The Wrong Hostage sk-2 Read online

  Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back down.

  Hector straightened himself out of his slight stoop, stretching stiff muscles in the middle of his back.

  Grace remembered reading somewhere that he’d been badly wounded in a shoot-out on the streets of Tijuana. Yet Hector still had a kind of primitive physical power, the kind of raw charisma that some criminal leaders possessed. A very few men like Hector had come through her courtroom, men who lived violently and often died the same way.

  But never soon enough for the innocent.

  Hector turned and gestured toward the field where play was winding down. “You saw?”

  Grace didn’t trust her voice, so she simply nodded, feeling like a puppet whose strings were being jerked.

  “El nino, he get small bump,” Hector said. “A warning, so you unnerstand.”

  Her stomach knotted more tightly and her throat closed. She couldn’t have answered if her life depended on it.

  It didn’t matter. Hector was still talking.

  “The big hombre, the one that hit Lane? My nephew. He like to give pain.” Hector smiled, showing hard white teeth and a few steel ones. He gestured to Jaime Rivas. “This one, he think we hit your son more hard, make bigger unnerstanding.” Hector’s smile changed, thin and dangerous now. “Jaime no happy. He talk me into el banco grande with Calderon and Franklin. Jaime want to kill el nino, but I want solamente my money. ?Claro?”

  Grace glanced at Carlos Calderon. He’d turned his back, plainly showing that he wasn’t any part of their transaction.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Bueno. Two days.”

  “Two days? For what?”

  “To find el cabron that is your husband.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Lo siento.” Hector shrugged. “The death of a son es muy triste. Ver’ sad.”

  Grace couldn’t believe what she was hearing. And she couldn’t afford not to believe it.

  This can’t be happening.

  But it was.

  “A request, please.” She spoke quickly, softly, with a steadiness that came from a soul-deep certainty that she would die before she let this butcher kill her son. If that meant begging a favor from one of the most violent men in any nation on earth, then she’d beg. “I must be able to come to the school and see Lane at any time. Surely you understand why.”

  “Seguro que si,” Hector said, smiling. “A mother, she must see her son. But today a few minutes solamente. Surely you unnerstand why.”

  Grace didn’t miss the mockery in his last words. A matter of power. He’s showing me that getting what I want is entirely at his pleasure.

  The Butcher.

  How did this happen?

  “Yes, I understand,” she said tightly.

  Jaime’s expression was disdainful, as contemptuous of his uncle as everything else in the world. Especially Lane Franklin, gringo son of a thieving gringo father.

  “Thank you,” Grace added, throttling her fear.

  “Don’ be sad,” Hector said, smiling almost intimately at her. “I learn much time ago always to offer a choice. Plata o plomo. Silver or lead. Smart people, they choose the silver.”

  Grace drew a hidden breath and vowed not to show any weakness. “Do you understand that Ted and I are divorced? I didn’t control him when I was married. What chance do I have now?”

  “My people say you have power. Use it to please me.”

  “Power? Hardly. If I really were powerful, you’d be worried that I’d turn my supposed power against you.”

  Hector laughed. “They want me in El Norte and in Mexico for murder and a thousand other crimes. Si, I ver’ afraid of the law.” He laughed harder. “You smart, you work for me.”

  Grace nodded and hoped her face didn’t show her fear. Or her hatred.

  “You keep this between us,” Hector said, “or I kill the boy. ?Claro?”

  “Very clear.”

  Hector turned away.

  “Did my husband know this was going to happen?” she asked.

  Hector paused, tilting his head as he considered the question for a moment. Then he spoke to her with a combination of respect and mockery that was uniquely his own. “I tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Is what you demand, Judge?”

  She nodded.

  “Franklin know,” Hector said simply. “Is part of our deal to have el nino in Mexico.”

  Grace couldn’t hide her anger. She didn’t even try. “Does Lane know he’s a hostage?”

  Hector frowned and shook his head. “I no scare children. Two days, senora.”

