It wasn’t Angie.
“Jesus!” Sabot yelled. He leapt from the bed. “Who the hell are you?”
“Dingo, what’s wrong with you?”
Angie called him Dingo. She was the only one who could get away with it.
But this voice didn’t belong to Angie. It was lower, huskier.
“Dingo, come back to bed, baby. Are you having one of your nightmares? I’ll make it better.” Seduction in her voice.
“Where’s Angie?” he demanded. “What have you done with her?”
The smile left her eyes, replaced by the beginnings of something else. “Dingo, stop, you’re worrying me.”
“Goddammit!” he roared. “Where’s Angie?”
The woman started to cry. “Dingo, what’s happened to you? Tell me how to help you. I’ll take you to a doctor.”
“The hell you will! Get the hell away from me!”
“Dingo, please…” Her sentence faded into panicked tears.
He charged to the dresser, ripped open a drawer. It was full of Angie’s underwear. He picked up her favorite thong, tattered and a bit worn, the seam ripped from that night. Definitely Angie’s.
He opened the next drawer. Angie’s shirts. Even his favorite, the one that said my other boyfriend is rich and handsome. “Where the hell is Angie? What have you done with her?”
The girl cried harder. “Dingo, please, baby! Relax. It’s going to be okay. Please!”
He snatched the purse from the nightstand, emptied its contents onto the bed. Angie’s phone. Angie’s wallet. Pictures of Angie and himself, Angie and Connie, Angie and her coworkers.
Only it wasn’t Angie.
“What the hell is going on?” He felt his chest constricting. It was getting harder for him to breathe.
The girl was sobbing on the edge of the bed, covers drawn around her naked body. “Dingo, please baby. It’s me!”
He looked again. It wasn’t her.
Rage. He flew across the room. His hands found her throat. He squeezed, saw the abject fear in her eyes, heard the sickening pop of sinew, saw her face turn red, felt but didn’t register the blows of her flailing limbs against his body.
Then it came. Something thick, metallic, unyielding. It crashed into the back of his skull.
Darkness.
18
The steward handed the phone to the Facilitator. He put it to his ear, and heard a voice familiar to nearly everyone in the world. It was the voice that had recently declared martial law, the voice that had vowed to throw the might of an entire nation to bring the perpetrators to justice.
“You have a problem,” the old man said into the phone without preamble.
“Not me,” said the President of the United States. “We.”
The Facilitator allowed himself a small smile. The conversation was already going terrifically well. The most powerful man in the world wanted help.
“I’ve heard an unpleasant rumor. The Journal and the Times are both running a story on the inadequacy of the federal response. Cable news will undoubtedly follow.”
“When?” the president asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“How long have you known?”
“You are the first person I’ve spoken with.”
“Can you stop it?”
“Of course. But not forever. You’re not holding up your end of the deal.” Egotistical men were exceptionally easy to manipulate. They feared irrelevance more than anything.
“Martial law,” the president said. “I’d say that’s a pretty strong move.”
“Lip service,” the Facilitator chided. “Where are the troops? Where is the law and order? You’ve got known gang members handing out food to old ladies. Rioting and looting are completely unchecked. Your administration appears absent and impotent. How long do you expect to remain in power under these conditions?”
“These things take time.”
“It’s a luxury you don’t have. They give you trillions every year, and in return they expect at least the illusion of competence in a crisis.”
The president snorted. “I have a tenth the troops I need.”
“On the contrary,” the Facilitator said. “You have all the manpower you need. But only if you find the courage to set an example.”
“We’ve made hundreds of arrests already,” the president protested.
“Which have had no appreciable effect.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting that you should learn from history,” the Facilitator said testily. “The people suspect you’re weak. You must demonstrate otherwise.”
The president considered. “Violence isn’t power.”
“No,” the Facilitator said. “But the credible threat of violence is certainly a useful proxy. How do you think thousands of Germans herded millions of Jews to their deaths?”
