The Wrong Hostage (12 page)

A
LL
S
AINTS
S
CHOOL
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON

T
HE BLACK
C
HEVROLET
S
UBURBAN
had moved from the shoulder to the center of the dirt road, blocking it completely. The same Mexican in blue jeans and a dusty guayabera leaned against the front fender of the vehicle, his M16 rifle slung muzzle down over his shoulder. A second guard slouched in the driver’s seat of the Suburban.

Faroe decided the second guard was the boss—he had the most comfortable chair. Another weapon propped against the frame of the window had a flash suppressor.

Nothing but the best for these boys,
Faroe thought as he ran down the SUV’s tinted windows so the guard could see inside.

When the sentry noted the California license plate on the Mercedes, he straightened up and said something over his shoulder. Then he strolled toward the Mercedes looking confident and suspicious. He studied Faroe without expression, then Grace.

Surprise flickered across the guard’s face. He slid his hand down the strap of the rifle, lifted the weapon, and let the muzzle move slowly past Faroe’s face before stopping at a point somewhere in the neutral territory between him and Grace.

“What you want?” the guard demanded. His English was rude but functional.

“Judge Silva needs to check on the welfare of her son,” Faroe said.

“No is possible.”

Faroe dropped his chin and looked hard at the Mexican. There was a badge on his belt. Faroe studied the badge like a man memorizing something.

“Of course it’s possible,” Faroe said.

“No, man,” the guard said. “
No es
—is not my order.”

“Check your orders again. Señor Calderón and Señor Rivas assured the judge that she could visit her son at any time. We’ll wait while you confer with your superior officer.”

With that Faroe turned away, ignoring the guard and his weapon equally. With a wink the guard couldn’t see, Faroe reached over and touched Grace on the knee. It was an unmistakable gesture of intimacy, a lover’s touch.

“Who are you,
señor
?” the guard demanded.

“A close friend of the family,” Faroe said over his shoulder. “Real close.”

He turned back to Grace, smiled, stroked her knee, and ignored the guard. Frustrated, the
federale
walked back to the Suburban. He spoke briefly to the man behind the wheel. The supervisor stared across the gap between the two vehicles. Finally he reached for a cell phone and punched in a number. When the call was answered, he spoke for a time, listened, then all but saluted.

“Sí, mi jefe,”
Faroe said under his breath, reading the officer’s lips. “That tells us Hector and his boys aren’t interested in pissing you off.”

“What do you call kidnapping my son—a playful pat?” Grace retorted.

“In this game, you use anything you can lay your hands on. Did you notice that he didn’t even blink when I mentioned Carlos and Hector Rivas in the same breath?”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” she said automatically.

“Here we go again,” Faroe said, shaking his head. “I can hear it dancing on your tongue. ‘Carlos is a member of one of the most prominent families in all of Mexico. He couldn’t be involved with traffickers. He just couldn’t.’”

“Billionaires don’t hang out with gangsters.”

“Bullshit. There are a lot of places in the world where billionaires and gangsters are the same dudes. Or do you have a better explanation for the fact that we’re staring down two members of the Mexican federal judicial police who are actively involved in the kidnapping of an American citizen who happens to be the son of a billionaire and a federal judge?”

“Damn you,” she said hoarsely. “It’s bad enough to know I’m going up against Hector Rivas Osuna. Add the Mexican government and I’m so afraid for Lane tha—”

“Breathe,” Faroe said softly. “That’s it. In and out. You can get through this,
amada
. But you’ll have to lose your illusions about a government’s invincible correctness. Government is made up of people. Some people are crooks. Pretty simple, actually.”

Grace let out an explosive breath, took in one, let one out.

And got through the moment.

The guard gave his boss a casual salute and came back to the Mercedes.

“You visit,” he said curtly. “
El niño,
he is in the cottage of the beach.”

“Gracias,”
Faroe said carelessly.

The supervisor glared at them as he started the Suburban and backed it out of the way.

“Have a nice day,” Faroe said out the window as he drove past.

Grace almost smiled. She suspected that Faroe’s take on the clichéd exit line was about the same as an upright middle finger.

“Turn left here,” she said. “Then drive to the parking area next to that big building.”

