Flash Fire Page 12

  Surprise had Walker looking over at the man. “Last night? He got hit again?”

  “Lost three of his men. He’s a friend of yours.” That last bit wasn’t a question.

  “I was nowhere near the fight.”

  “He needs to let this one go.”

  “That’ll be hard for him.” Jorge was a born ring fighter. When he got punched, he punched back harder.

  “Hernandez’s crew handles security for the factory,” Santiago said. “Bigger things hang in the balance.”

  Walker kept his eyes on the road ahead. Bigger things. Murder and misery on a scale even he could barely imagine. Unless he could stop it. He had four days left.

  He pointed through the windshield. “The clearing is about half a mile ahead.”

  “Here would be a good place to stop then.” Santiago scanned the jungle. “Pull off the road. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  He hadn’t risen as high in the ranks as he had because he was stupid. Being second in command of the Xibalba was no small accomplishment. Carlos Petranos wouldn’t have picked anyone but the best of the best as his right-hand man.

  Santiago wasn’t about to drive into a potential ambush. He might trust Walker enough to check out his tale, but not enough to throw all caution to the wind.

  They got out and walked down the dirt road in grim silence, the men surrounding them holding their weapons ready for any possible surprise. But other than a few obnoxious monkeys, their short trip wasn’t disturbed.

  They smelled the clearing before they reached it.

  Santiago, still wary of a trap, gestured to Walker to step out into the open first. Walker strode forward and scanned the blackening bodies. They hadn’t improved in the past couple of days.

  After a moment, Santiago’s men spread across the open area, securing the clearing. Then Santiago came up to Walker at last.

  His jaw was tight, his eyes black with fury as he looked over the dead men. Animals had gotten to them, but the damage wasn’t so bad yet that the cause of death couldn’t be easily determined. The corpses were riddled with bullets. The scene spelled out an ambush and a quick but bloody battle. Spent shells and cartridges littered the ground everywhere.

  Santiago pulled his gun and pressed the barrel under Walker’s chin in a move that Walker could have prevented but didn’t. He’d expected as much.

  The man’s eyes flashed murder. “Where is my shipment?”

  Walker kept his posture relaxed and gestured toward the edge of the clearing where a black, silver-embroidered sombrero was stomped into the dirt, full of bullet holes and covered with blood.

  Santiago lowered his gun and swore again. “You should have come to me with this right away.”

  “That was the plan. Then Pedro found out I knew. First thing I heard when I reached Furino was that he had a hit out on me. I had to deal with that, or I wouldn’t have made it to you.”

  Santiago’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “Do you know where my shipment is?”

  “By the time I came across this place, everybody was gone.”

  Santiago watched him, then nodded abruptly and put his gun away. He clapped Walker on the shoulder. “Gracias, amigo.”

  “De nada.” Walker nodded back. Then he let his gaze roam the clearing. “When did Pedro get this big?”

  Santiago’s eyes narrowed. The muscles of his face stiffened all over again as he looked at the bodies. “He wasn’t this big.”

  Walker waited, let the man work it out for himself.

  Santiago didn’t make him wait long. “They’re all in on it.”

  Walker swore. “I guess I better start watching my back.”

  Santiago turned from the scene of the massacre, chin down, like a bull about ready to attack. “Don’t worry about it, amigo. This will be taken care of today.”

  He raised his hand to signal to his men to follow him, then strode back toward their vehicles.

  When they reached the pickups, Santiago clapped Walker on the shoulder again and said in front of all his men, “You’ve done the Xibalba a favor. I won’t forget it, friend.”

  Walker nodded, ready to go. He needed to get back to Clara. Because, sure he’d told her to stay put and wait. But what were the chances that she’d listened?

  * * *

  While waiting for Walker to return and take her to Furino, Clara ate the leftovers of her dinner then spent her morning mentally organizing and reorganizing all the available data on the case. She went through, word for word, her initial conversation with her father, then with Rosita’s cousin, Melena. Then everything she’d learned from Walker so far. Thanks to him, she had a fair idea of the local players now, as far as criminal activity went.

  Did she really need him going forward?

  She made a mental pros-and-cons table in her head.

  Pros: he knew the area, he personally knew at least some of the players, people were more likely to talk to him than to her, and in a violent confrontation—if things came to that—he’d make a great backup. She’d seen him with a knife, and she had no reason to believe that he would be any less competent with a gun.

  Cons: he was unpredictable, he was a mercenary who hired himself out to criminals, he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and would never accept her as being above him in the chain of command.

  Bottom line: If she worked with him going forward, he would have to be carefully managed. Except, she was pretty sure he was the most unmanageable person she’d ever met.

  Deciding factor: Was she more likely to find Rosita with or without him?

  With him, was the obvious answer, which meant Clara had to find a way to work with the man. Even if she wished she had other options.

  She’d been hoping that the kidnapping had been drug related. The DEA had an office here. Clara could ask to see their files. They could provide backup if needed.

  After giving the matter much careful thought, she was pretty sure she could work with them without having to reveal Rosita’s connection to her father. Clara worked for civilian recovery, and Rosita was a US citizen who’d disappeared here. Nothing about Clara’s looking for the girl should be suspicious.

