Chapter Ten
Kat was sure that she glowed. That everything she and Mike had done was imprinted on her somehow for everyone to see. She was beyond self-conscious when the Hallorans joined them in their suite, but Faith, as usual, made her feel at ease. Even when Mike couldn’t keep himself from touching her, whether it was draping his arm around her or rubbing his finger along her arm or her hand, the other couple acted as if it was business as usual.
When room service arrived and they sat down at the table to eat, Mark gave them a rundown on what they’d been doing.
“We went back to the airport,” Mark said, cutting into his steak. “I wanted to go over their plane very carefully and see if there was anything there you could use, Kat. I did a little reading on remote viewing on my laptop and learned that it’s a type of clairvoyance. That often it’s symbols or images—not just specific coordinates—that can bring images to your mind. That you’re actually ‘seeing’ with your brain rather than your eyes.”
“That’s right.” She took a small sip of her wine. “That’s why I’d hoped the pictures of Mari and the Wrights would be enough to give us their location.”
“You did give us something,” Mike reminded her. “More than we had before.”
“So did you find anything?” Kat asked.
“No, unfortunately. We called the pilots at the motel where they’re staying, and they didn’t add much, either. But Faith and I went through all the stuff that Andy sent to us plus the research from Faith’s assistant.”
“And?” Mike prodded.
“Here’s the thing.” He carefully chewed and swallowed a bite of his food. “To begin with, every one of the men—Pelley, Prescott, and Post—is in trouble, to differing degrees.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Post blew through his trust fund his parents left him, and he’s overextended on his chain of spas.” Mark shook his head. “He’s been trying to borrow more money, and he’s pissed off that his sister and brother-in-law wouldn’t bail him out. Apparently they’ve done it twice before, and this time they flat-out told him no.”
“So he’s a good candidate.”
“Yes,” Mark agreed. “But so are the others. Pelley makes a damn good living as vice president of Wright International, especially with all his bonuses, but he also has been trying to borrow money. Andy couldn’t find out what for, but he’s still digging.”
“What about Rand Prescott?” Kat asked. “The man who was lending them his house.”
“Again, something funny there. Andy found signs he’s being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission, but he’s still hunting for more details, especially to see if the investigation is tied to any of the deals he did with Wright.”
“Faith?” She looked at the other woman. “What did you get?”
Faith patted her lips with her napkin and pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. She tapped an icon and waited until whatever it was popped up on the screen.
“I wrote some of this down so I wouldn’t forget it. Mark picked up a new portable printer on our way back here, but we haven’t hooked it up yet.”
“So there was something in the notes Tess sent you?” Mike prodded.
Faith scrolled through the app. “She’d found tons of stuff on the cartels and their kidnappings. More than I expected. And we were right on target.”
“Just so we’re all prepared for what’s going on here,” Mark interrupted, “since the demise of the Cali and Medellin cartels in Columbia in the nineties, the Mexican cartels have become super powerful. They’re responsible for nearly all the marijuana and methamphetamine coming into this country, as well as the heroin, although there are others who distribute heroin more widely on a global basis. But the Mexicans dominate the entire illicit drug trade in the United States.”
Faith took up the narrative again. “It’s apparently become a regular fundraising activity for the cartels to use kidnapping to supplement their income. I had asked Tess to make a list of the names of those who appeared most frequently in the media. There are six.” She flipped to another page. “Mano Escobar, Hector Villareal, Jesus Morales, Ricardo Banderas, Victor Hererra, and Esai Borreo.”
“And,” Mark went on, “a couple of them, instead of using what they call sicarios—gangs of enforcers—actually have pulled together their own private army.”
“The man I saw in my remote view was wearing khakis,” Faith said, “like some kind of uniform.”
“That’s good,” Mike told her. “It can help us narrow things down.”
“I shot all the names to Andy,” Mark added. “I told him he can go home for a week when this is over, but until then he should consider himself chained to the Dragon.”
“I think he actually lives there, anyway,” Mike said with wry humor.
“Can he find out everything about these men?” Kat tried to tamp down her anxiety. Even the most casual news junkie knew that victims of cartel kidnappings had a low rescue rate.
“I told him I want everything, including how many times a day they go to the bathroom. What we need to find out is where in hell one of them could have crossed paths with any of the three men receiving the emails.”
“What else did he find out about them, anyway?” Mike took a swallow of his wine. “Anything more than basic financial information and stuff you can find in news clips?”
“Not yet,” Mark told him. “He said he’s still working on it, but I told him he needs to get his ass in gear.”