“Jesus. Have you lost your damned mind?”
“Absolutely not. And you should stop letting your emotions cloud yours. How many more lives will be lost if you let this spin out of control? You’ll have open revolt in a week unless you do something to stop this.”
The president was silent. The Facilitator let him stew.
Then, the old man gave the president a final nudge. “You must demonstrate that you’re worthy of the power at your disposal. Otherwise, it will surely vanish.”
19
“Señor Rojas, time for another phone call,” Sam said as Dan brought the DIS sedan discreetly to a halt in the alley beside the warehouse in downtown Alajuela. She’d have preferred to get the ball rolling much earlier, but where cell phones were concerned, location was everything. It was important that Rojas and his two stooges were in the proper spot on the earth before dialing.
Sam turned around and examined Rojas in the backseat. His breathing was shallow and quick, his skin was clammy, and his pulse was erratic. “I pronounce you screwed,” Sam said. She tightened the bandage around his leg and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “But if your guys are any good, this shouldn’t take too long.”
“You’re sure these guys aren’t going to screw it up?” Dan asked.
“Not at all. But I still haven’t thought of any better ideas.”
“We could always do this ourselves, like we’re trained to.”
Sam shook her head. “Too many unknowns. And we’d have bad guys on both sides of us.” She gestured toward the three DIS goons in the back. “Plus Harv and Trojan aren’t trained. We’d have our hands more than full if everything went right, and god help us if anything went sideways.”
“And just playing devil’s advocate here one last time,” Dan said. “We’re sure we don’t want to wait for the cavalry?”
Sam laughed. “I can’t imagine how long it’s going to take for the suits at Homeland, State, and CIA to even talk to each other, much less hatch and execute a plan. Harv and Trojan will die of old age. Besides, any plan will have to involve the DIS anyway. Why not just sidestep all the bullshit?”
Dan didn’t object.
Sam handed the phone to Rojas. “Showtime.” She waved her Kimber .45 at him. “Same rules apply. Don’t screw with me.”
Rojas made the call, played his part to Sam’s satisfaction, and handed the phone back to her.
“Ready to make history?” she asked the three DIS agents bound in the backseat of the sedan. They stared blankly back at her. “That was rhetorical, anyway,” she muttered to herself, silently opening the door. She took off her shoes, stepped out of the car, and blended into the alley, making her way quickly but quietly toward a side door of the warehouse.
She glanced back at the car. The three DIS knee-cappers appeared well behaved. Dan’s pistol, pointed in their vicinity, likely had something to do with that, as did the three gunshot wounds and six pairs of zip-ties between them.
Sam tucked her pistol into her belt, and armed herself with a paperclip and a nail file. Moments later, the lock on the warehouse door yielded. She surveyed the hinges: no visible rust, whic
h was a good sign, but neither were there clear indications of recent lubrication. No guarantee against creaking.
Easy does it, she thought to herself, gently turning the door knob and applying outward pressure. The door didn’t move, so she pulled a bit harder, pressing lightly in the opposite direction with her other hand to guard against rapid movement of the door as it passed its sticking point.
Slowly, it moved. Six hours later, or so it seemed, she had enough room to squeeze her body inside the opening and into the darkness of the warehouse.
She crouched low. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her eyes adjusted to the dark. She was in a long hallway that spanned the long side of the warehouse. There were several internal doors along its length. Light emanated from beneath the door at the far end of the hallway.
Slowly, she began to move, her bare feet silent on the hard concrete floor. She stopped at the first door, trying the handle. Locked. She went to work with her nail file and paperclip.
She had moved the first tumbler aside in the door’s lock when she heard a sharp, metallic noise at the far end of the hallway. The far door opened, and light spilled out of the room and into the hallway. Sonuvabitch. Her heart leapt into her throat, and against all human instincts, she made herself still as stone, hoping she was close enough to the wall to blend into the shadows.
