The first man led Andrea to the back of the truck, which was open, and gestured for her to climb in the back using a small step stool. He followed her into the truck and reconnected the chain to a steel ring on the rear wall. Then he hopped back down to the floor of the warehouse. Four long steel boxes were stacked against one wall of the truck. The boxes were secured by two large black nylon straps. The rest of the truck was empty.
The two Latino men talked quietly in Spanish just outside the rear door. Andrea knew enough conversational Spanish to follow the exchange. The man with the tattoos on his forearms was named Juan. He was describing a confrontation that had occurred between a man they called Anders and a second man called Vargas. As she listened, Andrea realized that they were talking about the confrontation she’d witnessed the night before between the man who tried to capture her in the apartment building, Anders, and the man with the bodybuilder’s physique, Vargas. The two men obviously didn’t like Anders, because they both laughed when the first man described how angry he’d been when he left the room.
Ten minutes later, Andrea heard a man call over to the two men from somewhere in the warehouse outside her sight.
“Juan, close the truck. We’re moving out.”
Andrea recognized the voice. It was the muscular Latino man, Vargas.
The rear of the truck didn’t have any windows, but Andrea could tell from the speed and relatively smooth ride that the driver was taking one the interstates out of the downtown area. Approximately an hour later, the truck slowed and transitioned to a secondary road that was slower. Half an hour later, the truck slowed again and turned off onto what must have been an unpaved road. The truck bounced and yawed back and forth, throwing Andrea up and down like a mannequin. When the truck finally came to a stop, sweat was pouring down her face and her arms were shaking from the strain of trying to hold herself in place.
The back door to the truck opened almost as soon it came to a stop. Juan hopped in, disconnected the chain, and helped her out the back. The man they called Vargas was waiting for her. When she saw him the night before, Vargas had been dressed in jeans and a sweater. Now he was dressed like a soldier. He was wearing desert camouflage pants, a tan sweatshirt, and sand-colored hiking boots. A holster with a large black pistol was attached to his belt. The sunglasses on his face hid his eyes, but not the features of his broad, handsome face.
Vargas looked at her briefly and said, “Follow me, please.”
Andrea followed the man across a courtyard toward a small building to the right of the truck. The short walk gave her the opportunity to look over her surroundings. The collection of buildings looked like what at one time had been a working ranch, or even one of the original Mexican haciendas. The main building was a large adobe-and-stone mansion. The words “El Castillo” were carved into a log that was embedded in the adobe above the front doorway.
The architecture of the house fit its namesake. The doors and windows were arched, and a three-foot crenellated wall circled the edge of the flat roof. A cupola that was large enough to hold three or four people was located in the center of the roof, providing a 360-degree view of the surrounding ranch.
A second building to the left of the main house was smaller. The first two floors appeared to be of the same vintage as the main house, but at some point, possibly within the past twenty years, a third floor had been added. Andrea suspected that the structure was originally built to house the domestic staff.
The building that Vargas was approaching was to the right of the main house. From the outside it looked like an old bunkhouse that had been converted into a two-story house. To the right of this building was a smaller one-room structure.
The entire compound was surrounded by an eight-foot adobe wall that was patched in places with bricks and mortar. The area outside the wall was typical Texas Hill Country, with scattered trees and low rolling hills that went on for miles—long, empty miles.
Vargas held open the door to the old bunkhouse, and Andrea walked past him into the interior. From what she could see, the building was being used as a storehouse for excess furniture, equipment, and supplies. Vargas led her to a room in the rear of the building that was about six feet wide.
Steel storage racks were installed on the two longer sides of the rectangular room. The shelves were filled with cleaning supplies, cookware, an old television and VCR, and various other pieces of electronic equipment. As she followed Vargas into the room, Andrea noticed an old fax machine lying on its side in the middle of a shelf. The Latino man stopped about midway into the room and turned to face her.
“You have to stay here for about an hour. Then you will be moved to another building. There’s a toilet over there that works.”
Then he walked past her to the front of the room and closed the door behind him. Andrea heard him lock the door from the other side. As soon as she heard his footsteps recede and the door to the outside of the building open and close, Andrea checked the door. It was locked. She pushed against the door, but gave up after several tries. The lock was a dead bolt and the door was solid.
She walked around the room, looking over the old equipment and the boxes on the shelf. She stopped in front of the old fax machine and pulled it closer to the edge. Despite its age, the part of the technology that she might be able to use could still be operable: the internal phone line. If the machine still worked and the room had a phone jack, she might be able to dial Caine’s cell phone. She wouldn’t be able to talk with him, but if Caine brought the number to the police, they’d be able to trace the line and find her location.
Andrea found a phone jack and an electrical outlet behind the desk near the bathroom. Her hands were still in the handcuffs, but they were locked in front of her. Getting the fax machine off the shelf and over to the desk was difficult, but she managed to do it by pressing it into her stomach as she hobbled over to the desk.
