The Wrong Hostage

39

OVER THE U.S.

MONDAY, 1:00 A.M. CST

STEELE SAT IN THE part of the Learjet that had been transformed into a flying office for the use of whichever St. Kilda consultant needed it. The wheelchair was a tight fit in the working space, but it didn’t matter. If he needed anything, Dwayne would get it before Steele even knew he wanted it.

Dwayne handed over a satellite phone. “It’s Mazey with the land and cell phone taps. Something is going down.”

“Steele,” he said calmly, taking the phone. But his heart kicked in the hope that they’d caught a break. “Go ahead, Mazey.”

“We’ve had multiple hits on her home and cell phone, all from Ted Franklin, all within the last hour.”

“Messages left?”

“He wants his ex-wife to go to Lomas, where he’ll call her at midnight.”

“What, where, or who is Lomas?”

“We’re working on that, sir. It’s a fairly common name in the area.”

“Midnight.” Steele looked at his watch and folded his lips unhappily. “We’re not going to be on the ground in time to help you with this one. Call Faroe and see what Grace knows.”

“His phone is off. Hers is ‘out of area.’”

“Mother of-” Steele bit off the curse. “Where is Faroe?”

“Assuming that he’s still carrying the phone, our satellite monitor puts him in Tijuana.”

“That’s a large place. Do better. What about the boy?”

“Still at All Saints. Assuming-”

“That he has the bloody phone with him,” Steele finished impatiently.

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“The team watching Sturgis’s office saw him get in a car whose plates came back to the U.S. government. The driver shook the team. We didn’t have enough assets in place to tail a real pro. No one has seen or heard from Sturgis since.”

“Bloody hell.”

“John told me the feds have withdrawn surveillance from the La Jolla house, but the Mexicans are all over the place like a rash. He left a message on Dwayne’s phone, but-”

“The phone is turned off,” Steele finished. Since John was Mazey’s husband and the head of all surveillance teams on this consultation, Steele knew that the information was solid. “Dwayne is with me. Forward all intelligence to the number he’ll give you.”

Steele handed over the phone to Dwayne, called up the satellite monitor, and split the screen. One dot stayed put above Ensenada. One dot was mired in Tijuana.

He tried Faroe’s number himself.

Nothing.

Grace’s number.

More nothing.

“Anything on Lomas?” he asked Dwayne.

“Too much. We’ll never get it sorted out by midnight California time.”

“Can you override Faroe’s off switch?”

“If he hasn’t dicked with it, yes,” Dwayne said. Then he told his frustrated boss what Steele already knew. “But if Faroe shut down his phone, he had a good reason. The life-and-death kind.”

Steele didn’t argue. “What do you make of the fact that the feds withdrew from the La Jolla surveillance?”

“It means they know more than we do.”

“Precisely. Get someone monitoring all government communications channels within sixty miles of the border. Key words ROG, Hector Rivas Osuna in any combination, Faroe, Grace, Judge Silva, Ted or Theodore Franklin, Calderon, Lane Franklin, All Saints or Todos Santos, Bank of San Marcos, Banco de San Marcos.”

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.