Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  Would a person existing in semi-poverty, which seemed to be the standard of living in this town, have a relatively new Wrangler? These weren’t as new as the ones in the convoy, but seemed to be in better shape than the other vehicles in the lot. Maybe the cartel dumped its old vehicles on the black market, or donated them to charity. Everyone needed a tax write-off, even the bad guys. Especially the bad guys.

  Slashing the tires wasn’t an option, then. Maybe a puncture. A slow leak. That would still let them get away, though. He needed something immediate.

  Too bad these models didn’t have distributor caps. He tested the driver side door. Unlocked. After a furtive glance around the parking lot, he reached in and popped the hood release.

  He moved to the front of the Wrangler and propped the hood open. As he studied the inner workings, a hand clamped him on the shoulder. “Need some help?”

  Pulse racing, Jinx whirled and stared into Dalton’s frowning face. A bit more bruised and battered than the last time Jinx had seen him, and not looking any happier.

  Jinx puffed out a breath, filled with relief. They had backup. “Jeez—you might give a guy a little warning. I don’t have any more underwear.”

  Dalton reached into the engine and yanked on a couple of wires. “I assume you were trying to stop the car from going, not start it.”

  “Elle’s inside,” Jinx said. “Looking for her sister. I need to help. You can cover the exit. And disable the other two Wranglers. Elle thinks they might be cartel. I wasn’t sure, but—”

  Dalton lifted his brows, as though he was surprised to hear Jinx giving orders. Then he frowned. “Shut up, Jinx. Go inside.”

  Jinx backed away at the harshness in Dalton’s tone. “But—but how did you get here? Where did you go?” He stopped, fisted his hands. Straightened his spine. He deserved answers. He was part of the team, damn it. “What the hell happened?”

  Dalton’s face shuttered. He shook his head. “You want to help Elle? Go. I’ll explain later.”

  Jinx would have insisted, but it was Elle inside.

  “Wait,” Dalton said. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fistful of pesos. “Around here, you might have more luck with this.”

  Knowing he wouldn’t get anything more out of Dalton, Jinx grabbed the bills and raced around the building. The door at the front of the hotel was closed. No shouting, no sounds of furniture being thrown about. Better yet, no gunfire. Things must be going well.

  He pulled the door open.

  The interior could have been a set from an old black-and-white movie. A clichéd hotel lobby. There was a paddle fan in the ceiling, making a feeble attempt to cool the space. It moved the air, but it was hot, damp air. The only light came from the rays filtering in where the curtains didn’t quite cover the window, and a lamp with a dim bulb sitting on the counter.

  Elle was standing at the counter. Taking only a second to admire her still-fine ass, Jinx stepped to her side. “Hi, Sweetheart. Sorry I’m late. Ran into a friend in the parking lot.”

  She spun, eyes round in question.

  “A guy I knew in Texas,” he went on, in case someone here would recognize Dalton’s name. But the only someone here was a skinny kid—maybe fifteen—standing behind the counter, one of a pair of earbuds in his ear, the other dangling from an older model iPod in his shirt pocket. His surly expression indicated he wasn’t happy about being interrupted from his music.

  Jinx forgot all about Elle’s fine ass when the boy moved closer to the light. Hell and damnation, a younger version of Ramon. Jinx gave a slight head bob in the boy’s direction. From the quick nod Elle gave him, she’d noticed the resemblance, too.

  “This is Guillermo,” Elle said.

  “Shouldn’t he be in school?” Jinx said.

  Guillermo looked at him as if he were crazy. “It is Saturday. There is no school.”

  Which told Jinx he’d totally lost track of time, and the boy had a competent grasp of English.

  “I was telling Guillermo we want to book a room,” Elle said.

  “And I explained we have no vacancy. Sorry,” Guillermo said. “We are doing repairs.”

  “Why don't you let us see a room,” Jinx said. “You know, in case we want to come back when you do have an opening.” He rested his palm on the counter, shifting it enough so Guillermo could see the cash underneath it. Lowered his voice. “Nobody else needs to know—in case you’re thinking about upgrading to the newest iPod, or buying more tunes.”