  But nothing about Rosita’s disappearance had indicated an involvement with drugs.

  Clara had three other main possibilities to consider: either Rosita was kidnapped for ransom, for trafficking, or in a random act of violence.

  She hated that last option the most, but she had to consider that maybe there wasn’t some greater purpose behind the kidnapping. If not the rat pack of young boys who now sat in jail, then some other hoodlum saw Rosita, grabbed her, raped her, dropped her body in the jungle.

  A simple street crime. A crime of opportunity. Extremely difficult to investigate. Chances for a positive outcome: miniscule.

  The kidnap-for-ransom option wasn’t much better. If the girl had been kidnapped for money, a ransom would have been demanded already, unless she’d died somehow as a result of her kidnapping—say, while trying to escape. So if she’d been kidnapped for ransom, Clara pretty much assumed that Walker was right and the girl was dead at this point.

  However, if Rosita had been kidnapped for trafficking, she was likely still very much alive, and time was of the essence. Tracking her down would become more difficult with every passing day as she was transported farther and farther away from her last known location.

  Since Walker seemed to have known Pedro, aka el Capitán, he had to have some knowledge of the trafficking business. Like where the women were shipped from here. Or if Walker didn’t know, his friend Jorge would. He picked up the dead trafficking victims. Jorge definitely merited a second look.

  The waitresses at the cantina were next on Clara’s list. They had three things going for them: they must have overheard all kinds talk from the banditos, they were probably safer to approach, and since they were women, they might be sympathetic to a missing seventeen-year-old girl. They might actually give Clara some information. Even if not about Rosita, then other local goss
ip that could prove useful.

  Especially since she couldn’t look at police reports. If she had access to those, she could see if there’d been any similar cases in the last couple of months. Maybe she could discover some trends, some clues in the paperwork that could point her in the right direction. But she couldn’t see those reports, so the women at the cantina were her best bet. Not that they’d volunteer information to a stranger, but the right number of dollar bills might make a difference.

  Clara put on her boots. She didn’t have any brilliant insights or breakthroughs, but she had the next step or two mapped out—all she needed right now. Step by step, she was going to locate her retrieval target.

  She climbed down the fire ladder, then went into the house through the back. Everything was quiet. The girls were probably still sleeping. She walked to the wall phone, making a mental note to give Brunhilda money for the two calls she planned on making. She dialed her grandmother’s Alzheimer care home first, Serenity Acres. She never let more than a day or two pass by without checking in, no matter where she was.

  The call rang straight to the room. And rang and rang.

  While Clara waited, she checked out the bookcase next to the phone. The shelves held mostly romance novels, judging by the covers, in English, German, and Spanish.

  Then Grandma Lucy picked up the call, and Clara turned her attention from the books. “Hi, it’s Clara.”

  Silence on the other end.

  “Your granddaughter,” Clara added, as her stomach dropped. On her bad days, Grandma Lucy no longer remembered her family.

  “Which one?”

  Clara’s stomach dropped a little more. “I’m the only one, Grandma. Clara. Remember? We talked on the phone the day before yesterday.” Or maybe a visual would be better. “I came and saw you two weeks ago. We sat in the garden. I had that red shirt on you gave me. Remember?”

  More silence.

  “Grandma?”

  “I had lunch with the pope today,” Grandma Lucy said at last.

  Clara closed her eyes and sighed.

  Then her grandmother said, “Oh, fine, I’m kidding. How are you, honey?”

  And Clara leaned against the wall, shaking her head, relief coursing through her. “You can’t do this to me.”

  Grandma Lucy said, “While you’re glad I haven’t gone completely bonkers yet, tell me what’s wrong with your father.”

  Clara tried not to groan. She’d just been played by her eighty-year-old grandmother. Seriously.

  She proceeded with caution. “Why do you think something is wrong with dad?”

  “He’s been sounding off-kilter lately, but nobody tells me what’s going on.”

  They had good reason. If they told Grandma Lucy about the dire cancer diagnosis, she would be worried sick, then in two days, she’d forget it. If they wanted her to know, they’d have to tell her again, and she’d go through the initial shock and pain over and over again.

  So instead of bringing up cancer, Clara said, “He’s fighting the DOD for continued funding. You know how it is to work for the government.”

  Grandma Lucy harrumphed, not sounding as if she completely bought the story. “Are you still in Mexico? How is it?”

  “Hot. I’d like to go home.”

  “I’d like a vodka martini.”

  Clara smiled. “How are things at Serenity Acres?”

  “Other than half the people forgetting to put their clothes on before they come out of their rooms? No-Undie Monday, and Whip-it-out Wednesday, we call it.”

  Clara grinned again. “But you like it there, right?” She knew her grandmother needed the around-the-clock care, but she still felt guilty over having her there.

  “It’s more exciting than sitting home all by myself would be,” Grandma Lucy admitted. “At least it’s not a Vegas-style place like where your Aunt Betty is.”

  “Vegas-style?” Clara blinked as she pictured gambling tables in the common room.

  “What happens in your pants, stays in your pants,” Grandma Lucy quipped. “They’re low on staffing.”

