by Diane Capri
“There’s a military hospital thirty minutes away. They’ll be guarded there. When they wake up and we’re sure they’re okay, the Boss will get them home again.”
“What about Berenson?”
“We’ll have to find her, take her out at the same time.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Without a SWAT team?”
Kim wagged her head back and forth. “Dean will help us isolate her. After that, I’m guessing Neagley will take care of Berenson. No way to stop her, even if anyone wanted to try.”
The waitress returned with the to-go cups stacked inside two large takeaway bags. Kim paid cash for the order and took one bag. Gaspar took the other. She glanced at her Seiko. They’d been gone fifteen minutes. Plenty of time.
On the walk back, Kim stepped over the dead raccoon again.
“Nocturnal animals end up as road kill because they think they’re safe when they’re not,” Gaspar said. “What if your plan doesn’t work? What’s plan B?”
“It has to work. It’s the only option we have,” she replied. “One choice, right choice, Chico.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Tuesday, November 16
12:49 a.m.
Chacho, TX
Gaspar knocked on the motel room door.
From inside, Morrie called, “Yes?”
“Room service,” Gaspar said.
Morrie opened the door, stood aside until they entered and then closed, locked, and stood in front of it again. His posture looked much the same as the day Kim first met the man standing guard outside Neagley’s office.
Seemed like a lifetime ago.
Which it was.
Neagley was stretched out on the bed in the position Gaspar had formerly occupied. She’d propped two pillows behind her and rested her back against the headboard. Her eyes were closed.
As if she felt Kim watching, without opening her eyes Neagley said, “It’s the Army way, Otto. Sleep when you can. You never know when you’ll get another chance.”
Dean was still strapped to the chair. Neagley had tightened the cables around his wrists and ankles and his flesh had started to swell. He had to be uncomfortable anchored there. But the expression on his face was pleasant, almost happy. The drug had entered his bloodstream and coursed around. He was ready.
Kim set the bag of coffee on the desk. She noticed the empty syringe. She handed it to Gaspar, who took it into the bathroom for secure disposal. He’d disassemble, wash with soap to remove as much trace evidence as possible, and flush each component down the toilet. Not perfect, but good enough.
Kim stood in front of Dean with a cup of black coffee. “I brought your coffee. Would you like a sip?”
He smiled like the offer was one of gracious hospitality. “Please,” he said.
She held the cup to his mouth as he drank.
“Thank you,” he said. His demeanor proved he was ready enough.
Neagley smirked. Morrie looked amazed. Gaspar watched.
Kim was satisfied. “Where is Margaret Berenson?”
“She’s with our folks at Black Star,” Dean said.
“Are Angela and Charlie Franz there?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Is Karla Dixon there?”
“She is.”
“How about Tammy Sanchez and her children?”
“Yes. All with our folks at Black Star. With Margaret.”
Good to know. Next, she asked a question to test whether he was being truthful, although the drug never failed. “What about Tammy’s mother?”
He frowned and seemed bewildered for a moment. Then, like a cloud passing, his frown disappeared as his memory cleared. “I’m sorry. She died.”
“How did she die?”
“Margaret shot her in the head. She had to kill one of them and the old lady was the best one to get rid of.” His tone was conversational. He might have been discussing a football team trading players. He made no effort to conceal or offer any excuse. Again, an objective indication that the drug was doing its job.
Another test question. “Were they at Black Star when Margaret shot Tammy’s mother?”
He wagged his head back and forth. “No. That was a couple of days ago. At Valle Alto.”
“Where is her body?”
“We had a cookout going already, so we included her.”
“A what?”
“You’re FBI. You know,” he said.
Her stomach cramped and flipped and twisted. She did know. She’d been focused on the job at hand, but she knew the way the most brutal of the Mexican cartels worked. They ruled by extreme violence. A cookout was their euphemism for burning people alive. It was one of many brutal execution techniques she’d seen.
Dean shrugged. “We cremated her at the compound,” he said. “We didn’t want people to find her. We don’t like to shoot hostages. We usually just maim them a bit so we can give them back when the ransom is paid, you know.”
So there would never be any proof they’d killed Mrs. Orozco, except the proof-of-life video, which might never be tied back to Dean or Berenson and could have been faked, anyway. But the bag of evidence Kim collected that still rested in her pocket could change all of that, maybe.
“I’ve been to Black Star,” Kim said.
He seemed surprised. “You have? Nice place. Lovely this time of year. The horses are spectacular.”
“There are quite a few places out there to hold hostages.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Where, exactly, is Margaret staying?”
“She’s in the same building as the hostages. We can’t trust anyone else with them. This group is special.”
“Why are they special?”
“Because Margaret and I get all the ransom this time. This was a deal we did before we joined Las Olas. So we’re handling it on the side. If Las Olas helps us, we have to share. See?”
“I understand,” Kim said. “Where is Margaret staying with the hostages, exactly?”
“She’s in the extra bunkhouse. It had enough beds already and Las Olas wasn’t using it right now.”
Kim opened the laptop and showed him the satellite photos of Black Star ranch. “Which building is the extra bunkhouse?” She pointed to each of the small buildings one at a time, methodically, starting near the ranch house. “Is it this one?”