“Those boys are really going at it,” Faroe said, gesturing to the soccer field.

She looked at all the players and didn’t know whether to be relieved or more anxious because Lane wasn’t on the field.

“What?” Faroe asked.

“You read me too well.”

“Only some of the time. Now, for instance.”

“I’m just surprised Lane isn’t out there. You’d enjoy watching him. He’s like a gazelle, only not at all fragile. Quick and strong despite being lean.”

“Maybe it’s harder for his guards to keep track of him on the field, so they’re keeping him at the cottage.”

“Or maybe he got tired of being thumped on by the big ‘boys’ that showed up three weeks ago. Hector’s relations. Thugs.”

“If Hector wanted Lane on the field, he’d be there. Hector doesn’t want Lane beaten, or he’d be bloody and bruised. Hector just wants to keep you focused.”

“El jefe chingón.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“Carnicero.”

“That too. But he loves kids and small animals.”

Grace made a sound.

“True fact,” Faroe said. “It’s just adults he whacks. Usually.”

Faroe parked, got out of the Mercedes, and began memorizing the grounds. His eyes swept the grounds, measuring distances and judging angles, a tactical planner looking for fields of fire and killing zones.

Grace joined Faroe, but she watched him, not the school.

“What do you think?” she asked after a few minutes. “Can it be done?”

“I’ll let you know. What’s the quickest way to the bluff?”

She led him down the paved path to a cluster of cottages at the edge of the bluff.

As he walked, Faroe memorized the grounds. He doubted the beach or the bay had been officially mapped, but he made a mental note to check that possibility. Ocean waves broke cleanly on a reef a hundred yards offshore. Breaking waves humped up beyond the reef. Any rescue boat would have to stand offshore and launch inflatables.

Might be better to hike in from up the coast, with a chopper standing by offshore to dart in for a fast pickup
.

Depending on the guards, of course. How many, how close, how good
.

Faroe looked around. Nobody visible but the three Mexican cops around Lane’s cottage. Two were armed with pistols and assault rifles. The third carried a twelve-gauge riot shotgun.
Pistoleros,
professional gunmen. They handled their weapons like gardeners handled rakes, no thought required.

The men had been warned to expect the guests. One stepped out in front of Faroe and stopped him with a raised hand.

“What?” Faroe asked.

The guard motioned that he wanted Faroe to raise his hands. Faroe shook his head as if he didn’t understand. The guard brought the muzzle of his shoulder weapon up. Faroe looked surprised, then shrugged and raised his hands.

The guard patted Faroe down, then looked at Grace speculatively.

“Don’t even think about it,” Faroe said coldly.

The guard looked startled. He wasn’t used to taking orders from civilians.

“Show him your purse,” Faroe said to Grace. “That’s as much of a giggle as he gets.”

She opened her purse and handed it over. The guard grinned at her breasts, glanced into the leather bag, and waved them through.

Grace pushed open the door to the cottage and stepped in. The little house once had held four residents, with a small common area and individual bedrooms. But now, only one of the bedrooms was occupied. The beds in the other rooms had been stripped.

“Lane? It’s Mom. Are you here?”

A muffled sound came from the occupied bedroom.

“Jus’ a min’,” Lane said. He sounded like he’d been sleeping. Hard.

She went quickly to the bedroom door and looked in. Lane was stumbling out of bed, moving with a lack of coordination that frightened her. He looked at her groggily.

“Wha’ you doin’ here?” he asked, slurring the words.

Faroe joined her in the doorway and measured Lane.

“I had to make sure you were okay,” Grace said.

Lane Franklin lurched across the bedroom and picked up a pair of green shorts. He hopped on one foot and then the other, nearly falling as he dressed. Then he straightened up and pushed his shaggy hair out of his eyes.

Faroe saw a handsome teenager, lean and athletic, a boy just growing into a man’s body, just beginning to show evidence of peach fuzz on his young jaw. He had his mother’s long torso and a pair of strong legs that were well proportioned and suggested speed.

But at that moment, Lane’s legs weren’t much good for anything. He could barely stand up.

Loaded,
Faroe thought.
Screwed up to the max
.

Lane stared at his mother and mumbled something.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Grace asked.

