“Doctor Ramirez.” She gave Herrera the address.
“Jesus. Ramirez is on Otero’s payroll. You should’ve come to me.”
“Yeah. I know.” She should have gone alone to the housing development in the first place.
“Where are you calling from? I hope you got the hell across the border.”
Leine glanced out the window at the rundown neighborhood. A child’s rusty bicycle lay on its side in the front yard of the house next to the market. Though painted a cheery yellow, the house’s façade was crumbling. The other homes on the street weren’t much newer. An emaciated chicken strutted past, trailing a half-dozen baby chicks behind it.
“Don’t worry. I’m headed to the rental agency right now.”
“You’re probably already too late. Ramirez will have reported the murders to Otero’s people.”
“And?”
“And Otero’s got a couple of cousins who work the border. If Willy’s on the payroll too, you can be damned sure he already notified them. The only thing working in your favor is that Flint’s known to be unreliable. Way it sounds, you’ll be lucky to get out of town alive.”
“I doubt that will be a problem, but you’re right. I should go.”
“What rental agency are you using?”
“A-1.”
“I’ll meet you there in twenty.”
“Really, Agent Herrera, you don’t need to—”
“Yeah, I do. You’ve been shot. You’ll be delayed at the border, if nothing else. The wait time is normally two to three hours, which would give Otero’s people plenty of time to find you. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to Santa’s—” Herrera paused. “What are you to him, anyway?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Leine replied, bristling. Whether annoyed by his question or the implied assumption that she couldn’t take care of herself, she wasn’t sure. But soon her common sense kicked in, and she realized she’d have a better chance with Herrera’s help—the person she should have contacted as soon as things went south. “You’re under no obligation, even to Santa. I can handle it.”
“Yeah, and you’ve handled things so well up to now.” Herrera sighed. “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase that. Allow me to ensure your safe trip back for the sake of my old friend.”
Give the guy a break, Leine. Take him up on the offer. You need to go home. You’re in no condition to argue.
“Thank you. I’ll see you there. And again, I’m sorry to have involved you.”
“Makes it exciting,” he muttered and disconnected.
Leine pulled away from the curb and called Lou. This time he answered.
“I’m on my way back,” Leine said. “I’ll be home soon, hopefully.”
“Any luck?”
“I think I found Josh.” She told him about the Porsche and the body. And the jagged wounds on his back. “I’ll email the pictures.”
Lou whistled. “Any sign of Elise?”
“No. But I have her phone.”
“Have you notified anybody?”
“I’d be willing to bet the locals know by now. As for Gunderson and Nabokov, not yet.” She didn’t tell him about stirring up Otero’s boys or her injury. Best not to worry him.
Yet.
“How’d the bait work out?”
“Great. Thanks.” Leine was planning to throw the nine millimeter in the trash behind the rental place after she’d wiped it for fingerprints.
“Did you need it?”
“It was good to have.”
Lou didn’t press her. She said she’d talk to him when she got home and ended the call.
When she arrived at the rental place she walked behind the building and, after wiping the gun, tossed it into the garbage container. A bag containing the bloody clothes and bandages followed.
Once inside, Leine slipped into the restroom to get a better look at herself and noticed dried blood on her pant leg. The stain looked more like barbeque sauce than blood, but she cleaned it as best as she could. The heat of the day would dry the damp spot before long. She reached into her pocket, took out the blister pack of painkillers Ramirez had given her, and swallowed two.
She ran a brush through her hair and washed her face and hands, but only a hot shower and time would remove the dead-body stench. Leine couldn’t tell if she still reeked or if it was just an olfactory memory of the bloated corpse. The woman at the counter either didn’t notice or tactfully ignored it and checked her out with a smile. Ten minutes later, Leine was standing in front of the building wearing aviator sunglasses and a ball cap, waiting for Herrera.
While she waited, Leine considered her options. She had a light jacket with her so the bandages wouldn’t be obvious, especially since the wound didn’t affect her dominant arm. If Doctor Ramirez’s description of her matched Willy Flint’s, and Otero’s people knew about the bullet wound, crossing the border would be tricky. Hopefully, Herrera had something else in mind.
Minutes later, Herrera’s dark blue pickup pulled up next to the curb. Leine got in and closed the door as he maneuvered into traffic. He glanced at her left arm, which was now cradled in a makeshift sling.
“Right handed?” he asked. Leine nodded. “Lucky.”
Leine reached into her pants pocket and slid out her phone and the paper with Willy Flint’s map. Handing it to him, she said, “Directions to the ravine along with Willy’s number. The body’s pretty far gone. I took a couple of shots with my phone. Willy had the kid’s watch—Josh’s name was etched on the back.” Leine found the photos on her phone and held them up so he could see. Herrera glanced at them.
“Take a look at his torso.”
“They got his kidneys?”
“Looks like it. Probably more than that.”
“Then where’s the girl?”
Leine shook her head as she put her phone away. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“So can I correctly assume that Ignacio and the driver are no longer with us?”
“Yes.”
“Can I also infer the other gunmen who came after you at Ramirez’s have joined them?”
She nodded.
“Is there anyone else I should be aware of?”
