Dangerous Connections (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Odell, Terry

  “If I stop, I’ll probably throw up all over you. Your choice.”

  He raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Pace. My replacement should be here any time. He can watch you wear a ditch in the floor.”

  Right. The man who was going to make sure she made good on her promise to trade herself for Trish. At the time, it had seemed the only way to get Trish the medical attention she needed, and deep down, Elle had believed the Blackthorne team would have materialized before it came to that. Now, she couldn’t count on a miraculous rescue. She’d have to figure a way out of this herself.

  A gowned and masked woman trudged through the door to the treatment area. Her eyes were surrounded by a web of worry lines. She lowered the mask, revealing a mouth downturned with weariness. “Senórita Grisham?”

  Elle rushed to the woman, not bothering to correct her on the name. Neither she nor Trish had any ID, and Bill had taken care of getting Trish admitted. “Yes. That’s me. Can I see her? How is she?”

  The woman shook her head. Elle’s heart sank. The woman rattled off in Spanish. Elle waved Bill to her side. “Translate.”

  Bill and the woman went back and forth in Spanish. The woman gave a brusque nod, walked to the reception desk, and called out a name. A mother carried a squalling baby and followed her.

  “What happened?” Elle demanded. “What did she say? How is Trish?”

  Bill looked almost sympathetic, and that tore a hole in Elle’s heart. “They don’t have the facilities to treat her here. But the good news is these towns and villages have an excellent Flight for Life service. They’re calling for a helicopter to take Trish to a facility that knows how to treat her.”

  “What will they do?” Elle asked. “Where are they taking her? I have to go with her.”

  Bill’s eyes lost any touch of sympathy. “I have no clue what she said about treatment. My Spanish isn’t that sophisticated. They’re sending her to Mexico City. As for you going with her? Not going to happen.” He pulled out his cell phone, punched the screen and started talking in Spanish again, flapping off her protests.

  Another Mexican appeared at Bill’s side. Neatly dressed, about six feet tall. A casual resemblance to Ramon.

  Bill tucked the phone away. “Here’s the deal. Aguilar will foot the bill to get your sister to the top medical center. You will go with Paulo. As soon as you’re gone, they’ll transport your sister.”

  Elle didn’t believe the doctors would agree to wait before helping Trish. But she couldn’t take any chances. “Let’s go.” Without waiting for Paulo, she half-ran toward the door. When she hit the sidewalk, she entertained the thought of making a break for it. It wasn’t a very entertaining thought—she knew Paulo would report she’d bolted, and that would be the end of Trish’s treatment.

  Elle paused, waiting for him to catch up. He did, then indicated a late-model Lexus SUV with deeply tinted windows, conspicuous among the beaters in the parking lot, and held the door for her. She climbed in and fastened her seatbelt. He hadn’t said anything, and she’d be damned if she was going to make small talk. Assuming he spoke English. She couldn’t remember whether he and Bill had exchanged words.

  Her brain had been totally focused on the woman who’d spoken to Bill, trying to understand a word or two, but her ears had been ringing with fear for Trish, so nothing computed.

  Paulo slipped on a pair of dark glasses, started the car, and turned out of the parking lot. Forcing herself to the reality of the situation, Elle gazed out the window, trying to take in and memorize her surroundings and the route they were taking.

  After about ten minutes, they’d left the town behind. The terrain was hilly, the road filled with sharp curves and potholes that could probably swallow a jaguar. Judging from Paulo’s speed and swerves, he was familiar with the route. The Lexus rode smoother than the Wranglers, but Elle had to brace herself with a hand on the dash and the other on the armrest.

  And then, instead of getting worse as they moved farther from civilization, the road conditions improved. More cartel money, she assumed. The lousy road would discourage people from coming this far, but those in the know would keep going. To where, she wondered?

  She had her answer in about ten more minutes. Another gated estate. Paulo pressed a remote and the gates swung open. He timed it perfectly so he didn’t have to slow down. But no gatehouse. No guard.

  She tried to scan the tiled roofline of the multi-level white stucco house for cameras, but from inside the car, she couldn’t get a decent view. They were there, though. She knew that. Nobody would sneak up unannounced.

