Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

Dwayne leaned against the desk, punching in numbers, waking up the St. Kilda consultants who specialized in monitoring scrambled federal channels.

“Think it will do any good?” Dwayne asked as he waited for someone in Texas to answer.

“In the next hour? Doubtful. Do it anyway.”

Steele stared at the red dot mired in Tijuana.

Damn it, Joseph, call in.

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

SUNDAY, 11:04 P.M.

IN DARKNESS, LANE STARED at the whitewashed ceiling. Sweat ran cold on his ribs. The phone Joe Faroe had given him was under his pillow, along with an alarm clock Lane didn’t think he would need anytime in the next century.

He was so wide awake his eyeballs burned.

He told himself he wasn’t going to check the clock under his pillow again. But he did.

About two hours until Faroe called.

If he called.

Call me, he prayed silently. I’m going postal here in the dark, thinking about-

I won’t think about it.

Won’t.

Won’t.

Won’t.

His silent chant kept time with the waves piling against the beach, chubasco waves shouting the storm to come.

He hoped the tropical fury would wipe out the school.

Cigarette smoke and something sharper, more chemical, slid through the open window. The guards were just outside, laughing and talking among themselves.

Taking bets on whether Lane would survive the coming day.

Call me. Please!

TIJUANA

SUNDAY, 11:06 P.M.

THE SILENCE IN THE Escalade was thick enough to slice and serve on bread. Even with every window open, the SUV stank of sweat. Meeting with Hector did that to men, no matter how tough they thought they were.

Faroe and Grace sat close, close enough that she could use his body heat to warm herself. Whenever she started to say anything, he squeezed her silently.

Don’t talk.

The vehicle finally stopped by the bright lights of the hotel where Faroe and Grace were registered. Faroe lifted her out and then turned toward Mustache.

Grace couldn’t hear what Faroe said as he drew Mustache slightly away from the other gunmen, but she did see the exchange of something, palm to palm. As soon as Mustache climbed back into the Escalade, the driver shot out of the light like his tires were on fire.

“What was that all about?” she asked Faroe.

“Recruiting.”

“What?”

“St. Kilda needs more contacts in Mexico.”

“Spies.”

Faroe shrugged.

“The lies and betrayals never end, do they?” she said quietly.

“There’s plenty of lying and betraying to go around on both sides of the line.”

Grace looked at Faroe. He’d let his game face slip. He was weary with something deeper than a simple lack of sleep. He handed the bellman a claim check for the car and waited silently, staring at the tips of his new boots.

“What happened?” she asked softly, stepping closer to him. “What was Hector so eager to show you?”

“A body that’s going to hang from a freeway bridge sometime tomorrow morning. Only it isn’t a body yet. It’s mostly still the guy who laid that bomb down in Ensenada.”

“We have to tell the-” Her voice broke. She let out a ragged breath. “Never mind. Old reflexes.”

“Don’t worry, amada. He’ll welcome death.”

Grace closed her eyes against the bright lights of the city.

“You leave anything at the hotel that you can’t live without?” Faroe asked.

“The only thing I can’t live without is my son.”

OVER THE U.S.

MONDAY, 1:20 A.M. CST

“GOT HIM!” DWAYNE SAID triumphantly.

Steele took the phone. “Joseph?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s about time you turned on your damned phone.”

“I’ve been talking to Hector Rivas Osuna. An interruption could have been fatal.”

“Is Judge Silva with you?”

“Yes,” Faroe said.

“Tell her to turn on her damned phone.”

“Won’t do any good. Her service ends near the border.”

“Then get there fast,” Steele said. “Ted left a message on her machine.”

“What is it?”

“Your faith in St. Kilda is touching.”

“Look, we just saw one man murdered and I met the next body to be hung from the freeway overpass, so excuse me if I’m not-”

“Who died?” Steele cut in.

“A guy who dissed Hector. Bang, bang, bang, bang, you’re dead.”

“Bloody wonderful.”

“You’re half right.”

“Grace saw it?”

“Yes.”

“How is she holding up?” Steele asked.

“Better than we have any right to expect. What is Ted’s message?”

“He’ll call her at Lomas at midnight. Find out who, what, or where Lomas is and call me back.”

