Get Back Jack (The Hunt for Jack Reacher 4)

by Diane Capri

  Black Star’s layout was similar to the compound in Valle Alto. Maybe Las Olas liked familiarity, which was fine with Kim. She liked familiarity, too. More predictable.

  While not as bright as the stadium lighting in Valle Alto, the ranch was well lit from without and within. Each of the buildings was bathed in floodlights similar to those lighting buildings in Washington D.C. or Paris. Runway lights lined the drives and entrances.

  Through the binoculars, Kim saw a spacious, ranch-style home sprawled at the end of the private drive maybe a hundred yards from the road where Kim sat inside the SUV with the blackened window lowered. The driveway widened to provide parking spaces large enough for horse trailers. But no vehicles rested there now. Barns and other outbuildings were scattered behind the house. Kim counted eight buildings in all, but her view was partially obscured.

  She found the building Dean had identified as the extra bunkhouse where the hostages were being held. It looked similar in size and construction to the bunkhouse they’d found on the Ville Alto compound, but it was obviously newer. The FBI reports she’d read said Las Olas used it for human trafficking and as a holding cell for kidnapping victims for whom they expected to collect ransom.

  The interior photos the Boss sent were a couple of months old, and consistent in every respect with Dean’s descriptions. The interior of the bunkhouse was equipped with the usual conveniences. A small kitchen and eating area on the front, two bathrooms with toilets and showers and sinks across the north side. The remainder of the interior space was divided into two large dormitory rooms and one smaller private sleeping quarters with its own toilet and sink and shower.

  Kim could see four small, high windows on the front of the bunkhouse reflecting the yellow glow of incandescent bulbs. Someone inside was already awake. A sedan and a black pickup truck were parked perpendicular to the building, blocking the doorway from her line of sight. Nor could she see the back of the building from this vantage point, but the photographs had shown the same window layout on the back. Windows too high and too small to enter or escape through. Unless you were a tiny Asian woman with a tall dude to boost you up.

  She found the third barn. It wasn’t far from the extra bunkhouse. Through the binocs, she saw two trucks and a tractor with a trailer parked at the side.

  She counted seven ranch hands moving around outside, even at this early hour. There were lights on in the main house, too. This was a working ranch and there were horses to feed, chores to do. Maybe horses and other things were being shipped and received, too. People were on the job.

  “Are we clear on what we’re doing here?” Kim asked. “Morrie and I will take the bunkhouse. Gaspar and Neagley, you get the barn. Open communication between us.”

  Morrie said, “We’re going into the bunkhouse to confirm the hostages are still here. Assuming they are, I call and bring in the ambulances to take them to the hospital.”

  “Exactly,” Kim said. “Neagley?”

  “We’ll get the diversions going. Worry about your end, Otto.”

  Why did she have to be such a constant prickly female?

  “Don’t ignite the explosions until we confirm the hostages are actually still in there,” Kim pressed. “If they’ve been moved again, we’ll need to find them before we launch the plan. And we can’t get too far ahead of our timeline.”

  “As I said,” Neagley said, “you worry about your end.”

  Gaspar said, “You left out the part where Black Star is guarded around the clock by Las Olas, inside and out. Those guys would love to have a nice big guy like you for a cookout, Morrie.”

  Morrie frowned. “They do that in Mexico. Not here.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Neagley warned. “There’s almost nothing they can’t do here, Morrie.”

  Kim said, “We’ve also got Berenson to deal with.”

  “I’ll be back to take care of her,” Neagley said.

  “No.” Kim was a Federal agent. She wouldn’t authorize Neagley’s brand of justice. “She’s in our wheelhouse. Morrie and I will deal with her.”

  Neagley said, “Suit yourself. I’ll be there anyway. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  They tested their earpieces and opened the conference channel on their burner phones. The entire operation had the feel of déjà vu. They’d tried this same operation without the diversion or the ambulances last night at Valle Alto and failed to get the hostages out. They had to finish before Berenson killed another hostage, if she hadn’t already.

