The Wrong Hostage

79

OTAY MESA

MONDAY, 12:05 P.M.

IGNORING THE RAIN, FAROE got out of the Mercedes, opened the back door, and dragged Franklin roughly out.

“Hey, watch it!” Franklin said.

Faroe’s response was another snake-fast blow to the corner of Franklin’s mouth.

Grace made a low sound but didn’t say a word. She just shut the door behind her and waited in the rain for whatever came next.

“Let it bleed,” Faroe said softly to Franklin.

“No more,” Franklin said, “or I’ll-”

“You’re lucky I don’t gut you for what you did to Lane,” Faroe cut in. “Shut up and count your blessings.”

Franklin’s eyes showed white in the rain-washed gloom.

Faroe shoved.

A stumble, a lurch, and Franklin was on his way. He staggered over to the concrete slab that was the threshold of the warehouse and stood numbly in the broken glass of another neutralized security light. If he noticed the rain, he didn’t show it.

Blood ran red, then pink, down his face to his no-longer-white shirt.

Grace didn’t try to shield herself from the rain. She waited while Faroe punched a seven-digit combination into the electronic sentry that controlled the door.

The bolt released with a sharp metallic snap.

Faroe swung the door open, went in low, and felt around until he found a light switch. From the ceiling thirty feet overhead, bright lights blazed on, dividing the warehouse into pools of light and darkness.

Nothing moved.

He looked around slowly, twice, then waved Franklin and Grace inside and closed the door.

The huge warehouse was so empty it echoed. Toward the front, a half dozen wooden pallets stacked with cases of a popular brand of canned Mexican chilies made a backdrop for the front offices. Toward the rear, where the doors were locked and wired to alarms, another half dozen pallets loaded with canvas sacks of pinto beans and rice were lined up as a screen in front of another small suite of offices. In between was more than a hundred feet of nothing but concrete floor and thirty-foot metal ceiling.

Faroe counted four closed-circuit television cameras on wall mounts positioned to cover the entire interior of the warehouse. Red status lights burned on each camera, a warning that they were transmitting to a control center.

The camera mounted above the warehouse door swiveled to follow Faroe’s movement. He pulled Grace close and breathed down her blouse.

“Transmitter check.”

The radio on Faroe’s belt beneath his shirt popped twice.

“I’m going off the air,” he told Grace’s bra.

Two more pops.

Faroe kissed her fast and hard and deep. She kissed him back the same way.

Then he turned his back to the closest camera, reached under his shirt, and switched off the radio. He walked toward the sandbagged defensive position that had been created by pallets of beans and rice.

Except for the soft drumroll of rain on the roof, the place was silent.

The offices were empty.

The door to the bathroom was locked.

Unless there was somebody already inside the bathroom, the warehouse was deserted.

“Anybody home?” Faroe called out.

Silence.

Pulling his cell phone off his belt, he punched in numbers as he walked back to Grace and Franklin.

“No noise,” he said to them.

He punched the send button and listened for the telltale sounds of another phone ringing somewhere in the warehouse.

Silence.

After two rings, Hector answered. His voice was slurred, like he was loaded.

Good news and bad news in one, Faroe thought grimly.

“We’re in the warehouse,” Faroe said. “Nobody’s home.”

“We close, pendejo.” Hector chuckled.

“Put Lane on.”

“You give me Franklin with the files.”

It wasn’t a question.

“With my blessings,” Faroe said.

“You have him?”

“You’re looking at the TV displays, what do you think?” Faroe said impatiently. Then he said to Franklin, “Wave to the cameras.”

Sullenly Franklin lifted his cuffed hands toward the nearest camera.

“Now put Lane on,” Faroe said.

“I no like orders. I am el jefe.”

“You’re in charge the moment I see you and the kid,” Faroe said. “Until then, we’re just two men bullshitting over the cell phone.”

Over the invisible link that reached up to a communications satellite in space and back down six hundred feet to the south, Faroe heard a moist noise as Hector sucked on a Mexican cigarette and drew the cocaine smoke into his lungs.

Enjoy it, Faroe thought. With a little luck, it will be your last.

“Okay,” Hector said, his tongue thick. “You talk to Lane. Then I send Jaime. If he like what he see, we make next step.”

The connection rattled hollowly for a moment, then Lane’s voice came over.

“Mom, Dad?”

“It’s Joe,” Faroe said. “You okay?”

“I guess.” Lane’s voice sounded shaky. “At least I, uh, have everything I left with.”

“Got you. Can Hector hear me?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Watch your mom. Don’t take your eyes off of her. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Do what she tells you to do,” Faroe said. “Don’t pay any attention to your dad. Just your mom. Got that?”

Lane started to say something, but his words turned into a sharp cry of pain.

“Don’ worry, gringo,” Hector said. “He jus’ fine. I show him manners, tha’s all.”

Faroe’s grip on the cell phone made his knuckles white. “Send in your man.”

He looked at his watch and started counting.