TWO GRAVES

JORDAN QUEST FBI PSYCHIC THRILLER BOOK 10

GARY WINSTON BROWN

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.”

​— ​HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

PROLOGUE

THE PILOT BEGAN his descent into the middle of nowhere, which is exactly where El Llanto was located. Disturbed by the downdraft of the helicopter’s powerful rotors, loose sand took to the sky and enveloped the bird. Dust devils spun violently across the ground, raced away from the landing site, weakened, died. Desolate and uninhabited Mexican land stretched out for miles east and west of the helicopter. To the north lay the American border.

Over the years, the pilot and his boss had visited this place many times, and always for the same reason. For their passengers, it was their first time laying eyes on the land outside Ascension, Chihuahua, which cartel-fearing locals referred to as Tierra de la Muerte: the land of the dead.

It would also be their last.

The evening sky succumbed to twilight. They would have thirty minutes before darkness fell and the desert air became cold. The job would have to be completed by then.

On the ground, the helicopter rotors slowed to a stop. The pilot removed his communications headset, glanced at his boss, nodded.

Miguel Ramos opened the passenger door, stepped out of the aircraft, removed his diamond-and-ruby bejeweled semi-automatic pistol from his waistband, pointed it at his passengers. “Out,” he demanded.

Hands bound, plastic zip cuffs tearing at her wrists, the woman glared at him through hate-filled eyes. “Fuck you,” she said.

Ramos replied. “A pleasant thought, but we don’t have time.” He waved the pistol at her. “Come. Andale.”

The man seated beside her spoke. “If you want us out of here, you’ll have to drag us out.”

Ramos glanced at his pilot and sighed. “What is it with Americans? So unmotivated.”

The pilot shrugged.

“We’re burning light,” Ramos said. “Help them out.”

The pilot stepped out of the aircraft, grabbed the woman by her arm, pulled her out of her seat, threw her to the ground, then reached inside for the man, fought with him as he kicked out, then dragged him to the front of the chopper and pummeled his face until his nose broke.

Ramos pulled the woman to her feet and pointed towards the front of the chopper. “Walk,” he said.

The woman trudged ahead, choked on the dusty air. “Don’t say a word, Cruz!” she yelled. “Not one fucking word!”

Cruz spat blood out of his mouth, shook his head, replied. “Not a chance.”

Ramos slipped the gun into his waistband, walked to the chopper’s storage compartment, removed two large satchels, dropped the bags in front of them, unzipped them, opened them wide, displayed their contents. “All I want to know is where to find the girl. In exchange, I’ll make you both rich. Everyone wins. So, what do you say?”

The agents looked down.

Bundles of shrink-wrapped American currency filled each bag.

“One million dollars for each of you,” he said. “Just tell me where to find her.”

“Never,” the woman replied. She forced a smile, spoke. “She will testify. And after she does, you’ll spend what’s left of your shitty life in a Supermax.”

Ramos shook his head. “What a shame. I was hoping such a generous offer would change your mind. It seems I was wrong.”

He withdrew his weapon, pressed it against the woman’s forehead, pulled the trigger.

The crack of the pistol’s report sounded across the rolling plain. Her lifeless body collapsed to the ground.

Cruz cried out as he watched his partner fall. “GARCIA! NO!”

Ramos picked up the money-filled satchel intended for the dead agent and dropped it at Cruz’s feet. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’re now a millionaire, twice over. Tell me what I want to know and the money is yours.”

The man stared at his lifeless partner. His face was deadpan, his voice emotionless. “Go fuck yourself.”

Ramos sighed. “There is one more satchel in the helicopter. It’s yours if you want it. Same amount. That makes three million dollars. Don’t be a fool, Special Agent Cruz. There are dozens of countries where you could live out the rest of your life like a king with that kind of money. Think of this as your opportunity to retire early from the Bureau and start that life right now. I just need the location.”

Cruz stared into the killer’s eyes. “Three million, thirty million, three hundred million… the number won’t matter. My answer will still be the same.”

“And that would be?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I see,” Ramos said. He placed his gun under the agent’s chin, pushed his head back. “Are you sure?”

“Do you need to hear it a third time?” Cruz replied.

Ramos shook his head. “No.”

He pulled the trigger.

The cartel leader stared down at the dead agents. “Fools,” he said. He turned to the pilot. “Get the shovel. Dig two graves. Make them shallow. I want the dogs and vultures to find them. When you’re done, fly me to the border.”

The pilot nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Ramos waited in the helicopter until the dead had been buried. The pilot returned, threw the shovel into the storage compartment, took his place behind the controls, fired up the bird, checked his instruments. “Ready,” he said.

“Take us in, then out,” Ramos demanded.

The pilot carried out the request. The chopper lifted off, left El Llanto, flew north over the Potrillo volcanic fields, reached the New Mexico border, breached American airspace. Ramos opened his door, dropped the credentials of the two dead agents out of the chopper, watched them fall to the ground. “Let’s go,” he said.

The pilot crossed back into Mexico. “Where to, sir?” he asked.

“Chihuahua,” Ramos replied.

“Roger that.”

The pilot banked the helicopter east, set a course for the small city.

In the lonely desert below, wild dogs sniffed the air, caught the scent of death.

They howled.

1

USA/MEXICO BORDER WALL

ARENA, NEW MEXICO

FBI SPECIAL AGENTS Jordan Quest and Chris Hanover stood at the border wall where the credentials of their missing colleagues had been found. Jordan stared at the official IDs. “Who found these?” she asked.

New Mexico Border Authority Agent Ken Stockton pointed to the two young men straddling their dirt bikes several yards away. “A couple of local kids out riding. Said they ride past this section of the border wall every day and know it like the back of their hand. The flap of the credentials belonging to Special Agent Garcia was open. One of the teens caught a glimpse of the laminated ID when the sun hit it at just the right angle, saw it flash in the light. The other kid found the second ID nearby.” Stockton shook his head. “I can’t imagine what’s going through your minds right now. We called you right after the boy’s parents contacted us and began searching the area for your people. Even brought in a K9. The dog and its handler tracked up and down the wall in both directions from where the IDs were found but had no luck.” He paused. “Actually, that’s not entirely true.”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked.

“I’m not a dog guy,” Stockton said. “Never have been. But I’m pretty sure it hit on something.”

Chris looked puzzled. “I don’t follow.”

“The K9 kept returning to the location where the agent’s cred’s were found,” Stockton replied. “She kept walking up to the border wall and sniffing the air. Like I said, I don’t know a damn thing about dogs, but everyone knows they have an incredible sense of smell. It’s like a gazillion times better than ours. I know the K9’s handler pretty well. His dog, Abby, has been specially trained to find missing persons, including corpses. She kept returning to the wall. She’d lie down, then stand up and stare at her handler, Rick. He told me he’d never seen her act like that before. It’s like she was confused. She caught a whiff of something, that’s for sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t on our side of the border.” He pointed beyond the wall. “That’s cartel country,” he stated. “God knows what’s buried out there.”

“Or who,” Chris replied.

Stockton nodded solemnly.

The men shook hands. “I wish we could have done more,” Stockton said. He handed Chris his business card. “If you ever need my help, don’t hesitate to call.”

Chris pocketed the card, nodded. “Thanks.”

Jordan said nothing. She left the two men, walked to the border wall that divided the two countries, and stared at the rolling Mexican landscape through a gap in the metal panels.

“Looks like your partner is taking this pretty hard,” Stockton said to Chris. “Did she know Agents Garcia and Cruz personally?”

Chris shook his head. “If she did, she hasn’t mentioned it to me.” Of course, he knew the truth of what Jordan was feeling, but there was no point in sharing it with Stockton. He likely wouldn’t have believed it. “I must apologize for Agent Quest,” Chris said. “She tends to get into her head when dealing with cases like this. It’s just her way.”

Stockton looked concerned. “She gonna be okay?”

Chris nodded. “Yeah, but I should probably check on her just the same.”

“I understand,” Stockton said.

Chris left the border authority agent, walked to Jordan, met her at the wall. “You okay, J?” he asked.

Jordan held Agent Garcia’s credentials in her hand. She stared at the ID. “I’d be lying if I said I was,” she replied.

Chris nodded. “I know.” He paused. “You saw what happened to her, didn’t you?”

Jordan recalled the vision her psychic ability presented to her on being handed the missing agent’s credentials… the sheer terror she’d felt in knowing that her life was undoubtedly about to end… the tactile brain-to-weapon connection made when the gun’s muzzle was pressed against her forehead… the gut-wrenching acknowledgment that there was nothing that she could do to avoid the inevitable… the instantaneous blinding light that engulfed her after the trigger had been pulled… and the overwhelming sensation of peace and freedom which followed her earthly departure and carried her away. She answered her partner. “I did.”

“I’m sorry, Jordan,” Chris said. “Anything you want to share with me?”

Jordan told Chris all she had seen of the last minute of Agent Garcia’s life.

“What about Cruz?” Chris asked. “You get a reading off his ID?”

“He died the same way,” Jordan explained. “Both were executed at point-blank range.”

“You see the shooter?”

Jordan shook her head. “No, but I’ll know him when I feel him.” She glanced at the distant volcanic fields miles away from where they stood. “We need to go there,” she said.

“To Mexico?” Chris asked.

Jordan nodded. “I think I know where to find their bodies.”

“We’ll need to get approval from Ridgeway.”

“Two FBI agents have been murdered and their credentials dropped onto American soil,” Jordan replied. “If that isn’t a punch in the Bureau’s face, I don’t know what is. She’ll give it to us.”

“The Mexican authorities will want to be included in the investigation.”

“I’m fine with that,” Jordan said. “Just as long as they remember one thing.”

“What’s that?” Chris asked.

Jordan took one last look at the distant Mexican landscape, then turned and headed for their car. “To stay the hell out of our way.”

Chris nodded, followed his partner. “Copy that.”

2

ANN RIDGEWAY STOOD at the front of the meeting room and drew Jordan and Chris’s attention to the flat screen monitor on the wall.

“Meet Miguel Ramos,” the Assistant Director said. “He’s a leader in the Cártel de Jalisco Nueva Generación, or as we call it here in America, the Jalisco New Generation Cartel. For the last three years, Ramos has been the target of a joint operation between the bureau’s Child Exploitation and Human Trafficking Task Force and the Mexican government’s Inter-Ministerial Commission Against Human Trafficking. We believe Ramos has been extending the cartel’s reach into international territories by kidnapping Americans who are visiting the country’s night clubs, forcing them into the sex trade, then trafficking them abroad. Our Mexico City legal attaché has eighty-two active investigations underway. Last year, Washington dispatched twenty-five additional agents to that legat to assist with the influx of new cases, which now average forty per month. International Operations is working with our overseas partners including Interpol and Europol to build a case against Ramos and the CJNG.” Ridgeway slid a copy of a report across the table to Jordan and Chris. “FBI legats in Eastern Europe, Asia, and the Middle East have received confirmation from local law enforcement task forces that a high number of Americans have been swept up in recent raids. Interviews with the victims revealed that they were lured out of Mexican hotspots and nightclubs in Juarez by means of an invitation to attend a private party being hosted by Mexican billionaire Francesco Moreno at his estate in Ascensión. Apparently, Moreno has a reputation for bestowing incredible gifts upon those females who catch his eye.”

“What sort of gifts?” Jordan asked

“Anything from envelopes full of cash to designer jewelry… even expensive sports cars.”

“And they fell for that?”

Ridgeway nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Chris closed the report cover, let out a heavy sigh. “The naiveté of youth, coupled with a heaping helping of that will never happen to me.”

“When will they learn?” Jordan asked.

“Never,” Chris replied.

Ridgeway held up a plastic evidence bag. “I believe you’re familiar with these credentials. They belonged to Special Agents Garcia and Cruz. They were two of Mexico City’s best. Both had been sent there to work undercover as the new owners of a Ferrari dealership.”

“What better way to connect with the Who’s Who of the Mexican underworld than to sell them one of the finest sports cars on the planet,” Chris said. He grinned. “By the way, if either of you are still undecided about what to get me for Christmas, might I suggest a candy apple red Testarossa?”

“You don’t like the new Jeep I bought you?” Jordan asked.

“I like it very much,” Chris said. “But I’d love a Testarossa.”

Jordan smiled. “I’m sure you would.”

“You said new owners, Assistant Director,” Chris said. “What happened to the previous owners?”

“They were found in the dealership’s service bay, seated in one of the cars,” Ridgeway replied. “Their throats had been slashed.”

“Any leads?”

“The dealership’s security system data drives had been doused with acid and the vehicle wiped clean. As far as leads go, we have none, and the local police don’t seem to be in much of a hurry to find whoever is responsible for killing them.”

“So much for justice,” Chris said. “Nothing like carrying out two assassinations with impunity because you know the cops won’t do anything about it.”

“Exactly.”

“May I see their credentials?” Jordan asked.

“Of course,” Ridgeway replied. She handed Jordan the bag.

The images of the psychic vision Jordan had experienced yesterday afternoon where the IDs had been found flooded back to her.

“I read your report, Agent Quest,” Ridgeway said. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the status of Agents Garcia and Cruz?”

“Are you asking me if I think they’re still alive?” Jordan asked.

Ridgeway paused. “I am.”

Jordan shook her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t believe so.”

“If that’s the case, we need to find their bodies and bring them home.”

Jordan nodded. “I think I know where to find them.”

“Good,” Ridgeway said. “I’m sending you both to our embassy sub-office in Juarez. I’ve already spoken to our legal attaché and lead agent, Eva Duarte. She’s expecting you. Special Agent Duarte will fill you in and let you know what you’re up against. Find out who killed Garcia and Cruz. Start by investigating Ramos. His trafficking operation needs to be shut down before another girl goes missing. And if Moreno is involved, take him down too.”

Jordan had heard enough. “When do we leave?” she asked.

Ridgeway turned off the monitor, replied. “How fast can you pack?”

3

JORDAN AND CHRIS met FBI Special Agent Eva Duarte in the lobby of the United States Consulate General building. The legal attache extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you, agents,” she said. “Welcome to the Ciudad Juarez sub-office.”

“Likewise,” Jordan replied.

“Same,” Chris said. He opened their go bags, presented them to the armed security team, waited for them to pass inspection. After clearing the security station, he handed Jordan her bag. Together, they accompanied their host agent to the elevator. Duarte pressed the call button.

“How was your flight?” Agent Duarte asked.

“We took the jet,” Jordan replied.

Duarte smiled. “Nice to see Los Angeles is taking care of its best agents.”

Jordan smiled. “I wouldn’t quite call us that.”

“You’re being modest, Agent Quest,” Duarte replied as the elevator doors opened. “Your reputation precedes you. I’d even go as far as to say you have several fans here.”

“Oh?” Jordan asked.

Duarte nodded. “Our office has been buzzing since I announced that you and Agent Hanover would be coming here to assist us with our investigation into Ramos and the disappearance of agents Garcia and Cruz. No one here has ever worked with someone who possesses your special abilities.”

“I’m flattered you would say that,” Jordan replied. “I don’t consider myself better than any other agent in the bureau. I just happen to have a gift that lends itself well to the work that we do.”

Duarte smiled. “And we’re pleased to be the recipients of that gift, albeit for the short time that we’ll have you all to ourselves.”

“Thank you, Agent Duarte,” Jordan replied.

Duarte nodded. “De nada.”

The elevator doors parted.

The floor was quiet. The staff had gathered at the windows, looking down at the street below.

“What’s going on?” Chris asked.

“The consulate received an alert just after you entered the building,” Duarte replied. “Active gunfire has been reported in various areas of Juarez. No one is permitted to enter or leave the consulate for the moment. We’ve been advised to shelter in place until the Federal police advise us that it’s safe to leave.”

“If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be wise for your agents and staff to stay away from the windows?” Chris asked.

“The consulate windows are bulletproof,” Duarte replied. “I’m told they can withstand anything from small arms fire to an attack from a rocket-propelled grenade. That said, I’d prefer not to put that claim to the test any time soon.”

“Can’t say that I blame you,” Chris said.

Duarte called out, got her staff’s attention. “All right, people,” she said. “The police have everything under control. Back to your stations. Agents Torres and Serrano, see me in my office.”

Jordan and Chris followed Special Agent Duarte down the hallway and into her office. “As soon as it’s safe to do so, I’ll have Agents Torres and Serrano accompany you to the Marriot down the street,” she said. “It’s the nicest hotel in the city. I’m sure you’ll find it to your liking.”

“If it’s all the same to you, we’d like to get started immediately,” Jordan said.

“Of course,” Duarte replied. “But we’ll have to exercise caution. The streets of Juarez are exceptionally dangerous, even for FBI agents. The cartel has spies everywhere. They outnumber us twenty to one. I suspect they have people here, too.”

“You mean within the embassy?” Jordan asked.

Duarte nodded. “We haven’t been able to prove it yet, but I believe it to be true. There have been too many incidents lately where we’ve learned too late that the cartel had received details of one of our operations before it was executed.”

“How do you know that?” Chris asked.

“Like I said, they have their spies, but we also have ours. We have a number of undercover agents placed deep within the CJNG. They notify us when there’s chatter. We’ve planted a few false flags and chummed the water to see what kind of response we’d get. They took the bait every time.”

“That’s concerning,” Jordan said. “Do you have any idea who the leak is?”

Duarte shook her head. “Not yet, but I plan to find out. And God help them when I do.”

Jordan and Chris glanced up as a knock sounded at the office door.

“Agents Torres and Serrano, please come in,” Duarte said. She introduced Jordan and Chris. “May I present two of our colleagues from the Los Angeles office, Special Agents Jordan Quest and Christopher Hanover.”

Jordan and Chris greeted the agents.

Special Agent Victoria Torres smiled as she shook Jordan’s hand. “It’s my honor, Agent Quest,” she said. “In the interest of full disclosure, I have a small confession to make.”

“What’s that?” Jordan asked.

“I’ve kind of been stalking you.”

Jordan laughed. “You have?”

Torres smiled. “Not in the literal sense, of course. I’ve been following your career over the years and read all of your books. The stories you’ve shared of your past cases and experiences are fascinating.”

“Thank you,” Jordan replied.

Chris winked at Jordan. “Should we give you two the room for a few minutes?”

Agent Torres blushed. “I’m sorry. I’m fangirling, aren’t I?”

Duarte smiled. “Maybe just a little.”

Chris joked. “Don’t worry about it, Agent Torres. It happens all the time. I usually just carry Jordan’s bags and polish her bullets. Once in a while, she lets me help with a case.”

Jordan rolled her eyes. “Very funny, Hanover. You know that’s not true.”

Chris leaned over and stage-whispered into Torres’s ear loud enough for all to hear. “Truth is, I’m just arm candy.”

Torres laughed. “I can’t disagree with that.”

“See, J?” Chris said. “You’re not the only one with skills.”

Jordan smiled. “Perhaps we can change the subject and ask Agent Duarte to bring us up to speed on the investigation?”

Chris nodded. “Of course.”

Agent Duarte turned to Torres’s partner, Special Agent Pablo Serrano. “I’ll let Agent Serrano take it from here.”

Serrano handed Jordan and Chris a copy of the case file. Jordan read the cover. “Operation Stiletto,” she said. “What’s the significance of the name?”

“Two-fold,” Serrano replied. “It’s the name of the shoe that most women who go to the nightclubs wear. It’s also the name of the weapon we found in a trash bin behind a club where a woman was murdered. A military-style knife. A stiletto.”

“Was her killer arrested?” Chris asked.

“We have him in custody, but he’s not talking,” Serrano replied. “Which doesn’t surprise me.”

“Why is that?”

“Turn the page.”

Chris flipped to a black and white still photo, showed it to Jordan.

Serrano continued. “We retrieved that screen grab from the security camera of a neighboring business. It faces the alley where she was found. Besides the dead girl, there are three others in that picture. The man you can see is Alfredo Rabal. We have him in custody and have matched his prints to the murder weapon. We suspect the man whose back is to the camera is Miguel Ramos, leader of the human trafficking cartel we plan to take down. Rabal is Ramos’s right-hand man and his enforcer.”

“Any idea who this is?” Chris asked. He pointed to the blurry image of a young woman who appeared to be fleeing the alley.

Serrano shook his head. “We haven’t been able to identify her yet, but we’d better soon. We need to find her, and fast. If she’s a witness to a cartel murder, her life is in danger. We also believe that it’s possible that she could be connected to the disappearance of agents Garcia and Cruz.”

“What makes you think that?” Jordan asked.

“The picture is time and date stamped one hour before Garcia called in her last report of the day,” Serrano explained. “In that audio, she mentioned that she and Agent Cruz had stopped a young woman they had seen running from a nightclub in an all-out panic. When she told them she was an American citizen they broke cover and identified themselves as FBI agents, put her in their car, and left the area. Garcia said she and Cruz intended to bring her to the consulate, but Cruz believed they were being followed, so they were taking her to a bureau safe house instead.”

“Did they?”

“We’re not sure. We dispatched a team of agents to the safe house. When they arrived, they found their car in the driveway, and the safe house door blown out from what appears to be a shotgun blast. They were gone. So was the girl.”

“Any idea where they went?”

Serrano shook his head.

Jordan placed her hand over the image of the fleeing girl, closed her eyes, concentrated. She saw the safe house and the rows of bungalows that neighbored the property up and down the street. Across the road, a massive construction project was underway. “What’s being built across the road from the safe house?” she asked.

“A resort,” Serrano replied. “One of the biggest in the region. Why do you ask?”

“She’s there,” Jordan replied. “Or at least she was.”

“Our people scoured the site extensively,” Serrano said. “They didn’t find her.”

“Then they weren’t looking hard enough.” Jordan turned to Duarte. “Shelter warning or not, we need to go there. I want to see the location for myself.”

Duarte nodded. “We’ll leave right away.”

4

ACCOMPANIED BY HIS bodyguards, Miguel Ramos entered the abandoned restaurant located on the outskirts of Chihuahua. In its glory days, it had been a popular destination with the locals, serving a wide range of short-order menu items ranging from authentic Mexican food to American burgers, fries, and shakes. The chalkboard hanging on the wall behind the greeter’s podium at the former front of the house posted the day’s specials, which had last been served two years ago. The establishment’s former owners had been given twenty-four hours to make a decision. They could pack up and leave the property of their own free will and live to start anew in another part of the country or stay and be killed. The next day, the vacated business was stripped of its once familiar signage, its windows boarded, and cartel sentries assigned to guard the premises as its new guests were ushered inside and taken downstairs to the basement. The restaurant had been repurposed. It was now a cartel transfer point, located far enough from the nearest town that even the loudest screams emanating from the prisoners housed within its walls would not be heard.

It was also the heart of Ramos’s lucrative human trafficking operation.

“Is he here?” Ramos asked the guard at the door.

“Si, boss,” the man replied. “He’s waiting for you in the dining room.”

“Very good,” Ramos said. “Radio your men. Tell them to patrol the grounds and watch the road. Notify me if anything seems out of place.”

The guard nodded.

Ramos entered the dining room, sat across from the heavy-set man. The fat man’s breathing was deep, challenged. He slipped his hand into his pants pocket, withdrew a puffer, drew two deep breaths from the device, held his breath, then slowly released the trapped air from his lungs. “How can you live in this fucking climate?” he said. “If it were any hotter, I’d dissolve into a puddle. The next time we do business, it should be in Moscow in December. Then again, you’d probably freeze like a popsicle.” The man laughed at his joke, coughed, then took another deep hit from the nebulizer.

“Your discomfort doesn’t concern me, Vlad,” Ramos replied. “Your people sent you here to see our operation firsthand. I didn’t request this meeting; they did. I’m pacifying the Bratva by talking to you. As a rule, I don’t meet with errand boys. Were it not for their substantial investment, I wouldn’t give you a second of my time.”

Vlad grunted. “I’m no one’s fucking errand boy. Remember your place, Miguel. The Bratva and the CJNG are partners. We are both underlings.” The Russian stood. “Now show me our investment.”

Ramos stood. “As you wish. Just don’t sweat all over the inventory.”

Vlad mumbled something under his breath. Ramos didn’t need to understand the Russian language to know what he had uttered was not a compliment.

The old wooden door leading from the main floor to the basement had been replaced with a reinforced steel door which had been outfitted with an electronic lock. Vlad waited for Ramos to enter his passcode, then followed him down the stairs.

The large basement had been subdivided into two sections. On the left, a single cell ran its entire length. Simple bunks were mounted on the wall, and a single toilet and sink serviced the group of women held within it. Against the right wall stood eight separate cells, each with its own bed, sink, and toilet. At the end of the room sat a guard, an AK-47 assault rifle resting in his lap. He stood when Miguel stepped into view.

Ramos acknowledged him. “As you were,” he said.

The guard nodded, then sat. He held the weapon close to his chest, observed the visitor with wary eyes.

Vlad glanced from one cell to another as he toured the holding area. “Impressive,” he said over the whimpers of the women imprisoned within the cells. “But why two separate areas?”

“The better quality product gets their own cell,” Ramos said. “Those who are not as beautiful and won’t fetch as high a price are kept together. And before you ask, yes, they are priced accordingly.”

“How many do you have?”

“Thirty-two in the long cell, plus eight in the private cells. A total of forty.”

“How much for the girls in the main cells?”

“Thirty thousand each.”

“And those in the private cells?”

“Fifty thousand apiece.”

Vlad whistled. “You’re charging a premium price.”

Ramos nodded. “One usually does for a premium product. Besides, the Bratva doesn’t care how much they pay. They’ll triple their money when they sell them. And if they take care of them and put them to work, they’ll provide an endless stream of revenue. We both know how much your oligarch’s like their American forbidden fruit.”

“Yes, they do,” Vlad agreed. “And if I take them all?”

“Are you asking me to offer you a special deal?”

“I am.”

“Very well. I’ll throw in a case of 1800 Coleccion tequila. It’s two thousand dollars a bottle. Your clients can raise a toast to their good fortune.”

“A case of booze as a discount? You’re insulting me, Miguel.”

“Not as much as you’re insulting me by asking for a discount,” Ramos replied. “You have the price. Take it or leave it. Just know that you’ll never find American quality like this anywhere else in Mexico. Unless, of course, your client’s standards are lower than you claim they are.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“Then we have a deal?”

Vlad nodded. “We do.”

“Very well,” Miguel said. “You know how we do business. We provide the merchandise. That’s it. Once payment has been transferred to our account, you can arrange their transportation out of the country. Once they leave this building, they’re your property and your responsibility. Understood?”

“Yes.”

The men sealed the transaction with a handshake.

Vlad spoke as they ascended the stairs. “You have a bottle of that 1800 Coleccion for me?” he asked.

Miguel held the door open for the Russian mobster. “I’m sure I can put my hands on one.”

Vlad breathed heavily as he reached the top of the stairs. He stopped, removed his puffer, inhaled deeply. “Very good,” he said.

5

SOPHIE CLEMONS SAT in the corner of the steel utility shed, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her body. The sheer black mini dress that she had worn to the club, the one she had saved up for weeks to afford, was now filthy and torn. It hugged her slight frame. She had run throughout the night, stopping to catch her breath only when her burning lungs demanded she do so and to check that she was not being followed. Her mind drifted back to her best friend, Sierra Westlake, and how they had spent the majority of the evening refusing the advances of the two men who had been offering to buy them drinks all night. They were Mexican, not Americans, and the two women had agreed before taking the trip from Tucson to Juarez to explore the city’s nightlife that they would not get friendly with the locals. They had been warned of the dangers facing unescorted young women traveling through the area. In a few months, she and Sierra would be leaving home for Connecticut to attend Yale School of Medicine. Both were in need of one major blowout before heading off to finish their education and become the doctors they had always wanted to be and traveling south of the border into Mexico was their cheapest option. Sophie had already decided her future lay as a neurosurgeon. Sierra saw a different career path for herself, opting to explore the research side of medicine. For as long as Sophie could remember, Sierra had talked about wanting to find a cure for something. Where Sophie’s goals were patient-focused and would demand all of her future skills in a surgical theatre, Sierra saw her future looking down the eyepiece of a microscope, surrounded by the latest high-tech scientific medical equipment. She was a self-confessed lab rat and certainly not the people-person Sophie was. Each of them was intellectually gifted, and Sophie knew they would make their marks in their chosen fields one day.

Last night, however, Sierra’s dream ended abruptly. Possibly, too, her life.

