by Tarah Scott
“Why were you eavesdropping?” the American said.
“I told you, I was waiting for Mrs. Remmey. She and I have business.”
“She couldn’t have known we were going to use this room,” the Mexican said.
His hot breath sent a prickle of gooseflesh over her ear and Liz fought tears.
The American’s gaze bore into her. “We’ll have to let Sanchez figure this out.”
Liz’s thoughts raced. Sanchez. Who was Sanchez?
“Maybe we should dump her in the desert,” the Mexican said.
She gasped and he clamped a hand over her mouth. “One word, and I break your neck.” He turned to the American. “Check the hallway.”
Liz stared as the man headed for the door. Surely they couldn’t forcibly remove her from the mansion without being seen?
The American reached the door and eased it open. He peered outside then looked back at them. “All clear. Let’s go.”
Liz’s captor hugged her close as he drew her toward the door. Her legs moved like rubber and she feared her knees would buckle. She commanded her legs to remain strong, but the thought seemed to be an echo traveling through a tunnel.
They reached the door and the American slipped out first. They turned away from the main staircase, which was hidden beyond a bend. They took another quick right down a set of narrow stairs. Liz stumbled on the second step. The Mexican lifted her feet off the stairs and her heart jumped to a gallop. Dear God, why hadn’t she kept up the self-defense courses she took in her twenties?
Think, she commanded. Who were these men? They knew the layout of the house. What were they doing in a private room of the Remmey’s home? What did Larissa Remmey have to do with thugs who discussed murder and kidnapped guests?
They approached the landing and a door came into view, located in a small service entryway. They had to be in the rear of the house. The American stepped onto the landing and headed toward the door. An instant later, she and her captor reached the bottom of the stairs. Liz spotted a closed door on the right. A kitchen? A pantry? Hope surged. Liz kicked at the door as they passed and gurgled a scream through the Mexican’s fingers. He yanked her aside. Her foot only grazed the wood, and she flailed in an attempt to lunge for the door.
He drove her back against the opposite wall and Liz froze when the point of a knife dug into the flesh of her neck. Blood roared through her ears. She closed her eyes against the sting of tears.
“Try that again and I’ll slice your neck,” he hissed. “Understand?” She didn’t reply and he gave her a hard shake. “Understand?”
Liz whispered, “Yes.”
He withdrew the knife and pulled her away from the door. She cast a glance back and strained for sounds of activity, but the pounding of her heart reverberated in her ears. The American opened the rear door and the Mexican clamped a hand over her mouth again. In another moment they would have her outside. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Go around to the side,” the American said.
The Mexican stopped beside him at the door. “Get the car. I’ll meet you there.”
The American glanced at Liz. “Maybe we should stick together.”
“We have to separate to get the car. I’ll hold her here for five minutes, then meet you around the side.” He wrenched Liz’s head back against his chest and said into her ear, “The chica won’t make a sound, will you, bonita?”
He nuzzled her neck and she seized his arm with both hands. Liz startled to discover that she still gripped her small clutch bag. Tears blurred her vision. Two years ago, After Nina Bruno’s brother went down in a small plane in Arizona, Nina ordered all company employees to carry a Modu phone, a tiny telephone with a locator. That phone might save Liz’s life, just as it had Nina’s brother.
All she needed was a moment alone to make a call—before they killed her.
* * *
Sanchez shifted from business to small talk about Juarez, El Paso and food, and Ben listened for an opening in the conversation that would give him a clue to Christina Remmey’s whereabouts.
The kitchen door swung open and a man entered the dining room. A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. Like Sanchez, he wore an expensive suit, but unlike Sanchez’s other lackeys, this man exuded an air of authority that sent a prickle of unease down Ben’s spine.
The man reached Sanchez, bent and whispered in his ear.
Gaze locked with Ben’s, Sanchez listened. The man straightened and Sanchez nodded. The man sent Ben a sideways glance as he passed.