  Clara closed her eyes. She seriously didn’t want to think about it.

  They talked some more, and she was grateful beyond words that her grandmother was having one of her good days. She wasn’t confused or scared. She knew where she was and who her family were, knew that they loved her. And Clara got treated to a little of her grandmother’s old spirit, the sassy, funny Grandma Lucy she wanted to remember.

  But then her grandmother turned serious. “If he’s sick again… He’s not too sick, is he? Every night when I pray, I try to make a deal with God. I say, God, take me, not him.”

  Clara’s throat constricted. “Everyone is fine. Nobody is going anywhere.”

  They ended with smacking kisses into the receiver and Clara’s promise that she’d visit Serenity Acres as soon as she was back in DC.

  After she hung up, she filled her lungs and refocused, then dialed her father’s cell phone number.

  “Are you all right?” was her father’s first question when she identified herself.

  She was glad to hear his voice, and acutely aware that there was a merciless end date stamped on how many times she’d be able to talk to him.

  “I’m fine. I just talked to Grandma. She is having a good day. You?”

  “Better than I deserve.” He sounded tired, bordering on weak, making her heart clench as he asked, “Is this a secure line?”

  “No.” While she didn’t think Brunhilda’s phone was tapped, she planned on talking in generalities, without mentioning any names.

  “Just give me a brief update, then,” he said, apparently thinking along the same lines.

  She began with general background. “The local criminal element consists of two cartels on top, then the city gangs and the small-town banditos, then other small-time crooks, pickpockets, and people who run tourist scams and the like.”

  “Most likely perpetrator?” her father asked.

  “I think Rosita would be beneath the cartels’ notice. And if she’s been kidnapped by a small-time crook, ransom would have been demanded long before now. But the banditos are heavily involved in the human trafficking that goes through the area. Furino seems to be under their control.”

  “Strategy?”

  “I’ve done some surveillance. I had brief contact with one of the major players, but that’s no longer a viable venue.” She didn’t want to go into the whole incident of Pedro getting disemboweled, not over an unsecured line.

  “Juanita said you called her.”

  Clara had called Rosita’s aunt right away, before leaving Mexico City. “She didn’t have any usable information. She was very distraught.”

  “She seems better now that she knows I sent someone to look for her niece.” He paused. “Are you with Walker?”

  “He showed up yesterday, finally.” She hesitated a split second, then decided truth was the best way to go. “I have some doubts whether he’s the right facilitator for me. But I’ve decided to try working with him for now. You trust him?”

  “I do,” her father said without having to pause to think.

  “I think he might have changed some since you last knew him.”

  “People don’t change. Not at the core.”

  You did, she wanted to say. He’d been the most honorable, most loyal, most ethical man she’d ever known. And then came Rosita. Clara’s brain hurt as she tried to reconcile the father she knew, with the idea of hooking up with a seventeen-year-old.

  Her heart hurt too, so she slipped back into investigator mode.

  “How do you know Walker? Just give me the nonclassified part.”

  “Not much of that,” her father said after a moment. “Walker was part of a joint operation between the Army Special Forces and the SEALs a few years back. Let’s just say he distinguished himself in an extremely difficult situation. He more than earned my respect.”

  Huh. She would have liked to know more but accepted that she couldn’t ask
questions about the mission. She went into another direction. “Is that how he came to owe you a favor?”

  “No.” Her father paused. “I helped him with something that had to do with his brother.”

  She wished she had more details but knew her father wouldn’t elaborate.

  “He’s a loose cannon.” There, the truth as she saw it.

  But her father said, “I need to know that you’re safe. He can do that for you. I don’t want you to come to harm. Consider that the prime directive.”

  Just then he sounded like the loving, caring father he’d always been.

  She closed her eyes. She filled her lungs with air. “How is Mom?”

  “Gearing up for the First Gulf War veterans’ benefit auction.”

  Of course she was. Her mother had never met anyone she didn’t want to help. She was a good person. Beyond good. She didn’t deserve betrayal. Clara’s heart ached for her.

  She talked some more with her father, but it was an uncomfortable conversation. Neither of them seemed to know how to handle their current situation.

  She thought about that after they eventually hung up. Then she put those thoughts away. She’d sort out her feelings about her father when she got back home and she could talk to him in person, ask questions. Right now, she had to focus on finding Rosita.

  Sitting around and waiting for Walker went against her best judgement. Passing time usually did not improve the outcome of retrieval missions. The longer someone has been missing, the slimmer the chances of live recovery were. And Clara had been given the case way too late already.

  Pedro, the banditos, and human trafficking swirled around in her brain. She needed to find out more about the traffickers, where Rosita might be at this stage if they’d been the ones to kidnap her.

  And she knew a man within walking distance who might be able to answer those questions: Jorge. She could interview Jorge first, while she waited for Walker.

  Jorge had no reason to harm her. He thought she was Walker’s girlfriend. All she wanted from the guy was some general information on trafficking.

  But as Clara was about to leave, a Teutonic Valkyrie who had to be Brunhilda stuck her head out from a doorway down the hall, toward the front of the house. “Coffee?”