“The thing is,” Faith commented, “pinning down a connection could be the most difficult thing. Wright International has businesses everywhere. So does Rand Prescott. And maybe Ryan Post has been looking to expand his spa operation into Mexico. Or already has. Mark, will you ask Andy to check on that? Maybe he’s operating under a different name.”
Mark put down his fork, took out his cell, and speed-dialed a number. In a few quick sentences he added to the instructions he’d given earlier.
“He’s working as fast as he can. Let’s finish dinner. Katherine, afterward, do you think you could try another remote viewing session?”
Kat wanted to tell him that after making love with Mike she felt capable of doing anything, but she just said, “Absolutely.”
Mark snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot—Detective Wagner called about our friend Brent Fontaine. The guy manages a hedge fund and is loaded to the gills. But he has a reputation as a narcissistic asshole. Wagner called a friend of his on the Tampa PD who said they’ve had other women complain about Fontaine before.”
“I’m not surprised.” Kat pushed her plate away. “I didn’t think I was the only one he behaved that way with. You have no idea what a relief it is to know he won’t be calling me anymore.”
Mark nodded. “You can count on that. Wagner made it very plain that both San Diego and Tampa would be keeping track of his activities. And if he tried calling you again, you would report it to both police departments, and they’d take appropriate action.”
“Faith, I should let your aunt know that the major stress factor has been removed from my life and that I already feel my powers strengthening.”
“I plan to call her later. I’ll bring her up to speed.”
Kat fidgeted while they dawdled over coffee, finally pushing her chair back and saying, “I want to do this right now. We can’t afford to waste another minute, and maybe this time I’ll get something more specific.”
They piled everything onto the trolley the waiter had used to bring their food. Kat seated herself again, placed the pictures of Mari and the Wrights on the table, along with a sheet of paper and a pen. And this time she asked for one other thing.
“Mike, could you find a map of Mexico on the laptop and bring it up on the screen so it’s facing me?”
“Sure. No problem.”
In seconds he had the map up and the laptop situated the way she wanted it. Mark closed the drapes again, and Faith turned off all the lights in the room but the small table lamp.
I have to do this for Mari. We have to be able to save her from these evil, bloodthirsty people.
Kat closed her eyes, took a long calming breath, and let her mind reach out. Projecting it. Seeking out the location of the people in the pictures.
This time the scene that came to her was dark. Nighttime. A flicker of a black sky with a sliver of moon. The edge of the adobe hut. A brief but fuzzy glimpse of the dog and the man with the heavy rifle. Then it all disappeared.
She blinked and tried again.
This time the picture wasn’t quite as fuzzy, and she saw a little more of the building. A door, with a long block of wood notched into a hook holding the door closed. The man with the gun, and the foot of another man next to him. The moon. The vague shape of hills in the background. And a black van. She strained to see the license plate, but again it was too blurred.
And then, as always, it popped into place with incredible clarity. Including a part of the license plate on the vehicle. Before it disappeared, she wrote down what she’d seen. In a moment, as quickly as it had come, the scene disappeared, but she was overjoyed that she’d gotten a little something more out of it.
“I saw something,” she told Mike in an excited voice. “Turn the rest of the lights on. Please.”
“What is it?” Mike sat down in the chair next to her and pulled it close.
“There’s a van parked near the hut. Black. Pretty dirty. But I got the beginning of the license plate.” She handed Mike the paper. “Here. Can Andy do something with this?”
Mike immediately got Andy on the phone, read to him what they had and asked whether he could call something up while he waited.
Kat fidgeted, anxious to possibly have something more than a vague location. Mike took her hand and laced his fingers through hers, squeezing them gently. Sending her a silent message. After what seemed an interminable length of time, Mike said, “Yeah. Still here. Shoot.”
His eyes held hers as he listened to what Andy was saying.
“Okay. Got it. Very good. Thanks. Keep on that other stuff.” He snapped the phone shut. “The license plate indicates the vehicle is registered in the Mexican state of Sinaloa.”
“I can’t imagine they’d use a car that could pinpoint them so easily,” Faith said.
“The reason they don’t care,” Mike told her, “is because the Sinaloa cartel is in bed with the Mexican government, one of the most corrupt governments in the world. Rumor has it that some of Mexico’s investigative agency as well as the federal police force actually work for Victor Herrera, the head of the Sinaloa cartel. He has a soulless, evil enforcer named Bernando Aguilar who actually runs things for him and is probably the head honcho on this particular adventure. No one goes against them because of that.”
Kat felt ill. “So, just like you said before, even if they wanted to, our government wouldn’t get involved. The Mexican government would protect the cartel.”