When the door closed behind the man, Ben said, “I don’t think your man likes me.”
“He is paid to be cautious.” Sanchez took a bite of his pork, then said, “You’re a wanted man.”
Ben grunted a laugh. “If by ‘wanted’ you mean the authorities want to see me behind bars, then you’re right. But the cops don’t have enough to issue a warrant for my arrest.”
“Why did you kill Roger Davis?”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“If you had killed him, why would you have killed him?”
“If he made the mistake of mentioning my name to the cops.”
Sanchez forked more of the pork into his mouth and nodded. “Then he is the man who told the District Attorney you killed his partner, David Caldaron?”
Ben’s mind came to a screeching halt. Either Sanchez was testing him, or the FBI screwed up and didn’t fill him in on all the details of his background.
He shifted his gaze from his plate to Sanchez. “I wasn’t aware Caldaron had been murdered.”
“No?” Sanchez said. “I was told you were questioned concerning both deaths.”
Ben shook his head. “Your information is wrong.”
Sanchez shifted and Ben sensed the tension in the two men standing behind him. He forced his body to stay relaxed.
Sanchez’s gaze flicked to his bodyguards. He reached for his wine glass and said to Ben, “You were not a stranger to the police.”
“They didn’t know about that particular deal.”
“Mr. Davis moved drugs into the US?” Sanchez asked.
“Roger was an importer of Mexican pottery,” Ben said.
Sanchez laughed. “I suppose your time in Huntsville Penitentiary for weapons smuggling was a case of mistaken identity?”
Ben shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
The human trafficker lifted his glass in salute. “I cannot argue with that.” He took a large sip of wine, then set the glass on the table. “You don’t seem nervous about working with me.”
Ben laughed. “You mean the way you’re nervous about me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m certain you’re not a cop.”
“Straightforward,” Sanchez said. “Very good.”
Ben looked at Sanchez as if something had just occurred to him. “I work strictly by referral, and Francis Remmey came highly recommended. The recommendation gave me a certain sense of security. I understand caution, but it suddenly occurs to me that you’re overly nervous about working with someone Mr. Remmey recommended. That makes me nervous, and I don’t like being nervous. Do you have reason to suspect he might set you up?”
“I trust no one,” Sanchez said.
“There’s a difference in not trusting someone, and distrusting them.” Ben paused. “Maybe we’re not destined to do business.”
“Destiny?” Sanchez laughed. “What has destiny to do with men in our business?”
“Call it what you like. I’m thinking, I would call it a bad feeling.”
A moment of silence passed and Ben could hear the wheels turning in the man’s head. Sanchez wanted what Ben was selling.
“Who referred Francis to you?” Sanchez finally asked.
Ben laughed. “I don’t know the government man who Remmey told you referred me, but the man who called me is Juan Soto.”
When Larissa Remmey told Ben her story and said she would introduce him to Sanchez, Ben made a quick decision and told h
er that their contact must be a politician, and he would take it from there. Juan Soto was a drug dealer to the wealthy. He didn’t move drugs across the border, so he wasn’t in Ben’s jurisdiction, but the El Paso DEA knew him, and let him stay in business because he sometimes passed information. Two months ago, Ben dealt with Soto concerning a large shipment of heroin crossing the border. Ben knew Soto was currently out of the country, which meant Sanchez couldn’t contact him.
“You know him?” Ben asked.
“I know who he is and I am wondering who the government official is who gave Francis your name.”
Ben grunted. “I asked Juan that same thing and he laughed. I couldn’t help wondering if there was no politician.”
Sanchez frowned. “You mean Francis knows Juan directly?”
Ben shrugged. “Why not? You can see why Remmey wouldn’t want to own up to the association.”
“Francis is what you Americans call a straight arrow.”
“Yeah,” Ben said. He’d been ready for—hoped for—this response. “He’s a real Boy Scout.”