After complaining to the bartender about two men’s constant advances, the man told Sophie he would take care of the problem personally. He asked them to wait while he placed a phone call, then walked the women to the rear exit door of the building. Before opening the door, he provided instructions on how to get to the main road in front of the club. Left down the alley, then right out to the street. From there they could hail a cab that would return them safely to their hotel. As soon as they stepped outside, the door slammed shut behind them, and the young women found themselves face-to-face with the two men they had been avoiding. Sierra sized up the situation immediately and was the first to act. She kicked out her leg and drove the pointed heel of her stiletto deep into the man’s thigh as he tried to step in her way. Sophie followed suit, not with a kick, but with a punch. She had taken a women’s self-defense class and remembered what her instructor had taught her about the fastest way to incapacitate an attacker. She put every ounce of strength her adrenaline-fuelled body could muster into the punch and drove her fist deep into the second man’s throat, then ran. She assumed Sierra had gotten away too and was right behind her, but she was not. As she reached the end of the alley, she turned to see the man she had punched pick himself up off the ground. He looked at her, called out, then yelled something to the other man. Sophie saw the glint of the blade as the man pulled out his knife, then plunged it deep into Sierra’s stomach. Terrified she would be the next to die, Sophie bolted around the corner and ran as fast as she could. She refused to stop for the car that pulled up beside her. When the Ferrari Purosangue suddenly braked hard and cut her off, Sophie’s adrenaline peaked once again, and her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. A woman stepped out of the car, asked her if she was okay, and quickly learned that Sophie was an American. She presented her credentials, identified herself as an FBI agent, and asked what had her so terrified. Sophie cried out when she saw the man she had punched reach the street, turn, stare at her, then make a quick motion with his hand. Sophie wasted no time. She jumped into the car, told the agents to drive, then stared out the back window as they hurried away from the curb. The agents had seen the man, too. The agent driving the car recognized him and referred to him by name: Miguel Ramos. When Sophie told them what had happened to her and that she had just witnessed Ramos’s associate stab and possibly murder her best friend, the agents told her that they would take her someplace where she would be safe. Several minutes later, they reached a small house on the outskirts of town. The agents ushered her inside, then locked and bolted the door. The female agent made a phone call, helped Sophie to the bathroom, and told her her name was Special Agent Maria Garcia. Her partner was Special Agent Eduardo Cruz. Both had been assigned to the FBI’s Ciudad Juarez sub-office. Agent Garcia showed her around the small home, then asked her to describe in detail exactly what had happened to her and her friend. After listening carefully to Sophie’s account of the evening’s events, the agents told her all about the man from whose clutches she had managed to escape, how the FBI had been after him for a very long time, and how, with her eyewitness testimony, they would finally be able to take him down. Sophie thought about her best friend and of how her life had imploded in a matter of seconds and immediately agreed to do whatever was required of her if it meant locking up the son of a bitch whom she now knew to be Miguel Ramos. The agents thanked her. Less than a minute after excusing herself to use the bathroom, she heard the most horrendous sound. An explosion erupted from the front door of the home. The booming sound was accompanied by frenzied voices, then gunfire. Sophie wasted no time. Pushed by Agent Garcia down the hallway, she entered the bathroom, slid open the window, wriggled out, dropped to the ground, and ran. She slipped out of her heels, held them in her hands as she cut through the backyards of the neighboring houses until she reached the roadway, then cut across the street and ran into a pitch-black construction site. She watched from across the street as the gunmen marched Agents Garcia and Cruz to a car, forced them into the back seat, then drove off. She put on her shoes, tried unsuccessfully to run in them, broke off the heels, tossed them away, then slipped the shoes back on. They weren’t exactly sneakers, which at that moment she would have preferred, but they protected her feet from being cut on the sharp stones and construction debris scattered about the site. As she ran, her black dress camouflaged her against the moonless night. Now, with her back pressed against the wall of the tiny shed, hot, hungry, and mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted, Sophie did what fear had not yet permitted her to do.

She hung her head and cried.

6

DISREGARDING THE WARNING by the Mexican Federal police to shelter in place until the gunfire had ceased, Jordan, Chris, and Special Agent Duarte left the consulate parking garage and drove to the safe house, followed by agents Torres and Serrano.

“Keep your head on a swivel,” Duarte warned. “Watch the rooftops and look for open windows. Cartel snipers favor those locations. My guess is this is nothing more than a turf war. If that’s the case, we don’t have much to worry about. They won’t shoot civilians without cause, and I don’t plan to give them one. If we’re stopped, I’ll handle it. Unless they’re provoked, no street-level cartel thug is going to draw down on a member of law enforcement, especially not a group of FBI agents. There’s an unwritten code down here. We leave them alone and they leave us alone, unless we’re assisting the Federal police on a raid. That’s an entirely different situation. We’ve been lucky so far. Our office hasn’t lost a single agent in the line of duty. I hope that’s still the case for agents Garcia and Cruz.”

Jordan reflected on what she had seen in her vision when she had read the missing agents IDs at the border wall and her subsequent conversation with ADIC Ridgeway. Her belief that Garcia and Cruz were no longer alive had not been shared with Duarte. Although she had never been wrong before, Jordan hoped that perhaps, in this case, her gift had failed her, but the feeling remained strong. “Anything is possible,” she replied.

They drove in silence for the next minute.

“How much farther to the safe house?” Chris asked.

Duarte slowed the sedan, pointed. “Ahead, on the right. The green bungalow with white trim.”

Chris stared at the small house as Duarte parked in front of it. He exited the car, followed by Jordan. The agents waited for Torres and Serrano to pull in behind them.

Together, they approached the house.

Chris inspected the front door and its frame. “This door took one hell of a blast,” he said, then stepped inside. “There are splinters cast down the corridor.”

Jordan walked through the living room, knelt, inspected the rug on the floor in front of the couch. “I’ve got blood here,” she said.

Duarte nodded. “The Evidence Response Team took samples of everything,” she said. She walked to the end of the hallway, looked back, remarked on the four small holes in the wooden door. “The force of the shotgun blast blew the door open, but it must have fallen shut on the shooter. You can see the bullet holes where they returned fire.”

Jordan walked to the back of the house, entered the bathroom, called out. “Window’s ajar.” She inspected the sill, found a thin strip of black material caught in the bottom latch. She held it in her hand, concentrated, saw the back of the young woman as she forced her body through the small opening, tore her dress, cut her leg in the process, then watched her drop to the ground and run. Jordan looked through the window, saw the ethereal image of the woman’s energy signature as it snaked around the back of the house. She walked to the back door and exited the safe house, then followed the spectacular path of light which only she could see. It fell in a jagged line through neighboring yards, then cut abruptly out toward the street.

She began to track the energy signature.

Chris stepped through the back door, saw her, called out. “You got something, Jordan?”

Jordan shouted as she hopped the fences. “Yeah, but I don’t know where it’s leading.”

“Copy that,” Chris replied. “I’ll follow you from the street.”

Chris ran inside, told the agents what was happening. They exited the building, walked up the road, saw Jordan emerge from the last yard, met her on the sidewalk.

“What did you see, Jordan?” Chris asked.

“The girl got out of the house,” Jordan replied. She pointed across the road. “She ran into that construction site.”

“You think she’s still there?” Duarte asked.

Jordan paused. “I’m getting something.”

“What is it, J?” Chris asked.

“I’m not sure.”

The team followed Jordan across the road, entered the construction site. Seconds later, Jordan found what she was looking for. She reached down, handed it to the agents.

“It’s a shoe heel,” Duarte said.

“Not just any shoe heel,” Serrano said. “It’s from a stiletto.”

“The woman Garcia and Cruz took into protective custody must have heard the gunplay, escaped from the house, then ran here,” Torres theorized. “The only question is where did she go from here.”

Several yards away, Jordan found a second heel identical to the first. She picked it up. “She broke them off, then ran,” she said. She read the heel, reported on the odd vision her gift presented to her. “Sunflowers.”

“Excuse me?” Duarte said.

“It’s what I’m seeing,” Jordan said. “It’s unclear, but it has to do with sunflowers.”

The agents stared at each other.

Serrano shrugged. “Means nothing to me,” he replied. He turned to his partner. “What about you, Torres?”

Agent Torres paused. “Maybe.”

“What are you thinking?” Duarte asked.

“It’s probably nothing,” Torres replied. “There’s a street a mile or so from here. If I’m not mistaken, it backs onto this construction site.”

“What has that got to do with sunflowers?” Serrano asked.

“The name of the street is Carril de los Girasoles. In English, that translates to Sunflower Lane.”

Jordan turned to Duarte. “We need to go to Sunflower Lane.”

“Copy that,” Duarte replied.

The agents returned to their cars and headed to Carril de los Girasoles.

7

MIGUEL RAMOS PULLED up in front of the Club Gusto nightclub, observed the building for several minutes, then called the bartender.

Emmanuel Sega answered. “Si?”

“It’s me. Is it clear?”

“It is now,” Sega replied.

“What about Rabal?” Miguel asked.

“The cops took him away. They found a knife in a dumpster. He was wearing a quick-draw sheath. Should have dumped it when he dumped the knife. Even the dumbest Mexican cop can figure out that one plus one equals two in that scenario. Word is he killed someone. Was it one of the girls I let out back?”

“Yeah. She kicked him. He overreacted.”

“By killing her?”

“What can I say?” Ramos replied. “The situation got out of hand. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did. Rabal has always had a temper. I’ll deal with it. Besides, she’s just one girl.”

“One fucking hot girl. She would have sold for a high price.”

“Whatever. Shit happens. Call it breakage. Give it a night or two. We’ll find another one to take her place.”

“Aren’t you worried about him talking?”

“Rabal? Not a chance.”

“You sure about that?”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Sega said nothing.

Ramos pressed him for an answer. “Tell me what you know.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

“I’m waiting.”

The bartender sighed. “Word is the cops are keeping him all warm and cozy.”

“Is that so?”

“We both know only one kind of prisoner gets that kind of treatment.”

“Rabal would do the full term before he ever talked.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“Let’s just say I don’t have the same level of confidence in him that you do.”

“He’s loyal.”

“Dogs are loyal, Miguel. People, not so much.”

“Who did you hear this from?”

“I have friends in high places.”

“Federal police?”

“A guard. He keeps me up to speed on such matters.”

“And why would he do that?”

“Because he knows the value of information and how much it’s worth to the right people.”

“Like me.”

“Precisely.”

“Are you sure about Rabal?”

“I like our present arrangement, Miguel. You think I’d jeopardize it by providing you with bad intel?”

Miguel paused. “No.”

“Exactly.”

“If what you’re saying is true, I’m exposed.”

“Only if he talks. I checked the club’s security system recording before the police arrived. Your back is to the camera. Rabal was recorded killing the girl. Your face isn’t visible, so you’re good.”

“What about the girl?”

“She’s almost out of frame. There’s no clear image of her for the cops to work with. And with her friend dead, she’s a ghost.”

“What about the cameras inside the club?”

“We don’t have any. The players who come here know that. Gusto has a reputation for discretion which our customers don’t mind paying for. Why do you think we can charge a thousand bucks for a bottle of Cristal and no one bats an eye?”

“And outside the club?”

“Same. The cops don’t need to know who’s coming or going. That’s our business, not theirs. The only camera we have faces the alley. It was installed a year ago because some idiot kid tried to break in through the back entrance. I caught him, took a hammer to his fingers, let him go, and told him to tell his friends. That was the end of that.”

“I need to find her,” Ramos said. “She witnessed Rabal stab her friend. She can testify against him, which means she can testify against me. And I’m not too keen on the idea of going to prison over some American bitch.”

“I have a suggestion,” Sega offered.

“I’m listening.”

“There’s a takeout place down the street. It has one of those micro cameras you wouldn’t be able to see unless you knew where to look for it. The owner told me about it. It faces down the street. Did you see which way the girl ran?”

“She turned right at the end of the alley, then jumped into a car, a Ferrari. We followed her to a house a few miles outside of Juarez. We lost her there.”

“Then you should be good. If she ran past his restaurant, his camera would have picked her up. I’ll talk to him. He’ll show you the footage.”

“How soon?”

“Give me an hour.”

“Very good.”

“Any suggestions on how to handle the Rabal situation?”

“Are you sure that he’s a problem?”

“I wouldn’t have brought it to your attention if I didn’t think he was.”

“You know you’re asking me to consider having my best friend killed.”

“Only because it’s in the best interest of the cartel.”

“The guard you know on the inside. Can he be bought?”

“Every cop in Juarez can be bought.”

Ramos paused. “All right. Take care of it.”

“How much?”

“Ten grand.”

“That ought to do it.”

“It should look like an accident.”

Sega chuckled. “Doesn’t it always?”

8

THE SCRATCHING SOUND coming from outside the metal storage shed door caught Sophie’s attention, forced her to stop crying. She composed herself, listened intently.

Something was clawing at the ground, trying to get into the shed, to her.

She held her breath, remained as quiet as possible. The events of the night replayed in her mind. She had made every attempt to get away, covered her tracks as best she could, thought she was safe. But now the primal fear that she had experienced when she’d run for her life from the madmen in the nightclub alley and the intruders who had blasted their way into the FBI safe house had returned. Somehow, she thought, despite her best efforts to hide from her pursuers, they had found her. She listened for the sound of voices, heard none. The clawing stopped momentarily, then resumed. Sophie summoned her courage, looked around. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light inside the shed. She reached out, grabbed a pair of handheld garden clippers from the shelf next to her. The tool was by no means an ideal weapon for self-defence, but it was all she could lay her hands on. Still, it would offer a modicum of protection against whomever or whatever was trying to get to her. Sophie felt the shivers return, not because she was cold, but because her adrenaline was surging with such intensity that she thought her heart might explode. The clippers shook in her hands. She wanted to scream, to order the source of the nerve-shredding sound to go away and leave her alone, but common sense informed her that her best option was to remain as quiet as possible. She shrank into the back corner of the shed, clutched the tool with both hands, extended her arms in front of her, prepared herself for battle.

She thought of Sierra and how she had referred to their trip.

One last blowout before Yale.

They never should have come to this godforsaken city.

Suddenly, the scratching stopped.

Sophie released the trapped air from her lungs, waited.

Silence.

She lowered the shears, set them down on the wooden floor, buried her face in her hands, took a breath, then wiped away the beads of perspiration that ran down her forehead and stung her eyes. The small louver opening above the sliding metal entrance door offered little circulation within the confined space. The air was dank, humid, felt thin. On more than one occasion she thought she might pass out but managed to stay awake. Fear further contributed to her need to remain conscious and alert. She had already decided that when she was ready to leave the shed, she would sneak through the neighboring yards until she could find another safe place to hide. She would continue moving from yard to yard until she reached the city’s outskirts. When she was close enough, she would make a run for the U.S. consulate, race to the entrance, and identify herself as an American citizen. Once on sovereign soil under the protection of her country’s flag, she would tell the ambassador everything she had seen and experienced since arriving in Juarez. About the nightclub and the bartender she now suspected had sold them out. The men who had attacked them when they tried to leave the club. The man she now suspected had pursued her from the club, followed her and the FBI agents to the safe house, then unlocked the door with a shotgun blast. With her testimony, her country would see to it that justice would be done. With the eyes of the U.S. consulate, FBI, and the Mexican government on them, the federal police would have no choice but to cooperate in a multi-agency investigation into the events as she described them. She had to stay alive. Had to. She owed it to Sierra.

Sophie’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the shed and the sound she had heard before.

The scratching had returned.

Behind her now.

Through the shed’s thin metal wall, she felt a vibration at her back. She froze, terrified at the thought that something was trying to make its way into the shed to get to her. Sophie reached down, picked up the garden shears she thought she would no longer need for protection, clenched them tightly in her hand, then slid away from the wall. Under her weight, the shed’s floorboards creaked.

The scratching stopped, then gave way to a deeper, more menacing, guttural sound.

Sophie scrambled to her feet, faced the wall, prepared herself for what was to come.

Behind her, the shed doors suddenly opened. She spun around, raised the garden shears, and screamed as loud as did the young boy facing her in the doorway, his baying dog held back by its straining leash.

As the dog tried to enter the shed, Sophie moved faster. She ran ahead and closed the door.

Outside, the boys blood-curdling scream was followed by a cry for help that trailed away as he ran to his house. “Dadddd!”

Sophie parted the shed door wide enough to look outside.

The boy and his dog were gone.

They would return, but the next time the boy would be accompanied not just by his dog but also by his father. And when that happened her night would go from bad to worse in a heartbeat.

Sophie could only imagine what the authorities would do to an American intruder found trespassing on the property of a Mexican citizen.

This wasn’t the time to wait around and offer an explanation for what she was doing in the shed.

Sophie ran, hopped the neighboring fence, and left the boy to explain to his parents how the mysterious woman he would claim to have seen had suddenly disappeared into thin air.

9

THE FAINT SOUNDS emanating from the basement of the transfer house reflected the states of the dozens of women being held against their will. In the single cell that ran the length of one wall, those who had come together as strangers now supported each other as sisters. Muffled cries were met with soothing shushes, encouraging hugs, and promises that despite their current predicament, there was nothing to fear, that this was not yet their darkest hour, and that by relying on their collective strength they would not just persevere but overcome, and that their rescue was imminent.

Evil might have found them, but it would not be allowed to prevail.

Fate could not be that cruel.

The guard sat in his chair at the end of the basement, arms crossed, head slumped to one side, snoring softly, his assault rifle propped against his chair. There was really no need for him to be there. The women could not escape. Each cell was securely locked, and the metal ring hanging from his belt held the only keys with which they could be opened. He stirred, cleared his throat, shifted his ample weight from one butt cheek to the other, then reseated himself and fell back to sleep.

Reyna Flores stared at the man. She whispered to her sister standing in the cell next to hers. “Look at him. What a pig.”

Conchita Flores nodded. “Can you imagine anyone sleeping with someone like that?”

Reyna shook her head. “Not in a million years.”

A woman in the long cell across from them whispered. “Shh,” she warned. “Don’t let him hear you say that. If he does, he’ll tell Miguel.”

“So what?” Reyna replied. “There’s nothing he can do about it. We’re Miguel’s property, not his.”

Conchita corrected her sister. “We’re no one’s property.”

“You know what I mean,” Reyna replied.

“You two haven’t been here as long as we have,” the woman said. “You don’t know what we know.”

“Tell us,” Conchita said.

“He’s not just a guard. He’s Miguel’s breaker.”

“Breaker?” Reyna asked. “What are you talking about?”

The woman explained. “Before someone leaves here, Miguel has them broken. The guard is the one who does it.” She glanced at the fat man, made sure he was still asleep, then continued. “He does it with every woman.”

“It?” Reyna asked.

“You know. It.”

“He screws them?” Conchita asked.

The woman nodded.

“Why?”

“To break them in,” the woman replied. “He does it in the middle cell, the one beside yours, for everyone to see. Miguel calls him El Semental, The Stallion. He’s massive. Every woman who’s been with him screams. It’s horrible. You can hear the pain in their voice. He breaks them in so that they’ll never have to be concerned about not being able to handle another man in the future after they leave here.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Reyna said.

The woman shook her head. “Ask anyone. They’ll tell you. It’s the truth. I don’t know what most of us fear more. What’s waiting for us after we leave here or being with El Semental.”

“Jesus,” Conchita said.

Reyna shook her head. “There’s no way I’d ever let him do that to me. He’d have to kill me first.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to die,” the woman replied.

Reyna looked shocked. “What are you talking about?”

“I arrived two weeks ago as part of a large group,” the woman said. “There were too many of us to fit in the cell, so Miguel told us that half of us would be shipped out that day and the rest at a later date. We are the ones who were left behind. Everyone else was taken away, but not before El Semental had his way with each of them. One women tried to fight him off. She wouldn’t let him near her. El Semental lost his temper. He grabbed her by the throat, shook her like a rag doll, and snapped her neck like it was nothing. We all heard it. It was horrible. He opened the cell door with one hand, threw her dead body out with the other, then grabbed the next girl and dragged her into the cell. Needless to say, everyone cooperated after that. We were all scared to death. You can say you won’t let him do anything to you, but unless you believe that getting screwed by him is a fate worse than death, you’ll give in and let it happen. It will be a horrible experience, of course. But at least you’ll live to see another day.”

Reyna stood quietly, let the woman’s warning sink in. Finally, she spoke. “No, we won’t.”

“Won’t what?” the woman asked.

“Just survive it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“Clear as a bell,” Reyna replied.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re going to find a way out here. All of us.”

“That’s not possible,” the woman whispered. Fear crept into her voice. It shook as she replied. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do whatever El Semental wants you to do.”

Reyna shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

The woman became angry. “Then you’re a fool who is going to die. You just don’t know it yet!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Reyna replied. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Oh?” the woman exclaimed. “What is there to know?”

Reyna held the woman’s stare. “I’m not the type to go down without a fight. And my sister and I sure as hell aren’t staying here another day.”

“What do you plan to do?” the woman asked.

Reyna stared at the sleeping guard. “You’ll see.”

10

SPECIAL AGENT DUARTE turned up the volume on the Mexican police scanner in her car. The incoming report informed her of an urgent man-with-a-gun call in progress to which the local police had been dispatched.

“Did you catch that address?” Jordan asked.

Duarte nodded. “Carril de los Girasoles. Sunflower Lane.”

“That can’t be a coincidence,” Jordan said. “How long before the cops arrive?”

Duarte shook her head. “This is Juarez. In any city in the U.S., a call like that would qualify for an immediate response, maybe even by a tactical team if the resources were available. Here, those calls are a dime a dozen. The city’s still on lockdown because of the gang war. I’m sure the local PD won’t be in any hurry to get to Sunflower Lane. Besides, it’s only a few blocks away. We’ll be there in less than a minute.”

The agents reached the quiet street, pulled up to the curb, stepped out of the FBI sedan. No sooner had Chris exited the vehicle when a man stepped through his backyard gate, his son and dog at his side. He was brandishing a pistol.

Chris drew his weapon, trained it on the man. “FBI! Drop the gun!” he yelled out. “Suelta la pistola! Ahora!”

The man suddenly found himself confronted by federal agents, their guns drawn, waiting for him to comply with Chris’s demands.

“Si! Si!” the man called out. He tossed his weapon to the ground, raised his hands. “I speak English,” he said. “Please don’t shoot!”

Unafraid to protect his family in the face of danger, the dog crept forward, bared its teeth, snarled menacingly, challenged the agents.

Duarte called out, told the man to secure his dog and identify himself.

The man nodded, leashed his dog, handed the animal’s lead to his son. “My name is Mauricio de Armas,” he replied. “This is my home. You’re not municipal police. What are you doing here? Why are you holding me at gunpoint in the presence of my son?”

Confident the man posed no threat to their safety, the agents secured their weapons. “We heard a radio call,” Duarte replied. “Man with a gun. We were nearby, thought we’d back up the Mexican police.”

“Since when does the American FBI back up the police?” Mauricio asked curtly.

“Since when does a Mexican citizen walk around his property with a gun in his hand?” Duarte asked.

“Since always,” de Armas said. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is Juarez.”

“I’m well aware of where I am, Mr. de Armas,” Duarte said. “Please answer the question.”

Mauricio shook his head. “As always, the police are never around when we need them.” He sighed. “If you must know, my son claimed he found an intruder in our backyard. He said she was hiding in our shed.”

“She?” Jordan asked.

Mauricio nodded. He spoke to his son. “Gael, tell them what you saw.”

Gael shuffled his feet, stared at the ground, said nothing.

Jordan approached the boy. “Hi, Gael,” she said. “My name’s Jordan. That’s a great-looking dog you’ve got there. Think it would be okay if I said hi?”

Gael shrugged. “I guess so.”

“He won’t bite me, will he?”

Gael shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Jordan smiled. “I’d prefer if he didn’t. As a matter of fact, we can make sure that he doesn’t. Want to know how?”

Gael nodded. “Sure.”

“If I walk towards him right now while he’s protecting you, he’ll see me as a threat. But if you walk towards me, he’ll see that you’re in charge and that everything is okay. Want to give it a try?”

“Okay.”

Jordan waited while Gael walked toward her. The dog followed, sniffed Jordan’s legs, then her hand. When he sensed her calm state, he relaxed and lay at his master’s feet.

“See?” Jordan said. “Pretty cool, huh?”

Gael looked up and smiled. “Yeah.”

“Think you can do something for me?”

Gael shrugged. “I guess so. As long as my dad says it’s okay.”

Jordan looked to Mauricio for his approval. He nodded.

“Tell me about the person you saw in your shed,” Jordan asked.

“Beau sniffed her out, then started growling,” Gael said. “He’s always going after one animal or another. Even went after a skunk once.”

Jordan laughed. “I’ll bet that didn’t end well.”

Gael shook his head. “Nope. The skunk won. Dad wouldn’t let Beau into the house for a week, and that was after six tomato juice baths!”

“Yuck.”

“Double yuck!”

“So, you followed Beau to see what had gotten his attention?”

Gael nodded. “At first I thought it was nothing. I just wanted to get my baseball glove, but Beau pushed past me. That’s when I saw her. I don’t know who screamed louder, her or me. That’s when I pulled Beau back and we ran to get dad.”

“That was the smart thing to do.”

Gael beamed. “Thanks.” He paused. “Say, are you really with the FBI?”

Jordan nodded. “I am.”

“Can I see your badge?”

Jordan smiled. “Sure.” She opened her purse, removed her ID, handed it to Gael. “In the FBI, we call this our credentials.”

“Wow,” Gael said. “Neat!” He examined the ID, handed it back.

“So what happened after you got your dad?” Jordan asked.

Gael shrugged. “Dunno. We came back a minute or two later. By then, she was gone.”

“So you didn’t see which way she went when she left?”

Gael shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jordan assured him. “You did great.”

“I did?”

“You bet. Just one last thing.”

“Sure.”

“Can you show me the shed?”

Gael looked up at his father. “Can I, Dad?”

Mauricio nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

“Cool!” Gael said. “C’mon. It’s this way.”

Jordan followed the boy and his dog into the backyard. Ahead of them, Jordan saw the energy signature leading to the shed. It was the same ethereal aura she had followed through the construction site. She followed the trail to the fence at the back of the property.

Chris joined her as she stood looking into the neighboring yards. “Any luck?” he asked.

“She was here,” Jordan said. “We lost her.”

“Can you track her?”

Jordan nodded.

Beau walked up to the agents. He wagged his tail as Chris and Jordan scratched his head.

“She couldn’t have gone far,” Chris said.

“Let’s hope not,” Jordan replied. “I got a sensation from this reading that I hadn’t previously received.”

“What’s that?”

Jordan paused. “We’re not the only ones looking for her.”

11

MIGUEL RAMOS MET Emmanuel Sega, the bartender from Club Gusto, at Fat Tito’s. The fast food takeout joint was located half a block down the street from the nightclub. Tito greeted the men as they walked through the door.

“Manny!” Tito exclaimed. He threw his arms around his friend, gave him a bear hug, lifted him off the ground. “It’s been too long. How have you been?”

Emmanuel smiled. “Another day older, my friend.”

Tito smiled. “You look great. I swear I could feed you nothing but burritos for a year and you’d still look like a model.”

Emmanuel laughed. “Good genes, I guess.”

“Good looks, thin build,” Tito replied. “Think your parents could throw a few of those genes my way?” He held his generous stomach with both hands. “Actually, forget it. It’s too late for me now.”

Emmanuel made the introductions. “Tito, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Miguel.”

The men shook hands.

“You said you wanted to see my video footage, Manny?” Tito asked.

Emmanuel nodded. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Tito brushed the air dismissively with his hand. “Nonsense.”

“Thank you, Tito,” Emmanuel replied.

Tito spoke as they walked past the meal preparation counter to his office which was located in the back of the establishment. “Do you mind if I ask why you want to see it?”

“Not at all,” Emmanuel replied. “But you’re probably going to laugh when I tell you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m trying to find a girl.”

Tito chuckled. “Welcome to the club, brother. I’ve been trying to do that for years!”

“This one is extra special.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“I met her at Gusto while I was working. We talked for a while and made a pretty good connection, but then I got busy. I’m afraid she might have thought I wasn’t interested in her after all, so she left. I ran after her the first chance I got, but she was already halfway down the street. Miguel saw her get into a car. If your camera caught a glimpse of her, perhaps you could print out her picture for me. I’ll keep an eye open for her, hopefully see her car on the road.”

Tito smiled as he sat down at his computer and accessed the video footage. “Sounds like you’ve got the hots for her pretty bad.”

Emmanuel stole a glance at Miguel and winked. “I’d hate it if she turned out to be the one that got away.”

“I hear you,” Tito replied. He looked at Miguel. “How do you know Manny?” he asked.

“I’m his wingman on the bar circuit,” Miguel lied. “Not that he needs any help with charming the ladies.”

Tito laughed. “No, he does not!” He opened the computer file. “Okay, Romeo. What time did she leave the club?”

“Around ten o’clock.”

Tito scanned through the footage. “Here you go. This is my ten p.m. footage.”

The men watched as Sophie exited the alleyway, ran around the corner, then down the street out of camera range.

“Huh,” Tito said.

“What is it?” Emmanuel asked.

“Was she okay before she left Gusto?” the big man asked.

Emmanuel nodded. “As far as I know. Why do you ask?”

“It’s probably nothing,” Tito replied.

“Tell me,” Emmanuel said.

Tito held up his hands. “If you ask me, she looks scared… like she’s running away from someone.”

Emmanuel shook his head. “Or maybe someone was waiting for her, and she was in a hurry.”

“Yeah,” Tito replied. “I’m sure that’s it.”

“Can you print me off a screen grab?” Emmanuel asked.

Tito’s voice had lost the jovial timbre it held seconds ago. “Sure, Manny. Whatever you want.”

“Thanks, brother.”

Tito waited for the picture to print, then handed the paper to his friend. “There you go,” he said. “Happy hunting. If you find her, do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Find out if she has a sister.”

Emmanuel laughed, folded the printout, slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll do that.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” Tito asked.

Emmanuel shook his head. “No, I’m good.”

Tito stood. “All right. Well, if that’s the case, there’s only one thing left for me to do.”

“What’s that?” Emmanuel asked.

“Send you both on your way with the best homemade Mexican takeout money can buy, or in your case, can’t buy!”

Emmanuel smiled. “You don’t need to do that, Tito.”

“Need to? No. Want to? Absolutely!”

“You’re a good man. Thank you very much.”

Tito waved his hand in the air. “Bah! Don’t mention it. Follow me. I’ll hook you up.”

The men thanked Tito for his time and the meals, then left the restaurant.

Outside, Emmanuel handed Miguel the picture. “Think you’ll be able to locate her?” he asked.

Miguel nodded. “An American girl who looks like that will stand out on the streets of Juarez. She won’t be hard to find.” He paused.

“What is it?” Emmanuel asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Something bugging you?”

Miguel nodded. “Your friend.”

“Tito? What about him?”

“He suspects something.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“I don’t know. Something about the conversation seemed off.”

“Trust me,” Emmanuel said. “Tito is the last guy on the planet you need to worry about. The man only has three things he’s concerned about in his life. His restaurant, his high blood pressure, and his cat. He’s no threat to you, me, or anyone else.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Miguel nodded. “If you say so.”