  Blackthorne probably could. But that faint glimmer of hope faded as she realized nobody knew where she was. She didn’t even know if Jinx and Dalton were still alive.

  Jinx jumped out of the Wrangler before Dalton came to a full stop in front of the clinic.

  “Wait here.” He raced inside, coming to an abrupt halt inside the door. The room was filled with people awaiting treatment. The smell of disinfectant mixed with an overlying odor of sickness assaulted him. He scanned the room, frantically seeking a glimpse of Elle. No luck. Maybe she hadn’t arrived yet. Dalton had lead-footed it all the way.

  He marched to the desk across the room where a round-faced, thick-lipped woman sat behind an old computer monitor. She lifted a bored gaze when he placed his hands on the edge of the desk.

  “I’m looking for a woman,” he said. “An ambulance would have brought her. Two women, actually. One was very sick.”

  “No Inglés,” she said.

  Damn, why had he asked Dalton to wait outside? Jinx stepped back, trying to remember enough of his limited Spanish to make her understand. What few words he knew had fled as his stress level rose. “Dos senoritas. Um… ambulance? Mucho sick.” Damn. He spun around. “Anyone here speak English?”

  People exchanged quizzical glances. A young teen-age girl whispered to an older woman. The older woman nodded. The girl, wearing threadbare jeans and a faded pink blouse rose and stepped toward him. “I speak some English,” she said. She toyed with one of her long braids.

  Thank God. “I need you to ask if two women came in here. Not long ago. In an ambulance. One was very sick.”

  The girl nodded, then spoke to the desk clerk. The clerk nodded in apparent understanding. Jinx waited, heart pounding.

  The girl flipped the braid behind her back. “She says yes, an ambulance came, but there was only one woman, not two.”

  “Her name. Ask what the woman’s name was.”

  The woman tapped the computer. Jinx tapped his foot as he waited for her to answer. “Grisham,” she said, pronouncing it Greesham. “Treesh Greesham.”

  “What about Elle Grisham? Or Elle Sheridan?” Jinx asked. “Did anyone else arrive with Trish? Maybe not in the ambulance.” Could Elle still be on her way?

  The girl spoke, the woman answered, and the girl translated. “She says she does not know who comes or goes with the patients. She does not remember another woman, but she says the woman was very ill and the helicopter flies her to Mexico City.”

  “When? Where?” Jinx asked.

  The woman glanced at a watch pinned to her blouse. “Diez minutos.”

  “Ten minutes. I got that,” Jinx said. “Where in Mexico City?”

  Jinx understood enough to figure out they’d taken Trish to a cardiology institute. The woman seemed to anticipate his need and wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  An address. “Thank you. Gracias. Muchas gracias.” Jinx ran out to the curb where the Wrangler—and, thank the Lord, Dalton—waited.

  Jinx hoisted himself into the Wrangler. “She’s going to Mexico City.” He showed Dalton the address.

  Dalton’s eyebrows winged up almost into his hairline. “You’re kidding. You want us to drive to Mexico City? It’s nearly five hundred miles. And we’ve got an ‘all hands on deck’ summons to headquarters.”

  “Shit.” Jinx took a few deep breaths trying to regroup. “I have to get to Mexico City f
irst. Where’s the nearest airport?”

  “How do you expect to fly? You’re missing a couple of vital pieces. Money and a passport for starters.” Dalton gave an exaggerated sniff. “And a shower would help, too.”

  Jinx slammed the dashboard. “I can’t think straight. Would Fozzie detour? Drop me off on the roof of the institute? They must have a helipad if that’s how Trish is getting there. Hell, I'll even rope down if I have to.”

  “Trish?” Dalton said. “What about Elle?”

  “The woman at the desk wasn’t sure, but Elle wouldn’t leave Trish. If Trish is at that Institute, Elle will be there.”