  The boy swiveled his head toward an open doorway. Jinx thought he made out the muffled sounds of a crowd cheering. A slight flickering from inside told Jinx it was probably a television set tuned to a sporting event. Fútbol, he guessed. Soccer was big here. Did the boy want to get back to the game, or was there someone else in the office? Someone who wouldn’t approve of Guillermo letting two gringos snoop around upstairs?

  “What do you say, Guillermo?” Jinx fisted the wad of bills and peeled off a few. He gave Guillermo a conspiratorial smile. “You give us a key, let us go upstairs, and nobody has to be the wiser.”

  Guillermo disappeared into the office.

  “There’s another man in there,” Elle said. “An old guy, doesn’t speak English.”

  “You think he’s trouble? You think Guillermo is going to ask him for permission?”

  But Guillermo returned seconds later, closing the office door behind him. “He watches the fútbol game. There is probably twenty minutes left, no more.”

  “Wait a minute,” Elle said. “Do you know what goes on upstairs? Are there women up there now? Did you see someone who looks like me?” Elle repeated the question she’d asked of everyone she’d seen. “My sister. Someone said she was here.”

  Guillermo walked to the set of cubbyholes and plucked a key from one. He placed it on the counter, his hand over it. “I work here only on the weekends, for my Tio Ramon. People come, people go. It is not my business to ask questions.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice. “If there were women here who happened to leave this morning, I cannot tell you. If there are any left behind…” He shrugged.

  Jinx slipped the bills next to Guillermo’s hand. The money disappeared. The key remained. He snagged it. “I think we should get a wriggle on.”

  Elle was already headed toward the stairs. “Not the same without the Aussie accent,” she said over her shoulder as she bounded up the first flight of stairs. “Which room?”

  Jinx checked the key. “Three-oh-one.” He hurried after Elle.

  “Okay, now talk. Dalton’s here?” Elle said, her feet clumping as she hurried upward.

  “Yeah. He showed up when I was disabling the Wranglers—or trying to. Scared the shit out of me. He said he’d watch the back. He’s a little worse for wear, though.”

  “So what happened? Where did he go?”

  Jinx grabbed the banister for support. They had another two flights to go. Elle wasn’t even breathing hard. How could she do that?

  Because she’s in shape. And probably running on pure adrenaline thinking her sister is up there.

  Jinx pushed himself to catch up. “He wouldn’t say.”

  “One of those, ‘If you don’t know, you can’t tell anyone’ things?”

  “Could be.” They reached the top floor. Jinx grabbed Elle’s arm. “Slow down. We need a plan.”

  “We have one. We need to figure out if all the women left, and where they went. Maybe there’s a clue in here.”

  Elle allowed Jinx to unlock the door. Her hands were trembling so much she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to get the key into the slot. The lock clicked, and Jinx twisted the knob. Every instinct said, Go inside. Find Trish. Her training didn’t desert her, and she stayed in the hallway. For all she knew, Guillermo or the old man had arranged an ambush. She covered Jinx’s hand with her own. “Slow down.”

  He seemed to understand—great to have a fast-learner as a partner. He pushed the door open a crack. She took her place on one side of the doorway and motioned
for Jinx to take the other. With her Glock at her chest, she toed the door open another inch. Nothing from inside.

  “I’m going first,” she whispered, wiggling the Glock. Again Jinx nodded in understanding. Not only nice to have a partner who learned fast, but also to have one who didn’t get all macho, although he did have the KA-BAR unsheathed. She wasn’t going to make a crack about bringing a knife to a gunfight. Any weapon was welcome if they were going to confront the cartel.

  She crept forward, giving herself wider and wider angles of visibility as she sliced the pie. The room appeared empty. But appearances couldn’t be trusted.

  Bit by bit, she assembled an image of the room. Short curtains at the windows. Nobody could hide behind them. A good sized couch. Someone could hide behind that. Two easy chairs and a coffee table.

  Not a typical hotel room. A suite, perhaps? She sought a door that might lead to another room. There were two, one on each side of the room.

  “Anyone in there?” Jinx whispered.

  “Not that I can see. I’m going in.”