“No. It’s farther back.”
She pointed to the building close to one of the barns. “This one?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
“Does this building have a name?”
He shrugged. “We call it the extra bunkhouse. As far as I know, that’s the only name it has.”
Kim handed the laptop to Gaspar. He looked at the extra bunkhouse and passed it to Morrie, who did the same before passing it to Neagley.
“You know that extra bunkhouse and the whole ranch pretty well, don’t you?” Morrie asked.
“I guess.”
“Tell us about it,” Gaspar said.
Dean went over it, describing the layout. Gaspar made notes. He asked about the doors, the distances, the details. He made the sort of drawing an architect would have been embarrassed about, but it filled in the blanks the satellite photos were missing.
Kim pulled Dean’s phone out of her pocket. She’d taken the risk of bringing it from Valle Alto and she’d checked it earlier. She found a number that had been dialed several times. “Is this Margaret’s phone number?”
Dean nodded. “Yes. Sometimes it takes her a while to answer and there’s no voice mail, so you have to call back.”
“Good to know,” Kim said. She offered him another drink of coffee because it seemed humane and useful to keep him hydrated. “Anything else we should know about Black Star and Margaret and the hostages?”
Dean seemed to think about the question. Maybe trying to decide what sort of things Kim would want to know. Like he was being helpful giving directions to the local gas station.
“There’s a lot of guns out there. And people who
know how to use them. It’s protected better than the compound at Valle Alto, really. If you try to break into Black Star, you probably won’t get very far. You certainly won’t get out alive.”
Kim asked, “Which building houses the fuel for the farm’s equipment? They’ve got trucks and tractors, and they need to be gassed up. And there’s probably propane, too.”
Dean considered the question. Maybe the drug was wearing off and he was able to self-censor again. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he was finally figuring out what they planned to do and didn’t want to help.
“Where’s the fuel storage, Dean?” Morrie said, a little rougher. “Do I need to give you another injection?”
He shrugged, said, “I was thinking. It’s behind the third barn. The one at the end of the row. There’s an underground tank. And there’s a propane tank there, too. They need to keep it away from the horses. It’s toxic you know.”
“You said Margaret and the hostages were with your ‘folks.’ What do you mean? Your family?”
He chuckled. “I guess. Las Olas is our family now, I suppose. Las Olas and our kids. But the kids are almost grown. Daughter in college. Son at boarding school. Margaret and I are just an old married couple now. Empty nesters, you know?”
Kim felt bewildered, like she’d been hit on the head without warning. She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Gaspar’s eyes widened. Morrie cocked his head as if he’d misheard. Even Neagley opened her eyes and sat up straight on the bed.
Neagley said, “You and Berenson are married? Berenson’s son and your daughter? The two of you are their parents?” She made it sound like the idea was more preposterous than intelligent lizards living among us disguised as humans.
Her reaction startled Kim more than the intel. If Berenson and Dean were married, why would Neagley be surprised they had kids?
Before Kim could ask Dean chuckled again. Nodded. “Twenty-two years now. Hard to believe, I know. But she was a looker once.” A small cloud crossed his face. He shook his head slightly, as if he felt regrets. “I didn’t mean to cut her face like that. She started it. And she’s not the only one with scars.”
Involuntary shudders ran through Kim’s body. Sure, she was exhausted and hungry and barely keeping it together, but the feeling was caused by none of that. No. It was pure revulsion. What kind of man slices his wife’s face with a knife like that? No woman who looked like that could ever live a normal life. Maybe Berenson was one of Dean’s victims, too. Maybe she wasn’t a willing partner. Which meant she might be persuaded to release the hostages.
Neagley’s tone was as cold as Chicago winter. “What do you mean she’s not the only one with scars?”
Dean said, “We were fighting a lot back then. Things got a little out of hand.”
“Out of hand, how?” Neagley asked.
“She cut me, too. Worse. Blood was everywhere. It looked like a butcher shop in there before we were done.”
Margaret Berenson’s facial scars were hideous. Picturing them freshly inflicted in her mind set Kim’s stomach roiling again, worse than the first time she’d seen Berenson’s face.
Kim steadied her voice and asked, “How could she have cut you worse?”
He replied, “I’d show you, but you wouldn’t want to see. Good thing we already had the kids by then.”
Kim had been in the presence of evil many times. She had no doubt she was looking evil in the eye again now. Edward Dean had taken hostages for ransom, including four children and three women. He’d ordered a grandmother executed when the ransom wasn’t paid. He’d made a deal to trade missiles to terrorists, missiles that were to be used against U.S. targets. He was heavily involved in drug trade, which ruined more lives every day than all terrorist activities added together.
A moment ago she thought Edward Dean might be the worst evil she’d ever encountered.
If what he said about Berenson was true, they shared the title equally.
She felt she was drowning in evil now.
Kim turned away from the sick bastard. She picked up her equipment.
“Gaspar, let’s go,” she said. “I can’t breathe in here.”
Morrie opened the door, Kim walked through it with Gaspar following right behind her.