“That’s right,” Mark nodded. “The DEA has already lost too many agents from different organizations, trying to crack the cartels or retrieve hostages. And the government is so corrupt they’re no help at all.”
“So that leaves just us.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Mike cupped her chin and turned her face toward his. “We’re a lot better than they are, remember? And we don’t have to worry about politics.”
“Is there a way to find out where Herrera’s headquarters is located?” she asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
“Yes,” Mark answered. “Now that we’ve narrowed the area to a specific part of Mexico and identified who the cartel leader there is.”
“Another job for Andy?”
“Yeah, but we can do some work from here, too.”
Faith rose from the chair where she’d been sitting. “Why don’t I go get our laptop, and we can use both of them to do some research. We can’t hook into the resources Andy can, but it’s better than sitting here and just waiting.”
“Let’s do it,” Mark said. “We’ll bring back the portable printer, too.”
When they were gone, Kat turned to Mike. “I’m trying very hard to be brave about this, but I’m really scared for them, Mike.”
He pulled her from the chair into his arms, circling them around her. “That’s not an unnatural reaction. These are some nasty people. But we haven’t failed yet, and we won’t now. You can trust me on that.”
“Man, this waiting is killing me,” Ryan Post said to the FBI agent seated in a chair in his office.
The day had stretched interminably. It was nearly impossible, trying to handle business matters with a watchdog breathing down his neck. At seven he’d sent someone out to pick up sandwiches for both of them, but the food had tasted like so much sawdust. He wondered whether the kidnappers would make them wait all night for the next message.
“They want you to feel this way,” the agent, a man named Ned Carver, told him. “Anxious. Stressed out. Susceptible to whatever they ask you to do.”
“What if Pelley can’t get all the money together?” Ryan wanted to know, a tic jumping beneath one eye.
That had been a worry from the beginning. Ron had emerged as the point person because it was assumed he had the greatest resources and could easily tap into them. Of course, Rand Prescott was no pauper. Ryan, as the low man on the totem pole, had told the other two it was up to them to carry the financial burden on this.
“If the kidnappers didn’t think they could collect a ransom, the whole thing never would have taken place. Believe me, these people check into everything very carefully before they set up one of these actions. Nothing is done randomly.” Carver shifted in the chair. “And if someone on the inside is working with them, they have even more reason to be confident.”
Ryan felt suddenly light-headed. “What do you mean, someone on the inside?”
“My boss thinks the kidnappers had help setting this up. Someone who could feed them the information they needed for the grab.” He narrowed his gaze at Ryan. “It could even be you.”
Ryan sat down quickly in his chair, his heart kicking into an uneven rhythm. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t really think that.”
Carver shrugged. “Makes sense. Any of the three of you could be doing this for a cut of the ransom.”
“That’s outrageous,” Ryan stormed. “You think I would do that to my own sister? My family?”
Carver just studied him. “You’d be amazed at the things I’ve seen people do when money is involved, Mr. Post. In fact, right now the FBI is digging into your affairs to see if there’s something that looks a little off-kilter.”
Ryan wanted to throw something. As if things weren’t bad enough already. No one could withstand an investigative assault by the FBI, even if they were squeaky clean. He picked up a paper clip and viciously bent it out of shape.
Shit.
Sliding his cell phone into his pocket, he rose from his desk. “Does your unrelieved supervision of me include following me into the men’s room?” He didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“I think I’ll pass on that,” Carver said. “Knock yourself out.”
If only I could.
Rand Prescott liked the hotel where he always stayed because the suites were large and the staff gave their guests maximum privacy. For a hefty price, of course. The tall, slightly overweight man whose dark brown hair was shot with gray silently cursed the situation he now found himself in.
John Hopewell, the FBI agent who had shown up on his doorstep, sat in one of the big armchairs, leafing through a report as they both waited for the next email to appear. Rand had cancelled all his meetings and was sitting at a second laptop he’d borrowed from the hotel, trying to get some work done. His secretary was still panicked at the intrusion of the FBI into her orderly day and their demand to know where he was. It had taken him quite a while to settle her down, but now she was sending him the reports he asked for as well as the latest updates from his various divisions.
Around seven thirty, he’d ordered from room service for himself and his federal babysitter, but the excellently prepared food held little appeal for him. Every half hour he looked at his watch, wondering whether they’d have to wait until morning for the next email.