“Come with me,” Emmanuel said. “I’ve got a present for you.”

“What is it?”

The men reached Emmanuel’s car. He pressed the key fob, popped the trunk, reached in, pulled out a plastic bag, opened it, showed its contents to Miguel. “Recognize this?” he asked.

Miguel shrugged. “Should I?”

“I found it beside a crate of empty beer bottles my staff put out for pick up,” Emmanuel said. “I looked down and there it was, right where the alley meets the road.”

“It’s a clutch purse. Big deal.”

Emmanuel grabbed a rag, reached into the trunk, covered the purse with the cloth, opened it, pulled out a plastic card. “Check it out.”

Miguel read aloud the information on the driver’s license. “Sophia Clemons. 1918 Terra Vista Court, Tucson, Arizona.” He removed Tito’s printout from his pocket, unfolded it, compared the license picture to the image captured by the video camera. “That’s her.”

Emmanuel nodded. “It is. She dropped her purse when she ran out of the alley. She probably didn’t stop to pick it up because she knew that you’d be right behind her. Her cell phone is in here, too. You know what this means, right?”

Miguel smiled. “Yeah. I know where to find her family.”

Tito looked out the front door of his restaurant, saw the men talking at the back of Emmanuel’s car, then locked the door. Something about Emmanuel’s friend had left him feeling unnerved. He hoped the man had not caught on. He returned to his office, opened his computer, recalled the video footage, advanced it past the time when he had stopped it earlier to print the screen grab, watched as the woman ran from the alley. Ten seconds later, he watched Miguel reach the end of the alley, then run across the street out of camera range.

Something felt wrong.

He stopped the video, closed the laptop, sighed. “What have you gotten yourself into, Manny?” he said.

12

SEVERAL BLOCKS AWAY from the house she had just run from, Sophie stopped to inspect her bleeding leg. One block back, she had cut herself climbing over the top rail of an old wooden fence. Her thigh had found an exposed nail which ripped into her flesh, causing her to lose her balance, and then fall to the ground on the neighboring side. Under her weight, the fence’s rotted posts had given way, and the entire panel had collapsed. Sophie had picked herself up, struggled to her feet, and limped away as fast as she could before the sound of the crashing wood awakened the sleeping residents. Blood flowed freely now down her leg. She pressed her hand on the gash, applied pressure to stem the flow, but the wound leaked through her fingers. “Perfect,” she muttered as she removed her hand and inspected the painful wound. “Just friggin’ perfect.”

On the opposite side of the street, Sophie spied a row of dark buildings nestled between a row of houses. She wiped her bloodied hand on her tattered minidress, then shuffled across the street toward the plaza, keeping an eye on her surroundings for signs that she was being observed. She reached the small collective of local businesses, ducked into the alley behind a beauty salon, watched, listened, and waited.

All quiet.

Besides trying to stay out of sight of police patrols, Sophie was just as worried about coming in contact with one of the many Mexican gangs that roamed the streets both day and night. She needed to find a way to disguise her appearance and blend in as best a pretty Caucasian female could in Juarez. She saw what she needed at the end of the plaza. The only obstacles in her way were the storefronts of the six businesses past which she would have to hobble until she reached the other end of the plaza.

Sophie stepped out from behind the back wall of the beauty salon and looked up and down the road. Empty. She glanced at the houses. In all but one, their windows were dark. The house on the corner was the exception. A single window, possibly that of a bathroom, was illuminated. She waited for a minute, then watched as the light went out and the room fell dark. As far as she could tell, she was now in the clear, which meant that once she made her way past the storefronts, she would be able to cross the parking lot and reach the metal clothing donation bin. Surrounding the receptacle was a generous supply of large garbage bags, which she assumed to be the overflow of clothing donations that could not fit into the already full bin. Once there, she would rip open the bags and sort through their contents. Fingers crossed, she could soon exchange her bloodied and torn dress for more appropriate street clothes and a pair of sensible shoes.

As Sophie reached the door of the last business in the plaza, her attention was drawn to the bright lights that slowly illuminated the end of the street. A car was approaching. With nowhere to hide, Sophie did the only thing she could do. She shuffled over to the donation bin, dropped to her knees to avoid being seen, crawled behind the clothes-filled garbage bags, pulled them around and on top of her, then waited.

Seconds later, the car pulled into the plaza and stopped. Its headlights illuminated the metal donation bin.

Sophie peered through a narrow gap between the bags and listened as the two men in the car lit up their cigarettes, lowered their windows, and spoke as they smoked.

Odd-sounding electronic chatter lent background noise to their conversation. Sophie was not proficient in Spanish, but she knew enough to understand the gist of what was being said. She picked out the key words and phrases:

“Te enteraste del incidente en la dictoteca Gusto?” one of the men asked.

(“You heard about the incident at the Gusto nightclub?”)

“Ramos dice que pagará un buen dinero por la chica que se escapo.”

(“Ramos says he’ll pay good money for the girl that got away.”)

“Viente mil dólares americanos.”

(Twenty-thousand American dollars.)

“Le guerra de pandillas he terminado. Podemoas buscaria esta noche.”

(“The gang war is over. We can look for her tonight.”)

The one-sided conversation was interrupted by more electronic chatter.

The man’s tone of voice suddenly changed. In the faint light that illuminated the vehicles interior, Sophie listened as he replied.

“Unidad catorce. Muéstranos respondiento, codigo duo.”

(“Unit 14. Show us responding, code two.”)

Sophie closed the narrow gap between the bags and waited until the car had left the parking lot. The gravity of the situation suddenly hit her.

These men were police officers, their vehicle an unmarked sedan.

They were aware of the situation that had gone down at Club Gusto nightclub and would soon be looking for her, but not to help her. Ramos had put a price on her head, a finder’s fee of twenty thousand dollars.

In that moment, her worst fear was realized.

She could not trust anyone, not even the police. She was completely and utterly on her own.

Sophie crawled out from beneath the bags, tore them open one by one, tossed aside the items that were useless to her. She grabbed a selection of garments, shuffled to the back of the collection bin, removed her dress, and tried on the jeans, pale blue tank top, and white jacket for size. The jeans were a little snug in the waist, but the tank top and jacket fit her perfectly. The sneakers were a half-size too large. Sophie remedied that problem by shoving a pair of ankle socks she had found into the toe box of each shoe. She shook her head as she looked down at the bright yellow sneakers. “There’s a time to be a fashionista and a time not to be,” she said aloud. “This is not one of those times.” She ripped apart a t-shirt, unzipped her jeans, pulled them down to her knees, wrapped the cloth strip around her thigh to bandage and add pressure to the wound, then redressed. The tight jeans and makeshift field dressing immediately compressed the wound and reduced the pain in her leg. Sophie stuffed her old dress under the clothing collection bin and assessed her new ensemble. “I look like a twelve-year-old,” she said. “Then again, under the circumstances, that might be a good thing.”

Sophie stepped out from behind the donations bin, checked out the street. The houses remained dark. She picked up the garden clippers, shoved them into the waistband of her jeans, covered them with her jacket. The handheld cutters were bulky, clumsy, and felt cold and uncomfortable against her skin, but they were necessary for her protection.

The rumbling in her stomach reminded her that it had been hours since she had last eaten. Sophie glanced at the plaza, checked out the names of the stores. La Cantina, a Mexican restaurant, caught her eye. Perhaps a food disposal bin was located behind the plaza. With any luck, she could find a few morsels within it to fill her empty stomach and alleviate her hunger.

Sophie walked to the back of the plaza. Her wounded leg felt stronger and more reliable now. She spied the refuse bin, walked to it, threw back its plastic lid, and began sorting through discarded bits of food. She picked out several slices of luncheon meat, a damp soft taco wrap, and broken pieces of chocolate chip cookie. She ate the food greedily, giving little thought to its appearance or taste, choosing instead to focus on the much-needed nutrients and energy it would provide to her body. When she had consumed as much of the refuse as she could bring herself to eat, she lowered the garbage can lid, tried to convince herself that the food hadn’t tasted as bad as it did, failed in the attempt, then ran to a row of rose bushes at the back of the plaza and vomited. Hands on her knees, Sophie spat out the last of the foul matter. In her weakened and vulnerable state, she failed to hear the restaurant’s back door open behind her.

The light above the door flashed to life, exposing her to its harsh glare.

Sophie turned and locked eyes with the young man staring at her, heard him call out.

“Quien eres?” he asked.

She watched him as he stepped outside and approached her. He repeated his question in English. “Who are you?”

With nowhere to run, Sophie’s hand reached for the clippers under her jacket. She pulled them out, hid them behind her leg, watched as the man closed the distance between them.

Her survival instinct informed her she had one of two choices to make right now.

Fight or flight.

She clutched the clippers tightly and stood her ground.

13

REYNA SHOOK HER cell door, called out to the sleeping guard. “Hey, fatso!”

The guard awoke with a start. The assault rifle leaning against his chair fell, clattered on the concrete floor. He looked up, scanned the rows of cells.

Reyna stood at the front of her cell.

The man barked at her. “Que?”

Reyna turned to her sister. “What did he say?”

Conchita shrugged. “Sounded like he said what.”

“I thought you didn’t speak Spanish.”

“I don’t.”

“But you understood that?”

“If you had just interrupted me while I was in a nice deep sleep,” Conchita replied, “I’d have said more than what to you. I’d have added an explicative or two.”

The man stared at Reyna, waited for her to reply.

“Well, what now?” Conchita asked her sister as she watched the man rise from his chair and retrieve his rifle from the floor. “You better give him a damn good reason for waking him up, so think fast.”

Reyna and Conchita’s cells were among the row of single cells reserved for the most beautiful women. Each was outfitted with its own toilet and cloth privacy curtain. Reyna pointed to the closed curtain, called out to the guard. “Mio toiletto esto fuckedo upo.”

Conchita shook her head. “What did you just say?”

Reyna kept her eyes on the man as he checked his weapon for damage after it fell. After concluding that the rifle was in perfect working order, he propped it against his chair again. “Beats the hell out of me,” she replied. “Pig Spanish. It was the best I could come up with.”

“Fucked-o up-o?” Conchita said. “Really?”

“Is your Spanish any better?” Reyna whispered.

“No.”

“Then shuto the hello upo while I dealo with this assholeo.”

The big man walked to her cell. He stopped at the door, stared at Reyna. “Que quieres?” he asked.

Reyna turned to her sister. “I don’t know what he said.”

The woman in the cell on the opposite side of the room from her replied. “He asked, what do you want?”

Reyna lied. “Tell him my toilet is backed up. I need him to fix it.”

The woman translated for her.

The man yelled at Reyna, dismissed her with a wave of his hand, then turned and walked away.

“What did he say?” Reyna asked.

“You want the literal translation or the PG version?”

“Either.”

“He called you a whore, then suggested you relieve yourself in the corner.”

“Well, that was rude,” Reyna said.

“Surely you weren’t expecting him to fix it?”

The man walked back to his chair, sat, opened his lunch bag, removed a can of beer, pulled the tab, took a swig, leaned back, stared at Reyna, muttered to himself.

“No,” Reyna replied. “I was just hoping he’d open the door.”

“Why?”

“So that we could get better acquainted.”

“I’d advise against that,” the woman said. “Remember what I told you earlier? He killed a woman like it was nothing. He could do the same to you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m worth a lot of money to Miguel and he knows it. If he were to kill me, Miguel might kill him just to make a point to everyone else working here.”

“Which would be?”

“That no one messes with the merchandise.”

“And if he did? If he opened the door and entered your cell? Then what?”

“Then I’d play with him for a little while.”

“Meaning?”

“This.”

Reyna shook her cell door again, called out. “Hey, tubby. Got a second?”

The guard finished his beer, angrily crushed the can in his hand, tossed it aside, rose to his feet, walked towards Reyna.

“Now you did it, Rey,” Conchita said. “That is one pissed-off human enchilada.”

“That’s kind of what I was going for,” Reyna whispered. When the guard reached her cell, she stepped back, smiled at him mischievously, and opened the top button of her blouse.

The man’s demeanor immediately changed. He stared at Reyna.

“Like what you see, big boy?” she asked.

The unspoken language of seduction made her intentions clear. He chuckled, looked her up and down, spoke.

Reyna smiled coyly, undid a second button, parted her blouse, revealed her cleavage. “What did he say?” she asked.

The woman in the opposite cell answered. “He says you’d never be able to handle it.”

Reyna replied. “Tell him, ‘Don’t be so sure.’”

The woman spoke for her. “Que no estés tan segura.”

The guard smiled. “Okay,” he replied.

Reyna spoke one of the few Spanish words she knew. “Beer?” she asked. “Cerveza, por favor?”

The guard nodded. “Si, si. Cerveza. Okay.”

Reyna watched him walk back to his chair, open his lunch bag, remove two cans of beer. He returned to her cell, a confident swagger in his step.

The woman in the opposite cell stared at Reyna, shook her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said. “Remember, you brought this on yourself.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Reyna replied. “Let me guess. You weren’t a cheerleader in high school.”

“No, I wasn’t,” the woman replied.

“Big surprise.”

The guard reached her cell door, handed the cans of beer through the bars. Reyna smiled as she took them, a can in each hand, then waited for the man to retrieve the keys from the ring on his belt. With a heavy clunk, the cell door lock released. The guard stepped inside, turned his back, then felt his eardrums explode as Reyna slammed the two cans of beer simultaneously against both of his ears, crushing the cans against his skull.

Before he could scream, Reyna tossed the cans aside, grabbed hold of the toilet privacy curtain behind her, pulled it off its metal rod, wrapped it around El Semental’s head and neck, kicked the man as hard as she could in his Achilles tendon, then controlled him as he struggled against her and crumpled to the ground. She twisted the curtain tightly, pulled on it with all her might, held onto the man with everything, strangling him until his body fall limp. Reyna counted down from ten to one, then released her grip on the curtain, let it drop. She placed her fingertips over the guard’s carotid artery, checked for a pulse, found none.

The Stallion was dead.

Conchita stared at her sister as she wriggled out from under the dead man. “Jesus, Rey,” she said. “Are you okay?”

Reyna rifled through the dead man’s pockets, then retrieved the cell keys from the man’s belt. “Once a Ranger, always a Ranger,” she replied. “Uncle Sam spent a lot of money training me. You didn’t think I’d let that go to waste, did you?”

“I knew the Army trained you in self-defense,” Conchita replied, “but I had no idea you could do that!”

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know, sis,” Reyna said. “I was with the 75th Ranger Regiment, US Army, Special Operations. I’ll tell you all about it one day over a beer. The stuff that’s not classified, that is. But for now, what do you say we focus our attention on getting everyone out of here?”

Conchita nodded. “Lead the way.”

Reyna smiled. “Rangers always do.”

14

SPECIAL AGENT DUARTE’S phone rang as the team gathered in front of the de Armas residence and discussed the case. She excused herself, took the call.

“What’s next, J?” Chris asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“I’m not sure,” Jordan replied.

“You lost her?”

“For the moment.”

“Lost her?” Special Agent Serrano scoffed. “Funny, I thought you were always tuned into the whole psychic thing.”

“It’s not a thing, as you call it,” Jordan replied curtly. “It’s a gift. It’s not perfect, nor am I. Sometimes, the images I receive are crystal clear; other times they’re not. When it’s clear, it plays out like a movie, sometimes I just get the trailer. I never know what I’m going to receive. I just know that when I do it’s usually right.”

Chris took offense to the smart remark, defended Jordan. “Listen, Serrano. If there’s somewhere else you’d rather be, or another case you’d prefer to work on, feel free to leave.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Serrano asked.

“Exactly what I said,” Chris replied. “You’re not the lead agent on this investigation. Jordan is.”

“I know that, Hanover.”

Chris stepped forward. “Then treat my partner with the respect she deserves.”

“That’s enough, Chris,” Jordan said.

Chris shook his head. “No way, J. He’s out of line. You don’t need to take crap like that from a fellow agent.”

Agent Torres spoke to her partner. “Agent Hanover is right, Pablo. That was uncalled for.”

Serrano reconsidered what he had said. “You’re right. I apologize, Agent Quest.”

Duarte returned, sensed the tension between the agents. “Everything okay here?” she asked.

The agents nodded. “All good.”

Duarte continued. “I know this is a difficult case,” she said. “Everyone’s uptight. Don’t think I haven’t felt the tension in the office. Two of my best agents are missing and unaccounted for, a possible witness to their disappearance is on the run, and to make matters worse, the call I just received was to inform me that another American girl has been found dead on the outskirts of Los Juguetes.”

“What do we know about her?” Agent Torres asked.

“Her name is Evelyn Wardell. Twenty-one years old from Austin, Texas. Arrived in Juarez two weeks ago. The Mexican police took photographs at the scene and sent her picture to Homeland Security. Biometrics matched the picture to both her passport photo and her image captured by border cams when she crossed into Mexico. We’ve been asked to follow up. Homeland is requesting we give it top priority.”

“Why is that?” Serrano asked.

“Because she’s a VIP,” Duarte explained. “Her father is Texas Governor Everett Wardell. Evelyn is his daughter and only child. The governor reached out to the bureau’s Austin office two days after Evelyn failed to return home as expected. He’s yet to be notified of her death. The body is being transferred to the coroner’s office in Juarez. I need you two to go to Los Juguetes and handle the onsite investigation. I’ll continue to work this case with agents Quest and Hanover.”

Torres nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Copy that,” Serrano replied.

“Good. Now go. Update me when you arrive.”

Torres and Serrano took their leave.

Duarte watched the agents drive off. “These disappearances are out of control,” she confessed. “Every time I turn around another missing person’s file lands on my desk.”

“We need to widen our search area for this woman,” Chris said. “As far as we know, she’s traveling on foot. She couldn’t have gone that far. Jordan, how strong was her energy signature before you lost it?”

“Very,” Jordan replied.

“Which means you could pick it up again, right?”

Jordan nodded. “That’s correct.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Chris walked to the sedan, called out. “Are you two coming, or will I have to search Juarez on my own?”

Duarte glanced at Jordan as she walked to the sedan. “You really have your hands full with him, don’t you?”

Jordan nodded, smiled. “And then some.”

15

EMMANUEL SEGA REMOVED Sophie’s driver’s license from her purse and handed it to Ramos. “If you plan to go looking for her, take this,” he said. “Tito’s printout only shows her from a distance and the resolution is poor. Now you can recognize her up close.”

Miguel took the plastic card, pocketed it.

“You want me to come with you?” Emmanuel asked. “Two pairs of eyes scanning the street are better than one.”

Ramos shook his head. “I have another job for you.”

“Name it.”

“Go to the police station. Talk to your contact. Find out exactly where Rabal is being held, then pay him a visit.”

“You want me to tell him that you know he’s been talking?”

“Just the opposite. Tell him I know nothing other than that he’s been arrested.”

“What if he asks why you haven’t come to see him yet?”

“He knows I’m involved in an important business deal right now. It’s going down later today. The girl he killed was to have been part of the night’s catch. Same with the girl I’m looking for.” Miguel removed the driver’s license from his pocket, read the name on the ID. “Sophie Clemons.”

Sega nodded.

Ramos continued. “I put the word out to a few cops on our payroll to look for her. All they know so far is that she’s pretty and American. I didn’t have a picture to send them until now.”

“And when they find her?”

“They’ve been instructed to take her to the holding and transfer station.”

Sega nodded. “How many will be on this shipment?”

Ramos shrugged. “Forty. We’ve been getting so many recently I can’t keep up.”

Sega chuckled. “That’s a nice problem to have.”

“It is, but I prefer quality over quantity.”

“Has that been a problem?”

Ramos shook his head. “Not anymore. You know what they say. Marketing is everything.”

“Your college and university postcard handouts are working?”

Ramos nodded. “Like a charm. My people handed out three thousand Club Gusto Ladies Night promotional postcards last month to students at campuses from California to Arizona. What university chick wouldn’t want to party the night away when she can drink for free every night after ten o’clock?”

“It’s a brilliant idea, Miguel,” Emmanuel replied. “Gusto has been packed to capacity every night since the promo started. The higher-ups must be pleased with what you’ve been able to accomplish.”

Ramos smiled. “The program earned the cartel over ten million dollars last year. They were able to expand the operation to six countries from four. Pretty soon, we won’t be able to keep up with the demand.”

Emmanuel paused. “I’ve been thinking about this, Miguel. I want to join you.”

Ramos looked surprised. “You mean the CJNG?”

Emmanuel nodded. “I can be of greater value to you as a member of the cartel than as a bartender at Club Gusto.”

“How do you figure?”

“Set me up with my own place and you’ll see.”

“You mean your own nightclub?”

“Exactly. I already know how to run a club. Think about how much more business you’d generate if you had a second one. You’d have access to twice as many women and be able to expand the business to even more markets. I can help with that, too. I have friends in countries who would love to broker your women for you. For a fee, of course.”

Ramos replied thoughtfully. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this life, Emmanuel.”

Emmanuel looked offended. “What makes you say that?”

“Don’t take it personally, my friend. I know a promising recruit when I see one, and you’re not him.”

Emmanuel sighed. “Before you dismiss the idea altogether, say you’ll agree to give it some thought?”

Ramos nodded. “All right. I’ll think it over. Right now, I have more important matters to attend to.”

“Of course,” Emmanuel replied. “I’ll go to the police station and ask to talk to Rabal.”

“When you do, make sure he’s under the impression that he has nothing to worry about.”

Emmanuel nodded. “I will.”

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

“Find out when he has exercise time in the yard.”

16

THE YOUNG MAN took a step toward Sophie. “Are you okay?” he asked, his tone suggesting both curiosity and concern.

Sophie said nothing. She tightened her grip on the garden clippers and prepared herself to use them against him if necessary. He was a few years older than her and a few inches taller, but with a similar build. His fit body gave her the impression he could take care of himself if the situation called for it. Then again, so could she.

“You want some water?” he asked.

“What I want is for you to stay where you are,” Sophie replied. She moved her arm to her side and presented the garden clippers she held in her hand.

The young man nodded. “I can do that,” he said. “I just thought you might want to rinse out your mouth after puking all over my rose bushes. Thanks for that, by the way. They were coming along just fine until you fertilized them.”

Sophie lessened her death grip on the shears.

The man pointed to the gardening implement in her hand. “What do you plan to do with those?”

“That depends on you,” Sophie replied.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“You think I want to hurt you?”

“Maybe.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Sophie shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you? Everybody else in this crappy city wants a piece of me. Why not you too?”

“Well, maybe because I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done,” the young man replied. “Which means you pose no threat to me. Unless, of course, you’re planning on pruning me to death.”

“Don’t think I won’t hesitate to use them,” Sophie said.

The young man nodded. “Good to know. But if that’s your plan, you might want to practice with them first. The rose bush behind you, the one which you just christened, could use a trim. You mind?”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself for a guy being held at knifepoint,” Sophie replied.

The young man smirked. “I’d hardly call that a knife.”

Sophie looked down at the shears. “It’s not what you’ve got. It’s how you use it that counts.”

“My ex-girlfriend used to remind me of that all the time.”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so. The moment called for an icebreaker. Did it work?”

“Maybe.”

“Besides, it’s probably only fair to warn you that I could take those away from you whenever I want.”

“You think so, do you?”

The young man thumbed his hand at the building. “I own two businesses in this plaza. This restaurant, La Cantina, which I run during the day, and the martial arts studio beside it. So, to answer your question, yes, I could take them away from you. But I think it’s better if you hang on to them for a while.”

“Why is that?”

“For your peace of mind. Say, you wouldn’t happen to be carrying any other armaments, would you? Gun? Hand grenades? Samurai sword? Shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile?”

Sophie lied. “Maybe.”

“Nice try. No, you’re not.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because if you were, you wouldn’t lead with a pair of garden shears in what you’re obviously perceiving to be a life or death situation.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Not even close.”

Sophie sighed, lowered the shears. “You’re annoyingly confident, you know that?”

The young man smiled. “So I’ve been told.” He paused. “So, you want that water now?”

Sophie shrugged. “I suppose my mouth could do with a rinse.”

“Is it okay if I go inside and grab you a bottle?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m not sure if I should turn my back on you.”

“Why is that?”

“You look like you know how to handle those shears. That has me a little worried.”

“About?”

“For all I know, you could be a serial pruner.”

“A serial what?”

“Pruner. You know, like a serial killer, but one who murders plants. I’m fearing for the welfare of my rose bush right now. How do I know you that won’t commit horticultural homicide and prune it to pieces the second after I step inside?”

Sophie smiled. “I promise I won’t murder your rose bush.”

“I can trust you on that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. When I get back, Rosie better not have a single petal out of place.”

“Rosie?”

“Isn’t that what you’d call your pet rose bush if you had one?”

Sophie shook her head. “You’re weird.”

“Aren’t you being a little judgemental calling me weird when you don’t even know me?”

“Sorry. Call me crazy, but I just can’t come up with a better way to describe a grown-ass man who considers a rosebush his pet.”

“I prefer nerdy.”

“That works too.”

“I have an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“You hungry?”

“I just threw up. What do you think?”

“I think you threw up because you were eating out of my garbage bin seconds before I opened the door and found you out here. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Sophie felt her face flush with embarrassment. “It’s a long story.”

The young man nodded. “We’ve all got one. Me included. How about we make a deal?”

“What kind of a deal?”

“You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Your what?”

“My story. Geez, try to keep up!”

“Ha ha.”

“Forget the water. You look like you could use some real food. Come inside. I’ll make you something to eat. You up for bacon and eggs?”

“You expect me to go inside with you?”

“Hey, you’re the horticultural serial killer who tried to poison Rosie, not me.”

“We’re back to that again?”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll even let you hang onto the shears.”

“Like I’d ever give them up.”

“Fair enough.”

Sophie considered the offer. “Bacon and eggs, huh?”

The young man smiled. “Unless you’re in the mood for tacos. Which, I’m guessing, you’re not.”

“Coffee too?”

“How do you take it?”

“Two cream, one sugar.”

“Coming right up.”

Sophie felt her stomach grumble. “You promise you won’t kill me?”

“I have to open in a few hours. I wouldn’t have time to do that and dispose of your body. So yeah, you’re good.” The young man turned, opened the rear entrance door, waited. “You coming?”

Sophie walked to the door. The young man offered his hand. “My name’s Marco. And you are?”

Sophie hesitated, then shook his hand. “Sophie.”

Marco smiled. “Nice to meet you, Sophie.”

“Same here,” Sophie replied. “I think.”

Together they entered the restaurant.

17

SPECIAL AGENTS TORRES and Serrano arrived at the location where Evelyn Wardell’s body was discovered. The entrance to the service road leading to the water tower that supplied the small town of Los Juguetes had been cordoned off. A federal police officer stepped out of his car as the agents slowed the FBI sedan. Torres lowered her window, presented her credentials. The officer lifted the black and yellow crime scene tape high enough to permit the vehicle to pass beneath it. Torres drove up the dirt road, crested the hill, descended, parked. Nearby, an investigative team was hard at work. The agents exited their car, approached the area.

Torres presented her ID to a crime scene investigator and identified herself. “Special Agents Torres and Serrano, FBI,” she said. “Who’s in charge?” The tech responded with a blank stare. She repeated the question in Spanish. “Agentes especiales, la Oficina Federal de Investigación. Quien es le persona a cargo?”

The tech pointed to the base of the water tower, replied. “Le forense, Doctor Cesar.”

“The coroner,” Torres said. “Doctor Cesar.” She looked ahead, saw the man. “Over there.”

The agents walked along the well-trodden pathway, crossed the field, reached the site. Torres called out. “Dr. Cesar?”

The coroner looked up. “Si?”

“Special agents Torres and Serrano, FBI. Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

Cesar removed his medical gloves, pocketed them, shook hands with the agents. “Of course not, agents,” he replied. “How can I help you?”

“What can you tell us about what happened here?” Torres asked.

Cesar shook his head. “Such a shame. The decedent is young, female, American, early twenties. She died of asphyxia, leading to cerebral hypoxia. There were heavy finger marks around her neck, accompanied by extensive bruising, which, in this case, speaks to strangulation, not hanging, plus her hyoid, larynx, and cervical vertebrae were crushed. Whoever killed her was extremely strong, likely a man. I say that because of the size and thickness of the indentations. They literally encircle her neck. There was also extensive bruising of the soft tissue due to hemorrhaging. I’ll know more after I get the postmortem CT imaging results I’ve requested.”

“Anything about her death strike you as strange or unusual?” Torres asked.

The coroner shook his head. “To tell you the truth, as far as Juarez is concerned, this was tame by comparison.”

“Tame?” Serrano asked.

Cesar nodded. “As FBI agents, I’m sure you’ve seen the way the cartel treats its victims, so you know what I’m talking about. Bodies skinned alive, decapitations, limbs crudely amputated. The degrees of torture to which they’ll subject their victims are almost unimaginable. Cartel murders are done to make a statement. This woman’s death doesn’t meet that criteria. I hate to put it in these terms, but this was more of a simple murder, albeit a passionate one.”

“Passionate?” Torres asked.

“The body was found partially clothed, and her fingernails were broken off both hands. She struggled with her attacker, put up a fight. I’ve requested a body swab. If she obtained her attacker’s DNA, we’ll recover it. If it’s in CODIS, GEDmatch, or another open-source database, we’ll be able to match it. Curiously, there was no sign of sexual assault. Which, of course, was a saving grace. However, a couple of things about the body caught my attention.”

“Such as?” Serrano asked.

“A small fluorescent mark, located on the back of her hand. It was faded and worn, invisible to the naked eye. I saw it when I examined the body using an ultraviolet scanner. A single letter: G.”

“Do you know what that means, doctor?” Torres asked.

Cesar shook his head. “Not off hand. My office has a computer database of stamps, body markings, and tattoos. I’ll look it up.”

