hundred people were weaving their way through the maze of tables. Here much of the fruit was stacked on blankets spread across the grassy field, with piles of citrus lined up like bowling pins.
“We can’t park now,” barked Torres, pointing at the fleeing cars. “We’ll lose them!”
“I’m tracking the car, asshole,” said Moore, showing him the smartphone. “GPS beacon. I planted it on them.”
“When did you do that?”
“Before you got to me,” Moore lied. “Now shut up. Let’s get out. Behind the church is a graveyard. We’re going into the hills out back.” Moore used his thumb and index finger to zoom in on the touch screen. The kidnappers came to a stop outside a small cluster of houses just west of the graveyard. The hills would make for a perfect observation post.
“Hey, why you go along with him so easy?” Torres asked Fitzpatrick.
“Because he’s good. He tracked them. Did you? Without him, we would’ve lost them already.”
Torres muttered a string of epithets, then heaved himself out of the car. He lifted his camera, thinking he’d pretend to do the tourist thing, when Moore slapped down his hands.
“What the hell?”
“No pictures here — I told you. They don’t like it. Let’s move.”
From the trunk they retrieved three heavy backpacks bulging with gear that included three sniper rifles disassembled and stowed in their cases.
They hiked up a narrow rocky trail with deep cuts from the summer rains. Torres tripped twice over these cuts as they began to take in the graveyard with its white, blue, and black wooden crosses flanked by lanky pines and the T-shaped power and phone lines. Below lay the ruins of San Sebastian Church, whose steeples were long gone and whose yellowed and crumbling walls were spanned by deep cracks like veins. The upper edges near the rooftops were draped in moss and mold.
Once they reached the summit of the tallest hill, Moore led them to a cluster of pines, where they crouched down. He activated his smartphone’s camera and thumbed on the ARS (augmented reality system) app that would turn the phone into a computer-enhanced imaging device by superimposing wire frames over the images and displaying data boxes that indicated the size and range of various structures and targets within his field of view. Additionally, the system tapped into real-time streaming data on the house where they’d taken Sonia and Miguel. Moore knew the geeks back home were all focusing on that house as well, and within thirty seconds he’d have that imagery. He clipped a Bluetooth receiver into his ear, then switched it on.
“Torres, you see that blue house down there, the one right next to the taller beige one?” Moore asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s where they have Miguel and Sonia. Looks like they’re trying to do the same thing we planned, so we don’t have much time. They might be on the phone with Rojas right now.”
“Then it’s over. How can we say we’ve taken his son hostage when these guys have already done it?”
Moore grinned crookedly. “I guess we shouldn’t worry about that until we rescue the hostages — so we can kidnap them ourselves.”
“Why don’t we just wait for Rojas to show up?” asked Fitzpatrick.
“There’s no guarantee he will. Our negotiations are contingent upon him making a personal appearance, but who knows what these guys want,” Moore pointed out. “Could just want the money and don’t care who brings it.” He looked to Torres. “You got the binoculars in your pack? Just keep an eye on that house for now. Flexxx?”
Fitzpatrick hoisted his brows at the sound of his nickname.
“I want to set you up on the east side over there so you can keep an eye on their little police station. I’ll show you a good spot.”
Moore waved over the man, and they hiked between the trees for a minute until they were out of Torres’s earshot.
In a rapid-fire report, Moore told the DEA agent everything.
“Holy shit,” Fitzpatrick said through a gasp.
“My words exactly.”
“So this
Moore nodded. “And now I’m not sure what to do with Torres.”
“He could be a huge problem — no pun intended,” said Fitzpatrick.
Moore gave a little snort over the joke. “Well, I guess we need him now. I’m just worried he’ll kill Sonia. He’s already said it. He thinks the boy will be demoralized. He could wind up shooting her when we make our move.”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “We’ll just stress the point for now — unless you want him to get caught in some crossfire—”
“Or we send him on a suicide mission.”
“Yeah,” said Fitzpatrick, his eyes lighting over the idea. “We just make the fat boy think he’s a hero.”
“Great minds think alike, bro.”
Fitzpatrick nodded. “No problem. I’ve thought of offing the bastard many times, so we’ll come up with something.”
Moore stopped and stared at the marketplace partially obscured by the ruins. “Carnival starts at sundown. Gunfire, fireworks, they all sound the same — and that’s about the only bit of luck we’ve had so far.”
“I’ll take it. So if we manage to get back Miguel and the girl, what do we do with them?”
Moore laughed. “You know what? I never even asked …”
“I mean, if we’ve already got a deep-cover agent close to Rojas and the family, do we still need to hold them hostage? Maybe the original plan has gone to shit. The deep-cover team she’s working with needs to start talking to us.”
The question hung as Moore called back Towers, filled him in, and got the official orders from the Agency: Rescue Sonia Batista but in no way interfere with her mission, which Moore and Towers interpreted as letting them go.
The fat man Torres would not like that. No, he would not like that at all.
In fact, speak of the devil, Torres was calling Moore. “What?” Moore asked.
“Another car just pulled up. They got one of Corrales’s guys. They’re bringing him into the house now.”
“Which guy is it?” Moore asked. “Raul or Pablo?”
“I think it’s Raul.”
“You sure they only got one?”
“Positive.”
“I’ll be right up.”
Miguel winced at the laundry line they’d used to bind his hands behind his back. Still more of that coarse, weather-beaten twine had been used to bind his legs, and they’d forced him to sit on the old wooden floor in a corner near the back window. Sonia, who’d been bound as well, was sitting on the floor opposite him, leaning forward, staring blankly into space.
There were six of them altogether, and none would answer any of his questions. Both he and Sonia had stopped talking about ten minutes prior, and they listened as the tallest of the group, a man with a gray crew cut and narrow eyes who the others addressed as Captain Salou, spoke in murmurs on his cell phone, both his accent and his fast speech making it very difficult to discern anything.
The depression had already made breathing difficult and had knotted Miguel’s stomach. He had failed his girlfriend and his father, and had disgraced the memory of his dear mother. He had allowed himself to be used as a pawn, and it was quite clear that if these men did not get what they wanted, he and Sonia would be murdered. The only thing they could pray for now was a quick death.
But judging from the salacious looks on their faces, these men would have none of that. Sonia was dinner.
How the hell had this happened? Because his father had hired a bunch of dolts as security men. Then should he blame his father for this? Perhaps Fernando had hired these men. Maybe he was to blame. His incompetence had led to this …
Sonia glanced up at him, her eyes creased in pain.