Although Andrea lowered the machine to the steel desk as carefully as possible, the hard surfaces made an audible sound when they touched. She froze for a moment, listening, but there was no sign that anyone was coming to investigate. She turned back to the fax machine, checked the phone cable plugged into the back, and then plugged the opposite end into the jack in the wall. The plastic display on the front of machine remained dark. The machine didn’t work.
“No way!” she said in a desperate whisper.
Then she noticed the on/off switch on the side of the machine and hit it. The display lit up and she heard a quiet whir. Andrea almost cried with relief. She typed Caine’s cell number on the keypad. He answered on the second ring in a cautious voice.
“Caine here. Hello? Hello?”
CHAPTER
FIFTY
Austin, Texas
December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 11:30 a.m.
After a celebratory drink, the four men listened to Caine describe the events of the last three days. When he finished, Ricard questioned him about the details. In the middle of the questioning, Caine’s cell phone rang. Only one person other than Jaq had his new cell phone number—Andrea. She’d memorized it in the bar minutes before she was seized. Caine looked at the number on the screen. It was an Austin area code.
“I have to take this.”
Ricard nodded.
“Caine here. Hello? Hello?”
When no one answered, Caine hesitated.
“Andrea … is that you?”
There was no answer. The caller ended the call and called back three more times. Each time, no one responded to Caine’s inquiries.
Caine typed the phone number into the address book in his phone and then stared at it. It had to be Andrea, or someone who’d forced her to give them the number. Caine closed his eyes for a moment. I have to turn myself in to the Austin police or the FBI, tell them my story, and hope they’ll immediately mount a rescue operation to save Andrea. There was only one problem with that plan: it was pure fantasy.
The police considered him a suspect in the shooting of an Austin prose
cutor. They would never accept his story without ironclad proof. That would take time, which was a death sentence for Andrea. At the end of the day, he had only one option—to take her back himself.
Caine felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. Ricard was in front him, staring at him with a look that he remembered, a look that commanded his attention.
“Sir, I need to find where that call originated. It has to be from Andrea.”
Ricard held his hand out. “The phone, Corporal.”
Caine handed Ricard the phone, and he walked out the door of the warehouse. Caine could hear him speaking in French. Three minutes later, he returned and gestured for Caine and the rest of men to sit.
“We will have the information in thirty minutes,” Ricard said. “In the meantime, we need to know more about the enemy.” He made Caine go over his story again.
Thirty minutes later, Caine’s cell phone rang and Ricard answered it. The voice on the other side of the phone line spoke English, and Ricard made several notations on the pad in front of him. When the call ended, Ricard stood and spoke as he walked back and forth beside the table.
“I suspect you are right, Corporal. The call originated from a location about an hour and a half from here. It’s in a remote area. The phone line and the property are listed under the name of El Castillo Ranch Preservation Society.” Ricard hesitated a moment and then continued.
“The property was donated to this entity by a man named Carter T. Mason, the current chief executive officer and chairman of Helius Energy.”
Caine slowly stood up, nodding. “That’s it. That’s where she is. I have to—”
“Corporal, it’s a trap. They are inviting you to come to them. They are inviting you to die.”
“I know, sir, but I have no—”
“Of course you do. We will plan an extraction rescue and then execute that operation as we have done so many times before.”
Caine nodded his agreement, accepting Ricard’s orders without thinking, but then he remembered that this was a different time and place. The memory of a death in a jungle far away returned.
“Sir, I cannot ask for your help with the rescue. I would be grateful for your help with the planning, communications—”
Ricard’s quiet voice interrupted him.
“Corporal Caine, you cannot save her alone. It is impossible. You know that.”
The words seared into Caine like a hot knife. Ricard was right. He might get close, with a combination of stealth and luck, but if they knew he was coming, there was almost no chance that he could take Andrea away from them without getting them both killed. He would need a lot more killing power. He would need more men; trained, skilled men.
Caine stood there in a place by himself, struggling with the terrible choice. Jaq’s voice cut through his mental anguish.
“Stupid man. Did you really think that we’d let you keep this little soiree all to yourself? Such bad manners. That’s what comes from living all by yourself in the desert. You must get out more, man.”
Vlasky and Pietro chuckled. Vlasky walked over to the table and slapped Caine on the shoulder.
“Relax, buddy. This will be what you Americans call a ‘walk in the park.’” Then Vlasky turned to Jacques with a challenging look. “So, island man, what kind of hardware do you folks have in Texas?”
A smile played across Jaq’s face. “Why, whatever kind you need, Sergeant, whatever you need.”
A small smile came to Ricard’s face, as if he wasn’t surprised by Jaq’s comment. Then he turned to face the four men.
