Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

“The ‘honors’ were about even on both sides,” he said. “So yes, I forgive you for knowing I wasn’t what you needed all those years ago. Have you forgiven me?”

“Yes,” she said.

For an instant his fingers clenched. “Now all I have to do is forgive myself.”

She made a sound that could have been laughter, but wasn’t. “Same here.”

His hand slid out of her hair and to his belt, where the satellite phone was holstered. He started to punch in a number, then stopped.

“Go talk to Steele, amada. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Does this have to do with Lane?”

“Yes.”

Grace didn’t leave.

Faroe didn’t ask again.

TIJUANA

MONDAY, 11:22 A.M.

CARLOS CALDERON HELD HIS scrambled cell phone like he expected it to slice open his hand.

In a way, he did. Opportunity was like that.

It cut both ways.

The phone beeped.

He crossed himself and answered it. “Bueno.”

“This is Faroe. Is this Carlos Calderon?”

“Yes. I have been expecting your call.”

“Listen carefully, because I’ll only say this once. You and Jaime want Hector Rivas Osuna out of the game. I’ve arranged for that to happen.”

“How?” Carlos asked, almost afraid to hope. “It can’t come back to me.”

“It won’t. All you have to do is tell Jaime to take Hector to the Tijuana warehouse, wait for him to be out of radio range, and then pull everyone out. Just leave Hector and don’t lock up behind him. I’ll do the rest. Do we have an agreement?”

“That’s all? Just leave him?”

“That’s it.”

The satellite connection hummed.

North of the border, Faroe waited.

And prayed.

“It is done,” Carlos said.

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 11:30 A.M.

TED FRANKLIN WAS COMING down off his drunk, which meant that he swung between surly and frightened.

When Cook approached with handcuffs, Ted freaked.

“I’m not wearing those things! No way! You crazy?”

“Settle down,” Cook said. “It’s part of the act. You’re supposed to be Faroe’s prisoner, remember?”

“I said I’d go with him-I didn’t say anything about cuffs!”

“It isn’t a choice,” Cook said.

Before Franklin could do anything but gasp, Cook had the man’s hands behind his back and the cuffs on tight.

Franklin started sobbing.

Jesus, Faroe thought. He’s going to have a total meltdown before he even sees Hector.

Faroe elbowed his way into the circle of agents around Franklin.

“Give me the key,” Faroe said to Cook.

Cook hesitated, then handed it over. “Personally, I’d rather bitch-slap some sense into him.”

“Take a ticket and get in line.” Faroe unlocked Franklin’s cuffs, but left one of them attached to his right wrist. “Ted. Yo, TED!”

Franklin blinked and focused on Faroe.

“This is an act,” Faroe said distinctly. “These are props.” He held the open cuff in Franklin’s face and pointed to the chain. “See that link? It’s weak. All you have to do is give a good solid yank and it breaks.”

Cook turned away so that Franklin wouldn’t see him smile.

The other agents did the same.

Franklin tried to focus on the chain, but he couldn’t see through the tears.

Faroe had counted on that.

“It will break?” Franklin asked.

“Yes. I’d show you, but we’ve only got one pair of fake cuffs. So relax and remember it’s an act.”

“An act,” Franklin repeated. He took a few ragged breaths and wiped his face on his shirtsleeve. “Do I have to?”

“Hector expects to see you in cuffs, so that’s what we’ll show him,” Faroe said. “But we know better. We know you can get free anytime you want, right?”

A few more broken breaths, another swipe of arm over nose, and Franklin said, “Uh, yeah.”

“Ready to play your part?” Faroe asked.

“…yeah, I guess.”

“Okay. I’m going to cuff you, but I’ll keep your hands in front this time. Ready?”

Franklin swallowed and stood up straighter. “Okay.”

Faroe had the handcuffs back on before Franklin could blink.

Or change his mind.

“What’s going to happen?” Franklin asked in a rising voice. “I should know. I have to know!”

With a muttered curse, Cook turned back to his reluctant snitch. “Like I told you the last twenty times you asked, you, Grace, and Faroe are going to meet Hector in a warehouse up on Otay Mesa in about forty-five minutes. You listening this time?”

Franklin nodded.

“The warehouse has a tunnel that leads to another warehouse south of the line,” Cook continued in a monotone. “That’s how Hector will bring Lane north. It’s the only way he can cross north without risk of discovery.”