Very little made Rand Prescott panicky, but the silent presence of the federal agent would have gotten on anyone’s nerves, he told himself. He’d pulled himself up to where he was over a very bumpy road, and he knew there would be things anyone digging into his past might look at strangely. Things he didn’t need splashed across the front page of the newspapers or headlined on television. Things the people he did business with would be none too happy to read about.
He raised his eyes and looked over at the man on the other side of the room. “Do you plan to just sit there all day?”
Hopewell nodded. “Until we know the details of the ransom and how the handoff is going to take place.”
“I suppose you know that I’m in town here on business.”
“You’re perfectly free to have all your meetings here in your suite,” Hopewell told him. “But I’m not sure how much of this you want to involve anyone else in.”
“Why do you think they emailed three people?” he asked.
Hopewell shrugged. “Maybe they’re hedging their bets. Making sure there won’t be a question of getting all the money together. Why? Are you saying you don’t want to be involved?”
Prescott chose his words carefully. “I’m saying I wouldn’t think I would be a logical choice of the kidnappers. But, of course, I want to do whatever I can to facilitate this. I think a great deal of Eli Wright and his family.”
“You and Mr. Wright have partnered in some business deals, right?”
“That’s correct. And everything was aboveboard, I can assure you.” Why did he feel the need to add that little extra?
“Good. Because I’m sure you know we’re going over both the business and the personal affairs of everyone involved here.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Prescott rose and went to the sideboard, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. What he really wanted was a good stiff slug of bourbon. Sipping the hot liquid slowly, he checked to make sure he had his cell phone with him, and then headed for the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” the agent asked him, suddenly alert.
“To use the restroom,” he said with a touch of derision. “I’m assuming I won’t get arrested for that?”
The agent simply looked at him, his expression unreadable, and went back to looking at the papers in his lap.
Prescott passed through the bedroom to the bathroom, closed the door softly, locked it, and pulled out yet another disposable cell phone. In his business, he’d learned to keep a supply of them for situations just like this—when he wanted to make calls and bypass any law enforcement traps or traces. Now all three of them were doing it. And it was becoming damn inconvenient.
Ron Pelley was getting sick of looking at Anthony Delaware. Not only was the man a permanent fixture in his office but also he’d made it very plain that he had agents digging into every corner and crevice of Ron’s life. How the hell did he get into this mess, anyway?
It hadn’t been much fun, meeting with staff members and division heads with the silent presence in the corner, and he hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation that satisfied anyone. They’d all left his office with curiosity stamped on their faces.
Sometime after six, he called down to the cafeteria that operated 24/7 for Wright employees and ordered something for himself and Anthony Delaware. He ate, if only to try to fill the hole in his stomach, forcing himself not to constantly check his watch. What the hell were they waiting for? The morning?
This was an impossible situation.
“You’d better hope the Wrights and Miss Culhane are still somewhere in this country,” the agent said now. “I’ve talked to my boss in Washington, and he’s firm about the fact that if they’ve been taken to a foreign country, the chances of recovering them are slim to none. We won’t be able to go in after them.”
Pelley didn’t want to think about that. “What makes you think they won’t turn them loose when the ransom is paid?”
“We don’t know anything for sure. What we’re trying to learn right now is who made the connection with the kidnappers. Who fed them information. And how the ransom will be arranged.”
“What do you mean, who made the connection?”
“I’ve been telling you,” Delaware said with exaggerated patience. “Someone had to set this up. None of the kidnappings in the border states have been random. Someone besides the kidnappers is going to make some bucks on this. And we plan to find out who.”
“I thought you told me they’d probably arrange to have the ransom paid by bank transfer.”
“That’s still a possibility. But in the past few months we’ve pretty much been able to trace all wire transfers, so they may decide some other way would be safer.”
“Like what?” Pelley demanded. He’d long since given up trying to get any work done. Now he was more worried about the pieces of his life being held up to the light of day.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Why the hell is it taking so long for the next email?” he complained. “What are they waiting for?”
“It’s a standard tactic,” Delaware told him. “Ratchet up the anxiety factor so the mark will do anything, pay anything, agree to anything, to get the hostages back.”
“What makes them think we wouldn’t pay up?”
“I don’t know.” Delaware’s voice was flat and uninflected. “We’re talking about a lot of money here. Are their lives worth that much to you?”
“What the hell kind of question is that?” Pelley stood up, pushing his chair back. “Excuse me. I think I need to hit the men’s room. This conversation is making me sick.”
The agent just shook his head and looked back at what he was reading. Pelley carefully palmed a disposable cell phone from his desk, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode out of the room.
Damn, damn, damn.
“Why are you calling me?” Nando asked, his voiced tinged with anger. “You know you’re supposed to wait for my phone call and the next email.”