Footsteps. A voice spoke in Spanish. Sam chanced a look: tall, muscular, light on his feet, even in steel-toed boots. The man held a phone to his ear. He was looking straight down the hallway. She could see his eyes. He doesn’t see me, but it won’t be long before he does, Sam thought. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to reach for her pistol. The movement would certainly have caught the man’s attention. She had no idea how many more men might be in the warehouse, and she wasn’t keen to find out the hard way. Especially when she was alone and barefoot.
The man strode quickly and confidently down the hallway. He spoke quietly into the phone. Everything about him exuded control. He looked vastly more capable than the three semi-pro DIS men that were tied up in the backseat of the sedan. This guy would be a handful all by himself, she realized.
He wasn’t slowing down. She forced herself to take slow, silent breaths.
His phone call ended. He placed the phone in his pocket. He looked right at Sam. She held her breath, and mentally mapped the hand movement required to grab her gun and get a shot off in his direction. She hoped he wouldn’t see her until he was close enough to get the drop on him. Can’t catch a damned break, she thought.
“Pedro!”
The voice boomed from down the hallway. A familiar smoker’s rasp with a vaguely northeastern accent. “Señor Pedro, mi amigo.” Dogshit Spanish. Obviously not a native speaker.
“Dónde está el baño, muchacho? I’m seeing yellow here.” Harv Edwards! His voice was loud and obnoxious, even from the other end of the hallway.
The man stopped in the hallway, exhaled, and turned around. He walked back toward the lit room at the far end of the hall. “Pedro! Goddammit, I’m about to piss myself,” Harv bellowed.
The agent continued down the hall and disappeared into the lighted room.
Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief, finished picking the locked door in front of her, and peered into the room. Storage closet. Plenty of room for her purposes, she assessed.
She closed the door silently, making sure it remained unlocked, then made her way quickly to the exterior door.
She felt slightly nauseous from the adrenaline pounding through her veins, and her heart rate was up in the low six thousands, or so it felt. She slipped back into the passenger seat of the sedan.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Dan said.
“Close call.” She re-checked her pistol. Nervous habit. “Harv’s in there. I don’t know about Trojan. One guy for sure, and he’s definitely not from around here. We don’t want to pick a fight.”
Dan nodded. “Any changes to the plan based on what you saw in there?”
“Actually, we caught a bit of a break. Turn right down the hallway, first door on our left is the supply closet. Fifteen paces, total. Piece of cake.”
“Famous last words,” Dan said.
Sam got out her phone and dialed. Brock answered. “You’re on, baby,” she said. “Please be careful.”
She looked at her watch. “Two minutes.”
Brock hung up his phone, put it in his pocket, and looked once more at the sedan containing Sam, Dan, and the three DIS agents. It was fifty yards away from him, parked along an adjacent side of the warehouse. He was sure they were out of the way.
He looked at his watch. Time to go. He turned the ignition key. The DIS sedan came to life. He suspected it was armored to defend against small arms fire, which would help a great deal for his purposes.
Not that he expected to get shot at.
He lined the car up with the giant warehouse garage door, rolled down the window, engaged the parking brake, and put the automatic transmission in gear.
On the passenger seat next to him was a flat piece of slate they’d liberated from the median a few miles back. He picked it up, opened the car door, and got out of the driver’s seat, favoring his wounded leg.
Brock bent down and placed one end of the flat rock on the driver’s side floorboard, and rested the top of the rock on the accelerator pedal. The engine revved. Not too much, but just enough.
He quietly shut the car door, then reached in through the open window. His hand found the parking brake lever. He disengaged it, and hobbled out of the way as the the car lurched forward.
“Go,” Sam commanded, watching Brock’s driverless sedan accelerate toward the building. She grabbed Alejandro, Rojas’ DIS counterpart, and pulled him out of the back of the car. She sliced the zip-tie binding his ankles together, allowing him to walk. With her pistol in the small of his back to encourage cooperative behavior, she pushed him toward the side door of the warehouse.