“No need,” Serrano said. “I know what it is.”

Torres turned to her partner. “You do?”

Serrano nodded. “The biggest nightclubs in Juarez stamp their guest’s hands with an ultraviolet identification mark as they enter the club. The Mariposa’s stamp looks like a butterfly. The Avión’s is the outline of a martini glass. The G is used by Club Gusto.”

“And you know this how?” Torres asked.

Serrano smiled. “I have a life.”

Torres grinned. She turned back to the coroner. “You said a couple of things caught your attention. What was the second?”

“The victim was found topless. The waist button on her jeans had been torn off, and the zipper’s teeth ripped apart, but they had not been removed. Naturally, I checked the pockets for anything that might be of interest. I found this.”

Cesar removed a clear evidence bag from his pocket and handed it to the agent. “You’ll need to remove it from the bag and unfold it,” he said.

Torres followed the coroner’s instructions, held it up, examined it in the harsh glare of the crime scene lights. She showed it to Serrano.

“It’s a napkin,” Serrano said.

Torres nodded. “It’s embossed, but I can’t make out the name. Can you?”

Serrano shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“I know it,” Cesar said.

“You do?” Torres asked.

The coroner nodded. “It’s from a restaurant an hour or so from here, off Highway 2 south of Colonia Modelo. Strange as to why it’s in her possession, though.”

“What do you mean?” Serrano asked.

“Because that restaurant has been out of business for years. It used to be very popular with the locals.”

“What was it called?” Torres asked.

“The Mariachi Grill.”

“Can you tell us how to get there?” Serrano asked.

“I’ll be happy to,” Cesar replied. “But I don’t know why you’d want to waste your time. Like I said, it’s been gone for years.”

“Yet a dead American girl who visits a nightclub in downtown Juarez ends up with one of their napkins in her pocket,” Serrano replied. “Does that make any sense to you, doc?”

Cesar shook his head. “No, Special Agent Serrano. It doesn’t.”

The agents shook the coroner’s hand. Torres handed him her card. “Call me immediately if you discover anything you think we should know.”

Cesar took the card. “I will.”

Torres and Serrano walked to their car. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Serrano asked.

Torres nodded. “Yeah,” she replied. “And it’s not good.”

18

JORDAN, CHRIS, AND Special Agent Duarte left the de Armas home on Sunflower Lane in search of the mysterious woman who had so far managed to elude them.

Duarte spoke to Jordan. “I hate not knowing where we’re going. It feels like we’re stumbling around in the dark.”

Jordan nodded. “I can appreciate that. It took me a long time to get used to my gift and even longer before I knew I could trust it.”

“Try being your partner,” Chris announced from the back seat. “We’ve worked so many cases together, yet I’m still amazed by your gift. Believe me, Agent Duarte, when you have a psychic for a partner, being one of the ungifted feels strange.”

Jordan laughed. “I’ll be happy to pass on the downside of my abilities to you anytime you want it, Chris.”

“There’s a downside?” Duarte asked.

“Yes,” Jordan replied. “Experiencing them is fine when I’m working a case. But during my private time, like when I’m out in public, I sometimes get an overwhelming sensation when I walk past someone. The energy of their aura will pass right through me.”

“So auras are real?” Duarte asked.

Jordan nodded. “They’re very real. Some present themselves as nothing more than a radiating light, a halo if you will. Others are much stronger. They hold emotions, such as fear from a person in distress, or darkness from an individual who is inherently evil. I try to remain neutral when I’m struck by such energies, but it’s hard. However, I don’t have a choice if I see and feel that someone is in trouble. I have to help them.”

“How would you go about doing that?” Duarte asked.

“As quietly and inconspicuously as I can. On one occasion, when I sensed that a woman I had tuned into had been abducted, I followed her and the man accompanying her out of a shopping center to their car. I called out to her, which made them stop and turn around. I asked her if her name was one that I knew it wasn’t, then faked a conversation with her. As I apologized for mistaking her for someone else, we shook hands. I pressed my finger into her palm three times, then three shorter presses, then three more. At first, I didn’t think she understood that I was trying to signal S-O-S, using Morse code, to her by touch, but then I saw her eyes grow wide and I knew that she’d gotten the message. After we said goodbye, I called in the license plate, identified myself to 911, and told them I suspected I was witnessing a kidnapping in progress. Luckily, I was parked two cars down from theirs, so I stayed on the line with the emergency dispatcher and followed behind them at a distance. Ten minutes later, when it was safe to do so, a felony car stop was ordered. Together with three other unmarked sedans, we converged on the vehicle. The assisting officers took the driver down at gunpoint while I opened the passenger door and assisted the woman out of the car.”

“I take it she had been kidnapped?” Duarte asked.

Jordan nodded. “Five days earlier and from two states away. He was her soon-to-be ex-husband. They’d been separated for nine months. He couldn’t handle the fact that she’d moved on with her life, so he drove from Utah to California, tracked her down at her boyfriend’s home in Los Angeles, shot and killed him, then turned the gun on the man’s twelve-year-old daughter and shot her in the stomach. Thankfully, she survived the attack. It turns out he was planning to return to Provo with his wife where she would live with him for the rest of her life, whether she liked it or not. Based on the information provided by the victim’s daughter, LAPD issued a BOLO on the make and model of the vehicle she saw drive away when she called 911 but couldn’t make out the plate. I’m just glad I happened to be at the mall that day and could help her when she needed it the most.”

“Lucky for her that she ran into you,” Duarte said. “A psychic and an FBI agent.”

“It was meant to be,” Jordan replied.

“What happened to the shooter?”

“He’s now a guest of the Los Angeles County prison system, where he’ll remain for the rest of his life.”

“And the vic’s daughter?”

“Carla is her name. Besides her dad, she had no other family. Sharon Connelly, the woman who had been abducted, petitioned the court in her boyfriend’s honor to become her legal guardian. They were soon to be a family anyway, so guardianship was granted. We still keep in touch.”

“That’s a pleasant end to a tragic story.”

“Not quite the end,” Chris said. “Jordan, tell Agent Duarte what you later learned about Carla.”

Jordan smiled. “As it turns out, she too has a gift.”

“You mean psychic abilities?” Duarte asked.

Jordan nodded. “She’d suspected she did but had been too frightened of them to talk about it. I’m helping her to navigate that world and to understand her strengths and limitations. It’s a process, but she’s getting there. She says she wants to put her gift to work one day with the FBI as I have done.”

“That’s one heck of a compliment, Agent Quest,” Duarte said. “You should feel honored that you’ve motivated her to such a degree and given her the confidence to set her sights on becoming a federal agent.”

“I do,” Jordan said.

Duarte’s phone rang. She took the call through the sedan’s hands free speaker system. “Duarte,” she answered.

“Special Agent Duarte, this is Agent Michael Costa with the Evidence Response Team. I’m calling you from the safe house in Fronteriza.”

“Are you going to put a smile on my face, Agent Costa?” Duarte asked.

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“What did you find?”

“Besides the shell casings and shotgun pellet fragments we recovered, we found numerous sets of prints inside the residence. All but one came back to agents Cruz and Garcia. We lifted it from the bathroom windowsill and frame, together with partial palm prints.”

“Were you able to identify them?”

“We were. Automated Fingerprint Identification System sent us back a hit. AFIS matched the bathroom prints to a criminal background check requested six months ago by the Yale University School of Medicine. The prints belong to one Sophie Clemons of Tucson, Arizona.”

“Did you reach out to Homeland?”

“We did. Sophie Clemons entered Mexico several days ago.”

“So that’s who we’re looking for.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Send me her picture right away.”

“Copy that. On its way to you now.”

“Good work, Agent Costa.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Duarte ended the call. Seconds later, her phone sounded. She opened the message, stared at the screen, then passed her phone to Chris and Jordan for their perusal. “Meet our girl,” she said.

The mysterious woman they sought now had a name and a face to go with it.

Sophie Clemons.

19

REYNA OPENED HER cell door, stepped out, unlocked her sister’s adjoining cell. “Give me a hand with chunky, Chi,” she said.

Conchita joined her sister in her cell. “What do you want me to do?”

Reyna looked down. “Tubby’s too heavy to carry. Grab an arm. We’ll drag him to his chair.”

The two women struggled as they moved El Semental’s body out of Reyna’s cell and down to the end of the long corridor. When they reached the dead man’s stool, they propped his body up against the wall.

Conchita stared at the stool, then at El Semental. “There’s no way we’re going to be able to lift Porky and sit his butt on that chair,” she said. “He weighs, like, a thousand pounds.”

Reyna nodded. “You’re right.”

“Got any other ideas, sis?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Reyna ran back to her cell, picked up the two unopened cans of beer she had used to incapacitate the man before strangling him to death, then returned to the stool. She lifted his head, opened his mouth, cracked open one of the cans, poured the foaming liquid into the man’s mouth until it overflowed and ran down his chin, then lowered his head, turned it to one side, and poured the rest of the beer onto his t-shirt and onto the floor where he sat. She placed the empty can in his hand, then stepped back and assessed her work. “What do you think, Chi?” she asked. “Does he look like someone who’s had too much to drink?”

“Not quite,” Conchita replied. She nudged El Semental’s shoulder with her foot. The corpse toppled over, fell on its side. “Now he looks like someone who’s had too much to drink.”

Reyna nodded. “I stand corrected.” She picked up the assault rifle, ejected the magazine, inspected it. Full. She reinserted the mag, readied the weapon.

“So, what’s the plan?” Conchita asked.

“Beats the hell out of me,” Reyna replied. She knelt, rummaged through El Semental’s pants pockets, removed two sticks of chewing gum, four Starburst fruit chews, eight XXL condoms, and a folded slip of paper upon which was written a four-digit code. The man’s wallet contained several hundred dollars in cash, two credit cards, a driver’s license in the name of Ariado Paqela, and a picture of two young children sitting on his lap. Reyna stared at the photo. “Looks like jumbo here was a grandpa. Poor kids.” She spoke to the picture. “Not much of a role model, were you asshole?” She shook her head in disgust, tossed the picture aside.

The woman in the cell across from Reyna, who had interpreted for her, called out. “What about us? Get us out of here.”

Reyna examined El Semental’s key loop. Each key had a number stamped into the bow, just above the blade. There were nine keys in all: one key for the door to the single long cell that ran the length of the room and imprisoned the majority of the women, plus one for each of the eight individual cells that housed Ramos’s most coveted abductions.

“In a minute,” Reyna replied.

“A minute?” The woman raised her voice. “I don’t want to be locked in here for one more second, much less a minute. You have the keys. Now open our door and let us out!”

Her fellow prisoners, all of whom had retreated to the back wall of their cell when Reyna had killed El Semental, now stepped forward and began to complain.

Reyna stood, waved her arms, shushed the crowd. “Quiet!” she whisper-shouted. “For all we know, there’s another guard stationed outside the door at the top of the stairs. Do you want him to hear you and come down here? If he does, it’s not just over for me. It’s over for all of us. I’ll get you out of your cells, I promise. But until I figure out my next move, I need you to do one thing and one thing only.”

“What’s that?” the woman asked.

“Shut. Up.”

The group quieted down.

“That’s better,” Reyna said softly. “Now, first things first. I need a show of hands. Most of you are a few years younger than me, but I’ll ask anyway. Has anyone here had military training?”

No hand was raised.

“That’s what I figured. Damn it. Okay, next option. Has anyone studied martial arts at a high level? Are there any black belts in the room?”

One young woman raised her hand, stepped forward. “I’m a black belt.”

“Thank god,” Reyna said. “What’s your name?”

“Kristen,” the woman replied. “Kristen Doherty.”

“What did you train in?”

“My black is in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, second degree. I also have a brown belt in taekwondo.”

“You any good?”

Kristen smiled. “Current San Antonio BJJ summer champion, two years running.”

“Ever had to use it for real?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“How’d that work out?”

“For me? Fine. Not so good for his collarbone.” Kristen smiled. “I’m sure he thinks of me every time it rains.”

Reyna smiled. “Good girl. I need someone to watch my back. Think you can do that?”

Kristen nodded. “You bet.”

“Good. As for the rest of you, how many are weapons trained?”

Almost all of the women raised their hands.

“That’s more like it,” Reyna said. “Now all I need to do is put guns in your hands, and we’ll have ourselves a small army.”

Reyna looked at the number on the cell door lock plate, flipped through the keys, selected key number 1, opened the door. “Kristen, come with me.”

Kristen stepped forward.

Anxious to leave the cell, the others pressed forward, blocked her way.

Reyna held up her hand. “Please,” she said. “Not yet.”

The women stopped.

Reyna explained. “You need to stay in there for now. Hopefully, it won’t be for long. Kristen is going to stand guard down here.”

Kristen reached the door, exited the cell.

Reyna walked with her to the bottom of the staircase which led up and out of the basement. She turned to her new friend. “I’m going upstairs to check things out. If anyone but me comes through that door you take them out using any means necessary, just like I did. Can you do that?” She pointed to El Semental’s dead body. “Before you answer, look at him, then look around this room. Everyone here will be counting on you to do what needs to be done. If you can’t handle that responsibility now is the time to tell me. No one will think any less of you if you say no. So, Miss BJJ champ, what’s your answer?”

Kristen nodded. “I can handle it.”

Reyna smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say.” She turned to her sister, handed her the key ring. “Go back to your cell, Chi. It’s unlocked. Close the door and stay there. I’ll be back for everyone soon.”

Conchita stepped forward, hugged her sister. “Be careful,” she said.

Reyna smiled. “Nothing to worry about, kiddo. It’s just another mission.”

Kristen watched Reyna ascend the staircase, unfold the slip of paper she had retrieved from El Semental’s pocket, and enter the code. The lock beeped.

Reyna opened the door, raised the assault rifle, slipped into the dark room.

The door fell shut behind her.

20

MIGUEL RAMOS LEFT Fat Tito’s better prepared to find Sophie than when he had arrived thirty minutes ago. He had her driver’s license now, which meant he had her picture, and would be able to identify her on sight. The obstacle he still faced was where to begin to look for her. The last time he saw her, she had entered the small home on the outskirts of Juarez, accompanied by the man and the woman in the Ferrari. He soon learned who they were after using his shotgun to blow out the lock and deadbolt. They had called out and identified themselves as FBI agents, which immediately took the situation to the next level. Whoever Sophie was, she was under their protection. No matter. She had seen his face and possibly witnessed the murder of her girlfriend at Rabal’s hands. That wouldn’t stand. She had to be silenced. Which meant he had to know where to find her. The agents who had tried to stand their ground when he had made entry had both been taken off guard by the shotgun blast. The woman had fallen first, but not after raising her weapon and letting off several rounds from the semi-automatic pistol she held in her hand. Each bullet had penetrated the wooden door and narrowly missed him as he stepped across the threshold and entered the front entrance. The man had taken the brunt of the attack. He lay slumped on the floor beside the bathroom door. Each had been wounded enough to put them out of commission and end further attempts to kill him, but neither mortally. After he had relieved them of their weapons and made sure they no longer posed a threat, he searched the house but did not find the woman. The female agent’s poor attempt to prop herself against the partially open bathroom door to dissuade him from checking the room only served to escalate his suspicion. He pushed her aside, threw open the door, and found the bathroom empty but its window open. He had stepped into the room, walked to the window, inspected it, and confirmed that the woman had indeed exited through it when he discovered a thin strip of material hanging from the twist lock in the bottom of the frame. The cloth was silky and black and appeared to match the dress she had worn in the club. He looked out the window to see which direction she had run, but she was nowhere in sight. He turned his attention back to the FBI agents and pressed them for information: Who was she? Why was she of interest to the FBI? What purpose did the bureau have for setting up a safe house in Fronteriza on the outskirts of Juarez? Who were they investigating? The agents had refused to answer a single question. They had remained silent and stoic throughout his interrogation. It became evident that if he were to obtain the information he needed to know about the woman, a more direct approach would have to be taken. A call was placed, men were dispatched to the location, instructions given. The two agents were escorted from the home, placed into the back seat of a blacked-out SUV, then driven to Ramos’s private airstrip on the outskirts of Juarez where they remained under guard until his helicopter pilot arrived. The two agents had been bound, loaded aboard the aircraft, and whisked out to El Llanto.

Despite his offer to make them both instantly wealthy in exchange for the information he sought, the agents refused to give up the woman’s name or any information about her. Disappointed by their refusal to cooperate, he had killed them both and left their bodies in shallow graves to bake and rot in the ground beneath the scorching desert sun.

It had seemed like such an unnecessary waste of human life. All he had wanted to know was her identity, a simple name. Their refusal to provide him with that tiny snippet of information had cost them their lives.

Fools.

Since the encounter at the FBI safe house, he had gone to great lengths to find and identify the woman. Now, as he drove through the many neighborhood side streets in search of her, he removed her driver’s license from his pocket, stared at her picture, and committed her face to memory.

Beautiful.

He knew how challenging finding her would be, like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. But perseverance and tenacity had always been two of his best qualities. They were responsible for his rising from the rank of street soldier to the upper echelons of the CJNG in record time. He would put them to work for him once again. He had to. Failure to find Sophie Clemons was not an option. He was not about to allow a white American party girl to get the better of him. She had seen too much, which made her a threat to his freedom. If she were to go to the local police, at least he would have a shot at recapturing her. But if she were to reach the American consulate, she would not only be safe but free to tell them everything she had witnessed at Club Gusto.

He could not allow that to happen.

Ramos followed his instincts and meandered through the local streets far from the vicinity of the safe house where he had last seen her.

She had talked to the agents. They had inferred that much in their discussion with him in the desert. She had agreed to testify against him after they’d told her who he was, his importance to the cartel, and that by cooperating with them she would be helping to save the lives of countless women.

What a load of crap.

True, he was a significant player in the cartel and the key CJNG lieutenant responsible for growing the organization’s cash cow that was the trafficking of beautiful American women.

Much time had passed since he had first followed her from Club Gusto to the safe house. The harsh reality of the situation was that she could be anywhere right now.

Ramos realized he needed a better plan than one that involved wandering around from neighborhood to neighborhood in search of the girl. He reached a four-way stop, pulled his Porsche over to the curb, killed the engine, and collected his thoughts.

He dropped low in his seat as a vehicle drove past, then watched as it slowed and pulled into a distant plaza. By its unremarkable body styling, dark color, and plain silver hubcaps, it appeared to be a standard government-issued sedan. He watched as the occupants, a man and two women, exited the vehicle. Their manner of dress and the way they carried themselves inferred they were probably law enforcement.

Their next movements caught his attention. Ramos watched as the three individuals turned on their flashlights and inspected the small community plaza and its parking lot with great interest.

Suddenly, each beam focused on a clothing donation bin situated at the far end of the plaza.

An overwhelming and disturbing feeling instantly overcame Ramos; one which resonated so strongly within him that the hairs on his neck and arms stood on end.

He couldn’t explain why he felt the way that he did, but at that moment, he knew that he and the individuals he was watching had one thing in common.

They were all looking for the same woman but with one nerve-shattering difference.

If they found her first, he was a dead man.

21

SOPHIE FOLLOWED MARCO into La Cantina restaurant. Save for a single light illuminating a small room up ahead, the premises were dark. “You always work with no lights on?” she asked.

“If you knew how much I pay for utilities each month, you’d wonder why I don’t operate in candlelight,” Marco replied. He removed a coffee filter from a cabinet in his office, dropped it into the machine’s brewing basket, tore open a pouch of coffee, emptied it into the filter, added water to the reservoir, slipped a clean carafe onto the warming plate, switched on the machine.

“Two creams, one sugar, right?”

Sophie entered his office and looked around. “Yes, please,” she replied. Within minutes the aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the air.

Marco removed two ceramic mugs from the coffee filter cupboard, prepared Sophie’s coffee for her, handed her the steaming mug. “Careful,” he said. “It’s hot.”

Sophie took the mug. “Thank you,” she said. She sipped the coffee. “Oh, man,” she said. “That tastes so good.”

Marco pointed to the guest chair in his office. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Have a seat. Take a load off.”

Sophie sat. When she did, the adrenaline that had been fuelling her throughout the night suddenly dumped from her system. Her hand shook as she set down the mug on the table beside her. She tried to brush off the sudden lightheaded feeling which suddenly overcame her. “I don’t feel so good,” she said. Her head began to nod. She moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick again,” she said.

Marco rose from his chair, went to her aid. “Easy,” he said. “You’re all right now. That’s just your body reacting to the stress you’ve been under. Do you feel like you’re going to faint?”

Sophie nodded.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Marco said.

Sophie didn’t reply. She simply stared at the floor.

“Ready? In and out. In, and out. In… out.”

Sophie matched Marco’s breathing. After several deep inhalations, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

“Better?” Marco asked.

“I guess so. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

Marco nodded. “That’s an adrenaline dump you’re experiencing,” he replied. “I’m afraid bacon and eggs aren’t going to cut it. It would be best if you saw a doctor, Sophie. Wait here. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

Sophie grabbed Marco’s arm as he stood to leave. “No,” she said. “No ambulance. No police, either. Just food. And it doesn’t have to be bacon and eggs. I’ll settle for whatever you have, even a candy bar.”

“Are you diabetic?” Marco asked.

The adrenaline surge had subsided. Sophie felt a little better. She sat up in the chair. “No,” she replied. “Just hungry and thirsty. Make that tired, hungry, and thirsty. No, scratch that. Tired, hungry, thirsty, and scared to death… and not necessarily in that order.”

“Is someone after you?”

Sophie nodded.

“Is that why you’re on the run? To get away from them?”

“Not them. Him.”

“Who? Your boyfriend, husband?”

Sophie shook her head. “Some asshole who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Did he attack you?” Marco asked. There was an edge of anger in his voice.

“He tried to, but I got away,” Sophie replied. “My girlfriend wasn’t so lucky. The asshole had a friend with him. We’ll call him Asshole Number Two. He hit her pretty badly. I felt horrible for running away, but everything in me told me that if I didn’t make a move when I did, I might never get another chance. I have to find out if she’s okay. I don’t know how, but I have to.”

“When did this happen?” Marco asked.

“Hours ago,” Sophie said. “Exactly when, I can’t say. I’ve been running all night and hiding wherever I could. In case you hadn’t noticed by my light complexion, I’m not exactly from around here.”

Marco opened his mouth wide and faked a shocked expression. “Really? You’re white? I’d never have guessed!”

Sophie smiled. “Very funny, Rose Bush.”

Marco chuckled, handed her her cup of coffee. “Have another sip. You’ll feel better. The cream and sugar alone will help. That, and the fact that this particular blend packs one hell of a caffeine punch. It’ll have you jogging in place in no time.”

Sophie drank the coffee. “Mmm,” she said. “Good.”

Marco looked at her jeans, pointed to an irregularly shaped spot. “What’s going on there?” he asked.

“I fell over a fence, or maybe it fell on me. I forget. Anyway, I ended up with a boo-boo for my troubles.”

“That looks like more than a boo-boo. It looks like a serious cut.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“How did it happen?”

“I cut myself on a nail head.”

“And you don’t think that’s serious?”

“Let me guess,” Sophie said. “You’re a restauranteur, martial arts club owner, and a paramedic. Do you have any other impressive credentials I should know about?”

Marco grinned. “Not that I can discuss in polite company.” He stood, offered Sophie his hand. “C’mon,” he said. “Stand up.”

“What for?”

“I need to take your pants off.”

Sophie stared at him. “If you think a cup of coffee and an offer to make me breakfast is going to get you sliding into home plate, you’re out of your mind!”

“Very funny. I need to clean and dress your wound. I can’t do that if you’re wearing pants.”

“My leg is fine,” Sophie replied. “I don’t need you to…”

Marco placed his finger in the middle of the bloody spot and pressed lightly.

Sophie screamed, grabbed her leg. “Oww! What did you do that for? Sonofabitch!”

“Just making a point.”

“What point? That you’re a sadist?”

“That your wound is in bad shape. I barely touched you. Your overreaction tells me it’s infected. If I don’t clean out the bad stuff it’ll get worse. You wouldn’t want to lose your leg to gangrene, would you?”

Sophie considered the possibility. “No.”

“Then unbutton and unzip. I’ll roll your jeans down your leg as gently as I can to avoid putting undue pressure on the wound. Are you wearing underwear?”

“What kind of a question is… of course I’m wearing underwear!”

“Just asking,” Marco said. “These days, you never know.” He motioned with his hand. “Okay, let’s go.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “How romantic.”

“I’m trying to help you, Sophie, not seduce you.”

“Good. Because if that’s your best line, I feel sorry for your girlfriend.”

“Unbutton. Unzip. Today. Before your leg falls off.”

“I can’t stand up. It hurts too much.”

“That’s okay,” Marco said. “Just lean back. I’ll do all the work.”

“You sound like my ex-boyfriend,” Sophie replied.

Marco smiled, leaned forward as Sophie unzipped her jeans. He rolled them gently down her leg, inspected the wound. “Ouch,” he said. “That looks nasty. You did quite a number on yourself.”

“Is that your experienced medical opinion?”

Marco nodded. “It is. Sorry, Sophie. I don’t think we have a choice here.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m going to have to amputate. Hand me the garden shears.”

Sophie drew back her leg. “The hell you are!”

Marco laughed. “I’m just teasing. It’s not that bad. Give me a second. I’ll grab my first aid kit, clean it, and dress it. It should begin to heal within a couple of days. If it doesn’t, then we amputate.”

Sophie relaxed her leg. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Marco replied. “Dr. Marco’s walk-in clinic, cantina, and martial arts studio are at your service. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Sophie smiled. “Okay.”

“De nada.”

Sophie picked up her cup of coffee, sipped it.

For the first time since she had escaped from the alley at Club Gusto, she felt safe.

She hoped the feeling would last.

22

JORDAN, CHRIS, AND Special Agent Duarte assembled in the parking lot of the small community plaza. As Chris conversed with Jordan, Duarte walked along the sidewalk in front of each unit and shone her flashlight through the windows of the dark, closed businesses, jiggled their door handles to ensure they were closed and securely locked. She returned to find Jordan kneeling among the many bundles of plastic garbage bags, the overflow from the bin, scrutinizing each one.

“Everything’s buttoned down,” Duarte said. “Are you sure we’re on the right track by being here, Agent Quest?”

Jordan studied the ground around her, saw the ethereal trail of energy she had been tracking since they had left Sunflower Lane. “She’s been here,” she answered. “The energy is fresh.”

Chris waded into the bundle of bags, joined Jordan. “What are we looking for, J?” he asked.

“Proof,” Jordan replied.

“I’ll circle the building while you two do whatever it is that you’re doing,” Duarte said. “Shout out if you find something.”

“Copy that,” Chris replied.

Jordan waited until Duarte had rounded the building. “You catch that?” she asked.

“Catch what?” Chris replied.

“The doubt in her voice.”

“You can’t let subtle comments like that get to you, Jordan. I’m sure she meant nothing by it.”

“You mean the same way Serrano’s remark about my abilities didn’t get to you?”

“Serrano was different.”

“How so?”

“You ever meet somebody you just don’t like?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Serrano to me. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t.”

“I appreciate you sticking up for me but be careful what you say. You don’t want to get suspended.”

“Sticking up for you would be worth a suspension.”

“Not for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I like having you as my partner. And you already know how lucky you are to have me as yours.”

Chris shone his flashlight at Jordan. “Is that so?”

Jordan laughed and raised her hand to block the glare of the beam. “So, so lucky.” She tossed the garbage bag at him, picked up another, inspected it.

“Do that again, Jordan,” Chris said.

“What? Tell you how lucky you are to have me as your…”

“No. Raise your hand. Show me your palm.”

“Why?”

“Good lord, woman! Will you please show me your hand?”

Jordan held out her hand.

Chris scanned it with the flashlight. “See that?”

“What?”

“That smear. Was it there before? Did you wipe your hand on something earlier? Maybe at the safe house or the de Armas residence?”

“Not that I recall,” Jordan replied. She squeezed her hand. The mark felt tacky to the touch. “I think it’s blood.” She stood. Chris scanned her body with his flashlight, spotted additional marks on her clothing and her hands. He panned the beam over the garbage bags Jordan had been inspecting, removed a medical latex glove from his back pocket, slipped it on, and began wiping his hand over the surface of every plastic bag around Jordan. He checked the glove in the beam. His palm was covered in blood.

“Someone, or something, was hiding in here,” Chris said. “If it’s a someone, they’re bleeding. Think it’s Sophie Clemons?”

Jordan stepped out of the knee-deep pile of clothing-filled garbage bags, circled the donation bin, searched the area with her flashlight. She called out. “Chris?”

“Yeah?”

“Over here.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve found something.”

Chris joined his partner. Jordan pointed to two ripped-open garbage bags. Their contents had been scattered about at the back of the bin. In her hand, Jordan held a torn T-shirt.

“Nice,” Chris said. “But it’s not your size or color. Toss it back.”

“Look closely,” Jordan said. She pointed the flashlight beam at the fabric. “Does that look like blood to you?”

Chris nodded. “Could be.” He shone his flashlight under the bin. Two shiny surfaces caught his eye. He knelt, pointed the beam under the clothing collection receptacle. “Well, what do we have here?” he asked.

“What is it?” Jordan asked.

Chris lay on the ground, slipped his arm under the bin, groped around, felt for the items. “I better not get bitten by a damn rat,” he said.

Jordan smiled. “If you do, I promise I’ll shoot it.”

“How comforting,” Chris replied. He groaned as he stretched out his arm. “Got it,” he announced, then withdrew the shoe from beneath the bin. It was missing its heel. “There’s a second one too, but I can’t reach it.” He lay down again, fished around under the bin a second time, stood, produced a black mini dress. “I’ll bet you the keys to your Maserati I know who this belonged to.”