“Things are getting a little testy here,” Rip told him, “and so am I. All three of us have FBI agents babysitting us, and it isn’t much fun.”
“Patience,” Nando told him. “You must have patience.”
“Patience? This isn’t some kind of game we’re playing. We need to get this done and over with.”
“Try to remember,” the man said on a quietly vicious tone, “you are not the one calling the shots here. This isn’t just about these particular . . . guests.”
Rip felt his gut clench. “What do you mean, not about them? Who the hell would it be about?”
“It’s about sending the right message for future operations,” Nando explained, slowly as if speaking to a child. “We have a reputation to maintain. People must know they can’t screw around with us.”
“Are you shitting me?” Rip ran his hands through his hair. This was not the way he’d imagined things would go. “Everyone already knows you mean business. So let’s get on with it. When are you sending the next email? It’s already nine o’clock at night, and this fed is stuck to me like glue.”
“Timing is everything, my friend. You should have learned that by now.”
There was a faint click, and Rip was listening to dead air. He had to stifle an insane urge to punch his fist through the wall.
There was little to relieve the darkness in the dirt hut. No one had come to see them since the last video shoot, and hardly any light reached them through the tiny slit of a window. They could see the sliver of moon against the black sky, but the thin slice was no help at all.
Eli’s nose had stopped bleeding. Sydney had found a roll of paper towels in the corner of the bathroom and kept a dampened wad against Eli’s face to help with the swelling. Lissa had lost it after the guards had left the last time, so upset by her father’s smashed nose and the hurt inflicted on Sydney and Mari that she hadn’t been able to hold back the tears. Sydney had rocked her in her arms for a long time. Now, exhausted, she slept with her head in her mother’s lap.
“Mari, you’ve been incredible,” Eli told her, his words slightly muffled through the wad of paper towel. “I am so very sorry we got you into this.”
“Not your fault, Mr. Wright.”
The pounding in Mari’s head had subsided to a dull thud, and her vision was no longer blurred. But the nausea still crept up in her throat now and then.
“I think under the circumstances you could call me Eli, don’t you think?”
She was amazed that he could still manage a trace of humor in his voice. “Okay. Eli. It still isn’t your fault.”
“Mari, someone we know, somewhere, has hooked up with our kidnappers. They fed them the information about our stop in San Diego. It was too well planned for it not to be set up ahead of time. And forgive me, I don’t think you’re the primary target.”
“I can’t imagine anyone we know mixed up with drug cartels.” Sydney’s voice was a little shaky, but Mari could tell she wasn’t about to give in to the circumstances.
“You never know,” Eli told her. “People have secrets in their lives they keep well hidden.”
“It’s just so unbelievable,” Sydney said.
“Mari, tell me about these people your sister knows. The Phoenix Agency.”
“They’re all former military. Two of them are childhood friends. Originally there were four of them, but when Faith Wilding found them and got them to rescue Mark Halloran, whom she’s now married to, he became the fifth partner.”
“Exactly what do they do?”
She gave an abrupt laugh. “What don’t they do? They have contracts to perform black ops for the government. They handle private security for corporations all over the world. Sometimes they take individual cases if it happens to be a friend of theirs. Like when Dan Romeo, the senior partner, prevented the theft of Carpenter Techtronics’ latest gizmo.” She wet her dry lips with her tongue. “I don’t want to make you think they’re supermen, but there’s very little they can’t do.”
“You know, they’ve called a couple of times, looking to present a plan for our corporate security,” Eli told her. “Too bad I didn’t meet with them.”
“There’s one more thing.” Mari tried to figure out how to tell them this. “Three of the partners are married, and each of the wives has a particular psychic gift. They’ve even formed a Psi department to integrate these gifts into certain missions they undertake.”
“I’m not a stranger to that,” Eli told her. “I’m actually aware the government has been experimenting with various psychic gifts to increase their intelligence-gathering capabilities.”
“You should know my sister also has a . . . special gift. She’s a remote viewer. And that’s what I’m pinning my hopes on.”
“Explain remote viewing,” Sydney said.
Mari gave them as brief a description as she could, surprised that neither of the Wrights dismissed it out of hand.
“When Mark Halloran was held by terrorists in the Peruvian jungle, it was his ability to communicate telepathically with Faith that ultimately led to his rescue.” She smiled, even though she knew they couldn’t see her. “So I’m hoping the same kind of thing works for us.”
“Let’s pray you’re right, because other than the slimeball who helped set this up,” Eli pointed out, “no one else knows where the hell we are.”