Steele punched out and stared at the red dot in Tijuana as if he could move it faster by sheer force of will.

TIJUANA-CALIFORNIA BORDER

SUNDAY, 11:22 P.M.

FAROE PUNCHED THE END button and drove quickly, closing in on the border crossing at Otay Mesa.

“Who, what, or where is Lomas?” he asked Grace.

She rubbed her face wearily, trying to stay awake. The adrenaline of being with a murderous madman had worn off, leaving her limp.

“Grace?”

“I’m reviewing a Lomas case, I know of at least five streets with that name, plus a town or two.” She yawned. “Give me context.”

“Ted left messages on your home phone and your cell phone telling you to be in Lomas at midnight for his call.”

She snapped upright. “Lomas Santa Fe. Our ranch. I haven’t been there since I picked up Lane’s computer. Ted had it with him while he was doing his kingmaking thing over ribs and beer, then he ‘forgot’ to return it to La Jolla.”

“Turn on your phone. We might be close enough for you to get service. Listen hard to Ted’s message. You know the man. Listen to what he doesn’t say, how he breathes, what his voice is like.”

Grace turned on her phone.

Nothing.

“How far is the ranch from here?” Faroe asked, accelerating.

The glow that was the Otay border crossing leaped closer.

“Even if you do the Nascar thing,” she said, “we won’t make it by midnight. Once we get over the border, it’s at least forty minutes on I-5. The good news is that the Otay entry is closer.”

Faroe punched a button on his phone and handed it to Grace. “Give Steele the location of the ranch.”

While Grace talked, the Mercedes rocketed through the night, closing in on the dark and light-splintered chaos that was the border. She shut off the phone and handed it back to Faroe.

“We’re almost there,” he said. “Try your cell again.”

She looked at the phone in her hand. “Nothing.”

Planes on final approach to the Tijuana International Airport dropped down from the night and materialized in the runway lights. Just to the north, U.S. border patrol helicopters flew orbits over Spring Canyon, their spotlights stabbing down to the deep footpaths that braided the canyon floor.

“Lane should see this,” Grace said.

“Why?”

“Add some artful wreckage and you have the opening of T2.”

“T2?” Faroe asked as he pulled into the short line at the port of entry.

“The second Terminator movie. It begins in a world at war, pretty much like Tijuana, except that Tijuana is real. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen T2?”

“I’ve lived it.”

“Your choice.”

“Your benefit.”

“Win-win, huh?”

He would have laughed but it wasn’t funny.

The cell phone in Grace’s hand beeped. “Three missed calls.” She punched in numbers. “Ted.”

“Messages?”

“Just one.” She retrieved it and listened with a growing sense of disbelief. “You slimy son of a bitch.”

She hit replay and handed it to Faroe.

Ted’s voice sounded cheerful, nonchalant.

Faroe wanted to throttle him.

“Hey, Gracie-girl. We need to meet real soon. It’d be good for everybody, especially forLane. But it wouldn’t hurt your career, either. I’ll call you at Lomas at midnight and we can set it up. Ciao.”

“Gracie-girl,” Faroe said neutrally, handing the phone back to her.

“It’s Ted’s way of feeling superior.” Her voice was even. Her eyes told Faroe that if he used that nickname, she’d clock him.

“Is he as smiley as he sounded?” Faroe asked.

“There was a lot of strain in his voice.”

“Good. He deserves it. Is he lying?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “He’s serious when he’s lying.”

“Who’s at Lomas right now?”

“This time of night? Nobody. We have a caretaker who does the grounds during the day, and a housekeeper two days a week.”

“So you would be alone there, waiting for his call.”

Faroe wasn’t asking a question, but she answered anyway. “Yes.”

“Nearest neighbor?”

“A quarter mile. They come and go, same as we did.”

“Sweet,” Faroe said.

His eyes said the opposite.

The car in front of them pulled through the port of entry. Faroe pulled forward and gave the customs agent a bland smile. The man looked bored and end-of-the-shift sleepy. Then he glanced down at his computer screen. His eyes widened and his manner suddenly changed.

“Where have you been in Mexico?” The question was sharp, meant to be intimidating.