Somewhat surprisingly, Morrie followed after Gaspar and closed the door behind him, leaving Neagley alone with Dean.
She joined them in the parking lot less than a minute later.
Kim stood taking deep breaths to steady her stomach, trying not to think about Neagley alone in the room with Dean. Thinking through what she’d just learned from Dean and how to integrate his intel with what she’d already planned. A random thought flashed into her mind.
What would Reacher do?
She grinned to herself in the darkness.
She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought aloud until Neagley replied, “First thing Reacher would do is eat breakfast at that Denny’s over there. Another Army rule. Eat when you can.”
Kim and Neagley set out, shoulder-to-shoulder, in that direction. Gaspar and Morrie followed.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, November 16
1:26 a.m.
Chacho, TX
Denny’s, a chain diner, was predictable. Open 24 hours and almost deserted at this hour before breakfast. The only people inside were the waitress who’d sold them coffee earlier and the cook.
They walked across the parking lots, weaving between parked pickup trucks, and jaywalked across the side streets and reached the empty diner lot. Inside, they walked right past the Please Wait to Be Seated sign and slid into a booth by the window with a view of the motel. Gaspar and Neagley on one side, Morrie and Kim on the other. Just worked out that way.
The waitress delivered coffee and menus. Neagley ordered a cheeseburger and fries without looking. The guys said her order sounded good. Kim’s stomach was twisted by revulsion since Dean’s confession and couldn’t handle the grease. She ordered toast. The waitress said it would be ten minutes to fry the patties. She left the coffee pot and moved back to her newspaper at the counter.
Neagley said, “Cooper going to be of any help in this or is he as political as ever?”
Kim replied, “He’ll oil the wheels, but we’re on our own. We’ve got backup and some local support. But they aren’t going to send in the Marines, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Neagley snorted. “Of course they’re not. Can’t be bothered, I suppose. It’s only four kids and three women and none of the women are sleeping with Cooper.”
Gaspar glanced at Kim. Understanding passed between them. The joint task force had been working to bring down the Black Star operation for three years. They were so close to wrapping up. Careers would be made or ruined on the success or failure of those involved. There were bigger stakes. Simple as that.
Not that they could tell Neagley the Boss’s reasons; not that she’d care if they told her.
When neither Gaspar nor Kim offered a rebuttal, Neagley said, “We can’t drive a bus in there and snatch them back. For one thing, there’s the medical issues. For another, we’d be dead before we reached the bunkhouse.”
“Agreed,” Morrie and Gaspar said simultaneously.
“We’ll go over all the details. But the basic plan is simple, solid,” Kim said. “Neagley and Gaspar can handle the diversion. Morrie and I will confirm the hostages are in the bunkhouse, then call in the ambulances.” She told Neagley about the need to stagger the calls to the two communities to ensure they’d arrive together. “Once we have them loaded, Cooper will make sure they are evacuated to safety.”
Morrie asked, “How will we get in and get out?”
“Our vehicle should be in the motel lot, fully loaded, when we’re done here.”
“Should be?” Neagley asked.
Kim ignored her. “When Berenson’s arrested, she’ll be highly motivated to save her hide. That’ll be problematic for all of us and an even bigger problem for Neagley, Dixon, and Reacher. She’l
l start talking about why she and Dean were so interested in Reacher’s crew in the first place. She’ll use the missing money as a bargaining chip. Might even manage immunity in exchange for testimony, assuming we get all the hostages out alive.”
Morrie looked at her as if she’d grown a third head.
As Kim had expected, Neagley said, “Berenson won’t be a problem.”
The waitress returned with the food and they stopped talking while they consumed it like a Shop-Vac sucks up dust.
“What about the timing?” Neagley asked.
“We’ve got some set up first,” Kim replied. “But we go in at your lucky time of the day. Four o’clock in the morning. What did you call it? KGB time? Are you feeling lucky?”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tuesday, November 16
3:56 a.m.
Chacho, TX
The Boss had delivered on the first of his promises. A state-of-the-art armored SUV was parked at the motel, equipped with everything they’d need and a few extras Kim hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Gaspar behind the wheel driving with his usual lead foot, they arrived slightly before dawn’s weak light first bathed the countryside in soft haze.
Black Star Ranch nestled in a Texas Valley near the Rio Grande a few miles north of Mexico. Close enough for frequent visits and exchanges. Far enough outside Mexico’s jurisdiction to be both a blessing and a curse, depending on the crime. According to her intel, Las Olas laundered money by the truckload through this operation. Money laundering had to be done stateside. Murder and kidnapping and assorted mayhem was better handled in Mexico where corrupt authorities were more easily persuaded by extreme violence or bribery to look the other way.
In photographs, the scene was benign, enticing. No outward evidence of the evil within existed. Less like South Texas ranches, more reminiscent of Louisville, Kentucky horse farms.
Unlike its dusty neighbors’, Black Star’s lawns and pastures were well watered. Quarter horses grazed peacefully on lush grass divided by a bright white running board fence. Maybe 200 horses were visible from the last satellite photos she’d downloaded, but there were probably more. Horses were trained, bred, and raced here.