Dan scooped the wounded Rojas out of the rear of the car. Dan’s stocky frame easily handled the skinny DIS agent’s weight. He repositioned Rojas over his left shoulder, ignored the groans of pain caused by Rojas’ two Sam-inflicted gunshot wounds, grabbed his service pistol in his right hand, and followed Sam in a dash toward the door.
Sam reached the doorknob. A loud crash and the screech of twisting metal announced that Brock’s driverless car had found its way inside the warehouse, pounding through the large garage door on the adjacent wall. She registered Brock’s limping lope toward their car, where he would keep an eye on the third DIS man imprisoned in the backseat while Dan and Sam took care of business inside the warehouse.
She opened the building’s side door, silently cursing the predawn light that now spilled in from a row of high windows, illuminating the hallway. Quickness would have to take priority over quietness. There were no shadows to conceal them.
Sam tugged Alejandro forward into the warehouse. Like a recalcitrant pack animal, he resisted. She backhanded him in the jaw to remind him of their deal: full cooperation would result in full payment, while anything less than enthusiastic participation would be rewarded with permanent scars, at a minimum. Alejandro walked forward, crouching low and staying close to the wall.
An impossibly loud crash assaulted their ears, and the floor shook beneath their feet. Brock’s car evidently hadn’t stopped once it entered the warehouse, and had found something large and very heavy to collide with.
Shouts came from down the hallway, in the direction of the room that Sam believed to contain Harv Edwards and Trojan. She broke into a run, tugging Alejandro behind her by his lapel.
They quickly covered the ten paces to the supply closet. Sam opened the door without breaking stride, pushed Alejandro to the back of the closet, and held the door open for Dan. He charged inside the small room and deposited Rojas on the floor like a sack of flour. Sam removed Rojas’ cell phone from her pocket and tossed it into his lap. “Sit tight,” she said. “You’re now a hostage. Let’s
hope your hostage rescue people are worth a shit.”
She opened the closet door an inch and peered out into the hallway. It was clear. The calamity on the warehouse floor had attracted attention in the opposite direction, as designed. “Let’s go,” she whispered to Dan.
Dan grabbed her arm. “Let’s just grab Harv and Trojan and be done with it,” he said.
She considered his proposal for a fraction of a second. Tempting. The chaos of the car crashing through the warehouse could potentially create a large enough window of opportunity to get their two hostages safely out of the warehouse.
But it could also be a colossal disaster. It would take just a single guard left behind in the room with Harv and Trojan to turn the whole thing plaid. They could instantly find themselves in a firefight against an unknown number of assholes, at least one of whom appeared to be well-trained and highly professional.
Sam shook her head. “Back to the car.”
She checked once more for foot traffic in the hallway, then dashed toward the exit. She heard muffled voices shouting in two or three languages.
Sirens blared in the distance. Had the DIS involved the local police in their hastily-hatched operation to rescue their agents? Or did they have their own fleet of urban assault vehicles? Clowns, either way, Sam thought, reaching her hand to grasp the exit door. She’d have opted for a stealthy approach.
“Stop!” The voice echoed above the din. In English. In Costa Rica. Not a good sign.
Sam’s insides clenched, and a fresh flood of adrenaline assaulted her system. She turned to look down the hallway. Her fears were confirmed: it was the pro she had seen earlier, now running in their direction, hand reaching back behind his belt, undoubtedly for a large caliber handgun.
Decision time. Two alternatives: they could have a friendly chat with the fine gentleman reaching for his pistol, for all intents and purposes joining the collection of hostages in the warehouse and hoping that the DIS didn’t cock up the rescue operation launched to retrieve Rojas and his fellow stooge. She had already bet Trojan’s and Harv’s lives on their proficiency. Was she willing to bet her own?
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 173