  Grace started to ask for more time. A look at Hector’s bad eye told her to save her breath. His clothes might have been clean, crisp, fresh; his dead eye was a preview of hell.

  “Si,” Hector said, smiling. “You smart woman. Adios.”

  The aging crime lord turned and strode away, his sour-faced nephew trailing behind.

  As soon as they were beyond earshot, Grace turned on Calderon. She looked at him like she’d never seen him before.

  “Is your son enrolled here?” she asked.

  Calderon nodded.

  “You put him up as a hostage?” she asked in disbelief.

  Calderon looked at her blankly for a moment, then shook his head. “It wasn’t necessary, not south of the line. He would be as vulnerable on the street in front of our home as he is at All Saints. Besides, my son and I aren’t at risk. Hector knows I put a lot of my own money into the investment pool Ted stole.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  Calderon hesitated, then shrugged. “My own investment was five million.”

  “And Hector’s?”

  “Ten times that at least. Twenty times, possibly.” Calderon shook his head. “Jaime never told me the whole amount, but he was trying to sell it to politicians and narcotraficantes in both hemispheres.”

  Grace did the math and felt like throwing up.

  Fifty to a hundred million dollars.

  The referee blew a long, shrill blast on his whistle, echo of the scream throttled in her throat.

  Lane broke away from the celebration of his team’s victory and jogged toward her.

  Calderon looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but…” He shrugged.

  “Only a few minutes.” Grace took a deep breath and put a bright smile on her face. “You bastard.”

  Calderon faded out of hearing as Lane ran up and gave Grace a hug that lifted her off her feet. He was taller than she was. Stronger.

  His hazel green eyes and fierce grin were like Joe Faroe’s.

  When did Lane grow so much?

  Where did the time go?

  How am I going to get him out of this velvet hellhole?

  “We kicked butt,” Lane said in a deep voice that was also an echo from her past. “Did you see it?”

  “I saw your butt get kicked,” she said, running her hands over his sweaty head and shoulders. The ripple of lean muscles on his arms surprised her. He must be lifting weights when he isn’t studying. “Are you okay?”

  He shrugged. “Just a bump.”

  The echo of Hector’s words made ice slide down her back.

  “Coach-Father Rafael-told me you’d only be able to stay a few minutes,” Lane said. “Something about having to rush back home. Is it Dad?”

  “Is that what Father Rafael said?” Grace asked carefully.

  Lane swept his sweaty brown hair off his forehead with a gesture that was also from the past.

  At least Joe wouldn’t have put Lane up as some kind of human collateral.

  I only knew Joe a few days, but I know that much.

  She wanted to blame Ted for being so unspeakably selfish, for not being able to see the wonderful boy who had grown up right under his nose, calling him Dad. But it was her fault. She’d been so busy with her own career that she’d let the marriage slip away.

  Not that Ted had been eager to keep things together. He liked the
fact that she was successful, powerful. He liked it because she didn’t have time to notice that he was never home.

  Damn you, Ted. Even if I deserve this, Lane doesn’t. He’s the only innocent in the mess we call our lives.

  “Where’s Dad?” Lane asked.

  Grace reached over and brushed his sweaty hair back so she could see his eyes more clearly.

  “On the road,” she said. “Why?”

  Lane looked away, not wanting his mother to see his disappointment. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. Whenever he needed his father, he was somewhere else. Once, just once, Lane wanted his father to be proud of him, to be there when he needed him.

  Like that’s ever going to happen.

  “No big deal,” Lane said, turning back to his mother with a smile. “He asked me something about computers and I have the answer now. But it will keep. I’m sure he’s got a lot on his mind.”

  Grace bit back harsh laughter. “That’s an understatement.”

  For a moment there was silence broken only by the distant sound of men’s voices as the crowd at the soccer field dispersed.

  “Mom, I want to go home with you,” Lane said baldly.

