by Diane Capri
“That’s not helpful,” Flint said, sipping the steaming brew.
Kim tried to drink hers, but it was way too hot. The guy must have an asbestos tongue. “The good news is that the video was state of the art. It captured a pretty good image. I sent a copy of the video to Gaspar. We may get a hit on facial recognition.”
Flint nodded. “And if not, maybe the crime scene techs will find she left prints or DNA or something in the vehicle.”
“Either way, with a little luck, we’ll know who she is soon,” Kim replied, pulling a cell phone out of her pocket and passing the photo across the table. Flint studied the picture, committing the woman’s face to memory.
“Nothing remarkable. Latina. Mid-thirties. Maybe younger. I don’t recognize her,” Flint said, handing the phone back. “You think she killed the woman at the balloon landing site? That was pretty straight shooting. Particularly under those conditions. Poor lighting, windy, fairly good distance. She’d have to be a solid marksman to hit the target like that.”
Kim had been thinking along the same lines. Seemed like Flint had his head in the game, which she appreciated.
Instead of saying so, she shrugged. “At the moment, all we know is that she was out there. It’s possible she had an accomplice. Maybe there were more people in the car, too. I didn’t see anyone else on the video, but the angle wasn’t that great. Hard to know, really.”
Flint nodded but made no reply.
Kim said, “If we’re lucky, she left the rifle in the Toyota when she dumped the car. Then we might know for sure, depending on the forensics.”
“Let’s say she did. Use the rifle and shoot the woman. Let’s say she’s that good,” Flint mused. “Why did she do that? Any guesses?”
Kim shook her head. “We don’t have enough intel to answer that question, either. Not yet, anyway. All we know so far is the dead woman’s name and address.”
“We could get more intel from those preppers at the commune,” Flint said.
“She wasn’t one of the Glen Haven community members. She was one of the renters,” Kim replied slowly. “Intel says the renters are tied to the Vigo cartel. We think Pinto Vigo may be involved. The local FBI office thinks so, too.”
Kim glanced at her watch. The locals would probably still be processing the crime scene and interviewing the witnesses at the landing site. They might not have focused on the commune yet.
Regardless, the commune and the murder and Pinto Vigo’s cartel were not her mission. She’d come here to find John Lawton. And because Finlay believed Reacher was in the mix, somehow. She could leave the rest to Ross and his team in good conscience. They were capable and were well focused on the matter now.
She cocked her head and studied Flint. Gaspar said the man had skills and talent. He also said Flint was solidly reliable.
He might be the right man for hunting Reacher. In some ways, he was probably better qualified than she was. Only two problems with that so far. He wasn’t FBI, which meant the Boss had zero control over him. And the second thing? Flint wasn’t a guy who’d work for government wages. Not anymore, anyway.
She held the coffee cup between her palms. While she had him here, she might as well read him in and see just how good he was.
“Gaspar tells me your specialty is finding people who can’t be found. That true?” she asked.
He nodded. “Pretty much. I charge exorbitant fees, too. Gaspar tell you that?”
“He might have mentioned it.” She grinned. “Sounds like good work if you can get it.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve got a waiting list,” he replied, finishing off his coffee. “I’m a one man shop. I’m not looking to take on partners. But I like Gaspar. And he likes you. And I was already in the neighborhood. So here we are.”
“Right.”
“Who are we looking for? And does the missing person have anything at all to do with this commune and the balloon ride and the shooter and the dead woman and all the rest of it?” Flint asked, both eyebrows arched for punctuation.
Kim settled deeper into her seat. The fire was mesmerizing. Under different circumstances, she could easily fall asleep, right here.
She said, “The missing person is John Lawton. A Treasury agent. He went for a lunch meeting with a member of the commune and hasn’t been seen again. Looks like he was kidnapped.”
Flint nodded. “Ransom demand come in?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Complete radio silence since he was abducted.”
“How about the lunch partner?”
“Also missing,” Kim said. “Thing is, it seems like this commune is at the center of all that’s happened. But I’m not sure whether any of the rest has anything at all to do with Lawton’s being missing. We don’t have enough evidence that the two things are connected. Not enough for the local FBI office to get a warrant to search the premises out there.”
“But now that this murder happened and the dead woman was living on the commune’s premises, the FBI can get a warrant for that. A thorough search might turn up something that would help you find Lawton,” Flint nodded. “So we do what? Wait for the locals to serve the warrant and go along with them? How long is that likely to take?”
She shrugged again. “I can make a call. But it’s not likely to happen tonight. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Once they get out there, it’ll be a circus, you know. They’ll have teams of people milling around going over the place with a magnifying glass. Lawton so much as sneezed in that place and they’ll find out,” Flint said.
“Yeah. And Vigo will know that, too,” she gave him a steady gaze. It didn’t take him long to get the point.
“So you’re worried Vigo will get wind that they’re coming and he’ll kill Lawton before they get there. If he hasn’t killed him already.”
She nodded. “Maybe more than just Lawton. There are twenty-seven members of the commune out there. Vigo would consider them all expendable.”