  Dalton shoved the Wrangler in gear and headed down the road. “Going to have to deal with Fozzie on this. Makes more sense for you to go to San Diego, check into a hotel. You can use your immeasurable talents to get your passport, ID, money, whatever, overnighted to you, then be in Mexico City tomorrow. If, as you say, Elle isn’t leaving Trish’s side, you can contact the hospital and find her there.”

  “Five hundred miles?” Jinx said.

  Dalton fussed with the GPS. “More or less. Eight hour drive from here to there on a good day. Not that much longer to do what I said. And it might not piss the boss off quite as much as dealing with the red tape of your unauthorized presence in Mexico.”

  Jinx tried to process Dalton’s plan. The rest of what he’d said clicked into place. “All hands on deck, huh?”

  Dalton nodded.

  “I’m not a field operative, though,” Jinx said, thinking out loud. “And all hands isn’t the same as code red. Zeke could cover for me. I’ll take my chances with the boss. Drop me in San Diego at a hotel as close to the border as you can get me.”

  Dalton snorted. “Yes, sir.”

  They met Fozzie at the rendezvous spot, a small airport about half an hour from town. On board the helo, Jinx folded his arms and tried to sleep, but his brain was spinning faster than the rotors. He managed to process that Fozzie had brought the women to safety and dumped the cartel goons at the shipyard, but nothing else computed.

  He gave up and opened the laptop. He found excellent reports about the institute’s treatment of clotting complications—which is what he assumed had happened to Trish if they’d airlifted her out of the clinic so quickly. Satisfied Trish would be in good hands, he shifted to finding hotels close to the airport and flight schedules to Mexico City.

  Fozzie’s expression hadn’t changed from grim since Jinx had boarded. “Sorry if I fucked things up,” Jinx said. “I’ll take all the blame with the boss.”

  Fozzie looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese. Then comprehension spread across his face. “Huh? Oh. No, we’re cool with the boss. He approved three days leave time for you.”

  Jinx didn’t ask what Fozzie or Dalton had said to Blackthorne. They’d gone to bat for him, and that was good enough. “Then why the ‘all hands’?”

  This time Fozzie’s look said Are you crazy? Of course it would. Nobody would ask the boss to explain. Fozzie adjusted his headset, effectively saying Don’t bother me, and did his flying stuff.

  Before nightfall, Jinx was ensconced in a hotel room, once again thankful for the way the team backed him up. Given Jinx had no money, no ID, no nothing, Dalton had taken care of the formalities of checking into the hotel, using his name and credit card. He handed Jinx the room key, used the ATM in the lobby to get Jinx some cash, clapped him on the shoulder and wished him well. And then he was gone, like the wind.

  Jinx made arrangements for the requisite replacement documents and a new credit card, thankful Blackthorne’s pull cut through the red tape of getting them on a Sunday. Damn, he wished he had a computer.

  You need a shower, clean clothes, a hot meal, and some shuteye.

  Trouble was, his body wasn’t listening to the messages his brain was sending. He yawned, washed his face, and went downstairs in search of public computers. Maybe a gift shop where he could score a clean shirt and fresh underwear.

  On his way, he passed a row of fancy shop windows. The hotel had its own mini-mall. He wandered into the men’s clothing store, found a couple decent pairs of khakis, shirts, and yes, they had underwear. Another shop provided toiletries. And, although none carried cell phones, Jinx found a selection of phone calling cards, including ones that covered international calls. Logical, given how close to the border they were. He added one to his purchases.

  He charged everything to the room and carried the bag through the lobby where he found a bank of four computers in a small alcove. He took a seat at an empty terminal and found the number for the hospital, jotted it on a scrap of paper from the printer, and went upstairs. Postponing the shower and the meal, he called the number.

  Of course, he got a recording. In Spanish. He was about to hang up when the voice said, “For English, press two.” He pressed two.

  After floundering his way from one department to the next, he got where he thought he needed to be. Lying through his teeth, he proclaimed himself Trish’s brother and asked about her condition. And if there was a way to talk to his other sister who would be either in her room or as nearby as they’d let her.

  The best he could get was Trish was a patient, but there were no visitors allowed.

  Which didn’t mean Elle wasn’t pacing a waiting room somewhere.