A corner of Sanchez mouth turned up with a condescending twist. “They like to act superior, as if they are better than us.”
Bingo! Ben had him.
“But they’re all the same.” He paused for effect. “I must admit, Remmey doesn’t strike me as a man to shop for a woman.”
“I am not supplying Francis with merchandise. He is going to do some transporting for me.”
Ben lifted a brow. “He’s not a Boy Scout at all, is he?”
“I gave him, shall we say, a reason to do business with me.”
Ben nodded. “The business offer he referred to.” He snorted. “Money talks every time. Being in the textile business, he must have some big trucks that cross the border on a consistent basis. That means he has a relationship with the border guards.”
“A very good relationship,” Sanchez replied.
“How many shipments can he handle?”
“One a week,” Sanchez replied.
“How long can he maintain a weekly shipment?”
“Indefinitely.”
Ben didn’t believe that. In order for the Remmeys to comply for any length of time, Sanchez would have to return their granddaughter. Once he did, they would ship the girl off to some obscure European country—and Francis Remmey would probably insist that Larissa go with her—then he would tell Sanchez to go to hell. Sanchez had to know that.
Sanchez leaned back in his chair. “Your police record indicates you do more than transport. Perhaps I can interest you in some business on the US side of the border.”
“I don’t do sales.”
“Sales isn’t what I had in mind. I need to make sure the shipments from the US continue.”
Ben gave him a penetrating stare. “You’re talking enforcement.”
“Motivation,” remove extra space Sanchez said.
“Motivation as in Francis Remmey?”
“You are very perceptive.”
“Stupid people don’t last long in this business. What kind of motivation do you have in mind?”
“If you pass my test, I will show you.”
“Test?” Ben repeated.
“One simple test,” Sanchez said. “Then I will show you exactly what I want.”
* * *
In her worse imaginings, Liz couldn’t have envisioned the night ending with her abduction and transportation to one of the most lawless cities in the world. She hadn’t noted any diplomatic tags on the Mercedes the Mexican drove, but they had been waved across the border as if entering a friend’s driveway. That might have been a good sign, if not for the revolver pressed against her hip. The American’s arm tightened around her shoulders. She looked in the rearview mirror as they passed a streetlight and caught the Mexican’s eyes on her.
“Eyes straight,” the American ordered. “I don’t want to get pulled over because you drifted into opposing traffic.”
The Mexican grinned. “Nothing to worry about. The police here are my friends.”
“I don’t much want a head-on collision, either,” the American shot back. “Forget her. I told you. We don’t make a move until we talk to Carlos.”
“Carlos will fuck her himself,” the Mexican grumbled.
“Maybe. But if you fuck with him, he’ll kill you—then me for allowing it.”
Liz closed her eyes and forced back the panic that had her heart pounding ninety miles an hour. The men had taken her clutch-purse. If they left her somewhere and drove off, the locator would lead to the car and not to her. How long would it take for someone to notice she was missing? Didn’t a person have to be missing for forty-eight hours before a report could be filed? Richard didn’t expect her back at the hotel until the early hours of the morning, and wouldn’t look for her until brunch. Would Larissa notice her absence and ask questions? Liz bit back tears. Not if she was entertaining Adam.
When the American connected Liz with Adam, the Mexican had said ‘a cop.’ It hadn’t been a statement, but a question.
The Mercedes turned onto a private drive and passed through a grove of palm trees. Her heart beat faster—something she hadn’t thought possible. Why would these men suspect Adam of being a cop? Why would a cop model at a fashion party? Maybe trying to catch the criminals that now held her hostage?
The car left the trees and stars spread across the sky as far as the eye could see. The Mercedes’ headlights washed across the white adobe of a single story house with an arched doorway. Beyond the house, Liz glimpsed tall palms. A chill sliced deep through her trembling insides. She was about to die.