“Which means we should go out there tonight and see what we can do ahead of the raid tomorrow,” Flint said. “Find Lawton and rescue him, if he’s out there. Deal with Pinto Vigo’s defenses so the locals don’t get slaughtered when they arrive.”
She nodded again. She’d reached the same conclusion hours ago. She’d planned to go out to the commune and snoop around after dark. Once she’d found Lawton and figured out what the hell was going on, she’d call in Finlay and let him handle the rest.
Then the gymnast had been killed at the landing site and Kim’s half-formed plan got derailed. Vigo would hear about the gymnast. He’d change his actions because he’d know the feds were coming. If he could get out before the feds arrived, he’d have no reason to keep Lawton as a hostage now. Lawton might already be dead.
Kim drew a deep breath. Time to get back on track.
Gaspar’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished it out and answered the call.
“We got a hit on your Toyota driver. Facial recognition did it. Confirmed with fingerprints off the steering wheel. They picked up some DNA but the results aren’t back yet. Likely that will be a match, too,” he said.
“Okay. Who is she?” Kim asked.
“You’ve seen her before. In fact, she almost got you killed once today already,” Gaspar said.
“You mean she was the woman who ran out the back of the Last Chance Saloon this morning?”
“Bingo. Give that girl a cigar,” Gaspar said sourly.
“Who is she?” Kim asked again, like a parrot with a limited vocabulary.
“You aren’t going to like it.”
“So what else is new,” she replied. “At this point, I can probably guess anyway.”
“Not likely. But your buddy Agent Ross might have,” Gaspar said. “She’s Maria Vigo. Pinto Vigo’s younger sister. And by all accounts, she’s as cold-blooded as he is.”
Kim inhaled sharply. Her stomach thrashed, churning the coffee in her belly. “Where is she now?”
“In the wind at the mom
ent. Now that we know to look for her, someone will find her. Eventually,” Gaspar replied. “One more thing. They found the rifle she used to shoot Elena Ochoa in the trunk of the Toyota. Ballistics will need to confirm, but they’re pretty sure it’s the murder weapon and Maria is the one who fired it.”
“Why? Why did she kill someone so close to her brother? He’ll be furious. Not to mention Hector Ochoa. Is she looking to start an all-out war among members of the cartel?” Kim asked.
“Not exactly. The story gets worse,” Gaspar said.
“What do you mean?”
“We have been piecing her actions together. Using the Toyota’s GPS, we nailed down the routes she traveled from the landing site and checked the cell phone calls along the route. Earlier today, before she killed Elena Ochoa, she talked on the phone to her brother.” Gaspar paused for a deep breath before he finished. “Seems like you were the real target of her anger.”
“What?”
“She was there to kill you. Elena wasn’t her intended target. We’re not sure whether she knows that she killed the wrong woman, even now.” Gaspar cleared his throat. “She’ll find out, though. And when she does, she’ll try again to do the job she meant to do.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Kim said, acid souring her stomach. “Do we know where she is now?”
“Not exactly. But we’ll find her. Just stay out of sight until we do. I’ll call you back.” Gaspar ended the call abruptly.
Kim relayed the conversation to Flint.
He said, “So now what? Go out there to rescue Lawton or not?”
“Yeah. We can fly recon out there in your helo. Check the place out. But we can’t land the helo close by. Way too noisy,” she replied, pulling a different phone from her pocket to call Finlay. “We’ll pick up a vehicle and drive out to Glen Haven and have a closer look around.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Flint nodded. “We’ll need some gear, too.”
“Right,” she said as she made the call.
Finlay picked up and they discussed the logistics. He found a helipad where they could land and promised to deliver an SUV with four-wheel drive to the location before they arrived to collect it. He’d include all the necessary equipment in the SUV.
When she hung up, Flint said, “So we find Lawton. Spring him if we can. And do it before the feds get there. Get in, get out, nobody gets hurt.”
“That’s about the size of it,” she replied, still thinking things through. “Except that’s not where we start. We’re looking for O’Hare. He disappeared with Lawton and he’s likely to know where to find him.”
“We don’t think O’Hare is connected to Vigo?”
She shook her head. “No reason to reach that conclusion. Yet. And O’Hare should be home in bed at this hour. His room at Glen Haven has an outside entrance. Should be easy to surprise him.”
“When are the locals planning to serve their warrants?” Flint asked.
“Sometime after dawn is our best guess. They’re not ready and they need the time to prepare. They’ve got a lot of moving parts to put in place. There’s only two of us. We can travel lighter,” she replied.
Flint pushed to a standing position and tossed his empty coffee cup into the trash. “You ready?”
“I’m as ready as I’m going to get,” she replied on her way out the door into the cold and windy darkness. She tried not to think about the hazards of flying a helo under these conditions.
When there’s only one choice…
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Friday, April 15
1:30 a.m.
Chihuahuan Desert, New Mexico
Bouncing around on the floor of the van, Mason slowly regained consciousness with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He’d been here before. And not that long ago. But where was he, exactly?
