The Wrong Hostage

87

OTAY MESA

MONDAY, 12:24 P.M.

HECTOR’S SHOVE SENT LANE stumbling back into the dirt wall of the tunnel. He sat down so hard his handcuffs clanged against the ladder.

Lane hardly noticed. He was still reeling from the conversation he’d just heard echoing down from above.

Joe is Lane’s biological father. That’s why Ted gave Lane to you as a hostage. It didn’t matter to Ted.

This is true?

As true as death. Joe and I won’t double-cross you for any amount of money. We want our son alive and well.

Lane wondered if his mother was lying.

And he was afraid she wasn’t.

It explained too much. Answered too many questions. And turned his world upside down all over again.

“Don’ move,” Hector ordered.

Lane didn’t.

Hector laid his pistol down on an overturned barrel and dug in his pocket. Then he hauled Lane to his feet and unlocked one of the handcuffs.

Lane ripped his gag off with his free hand and coughed. “Water.”

Hector ignored Lane and slapped the open cuff on his own left wrist. Metal clicked as the cuff closed, binding the boy to him. Hector picked up his pistol, shoved it into his waistband, and turned to Lane.

“You fight me, you die,” Hector said. He jerked his head toward the ladder. “Go.”

One-handed, Lane started fumbling up the ladder. He felt Hector’s breath against his bare calf as the Mexican climbed after him.