  “I want that, too.” Grace hugged her son close so that he couldn’t see her eyes. She didn’t want him to know how frightened she was. “But Mexico is run by men.”

  “So?”

  “All Saints won’t let you leave with anyone but Ted. And Ted…” She fought against tears and the screams that clawed at her throat. Gently she released her son and stepped back. “I don’t know where he is. I’m sorry, Lane. God, I’m sorry.”

  He hated to see the shadows in his mother’s dark eyes, the tension around her mouth, her voice thick with tears.

  “Hey,” he said. “No problem. When Dad checks in, just tell him that-”

  “Your Honor,” Calderon interrupted quietly.

  “I know,” she snarled. “I know!”

  Calderon waited.

  She hugged her son fiercely. “I love you, Lane.”

  His arms closed hard around her. “Love you too.”

  “Remember that.”

  “You too.” He released her and stepped back, looking at her closely. “You okay?”

  Grace’s smile flashed brighter than the unshed tears in her eyes. “I’m working on it.”

  6

  LA JOLLA

  SATURDAY EVENING

  “WHAT IS IT THAT can’t wait, Grace?” Stuart Sturgis asked. “We’re having a dinner party and-”

  “Have you heard from Ted?” she cut in urgently.

  “I told you I would call you when and if Ted contacted me.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” Grace’s hand clenched the phone until her fingers ached. “I have to talk to Ted now.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m his lawyer, not his keeper. I just can’t help you.”

  “Stu, it’s an emergency.”

  “Look, why don’t you have a glass of wine or two and relax? Ted will probably call in a few days. He’s just a footloose kind of guy.”

  Grace wanted to scream that she didn’t have a few days for a footloose kind of guy to show up. Instead, she said, “Sure. Sure. Sorry to interrupt the cocktail hour.”

  She hung up and looked at her Rolodex. She’d made thirty calls, talked to twelve answering machines, eight spouses, and ten of Ted’s friends/ business associates who hadn’t heard from him in a while but sure would pass along her message if good old Ted happened to call.

  There was only one call left to make.

  Two days.

  She went to the safe, unlocked it, and pulled out a file it was illegal for her to have. But she had it anyway, and she updated it as often as her CIA source could.

  Damn you, Ted. Why aren’t you ever here when Lane and I need you?

  And damn me for choosing the wrong man.

  Ignoring the official stamps across the papers that advised her to do everything but Drop Dead Before Reading, she flipped rapidly through the file, hardly seeing the names-Philippines, Belize, Venezuela, Brazil, Paraguay, Guatemala, Colombia, Bolivia, Peru, and most of all, northern Mexico. St. Kilda Consulting wasn’t a government agency, but it had employees in all the hot spots in the world. Outside the law.

  Not outlaws.

  Just not officially sanctioned.

  Everything Grace had worked to be rebelled at the thought of being caught in a place where the law she loved was worse than helpless. The courtroom was like a hospital-awful things might happen in it, but the purpose was greater than the blood and pain, and at the end of the day everything was disinfected and ready to work again. Not like the gutters, where nothing rose above the blood and pain, and nothing was ever clean.

  St. Kilda Consulting worked in the world’s gutters.

  Grace memorized the number, locked up the file again, and went to find a minimart that sold phone cards. This was one call she didn’t want a record of on her monthly statement.

  7

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

  SATURDAY NIGHT

  DWAYNE TAYLOR REACHED FOR one of the three landline phones sitting on a desk that was neither messy nor neat, simply well used. “Steele’s office.”

  “This is Mandy in triage,” a husky voice said. “I’ve got a Judge Grace Silva on line four. She won’t talk to anybody but Ambassador Steele himself. I’ve forwarded what we have on her to you. File SK1/17.”

  Dwayne’s broad fingers danced across his computer keyboard, found the file, and opened it. “What’s her problem?”

  “Kidnap/ransom. Beyond that she won’t talk to anyone but Steele.”

  Dwayne scanned the information he’d retrieved on Judge Silva and made one of the intuitive, incisive judgments Steele paid him very well to make.