As the fog cleared from his mind, he realized he was in the van again and it was traveling across rough ground. Piercing pain stabbed his broken arm with every bouncing rut. Achy all over, he was barely able to see out of his swollen eye.
When he managed to force his eyelid open enough to receive a bit of light, he couldn’t see anything anyway because the familiar canvas bag covered his head.
But his limited vision didn’t matter. The van was dark inside and the night was black as pitch outside. He wouldn’t have seen anything even if he’d had perfect vision.
He was groggy. His head was pounding. His whole body hurt. The throbbing in his arm was bearable but certainly not pleasant. Adrenaline kept the worst of the pain at bay.
He remembered his last session with Hector and Vigo. They kept asking him to identify the mole. Over and over again, they demanded answers that he didn’t have. Which they’d refused to believe.
At some point, he’d passed out from the pain and exhaustion and stress of it all. And when he came around, he was lying on the floor of the van and on his way somewhere. He had no idea where the van was headed, but he could guess the destination wouldn’t be any better than the barracks at Glen Haven.
He’d made another mistake. He should have fabricated a believable story. Told Vigo what he’d wanted to hear. Giving Vigo a name for the mole, even a fake one, might have made all the difference.
Or maybe Vigo would have killed him on the spot after he thought he’d gotten what he wanted.
Not that it mattered now. Wherever Mason was being taken tonight, he figured he wouldn’t be coming back.
His body was shaking. Could have been from the cold. The van wasn’t insulated and the night air was colder than normal.
Or maybe the shaking was caused by shock from his injuries, or simply because he was afraid. Very afraid. And confused.
How had all of this happened to him? What about Cheryl and Micah? What about the others at Glen Haven?
The van stopped moving and Mason felt the transmission shift into park with a lurch. The dome light came on. A man gave him a rough shove with his boot before he reached down to yank the canvas bag off Mason’s head.
Hector.
“Come on. You’re awake. Let’s go,” he demanded.
The dome light was blinding in the blackness. Mason squeezed his eyes shut and opened them a few times until they adjusted and he could focus. After a couple of minutes, he could see reasonably well peering from his one good eye.
He looked through the windshield. The high beam headlights were still on, illuminating the desert in front.
Hector slid the van’s door open and the cold wind rushed inside. Which was when Mason realized his hands and feet were not bound.
How had he not noticed that before?
He gave himself a mental shake. He needed to gather his wits. Maybe he could escape if Hector presented any kind of chance.
He crabbed around and struggled to a crouching position. He waved his functioning arm to find a handhold and followed Hector outside. He stood on cramped legs, walking in circles with tentative, short steps to get his circulation going.
Hector reached inside the van and pulled out two shovels. “You can walk. I’m not carrying you.”
Mason’s reaction times were slow. He should have jumped back in the van and sped away. The engine was still running. He might have made it before Hector had a chance to stop him.
As if he could read Mason’s feeble mind, Hector said, “Don’t get any stupid ideas, O’Hare. You want to breathe for a while longer, fine. I’d rather not carry your dead carcass across this damn desert tonight. But I will do it, make no mistake.”
Hector continued to walk away from the van, his body illuminated by the headlight beams. Mason followed without coherent thought.
His mind was on Cheryl, Micah, and the others. What was Vigo planning to do to the only family Mason had ever known?
Whatever Vigo’s plans, Mason was sure they wouldn’t be good news for him. He was equally sure he couldn’t run away faster than Hector could shoot him.
Dragging his feet, he followed Hector in the headlight beams, searching frantically for a m
eans of escape in the empty desert.
Mason noticed that the van’s headlights were shielded by a rocky outcropping about a hundred feet or so off the road.
Hector tossed one of his shovels down near two dirt mounds behind the rocks. With the second shovel, he began to dig in the hard earth. He lifted shovelfuls of dirt and set them aside. He didn’t force Mason to help, probably because of his fractured arm.
Hector worked at a steady pace. Soon, he was standing in a shallow hole as the dirt pile grew. It was the dirt pile that galvanized Mason’s fear.
He stared at the dirt pile, the hole Hector was digging, and back toward the two mounds a few feet away. Several doubletakes later Mason noticed that each mound was about the size of a human body.
Another full minute passed before he realized the mounds were graves.
His entire body began shaking uncontrollably when he understood that Hector had brought him to his own burial site.
He’d reached a decision point that could no longer be avoided.
He accepted the binary choice that faced him.
Escape or die.
The choice was easy.
The execution seemed impossible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Friday, April 15
1:45 a.m.
Chihuahuan Desert, New Mexico
Kim hated helicopter flight, especially at night. Helo flight was always dangerous. Engines, flight controls, rotors, gears, driveshafts, and electronics required a skillful and experienced pilot. Nighttime increased the already high odds of dying in a crash. Reduced visibility meant the helicopter might hit something, which always ended badly for the helo and passengers.
Flint was an experienced and careful pilot. He surely didn’t plan to die tonight, which increased Kim’s comfort level only slightly. Best laid plans, and all that.
Knowing all of this, she had secured her four-point harness, popped a couple of antacids in her mouth, and climbed aboard. Only one choice.