  The one thing Dean couldn’t confirm was whether Berenson had followed their plan to keep all of the hostages alive until 6:00 a.m. Kim and the others had no choice but to assume Berenson was on plan.

  “You think this is going to work?” Morrie asked.

  “Only one choice, Morrie. It’s got to work,” Kim replied, with more conviction than the situation warranted. But there was nothing else she could do.

  They waited until a truckload of workers pulled into the long driveway and Gaspar pulled the SUV in behind them, following them past the house and toward the barns.

  “You really think it’s going to be this easy?” Morrie asked. “Driving right in?”

  Gaspar shrugged. “We can hope. It’s awful early.”

  “That’s our plan?” Morrie said. “Hope?”

  “And a prayer,” Kim added. “If you’re so inclined.”

  “Can we cut the chatter?” Neagley said.

  As they drove past the third barn, Gaspar turned off at the bunkhouse, pulled the SUV around back and cut the engine. They all sat still, listening to the ticking of the engine and watching out the windows for Las Olas security forces to sweep down on them.

  Morrie said, “This prayer thing’s pretty impressive.”

  Gaspar pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them on the floor by the brake pedal. “Anybody needs to drive besides me,” he said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  All four left the SUV and gathered behind it for last minute equipment checks. When they were done, Neagley held her fist out, shoulder height. “Fist bump. It’s what the special investigators always did before and after a mission.”

  “Who knew you were so superstitious,” Kim said. But they all bumped fists, just in case.

  Neagley and Gaspar crouched low behind the building and moved ahead in the shadows while Morrie and Kim waited below the high windows of the extra bunkhouse.

  Across the back of the bunkhouse were four windows. They were sixty-five inches off the ground. Kim guessed each one measured twenty-four by thirty inches. She’d studied their wood frame construction and metal lever operations on the manufacturer’s website earlier tonight.

  Each window was hinged on the top and opened at the bottom. An interior handle swung from right to left, pushing two metal arms on a track that opened the base of the windows outward about ten inches. The handle and arm mechanisms operated in reverse to close. Pop a metal pin from the arms and open the window wider for cleaning or to replace them, the online directions said.

  No light emanated now from the four back windows, which might be okay. The hostages were sleeping and if there were no lights in the wards, then maybe that meant no one was guarding them. Or, if someone was watching, the guard could be asleep. Either way, Kim took it as a good sign that the wardrooms were dark.

  She’d need to create muffled noise to pry the bottom of the window open slightly, pop two pins, remove the metal arms, and lift the window wide enough to slip inside.

  The old interior photos and Dean’s recent drawing showed an interior door between the two wardrooms and the front living spaces. At least one person, and maybe more, was awake and moving around in the front of the building. She’d need to be armed and ready, should someone hear her drop to the floor inside.

  Kim checked her watch. Neagley and Gaspar should have reached the third barn by now. They should be setting up the propane triggers at the gas pumps and the 500-gallon propane tank. They’d be ready in three minutes.

&
nbsp; Kim figured she’d need two for herself and one for Morrie.

  “Going in,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” Gaspar whispered back in her earpiece.

  Kim slipped on her night vision. Morrie made a bridge with his paws and Kim put her petite foot in it. He lifted her as if she were lighter than a teddy bear.

  She looked inside the window first. Even with the night vision, she couldn’t see much. A thin line of light showed under the interior door coming from the kitchen, but it provided little illumination. She pushed her night vision down to hang around her neck and grabbed the micro flashlight out of her pocket and shined it into the dark cavern.

  She lifted one foot out of the palm of Morrie’s hand in the brief signal they’d agreed to in advance. He lowered her until she could jump onto the soft earth, landing quietly. She whispered loud enough to be picked up by her headset.

  “Looks like there’s no wall between the two wards now. There are ten beds. Hard to tell how many are occupied, but a few are. I saw the IV poles and probably people lying under light blankets. I’m going to go in there. Hang on.”

