Ramon Guerrero’s footsteps echoed as he walked the shadowy corridors of the rancho, guided by the meager light from flickering torches. The old hacienda belonged to his family, handed down through the generations. Although it had no electricity, and its only source of water was an old well on the property, it served its purpose by sheltering him and his men. It had been a good location to hide the many hostages who were held for ransom as a funding source for his drug operation. And being remote, the ranch enabled him to carry out the unsavory side of cartel business without anyone’s knowing what went on behind its adobe walls.
An armed guard stood at the end of the long passage. The man had been slouched in a chair but now stood at attention as Guerrero approached.
In his native tongue, he asked the guard, “Has he admitted anything of value?”
The man only shook his head.
“Then it is my turn. Unlock the door,” he ordered. The guard did as he was told.
A dark silhouette of a man was backlit by moonlight from the only barred window, with eerie shadows, cast from a single torch, undulating against the wall. The hostage had been stripped of his clothes. Completely naked, hanging from a metal bar, his body sagged from its own weight. Ropes cut into his wrists, and blood had run down his arms. Deep contusions were visible on his taut belly and rib cage, an aftermath of the beatings he had endured before and after he’d been delivered to the hacienda.
In the corner of the cell was a wooden bucket. Guerrero picked it up and threw dirty water at his prisoner.
“Ah.” The man groaned and tried lifting his head, without much success.
“My name is Ramon,” the drug lord said in English. “Your fate is in my hands.”
“Go to . . . h-hell.”
Guerrero grimaced at the prisoner’s lack of respect.
“You will make it there well before me. I can assure you.”
When Guerrero got close, he held his breath. The stench of blood and other distasteful smells made it hard to breathe. He grabbed the man’s dark hair and yanked his head back. The prisoner’s face was battered and bleeding. And one eye was swollen shut. Guerrero had allowed his men first crack at the hostage.
The man had brought unwanted interest. He’d been asking too many questions across the U.S. border in El Paso, calling attention to Guerrero’s Juarez operation. After receiving reliable intel from a number of sources, Guerrero figured he had an edge to exploit that could expand his reach. He gave the order to take the man alive and deliver him, and any identification he had on him, to the rancho’s gate. Perhaps the hostage would be Guerrero’s way of gaining more power within the cartel.
Like many, Guerrero had ambitions. The hostage had crossed his path for a reason. His appearance could not merely be chalked up to good fortune. He preferred to think of the opportunity as his fate, his much-deserved due.
“I am surprised you took such a risk. Did you not think we would find out what you were doing in Texas? Did you think being across the border would protect you?” Guerrero walked around the naked man, taking in every old scar that marred his body. One scar in particular had caught his eye. No doubt, the man had seen his share of fights, but the prominent burn scar on his back had betrayed him. And, given what Guerrero already knew, he had enough to get what he wanted without the man’s cooperation. It was one thing to have the man’s ID but quite another to truly know who he was and what he did for a living.
“Surely someone of”—he paused for effect—“your stature would have others to take such risk.”
The hostage flinched only for a second, but Guerrero was certain he’d seen a reaction.
“I don’t know . . . w-what you’re t-talking about.”
“That doesn’t matter. Not anymore.” He leaned closer, and whispered, “You see, I know who you are . . . who you really are. And that will be enough to get me what I want.”
“You don’t know shit, Raymond.”
“The name is Ramon.” He gritted his teeth at the man’s insolence. “And if you wanted your real identity to remain a secret, you should have removed that scar from your back.”
The hostage glared at him but didn’t say a word. Even beaten as he was, he mustered enough contempt to provoke Guerrero.
“Why are you pissing on my turf?” he pressed. “What did you hope to gain?”
The man did not hesitate. “I’m looking for a man . . . to kill him.”
Guerrero stared at the hostage in disbelief at his gall before he burst into laughter. The sound echoed off the walls of the cell—a foreign noise in a place where screams were more common.
“And how is that going for you?” Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head, and said, “You Americans have such arrogance, but we shall see how long that lasts.”
Under his belt at the small of his back, Guerrero pulled out a black hood and covered his prisoner’s head. The hostage jerked and fought it, but he didn’t say anything. The American didn’t have the good sense to cower. He held his head up, and the black cloth moved with every breath of his defiance. When Guerrero pictured the smug look on his face under the hood, he balled his fists to make his point about who was in charge.
In the stifling heat, he punched the hostage in the gut.
“We shall s-see”—Ramon panted—“h-how strong . . . you are.”
It took all his willpower to lower his hands. He stopped the beating only because he had a call to make. “Th- there are far worse . . . things to endure.”
When he had first communicated his part in the capture of such an influential American, his cartel boss had sent word promptly. He had ordered him to make a journey to a rendezvous point, bringing the prisoner with him. Guerrero would make a gift of the American and, hopefully, reap rewards for his efforts.
Gasping and winded, he walked across the cell and spoke to the guard on the other side of the door. In minutes, his man returned and, between the bars, handed him a loaded syringe. With a smirk on his face, Guerrero shoved the hostage’s head to one side and injected the needle into his neck. The man struggled, making a futile attempt to fight back. As his prisoner fought the drug, Guerrero hit speed dial on his cell phone and contacted the man he hoped would be very grateful . . . and generous.
As he listened to the phone ring in his ear—waiting to report he’d confirmed ID and give the details of how he would transport the prisoner—Guerrero wasn’t done tormenting his hostage. Before the man drifted into a merciful oblivion, he leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
“Your name is Garrett Wheeler.” He spat on the man’s bare chest. “And I know who you work for,
“I’m picking up a cell-phone signal from inside the walls of the residence outside Juarez. No ID on the caller, but I can track the GPS signal. If the guy with the cell moves, I’ll know it.” The handler for the mission had made contact with the man who had ultimate control over the op. From an encrypted international phone, he spoke to him now, nothing more than a voice on the other end of the line.
“Did we get a visual? Do they have the hostage inside?”
“Yes. We got a visual confirmation from team two.”
After the hostage had been taken by a group of young thugs known as
“Your order, sir?” the handler asked.
“Make contact with team one in Juarez. Tell them you have a signal you’re following. It’s their backup plan, in case something goes wrong on their end. If that GPS signal moves, I want eyes on it. Keep me informed.”
“Copy that.”
Short and sweet, the man taking the lead on the operation gave his orders and ended the call. The handler’s part in the mission had ramped up. He made his call to team one and followed orders.
Dressed in gray slacks and black cashmere sweater, Alexa Marlowe stared out her apartment window, located on the third floor of a brownstone on the Upper East Side. For the last week, she’d been restless, and sleep
