Get Back Jack (26 page)

The short ends of the room were divided by small rooms large enough to house toilets and showers, but not big enough to hold more cots. Along the front wall on the east side of the door were two picnic tables with benches to sit on. On the opposite side of the door was an open kitchen, of sorts. A white porcelain sink, low, round, white refrigerator, and a two-burner propane stove with a child-sized oven. Nothing more.

The entire room was almost soundproof, but when the boxing crowd vocalized pleasure or its opposite, high-decibel wildness penetrated like it was muffled in gallons of viscous syrup.

Kim had studied the proof-of-life videos. From memory, she confirmed the surroundings inside the bunkhouse were similar to what she’d seen. She simply wasn’t certain whether the videos were recorded here. Perhaps the hostages had been held here, and perhaps not.

She waved the others outside. They’d made their own assessment of the building’s contents. They followed without protest.

When they reconnected behind the bunkhouse, Gaspar said, “Try the main house next?”

Morrie said, “Too risky. The main house is guarded like Fort Knox. Those heat signatures we saw less than an hour ago were probably involved with what’s going on in the boxing ring. Las Olas wouldn’t risk holding hostages this close to all those spectators.”

Neagley replied, “It’s possible the hostages were moved to the main house since we checked the satellite. More than possible—it’s the only place that makes sense. We’ve come this far. One way or the other, we need to know if they’re here. Let’s be quick about it. I’m not a big boxing fan, but these matches can’t go on indefinitely.”

Every alarm in Kim’s stomach was doing backflips. “We need to be on the road before this group breaks up.” She checked her Seiko. “Twenty minutes more. Then we’ve got to go, whether we’ve found them or not.”

Neagley said nothing. Kim figured she didn’t agree, but Kim would leave Neagley and Morrie behind if she had to. The woman was maddening. And fully capable of taking care of herself.

They retraced their route until they reached the first building’s northeast corner again and then carefully hugged the east wall and moved inside the building’s shadow. At the driveway, they split up and crouched low behind and beside the vehicles, zig-zagging toward the main house.

The cheering, booing crowd seemed to be constantly in a state of agitation now. Perhaps the fight was nearing the last round. Would there be more than one bout? Was this the last of the night? Impossible to know. But Kim’s gut said time was running out. She felt it the way she felt danger at 30,000 feet. Palpably.

Kim figured the house had been a fortress for at least a decade. Armed guards patrolled as if guerilla warriors were likely to attack and be swiftly repelled. With no crowd or battering contestants to distract them, these sentries were more dedicated to the task at hand. Kim saw four in front, two pairs walking toward each other, passing in the middle, turning at the edge of the yard, walking toward and apart again. Repeat.

She saw four more guards on the north side of the building performing the same routine. She guessed there were four on the west side and four on the south side, too. Meaning two pairs of eyes watched in every direction at all times. It would be impossible to pass unnoticed.

Sixteen sentries with assault rifles and probably side arms as well. It would be equally impossible to take out fewer than the entire gang of sixteen without raising an alert of some sort.

How many more were inside protecting whatever needed protecting? Quite a bit of firepower to guard an empty house, Kim thought. A lot of firepower for seven comatose hostages, for that matter.

Gaspar said, “I’ll go ask one of them what’s going on.”

“Why you?” Neagley asked.

“I look more like them than the rest of you. I speak fluent Spanish with the right accent.” He shrugged. “And I know something about boxing. It’s a popular sport in Miami, too.”

Before anyone could argue, he pulled off his watch cap and gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of his coveralls. Handed his night vision to Morrie. And settled the Beretta comfortably in his right hand, held it casually behind his thigh.

Kim touched his arm briefly. “Let’s connect the phones. Leave your connection open. Say ‘knockout’ and we’ll be there.”

Gaspar grinned. “But what if I don’t see any good-looking women?”

Kim let his levity slide. “You need motivation,” she said, and punched him on the bicep. “Think about what I’ll do to you if you screw this up, Chico.”