Jordan nodded. “Me too.”

Duarte came around the corner. “Find something?” she asked.

Chris handed Jordan the torn garment and broken shoe. She read them. “The energy signature is the same,” she said. “These belonged to Sophie Clemons.”

“I found something too,” Duarte said. She pointed to the back of the lot. Fresh vomit.”

The agents walked to the back of the lot, assessed the businesses.

Jordan followed the energy trail, pointed to the rear entrance of one of the establishments. “There,” she said. “La Cantina.”

The agents drew their weapons, approached the business with caution.

Chris pounded his fist on the door, yelled out. “FBI! Open up!”

23

WITH THE DOOR leading to the underground prison now at her back, Reyna followed the front site of the assault rifle into the kitchen of the abandoned restaurant. To her left, a stainless steel table ran the length of the wall, equipped with the necessary tools of the trade. Slicing machines, choppers, mixing bowls, various spatulas, whisks, and other cooking utensils which, at one time, had been used to prepare delicious meals for the restaurant’s patrons, now sat unused and covered in dust. Reyna covered her mouth as she moved past the deep fryer. The smell of rancid cooking fat, which had congealed in the bottom of the unit, overpowered her, and made her stomach roll. The large flat grill, which had been used to prepare fluffy pancakes and delicious eggs, now sat under a thin film of grease. A row of commercial coffee makers sat ready for use, their glass carafes atop their warming plates. Knives of various sizes and uses hung on magnetic mounts beside the steel prep counter. Reyna examined two of the knives. Despite their lack of use, their edges had remained razor sharp. She slipped two short-handled knives into her belt. The kitchen implements that had once been tools of the trade for staff were now weapons in her hands. The sinks were full of dirty, unwashed dishes. Stainless steel pots and pans hung beneath a rack above the central prep table. Beneath them, rows of colorful ceramic plates awaited the fulfillment of orders that would never come. A fire extinguisher and first aid kit hung on the opposite wall leading out of the kitchen into the dining area. The two-way traffic doors through which the service and wait staff entered and exited the kitchen were still, their built-in windows covered in dust.

Reyna crossed the kitchen silently, put her ear to the thin gap between the doors, listened for the sound of nearby footfalls or chatter, heard none. “Here goes nothing,” she said. She breached the door and walked into the rear of the dining room, swinging the assault rifle left to right, her senses acutely heightened, awaiting confrontation, ready for combat. Instead, the room was quiet and dark and smelled musty, an indication that it had not been cleaned in a very long time. Reyna waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. The absence of light entering the picture window at the opposite end of the room informed her that it must be nighttime or pre-dawn. She and Conchita had arrived at the restaurant with the other women several days ago, blindfolded, gagged, and drugged. They had been herded into the establishment one by one, taken downstairs, and ushered into their designated cell, where they soon collapsed and fell asleep. Until now, Reyna had no idea what type of building they were being housed in. All she remembered was the bouncing up and down of the vehicle that had transported them here and the brain fog brought on by whatever drug had been slipped into their drinks at Club Gusto.

She walked to a wait staff lectern several feet ahead, picked up a menu, read the business name: The Mariachi Grill. Good Food, Good Friends, Good Times.

That may have been the case in the past. It wasn’t anymore.

Now, it was a prison.

The Mariachi was furnished in the fashion of a typical Mexican restaurant. Each dining booth, of which there were many, was dark and offered a seating capacity for four. Their wooden benches featured intricately carved designs depicting Mexican life. It must have been a happy place in its day, full of people enjoying one another’s company and celebrating the simple pleasure of sharing a meal. Now, the energy within the expansive room felt dark, heavy, ominous. Whatever joy had once been experienced in the dreary space had long since died. A cloud of evil had descended upon the building. It hung in the air, unseen yet unmistakably present.

Reyna walked through the restaurant, investigating the place, watching, listening. She reached the front of the premises, stayed hidden behind its heavy wooden door, and peered out its small window.

It was dark outside. In the distance, a lone sentry stood at the end of a long driveway that intersected with the main road. Reyna watched as the ember from his cigarette burned brightly for a second, then disappeared.

One at the main road.

Noted.

Reyna backed away from the front door and made her way to the bar lounge on the opposite side of the dining room. For a restaurant that was no longer in business it was fully stocked. Dozens of bottles of alcohol lined its three glass shelves. Reyna quickly raised the assault rifle as she entered the space, pointed it at the bar, and lowered it just as fast when she realized the ghostly image staring back at her was not the enemy but her own mirrored reflection.

“Not too jumpy, are you Flores?” she said aloud. “Get your shit together, girl. These guys are nothing compared to the operators you’ve been up against in the field. Let’s get this done.”

She removed a bottle of vodka from the bottom shelf, unscrewed the cap, tossed it aside. “Here’s to getting out of here.” She toasted her reflection, took a heavy swig, and set down the bottle.

A weak sound issued from the grounds outside the restaurant, became clearer and louder.

Voices.

Coming closer.

Reyna swung around, raised the weapon, listened carefully.

She was no longer alone.

24

FBI SPECIAL AGENTS Torres and Serrano left the site in Los Juguetes where Evelyn Wardell had been found strangled to death and drove to Colonia Modelo in search of the abandoned restaurant.

Torres spied the silhouette of an old building situated on a hill overlooking the main road. She pointed to the run-down structure. “That must be it,” she said. “There’s no signage. Then again, Dr. Cesar never said there would be.”

“Don’t stop,” Serrano said. “Keep driving.”

“Don’t you want to check it out?” Torres asked.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“We will. Just not now. Keep going. Take the next side road. I’ll explain in a minute.”

Torres drove past the building, continued down the road for a quarter of a mile, pulled onto a service road, stopped the car. She turned to her partner. “What’s up?”

“You didn’t see the spotter?”

Torres shook her head. “I saw a car parked in the driveway by the road. It looked old, like maybe it had been abandoned there.”

“Someone was sitting in it.”

“You serious?”

Serrano nodded. “I’m not surprised you didn’t see him. You were busy watching the road. The headlights caught a glimpse of him as he lowered himself in his seat, probably settling in for a nap. He’s not sitting in a broken-down car. He’s keeping an eye on the place, and I’m thinking visitors aren’t welcome.”

“I think we should drive up to him, flash our creds, and ask politely if he’ll give us a tour. Think that will work?”

“Not too damn likely.”

“So, the direct approach is out of the question. How do you propose we get in there?”

“The old-fashioned way.”

“Meaning?”

Serrano smiled. “We break in.”

“You are aware that we’re the good guys, right?” Torres replied. “We don’t do break-ins.”

“C’mon. It’ll be fun. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Adventure has nothing to do with it,” Torres said.

“Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t.”

“I’ll give you two. A, we have no warrant or probable cause, nor do we have permission from the land holder to be on the property. B, people like to shoot people down here, especially trespassers.”

Serrano shook his head. “Anyone ever tell you you know how to spoil a perfect drive in the country?”

“Enter those grounds without cause and Duarte will chew out your ass. You want that?”

“Ass chewing or not, I can give you one very good reason why we should.”

“And that would be?”

“Evelyn Wardell.”

Torres wiped her face with her hands. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“We owe it to her to check out the place. Admit it, Vic. A murder victim with a napkin in her pocket from a place that’s closed yet guarded? That doesn’t track.”

Torres sighed. “No, it doesn’t.”

“So you’re with me?”

“You think I’m going to let you go in there alone?”

Serrano smiled. “Thanks, Vic.”

“Don’t thank me. I still think it’s a reckless idea.”

Serrano nodded. “Fair enough. We’ll slip inside, take a quick look around, then we’re out. Five minutes, tops. You good with that?”

“No, but I don’t have much of a choice. How do you propose we do this?”

“This road looks like it runs parallel to the hilltop. It’s heavily forested from here to there. We can drive up a little further until we find a place to park within sight of the restaurant. We’ll make our way through the woods from there. It has to have a rear entrance. My guess is the guy in the car is a security guard. He’s probably sleeping by now, so we shouldn’t have to worry about him.”

“That’s your plan? A hike through the woods?”

Serrano held up his hand, spread his fingers. “Five minutes, tops.”

Torres shook her head. “Duarte better never hear about this.”

“She won’t. I promise.”

The agent put the car in gear, drove up the road, found a secluded spot, stopped, killed the engine.

They exited the car and entered the woods.

25

RAMOS WATCHED THE two individuals inspecting the clothing bin talk with their colleague, then walk around the corner of the plaza, out of sight.

Something felt off.

He started his car, dropped it into gear, drove down the street, passed the plaza, and glanced at the back of the lot. The three stood at the rear receiving door to one of the establishments. Each was armed, their weapon drawn. They had taken up positions on either side of the door, the two women on the left, the man on the right. Their body language seemed practiced, intentional, like they had done this many times before, which lent credibility to his prior assumption they were, in fact, law enforcement. What were the police doing at the back of this particular plaza in the middle of the night? At first, he considered the obvious, that they were carrying out an early morning raid, but that couldn’t be it. Police raids in and around the city of Juarez were always tactically executed by a heavily armed SWAT team. Its members tended to stage at a location near but out of sight of the target, then move in quickly and in tight formation. When finally they breached, entry was always loud and over the top. This display offered none of that. It seemed unplanned, spur of the moment, as though they had discovered something that had drawn their attention to the back door of this particular establishment. Whatever that was, it was significant enough to warrant proceeding at gunpoint.

Ramos reached the four-way stop at the end of the street, drove through, circled the car in the deserted intersection, and then went back up the street. He needed to get a closer look at what was happening.

He parked on the street down from the plaza, exited his vehicle, quietly closed his door, jogged across the road to a house that backed onto the plaza’s rear lot, entered the backyard through the property’s side gate, walked to the bushes at the end of the yard, shouldered his way through them, then peered through the narrow space between the boards of the wooden privacy fence. He observed the police officers as they stood outside the door, listened as the man identified himself: FBI.

What were the FBI doing announcing themselves at the back of a quiet suburban plaza at this early hour?

He connected the dots.

The safe house.

He knew the two agents’ disappearance would rock the bureau, and they would muster every available resource to find them. Perhaps they had somehow connected this business to that investigation.

Ramos’s cellphone vibrated as the light came on over the restaurant’s back door. He checked the display. Vlad was calling.

The Russian’s timing couldn’t have been worse.

He weighed his options… not take the call, continue to observe what was going on at the unknown business, or tend to his more important needs.

He slipped out of the bushes and left the yard. When he had reached the street, he took the call. “Ramos.”

“Five rings?” Vlad said. He took a deep hit on his nebulizer, held his breath, exhaled. “Do you always make your clients wait so long before taking their call?”

“Just the ones I don’t like,” Ramos replied. “Why are you calling, Vlad?”

“My people in Bryansk want the delivery date moved up. They’re asking for this order to be shipped out of the country by the end of the day.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“There’s more.”

“Oh?”

“Word about the quality of the merchandise you’ve been providing us has been getting around. We’ve chosen to expand our operation into neighboring countries. Five, to be exact.”

“Five?”

“Latvia, Lithuania, Belarus, Georgia, and Armenia.”

“You should have discussed this with me before making such a commitment.”

“Why would I do that? You don’t report to the Bratva. I do.”

“My point exactly. Why would you enter into an agreement that I might not be able to fulfill?”

“Are you saying we should take our business elsewhere?”

“Of course not.”

“Then let me remind you that meeting our expectations is your problem, not ours.”

“I have other markets I am negotiating with who also need our product.”

“Have they come to you with orders and cash in hand as we have?”

Ramos paused. “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” Vlad replied.

“Regardless, you shouldn’t make such decisions without consulting me first.”

“Are you telling me that you’re incapable of delivering what we need?”

“I never said that.”

“Then do us both a favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t trouble yourself with that which is not your concern.”

“I have one nightclub from which to draw inventory, Vlad. Not twenty.”

“Is that the problem?”

“Is what the problem?”

“Do you need more clubs?”

“What are you saying?”

“If it’s a simple matter of requiring a bigger pond to fish in,” Vlad said, “just say the word.”

“There are only so many nightclubs in Juarez. Mine is the only one in business with you.”

“What if that was no longer the issue?”

“Meaning?”

“If you owned all the clubs, you would have access to unlimited inventory, yes?”

“Of course.”

“Then perhaps it’s time we retired your competition.”

“Good luck with that,” Ramos replied. “Competing cartels own the other clubs.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m warning you, Vlad. We have a good thing going here. Don’t mess with it.”

“Are you saying you don’t want more business?”

“I’m saying I don’t want to start a war. Which is what will happen if you step on the wrong toes in Juarez. I’ll be out of business, which means so will you.”

“Let me get back to you with a plan.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Just get our order ready. An escort team will arrive later this morning to drive them to the border. Make sure they’re ready to go.”

Vlad had ended the call.

Ramos stared at his phone and swore. “Fucking Russians.” He opened his door, fell into the seat. The phone vibrated again. He answered the call without checking the display. “What?”

Emmanuel Sega spoke. “You okay, Miguel?”

“Yeah,” Ramos replied. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else. What is it, Emmanuel?”

“My friend won’t let me in to see Rabal. He says it’s too late, that others would suspect something was up if I met with him at this hour. However, I was able to find out his yard time. It’s two p.m. He also told me Rabal’s been acting nervous. He’s asked to be moved into protective custody. You know what that means.”

“That his court-appointed attorney has offered him a deal. He plans to testify against me.”

“That was my take on it too. What do you want me to do?”

“Tell your friend there’s fifty grand in it for him if Rabal doesn’t live to eat breakfast.”

“You’ve got it.”

Ramos ended the call. Vlad’s condescending attitude had thrown him off his game and made him uncomfortable. He needed to return to the holding and transfer location.

The girl would have to wait.

He slipped Sophie’s driver’s license into his shirt pocket, started the car, and glanced at the back entrance to the business as he drove past the plaza. He thought about the Bratva and all the money he was about to make from the sale of the forty women to the Russian mafia.

His mood improved immensely.

26

MARCO WRAPPED SOPHIE’S injured leg in medical gauze and taped it place. He spoke to his patient. “There you go. No surgery required. How does that feel?”

Sophie rolled her jeans up and over the now cleaned, sterilized, and dressed wound. She held Marco’s arm as he helped her to her feet. “Better,” she said.

“Anything still hurting?” Marco asked.

She zipped and buttoned her jeans. “Just my pride.”

“What do you mean?”

“You caught me vomiting at the back of your restaurant. I wouldn’t exactly call that one of my finest moments.”

“It could have been worse.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“You caught me on chicken and beef taco day. Imagine how bad it would have been if it had been seafood taco day. Just the thought of eating putrefying seafood is enough to make me want to throw up.”

“One tends not to be too picky when one is dumpster diving for food.”

“Point taken. Speaking of food, I still owe you a meal.”

“You’ve already done enough for me, Marco,” Sophie replied. “Maybe it’s best if I moved along. I’ve caused you enough trouble for one night.”

“Trouble?” Marco scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous! You’ve been no trouble whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I’m rather pleased. Out of all the dumpsters in Juarez, you chose mine to dive into. I’m honored.”

Sophie smiled. “Is that so?”

Marco winked. “Absolutely! If you hadn’t, I would never have met such a beautiful woman.”

Sophie rolled her eyes. “You should make an appointment.”

“An appointment?”

“To see an optometrist. If you think I’m beautiful, you desperately need glasses.”

Marco laughed. “My eyesight is just fine. Besides, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, remember?”

“You’re sweet.”

“And devilishly handsome.”

Sophie smiled. “Can’t argue with you there.”

“Plus, I can cook. See? I have it all. Gourmet short-order cook, martial arts expert, field medic…”

“Field medic?”

“Have you ever had anyone else dress a wound better than that in your entire life?”

Sophie laughed. “Now that you mention it, no, I haven’t.”

Marco cocked his head, smiled, opened his arms. “There you go. Proof positive that I’m the whole package!”

“About the cooking part…”

Marco snapped his fingers. “Right! I almost forgot. Bacon, eggs, and toast coming right up. You want another coffee? Hobble over to the machine and pour yourself another while I fire up the grill.”

“Thank you, Marco.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As Sophie made her way to the coffee machine, Marco turned on the grill, oiled its cooking surface, removed six eggs and eight slices of bacon from the refrigerator, and four slices of bread from the bag on the counter. He began preparing breakfast for them both.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” Marco asked.

Sophie returned to her chair, sat, sipped the fresh coffee. “Sure. You’ve earned that right.”

“I hope I don’t get too personal,” he said.

“Seriously? You’ve known me for less than thirty minutes and have already gotten my pants off. It doesn’t get more personal than that.”

Marco smiled. “It was a legitimate medical emergency. I did what I had to do to save your life.”

“For which I will be eternally grateful,” Sophie replied. She blew on the surface of the hot coffee, cooled it. “So, what do you want to know?”

“For starters, what brings you to Juarez?”

“I heard the dumpsters down here offer an exceptional dining experience. I thought I’d check them out personally to see if they lived up to the hype.”

Marco laughed. “Really?”

“One hundred percent.”

“How would you rate mine?”

“I’d give it a Michelin Star rating.”

Marco smiled. “Is that so?”

Sophie nodded. “With an exception or two. The presentation could use a little work… I mean, being served in a dumpster and all… but the quality profile is good. I’d need to try another taco or two plus a few more items before I’d be able to determine whether or not the dining experience is consistent.”

“All those detractors and still worthy of a Michelin Star? The chef must be amazing.”

“Not bad. However, please keep in mind this is a post-vomit assessment.”

“Good point.”

“Plus, there was no wine pairing chart taped to the dumpster or partially consumed bottles of wine for that matter.”

“I can see how that might be a problem.”

“Not with the meal. That would spoil the palate and mess up the rating. But a post-appraisal glass would be appreciated.”

“Not to mention that it would make an excellent mouthwash… considering the aforementioned vomiting. Any particular recommendations?”

Sophie considered the question. “Hmm. With beef tacos, a medium or bold red.”

“Does the lady have a preference?”

Sophie sipped the coffee, nodded. “Either would work. Cellar temped, between twelve and seventeen degrees, and decanted for no more than four days. If we’re talking a medium red, a zinfandel, grenache, or merlot would pair nicely. If a bold, I’d go with a cab sauv, maybe a malbec.”

Marco smiled. “The lady knows her wines. I’m impressed.”

“I was taught to understand them in case it ever came up in conversation,” Sophie replied. “You know, snooty highbrow society stuff and all.”

“You come from a wealthy family?”

“Embarrassingly so.”

“What do your parents do?”

“They’re both doctors. Mom’s a scientist and owns her own drug research company. Dad’s a neurosurgeon.”

“And you?”

“A student. I’m off to Yale to follow in dad’s footsteps. That is if I ever get out of this mess.”

“You will. I’ll see to it that you do.”

Sophie drank the last of her coffee, stood, shuffled over to the sink, stood beside Marco, washed her mug. “My god,” she said. “That smells amazing.”

Marco felt the heat of her arm beside his. He smiled. “As it should. Don’t forget, this is Michelin Star rated establishment.”

Sophie smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Not out of a dumpster.”

“Sunny side up? Over easy? Scrambled?”

“Scrambled.”

“And the bacon?”

“Sizzle the crap out of that little piggy.”

“Got it. Crispy.” Marco glanced over his shoulder at the stacks of plates, cups, and saucers on the service counter behind him. “Food’s almost ready. Grab us a couple of plates, will ya? Cutlery, too.”

Sophie smiled. “Yes, Chef.”

Marco laughed, slipped the bread into the toaster. “Chef Marco. I like the sound of that.”

“It suits you.”

“Like one day being addressed as Doctor will suit you.”

Sophie shuffled back to the grill, held out the plates. “You think so?”

Marco nodded. “I do.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I know people.” Marco transferred the eggs and bacon from the grill to the plates. “I can size someone up in less than a minute, tell if they’re good or bad, a threat, or not a threat. It comes from fifteen years of martial arts training. You develop a kind of sixth sense for it. And everything about you tells me you’ll make a great doctor one day.”

“Surgeon, hopefully.”

“Piece of cake. However, if we’re going to get you off to medical school, you’ll have to eat. No one trusts an anorexic surgeon.”

Sophie smiled. “An anorexic patient would.”

Marco laughed. “Checkmate.”

He heard the toaster ding, set down the spatula, turned off the grill, buttered and plated the toast, grabbed two bottles of water from the refrigerator and two drinking glasses from the service area. “C’mon, hop-a-long. Follow me. We’ll eat in the dining area.”

Sophie shuffled behind him into the restaurant. They sat at a table and ate their meals in the dark.

“I can light a candle if you’d like,” Marco said.

Sophie shook her head. “No. I kind of like this. It’s nice.”

“It is. This is a first for me.”

“Same here.”

“It’s kind of a cool experience.”

“I’d call it… intimate.”

Marco poured their water, raised his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

Sophie smiled. “To?”

“Medical degrees and Michelin Star ratings.”

Sophie raised her glass. “Sounds perfect.”

A loud pounding on the back door took them both by surprise.

A muffled cry sounded from behind it. It was a man’s voice, loud and commanding.

Sophie set down her glass. “No,” she said. “No, no, no, no, no.” The fear in her voice cut through the darkness.

Marco took action. “Quick,” he said. “On your feet.” He helped Sophie stand, then led her out of the dining room and down a corridor to a door. He slipped his hand into his pocket, removed his keys, opened the door.

Sophie stared at the large open space. “What is this?” she asked.

“My dojo,” Marco replied. “Aguilar Martial Arts. I told you, my businesses are side by side. Step inside. Hurry!”

Sophie turned. “Aren’t you coming too?”

Marco shook his head. “I’m going to find out who’s pounding on my door at this hour and deal with them. Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be back for you in a few minutes. Okay?”

Sophie nodded. “Okay.”

Marco closed and locked the adjoining door to the martial arts studio, then ran to the receiving door at the back of his restaurant, put his ear against it, listened.

Voices.

He had successfully defended himself against multiple attackers in the past. Now, with Sophie to think about, he promised himself he would do it again.

He took a deep breath, readied himself, and opened the door.

27

REYNA PEERED AROUND the large oak bar, watched as the men entered the dining area, sat at one of the tables, and set down their weapons. Each was armed with an AR-15 assault rifle and a backup sidearm on their hip.

Sentries, she thought, taking a break.

A shift change, perhaps.

If that was the case, where were their replacements? Were more men on the way? If so, how many?

She suddenly felt outnumbered. As a former Army Ranger, she had been trained to deal with every hostile situation imaginable. Her immediate objective was to remain out of sight and gather as much intel about the place and her enemy as she could before making any attempt to engage and subdue them.

Reyna listened to the men as they talked, which did her no good. “Should have taken those damn Spanish classes,” she whispered. “I can order a beer in seven languages but speak another one fluently? Noooo.”

One of the men stood and removed his jacket. She heard him speak the one word she did know: cerveza. Beer. The tone of his voice inferred he was asking his associate a question: Did he want a beer?

Oh, shit. He would be coming to the bar any second.

She had to move. Now.

Before the man turned, Reyna glanced around. Beneath the bar were several cabinets. She opened their doors quickly and quietly. All were full of bar supplies. Nowhere to hide. Across from her, a stack of chairs encircled a large round table. The corner was dark. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would have to do. She waited for her opportunity. As the men talked, she hurried from the back of the bar to the stack of chairs. A heavy felt moving blanket lay on the ground beside her. Reyna slipped under the blanket and left just enough room to watch the men as they walked towards the bar.

The man whom she had heard speak reached the bar, walked to the fridge, opened the door, retrieved two cold cans of beer, handed one to his friend. They opened the beverages and guzzled them down in one continuous gulp, then crushed the empty cans in their hands and took turns tossing the empty containers at a plastic garbage can situated beside the stack of wooden chairs.

The first man’s throw missed the garbage can completely. The spent can slid to rest beside the blanket under which Reyna sat hidden.

The man swore as he walked towards the garbage can to retrieve his missed shot.

Reyna remained perfectly still, watched him as he approached. She held her breath as he reached down and nudged the blanket as he retrieved the beer can, then walked back beside his friend and tried once more to make the shot.

The crushed can sailed through the air, landed in the plastic garbage container. The men celebrated with a high five, then turned their backs to her as they sat on the bar stools and talked.

Reyna exhaled slowly. Her elevated heart rate began to drop.

That was close. The imprisoned women one floor below were counting on her to secure their escape. She wasn’t just their last hope for freedom, she was their only hope. Getting caught was not an option, and certainly not by a couple of cartel flunkies.

The front door opened. Reyna watched as the two men seated at the bar stood and greeted their friends.

A second team had arrived.

She watched as they retrieved their assault rifles and left the building together.

Reyna waited a full minute before slipping out from beneath the blanket and the table. She ran to the front door, peered out the window, watched the four men walk down the driveway. She would deal with them later, if necessary. Right now her main priority was finding a means of escape.

They had arrived together, that much she knew for certain. The rest was a blur. She recalled the barman’s voice booming over Club Gusto’s house sound system: Last call, ladies! Free shots for everyone! It had been late, well past midnight when the announcement had been made. Shortly after she had downed the complimentary tequila shot, she began to feel woozy. The brilliant colored lights that illuminated the dance floor blurred together. She felt clumsy on her feet. Her body fought to remain upright as she moved in time to the music. Seconds later, the music faded. It was then she felt someone’s arms around her, carrying her out of the club by her shoulders and legs. The outside air smelled putrid, as though a garbage bin was nearby. This was compounded by the sulphurous odor of diesel fuel. She felt the sensation of her body being lifted, then carried until she was placed in a seat and blindfolded. Beyond that experience, she had no further recollection of the events of the night. When she finally regained consciousness, she awoke to find herself in a locked cell, her sister in a cell adjoining hers. They were surrounded by women. All were crying.

Then it hit her.

She and Conchita had been drugged and kidnapped.

They were prisoners.

Reyna felt ashamed for putting herself in such a situation. She had traveled the world with the military. She knew what went on in foreign lands and the dangers women faced when travelling abroad. She had let her guard down for one minute. One damn minute. Now, here they were.

Shame fuelled anger.

Two guards, ten guards, one hundred guards. They were getting out of here one way or the other, and the sooner the better.

Reyna left the front door, explored the rest of the main floor, looked out the windows.

That was when she saw it. Outside, in the distance. Parked beneath a large canopy.

A bus, perhaps the same vehicle used to transport them to their prison.

She also saw the silhouettes of two individuals running across the field.

They were headed for the building.

28

SPECIAL AGENTS TORRES and Serrano hurried across the open field and made it unseen to the restaurant’s rear entrance. Serrano tested the doorknob. “Locked,” he whispered.

“You were expecting it to be open?” Torres replied.

“It would have made breaking in so much easier,” Serrano replied.

Torres spied a dust and cobweb-covered window partially obstructed by stacks of old wooden wine crates. She moved them aside and used the last crate as a step to give her the height she needed to reach the top rail of the window. “Cross your fingers,” she said.

She pushed up as hard as she could.

The window barely budged.

“It’s stuck,” she said.

Serrano commented. “Either it’s swollen from the humidity, or paint had dried in the channel.” He removed a credit card from his wallet, handed it to his partner. “Here,” he said. “Push the edge of the card between the stile and the jamb and slide it around. Maybe that will work it loose.”

Torres took the card, followed Serrano’s instructions, pushed up on the top rail again. It slid up freely. She looked at her partner and smiled. “How did you know that would work?”

“One of the tools of the trade as a juvenile delinquent. You have no idea how many times my buddies and I broke into places using that trick.”

“You ever get caught?”

“Nope.”

Torres smiled as she handed the credit card back to her partner. “American Express, huh?”

Serrano grinned. “Never leave home without it. See anything?”

Torres nodded. “Looks like a supply room. Lots of plastic drums, racks of linens. Grab my foot, push me up.”

Serrano took his partner’s foot, gave her the boost she needed to crawl through the window and enter the room. He followed her inside. The agents turned on their flashlights and inspected their surroundings. Torres ran her hand across the rack of white linens, drew back dust-covered fingers. “This place has been abandoned for a long time.”

“Which begs the question,” Serrano said.

Torres nodded. “What the hell was a serviette from here doing in Evelyn Wardell’s pocket?”

“Exactly.”

Torres walked to the supply room door. “Kill the light,” she said.

Serrano turned off his flashlight, returned it to its case on his belt.

Torres turned the knob, opened the door.

The room opened to a narrow corridor. On their left was the women’s washroom, beside it the men’s facilities.

“You ready?” Torres whispered.

“Whenever you are,” Serrano replied.

“Stay on my six.”

“Copy that.”

The agents drew their weapons, walked along the dark passageway.

Torres peered around the corner. “Clear,” she said.

“Let’s check it out,” Serrano replied. He tapped her shoulder with his hand, indicating that he was ready to move as soon as she did.

Torres cleared the corner, stepped into the main dining room. “Look’s vacant,” she said.

She holstered her weapon. Serrano did the same.

Serrano picked up a serviette from a table, handed it to his partner. “Same type as was found on the vic,” he said. “The big question is how she came to be in possession of it.”

“There has to be a logical explanation,” Torres said.

“You two picked the wrong place to break into.”

The agents wheeled around and found themselves staring down the barrel of an AR-15 assault rifle.

Serrano moved his hand to his gun.

The man spoke. “Unless you can draw and fire that weapon faster than the speed of a bullet, I’d suggest that you remove your hand from your holster right now.” The man stepped out of the shadows of the main entrance door enclave. “By the time your finger touches the trigger, I’ll have put one through you and the wall behind you. You still want to try?”

Serrano shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t.”

The gunman turned his weapon towards Torres. “You?”

“No,” she answered.

“Good decision,” the gunman replied. “Now, remove your weapons, holster and all, and slide them across the floor to me. Any sudden moves and I’ll cut you to pieces.”

The agents followed the man’s instructions.