“Very well, gentlemen. Vlasky and Jaq will assemble the weapons and ammunition. Pietro, we will need transport: something that can carry six and the weapons, with off-road capability. Corporal Caine and I will put together whatever intel we can on the site.”
Ricard looked down at his watch.
“It’s twelve hundred hours now. Jaq, can you and Vlasky be back here by seventeen hundred?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. And don’t worry, Sergeant Vlasky, Corporal Caine and I will bring dinner.”
Ricard’s comment drew a smile from everyone, even Caine.
Travis County, Texas
December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 3:00 p.m.
Paquin looked out the window of the second floor office in the main house, at the rolling landscape outside the wall surrounding the compound. His trust in the woman’s resourcefulness and determination had been vindicated. She’d found the old fax machine and managed to contact Caine. Now, all they had to do was wait for Caine to come to them.
Paquin knew that Caine had other options. He could go to the police or the FBI for help, or worse, he could write off the woman and go public. Paquin had the first option covered. His people were monitoring all police communications, and Helius’s source within the Austin PD had been put on alert. Although he didn’t have any contacts within the local FBI office, Paquin was almost certain they would bring Austin PD into the loop if they were contacted by Caine. When that happened, his contact would get word of the development.
Paquin had a backup plan in place, just in case Caine chose to go public and abandon the woman, but it was complicated and messy. Andrea Marenna’s body would be left in a local hotel room. The crime scene would be carefully laid out so that all of the evidence pointed to Caine. Once he was in custody, other materials would be manufactured and carefully dribbled out to the press and the police in order to destroy Caine’s credibility. As long as another Richard Steinman was not waiting in the wings to investigate Caine’s incredible story, the plan might work, but Paquin didn’t like the odds.
Paquin looked at the sky. It would be dark in about two hours. John Caine might have other choices, but Paquin instinctively knew Caine wouldn’t take them. He would come for the woman on his own, trusting in his own considerable skills. Although Paquin suspected that Caine’s rescue effort would be formidable, he was also confident it would fail. No chances had been taken. This would be Mr. Caine’s last operation.
Vargas knocked on the door and walked into the room.
Paquin turned.
“Mr. Vargas.”
“The woman’s in the small house. It’s secure.”
“Do you think she suspects anything?”
“No, sir.”
Paquin gave Vargas a rare smile.
“I believe Mr. Caine will be paying us a visit later on tonight. Let’s prepare for his arrival.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER
FIFTY-ONE
Austin, Texas
December 7, 1999 / Tuesday / 7:00 p.m.
Caine downloaded both ground-level and aerial pictures of the ranch from the Internet. There were five structures on-site: a main residence and four smaller structures. The compound was surrounded by a seven- or eight-foot wall. The area outside the ranch was rolling hills, with moderate cover. Only one dirt road provided direct access to the ranch, but there was another approach. Another dirt road came within five miles of the southern edge of the ranch. From there, they could close to within a mile by going off-road.
Pietro was back by the time Caine and Ricard returned with a black Suburban. Jaq and Vlasky returned at about seven thirty, driving a dusty white van. When Jaq opened the rear doors with a flourish, Caine was stunned at the firepower Jaq had managed to assemble. There were three HK MP-5A2 submachine guns, two mini Uzis, and five Glock-17s. Pietro slapped Jaq on the back when he saw the weapons and the boxes upon boxes of ammunition.
“Magnifico!”
“That’s only the small stuff, buddy. Take a look at what Uncle Jaq has hidden in those two boxes over there,” Vlasky said with a smile.
Pietro leaned into the van and lifted the top off a square wooden crate. Nobody said a word, but they all recognized the weapon. It was a C9A1 light machine gun. The C9A1 was a Belgian weapon that every member of the team had used before. It had a cyclic rate of fire of between seven hundred and one thousand rounds per minute and an effective
range of six hundred meters.
Pietro slowly lowered the top, as if he was covering up a dangerous animal. Then he lifted the cover off the second box, which was longer and narrower. It was an M107 Barrett gun, the ultimate long-distance sniper rifle. It could shoot a fifty-caliber bullet over a mile with deadly accuracy.
When Caine moved forward to help with the unloading, Vlasky put a hand on his chest.
“Hold on there, Corporal. Let me just take this little jewel box out first. I don’t want you dropping my C-4.”
Caine slowly shook his head. After he’d left the Legion, Jaq had invited him to be a partner in his new business enterprise. As Jaq explained it, he was starting a consulting firm that would provide technical support to third-world customers buying arms from the international arms market. Since Caine had already started his own business, he’d passed on the offer. After looking at the firepower stacked in the van, Caine suspected that Jaq had graduated from a mere adviser to a heavy duty arms dealer. There was no other way he could have ready access to this kind of weaponry.
Jacques noticed Caine’s look as he stared into the van and slapped his hands together.
“Snap to it, man. We don’t have time for your gawkin’.”
Helius Legacy Page 27