“I think that’s sufficient, don’t you?”
Herrera snorted. “Yeah, that’s sufficient. Christ.” He shook his head and gave her a sidelong glance. “Maybe I should put you in for a stipend. You took care of some major douchebags.”
Leine looked at him in surprise. “But you’ll have to deal with the fallout.”
“Yeah, I know, but it’s worth it to be rid of all those assholes.”
“The two gunmen who came after me at Ramirez’s spoke Spanish with an Eastern European accent.”
Herrera lifted his chin. “More evidence that we’re dealing with somebody other than the homeboys.”
“Or in addition to,” Leine suggested.
Herrera whistled. “Organ trafficking, Russian mobsters, and Otero? Man, that’s a bad combination.”
Leine was thinking the same thing.
Herrera took a different route to the border—one that was invitation-only judging by the excessive security. He showed his badge to border guards at three separate checkpoints. They waved him through each time.
“Well, that was efficient,” Leine said.
Herrera shrugged. “Perks of the job.”
They crossed into the US and drove in silence to the overnight lot near the border where Leine had parked her car. The meds she’d taken earlier were having an effect, and the pain in her arm had devolved to a steady throb. She could tell Herrera wanted to say something but decided not to.
“Are you all right to drive?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Thanks for the ride.” Her hand on the door and ready to leave, she turned to him. “Is there something else you wanted to ask me?”
Herrera nodded. “I was wondering if you ever served.”
“No. Why?”
“Santa wouldn’t tell me much ab
out your background, just that you could handle yourself.” He shrugged. “I figured you’d been in the military or maybe one of the alphabet agencies.”
Leine opened the door and got out. She leaned back inside the car.
“You’re close,” she said.
Chapter 18
Leine drove up Interstate 5 and pulled off at the first motel. She managed to check herself in and make it to her room before she collapsed onto the bed. Fast approaching blackout from exhaustion, relentless pain, and less-than-effective painkillers, she passed out the minute her head hit the pillow.
She woke up two hours later, a rancid taste in her mouth from the meds. Groggy, she made her way into the bathroom and rinsed her mouth with water. She turned on the shower and walked back into the room to lie down on the bed while she waited for the water to heat. Pulling her phone free, she hit speed dial and put it on speaker.
“Where the hell are you?” were Santa’s first words. “Bob called to tell me he left you at an all-night parking lot and that you looked like shit.”
Leine closed her eyes. “I’m in Chula Vista at the Traveler’s Lodge just off I-5. Room 38.”
“I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“No.” Leine started to sit up but nausea hit her and she decided against it. “I just need to rest. I’ll be fine.”
“Bullshit. I’m coming down. Call the front desk. Tell them your husband is joining you.”
She didn’t have the strength to argue. “Okay,” she whispered before oblivion found her again.
***
Leine opened her eyes, unsure where she was. Light from the bedside lamp illuminated a glass of water and a box of tissues along with the telephone and clock radio. Some sports channel was running replays of a soccer match on the muted television. She didn’t remember turning anything on before she called Santa, although she did remember drawing the curtains closed before the shower. A narrow slice of dark could be seen through the window. She glanced at her watch. Nine thirty. She’d been out for hours.
Leine winced as she adjusted the sling. Her arm felt like it had been run over by a semi. At least she couldn’t smell death on herself anymore. She turned her head as Santa emerged from the bathroom, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Hi,” Leine said, her voice barely a croak. Santa’s gaze snapped to hers and a look of relief washed over him. He came around the foot of the bed and sat down, facing her. She watched him, her mind a hazy mess, happy to see him.
“Glad to see you’re alive,” Santa said. The vein at his temple pulsed.
“You’re angry,” Leine said, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.
Santa handed it to her and abruptly rose from the bed and began to pace.
“Goddamn right I’m angry.” Eyes flashing, he stopped pacing and crossed his arms. She winced, not used to being the subject of Santiago Jensen’s wrath. The air crackled with electricity—and not the kind Leine preferred.
“It’s only a flesh wound—” she started to say but Santa cut her off.
“Only a flesh wound? Leine, it’s a fucking gunshot wound.” Santa resumed pacing, working himself into a froth. “Bob told me you were jumped twice down there. How the hell did that happen? I thought this was supposed to be a routine visit. Research, you said.” He glared at her, jaw clenched.
Leine took a deep breath before replying.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you what happened. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Didn’t—” Santiago snapped his mouth closed and stared at her in disbelief. “Goddammit, Leine. You need to keep me in the loop on incidents like this, all right?” He crossed the distance between them and stopped, his eyes dark. “You’re involved in two deadly incidents out of the country, get yourself shot, and then call me for help after the fact. Think about the position you put me in. You need medical care, and I can’t even take you to the emergency room. California law requires hospitals to report gunshot wounds. What am I supposed to do?”
“I had it treated,” she said quietly.
“By some bullshit, half-assed cartel quack who probably never saw the inside of an operating room.”
Not knowing what else to do, she clasped his hand and pulled him to her, moving over to give him room. His body, rigid at first, relaxed in increments—his head dipped to her neck as she rose to meet him; his shoulders followed when she leaned forward to nibble his earlobe; and the rest of his body as he carefully lay down beside her. With a sigh, he released his pent-up tension and returned the embrace, immensely careful of her injury.