“What is this place?” Serrano asked.

The gunman stepped forward, collected their weapons. “The last place on earth you should have broken into.” He motioned toward the bar area with his rifle. “Move.”

The agents walked into the room.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” Serrano said.

The gunman removed two pairs of zip cuffs from his back pocket, tightened one pair around Serrano’s wrists, the second around Torres. “Is that so?” he said.

“We’re federal agents,” Serrano said as they sat on the wooden chairs. “You just bought yourself twenty years in prison.”

“Only twenty?”

“I can arrange for a longer sentence if you’d like.”

“You know what I’d like?” the gunman asked.

“What’s that?” Serrano replied.

“For you to shut up.”

The gunman raised the butt end of his weapon and struck the agent squarely in his face.

Serrano’s head whipped back, then fell forward. Blood squirted from his broken nose and split cheek. He lost consciousness.

“You bastard!” Torres yelled. “You didn’t have to do that!”

“You want to join him?” the gunman yelled.

Torres shook her head.

“I didn’t think so. Now sit there and shut up!”

Blood dripped from Serrano’s face, pooled in his lap.

29

THE THREE AGENTS stepped back as the receiving door opened. Marco faced them. “Who are you? Why are you banging on my door in the middle of the night?” he demanded.

The agents produced their credentials, displayed them. “FBI,” Chris said. “We need to have a look inside.”

“You have a warrant?” Marco asked.

“No,” Chris replied.

“Then take a walk.”

Marco attempted to close the door. Chris grabbed it, held it open.

“If you want us to get a warrant to search the premises, we’ll do that,” Chris said. “But things would go a lot smoother for you if we could dispense with the formalities and do what we came here to do.”

“You really want to call a judge at this hour of the morning?” Marco asked.

“I’d prefer not to.”

“What are you looking for?” Marco asked. “Drugs? Weapons? Contraband? Proceeds of crime? I can tell you for a fact that you won’t find anything like that in here. Which means that your warrant, should you get one, will have no legs. You have no reasonable grounds to enter, whereas I’m permitted the expectation of privacy under the law. And since I’m not consenting to a search, you’re out of luck. Plus, there’s nothing to see back here, so the Plain View doctrine doesn’t apply. Nor do you have the authority to conduct a warrantless search because no proof exists that either I or my restaurant represent a threat to public safety. And one more thing. Listen carefully.” Marco paused. “Hear that? Silence. There are no screams or shouts emanating from within the premises which would indicate that someone is in immediate danger or being abused.”

“You seem well versed in the law,” Chris said. “Are you an attorney?”

Marco shook his head. “I binge Judge Judy. Cool lady. The show is very informative and entertaining. You should check it out. You might even learn a thing or two.”

“Cute,” Chris replied.

“Goodnight agents,” Marco said. He pulled the door free of Chris’s grasp.

Jordan called out. “Wait!”

Marco held the door ajar. “What?” he asked.

“We’re looking for a young woman,” Jordan said. “We believe her life is in danger.” She removed her phone, brought up the passport photo provided to them by Homeland Security, showed the image to Marco. “Her name is Sophie Clemons. She’s an American. She was visiting Juarez with a friend. We believe that without knowing it she’s become the target of a cartel assassin and that he may be after her. I strongly believe that Sophie is in this building, either with or without your knowledge. If she is, and you know it, please permit us to speak with her. Her life literally depends upon it.”

Marco stared at Jordan. “What makes you so certain that the woman you’re searching for is in my restaurant?”

“If I answered that question truthfully, you probably wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Jordan nodded. “Okay. My name is Jordan Quest. I don’t just work as a special agent for the FBI. I’m a psychic medium. I assist police agencies worldwide in solving their most challenging cases. I can do that because I can see things others can’t. It’s hard to explain, but I saw Sophie come here. She entered your restaurant right here, through the back door. Her energy signature is very strong. As a matter of fact, I can see it on you right now. She touched you recently, or you touched her. Is that right?”

Marco listened, said nothing.

Jordan continued. “Her energy transfer is on your hands and clothes. You can’t see it, but I can. It’s there. You ever brush up against something dusty or dirty and get it on your clothes? That’s what I see; only in this case it’s not dust. It’s energetic matter that’s invisible to you, but not to people like me who possess the gift that I do. To me, it’s as clear as day.”

“That’s one hell of a story,” Marco said. “They teach you that at the FBI?”

“Got your phone on you?” Jordan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Look me up. I’m all over the Internet. Search Jordan Quest FBI psychic medium.”

Marco removed his phone, searched Jordan’s name. The first three pages of the search referenced the many news reports that had been written about her, plus YouTube videos, podcasts, and interviews of her experiences working with police agencies around the globe.

“Looks like you’re the real deal,” Marco said.

“She is,” Chris offered. “Look, we promise you we mean Sophie no harm. But we do need to speak with her. Will you let us in without the warrant? It’s that important.”

Marco paused. “All right,” he said. “You’ve convinced me.” He opened the door. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” Chris said as he entered the premises. He introduced himself. “My name is Special Agent Chris Hanover. You now know Agent Quest. This is Special Agent and legal attache Eva Duarte. She’s in charge of the FBI’s sub-office in Juarez.”

“Marco Aguilar. I own La Cantina and the dojo next door, Aguilar Martial Arts.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Aguilar.”

“Same here,” Marco said. He turned, flipped on the light switch beside him. The fluorescent ceiling fixtures flickered, then brought the restaurant to life. He pointed down the hall. “Sophie’s this way. Follow me.”

30

SERRANO MOANED, OPENED his eyes, fought to get his bearings, came around, glanced at his partner, spoke. “Ouch.”

“You okay?” Torres asked.

Serrano nodded. “Peachy.”

“Welcome back, Mr. FBI,” the gunman said. He sat opposite him, inspecting Serrano’s and Torres’s bureau credentials. “Feeling better after your nap?”

Serrano stared at the man. “No, but I will after I rip out your throat.”

The gunman shook his head. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Take off the zip ties and we’ll find out.”

The man leaned forward. “You broke into the wrong place, gilipollas. Big mistake.”

“Gilliwhat?”

Torres spoke. “He called you an asshole.”

Serrano glanced at his partner. “Is that so? How do you say fuck you in spanish?”

“Que te jodas,” the gunman answered.

“I was asking her, not you,” Serrano replied.

“She’s pretty,” the gunman said. “Beautiful women should be seen and not heard.”

“Keep talking like that and she’ll be the one who rips out your throat, not me.”

“Enough with the pleasantries,” the gunman said, “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a business investment,” Serrano replied. “This place has potential. It’s a fixer-upper, but I can work with that.”

“You don’t look smart enough to be a businessman.”

“And you don’t look smart enough to tie your shoelaces.” He looked down at the man’s feet, saw he was wearing flip-flops. “I rest my case.”

The gunman turned his attention to Torres. “You make friends easily?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Torres replied.

“More importantly, are you good in bed?”

“Que te jodas!”

The gunman laughed. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not, you’ll learn. They all do.”

“Who’s they?”

“Like I said, you broke into the wrong place. You didn’t see me in my car at the end of the driveway by the road?”

The agents said nothing.

The gunman smiled. “Too bad, because I saw you. In my business, you learn to sleep with one eye open. I watched you drive past the restaurant, then turn up the road. It leads to a dead end. The problem is I know that, but you didn’t. When you didn’t return after a minute, I figured you were up to something. Turns out I was right. I watched you for a bit, gave you… what is it you Americans say? Enough rope to hang yourself. Which, sure enough, you did.”

“Quite a career you’ve chosen,” Serrano said. “Someone should have stayed in school past kindergarten.”

“It pays the bills.”

“Yes, but can you live with yourself?”

“I sleep very well, Mr. FBI.”

Serrano sat up in his chair, “You know, when we get out of here… which, for the record, we will… I know a few folks in our Behavioural Analysis Unit who would love to pick your brain. They’re always interested in interviewing unhinged lunatics like yourself. Think you’d be up for a chat?”

“I’m as sane as you are.”

Serrano forced a smile. “Trust me, gilipollas. You’re not. Not by a long shot. Problem is you don’t know it.”

The gunman sighed. “I have a question for you.”

“Really? I’m surprised you have the gray matter to formulate one.”

“How well do they teach you to shoot at the FBI?”

“Hand me a gun. I’ll show you.”

“At something other than useless paper targets.”

“What do you think?”

“I think that if you had a real live target in front of you, and were ordered to take the shot, you wouldn’t be able to.”

“Tell you what,” Serrano replied. “Cut me loose and let’s go outside. I’ll let you run away as fast as you can. We’ll see how well I can take down a live target.”

The gunman lifted his assault rifle from his lap, placed the muzzle under Serrano’s chin, lifted his head, leaned in, inspected the wounds. “Does it still hurt?”

Serrano winced. “What do you think?”

The gunman traced the muzzle tip across the agent’s face, then pressed it deep into the open gash.

Serrano cried out as the cold steel penetrated his flesh, made contact with his cheekbone.

“I think it does,” the gunman replied. “But you know what I’m wondering?”

Serrano forced his head aside. The muzzle tip fell away. “What?” he asked.

“If it would hurt Mrs. FBI as much as it does you.”

“Lay a finger on her and I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Big talk for someone in your position.”

“It’s all right,” Torres said. “What else would you expect from a cartel bottom feeder like him?”

“Cartel bottom feeder,” Serrano repeated. He smiled. “That was good.”

“Trash talk all you want,” the gunman said. “It won’t change your circumstances or how this is going to end for both of you.”

“How’s that?” Torres asked.

“I haven’t decided yet. I have options. Perhaps you can help me choose.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather not.”

“You don’t want to have a say about how you’re going to die?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh, come now. It will be fun.”

“For you, maybe. For me, not so much.”

“Why don’t we do this? You try to guess, and I’ll tell you if you’re hot or cold. That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

Torres shook her head. “I really hope you take my partner up on his offer to hook you up with our Behavioural Analysis Unit. I bet they’ll find a treasure trove of wackadoodle psychopathic thoughts running around in that head of yours. Who knows, they might even determine you to be a new subspecies of human. After all, you do look like a knuckle dragger. And please, if there’s a breath mint in the house, find one and suck on it. Good lord!”

Serrano interjected. “I have a suggestion.”

The gunman laid his weapon on his lap. “What’s that?”

“Tell us what happened to Evelyn Wardell.”

31

MARCO REACHED THE adjoining door to the restaurant and the martial arts studio, knocked twice, called out. “Sophie, it’s me. Everything’s okay. The police are here. They’d like to speak to you. I’m opening the door.” He unlocked the door, turned on the lights, looked around the open floor of the dojo.

Sophie was nowhere to be seen.

“Sophie?” Marco said. “Where are you? Come out.”

No answer.

Marco turned to Jordan. “That’s impossible,” he said. “I know she’s in here. It seemed like the best place for her to hide when we heard you knock, so I let her in. I told her I’d come for her when it was safe. She has to be in here.”

Jordan smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “She is.”

“You see her?”

“In a sense, yes,” Jordan replied. She turned to her colleagues. “She’s scared. Give me a second to speak to her alone.”

Duarte nodded. “Of course.”

“Sure, J,” Chris replied.

Jordan turned to Marco. “She’ll be fine. Wait here.”

Jordan zeroed in on Sophie’s energetic footprint, crossed the dojo floor, headed for the change rooms at the back of the studio, entered the women’s area. It was dark. She flipped on the lights.

“Sophie,” she asked. “You okay?”

No reply.

Wooden benches lined two walls of the room. The third wall was comprised of a bank of metal lockers. The last room, which had no door, led into the washrooms and showers.

Jordan sat on the bench and spoke. “Sophie, my name is Special Agent Jordan Quest. I’m with the FBI. My associates and I are here in Juarez investigating the disappearance of two of our agents. I think you might be able to shed a little light on what has happened to them, maybe even help us find them. I know this must be scary for you, but I promise that no one is going to hurt you, especially not when you’re with us. I… we… will keep you safe. Do me a favor and step out of the locker so we can talk, okay?”

The change room remained silent.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Jordan continued. “It must have been tricky navigating a place you don’t know your way around in the dark. You could have tripped and hurt yourself. Thank goodness you didn’t. Making it back here to the locker room is pretty impressive, but being able to squeeze into a locker is even more so. I could have done that when I was your age. I don’t think I’d be able to pull it off now. But if by some miracle I did manage to slip in there, the fire department would have to use the Jaws of Life to cut me out. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be?”

Nothing.

“Okay,” Jordan said. “You’re probably going to find this hard to believe, but I can tell without opening any of the lockers that you’re hiding in number five. And to make it interesting, I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars if I’m wrong. Trust me, I can cover that and more. It’s a family thing. So, what do you say? You want to see if I lose the money and make a fool of myself?”

Still nothing.

“All right,” Jordan said. “Looks like you’re going to force me to pull out the big guns. Ready? Here we go. White jacket, jeans… torn on the right leg, bloodied. Tank top, mini socks, running shoes with flowers on them.” Jordan paused. “Ask yourself how I could know that if you’re hiding in there and I’m sitting out here? Why? Because I can.”

The metal floor panel in locker five creaked.

“I heard that,” Jordan said. “You can stand in there for only so long before your legs will start to cramp, and you have to move. That’s the case now, right?”

More creaking.

“One hundred grand if I’m wrong,” Jordan repeated. “I’ll even throw in a new wardrobe. What you’re wearing just isn’t your style.”

Sophie pushed open the locker door, stepped out, stared at Jordan. “How did you know what I was wearing?” she asked. “The only one who knows that is Marco. He told you, didn’t he?”

Jordan shook her head. “Nope.”

“You’re lying.”

“Did Marco tell you which locker to hide in?”

Sophie paused, considered the question. “No.”

“Then how would I have known that?”

Sophie stepped out of the locker. “I don’t know. There are only ten of them. Lucky guess?”

“Do I look like the kind of person who would risk losing one hundred grand on a lucky guess?”

“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t.”

“I’m not.”

Sophie crossed her arms. “You don’t look like an FBI agent.”

“You’ll have to clarify that statement for me. Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“You’re way too pretty to be working for the FBI.”

Jordan smiled. “Thank you.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because I gave you my word, and you’re an American. I took an oath to protect the citizens of my country, no matter the circumstances or where they are in the world.”

“You know the police are after me, right?”

“The Mexican police?”

Sophie nodded. “I heard them talking in their car. I couldn’t make out everything they were saying, but what I heard was enough. Something about a guy named Ramos wanting them to find a girl who ran from Club Gusto. They called her ‘the girl that got away.’ That girl is me.”

Jordan stood. “Come with me, Sophie. What you’re telling me is very important. My colleagues need to hear it.”

Sophie hesitated. “You never told me how you knew what locker I was in and what I was wearing.”

Jordan smiled. She helped Sophie to walk across the dojo floor. Marco stood waiting for her in the restaurant access doorway. “That’s easy,” she said. “I’m psychic.”

Sophie glanced at her and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, sure you are. Everybody knows that stuff isn’t real.”

Jordan smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

32

RAMOS GLANCED AT his cell phone as he drove. Sega was calling again. He touched the display, took the call through the Porsche’s audio system. “What is it, Emmanuel?” he asked.

“We have a problem,” Sega replied.

“What kind of problem?”

“A money problem.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My contact on the inside. I extended your offer to him. He laughed at the number; said he wouldn’t even consider putting his career on the line for fifty thousand. He told me to tell you he’ll consider it when you come up with a figure that matches the risk.”

“Is that so?”

“Sorry, Miguel. I’m just the messenger.”

“Is there someone else you can approach?”

“Now? No one. You said you wanted Rabal dead by morning. Shift change isn’t until eight a.m. The only other person I can think of who would agree to do it is on the inside, but I have no way of reaching him at this hour.”

“Damn it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Ramos sighed. “How much does your friend want?”

“You’re not going to like the number.”

“I’m arranging to have my friend murdered. There’s nothing about this I like.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“He’s out of his mind.”

“He told me you’d balk at the price and to ask you a question if you did.”

“Which is?”

“What do you value more? Money or freedom?”

“Prick.”

“I agree.”

Ramos remained silent.

“Miguel?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What is there to think about? He’s right. Right now, the only person who can put you behind bars is Rabal. With him out of the way your problem is solved.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has your prick friend given you an update on Rabal’s status?”

“No.”

“Then for all I know he’s already in protective custody.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Money is not the problem. I’d pay him a million dollars to silence Rabal. My problem is in the not knowing.”

“I’m sorry, Miguel. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“You need to find out.”

“How?”

“Go to the jail. Meet with your friend. Tell him I’ll consider his offer on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“He provides me with proof that Rabal hasn’t already been moved into protective custody or spoken to counsel.”

“How is he supposed to do that?”

“All prisoner transfers require a supervisor’s sign-off, even if they’re being moved from one area of the facility to another. Tell him to take screenshots of Rabal’s computer records and send them to you, then you send them to me. I want to be sure there are no entries that would indicate Rabal’s transfer has already taken place or that he’s met with a lawyer.”

“How is he supposed to do that? Guards aren’t allowed to carry personal cell phones with them when they’re on duty. It’s against prison regulations.”

“That’s not my problem, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“Tell him if that’s not acceptable to him the deal is off, and he can kiss his quarter of a million goodbye.”

“I will.”

“Fucking Rabal and his temper. If he hadn’t stabbed that bitch, I wouldn’t be in this situation right now. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to worry about this too.”

“Are you talking about the women?”

“What else would I be talking about?”

“Let me help you.”

“Look, Emmanuel,” Ramos said. “I know you want me to consider you for a cartel position, and I will. But right now, the best help you can be to me is to stay on top of this matter with Rabal. It is imperative that he be eliminated. Get in touch with your friend. Tell him that if he doesn’t provide me with the information I’m asking for within the hour, the deal’s off. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell him the cartel doesn’t take kindly to being extorted.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Ramos ended the call. He needed to do his best to put this situation with Rabal out of his mind. It was in Emmanuel’s hands now. Coming through for him would undoubtedly earn him a place in the CJNG. He had already begun to prove himself. Soon Rabal would be dead, which would create an opening in his inner circle. For years, he had been his confidant, his right-hand man. He thought about Emmanuel. He was loyal, trustworthy, and hungry for recognition. In that moment, Ramos made up his mind.

He had found his new second in command.

33

THE GUNMAN STARED at Serrano, repeated the name. “Evelyn Wardell. Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“You should. I’m guessing it was you who killed her.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“You forget the names of the people you murder that easily?”

“Actually, Mr. FBI, murder’s not my thing. My job is to guard this place, and I do it very well. Which accounts for why you and your partner are sitting across from me in zip cuffs and not already dead. You should consider yourselves lucky that it was me who discovered you and not someone else. Had that been the case, you’d both be hanging from a bridge right now.”

“Are you saying we should thank you?”

“That would be appropriate.”

“Never going to happen. Evelyn Wardell. Why was she here? What happened to her? Who killed her?”

“Hard to say. Many women come through these doors. They’re here for a few days, a week at the most, then they’re gone.”

“How many die?”

“Not many.”

“So, there’s a number.”

“I suppose there is.”

“You’re quite the conversationalist, aren’t you?”

“This isn’t the kind of information I should be sharing with you.”

“What does it matter if I know about them or not? The dead can’t pick you out of a lineup.”

“You have a point.”

“Put a checkmark in the column for the good guys.”

“Describe this Evelyn Wardell.”

“Young, very beautiful, very dead.”

“That’s a pretty poor description coming from a trained observer.”

“Caucasian. Blonde. Stunning. Twenty-one. Five-four. Slender. Wearing jeans. No shoes found with the body.”

“No shoes?” the gunman said. “A pair of heels would’ve really set off that outfit. I’m thinking four inches.”

“Leave your crossdressing preferences out of the discussion and try applying that neanderthal brain of yours to the question,” Serrano said. “Do you remember her?”

“Rings a bell. How long ago did she die?”

“You tell me.”

The gunman sighed. “There was a woman here not long ago who matches that description, but I can’t say for sure if she’s this Evelyn Wardell you’re looking for.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you just described ninety-nine percent of the women who come through here. Blonde, black, redhead, brunette… their hair colors might differ, but their physical appearance never does. They’re all beautiful, with killer figures. That’s the way the boss’s clients like them. As for knowing names, I couldn’t say. They weren’t exactly wearing name tags.”

“Clients?”

The gunman tapped the side of his head with his finger, grinned slyly. “This neanderthal brain of mine isn’t as stupid as you think it is, Mr. FBI. I know why you’re here and why you’re poking around.”

“Really?”

“If you think you stand a chance of taking down this operation, you’re more of a neanderthal than I am.”

“Me, take down this operation?” Serrano quipped. “That would be impossible. Not with a junkyard dog like you guarding the gate.”

The gunman leaned in, grinned. “Woof woof.”

“She would have had a Texas accent.”

“Who?”

Serrano rolled his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake. Try to keep up. Evelyn Wardell.”

The gunman sat back in his chair. “Ahh, her. Yes, I remember that one. We called her Miss Texas.” He nodded. “She was here. Smoking hot. Too feisty for her own good, though. Funny thing about that accent. It’s very memorable.”

“A cartel flunkie who’s a linguist. Will wonders never cease?”

“What can I say? I have a gift for identifying regional dialects. It’s a talent of mine.”

“I’ll bet your parent’s are proud. What happened to her?”

“From what I heard she misbehaved.”

“Misbehaved?”

“Misbehaved, wouldn’t comply, was out of line… pick one. You’d have to ask El Semental.”

“What the hell is an El Semental?”

“Not what. Who. He’s in charge of managing the women while they’re waiting to be shipped out.”

“How did he manage Evelyn Wardell?”

“That’s the problem. He couldn’t, which for him is unusual. No one challenges El Semental, especially a woman under his watch. Miss Texas fought back. He didn’t like that, so he killed her.”

“She died here?”

“Where else?”

Serrano asked the question he knew the answer to. “Where did he dump the body?”

“He didn’t. The janitor took care of that.”

“The janitor?”

“An underling. It’s his job to take out the trash.”

Trash.

“Where did the janitor dump her body?”

“Our usual spot in Los Juguetes.”

“You have a spot?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Not everyone has a go-to guy they ring up when they need to dispose of a body.”

The gunman shrugged. “Shame.”

“If you were to take a second to think about what you just said you might realize how crazy that sounds.”

“Not to me.”

“Of course not. That kind of response would only apply to a normal person.”

“That hurt my feelings.”

“That was the idea.”

Torres tapped her partner’s foot with hers.

Serrano looked down, watched her move it forward, then back.

The gunman stared at her. “Something wrong?” he asked.

Torres nodded. “Leg cramp. I need to stand, shake it off.”

“You’re fine sitting right where you are.”

“What’s the matter?” Torres asked. “Are you afraid that if you let me up, I’ll kick the shit out of you, even with my hands zip cuffed behind my back?”

The gunman smiled. “Maybe I should take you downstairs and introduce you to El Semental. You’re his type. He’d have fun with you.”

“Any guy who goes by the nickname The Bull isn’t exactly my type. Yours maybe, but not mine.”

Serrano looked past the gunman, saw what his partner had been attempting to communicate to him with the tap of her foot.

At the gunman’s back, cloaked in the darkness, a figure knelt beside the bar.

Silently, it rose.

34

AT THE DOOR leading from the karate studio into the restaurant, Jordan handed Sophie off to Marco, then followed them inside. He took her by the arm, helped her to a table in the restaurant, pulled out a chair, eased her down. “You okay?” he asked.

Sophie let out a heavy sigh. “I guess.”

“Does the leg still hurt?”

“Like it got ripped open by a nail.”

“Probably because that’s what happened.”

Sophie nodded. “By the way, thanks for finally turning on the lights. Couldn’t have done that for me in the karate studio, huh?”

Marco grinned. “It needed to be dark so people wouldn’t think anyone was in there.”

Jordan spoke to Marco. “I found her hiding inside a locker in the change room. She did a pretty good job navigating her way through the dark.”

Marco nodded. “I’ll say.”

Sophie touched Marco’s arm. “Get this,” she said. “Want to hear how Agent Quest said she found me?”

“Sure.”

“She told me she could see me in the locker, that she’s psychic. Can you believe that?” She brought her hands to her head, wiggled her fingers, put on her best scary laugh. “Bwahaha!”

“Do you embarrass easily?” Marco asked.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Because she is.”

Sophie stared at Marco. “She’s psychic. Yeah, sure.”

Marco nodded. “No kidding. You’re in the presence of a real-life, bonafide psychic medium.”

Sophie folded her arms. “Prove it.”

Marco removed his cell phone, found his previous Internet search on Jordan, handed the phone to Sophie. “See for yourself.”

Sophie scrolled through the many articles written about Jordan and her special gift, skimmed over the accolades submitted by police agencies the world over with whom she had worked to help solve their cases. “I don’t believe this. Are you saying she’s legit?”

Marco, Agent Duarte, and Chris all nodded. “One hundred percent,” Chris said. “Believe it or not.”

Sophie’s mouth fell open. “Shut the front door!” She turned to Jordan and apologized. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry!”

Jordan laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

“So you really did see me in the locker and what I was wearing?”

Jordan nodded. “Right down to those less-than-attractive shoes.”

“Tell me about it. It was the only pair I could find that sort of fit me.”

“Too bad you had to ruin such a beautiful party dress. By the way, nice taste in shoes.”

“You found my dress? But I stashed it under the bin! Shoes too, although I had to break off the heels so that I could run in them, which by the way is damn near impossible to do. They were my favorite pair of Sam Edelman’s. So comfy! Is that how you found me?”

“In part. As you now know, I have this whole psychic thing going on. Try as you might, you can’t outrun your own energy signature.”

“My what?”

“Forget it. It’s not important.”

“Damn straight it is!”

Jordan smiled. “Tell you what. Once we get you back home, we’ll sit down. I’ll answer any questions you might have about me then.”

“Can you teach me to be a psychic?”

“Sorry, no can do.”

“Bummer.”

Duarte spoke. “Sophie, my name is FBI Special Agent Eva Duarte.” She glanced at Chris. “This is Agent Quest’s partner, Special Agent Chris Hanover.”

Sophie looked at Jordan. “He’s your partner?”

Jordan nodded. “Yes.”

Sophie leaned in, whispered. “Damn! You go, girl. Hubba hubba.”

Jordan smiled as Chris grinned and turned away.

Marco raised his hands in objection. “Hey! Sitting right here!”

Sophie smiled. “You’re right. You are, most definitely, my white-aproned cook in shining spatula.” She winked. “Sorry, I couldn’t think of a better analogy to go with ‘white knight in shining armor,’ so apron and spatula had to do.”

Marco smiled. “I’ll take it.”

Duarte continued. “Tell us what happened to you, Sophie. What brought you to Juarez, and how did you end up running from an FBI safe house?”

Sophie explained the plans that she and Sierra had made to get away one last time before heading off to Yale to pursue their medical ambitions; the events that had taken place at Club Gusto; how they had run into trouble in the club with the two men who had been relentlessly pursuing them all night, then tried to flee out the back door of the club only to find them lying in wait; how she had witnessed her friend’s stabbing before running for her life; of being stopped by the agents in their car when they sensed that she was in trouble; how they had driven her to the safe house, told her about the man who had been chasing her and how dangerous he was, asked her for her help, then called for backup; how she had escaped the safe house through the bathroom window when they suddenly came under fire, then ran through the construction site and the neighboring yards until finally ending up where she was now, safe in Marco’s restaurant.

“You’ve had quite a night,” Duarte said.

“It didn’t exactly go as planned,” Sophie said. “Right now, Sierra and I should be in our hotel room sleeping or watching corny Mexican westerns on TV and splitting a mega-sized pizza. Instead, I’m here, hiding out in a town I don’t know and being chased by people who apparently want to kidnap me, according to the local cops.”

“Local cops?” Chris asked.

Sophie nodded. “Like I told Special Agent Quest when we were in Marco’s dojo, I heard myself being described by two Mexican police officers sitting in their car taking a smoke break while I was hiding behind the bags in front of the clothing donation bin. It was me they were talking about. This guy Ramos is offering a reward to the police to find me. He’s the same guy who chased after me at the nightclub.”

“Ramos,” Marco said. “I know that name.”

“You do?” Jordan asked.

Marco nodded. “He’s bad news. He runs Club Gusto. Everyone in Juarez knows to stay away from that place; that it’s a front for the CJNG cartel. They’ve tried to recruit some of my students. Thank goodness they were smart enough to say no.”

“Cartel?” Sophie said. “As in drug cartel?”

“That’s part of the CJNG’s business,” Marco replied, “but not at Club Gusto. That place serves a different purpose.”

“Meaning?” Chris asked.

“It feeds their human trafficking operation. At least that’s the rumor.”

“Are you saying Club Gusto is the nexus for the disappearance of American women in Juarez?” Duarte asked.

Marco shrugged. “There are other places where such activities take place, but Club Gusto is the fanciest nightclub in Juarez. Word on the street is that’s where the most attractive women go to party.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Sophie said. “This sounds like something out of a movie, not real life.”

“Oh, it’s real,” Marco said. “Very real.”

“I need to get to Juarez,” Sophie said urgently.

“Are you nuts?” Marco replied. “You have a cartel leader looking for you. Not a chance!”

Sophie stood. “I have to find out what hospital Sierra is in. She must be terrified right now. She’d want me to be there, just like she’d be there for me if the situation was reversed. Cartel or no cartel, someone needs to drive me. Who’s it going to be?”

“Please, Sophie,” Jordan said. “Sit down. There’s something we need to tell you.”

The tone of Jordan’s voice suggested that something wasn’t right.

Sophie sat. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s about Sierra.”

“What about her?” Sophie replied. “What about my friend?”

Jordan took Sophie’s hand in hers. “What happened to her when you exited the nightclub was a terrible thing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry, honey. Her injury was critical.”

