The Wrong Hostage

41

TIJUANA

SUNDAY, 11:06 P.M.

THE SILENCE IN THE Escalade was thick enough to slice and serve on bread. Even with every window open, the SUV stank of sweat. Meeting with Hector did that to men, no matter how tough they thought they were.

Faroe and Grace sat close, close enough that she could use his body heat to warm herself. Whenever she started to say anything, he squeezed her silently.

Don’t talk.

The vehicle finally stopped by the bright lights of the hotel where Faroe and Grace were registered. Faroe lifted her out and then turned toward Mustache.

Grace couldn’t hear what Faroe said as he drew Mustache slightly away from the other gunmen, but she did see the exchange of something, palm to palm. As soon as Mustache climbed back into the Escalade, the driver shot out of the light like his tires were on fire.

“What was that all about?” she asked Faroe.

“Recruiting.”

“What?”

“St. Kilda needs more contacts in Mexico.”

“Spies.”

Faroe shrugged.

“The lies and betrayals never end, do they?” she said quietly.

“There’s plenty of lying and betraying to go around on both sides of the line.”

Grace looked at Faroe. He’d let his game face slip. He was weary with something deeper than a simple lack of sleep. He handed the bellman a claim check for the car and waited silently, staring at the tips of his new boots.

“What happened?” she asked softly, stepping closer to him. “What was Hector so eager to show you?”

“A body that’s going to hang from a freeway bridge sometime tomorrow morning. Only it isn’t a body yet. It’s mostly still the guy who laid that bomb down in Ensenada.”

“We have to tell the-” Her voice broke. She let out a ragged breath. “Never mind. Old reflexes.”

“Don’t worry, amada. He’ll welcome death.”

Grace closed her eyes against the bright lights of the city.

“You leave anything at the hotel that you can’t live without?” Faroe asked.

“The only thing I can’t live without is my son.”