Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  “What happened? What happened?”

  The agent ignored her, the radio to his mouth.

  “Status?”

  The radio crackled again.

  “The driver’s door is opening. And … a gun was just tossed out. Hands are up in the air, and … target is stepping out of the SUV. I repeat: target is stepping out of the SUV.”

  Imna was on her tiptoes again, straining to see, but a dozen agents were rushing out onto the airfield, their guns raised, and she couldn’t see a thing.

  The voice from the radio said, “Target is on her knees with her hands on her head. Officers approaching the SUV now.”

  Several seconds ticked by in silence from the radio, and Imna realized she was holding her breath. She knew if the news came that Cortez was dead, she would need to show tears, and she had been practicing the past week, forcing herself to think about her abuela, whom she had loved dearly, who had raised her most of her life and was shot dead in the street like she was nothing more than a crippled animal.

  The radio crackled.

  “They’ve secured the target. I repeat: they’ve secured the target. Now they’re checking the SUV, and …”

  Silence.

  The agent said into his radio, “Status.”

  Another beat of silence, and then the radio crackled again.

  “The hostage is dead.”

  Fifty

  She turned away at once, squeezed her eyes tight, and thought about her abuela. The tiny mole on her neck. The way she always smelled of flour and spices after she made dinner. The kiss she put on Imna’s head every day before she left for school. And then, of course, the day Imna witnessed her gunned down in the street by those narcos.

  Tears began to stream down her face, and she started shaking her head, muttering no no no under her breath.

  Special Agent in Charge Bryan Rhodes was saying something into the radio, but his words were lost behind the sound of the helicopters. One of the security detail hurried over to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, tried to steer her back to the SUV, but she shook him off.

  Wiping at her eyes, she turned to the agent.

  “I want to see him. I want to see his body.”

  The agent hesitated, thinking about it. He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rodriguez, but not right now. We need to secure the scene.”

  “The president of my country was murdered.”

  Putting all she had into the word, almost screaming it, but not wanting to overdo it at the same time.

  The agent nodded solemnly.

  “I understand that, Ms. Rodriguez, I do. But we have to go through protocol here. First, we secure the scene, and then—”

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked who was calling him.

  “I need to take this.”

  He turned away as he answered the phone, and Imna wiped at her eyes again. The security detail needed to see her reaction to this moment. Needed to remember it, so that they could later relay just how she had done everything in her power to respect President Cortez’s memory and represent their beloved country.

  The agent closed his phone and turned back to her.

  “Sorry about that. Now, about what you were asking—”

  She cut him off.

  “What will happen to that woman?”

  “Ms. Rodriguez—”

  “She murdered him.”

  More tears fell down her face, but she purposefully didn’t wipe them away. She wanted the man to see the tears.

  The agent said, “The woman has already been taken into custody.”

  “Where will she go?”

  “Right now she’s not going anywhere. Apparently, she was involved in an incident out in Texas two days ago. Two U.S. Marshals were killed, so their office wants a piece of this, too. Trust me, this woman will get what’s coming to her.”

  “She will be jailed, you mean.”

  “That’s for the courts to determine.”

  “For murdering our president.”

  “Ms. Rodriguez, I know that—”

  She cut him off again, speaking now between clenched teeth.

  “I want to see her.”

  The agent frowned.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want to see this woman. I want to face the person who murdered our president. It is the least our country is owed.”

  The man said nothing at first, just stared at her. Imna kept the tears going. She doubted they would allow her to see the woman, but she needed to ask. It was what would be expected from her. She needed to be strong and brave for Mexico, and she needed to be the one to confront the person who killed their much-loved president.

  Finally, the agent said, “Wait here. I need to make some calls.”

  She watched him step away, putting his phone to his ear, and she turned back to the security detail. She told them what happened, though she knew they had already figured it out. The few who were with President Cortez when he was taken from the hotel looked to be filled with shame. Good. They would forever carry the knowledge that they were responsible for what took place today.

  The agent returned. He took her aside, and lowered his voice.

  “I’ve been given the green light. You can meet with her, but only for a couple of minutes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “They’re holding her away in the security office here at the airport for the time being. If you’d like, I can drive you over there.”

  She nodded, wiping a few stray tears from her eyes for show, and followed the agent to his car.

  Fifty-One

  The room is tiny—barely twenty square feet—with the walls bare and fluorescent lights buzzing in the ceiling. No windows. No two-way mirror. Not even a camera in the corner to monitor what’s going on. Just a chair and me sitting on it, my hands behind my back, wrists bound by zip-ties.

  When the door opens, an older man with gray hair looks in at me. He doesn’t enter. He glances at somebody standing off to the side, nods once, and that’s when she steps into view.

  Imna Rodriguez.