  “Ten-four,” Gaspar said.

  “Smartass,” she replied.

  She pulled out the screwdriver she’d brought along for this purpose.

  Morrie made his palm-bridge again. She stepped into the lift.

  At the top of the lift, she used the screwdriver to pry the bottom of the window open wider. Reached into the opening with her tiny hand. Forced the opening wider until she could reach her arm inside, grab the lever, and throw the window open wide enough to pop out the pins that held the metal arms in place.

  Morrie shifted her weight to his right hand and reached up with his left to hold the window open with his palm while Kim wiggled inside. Briefly, she bent double over the window casing at her waist. She put her toes against the outside cement block wall and slithered the rest of the way into the room and dropped quietly to the floor.

  “I’m in,” she whispered into her earpiece.

  “Ten-four,” Gaspar replied.

  Okay. Now that was just annoying.

  Inside, the room was darker than she’d expected, even with the thin light ribbon under the door. She slipped her night vision up from her neck and over her eyes and looked around.

  The room was the one from the videos. Dark, rectangular, barren. Cots rested perpendicular to each wall, lengthwise along both sides, like an old Army barracks. A narrow walkway lay open between the ends the beds. She counted twenty-four beds, twelve on each side.

  Seven were occupied.

  “Seven present,” she whispered.

  “Ten-four,” Gaspar said.

  She approached the first bed and looked down at its occupant. She saw a woman she barely recognized as Karla Dixon. Quickly, she made a positive ID on the other six.

  Then she whispered into her headset, “Visual ID. Seven accounted for.”

  She looked at the time on her Seiko. She’d shaved her time estimate by thirty seconds. “Good to go when you are.”

  She had ninety seconds to wait.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday, November 16

  4:43 a.m.

  Black Star Ranch, TX

  Kim approached each bed and placed two fingers on the carotid arteries of each hostage. Although Charlie Franz’s pulse was faint and thready, she felt it. Maybe. The Sanchez children had been anesthetized much longer. So had their mother. But they were all alive.

  Angela was so fragile. She looked like an angel, for sure. Kim tried several times to feel her carotid pulse, but couldn’t. Long-term anesthesia was tricky to manage, even in a hospital setting. Which this definitely was not. Was Angela breathing? It was hard to be sure. All Kim could do at this point was to get help as soon as possible.

  Finally, she returned to Dixon. Not as petite as Kim, but smaller than Neagley. Sturdy looking. She was breathing. That was the best Kim could confirm for now, but she’d probably make it.

  “Seven. Alive but weak,” she whispered into her headset.

  She checked her watch. Another minute more.

  She pulled her night vision off and let it hang around her neck, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The light sliver guided her to the door. She remembered the layout from the videos. On the other side should be the common room where ranch hands could read or watch TV and take meals.

  Kim reached for the doorknob and found it missing. Instead, she felt a lever resting in a hook on the jamb. The lever could be lifted easily from the other side with a case knife or a credit card. Probably a practical solution for a bunkhouse. Privacy wasn’t required here.

  She lifted the lever slowly to avoid a noise that might alert the occupants on the other side.

  When she cracked open the door slightly, a long, vertical slice of light entered the ward, almost blinding her. She felt her wide-open pupils contract to pinpoints. She blinked several times and her pupils began to resize.

  Line of vision from this vantage point included the kitchen area. Berenson and a man were seated at the table, eating, speaking in low tones. Maybe they worried that the comatose hostages could hear them. Maybe it was just the early hour. Either way, Kim strained her ears to hear.

  “The girls are weaker than the boys,” Berenson said, speaking Spanish.

  “All four of the children are weak,” he replied in the same language. “We have to wake them up for a few days.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “They need solid food.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Their lungs are filling with fluid.”

  “I don’t care,” Berenson said, showing a mouth full of eggs and sausage and white gravy over biscuits.

