The Wrong Hostage

70

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 9:50 A.M.

AGENT COOK OPENED THE door while Faroe was still a step below the doorway, which put the men on a fairly even footing.

“Well, well,” Cook said. “Look who’s going back to prison.”

Faroe took the last step up.

Cook held his place long enough to give a hard push.

Faroe had been expecting it. He didn’t budge.

The FBI agent smiled. His teeth were perfect and white, his hair curly and black, his body fit and muscular. He would have been pretty if his eyes weren’t like ice.

Faroe knew for a fact that the FBI agent was deadly in unarmed combat.

Too bad Cook can’t get over being short. It makes life hell on everyone over five feet six who gets close to him.

“You playing doorstop today?” Faroe asked.

Cook turned just enough to let Faroe inside.

Grace got up and came to Faroe with questions in her eyes.

He nodded slightly.

She was so relieved she sagged against him. He put one arm tight around her, tucked her into the banquette, and slid in beside her. He knew Cook would feel better looking down on him.

“Since when do you hang with felons, Judge?” Cook asked.

“They come through her courtroom all the time,” Faroe said. He leaned close to Grace and breathed in her ear, “We’re in.” Then he looked at Steele. “Any warrants?”

“They’re working on it,” Steele said dryly.

“What are we working on?” Faroe asked.

“Oh, you’re all lawyered up,” Cook said. “Your lawyers are talking to ours, and we’re talking to each other. But hey, I don’t have my legal dictionary and I can’t remember the U.S. Code sections that cover interfering with a federal officer, impeding a federal investigation, and-oh yeah, violations of the Neutrality Act. I love that one. Is it a capital felony, Judge?”

“Since I’ve already called corporate counsel,” Steele said, “I was just suggesting that Agent Cook discuss those matters with him.”

“I don’t talk to lawyers,” Cook said. “I leave that to the U.S. Attorney.”

“You don’t talk to lawyers?” Faroe said. “Then how do you cut a deal with the likes of Ted Franklin?”

“Franklin’s not a defendant, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you. You’re going down like you did last time, only this time you ain’t coming out.”

“Turn down the volume,” Grace said flatly. “You don’t have any warrants. You don’t have any probable cause. You don’t have anything but a badge that’s so heavy it’s a wonder you can stand up straight.”

Both Faroe and Cook looked at her in surprise.

“I’ve had a gutful of your bullshit,” Grace said evenly, staring at Cook. “We don’t have the time, I don’t have the patience, and you don’t have the authority. Either get back on topic or get out of St. Kilda’s bus and off its property.”

Steele rubbed his mouth and looked bland, but his eyes actually twinkled.

Faroe looked at Grace like he’d never seen her before. And he hadn’t. Not this Grace, the one who would go toe-to-toe with a supervisory special agent and rip his face off.

“And the topic of the day is…?” Faroe asked into the shocked silence.

“The FBI’s fabricated case against St. Kilda,” Grace said, “which we’ve already shot down. We were just opening the topic of Ted’s computer files, without which no one has a case against Hector Rivas Osuna and Carlos Calderon. No files means no one seizes fifty million dollars along with the kind of headlines that advance careers.”

“Fifty million, huh?” Faroe asked.

Grace nodded.

“A lot of money” was all Faroe said.

Apparently the task force didn’t know there could be twice as much money. Faroe saw no need to point it out.

“Did you get to the part where the task force’s mismanagement of their informant could well cost the life of a U.S. citizen, Lane Franklin, presently a prisoner in Mexico?” Faroe asked.

Cook stared at Faroe without blinking. No surprise there.

“No, we were closing in on that issue when the chopper landed,” Grace said. “But Cook’s expression tells me he already knows and doesn’t give a damn.”

“He will,” Faroe said.

Cook shrugged. “You cooperate with us, get me the files, and I’ll make a call to the school. The kid will be on the next flight home.”

Grace went still. “Let me make sure I heard you correctly. The FBI is willing to use a child as-”

“I didn’t say that,” Cook cut in.

She turned to Steele. “Did you hear Supervisory Special Agent Cook offer to trade Lane’s freedom for the computer files?”

“I do believe I did,” Steele said. “Shocking to think the American government is complicit in the kidnapping of an American child.”

“We didn’t kidnap anyone,” Cook said impatiently. “The Mexicans didn’t kidnap anyone. The kid is a screwup who is in school in Mexico until his father signs him out. That’s not kidnapping, that’s old-fashioned discipline.”