  She stares in at me for several seconds before stepping forward. The door closes behind her, and then it’s only the two of us.

  The woman scans the room, searching for a camera or wire or something that might record our conversation, and when she’s satisfied there’s nothing, she takes two more steps and leans forward so she’s only a couple inches away.

  She whispers, “Your family is dead.”

  I say nothing. She frowns.

  “Do you think I am lying? Your entire family has been murdered.”

  Still I say nothing. Her eyes harden.

  “The cartels sent a sicario to kill them. For what you did to Fernando Sanchez Morales. They demanded revenge.”

  I keep staring back at her. Silent.

  Imna Rodriguez leans away, shakes her head.

  “You created quite a mess. What happened to the men you were with?”

  I ignore the question and ask one of my own.

  “How much is the cartel paying you?”

  Her eyes harden again.

  “You do not know what you are talking about.”

  “The cartel has wanted Cortez eliminated for quite some time. That’s why they went after his son and his family. Did you know I was the one who killed Alejandro?”

  “Of course. That was why you were chosen.”

  I echo it: “Chosen.”

  “That is correct. It made the most sense for you to be the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “I was supposed to die back at the hotel, wasn’t I?”

  The woman nods.

  “That is correct. You were not supposed to live so you could tell your story.”

  “But I am still alive.”

  She nods again, and her face darkens.

  “That is why I am here.”

  She holds up her wrist, and the glass face of her watch glints in the fluorescents. She takes off the watch and opens th
e back, and she uses her fingernail to dig out a tiny white pill.

  I say, “That’s not aspirin, is it? Because I have the mother of all headaches right now.”

  She holds the pill up for me to see.

  “It is not an aspirin, but it will take your headache away.”

  I look past the pill, stare into her face.

  “What is that supposed to do—kill me?”

  She nods.

  I say, “Now why the fuck would I want to kill myself?”

  “Again, you were not supposed to live so you could tell your story. That is why I am here now. To ensure your story ends.”

  I frown, tilt my head at her.

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  She says, “Your family is dead. You have no one to protect anymore.”

  I grin back at her.

  “How does it taste, all the bullshit coming out of your mouth?”

  She doesn’t look amused.

  “Take the pill.”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, no thanks.”

  Her jaw tightens.

  “I will not ask you again.”

  I close my eyes, issue a heavy breath.

  “How about we work out a deal?”

  “What deal?”

  “You answer a question, and I’ll take your stupid pill.”

  She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me, so I take her silence as consent.

  “Who is the cartel’s choice for president?”

  The question catches her off guard.

  “It does not matter. You do not know the man.”

  I nod, like, Duh, of course.

  “Yeah, you’re right. But maybe he does.”

  That’s when the door opens again, and President Cortez steps into the room. His dark eyes burn into Imna. He doesn’t speak.

  Imna moves at once—she is about the swallow the tiny white pill, but I spring up from the chair before the pill gets close to her mouth, the loose zip-ties around my wrists falling away, and I pluck the pill from her fingers and toss it in the corner of the room as I grab her arm with my other hand and shove her down into the chair.

  Two FBI agents enter, and they quickly secure Imna Rodriguez. Not just her wrists, but her ankles as well, before they step back out into the hallway.

  She glares up at President Cortez.

  “You are a disgrace to our country.”

  I step between the two of them.

  “Well, ain’t you a peach?”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, staring through me.

  I smile down at her.

  “Did you really think the FBI was going to let you see the person who just supposedly assassinated your president, let alone talk to her privately?”

  She says nothing.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t kill President Cortez. And my family? I know they’re alive because people I trust helped to keep them alive. The sicario you mentioned? He’s dead. And you, well, I imagine you’ll be returning to your country to spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  I glance back at President Cortez.

  “Is that a safe assumption?”

  He doesn’t answer, staring through me at his aide.

  I turn back to Imna.

  “Now, I do have one more question for you, and I’d very much appreciate if you answered it. Where is Oliver Hayward’s operation located?”

  Her gaze refocuses back on me.

  “I will tell you nothing.”

  I nod, slowly, holding her gaze.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Imna. I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m exhausted. This is the last place I want to be right now. So we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. My choice? We do it the easy way. Much less stressful, and nobody gets hurt.”

  She keeps glaring back at me, so I continue.

  “President Cortez is certainly disappointed in you, but he knows you’ve had a hard life. I asked him about it while we were sitting out on the airfield. He told me about how your husband has cancer, and about your two children. About how the medical bills have been piling up. If the cartel is pressuring you in any way—such as threatening your kids—we can fix that. You’re still going to have to answer for what you did, but we can make sure your husband and children are safe. If need be, we’ll even get them out of the country. You may never see them again, but at least you’ll know they’re safe.

  I pause a beat, letting that sink in.

  “The hard way, on the other hand, is a bit different.”