  “You brought me here because I’m a doctor. Listen to me.” His tone was stern.

  “We don’t have the resources to manage them if we wake them up. You know that.”

  “You’re wasting my time. If you want hostages instead of corpses, wake them up,” he demanded.

  Berenson glared at him. “Corpses work just as well for my purposes.”

  Kim glanced at her Seiko. Twenty-five seconds.

  The man pushed back his chair, stood, and threw his napkin into his plate of congealing gravy. He walked toward Kim.

  “Where are you going?” Berenson demanded.

  “I’m a doctor. Not a mortician.”

  Kim closed the door and flattened her back against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut to avoid light-blindness again.

  When he pushed the door open, light flooded the room like a movie premier Klieg.

  Berenson’s footsteps clomped along closely behind him. “Pablo! Pablo! Stop right there.”

  Kim opened and closed her eyes slowly.

  Pablo kept coming, intently focused. If he happened to glance back, he’d see her. But it couldn’t be helped. There was nothing to hide behind.

  He approached the first cot where one of the Sanchez boys lay.

  Berenson stopped at the threshold, barely inside the room, focused on Pablo. Kim opened her eyes just in time to see Berenson’s gun arm extended in the same way and holding the same weapon she’d used to kill the child’s grandmother.

  Before Kim could stop her, Berenson fired twice and shot the doctor in the back.

  Morrie’s voice, hard, loud enough in Kim’s ear even after the deafening gunshot, “Otto? Otto? Are you there?”

  The doctor fell forward. Kim dropped silently to the floor and rolled behind one of the footlockers, peeking over the top.

  Berenson walked up to the doctor’s side, nudged his head with her booted foot. His head turned. His gaze looked toward Kim, but if he saw her, he indicated nothing. He wasn’t dead, but he was close.

  Gaspar’s voice, urgent, “What happened? Morrie?”

  “Two gunshots inside,” Morrie said.

  “Come on, Sunshine. Let us know you’re still breathing,” Gaspar coaxed. She could barely hear his voice, which seemed muffled by a loud, ringi
ng bell.

  Kim readied for incoming. Surely, ranch hands would investigate.

  Holding the weapon at her side, as if she might have to shoot him again, Berenson watched the doctor until the life left his eyes.

  Kim rolled under the nearby cot. Now, she could see only along the floor. Berenson’s boots and the doctor’s lifeless body.

  Berenson left him lying on the floor inside the arc of the door’s closing path, and returned to her breakfast. Kim scooted from under the cot, watching Berenson’s every move as she laid the gun on the table within easy reach near her plate. Berenson seemed unconcerned. She didn’t glance toward the open doorway again.

  No one else rushed in. Dean said this hostage project was a separate deal for them. Maybe use of the extra bunkhouse came with a privacy clause or something. She’d planned to kill another hostage in less than an hour. Maybe Berenson had ordered them to stay away if they heard gunshots. Whatever kept reinforcements outside for now, Kim needed that system to continue for another sixteen seconds.

  “Ten-four,” she whispered, hoping she’d spoken loud enough for the team to hear over the rudimentary communicators they’d devised. She returned to stand at the wall by the doorway where she could watch activities in the larger room.

  Berenson stretched, and seemed to consider what to do next. She picked up her dishes and walked them over to the sink. She pulled the plug on the old-fashioned percolator and refilled her coffee cup. Then she turned, leaned against the sink drinking the coffee and looking toward the open doorway where the doctor’s boots were soles up.

  Kim heard a toilet flush, followed by footsteps advancing from the bathroom near the kitchen.

  Morrie said, “Ten seconds.”

  “Good to go,” Gaspar replied.

  A young man approached Berenson. Maybe seventeen years old. Attractive in the way young men are when they’ve yet to reach their potential but the fullness of their maturity beckons from the horizon. Sandy hair similar to hers, maybe a little darker. Her build, her eyes. Dean said they had kids. Could this be their son?