“Next time you go on a ‘routine’ trip, I’m coming with you,” he murmured into her ear. He took the glass from her and set it back on the nightstand before turning his head to nuzzle her neck. This time the electricity was the right voltage, and Leine shivered at the trickle of pleasure shimmying down her spine. Santa’s mouth covered hers and she gave herself over to the sensations working their way through her.
What gunshot wound?
He handled her gently but went at her with relentless focus, as though trying to obliterate his anger. His warm lips and hands moved over her, the pressure of his body against hers summoning a familiar ache. He untied her sling, dropping it to the floor, and unbuttoned her shirt, carefully avoiding the bandages. Nibbling at her collarbone, he paused briefly as he unzipped her pants and slid them off the bed and onto the floor. Their eyes locked. His hands beneath her buttocks, he slid lower, pulling her to him.
The pain receded and she gasped as Santa moved back slightly, leaving a vacuum, which Leine demanded he fill. He returned once, twice, nipping at her thighs, her knees, her hip, but retreated each time, teasing her until she was out of her mind with desire and groaned with pleasure at his slightest touch.
Santa rose to his knees and licked his way along her stomach to her chest, taking turns with her left breast, and her right. Chills surged along her spine, eliminating whatever breath remained. Beyond caring about anything except release, she moved to unbutton his jeans, but he pushed her hand away. With a frustrated growl, she tried again. He pinned her wrist so she couldn’t move while he one-handed his jeans down just low enough to free himself. Greedy for him now, Leine struggled against his grip, but he wouldn’t let go.
He entered her slowly. With a sigh, Leine leaned her head back and closed her eyes, reveling in the sensory overload, losing herself in the moment. The passion built steadily, and she groaned with pleasure.
His expression a mixture of fury and passion, Santa drove deeper, intensifying the thrust, obliterating the earlier tenderness. She accepted him willingly and they moved in tandem, each gasping from the building tension, their rhythmic dance rapidly escalating until together they tumbled over the edge and into the void.
The ticking clock brought her back to the present.
“Now that’s an effective painkiller,” she murmured and closed her eyes.
They both dozed. Leine woke first and struggled to sit up. Santa was awake an instant later, supporting her back and head with his arm, piling pillows behind her. She leaned back to watch him, trying to discern his mood.
Jeans still unbuttoned, he walked to the table and fished in her bag. He held up the blister pack of pain pills.
“You need a couple?” he asked.
Leine nodded, marveling at how quickly he could switch from anger to passion to caring for her. Hopefully she could keep him away from anger mode for a while.
“I found the car,” she said.
Santa brought the pills and handed her the glass of water. “And you took a bullet for the effort. Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.” He watched her swallow the painkillers and took the glass from her when she was done. “Why didn’t you call me as soon as it happened?”
“Because there wasn’t anything you could do.”
“You didn’t call Herrera, either.”
“I know,” Leine admitted. “I shouldn’t have trusted my informant. I thought I had things handled. I should h
ave at least called Lou.”
Santa’s expression was a combination of hurt and irritation, and his jaw pulsed—a sure sign he was fast entering the danger zone again.
He looked pointedly at her arm. “How did it happen?”
Leine told him about Willy Flint and finding Josh in the car at the bottom of the ravine, about Ignacio and his sidekick ambushing her. She mentioned the other gunmen had Eastern European accents but glossed over the threat they represented, not wanting to fuel Santa’s ire. By the end, his expression had turned from pissed off and hurt to stony acceptance.
“Flint’s the key here. I’ll check with Bob, find out what I can.”
“I already asked Herrera. Flint’s a low-level, unreliable snitch, apparently working on the side for Otero. I’d be surprised if he knew who the other gunmen were. He probably alerted Otero, who called someone else.” Leine shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable. “It’s pretty obvious Otero’s working with the new guys on the block. He’s into something bigger than a simple carjacking operation. The only angle that makes sense is organ trafficking. They took Josh’s kidneys, probably more. The thing I don’t know is what happened to Elise.”
“You may be right about Otero branching out,” Santa said, climbing back into bed. “Makes sense, if he’s working with an Eastern Bloc crime syndicate. Organs are a lucrative market, especially when you don’t have to pay for materials.”
“Then why not do Elise the same way and leave her in the car with Josh?”
“Maybe he played the hero.” Santa shrugged. “Got in the way. Could be they had to kill him and decided to trash the Porsche, make it look like a carjacking gone bad. They didn’t want to lose the product, so they cut into him. Elise might have been more valuable alive.”
“You mean sell her into the sex trade.”
“I mean rent her.” Santa stared at the ceiling. “They’d get more money putting her to work. If they didn’t shoot her full of drugs to keep her docile, once she outlived her ‘usefulness’ they could sell her off in pieces.”
Leine leaned her head against the pillow. “So you’re saying Otero or this other group might be holding her somewhere?” A flicker of hope sprang to life inside her, accompanied by the thick, cottony fog of the medication.
The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller Page 11