“A tunnel,” Franklin said. “Why can’t you come along, you and a bunch of armed men? It would be safer.”

“Because Hector isn’t a fool,” Faroe said. “He’ll have men watching the warehouse. If too many people go in, the deal’s off, Lane dies, and if you’re really lucky, you go to prison for money laundering. If you’re not lucky, Hector has you killed before you go to trial.” Assuming I don’t drop you first. “Any questions?”

Franklin shuddered. He shook his head.

“To keep everyone alive,” Faroe continued with false patience, “we have to make it look like I grabbed you and am willing to trade you for Lane. That’s why the weapons teams from the Bureau will have to hang way back in the weeds, waiting for our signal.”

“But when Hector knows it’s a trap, won’t he try to kill everyone?” Franklin asked.

Cook’s eye-roll said that the question had come up before.

Repeatedly.

“He won’t get the chance,” Cook said, giving an impatient glance to his watch. “We’re running out of time.”

Faroe started to turn away, then stopped. “Here, let me help you get into the act.”

“What?” Franklin said.

Faroe gave him a short, sharp right cross followed by a left uppercut that ripped along the side of Franklin’s face.

It was over before Cook could stop it.

Blood trickled from the left corner of Franklin’s mouth and from his nose and the ugly welt on his cheek. Automatically he reached up to the wounded areas.

“I’m bleeding!” Franklin said.

“That’s the whole idea,” Faroe said. “Smear the blood around on your white banker’s shirt. You have to look like you put up a good fight but got your clock cleaned. And it has to be real, right down to the shocky look around the eyes. Hector knows exactly how a man who has been beaten looks.”

Franklin stared, then touched his own bloody face and wiped his hands on his shirt.

Faroe patted him on the shoulder. “Lookin’ good. Keep it bleeding, or I’ll have to pop you again.” He looked past Franklin and the agents and spotted Grace. “Motor coach,” he said to her.

She caught up with him just as he got to the motor coach.

“You lied about the cuffs, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did you really have to hit him?”

“Yeah.”

“You enjoyed it.”

“Yeah. You have a problem with that?”

She sighed. “Not as much as I should.”

The same hand that had opened up Franklin’s cheek stroked gently down Grace’s. “We’ll get through this, amada. But first, we have to wire you for sound.”

She opened the door to the coach. “Cuffs on Franklin and a body bug on me. Lord.”

“That’s how the weapons team will know when to hit the front door. I’d wear it, but I’m going to be in another country.”

“Once I put it on, they’ll be able to hear everything I say?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Then I’d better say it now.”

Grace grabbed Faroe, pulled him close, and said against his mouth, “Come back to me, damn you. Promise me.”

Faroe sank into the kiss, grateful that he had a way not to make promises he couldn’t keep.

OTAY MESA

NOON, MONDAY

RAIN CAME DOWN IN drenching curtains blown apart by gusts of wind. The windshield wipers beat like a frantic heart.

No, Grace thought. The wipers don’t care. They’re just machines doing a job.

It’s my heart that’s frantic.

She was swimming through a mercury landscape laced with dull diamonds where industrial lights tried to penetrate the stormy gloom.

Franklin sat in the backseat, saying nothing.

Faroe drove the Mercedes slowly along slick streets lined with square, windowless import-export warehouses and used-car lots surrounded by sagging chain-link topped with coils of razor wire. If there were any employees around, they were tucked inside away from the weather.

“It reminds me of a war zone,” Grace said. “Fortresses without windows and stockades without prisoners.”

“Close enough,” Faroe said. “This used to be rye fields and tumbleweed, but even then it was crisscrossed by smuggling paths and pockmarked by foxholes. The border patrol had to come out here once a month to shoot the packs of feral dogs that crossed over every night from Mexico to hunt.”

“They shot dogs?”

“Rabies. Distemper. You name it, the feral dogs had it. Shooting them was the only way to keep them out of San Diego.”

Grace couldn’t disagree, but she didn’t like knowing about it.

“There it is,” Faroe said.

She leaned forward and saw a boulevard sign: EL REY MEXICAN FOODS. The sign was in front of an oversize tilt-up slab building that backed up to the border fence. Except for a faint light in one of the interior rooms, the building was dark.