“You’re lying.”

Jordan shook her head. “I’m afraid Sierra’s gone, Sophie.”

Sophie cried out. “No! No! No!”

Jordan put her arm around her. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said.

Sophie spoke through her tears. “Did Ramos do this?”

Duarte shook her head. “No. It was another man.”

“You mean the second creep who’d been bothering us all night?”

“Yes. Would you be able to identify him if we showed you a suspect array?”

Sophie composed herself. “I’d recognize that bastard twenty years from now in a crowd.”

“Good,” Duarte said. “When the time comes, you’ll have the chance to put your finger on his picture. We’ll make sure he’s locked up for the rest of his life. He’ll never see the light of day again.”

“No need,” Sophie said. “Just give me the knife he used to kill Sierra. I’ll save you the trouble.”

The group sat quietly, waited until Sophie had calmed down.

Marco spoke. “I might be able to help.”

“How?” Chris asked.

“I think I know where Ramos hides the women.”

“You do?” Duarte asked.

Marco nodded. “One of my karate students, Juan, is a former cartel member. He’s still a kid himself. He once told me that he and three other youngsters were driven to a place outside Juarez one night to do what the cartel calls work duty. He overheard the men talking, saying they couldn’t wait for the women to arrive. A bus arrived an hour later. He watched as a number of young women in party dresses were herded into the premises and taken downstairs. All of them were wearing blindfolds and staggered when they walked. He figured they’d been drugged. After they’d finished cleaning the place, they were driven back to Juarez and paid. He said the place scared him, that he never wanted to go back there again. He walked in my door the next day, said he wanted to study under me, and asked if I could help him get out of the cartel, which I did.”

“How did you do that?” Jordan asked.

“I bought his freedom,” Marco said. “I gave them ten thousand dollars, which was more than I could afford. Thank God it was enough. Turns out they didn’t want him anyway. Called him the runt of the litter. Juan’s no runt. He’s strong, smart, and turning into a fine young man.”

Jordan smiled. “That’s a very noble thing to do, Marco. You should be very proud of yourself.”

“Not as proud as I am of Juan.”

“This place Juan was taken to work and where he saw the women,” Chris said. “Did he tell you where it is?”

“He described it to me,” Marco replied. “I’m pretty sure I know the place he was talking about. It used to be a restaurant, but it’s been abandoned for years.”

“You think you could take us there?”

Marco nodded. “Sure.”

Chris turned to the group. “If we’re going to check it out, we’ll need to leave now while it’s still dark.”

“I agree,” Jordan said.

“All right,” Duarte said. “Sophie, you’re not leaving our sight. You’ll ride with us. Marco, will you show us the way?”

Marco nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

35

RAMOS’S CELL PHONE rang. He pulled his Porsche over to the side of the road and took the call. “Hello?”

Vlad was calling. “I take it my beauties have their bags packed and are ready to leave for their new home?” he asked.

“Nothing has changed,” Ramos replied. “Your shipment will be ready for pick up when your men arrive.”

“Good,” the Russian mobster said. He took a deep hit from his nebulizer. “Very good.”

From the start, Ramos had disliked the man. The sound of his voice alone made his skin crawl. “Is there anything else? Or are you just calling to irritate me?”

“The Bratva have another request.”

“Which is?”

“They’d like you to open the age range.”

“Open it?”

“There have been many requests lately for… how shall I put it… less-experienced girls.”

“What are you saying?”

“Ours is a business of supply and demand, Mr. Ramos. Unfortunately, we find ourselves in a situation where we have inadequate supply to meet said demand. We’d like you to rectify that for us.”

“Rectify it how?”

“The tender age group is fetching a premium price on the world market, higher than for the women you are supplying. Our competitors have moved quickly on this and are already capitalizing on it. Management sees this as a lost opportunity.”

“Are you asking me to provide you with children?”

“Supply and demand, Mr. Ramos. Supply and demand.”

“I understand supply and demand, Vlad. However, you and the Bratva don’t understand basic geography. This is Mexico. There are no American children here. Advise your superiors to pull out a map and look north of our border.”

“Did I say they had to be American?”

“You want Mexican kids?”

“The market is less fussy about nationality than product quality.”

“My operation isn’t set up to manage children. That would bring with it an entirely new set of challenges.”

Another deep breath, followed by an annoyingly long pause, followed by a slow exhalation. “A temporary challenge at best. So, Mr. Ramos, can you accommodate our request? Or do we take our business elsewhere?”

“What kind of numbers are we talking about?”

“Are you asking about the quantity of product required or your compensation per head?”

“Both.”

“Twenty to start at twenty-five thousand apiece.”

Ramos did the math in his head.

Half a million dollars.

“All right,” he said. “Give me three weeks. I’ll need time to scout out a new holding and transfer station. The present location won’t do. Plus, I’ll need to recruit a team capable of collecting the product from the field without arousing suspicion.”

“You have two,” Vlad replied. “After that, we’ll begin submitting orders. How you organize your business in the interim is not my concern. Just get it done.”

Ramos hated taking orders from the Russian. He reminded himself once more that their relationship was based on financial prosperity, not mutual admiration. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “I will.”

“Wonderful, Mr. Ramos,” Vlad said. “I speak for the Bratva when I say I look forward to working with you on this new venture. I’m sure it will be a most satisfying experience.”

Ramos tried to put the thought of the fat man out of his mind. Instead, he focused on the money. “As am I,” he replied.

36

REYNA MOVED QUICKLY and silently across the room, skirting around the tables and chairs between her and the gunman with ease. When she had narrowed the distance to within several yards of the man, a creak in a weakened floorboard gave her away. The man turned, caught sight of her in his peripheral vision, approaching fast.

He jumped up from his chair, swung the muzzle of the assault rifle around to meet Reyna, but his reaction came too late.

Reyna kicked the weapon out of his grasp, watched it slide across the floor. Before he could react, she jumped into the air, wrapped her legs around his waist, then twisted her body as hard as she could and threw herself to the ground. Locked within the scissor grip of her powerful legs, the gunman fell with her to the ground. Reyna felt his hands clutching at her legs as he tried to escape her hold. She reached out, grabbed first his hand, then his arm, and wrenched it as hard as she could. Snap. The break of the arm was followed by a muffled scream as Reyna pressed her calf hard against his mouth. Despite his broken limb, the man still attempted to regain control. Reyna pulled out the two small knives she had taken from the kitchen area from her waistband, swung her body up and over the gunman, held his head tightly between her knees, then drove the knives down into his torso, not once but three times, the first thrust deep into his heart, the next two into both lungs. She twisted the knives, held them in place, waited, and listened. In the seconds that followed, the gunman’s body fell slack under her weight.

He was dead.

Reyna pulled out the knives, wiped them clean on his shirt, rose to her feet, shifted her attention to the bound prisoners. “Sorry for the dramatic entrance,” she said to Serrano as she cut him free of the nylon zip cuffs that bound his wrists, then turned her attention to Torres. “It’s a hell of a lot further from the bar to here than I thought it would be. Did I hear Dead Guy call you Mr. FBI?”

Serrano nodded. “Special Agent Pablo Serrano. This is my partner, Special Agent Victoria Torres. And you are?”

“Corporal Reyna Flores, sir. U.S. Army retired. 75th Ranger regiment, 3rd Battalion, B Company, Special Operations.”

Serrano stood, massaged his chafed and swollen wrists, helped Torres to her feet. “Good to meet you, Corporal. Thanks for stepping in when you did.”

“Nice to be of assistance, sir,” Reyna replied.

“Thank you,” Torres said. She shook Reyna’s hand. “I have to ask the obvious.”

“What am I doing here?” Reyna said.

“Precisely.”

“It’s a long story, ma’am. I’ll be happy to share every ugly detail with you. But right now, we have to get out of here.”

Serrano retrieved their weapons and credentials from the floor near the dead gunman, handed Torres her gun. The agent holstered her weapon.

“Not so fast, Agent Torres,” Reyna said. “If I were you, I’d keep that handy.” She ran to the front door, peered out through the narrow window. “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said.

“What is it?” Serrano asked.

“Backup’s arrived. And they’re not the good guys.”

Reyna stepped aside, allowed Serrano and Torres to look out the window. “Four tango’s at the roadway,” Reyna said.

“Give me Dead Guy’s assault rifle,” Torres said. “I’ll take them out from here.”

“Taking them out isn’t the problem,” Reyna said. “The problem is downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Serrano asked.

Reyna pointed to the rear hallway. “Follow me.”

The agents reached the steel door and waited as Reyna removed a slip of paper from her pocket and entered the key code into its electronic lock. The device made a whirring sound, clicked open.

“You’re not going to believe what you’re about to see,” Reyna warned. “You ready?”

The agents nodded.

Reyna opened the door, called out. “Coming down.”

The agents descended the stairs behind her, then stopped when they saw the dozens of women imprisoned in the cells.

“Holy hell,” Serrano said.

“My god,” Torres said. “How many are down here?”

“Forty,” Reyna said.

Serrano looked at El Semental’s dead body lying on floor at the far end of the room. He turned to Reyna. “I take it that was you?”

Reyna shrugged. “We shared a couple of beers. They disagreed with him.”

Serrano smiled. “Uh-huh.”

Reyna called out. “Everyone, listen up. These agents are with the FBI. We’ll be getting out of here soon. Until then, I need you to do exactly what you’ve been doing so far. Stay quiet. There are men outside, and they’re not the good guys. We’ve come this far. Now it’s time to take it home. Chi, unlock the cells and organize everyone into pairs.” She handed her sister the paper upon which was written the door code. “Hold onto this. I’ve committed it to memory. We’ll be back for everyone in a few minutes. Keep the door closed and locked. There’s something the agents and I need to take care of first. Kristen, on me.”

Kristen nodded. “Whatever you need.”

Reyna smiled. “Atta girl.”

The woman who had translated for Reyna spoke up. “But we want to get out of here now!”

Reyna walked to the cell, grabbed her by her blouse, pulled her up to the bars, glared at her. “Listen, bitch. Make one more sound or argue with me one more time and I swear to God I’ll punch you so fucking hard I’ll knock out your great-great-grandmother. Do I make myself clear?”

The woman stared at her, wide-eyed. She swallowed hard, then nodded.

Reyna released her. “Good.”

Agent’s Serrano, Torres, and Kristen followed Reyna up the stairs, stood behind her as she entered the unlock code, cracked open the door, and peered down the hall.

“Clear,” Reyna said.

Together they ventured to the end of the corridor. Reyna raised her hand, made a fist. The agents halted. Kristen followed their lead.

“We’re good,” Reyna said. She ran to the body of the dead gunman, retrieved his assault rifle from the floor, handed it to Serrano, pulled the dead man’s sidearm out of its cross-draw holster, handed it to Kristen, then ran to the bar to collect the rifle she had taken from El Semental. “These guys are carrying heavy heat,” she said. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t bring those weapons from home. There must be an armory somewhere in this place. We need to find it. If it comes down to shooting our way out of here, we’ll need all the firepower we can get our hands on, so split up and start looking.”

Reyna headed for the back door.

“Where are you going?” Serrano asked.

“There’s a bus at the back of the driveway under a tarp.”

Serrano nodded. “We saw it when we crossed the property.”

“They probably used it to bring us here. Seems only fitting we use it to escape. But first, I’ll need to know if it will start and if there’s gas in the tank.”

“Do you know how to drive a bus?” Serrano asked.

“Do Humvees count?”

“No.”

Reyna grinned. “Then we’re in for a hell of a ride, aren’t we?”

Serrano smiled. “You said you’re an ex-Ranger?”

“Yeah.”

“You seem rather young to be retired.”

“I am.”

“Mind if I ask why you got out?”

“Wasn’t my idea,” Reyna replied. “A fellow Ranger got into an argument with my fist. His daddy is a U.S. senator. He got a busted jaw and a reprimand. I got the ultimate butt-kicking. Since I’d saved lives in combat, they dropped the assault charge but cut me loose. Gave me an honorable discharge.”

“Sorry that had to happen,” Serrano replied.

“Not me,” Reyna said. “You should have seen it. It was one hell of a punch. And he was one hell of an asshole.”

Serrano grinned. “Think I’ll go look for those weapons now. Watch your six, Ranger.”

Reyna nodded. “Roger that.”

37

SPECIAL AGENT DUARTE, Jordan, Chris, and Sophie left La Cantina and followed Marco as he rode his motorcycle west to the cartel property his student had told him about. They talked as they drove.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions, Sophie?” Duarte asked.

“Sure,” Sophie replied.

“How did it go down at the safe house between my agents and Ramos?”

Sophie paused as she recalled the horror of the moment. “The attack came out of nowhere,” she said. “One second Agent Garcia was walking me through the place and showing me around while Agent Cruz followed behind, and the next the front door exploded. All three of us hit the floor, not because anyone had been shot, but because we had no place else to go. There was nowhere in the empty hallway to take cover. Agent Garcia grabbed me at the same time that she jumped to her feet and yelled ‘Go! Go! Go!’, then pushed me down the hallway. The bathroom door was open, so I ran inside. I looked over my shoulder to see if she was still behind me, but she wasn’t. She’d doubled back and taken a position across from Agent Cruz. A second shotgun blast followed the first. I know they returned fire because I heard their gunshots, which sounded different compared to the boom of the shotgun blasts. It was more like a pop, pop, pop. After the gunfire stopped, I heard yelling. But it wasn’t their voices. I was halfway out the bathroom window when your people stopped firing.”

“That’s when you ran through the yards and crossed over into the construction site?” Jordan asked.

Sophie nodded. “As fast as my size fours could carry me.”

“You were lucky you got away when you did,” Duarte said. “From what we know about him, Ramos doesn’t sound like the type to leave a murder witness behind.”

Sophie shook her head. “Poor Sierra. I still can’t believe she’s dead. She had so much potential, so much to live for.”

“You realize what she did for you, right?” Chris said.

Sophie waited, listened.

Chris continued. “By attacking her assailant and wounding him the way she did, she created a distraction. That split second gave you the chance to run. It literally saved your life. If she hadn’t done that, you’d probably both be dead. Without intending to, she sacrificed her life for yours.”

Sophie stared out the window. Her voice cracked. “How am I supposed to come to terms with that?”

Jordan replied. “It’ll take time, but one day you will.”

“I watched them from the construction site,” Sophie said. “I saw them put Agents Garcia and Cruz into a car. It wasn’t Ramos’s. He was driving a Porsche. This car belonged to two other men.”

“Do you think you could describe them if you saw them again?” Duarte asked.

Sophie shook her head. “It was dark, and I was too far away.”

“What about the make and model of the car?” Chris asked. “Can you describe it?”

“Sorry,” Sophie replied. “When I stopped to catch my breath and to make sure I wasn’t being followed, my body began dumping adrenaline like crazy. All I remember is watching your agents being rough-handled and forced into the back seat of the car. Everything else is a blur. Like I said, adrenaline. I gave myself a few seconds to get it together, then ran like hell in what was left of my shoes.”

“You did the right thing,” Jordan said. “Don’t blame yourself for anything that happened tonight. None of it was your fault.”

Sophie sighed. “Then why do I feel like it is?”

Duarte placed a phone call, waited for a response.

Voicemail.

She ended the call, rang a second number.

Same.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said. “Neither Serrano nor Torres are picking up.”

“Could be spotty cell service,” Chris said. “I know of a couple of places back home with dead zones. You couldn’t get a signal there if you tried.”

“Possibly,” Duarte said. “But I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. I told them to check in with me after they talked to the coroner at the Wardell scene. It’s not like them not to call.”

“I’m sure everything is fine,” Chris replied.

Duarte nodded. “I hope so.”

Ahead, Marco motioned with his hand, then turned off the road.

The agents followed him into a boarded-up gas station on the outskirts of Los Trios.

Marco pulled in behind the station, turned off the bike, dismounted, walked back to the sedan.

The agents and Sophie opened their doors, stepped out.

“What are we doing here?” Duarte asked.

Marco walked to the corner of the gas station, peered around the corner, pointed. “See that place up on the hill?”

The group joined him and checked out the building. “You mean the one with no lights on but four armed guards standing in the driveway?” Chris asked. “Yeah, I see it.”

“That’s the abandoned restaurant my student was referring to,” Marco said.

“Where he thinks the women were being held?”

Marco nodded.

Chris looked at Jordan. “We need to check it out, J.”

“I agree,” Jordan replied. She turned to Marco. “Do you know how to stall your bike to make it look like you’ve run out of gas or are having engine trouble?”

Marco nodded. “Sure, I can do that.”

“Good. You just became my new boyfriend.”

Marco smiled. “Say what?”

“Yeah,” Sophie said. “Say what?”

“I need to ask a huge favor of you, Marco,” Jordan said. “You don’t have to do it. As a matter of fact, I’d understand if you refused.”

“What’s the favor?” Marco asked.

“Drive us to the end of that driveway, stall the bike, then follow my lead.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m going to pick a fight with four cartel tough guys. Think you can back me up?”

Marco nodded. “Damn right.”

Jordan smiled. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

38

EN ROUTE TO the transfer station, Ramos thought about the newly expanded business venture he had just entered into with the Russian mafia. Through Vlad’s authorization, the Bratva would soon be paying the CJNG an insane amount of money for him to facilitate the kidnapping and holding of the new younger inventory. His remuneration would amount to a cut of the profits. As an organization, the CJNG would retain the lion’s share of the money. Regardless, he was about to become wealthier than he had ever dreamed possible. The more product he provided, the higher the commission he would earn. Still, he had concerns. He would be in charge of this new venture, and it would require overcoming challenges he had not dealt with before. His current operation, located in the basement of the former Mariachi Grill restaurant, was running perfectly. In his mind, he ran down a list of the organizational and logistical challenges he would need to consider to ensure the new venture would succeed. How far from the existing holding and transfer station should the new building be located? How should it be outfitted? How large should it be? Could the youths and the women be shipped out at the same time? Would the younger product be more difficult to manage than the older product? Should they be sourced locally or far away from Juarez? Despite its potential, this new business opportunity still needed time to be properly planned, three weeks at the least. But in typical fashion, Vlad had set an unrealistic timeframe for him to be up and running and fulfilling orders. Two weeks was ridiculous. Such a radical expansion of the business would require at least that amount of time just to acquire the location, organize product procurement teams, and work out the kinks. Regardless, he would have to figure out how to make it happen and in record time. The eyes of the CJNG would be on him. Failure was not an option.

Ramos glanced at the caller ID on the Porsche’s dashboard display as his phone rang. He took the call. “Tell me you have good news for me, Emmanuel.”

“Good and bad,” Sega replied.

“Meaning?”

“So far, you’ve saved yourself a quarter of a million dollars.”

“And the bad news?”

“My contact couldn’t come through with the computer screen photos of the prisoner activity logs you requested.”

“You think he was playing me?”

“To tell you the truth Miguel, I don’t know what to think. That could be true, or perhaps he couldn’t find a minute when someone else wasn’t around to take the pics and email them to me.”

“What is your gut telling you?”

“That he got timed out.”

“You still think he’s reliable?”

“I do.”

“So we’re no further ahead with the Rabal situation now than we were before. We still don’t know if he’s talked, and if he did, to whom.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Then I have no choice but to wait until morning. Think you can reach out to your contact in a few hours and ask him to try again?”

“Definitely.”

“All right. That being the case, I’ll need your help in the interim.”

“Name it.”

“There’s a restaurant located half an hour outside Juarez. It’s closed now. It used to be the Mariachi Grill. You know it?”

“Sure.”

“I’m leaving Juarez now. Meet me there.”

“Is the Mariachi what I think it is?”

“You wanted to join the cartel, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“I am.”

“Then consider yourself in. My operation is expanding faster than I anticipated. I need a new number two; someone I can trust. You’re it.”

“I don’t know what to say, Miguel. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just prove you can do the job.”

“I will.”

“This will be trial by fire, Emmanuel. You’ll have to do everything I say when I say it. That includes wet work when necessary. The CJNG demands nothing less.”

Sega got the reference. Bloody murder, up close, impersonal. “I understand.”

“The Mariachi,” Ramos repeated. “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.”

He ended the call.

39

KRISTEN WHISPERED FROM across the room. “Hey! Somebody give me a hand over here.”

Agents Serrano and Torres hurried across the dining room.

Kristen stood beside a massive painting mounted on the wall, spoke to Torres. “I found the armory,” she said. “Grab the other side of the frame and lift.”

The two women lifted the painting off the wall and set it aside. Behind the artwork, a wooden frame had been cut into the wall, slightly narrower and not as tall as the painting itself. The weapons lay on shelves: six fully loaded M4 carbine assault rifles, twelve assorted handguns, all semiautomatic, boxes of ammo, both forty-five and nine millimetre, and stacks of rifle magazines.

“Jackpot,” Torres said. She removed one of the rifles, ejected the clip, inspected it. “Thirty-round capacity, full mag,” he said. “Nice work, Kristen.”

Kristen grabbed a rifle, followed Torres’s lead, readied the weapon. “I’ve always wanted to fire one of these babies,” she said. She slipped the gun’s shoulder strap over her head. It hung at her side. Together they checked the remaining weapons, made them battle-ready.

“Bring them to the back door,” Serrano said. “We’re taking them with us.”

“Reyna asked for a show of hands earlier,” Kristen said. “Most of the women indicated they know how to handle a gun.”

“Good,” Serrano replied. “We just might need a few sharpshooters.”

“Count me in,” Kristen said. She removed three rifles from the rack and carried them to the back door.

Torres and Serrano emptied the rack of the remaining weapons, grabbed as many clips and boxes of ammo as they could carry, followed Kristen. They laid the guns on a table near the restaurant’s rear exit door.

“Now that’s what I call a bullet buffet,” Kristen said.

Torres smiled. “Nicely put,” she said. “First come, first served.”

Serrano spoke. “We’ll wait until Reyna returns, then organize everyone’s departure from this not-so-fine establishment.”

“Copy that,” Torres replied.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Kristen,” Serrano said. “It’s very important.”

Kristen nodded. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“Maybe. But I’m legally required to tell you anyway.”

“Let me guess,” Kristen said. “Don’t shoot at the bad guys unless they shoot at me first.”

“Precisely.”

“No problem. Should that happen, do I have your permission to light up said bad guys ass?”

Serrano smiled. “You certainly do.”

Kristen winked. “Good to know.”

“I’m going to check the front door,” Torres said. “We can’t afford to let those sentries out of our sight.”

“All right,” Serrano replied. “We’ll wait here for Reyna. Call out if you need us.”

“Got it.”

Serrano watched his partner head for the front door. He turned to Kristen. “So, tell me. How did you end up here with the others?”

Kristen shook her head. “Two parts tequila, one part bad judgment.”

Serrano smiled. “You seem more responsible than that to me.”

Kristen confessed. “I got roofied at Club Gusto.”

“Is that how you all got here?”

Kristen nodded. “The general consensus is that we were drugged, then driven here.”

“There are forty of you,” Serrano said. “How the hell could they pull that off?”

“The bus outside. It’s a special perk of the club, available by invitation only. Some guy approached me, told me about it, said it was heading out for a midnight tour of the city, then on to a private party at some billionaire’s mansion where there’d be great music, dancing, and free booze. I was already feeling no pain, so I figured what the hell. I’ve never met a billionaire before. Once we were on board, the music started pumping and the liquor to flow. I passed out quickly. My guess is they’d laced our drinks with Rohypnol, GHB, ketamine, or some drug like that. It hit me fast. I felt like I’d lost all muscle control. When I came around, my head was pounding, and I was nursing one mother of a hangover. That’s when I found myself downstairs and locked in the cell with the other women who’d been on the bus. We recognized one another and started talking. It didn’t take long for us to put together what had happened.”

“Do you think you’d be able to recognize your kidnapper if you saw him?”

Kristen shook her head. “I glanced at the bus driver, but only for a second. The guy was wearing a sombrero, looking down, and holding a tray of tequila shots. We each took one when we stepped on board, threw it back, then took our seats. The rest is history.”

Serrano shook his head. “I’m sorry this happened to you, Kristen.”

Kristen nodded. “Me too.”

“Don’t worry,” Serrano said. “We’re going to get you out of here. All of you.”

“For a guy who’s in the same position as the rest of us, you sound pretty sure of yourself,” Kristen replied.

“The tables have turned,” Serrano said. “We have the expertise and the firepower now. It’s only a matter of time before we make our move. Just be patient.”

Kristen nodded. “Okay.”

40

FIFTY YARDS AWAY, the school bus sat beneath a plastic tarp.

Still there.

Thank God.

Reyna crept along the side of the building, taking cover behind discarded wooden crates, pallets, and industrial steel drums. She moved past the open window through which the FBI agents had entered the restaurant, reached the end of the wall, stopped, and peered around the corner.

The four sentries stood near the end of the driveway, laughing, drinking, and smoking. The aroma of marijuana hung in the air. She watched as the men passed around the blunt.

“That’s good, boys,” Reyna whispered. “The more stoned you get, the better it’ll be for us.” She shoulder-checked her position. Clear. With El Semental and the wayward sentry dead, only four threats remained, and all were in sight.

A thought suddenly occurred to her.

The wayward sentry.

Shit.

Stoned or not, the four men would eventually realize that the guard they had come to relieve had not yet returned to his car. Soon, they would become suspicious, organize themselves, and begin searching for him. If they spread out it wouldn’t take them long to cover the grounds. Reyna knew she had to move fast while time was still on her side and do what she had come outside to do.

She formulated a plan.

There were two points of cover between the bus and where she was currently situated. The first were several industrial-size steel drums which lay on their side; the second a tall pile of broken crates, pallets, and assorted combustible refuse, stacked high, likely intended for future use as a bonfire.

Neither option was ideal, but both would provide concealment, which was all she needed.

When the men suddenly turned their backs and strolled down the driveway towards the main road, she took advantage of the opportunity, rose to her feet, then bolted towards the bus, passing the steel drums and woodpile as she ran. When she reached the back of the vehicle, she stopped, caught her breath, and peered around the bus.

She had not been seen.

The men continued to laugh and smoke, paying no attention to the property they were being compensated to guard.

Reyna shook her head. “Even the cartel can’t find good help these days,” she said, then turned her attention to the bus’s rear emergency exit door. She pulled the lever. To her relief, no alarm sounded. Considering the true purpose of the vehicle, which was to transport the kidnapped and drugged women from Club Gusto to the restaurant, Reyna figured it had been purposely disabled. She eased the door open, slipped inside, closed it behind her.

The interior of the vintage school bus had been modified to resemble a party bus. Inexpensive plastic lights were strung from the roof. The dark ceiling was painted in a chaotic pattern that reminded Reyna of posters she had seen from the peace/love days of the psychedelic sixties. She walked to the front of the bus, searched for the ignition key, found it under the driver’s chair. Reyna retrieved the key, inserted it into the ignition, then waited. What she had to do next needed to be done very quickly. She took a deep breath, let it out, glanced at the guards still standing at the end of the driveway, then turned the key without starting the engine.

The dashboard instrument cluster illuminated.

She checked the fuel gauge. Full.

Reyna removed the key, watched the panel lights die.

The bus appeared to be in good working order, fuelled, and ready to go.

They were in business.

Concerned whether any of the bus’s external lights, which she could not see, had come on when she had turned the key, Reyna turned her attention back to the sentries.

The men continued their jovial interaction, oblivious to her presence behind the wheel.

Reyna rose from the driver’s seat, pocketed the key, hurried to the back of the bus, opened the emergency exit door, then slipped outside. She left the door slightly ajar behind her, then crept to the side of the bus and looked around the corner.

Good to go.

On her return dash to the abandoned restaurant, Reyna took advantage of the concealment stops she had spotted earlier. She moved fast, first from the bus to the woodpile, then on to the cover of the steel industrial drums.

In the distance, a motorcycle revved its engine. Reyna looked up from behind the drums, tried to determine where the sound had come from, couldn’t. “It’s probably nothing,” she said to herself. “The last thing I need right now is another party guest.”

Reyna waited for her opportunity. She ran to the back of the restaurant, reentered the building, hurried past the agents, and down the hallway. She stopped at the steel door which led to the underground cells.

Serrano called out after her. “Well? What’s the deal?”

“We’re green,” Reyna replied. She punched in the key code, opened the door, ran downstairs, spoke to her sister.

“Move them upstairs to the main floor, Chi. Hurry!”

One of the women stepped forward, asked meekly. “Does this mean we’re getting out of here?”

Reyna walked up to her, spoke calmly. “Yes, hon,” she replied. “That’s exactly what it means.”

41

JORDAN SAT BEHIND Marco on his motorcycle, put on his spare helmet, wrapped her arms around his waist. He fired up the bike, revved the engine.

“You good back there?” Marco asked.

“You bet,” Jordan replied.

Chris put his hand on his partner’s shoulder. “You sure about this, J?” he asked.

Jordan shrugged. “If you can think of a better way to approach these guys without putting the hostages at risk, I’m all for it.”

“I can,” Chris replied. “They’re called lights and a siren. All FBI sedans come equipped with them, even Agent Duarte’s. We drive down the road, light up the bad guys, and take them down at gunpoint. No muss, no fuss, and no ass-kicking required.”

Jordan raised her helmet visor. “No ass-kicking? Now you’re taking the fun out of it.”

“I’m serious, Jordan,” Chris replied. “You see the weapons those guys are carrying? I can tell by their silhouette they’re M4’s. That’s a forty-five caliber machine gun. It can fire eight hundred rounds per minute in automatic mode. A single burst from it will cut you in half.”

“Don’t worry, Chris,” Jordan replied. “I’ll be fine. Hang back for a minute. As soon as we engage, you guys come in. But no lights or sirens. There might be other guards inside the building. We can’t afford to tip them off. They might harm the hostages.”

Chris nodded. “Copy that.”