  “I’ve got your six,” Jinx said, stepping toward her.

  “No. Wait here. If anything hits the fan, go get Dalton.”

  His puffed out breath said he didn’t approve of her plan, but he’d go along with it. He retreated to a spot beside the door.

  She burst into the room, taking in all the angles. Nobody popped out from behind the couch. She made sure the room was truly empty before moving to the doors. She didn’t like leaving herself wide open, but Jinx didn’t have the skills, and worrying about herself and Trish was enough.

  Hell, she barely had the skills. Simulation training wasn’t the same as the real thing, and the firing range targets never returned fire. She pulled open one door, using it as a shield. As if the wood could stop a bullet. Peering into the space, she discovered it was a bathroom. Relatively nice, and she remembered this hotel was supposed to be a place where they prepared the women for whomever had requested them. A place where they could recover from the way they’d been treated at Ramon’s before being sent to a place where they’d end up the same way.

  Double vanity, lots of creams, lotions and other feminine potions. Separate tub and shower enclosures, with frosted glass doors instead of cheap plastic curtains.

  Clean, too, she noted. No signs of anyone inside the shower. She slid the tub enclosure open.

  Her heart stopped. A large lump, covered with a soggy bath towel. A body? From the shape of things, curled into a fetal position, facing away from her. Female, if Elle had to put money on it. No blood, but that only meant if this was a dead body, the death wasn’t violent.

  If this was Trish’s body, Elle didn’t think she could bear it.

  Cautiously, Elle leaned over the tub, half-expecting the body to leap out at her, point a gun at her face. Using the barrel of her Glock, Elle moved the towel, exposing the back of the head. Brown hair, gold highlights. Longer than Trish’s had been the last time Elle had seen her, but not outside the realm of possibility.

  No movement. But no decomp smell, either. And the skin was pink, not gray. Elle touched her fingers to the person’s neck. Felt a pulse. Weak, but beating. Only then did Elle find the courage to peer further into the tub to see if it was Trish.

  Holding her breath, she eased the towel off the body. Definitely female. Wearing a pair of knee-length shorts and a tank top. Wrists tied behind her. Feet bound at the ankles.

  Not wanting to move her and possibly aggravate any existing injuries, Elle stared at Trish’s unmistakable profile. Her sister’s breathing was shallow. Rapid. “Trish. Can you hear me? It’s Elle. Oh, baby, I’m going to get you out of here. I have help. You’re going to be all right.”

  Damn, she wished she could believe it. “Jinx!” she shouted. “We found her.”

  When he didn’t respond, she dashed to the doorway.

  Nothing.

  What the hell was it with these Blackthorne guys? Didn’t they ever stay put? Or tell someone where they were going?

  Chapter 34

  Cursing Jinx and the helicopter he rode in on, Elle raced to the bathroom. Trish hadn’t moved. Her breathing had become ragged, labored. All Elle could think was a clot had lodged in Trish’s lung. She tried to loosen the ropes around Trish’s ankles, to no avail. Too tight. And Jinx had the knife.

  “We’ll get you help, baby. What else hurts? How long have you been this way?”

  Trish’s eyes flickered open, then closed.

  “Breathe, baby. Keep breathing.” Elle rummaged through the vanity drawers, searching for something to cut Trish’s bindings. “Don’t you even have a damn pair of manicure scissors?” she muttered. Nothing.

  Reassuring Trish she’d be back, telling her to hang in there, Elle tried the other door, which led to a bedroom. Four twin beds. A dresser. She yanked drawers open. All empty. Likewise, the closet.

  A search for a phone in the suite proved fruitless. And Elle didn’t have a cell phone.

  Okay. Think. Breathe.

  She patted her pockets. The radio. Would Jinx, or Dalton, or Fozzie be in range? She keyed the radio. “Mayday. Mayday.” She waited. Nothing.

  Crap. Should she go downstairs, get someone to call an ambulance? Did this town even have an ambulance? Or a hospital? Technically, moving Trish might loosen a clot, cause it to migrate, but leaving her tied up in a bathtub was out of the question.

  Nothing like a frying pan to fire scenario.