  “Put her on.”

  Dwayne took the phone off speaker and switched the sound to the headset he wore. “Judge Silva, this is Mr. Steele’s personal assistant, Dwayne Taylor. What can St. Kilda Consulting do for you?”

  At the other end of the line, Grace held on to her patience by a very fragile thread. “I made it quite clear to the last four people who wasted my time that it was Ambassador Steele or no one.”

  “I understand. Are you on a secure line?”

  She hesitated. This morning she would have laughed. Now she was glad she’d left her house to make the call.

  You keep this between us or I kill the boy.

  “I think so,” she said. “I’m at a pay phone in a cinema multiplex. I’ve got maybe two more minutes on this calling card. Then I have to go to the minimart and buy another.”

  Dwayne almost smiled. Whatever the judge was, she wasn’t stupid. “Were you followed?”

  “I-” It hadn’t occurred to her. God, I hate this. “I don’t think so.”

  “Is this a matter of extreme urgency?”

  “What’s your definition of-”

  “A terrorist with a gun held against a hostage’s head,” Dwayne said calmly.

  “I-God-no, it’s not. Yet.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Two days-no, two days from twelve-thirty this afternoon.”

  Dwayne breathed out a silent sigh of relief. Compared to most kidnap/ ransom situations, that was a decent amount of time. He wrote “RED-2” across the notes he was taking.

  “How necessary is secrecy?” he asked.

  “Life or death.”

  His pen paused. He circled “-2.” “Are you at your La Jolla address?”

  Grace didn’t bother asking how Dwayne knew where she lived. The CIA file she’d broken rules to get assured her that when it came to private solutions to problems that simply couldn’t be made public, St. Kilda Consulting was the best.

  That was what she needed.

  The best.

  “I’m twenty minutes away,” she said.

  “Go home. In an hour a woman will pick you up and take you to a secure place. At twenty-three hundred you will have a video conference with Ambassador Steele. That is eleven
o’clock Pacific daylight time. Is that satisfactory?”

  Grace looked at her watch and automatically asked, “Can’t I just call him from my house?”

  “Are you going to say anything that you wouldn’t like seeing on the eleven o’clock news?”

  “Oh. Of course.” Grace felt like a fool. “Sorry. I’m not used to this.” And I hate it.

  “That’s why you called St. Kilda,” Dwayne said gently. “Do you enjoy reading, watching TV, yoga?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The next two days will be hard on you. Find a way to relax that won’t fuzz your mind.”

  Dwayne broke the connection, called San Diego, and got the cell phone on its way to her. Then he went to work on his computer. If he was going to dump someone unexpected on his boss, he’d better be prepared with a more thorough background than he had right now. He launched a program, watched for a few minutes, and pushed back from the desk.

  It was only a few steps to Steele’s suite. The mammoth mahogany door pivoted at its center and opened into a six-sided room with two walls of glass that looked out over Manhattan. The glass had the special sheen that came from being bulletproof, soundproof, and one-way. It was the kind found in high-tech interrogation rooms around the world.

  As usual Steele was facing three walls of video screens, speaking into a headset, and sorting through various documents on his desk. Occasionally he typed on one of the computers that stood by waiting to be used, patient as only machines could be. The sixth wall was taken up by electronics and a huge, colorful clock that divided the world into time zones showing light and darkness. The time zones were made by man; they didn’t change. The areas of day and night across the globe did.

  Without looking up, Steele covered the mouthpiece of his headset with his hand. “What?”

  “You have a video telephone conference at two hundred local,” Dwayne said.

  “Who?”

  “Federal Judge Grace Silva, Southern District of California, San Diego.”

  “Why?”

  “She insisted on speaking only to you,” Dwayne said.

  “So do a lot of people.”

  “The number she called belonged to Joe Faroe’s cell phone. Apparently Judge Silva didn’t have the recent code, because her call was routed through to the public St. Kilda number.”