  Regroup. You can’t do anything now. Live with it. Make sure you’re at your best tomorrow.

  Which, unless he got some sleep, wasn’t going to happen. He took a long, hot shower and thought about calling room service. Remembering what had happened at the Cabo resort, he changed into his new clothes instead, and went down to the hotel bar.

  Tempted to drink himself into a state of oblivion, Jinx stuck to a single beer with his steak and potatoes. Because he couldn’t take any action now didn’t mean he should impair his abilities to do so tomorrow. Helpless wasn’t something he did well, he’d discovered. On the job, there was always another database to search, another contact to find, another piece of intel to add to the mix. Always someone to be in touch with. Here, unless he wanted to infiltrate spillover from a wedding reception or make small-talk with a couple of geezers engrossed in a football game, he was alone.

  With the sharp edges smoothed out by a full belly, Jinx signed the receipt and slid off the bar stool. How could he miss Elle when he’d known her less than three days? She’d managed to corkscrew herself under his skin until she’d become a part of him.

  He got into the elevator, stifling a yawn. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he thought of his mom feeding him the line about Santa not coming until he was asleep. It had worked then, and memories of her smile ought to work now. Except the smiling face wasn’t his mother’s, it was Elle’s.

  Chapter 37

  Elle followed Paulo with a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Another high-class estate, almost a clone of Aguilar’s. Paulo still hadn’t spoken a word. He held her elbow as they climbed to the third floor. Another door-lined hallway. He opened the second door on the right and held it for her. She went inside, but he didn’t. No instructions, nothing. A lack of English? Too far above her to deign to speak? Or upset that he’d had to fetch her?

  Deciding she ought to try to pump him for what information he’d be willing to provide, she turned. “Please. Will someone keep me informed about my sister’s condition?”

  He stared at her, expressionless, then backed into the hall, closing the door behind him. The now all too familiar snick of the lock was as ominous as the clanking of the door to a holding cell.

  Trish was in good hands. Elle had to believe that. If only she could get to a phone, she could call the clinic, find out what hospital they’d taken Trish to, then find out how she was doing. She hurried through her new quarters. A modest bedroom with a sitting area through an arched alcove. A rattan chaise upholstered in a flowery print. A floor lamp and a small end table. But no phone. Why was she not surprised?

  The bedroom area had a queen bed tucked
into the corner, covered with a spread that matched the fabric on the chaise. Curtains behind a spindled headboard said there was a window. She crawled onto the bed and shoved the curtain aside, revealing a sash window. With no bars. She unlatched the window and shoved it upward. It moved easily enough, letting in a soft breeze of damp night air and the sound of insects. Guess whoever had stashed her here figured putting her on the third floor was enough of a deterrent to an escape attempt.

  What she thought was a balcony below the window was a ledge, under a foot wide, with a two-foot high wooden railing. More of an architectural detail than anything functional. It was too dark to see whether it led anywhere—no welcoming tree branches offered a way out. She’d have to wait until daylight.

  She secured the window, preferring the air-conditioning to the bugs, and continued her exploration. The night table beside the bed was a twin of the one in the sitting area. Again, no phone. Not even the intercom contraptions Aguilar had.

  Not that she expected to find a phone in the bathroom, but she felt obligated to check. Nope. Nothing but the usual fixtures and amenities.

  Take a breath. Regroup. You’re not being methodical.

  The vanity was empty. In the bedroom, the chest of drawers was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. So were the small closet and the drawers in the two tables. No accoutrements of sex games. So, not another playroom for the cartel. Or had they simply not had time to stock it?

  This was getting her nowhere. Her burning eyes, her disjointed thought processes, her aching muscles told her she needed sleep, but her brain wouldn’t give in to her body’s demands. Her gut roiled, and she paced the room to burn off the excess tension.

  Slowly, she became aware of a soft, rhythmical tapping.

  Elle froze. Listened.

  Silence.

  Had it been a piece of furniture jiggling in response to her footfalls? She resumed her trek around the room, testing the end tables for stability. Not them. Could the headboard be clunking against the wall? She sat down on the bed and bounced, but that wasn’t it.