  “Elle?” Trish’s voice, weak and plaintive, came from the bathroom. Elle darted to her side.

  “I’m here, baby. I need you to be strong. Is there anyone here who can help us? Anyone else in this hotel?”

  Trish coughed, a horrendous racking sound. Blood covered her lips. Elle had to get help. “Trish, I’m going to find help. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise.” She stroked Trish’s face. Elle backed out of the bathroom and ran down the hallway, pounding on doors. No response. She hadn’t expected much, but she had to try.

  She did the same on the floor below, with identical results. Nothing.

  Okay. The cartel had shipped everyone out. Except Trish. Why? Because she couldn’t travel, was useless to them? So they’d tied her up and left her to die? Or would they come back for her? Surely there was one person in this place with a drop of compassion.

  Guillermo? Would he help? Or did he only want the money Jinx had given him?

  Desperate, Elle barreled down the stairs, willing to risk whatever it took. These Blackthorne people didn’t owe her anything, but they’d assured her they were going to help get Trish out of here. And now that she needed them—really needed them—they’d done their out like the wind thing.

  Her cop buddies would never leave anyone. She’d started looking for Trish on her own, and she was going to have to finish that way.

  She reached the lobby. Empty, except for television sounds drifting from the rear office. Still the soccer game, she guessed. She pounded on the bell. When nobody responded she went around the counter and into the office. Which was also empty.

  Shit. What was it with these people?

  She went to the front desk and started rummaging through drawers. There had to be a knife, or a pair of scissors—anything sharp enough to cut Trish’s bonds.

  She found a pair of sewing shears and raced for the stairs. She had a fleeting thought about getting black marks for running with scissors, and under any other circumstances, would have laughed. Right now, she was trying not to cry.

  Relieved to find Trish was where she’d left her—not that she would have moved, but the way things were going, someone could have grabbed her—Elle took the shears and tackled the ropes.

  Hacking and sawing more than cutting, she managed to slice through the ropes binding Trish’s hands. The ones around her ankles took longer. The creeps had really done a number on the wrapping and the knots. Had Trish explained her condition? Had they taken perverse pleasure in doing the absolute worst thing they could do?

  No
ne of that mattered. First, Elle had to get Trish free, and then figure out how they could get out of this place. Right now, Fozzie’s magical helo didn’t seem to be on the list of possibilities. And Jinx—he’d better be dead, because that was the only excuse she was going to accept for him deserting her.

  You didn’t mean that.

  Maybe she did. Because the warm fuzzies she’d gotten before when she thought about Jinx weren’t coming through.

  Finally! She’d manipulated the scissors into one of the knots around Trish’s ankles and could concentrate on making the cut. It took both hands to open and close the blades, and she was cutting one strand at a time, but the operative word here was cutting.

  Trish’s breathing was as slow and shallow as Elle’s was fast and ragged. Or was Trish breathing at all? Elle couldn’t see any movement in Trish’s chest or ribs. Elle stopped cutting long enough to check Trish’s pulse.

  Several panic-filled seconds passed before Elle felt a faint motion in her sister’s carotid.

  “Breathe, baby. Breathe.” Elle repeated it over and over as she worked the scissors through the ropes. As much for her own benefit as Trish’s.

  “You can’t give up now, Trish. Not after everything I’ve done to find you. You can’t give up.”

  Right. Make it all about you. Jerk.

  She kept cutting. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

  After what seemed like a lifetime, the ropes parted. Elle tried to work her arms under Trish’s shoulders, to raise her into a sitting position. “Help me out here, Trish. You can do it. Let’s get you out of this place.”

  Trish’s eyelids fluttered. She took a rasping breath. “Hurts.”

  “Where? Tell me where it hurts.”

  “Legs. Breathing.”

  “Your legs probably fell asleep while you were tied up. You’re feeling the blood coming back.” Elle didn’t sound convincing, even to herself, and she knew she wasn’t fooling Trish. Trish had experienced enough clotting episodes to recognize deep vein thrombosis. But it was the pain in her sister’s chest that had Elle’s danger meter red-lining. A pulmonary embolism—a clot in Trish’s lungs—could be fatal.