You’re not dead yet. Think. Was Larissa involved in criminal activity? More likely, her millionaire husband was involved. He wouldn’t be the first man to have made his fortune on the wrong side of the law.
Adam being an undercover cop would explain much about his behavior. After twenty-five years in the fashion industry, she knew models—their attitudes, their sense of self-importance. When Adam modeled for the job, he’d done nothing untoward to set off alarms. But tonight he’d acted more like a date than an employee. Then he’d disappeared with Larissa.
The Mercedes stopped in front of the hacienda. Liz’s heart jumped into her throat.
The American shoved open the door, then grasped her arm, pulled her from the car. “You go ahead and scream now, if you like. No one will notice. But you’ll piss off Carlos and you won’t like the consequences.”
“What?” she snapped. “He’ll kill me twice?”
“A lot can happen before death.” He dragged her toward the house.
Liz kicked his shin. He cursed and she twisted free. As he raised his hand, she slammed her knee toward his groin, but the back of his hand smacked her cheek. She spun and hit sand. Numbing pain spread across her face. The American yanked her to her feet.
Hysterical laughter bubbled up. If Adam Billings was an undercover cop, she hoped like hell his real name was Rambo.
Chapter Eight
The man who’d spoken with Sanchez earlier entered the dining room and Ben sipped his wine as he crossed to Sanchez and whispered in his ear. Sanchez’s gaze shifted onto Ben, and cold dread seeped through him. Sanchez nodded and the man left, pulling the doors closed behind him
“Perhaps you can explain something,” Sanchez said.
“If I can,” Ben replied.
Sanchez rose. “Come with me.”
Ben stared. The bodyguard standing nearest the door took a step forward.
“Have I offended you?” Ben asked
“Not yet.”
Ben glanced at the goon, then followed Sanchez down a short hall. The goon trailed him. Sanchez stopped in front of the third closed door on the left. He opened the door and Ben caught sight of a queen-sized bed covered with a Southwestern style quilt in reds and greens. His heart hammered when the traffics dealer motioned him inside.
“What am I getting myself into here?” Ben kept his tone casual.
“A simple ex
planation.”
A strong shove propelled him into the room. Liz Monahan stood to the far right of the bed, a man gripping each arm. Her expression mirrored his: What the hell are you doing here?
Her hair was disheveled and Ben detected a slight swelling on the upper left hand corner of her mouth. One of the goons had slapped her. Rage tightened his insides. She didn’t look or act like a woman who’d been raped. That thought kept him from pummeling the two goons on the spot. But he would arrest them before this operation was finished.
Ben riveted his gaze onto Sanchez. “What’s she doing here?”
“She was caught eavesdropping on my men.”
Eavesdropping? He hadn’t heard right.
“What are you talking about?”
“We caught her on the balcony,” the man to her left said.
Ben shifted his gaze onto the muscular Mexican and demanded, “What balcony?”
“What difference does it make?” the man said.
Ben turned toward Sanchez. “Tell your man to answer my question.”
Sanchez nodded and the other man, an American, said, “We went into one of the upstairs rooms to talk business and caught her out there listening.”
Ben looked at Sanchez. “Don’t your men know to check a room before talking business?” Before Sanchez could reply, Ben added, “This woman isn’t some kid who won’t be missed for a couple of weeks. She runs a top design company. Her colleagues will be expecting her back at her hotel tonight. Your men stepped in it this time, Sanchez.”
“You are so sure?” Sanchez asked.
“If you’re foolish enough to think that the disappearance of any woman won’t put the cops on alert, then you’re not the businessman I thought you were. Those two dead girls got national media attention. Reporters are aching for more action from the Border Patrol. You can bet calls for the Rangers won’t be far behind. You’ll have to transport your cargo fifty miles south of Juarez, maybe even move to Laredo—though that’s damn close for my taste after this fuckup. Chances are, you’ll have to work strictly out of California for a while.”
“I have no intention of giving up the Texas border,” Sanchez said.