The Wrong Hostage

82

OTAY MESA

MONDAY, 12:15 P.M.

FAROE SLOGGED THROUGH THE strawberries and leaped the shallow ditch separating the field from the dirt road that ran along the fence. Through sheets of rain he saw what looked like ghosts. He ran toward them. The hollow metallic sound of an aluminum extension ladder being laid against the heavy chain-link fence told him he was heading the right way.

Mary and two other St. Kilda operatives were trying to brace the bottom of a long ladder that barely reached to the top of the border fence. A long-barreled bolt-action rifle with a telescopic sight hung upside down across Mary’s back. It was a sniper’s rifle,.50 caliber, capable of dropping elephants before they heard the shot.

Everyone but Faroe was dressed in cammies that shed rain.

“I told you I was going south alone,” Faroe said, reaching for the ladder.

“Wait,” said one of the ops. “It’s sliding like a bitch in this mud.”

Mary gave Faroe an angelic smile. “I’m using the fence as a benchrest. I’ve got your back.”

Faroe watched the ops struggle to place the ladder securely in mud that was slicker than snot. “A fifty-caliber round will go halfway to Ensenada.”

“Not if I don’t aim halfway to Ensenada,” she said. “I won’t fire unless I have a clear shot and see that you need it.”

Faroe gave up on keeping Mary out of the game. “Did you see Lane?”

“Just a peek through the scope, when they took him inside. Handsome kid beneath the bruises.”

Faroe’s mouth flattened. “What about a Mexican wearing long hair and an Italian suit?”

“He ran a squad of gunmen around the perimeter of the Tijuana warehouse half an hour ago,” Mary said. “A few minutes ago the gun handlers got in some SUVs and split.”

“So far, so good.” Faroe smiled darkly. “After this goes down, if you get Jaime in your sights, drop him. He’s not as mean as Hector, but he’s a whole lot smarter.”

“Will do. Jaime is still over there, sitting in a black Murano with another man. Here.” Mary pulled a pistol from the ballistic nylon holster she wore and handed the weapon butt first to Faroe. “It’s cold.”

He nodded, checked the round in the chamber, and shoved the pistol in his belt, butt forward.

Like Hector.

Faroe took two steps up the ladder.

It slipped.

While the ops cursed and threw their weight against the ladder, he kept going.

The last rung of the ladder was tangled in the razor wire that looped along the top of the barricade fence.

“Leather gloves,” he called down.

Within seconds the ladder shivered under the added hundred and twenty pounds of female sharpshooter.

“Here,” Mary said, passing up a pair of gloves. Then she saw the top of the ladder. “Wait! Let me get canvas or something to throw over the loops. They’ll tear the hell out of you.”

“No time.”

Faroe yanked on the gloves. Like his borrowed running shoes, they were a little small. He pried apart two loops of wicked wire, then eased up the ladder and stepped through the separated coils with their razor-blade edges and barbs.

“Joe, you can’t-”

“I have to.”

Straight ahead, brace yourself on the coils, one foot on the top of the barrier fence, then over and into thin air.

No sooner thought than done.

Except the razor wire collapsed, then lashed back at Faroe as he leaped. He twisted in midair and landed hard in the mud. He made himself push past the wrenching fall, forcing himself to breathe, to move, to stand.

Pain stabbed, telling him what he already knew: he hadn’t dodged enough of the razor wire. His right sleeve was wet with more than rain.

“Oh, man,” Mary said. “You’re cut bad. Stay down until I-”

“No! That’s an order.”

Quickly Faroe checked the cuts for the deadly pulse of arterial blood. So far, so good.

He took off running.