ice water for almost seven minutes in this subzero weather. The frigid conditions slowed the death process, or she’d be returning to Boston for a funeral. For now, his heart was beating, and he was breathing, but he’d lost his spleen, and other vital organs weren’t working properly. And who knew how much brain damage—

  A whimper left Desi’s throat as she flung
open the door and stepped inside the building. She found the terminal hot spot and booted up. Another e-mail from Max. Tony appeared to be in stable condition, but his kidneys still didn’t work, and no response to stimuli. They were worried about pneumonia. TVs dripped medicine into his veins. Tony’s mom was on her way back from visiting relatives in California. Everyone was praying. God was in control. Keep the faith, blah, blah…

  Pulse throbbing, Desi set the laptop aside and ducked her head to her knees.

  Dear merciful, heavenly Father, help my unbelief. We need a miracle.

  She straightened, spine stiff, thoughts on lockdown. She’d be no good to Tony if she melted into a hysterical puddle. Her hands shook as she pulled out her cell phone, fully recharged on the plane with the charger she bought just before dashing to the airport. She knew a few people who might be able to get her that tank.

  Two feminine voices ran together like gnats buzzing in his ears. Not as annoying as that guys gravelly rumble, but not welcome.

  “Mrs. Webb. Mrs. Burke.” A third female voice intruded. “I need to check Mr. Lucano’s vital signs and line placement.”

  “Will the doctor look in on him again today?”

  Such a familiar drawl. Tony groped for an identity.

  “Not unless he takes a turn one way or another. We need those kidneys to start working, or he may need dialysis, but we can wait a few days for that. Rest is the best thing now.”

  Yeah. Let him sleep. Forever would be okay.

  Someone touched his arm. “We’ll be back in the mornin, Tony. You hang in there.”

  “My grandkids need their honorary uncle,” the other familiar voice said.

  Who were these people? He knew, but…Where was he? What was happening? Nothing made sense.

  He hurt.

  Feet approached in squeaky shoes. A person who smelled like antiseptic lifted his arm, and something twinged beneath the skin of his hand.

  “IV site appears good. No redness. No swelling.”