Damage Control

Jonathan hesitated. Did he really want to give up that much detail?

Screw it. “You’re not thinking of it the right way,” he said. “People don’t actually believe that you killed anyone. They want other people to think that you did. You were framed. All of us were framed.”

Tristan squinted against his confusion. “But why?” “Exactly the right question,” Jonathan said. “Only I don’t have an answer. I don’t know that I’ll ever have an answer, and for right now, that’s less of an issue than getting the hell out of here. Drink some of your water.”

The abrupt change of subject took some of the dread out of the air. Tristan took another mouthful.

“So here’s what I need from you,” Jonathan said. “For this to have some semblance of a happy ending, I’m going to need something really close to blind obedience from you.”

The comment drew a skeptical look.

“Bear with me,” Jonathan went on. “I pledge two things to you. Number one is to bring you home safely. The second is to tell you the truth. That’s what I’ve been doing here. I know that the truth isn’t all that pleasant, but it is what it is. People are looking for us to hurt us, and if we don’t get out of this country sooner rather than later, they’re going to find us. At this juncture, that’s about the worst outcome I can think of. So we’re going to have to keep moving.”

“A shit sandwich,” Tristan said. “That’s what my dad used to call bad choices. Nobody wants to eat it, and no amount of mayonnaise or mustard can make it better than what it is. Still, it has to be eaten.”

Jonathan laughed. “I like that,” he said. He’d heard the analogy before, but hearing it come from a kid this young somehow made it funnier. “Your dad sounds like somebody I’d get along with.”

The words seemed to cause pain for Tristan. “Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t elaborate.

Jonathan didn’t press. “A shit sandwich is exactly what we have. I know that it’s stressful and that it’s unfair, and scary as hell, but you’re going to have to suck all that up and get over it. If that sounds harsh-”

“It doesn’t sound harsh,” Tristan said. “It sounds real. I’ve always been a better runner than a fighter anyway. What do you need me to do?”

On a day that was marked by countless surprises, the kid’s attitude marked yet another one. Jonathan had been prepared for whining and fear and maybe even recalcitrance. But “What do you need me to do?” had been nowhere on his list of expectations.

“Mostly, I need you to stay adaptable,” he said. “Tonight we’re going to find a place where you can change clothes and get some rest, and tomorrow we’ve got a couple of cloak-and-daggery things to take care of, and then hopefully, we’ll be on our way.”

Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. “What does cloak-and-daggery mean?”

Jonathan laughed again. “You’ll know it when you see it, I promise,” he said. He checked his GPS again to see if Venice had loaded the route yet. Nothing.

“Can I ask a question?” Tristan said.

Jonathan looked at him and waited.

“Shouldn’t we think about just contacting the police? I mean, framing people for murder has to be as illegal here as it is at home. If we talk to the police and tell them what really happened, maybe all of this will go away. If we run we’ll just look guiltier, won’t we?”

Jonathan’s GPS pinged. Literally saved by the bell. He checked the screen, and sure enough, there was the route to Santa Margarita. “This is it,” he said. “Mount up.” He looked to Boxers. “Big Guy!”

“On it,” he said. Even as he strolled back to the car, his eyes never left the woods.

“You a little high-strung?” Jonathan asked.

Boxers gave him a droll look. “Funny how I get that way when people shoot at me.”

Once inside with the engine started, Jonathan oriented himself to the map and pointed the way.

Father Dom D’Angelo crossed the parking lot that separated St. Kate’s from the Security Solutions offices and headed straight upstairs. Dom was the only civilian on the planet-“civilian” was Jonathan’s slightly derogatory term for anyone not a part of the community that included employees and Special Forces operators-who had ready access to the inner sanctum of The Cave, passing unmolested through multiple layers of security.

The inside of The Cave was larger than it appeared from the outside. Occupying the third floor of the firehouse that served as Jonathan’s home, the main part of the office space housed twenty or so investigators and support staff. The Cave, on the other hand, housed only three offices and the War Room, though it occupied one-fourth of the total floor space. Opulence was the order of the day in The Cave-the best of everything, from technology to furniture.

Whereas Jonathan’s taste ran to clubby leather and dark woods, Venice’s was chrome and glass all the way. Dom crossed the thickly carpeted space quickly and made a beeline for the high-tech teak conference area that someone had dubbed the War Room.

Venice and Gail were already at work. Each had taken a position at the massive conference table and was clacking away at their own built-in computer terminal. The enormous screen at the far end showed a map of Mexico. He presumed-correctly, it turned out-that the blinking dot in the far southwest corner of the country marked Jonathan’s location.

“What do we know?” he asked.

“Clearly, Digger’s been sold out,” Gail said. “What I can’t figure out is, who would have that level of knowledge? They had names, for heaven’s sake.”

“Could it be the Mexican government?” Venice asked. “If they decided to get into the kidnapping business, they would certainly have the planning resources to pull it off. Plus, if they were using their own people, they would know the names of kidnappers. Getting the hostages’ names after they’d been taken would be a cakewalk.”

“But they wouldn’t have Leon Harris’s name,” Gail said. “Or Richard Lerner’s. I can’t imagine why the Mexican government would want to engineer a kidnapping, but even if they did, they couldn’t engineer the rescue. How did they get the guys’ aliases?”

“You’re thinking that Dig was the target from the beginning?” Venice asked.

Gail nodded. “I don’t see another way. I think whoever is responsible knew about some guy named Leon Harris, or maybe they knew about someone named Scorpion. With all the cutouts and email diversions it takes to contact our covert side, there’s no chance that anyone could link it to Security Solutions. Without Dig’s real name, and without a company name, they’d have no dots to connect. Maybe this whole rescue op was just bait to snare the guys”

Dom’s next thought arrived whole and fully formed. And it scared the hell out of him. Gail’s comment about bait triggered it. “It’s the church,” he said. “The Crystal Castle or whatever. That has to be the source of the betrayal. They found Jon as the rescuer, and then passed the information along to someone in Mexico. That has to be it.”

Gail shook her head. “There has to be an intermediate step,” she said. “There aren’t many who do what we do, but there are a few. What’s the guarantee that the church would choose Security Solutions for the rescue? Surely, it’s not just a random plot to entrap random rescuers.”

“I don’t think that at all,” Dom said. “I’ve been chewing around the edges for a while now, ever since I heard about the three-million-dollar ransom. Where does a church get that kind of money? I’m sure they have good reserves, thanks to their television stuff, but three million? That’s a lot of money, even before Digger’s fee. What does that run, anyway?”

“Six figures,” Venice said. Money matters always embarrassed Jonathan, and as a result, his fee was a more closely guarded number than nuclear launch codes.

“Okay, six figures,” Dom said. “Another big sum. Thanks to Dig, St. Kate’s is one of the best-endowed churches in the diocese, but a number like that would bring us to our knees.”

“Maybe the Crystal Palace is really rich,” Gail suggested. She looked to Venice, who started tickling the keys right away. “Maybe three million is just a drop in the bucket to them. The Crystal Palace is a moneymaking machine. Have you ever watched one of their broadcasts?”

Dom smirked. “Um, no.”

“Well, I have. Every other verse of the Bible is followed by a plea for money. There’s the Building Fund, the Outreach Fund, the Prayer Circles, and on and on and on.”

“I wonder what happened to their fund-raising after the good Pastor Mitchell was caught in her dalliances,”