She’s not used to seeing him like this,
Faroe thought. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad. It just was. He glanced around the living space.

“I’m fine…I guess.” Lane’s tone was as uncertain as his balance. “Haven’t felt…good…since just after you left.”

Grace hugged her son close. Then she held him out at arm’s length, inspecting him. His skin was pale and his grin was lopsided. Everything about him was lopsided. She sniffed his breath and gave a relieved sigh. No alcohol.

Unlike Ted, who had become way too fond of booze through the years.

Faroe looked past the boy to the surrounding room. The walls were covered with posters, mostly of soccer players. The exception was one of a musician, Johnny Cash. The country and rockabilly legend was holding his guitar like a machine gun and saluting the photographer with a raised middle finger.

Defiant, maybe,
Faroe decided,
but at least he isn’t into the usual doper fare of headbanger rock and nihilist roll. Or worse, the
narco-corridas
making heroes out of drug traffickers
.

In one corner several Huichol death masks watched over the desk where Lane did his homework.

Faroe grinned. He’d felt the same way about school.

A blanket covered something underneath the table like a hasty shroud. Faroe lifted the blanket and found a laptop computer.

Lane lunged toward Faroe. “That’s mine!”

Faroe turned, catching the boy before he fell. “Take it easy. I’m not hurting anything.”

The boy stepped back and squinted at Faroe. “Oh. Sorry. Thought you were one of my
pistolero
babysitters. They’re not allowed to come in the cottage. The coach told me.”

“Father Magón?” Faroe asked.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“Lane, this is Joe Faroe, an old friend of mine,” Grace said. “Joe, this is my son, Lane.”

Lane finally remembered he had manners. He pulled himself together, stepped forward, and offered his hand.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Faroe,” he said. “Sorry. I was just…taking a nap.”

“Nice to meet you, Lane,” Faroe said, looking at the boy’s eyes. Clear, but the pupils were too dilated. “Where are your roommates?”

“Huh? Oh…they all moved…three weeks ago. I don’ know…maybe I have body odor or something.” He laughed weakly at his own joke.

“How about those dudes outside?”

“They showed up at the same time.”

Faroe nodded. “But they don’t come inside?”

“Not allowed.” Lane frowned and fought to focus his fuzzy thoughts. “They sit on the benches out there, playing with their guns, talking about girls, smoking cigarettes, eating pork rinds.” He grinned. “Their hearts must look like cans of Crisco. I call them the Chicharrones Brigade.”

Faroe laughed out loud. Like his mother, the kid was smart and had a wicked tongue.

“Your average Mexican security guard dies before he’s old enough to worry about heart disease,” Faroe said.

“Of what?”

“Silver or lead. Both can be fatal.”

Lane’s eyes narrowed. “
Plata o plomo
. That’s the slogan of the
narcotraficantes
.”

“It sure is. Makes a man wonder, doesn’t it?”

Faroe glanced over at Grace. She was watching him, her eyes wide and intent. When she saw that Faroe had noticed her, she looked back at Lane.

“Are they taking care of you?” she asked.

The boy shrugged. “I can’t leave the cottage.”

“If you can’t go to the cafeteria, what have you been eating?” she asked.

“Whatever they bring me. Alfredo, the
jefe
of the guards, says it’s safer for me to eat here.”

“What do you think?” Faroe asked Lane. “Is it safer?”

“It’s boring.”

“So is safety.”

Lane grinned, but it quickly faded. “I want out of here.”

Grace put her arm around her son’s shoulder. “That’s why—”

Faroe shook his head sharply. Then held his finger to his lips and pointed to the walls.

Lane stared at Grace, then at Faroe, then at the walls. Faroe put his finger to his lips again and raised an eyebrow. Lane tried to stand straight, but his eyes were almost unfocused. Then he visibly got a grip on himself, held a finger to his lips, and nodded.

Grace brushed her lips against the side of her son’s face and whispered, “Trust Joe. We both have to trust Joe.”

Lane swallowed, nodded, and drew himself up to his full height. Now he was inches taller than she was.

“Let’s go out in the fresh air,” Faroe said to Lane. “The Pork Rind Brigade lets you do that, don’t they?”