  Imna Rodriguez says nothing.

  I turn to President Cortez.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. President, I’d like a couple minutes alone with your aide.”

  President Cortez stares down at Imna. The anger has faded from his eyes, replaced with disappointment. This is a woman he has known for several years, who he believed was a close confidant, somebody he could trust. I feel for the guy, because I’ve been betrayed by people close to me as well. One of them was my father.

  “Mr. President.”

  He blinks, looks at me, nods quickly, and leaves the room.

  Both of the FBI agents are still stationed out in the hallway. I step to the door and give them my brightest smile.

  “You guys are probably wondering what’s going on, right?”

  Neither of them answers.

  “There’s no reason you should trust me other than the fact your superior probably received a call from his superior who probably received a call from his superior telling him to give me a lot of latitude with this prisoner. And so I guess what this all leads to is a simple request. Can one of you retrieve me a paperclip? Preferably a large one.”

  The guys aren’t stupid—they know exactly the reason I’m asking for a paperclip—and it’s clear from their faces they don’t like the idea. The truth is, I don’t like the idea either. But I stand there, staring back at them as I wait, and finally one of the agents walks away and soon returns with a shiny paperclip.

  “Thanks, boys. Now hold tight. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  I step back into the room to find Imna Rodriguez still glaring at me. I hold up the paperclip.

  “Last chance.”

  She keeps glaring.

  With a sigh, I close the door.

  Part Three

  The Lost Boy

  Fifty-Two

  Oliver Hayward cracked open another beer—his fifth or sixth or maybe it was his seventh, he’d lost track a couple of beers ago—and stared out at the darkness.

  It was just past midnight. Hayward was typically in bed by now, but he couldn’t sleep. How could he, after the major fuck-up that was today? Any sensible person would have packed his things and disappeared, but he couldn’t do that, not with his whole operation and the kids and the women. He provided a valuable service to the cartels, and believed that despite today’s failing, they still had a use for him.

  “Do you know why I named this place Neverland?”

  Hayward didn’t wait for a reply, taking a long swallow from his bottle as he stared out into the darkness. He sat on a chair on the back porch overlooking the field; one of the guards could be seen, rifle slung over his shoulder, walking the perimeter.

  “Growing up, my parents were not around much. My father was an important businessman, and when I say he worked all the time, I mean he worked all the time. I barely saw him. I saw my mother more often, but even then we didn’t interact much. I don’t think she ever wanted kids. She was too focused on her charity work to spend too much time with me. And so what was a boy my age supposed to do?”

  Again, Hayward didn’t wait for a reply.

  “I read all types of books, including the entire Hardy Boys series. You ever read any of the Hardy Boys books?”

  For the first time in several minutes, Hayward regarded Jose. The boy stood ramrod straight, his chin tilted up, his eyes closed. One of Hayward’s empty beer bottles was balanced on the top of Jose’s head, Hayward having told Jose that
if the bottle fell and shattered then Jose would get a zap like he’d never gotten before.

  Shaking his head, Hayward muttered, “Of course you never read any Hardy Boys books. You’ve probably never read a book. Do you even know how to read? Well, anyway, one of the books I read again and again was Peter and Wendy. Did you ever hear about Peter Pan?”

  Jose didn’t answer. Hayward fingered the fob in his left hand, considered giving the boy a quick zap just for the hell of it, but it felt good to talk like this, the alcohol having soothed his nerves, and he pushed on.

  “Peter Pan was a boy who refused to grow up, and he had all these magical powers—he could fly, Jose!—and he had this fairy named Tinkerbell, and he was in charge of the Lost Boys. These Lost Boys had been taken away from their families when they were babies and brought to Neverland, and these boys, they were tough. And I … I sometimes thought of myself as a Lost Boy. My parents were extremely wealthy, and I never had to worry about anything, but still I saw myself as an outcast.”

  Hayward shook his head suddenly, as if to clear it, and realized with whom he had been sharing such private matters. He leaned forward and pointed the fob at Jose, his voice dipping into a whisper.

  “I never told anybody about that before—not even my therapists—and if you tell anyone, I am not only going to zap you, I will kill you myself.”

  Jose stood motionless with the empty bottle on his head, his eyes closed.

  Hayward said, “Nod that you understand me.”

  The boy opened his eyes. Glanced at Hayward for a second but then quickly looked away.

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Jose.”

  The boy knew what would happen once he nodded—the bottle would tip off his head, shatter on the ground—and he knew what would happen then. Jose had come to fear being zapped, which was good, Hayward thought. A boy should never be fearless. A fearless boy was a stupid boy. A dangerous boy.

  When Jose didn’t nod—when it became clear that he would refuse—Hayward pressed down on the fob.

  The boy immediately jerked, and the empty bottle fell off his head.