“I love you, too.” He nodded, stuffed his left hand in his pocket and sauntered jerkily forth as if he’d maybe had a bit too many shots of tequila. He’d traveled about twenty yards toward the front of the house before the first sentry noticed him and headed directly for a confrontation.

Gaspar continued straight ahead, seemingly unconcerned about the man with the AK-47 approaching.

When Gaspar was within hailing distance, the guard said in commanding Spanish, “No one is allowed here,
Senor
. Return to the event, please.”

Gaspar acted as if he didn’t hear or, perhaps, didn’t comprehend. He staggered and stumbled a bit. Righted himself. The guard’s steady forward pace brought them closer.

“
Senor
. Return to the event. You are not allowed here,” he said, as if rearranging the words and speaking slower would increase the chances of compliance. He didn’t raise the gun but didn’t back down, either. Of the east side four, Kim figured he was probably the commanding officer. If cartels had any formal structure at all, which they probably didn’t.

By now, the guard’s partner had reached the northeast corner and acknowledged the two north side sentries at the usual spot, after which all three turned and paced in opposite directions. Meaning the second east side pair were now pacing toward Gaspar, unhurried, unconcerned, thereby confirming that the first guard was the quartet’s leader. Maybe the protocol was that he could handle one drunk spectator and he’d let them know if he needed assistance.

None of the others made any attempt to investigate Gaspar or support their colleague. In an unbalanced fight, the thing to do was to take out the leader. After that, maybe one more will try as a show of support. But the last ones left standing will turn and run. Usually.

When the leader’s partner and the north side team had traveled back about twenty feet, the remaining east-side team was still fifty feet away from Gaspar and the leader. Gaspar saw his chance. Clearly enough to be heard over the open cell connection, he said, “Knockout.”

The leader looked briefly confused by Gaspar’s reply. In that instant, Gaspar slid his Beretta from behind his thigh and slammed its butt across the sentry’s temple. He crumpled to the ground. Gaspar pulled him into the shadows, bound wrists to ankles with heavy cable ties, and collected the AK-47.

Kim had pulled her Glock and now, crouched low, was hurrying toward Gaspar. On her right, she felt rather than saw Neagley and Morrie approaching from behind a parked van and a parked Toyota. She kept her field of vision trained on Gaspar, prepared to shoot the fallen guard if he stirred.

The second team of east-side guards continued marching toward Gaspar as if they hadn’t seen anything. Maybe they hadn’t. They had a clear sight line to the open space where their leader had been, but didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Nor did they slow their rate of advance.

When Kim reached Gaspar, he said, “One down, seven to go. No pun intended.”

She grinned, but said nothing.

He bobbed up again, resumed his drunken saunter and headed closer to the east-side pair of sentries. This time, the two stayed together, suggesting neither was the second in command.

Kim advanced by tucking between parked cars until the pair was ten feet from Gaspar, who was five feet ahead of her.

The first north-side pair had to be close to the turning point now, too, Kim thought, and glanced over in time to see Neagley and Morrie subdue the pair and lie in wait for the second pair.

Kim heard Gaspar say, “Knockout,” again. As before, she dashed toward him. Gaspar took down number three and Kim subdued the startled number four with a sold whack of the sap.

The second east-sider continued marching away. He’d be at the southeast turning point in three seconds. The pair coming toward him would learn he was alone. What would they do next?

Kim left Gaspar to pull guards three and four into the shadows and hobble them while she loped up silently behind number two. She flattened her back against the east side of the main house and waited until he turned at the pivot point. He marched ten steps north, came even with her and she thumped his temple with the heavy sap she’d found in the van’s cache of weapons. She pulled him into the bushes and cabled him. While she worked, she heard the crowd cheering in the center compound.

Half the project was finished. Eight more sentries to handle and they could enter the building. Which took another four minutes. Fifty-three seconds after that, they’d entered the house through the front door with the booing crowd a Greek chorus behind them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Monday, November 15

8:22 p.m.

Villa Alto, Mexico

Once inside the main house, they split up, each following a direction of the compass. Kim hurried counter-clockwise from the entry door. She found the house alight but empty as she scanned each room. She met up with Gaspar at the back. He lifted his shoulders as if to say, “Who knows?”