“Nice story,” Faroe said. “Only Lane isn’t at the school anymore. Mexican federales dragged him out and took off with him. Want to look at the sat photos?”

“We lost him in Tijuana,” Steele said quietly.

“I figured you would,” Faroe said, but his eyes never left the FBI agent.

Cook didn’t want to believe what he was hearing.

“Yeah,” Faroe said, nodding. “Your snitch Ted lied to you. Want a hankie?”

“Prove it,” Cook said flatly.

Faroe glanced at his watch. “In less than three hours, Hector will kill the boy. How about the kid’s head in a box? That enough proof for you? But, oh, yeah, if that happens, you can kiss the files, your career, and your handsome ass good-bye. Lane is my biological son.”

Cook’s eyes widened. He looked at Grace, at Faroe, and back at Grace.

“Yes,” she said. “Ted is Lane’s legal father. Joe is Lane’s biological father.”

“He knows?” Cook asked.

“Lane? No,” she said. “Ted knows. He has for years.”

“Judas Priest,” Cook said, raking a hand through his black curls. “You mean Ted is lying about that school?”

“He put Lane in All Saints as a hostage to ROG. At the time, I didn’t know it was more than a school.” Grace hoped her tears didn’t show, but knew they did.

So what? I can cry and still get the job done.

“Man, in two years running this task force, I thought I’d heard it all.” Cook blew out a hard breath. “I have kids of my own. I’d kill anyone who…” His voice dried up.

“But if your kid was in Mexico,” Faroe said, “you couldn’t do shit. How many times have you gone south without ROG knowing exactly what you’re doing and where you’re doing it? For that matter, how many times have you been able to go south of the line with your own pistol on your belt?”

Cook’s mouth flattened. “You know the answer.”

“I sure do. One inch south of the razor wire in Spring Canyon, you lose ninety-five percent of your authority,” Faroe said. “It’s been that way for fifty years. But I have a way to tweak things just long enough to make you a hero.”

“A hero is a dude with his head so far up his butt he can’t see the light of the oncoming train.”

“Spoken like a true FBI bureaucrat,” Faroe said. “You ever heard the saying, ‘Faint heart ne’er fucked the fair maiden’?”

“I’ve heard it from guys who thought they could catch lightning in a bottle.”

“So you’re not interested in Hector Rivas Osuna?” Faroe said.

“Hell yes, I want to take Hector out of the game,” Cook said roughly. “You see the reward posters wallpapering the port of entry? Five million bucks. No federal agent can collect that reward, but I don’t care. I just want that narco asshole in an American prison.”

“Even if you come up with those files,” Grace said, “you’re still a long way from getting your hands on Hector.”

“We’ll get him,” Cook said.

“Which century?” Faroe asked. “He’s been indicted in the United States for six years. He’s still king of the dunghill down south. What’s one more piece of paper calling him Supercrook? He frames them and hangs them in his bathroom.”

“Realistically,” Grace said, “all Ted can give you is the fifty million dollars in his files, correct?”

“I take the long view,” Cook said.

“My view doesn’t go past twelve-thirty today,” Faroe said coldly. “Work with us and you’ll get the files, the fifty million, and good old Hector on this side of the line.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Cook said sardonically. “You’re going to put on a stretchy blue bodysuit and a red cape, grab Hector, and shove him through a hole in the fence.”

“Close enough,” Faroe said.

“When we took custody of the dudes who killed Kiki Camarena that way, the American judges crapped in their robes,” Cook said. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

She shrugged. “I resigned from the federal bench this morning.”

Cook started to ask something, then thought better of it.

“What I’m going to do,” Faroe said, “won’t ruffle the feathers of any except the most irrational of federal judges.”

“What’s your plan?” Cook demanded.

“I’ll grab Hector on this side of the line, where he’ll be caught in the commission of a federal felony.”

“Superman you might be,” Cook said, “but you ain’t Santa Claus. I know Santa Claus. He’s a fat guy with a big red suit and elves.”

Faroe waited.

“No hole in the fence?” Cook demanded.

“Just a hole in the ground. Hector’s tunnel.”

Cook’s eyes widened. “Who told you about the tunnel? Who was it? I’ll bust his ass right out of the agency.”

“I heard about it south of the line.”

“Where is it?”

“The tunnel?” Faroe asked.

“Shit, yes, the tunnel!”

“Do we have a deal?”

“Deal? What deal?”

“You produce Ted Franklin at the time and place of our choice. We’ll give you Hector Rivas Osuna and his tunnel.”