Thirty seconds later, Neagley and Morrie had searched the second floor with the same result. Kim had located a locked door that might have led to a basement. She gestured for Gaspar to handle the entrance. She pulled back the deadbolt, pushed the door inward, and slipped her night vision down over her eyes before she crept slowly down into what could have been a dungeon. It smelled close, damp, musty. Cold. No windows. No light.

Neagley and Morrie followed.

At the bottom of the stairs, they found a single cavernous room. The eerie green glow provided by her night vision revealed the scenes Kim remembered vividly from the flash drives. Everything was there—except the hostages. No mistake about it. Cots, IV poles, cinderblock walls. Newspapers. The same total silence. Not even the noisy boxing spectators could be heard down here.

Sensory deprivation was a form of torture and this was purposely constructed as a perfect spot to apply those methods. Something like a vortex sucked Kim into the maw. She stood at each footlocker and cast her gaze on each cot.

The first thing she noticed was five beds, not eight. Meaning the Sanchezes had been here but not Dixon or the Franzes. Briefly, she wondered where Dixon, Angela and little Charlie had been held and where the seven remaining were being held now.

The second thing she noticed drew her to cot number five. Dark splotches amid the green glow drying on the walls, the floor, and the bed, but still shiny-wet on her pillow could only be the grisly remains of the grandmother’s murder.

Kim grabbed the burner cell phone from her pocket and closed her eyes and snapped several quick flash photos. She stashed the phone and pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket, turned it inside out, used it like a glove to scoop up as much of the blood and brain and bone tissue as possible. She carefully pulled the evidence bag over her hand and zipped it closed before sliding it into her pocket. When they returned to the FBI, she’d have evidence that the woman died here, at least, whether it mattered to governments or not. She’d have something to provide closure to her daughter and grandchildren.

If Kim got caught with any of this—she wouldn’t think about that right now.

She felt a slight whiff of air behind her. She felt it very firmly. It was exactly the kind of whiff she’d trained herself never to miss. To her antennae it was a complex but complete assault moments before the large paw engulfed her shoulder. The kind of adverse possession she’d trained for, practiced responses to, developed a sixth sense about. The kind that could end her life unless she reacted before it happened.

Without thinking, she raised her gun in front of her to shoot precisely where she knew his center mass would be. One shot was all she’d need. She rested her weight on her right foot and quickly pushed with her left into the pivot, aiming true. She was in the zone where her mind was fast but the physical world was slow. Which was what saved his life.

At the last possible fraction of a second, she recognized Morrie’s giant-sized frame and forced her finger from the trigger. She felt her muscles tense with the effort of not shooting. She couldn’t muster the extra control she’d need to speak aloud.

Morrie pulled his hand back without touching her, tilted his head toward the stairs. Kim looked in that direction. Saw Neagley’s retreating calves almost at the first floor again. Kim controlled her pulse, slowed her breathing, lowered her weapon and headed toward the stairs and the exit. Morrie followed. If he had any suspicion that she’d almost killed him, he didn’t show it.

At the top of the basement stairs, Gaspar remained alone in the kitchen. “The last match is ending. A few early birds have already been walking past on the way out. Someone will be looking for those sentries. We’ve got to go. Now.”

“Where’s Neagley?” Kim asked. Neagley should have been able to hear the question through her earpiece. No response.

“There was an office of some sort on the second floor she wanted to take another look at,” Gaspar said.

No response from Neagley again. Damn the woman. Couldn’t she just be a member of the team for once?

Stealthy was a word that didn’t do justice to Neagley’s particular skills, but the team was functioning on borrowed time. From Neagley, non-response to the open communication channel wasn’t mere thoughtlessness. Kim figured she was likely unconscious or coerced to silence. Or worse.

“Neagley?” She called directly. Nothing. “I’ll get her.” Kim headed toward the staircase as she said, “Morrie, get the van and pull it up to the front door. Gaspar, you see anybody coming, shoot first and talk later.”