Jordan lowered her visor, tapped Marco on his leg. “Come on, boyfriend,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

Marco nodded, revved the engine, dropped the bike into gear. “Hang on.”

Chris, Agent Duarte, and Sophie watched as the bike raced out from behind the former gas station and drove down the road.

Marco approached the abandoned restaurant, dropped the motorcycle into neutral, coasted to a stop at the end of the driveway, killed the engine, threw his hands into the air, stared at the machine.

Jordan dismounted, removed her helmet. As Marco stepped off the bike, she yelled at him. “I thought you said it was fixed!”

Marco played along, yelled back. “It was supposed to be!”

Jordan pointed at the motorcycle. “This is the third time it stalled tonight!”

“You make it sound like it’s my fault!”

“Aren’t you the one who took it in for maintenance?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Then who else’s fault could it be?” Unfazed by the deadly weapons they held against their chests, Jordan walked up the driveway towards the gunmen. “Excuse me,” she said. “Can you help us?”

Marco followed behind her, glanced over his shoulder, stared at his motorcycle, stopped when they had reached the four men. He held his arms open to demonstrate his mutual disbelief as to why the bike had suddenly died when and where it did.

The men raised their weapons, pointed them at Jordan and Marco. The leader spoke in Spanish. “Salir! Ahora!”

Jordan stared at the man, then at Marco. “What did he say?”

Marco replied. “He said we have to leave. Now.”

“Tell him we can’t. The motorcycle has broken down.”

Marco translated. “No podemos, senior. La moto se ha averiado.”

The man stepped forward, threatened Marco with the gun. “Ese no es mi puto problema!”

“What did he⁠—”

“He said it’s not his fucking problem.”

Jordan crossed her arms, stared at the man. “Tell him that wasn’t very nice.”

“I don’t think I’ll do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he looks a little pissed, and I don’t feel like getting shot.”

Jordan approached the men. “Do either of you speak English?” she asked.

The men stared at her, said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” Jordan said. “Marco, wing it.”

“What?”

Jordan suddenly grabbed her stomach, doubled over. “Oww,” she said. She stepped forward, put her hand on the gunman’s shoulder.

The man tried to step back. Jordan held onto him for support.

“Mal con ella?” he asked Marco.

“He’s asking what’s wrong with you,” Marco said.

“What part of wing it don’t you understand?” Jordan replied.

“Oh yeah.” Marco walked to Jordan, put his arm around her. He looked at the gunman, lied, told him she was pregnant. “Mi prometida está embarazada.”

“Tell him I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Ella va a vomitar!” Marco said.

As the gunman tried to pull away, Jordan quietly gave the word. “Now!”

The agent and the martial arts expert exploded into action. Jordan grabbed the man’s weapon, rammed the butt of the rifle stock under his chin, then slammed it into his face, shattering his nose. The nasal break was followed by a hammer fist to the man’s solar plexus, which brought him to the ground. Jordan delivered a lethal side kick to the second sentry’s groin. The man collapsed, brought his knees to his chest. Jordan lifted her shirttail, removed her gun, pointed it at both men, then relieved them of their weapons.

Marco wasted no time, followed her lead. With lightning speed and deadly accuracy, he attacked the first of the two remaining sentries by driving his fist hard and deep into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe, watched him fall, then slid his body between the second man and his weapon as he raised it to fire. The rounds erupted out of the gun muzzle in front of him in a sickening burst, ricocheting off the ground, tearing chucks out of the driveway. Marco drove his elbow hard into the man’s ribs, then swept his feet out from under him. Generating as much torque and speed as he could, he flipped the sentry hard over his hip and directed his body headfirst into the driveway. Having now wholly incapacitated the man, he wrenched the assault rifle out of his grip, then held his two victims at gunpoint. He glanced at Jordan. “You okay, Agent Quest?”

Jordan kicked the assault rifles away from the men. “Never better,” Jordan replied.

Marco smiled. “You handle yourself pretty well for an amateur. Not bad at all.”

Jordan grinned. “Coming from a martial arts instructor, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

In seconds, the FBI sedan braked to a stop feet away from Jordan and Marco. Duarte and Chris exited the car, guns drawn.

“You two okay?” Duarte asked.

Jordan nodded. “We could use a few pairs of handcuffs. Other than that, we’re fine.”

As Jordan handcuffed the first of the two gunmen, Chris cuffed the second.

Marco helped Agent Duarte detain the second pair of cartel thugs, held them down while she cuffed their hands behind their back.

“We need to get these four out of sight,” Jordan said. She nodded toward one of the cars. “Chris, check the doors.”

“Copy that,” Chris replied. He ran to the first car, opened the back door, then returned to Jordan. “You take one, I’ll take the other.”

They pulled the gunmen to their feet, hurried them to the car, forced them into the backseat, locked the door, slammed it shut.

Marco grabbed one of the men, followed Duarte to a second vehicle, forced them inside, locked the door. The two rejoined Jordan and Chris. “So much for being cartel tough guys,” Duarte said.

Chris extended his hand to Marco. “Thanks for having my partner’s back,” he said.

Marco smiled, shook it. “Anytime.”

Jordan looked up the long, winding driveway, stared at the dark restaurant. She picked up the M40 assault rifles, handed one to Chris, Duarte, and Marco, removed the mag from the weapon she had retained. The clip was full. She slammed it back into the weapon, made it ready. “I’ve got a full thirty rounds,” she said. “What about you guys?”

The agents and Marco inspected their rifles.

“Half a clip,” Marco said.

“I’m good,” Chris replied.

“Locked and loaded,” Duarte replied.

“Time to find out who’s inside that building,” Jordan said. “Marco, move your bike off the road and hide it. Take Sophie with you. Both of you stay of sight for now. We’ll call for you after we’ve cleared the restaurant. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marco replied. He took Sophie’s hand in his.

“Good. Now go.”

The agents watched Marco push his motorcycle off the road, hide it in a tall thicket, then help Sophie into the woods beside the property.

“Ready?” Jordan asked.

Duarte nodded.

“On you, J,” Chris said.

Jordan took a deep breath, exhaled. “Let’s go.”

42

CONCHITA DIRECTED THE women up the stairs from the basement, through the locked steel door that had been the entrance to their prison since their arrival at the abandoned restaurant days ago, followed her sister into the main dining area.

Having been blindfolded and drugged upon their arrival, the group looked around the room, took in their unfamiliar surroundings.

“What is this place, Rey?” Conchita asked.

“An old restaurant,” Reyna replied. “I found a stack of napkins behind the bar with a name printed on them. It used to be called the Mariachi Grill. Now it’s a cartel holding area where they keep the women they’ve kidnapped before trafficking them.”

One of the women had wandered away from the group, made her way to the bar area. Her scream pierced the air.

“What the hell?” Reyna said. She ran to the adjoining bar room.

The young woman stood in the middle of the dark room, staring down at the blood-soaked body of the sentry Reyna had killed.

Reyna ran to her, turned her away from the gruesome scene. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said. She took the woman’s face in her hands. “You okay?”

The women said nothing.

“I know this is hard,” Reyna said. “But you’re going to have to be strong for a little while longer. Think you can do that?”

The woman nodded slowly.

“Good,” Reyna said. She called out to her sister. “Chi, I need you here now!”

Conchita ran to the bar area, met her sister, stopped in her tracks when she spied the body on the floor. “What do you nee— Oh, shit!”

Reyna acknowledged the deceased guard. “Yeah, I know. Dead guy. Don’t worry about that now. Worry about her. She’s in shock. Take her out of here and keep an eye on her, on all of them. No one is to go into this room. I’ll find something to cover him. The agents and I have work to do.”

Chi nodded. “You’ve got it.” She spoke to the woman, led her out of the bar area. “Come with me, sweetie,” she said. “You need to sit down.”

Reyna crossed the bar room, pulled the heavy furniture blanket out from under the stack of tables behind which she had previously hid, walked back to the dead guard, threw it over him. “Sleep tight, asshole,” she said.

Special Agent Torres met her as she returned to the main dining area. “You hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“That noise a few seconds ago. It sounded like gunfire.”

“It’s possible,” Reyna replied. “People are always shooting off weapons down here. I’m convinced it’s a national pastime.”

“It sounded close by.”

Reyna nodded. “All right. Let’s check it out.”

The agent and the Ranger walked to the front door. Serrano looked out the small window. “We have a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem?” Reyna asked.

He stepped aside. “See for yourself.”

Reyna and Torres took turns staring out the window. Three figures, their bodies silhouetted against the darkness, stood at the bottom of the driveway where it met the road.

“They arrived a few seconds ago,” Serrano said. “I heard a burst of gunfire, then saw the muzzle flash.”

“Automatic gunfire,” Torres said. “I was right.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Serrano said. “What if they’re rival cartel members who’ve found out about this place? If the gunfire was them taking out the guards, you can bet they’ll be coming in here soon. And when they do⁠—”

“— they’ll take us out, too,” Reyna said.

“Exactly.”

“No way we’re letting that happen,” Torres said.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Serrano said. “The last thing we need is to get caught up in a cartel war. If that’s what they’re here to do, we need to get these women out of here while we still can.”

“Agreed,” Reyna said. “But we’ll have to do it quietly. Chi and I can get them to the bus. Can you two hold them off until we do?”

Torres nodded. “You bet.”

“Then that’s the plan.”

Serrano peeked out the window, saw the figures in the distance, on the approach. “Three incoming, all carrying automatic weapons.”

“You guys ever have a day when all you want is to get your hands on a few good old-fashioned hand grenades?” Reyna asked.

Serrano nodded. “I’m having one right now.”

“Same,” Torres replied.

Conchita came to the door. “They’re getting restless, Rey,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

Serrano spoke. “Get those hostages to safety any way you can, Ranger. Torres and I have got this. We’ll deal with them when they enter the building. Now go!”

Reyna nodded. “Roger that.” She turned to her sister. “C’mon, Chi. Time to leave.”

Conchita followed behind her sister, joined the group of women.

Reyna called out, got their attention. “All right, ladies,” she said. “Line up. We’re going on a little field trip. Stay close and stay quiet. When I tell you to move, you move. If I don’t tell you to move, stay put. Your life literally depends on doing exactly what I say. Understood?”

The women nodded.

“All right,” Reyna said. “Let’s go.”

43

JORDAN, CHRIS, AND Agent Duarte heard the scream. They raised their weapons, trained them on the lightless building ahead. Chris whispered to the team as they advanced. “Stay loose and keep eyes on the target,” he said. “Any sign of movement and we break for cover. Jordan, you’ve got the B side left, Duarte the D side right. I’ll breach the A side through the front door. We don’t have the manpower to cover the C side, so we’ll handle the rear of the building after it’s been cleared. Copy?”

Jordan and Duarte responded. “Copy.”

The agents reached the front door without incurring fire. Chris raised his hand, made a fist. The team halted. Jordan pointed her weapon to the left of the building to cover them in case of attack. Duarte followed suit, covered right. Chris advanced to the front door from the side, used the building for cover. He extended his hand, tested the door handle.

It moved.

Unlocked.

“Eyes on me,” Chris whispered. “Breaching in three, two, one!”

Chris opened the door, slipped inside, fanned his rifle from left to right, watched for signs of movement. Jordan and Duarte entered the building behind him.

At the back of the restaurant, a shadow moved.

“FBI!” Chris called out.

The announcement echoed by Jordan and Agent Duarte.

A voice responded from the darkness. “Blue! Blue! Blue! Hold your fire!”

“Step out!” Chris yelled. “Hands where I can see them!”

“Hanover?” the voice replied.

Duarte spoke. “Agent Serrano? Is that you?”

“Copy,” Serrano replied. He stepped into view. “Everybody good?”

Chris stared at the agent. “You’re lucky you didn’t get your head blown off.”

“That goes both ways, California,” Serrano replied. He called out to his partner. “All clear, Vic.”

Agent Torres stepped out; her rifle held across her chest. “Nice to see you guys,” she said.

“Same here,” Jordan replied. “Looks like we found the right place.”

Serrano nodded, glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve got forty hostages accounted for. They’re being moved to transportation as we speak.”

“Transportation?” Duarte asked.

“A bus, parked in a field out back, just off the driveway. We have a friendly with us, an Army Ranger. She was also a hostage who managed to free herself, then us.”

“You were captured?”

Serrano nodded. “I’ll note the details in our after-action report, ma’am. Right now, we need to move these women out of here and get them to the border.”

Chris turned to Duarte. “Where’s the closest crossing from here?”

“Puerto Paloma.”

“How far away is it?”

“Thirty minutes. Less if we punch it.”

“Then punch it we will,” Chris said. “Serrano, take us to the hostages.”

“Follow us.”

The agents followed Serrano and Torres through the dining room and around the corner to the corridor which led to the back of the building. Serrano brought his fingers to his mouth, whistled twice.

Reyna stepped out of the bus, saw the group, raised her weapon.

Serrano called out. “Stand down. They’re FBI.”

Reyna lowered her rifle, ran to the group. “Everyone’s on board,” she said. “Time to roll.”

Serrano introduced his colleagues.

“This is all very nice, and I’m sure we’ll become great friends,” Reyna said, “but right now I’d really like to get the hell out of here while we still can.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Duarte said.

Jordan yelled out. “Marco, Sophie. Can you hear me?”

The two emerged from the tree line, walked across the field, joined them.

“On the bus,” Jordan said.

Chris and Serrano ran around the perimeter of the bus, yanked out the tent pegs which secured the tarp to the ground, pulled the massive cover off the vehicle, tossed it aside.

“How the hell did you find this place?” Serrano asked.

“A friend,” Chris replied.

“A friend who knows exactly where to find a cartel human trafficking holding and transfer station? If I were you, I’d start choosing my friends more carefully.”

“He’s not cartel. He’s one of the good guys.”

“Sounds like you lucked out.”

Chris nodded. “We did.”

Jordan called out from the back of the bus. “Chris, Serrano. Let’s go!”

“Copy that,” Chris replied.

The men entered the bus. Chris closed and locked the rear emergency door behind him.

Reyna took her place behind the wheel, inserted the key, started the engine. The bus roared to life.

Marco watched her as she examined the shifter. “You don’t know how to drive stick, do you?” he asked.

“Not a clue,” Reyna replied. “Give me a sec. I’ll figure it out.”

“This isn’t the time to learn using the seat-of-your-pants method.”

“You have a better idea?”

“Yeah,” Marco replied. He placed his assault rifle behind the driver’s seat. “Up and out,” he said. “I’ll drive.”

Reyna objected. “I told you. I’ve got this.”

“You want to waste time arguing? Or do you want to get out of here?”

Reyna relented, exited the driver’s chair.

Marco took her place, dropped the bus into gear, called out. “Everybody, hold on!” He pressed down the accelerator.

The converted school bus lurched ahead. Marco drove to the end of the broken driveway, turned onto the main road, and left behind the place of misery, pain, and suffering.

Thirty minutes to the border.

44

MIGUEL RAMOS PULLED into the driveway of the former restaurant, stepped out of his car. Emmanuel Sega pulled in behind him.

Sega exited his vehicle, approached his new boss, saw the look of concern on his face. “What’s wrong, Miguel?” he asked.

Ramos stared at the building. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he replied. He returned to his Porsche, retrieved his assault rifle from the footwell of the front passenger seat, slipped the weapon’s carry strap over his shoulder. “You armed?” he asked.

Sega shook his head.

Ramos removed his jewel encrusted pistol from his waist, chambered a round, handed it to his new number two. “Follow me. Don’t shoot unless you’re shot at. Got it?”

Sega nodded. “Got it.”

“Let’s go.”

Ahead, the building sat under a purple pre-dawn sky. It would be morning soon. Ramos stopped halfway up the driveway. He spied his men asleep in the backseat of their cars. He approached the first vehicle, kicked the back door.

The men did not come around.

Ramos tried the rear door, found it locked. He smashed out the window with the butt of his rifle, opened the door, grabbed the first man by his jacket, pulled him out, dragged him to the front of the vehicle, dropped him on the ground, retrieved the second man, did the same.

He yelled at Sega. “Check the second car! Bring them here!”

Emmanuel followed instructions, deposited the two guards beside their colleagues.

Each man had been handcuffed using metal bracelets, not nylon zip cuffs. They had not been subdued by a rival cartel. Had that been the case, they would be dead now, not alive. This was worse.

This was the work of law enforcement.

Ramos approached the men. “Wake up.”

Dazed and confused, the first man looked up. He fought to focus his attention on his boss. “Sénior Ramos?” he asked.

“What happened?” Ramos asked. “Who did this to you?”

The man shook his head, looked at the ground.

“Don’t look away from me, puta!” Ramos said. “I asked you a question. Answer me!”

The man looked up, stared at Ramos through fear-filled eyes. “I don’t know who they were.”

“They?”

The sentry nodded. “There were two of them. A man and a woman.”

“Cartel?”

The man shook his head. “He was Mexican. She was American.”

“Cops?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Let me get this straight,” Ramos said. “The two of them took out the four of you?”

“They were fast. We never saw it coming.”

Sega called out to his boss. “Miguel.”

“What?” Ramos snapped.

“You need to see this.”

Ramos swore, left the guard, walked across the driveway to Sega. “What is it?”

Sega pointed to the brass scatted on the ground. “Casings,” he said. “Lots of them. Rounds were fired here.” He sniffed the bullet casing, tossed it back on the ground. “Residue’s fresh.”

Ramos picked up a handful of spent rounds, walked back to his man, threw them in his face. “Who fired their weapon? Was it you?”

The man shook his head, nodded at the man seated beside him, still unconscious.

Ramos turned to the second man, kicked him. “Wake up!”

The man arose with a start, looked up, stared at his boss, and suddenly realized where he was and the predicament he was in. He swallowed hard.

“Tell me why you fired your weapon,” Ramos asked.

The man’s face bore a look of pure panic. “A man attacked me,” he replied. “I tried to shoot him.”

“There’s no blood on the ground,” Ramos replied. “I take it you were unsuccessful?”

The man nodded.

“I see.” Ramos turned to Sega. “I’m going to check out the building. If they move, shoot them.”

Sega pointed his gun at the men, nodded.

Ramos approached the building cautiously, stopped outside the front door, listened.

Inside, all was quiet.

He opened the door, entered the restaurant, scanned the room, waited.

No movement.

He crossed the entranceway threshold, entered the main dining room, looked around, then felt his stomach drop.

The picture on the wall was missing.

He ran to the armory.

Every weapon was gone, ammunition too.

“No,” he said aloud. “It can’t be!”

He left the dining room, raced across the floor, ran down the hall, keyed in the lock code, threw open the door, ran downstairs.

Every cell door lay open, every hostage gone.

At the end of the room lay the dead body of El Semental.

The enormity of the situation and its implications suddenly struck him like a punch to the heart.

This was impossible. It couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t be!

But it was.

The cartel would kill him for this.

He had to act fast, find the women, and return them here before anyone knew they were missing.

Ramos’s mind raced. He fought hard to think clearly against his raging panic. He took several deep breaths, forced himself to calm down. The Mariachi Grill had been chosen as the site of the holding and transfer station for several reasons, but primarily because it was located atop a hill atop on a large expanse of open land. This would give his men a clear line of sight in all directions and provide a tactical advantage against an attack by a rival cartel. To the north and west of the property, the land was untouched and densely forested, its floor a mass of tangled roots, which made it nearly impossible to navigate on foot without incurring personal injury.

Then it hit him.

The bus.

Ramos ran up the stairs, entered the lock code, threw open the door, raced to the back of the building, exited the property, then stopped dead in his tracks.

The bus was gone.

He ran around the building, down the driveway, returned to Sega and his men seated on the ground, spoke to them. “Which way did the bus go when it left?” he asked.

The men shook their heads.

“You didn’t see it leave?”

“No, Sénior Ramos,” the first man replied.

Ramos turned his attention to the second man. “You?”

“I’m sorry, Sénior. I didn’t either.”

“You’re sorry? That’s it?”

“We promise we’ll make it up to you,” the first man said. “We’ll do anything you ask.”

The second man nodded. “Si. Anything.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ramos replied.

He stepped back, leveled the assault rifle at the four sentries, then opened fire, cutting them down where they sat. Smoke escaped from the weapon’s white hot muzzle and drifted up into the air. He spoke over the dead men. “Your services are no longer required.”

Sega stared at the bullet-riddled bodies.

Ramos saw the look of horror on his face. “Too much for you, Emmanuel?”

Sega hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”

“Good. You’re in it now, all the way. Understood?”

Sega nodded. “Understood.”

“Unlock the cars. Put the bodies in the trunk. I have to make a call.”

Sega did as he was instructed.

Ramos’s phone call was answered. “Si?”

“It’s me. I need you at the transfer station.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Take the Apache.”

“Roger that,” the pilot replied.

45

MARCO DROVE THE converted school bus north along Route 2, passed through Colonia Modelo and Los Efrain, then slowed to a complete stop.

Chris hurried to the front of the bus. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are we stopping?”

Marco pointed ahead. “Construction.”

“Construction?” Chris asked. “You have got to be kidding me! We’re in the middle of nowhere and we run into construction?”

“Actually, we’re not in the middle of nowhere,” Marco replied. “We’re twenty minutes from the U.S./Mexico border crossing at Puerto Palomas.”

“That’s twenty minutes we don’t have.”

“What do you want me to do? Drive over the cars?”

“Is there another route we can take?”

Marco shook his head. “This is it. Route 2 is the only road to the border. There are no exits.”

“Open the door,” Chris said.

“What?”

“Open the door. I want to look around.”

Marco pulled the lever and opened the bus’s bifold front doors.

Chris stepped out, walked to the side of the road. They were surrounded by desert. Enormous rocks and boulders dotted the rugged terrain.

He returned to the bus, spoke to Marco, pointed. “What’s that out there?”

Marco looked. “A dirt road.”

“Where does it lead?”

Marco shrugged. “Nowhere.”

“Is it a dead end?”

“No.”

“Then it goes somewhere.”

“It’s not much more than a path, Agent Hanover. The locals use it to go off-roading on dirt bikes and ATVs.”

“Does it meet the border?”

“It meets the border wall, but there’s nowhere to cross. That’s why we’re going to Puerto Palomas.”

“Is the road driveable?”

“Sure, but…”

“Take it.”

“What?”

“Get us out of this mess and take it.”

“This is an old bus. It can’t handle that kind of terrain.”

“It’ll have to.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Marco said, “you’re out of your mind.”

Chris glanced at the flashing construction sign ahead of the bus: ESPERE RETRASOS. “Expect delays,” he said.

Marco smiled. “I thought you said you don’t speak Spanish.”

“I don’t,” Chris replied. “I speak L.A. Freeway. The signs are bilingual, English and Spanish.” He sighed. “The cartel will be looking for this bus, maybe even the police, too. You heard what Sophie said. Ramos has them in his pocket. We’re carrying his payday. He’ll utilize every means at his disposal to get them back. I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow that to happen. We don’t have a choice. Get us out of here. Take that road.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Marco said. He checked his mirrors, cranked the steering wheel hard to the right, pulled the vehicle out of traffic, drove down the shoulder embankment to the dirt road. “This is not the play. We should have waited. We’d have been through the construction zone in half an hour, tops.”

“We might not have half an hour,” Chris replied.

The bus rocked violently from side to side as Marco navigated the undulating dirt road. The women screamed as the bus heaved in and out of massive potholes and tossed them around in their seats.

Jordan met Chris at the front of the bus. “I assume taking the scenic route was your idea?”

“We don’t have time to waste sitting in traffic,” Chris said. “Besides, I have a plan.”

“Now would be a good time to fill me in.”

Chris turned to Marco. “How well do you know this road?”

“Very well,” Marco replied. “I ride my dirt bike here all the time.”

“Are you familiar with the American towns on the other side of the border wall?”

“Some of them. Why?”

“You know Arena?”

Marco nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then that’s where you’re taking us.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because that section of land is spotted with boulders. It’s too difficult to navigate, even on a dirt bike.”

“How close can you get us?”

“You serious?”

“Deadly.”

Marco sighed. “Close.”

“Good,” Chris said. “Do it.” He fished into his pocket, pulled out a business card, removed his cell phone, dialed the number.

The phone rang.

“New Mexico Border Authority, Agent Ken Stockton.”

“Agent Stockton, this is FBI Special Agent Chris Hanover.”

“Nice to hear from you, Special Agent Hanover. What can I do⁠—”

“I don’t have time to talk. Listen carefully. Agent Quest and I are inbound to your location in Arena from the other side of the border. We’re traveling across open Mexican terrain in a school bus with forty American kidnap victims and three fellow agents. We’re being pursued by Mexican cartel. I need you to cut a hole in the border wall and let us in.”

Stockton paused. “I’m sorry. You want me to do what?”

“You heard me,” Chris said. “Cut a hole in the wall. I don’t care how you do it, just do it. Standby.”

Chris turned to Marco. “How soon until we reach Arena?”

“At this speed?” Marco replied. “Twenty minutes, maybe more.”

Chris returned to the call. “We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Agent Hanover, there’s no way I can get the necessary approv⁠—”

“I don’t care who you have to call or who they have to call. You heard what I said. Forty American human trafficking kidnap victims! Get your people to the wall now and start cutting. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“We’ll be coming in hot. Send us all the backup you can.”

“Copy that, Agent Hanover,” Stockton replied. “We’re on our way.”

46

RAMOS AND SEGA waited in the driveway as the cartel’s Apache assault helicopter approached from a distance and circled the grounds of the former Mariachi Grill. The pilot chose his landing area, then dropped the bird quickly, hovered momentarily, and set the chopper down on the ground.

The men ran to the helicopter, climbed aboard, took their seats behind the pilot, and slipped on their headsets. Now in communication with his pilot, Ramos spoke. “What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the pilot replied. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“Make it faster next time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ramos removed his cell phone, opened his GPS tracking app. On the screen, a blue dot pulsed and moved.

“There you are, puta,” he said. He showed the pilot his phone. “Take us to this location.”

The pilot checked the screen. “What am I looking at?” he asked.

“A bus.”

“It’s just outside Puerto Palomas.”

Ramos felt a chill run through his body. “They’re heading for the border. How soon can you get us there?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Ramos was furious. “That bus cannot be permitted to reach the border. Do you understand me?”

The pilot nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Ramos and Sega looked out the window, watched the ground fall away as the deadly machine lifted off, leaving the hostage and transfer facility behind. Seconds later, they were high in the air en route to the GPS location of the stolen bus.

“When I find out who took my property,” Ramos said, “I’m going to skin them alive.”

Sega stared out the window, said nothing.

Ramos noted his distant demeanor. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

Sega shook his head. “Nothing, Miguel.”

“Bullshit,” Ramos replied. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“I don’t want to overstep my bounds or say something I shouldn’t.”

“I made you my number two for a reason, Emmanuel. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Sega stared at his boss. “Are you sure you’re chasing the right target?”

Ramos paused. “What are you saying?”

“Are you sure the women are on the bus?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

“I’m not saying they’re not. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“If I were going to steal your inventory, I wouldn’t use your bus to do it. I’d be smarter than that.”

“Smarter how?”

“If this is the work of a rival cartel, which it might be, I’d bring my own vehicle and use yours as a distraction while I got away. While you’re busy chasing after an empty vehicle, I’d be shipping them out of the country.”

“What are you saying?”

“Let me answer that question with a question. How sure are you that you can trust the people you’re dealing with?”

“Why?”

“What’s the better deal? Paying you for the women or stealing them from you and getting them for free?”

“You think I’m being ripped off?”

“It occurred to me.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I’m not saying I’m right, Miguel. You know your contact and how much you can trust him. I don’t. But you’d be making a mistake if you didn’t consider the possibility.”

“You just proved I made the right decision by allowing you to join me,” Ramos said. “That’s what I need. Someone who can see what I can’t.”

“You’re too close to the situation, Miguel. I’m not. That allows me to be impartial.”

Ramos nodded, turned to his pilot. “How far away now?”

“Minutes, sir.”

Ramos returned his attention to Sega. “We’ll follow this through. If the bus turns out to be a diversion, as you suspect, we won’t waste any more time. We’ll return to the restaurant and regroup, then dispatch search teams to find them.”

“That would be wise,” Sega replied.

The pilot spoke. “Sir?”

“What is it?” Ramos replied.

“I have Puerto Palomas in view. We’ll be coming up on it shortly.”

Ramos looked out his open door, observed the two lines of traffic streaming back from the border and through the slow-moving construction zone. Hundreds of cars occupied the lanes on the crowded road below. Police officers and their K9 officer companions walked between and around the vehicles. The dogs conducted their searches quickly, sniffing each car thoroughly, checking for the presence of contraband or narcotics before moving on. Ramos’s phone rang. He checked the display, swore, answered the call. “What is it, Vlad?”

The Russian mobster spoke. “Change of plans, Miguel,” he said. “A window of opportunity has opened up for us. Tell your people to expect my men within the hour. We’ll be picking up the packages and moving them out of the country sooner than expected.”

“Within the hour?” Ramos asked.

“That’s what I said,” Vlad replied. He caught the hesitation in Ramos’s voice. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“No,” Ramos lied. “Of course not.”

“So, they’ll be ready?”

“Yes.”

Vlad took a deep hit on his nebulizer, held it, released the medicine. “Why do I get the impression you’re not telling me the truth?”

“I don’t know,” Ramos replied. “Maybe that crap you keep inhaling is messing with your brain and making you paranoid.”

Vlad dismissed the insult. “Wheels have been set in motion, Miguel. Disappointing the Bratva now would be a big mistake. The consequences would be severe.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s not.”

“What would you call it?”

“A statement of fact.”

Ramos wanted to reply, bit his tongue instead. God, how he hated the Russian. “Neither you nor your superiors need to worry,” he said. “The women will be ready for pickup when your men arrive.”

“Good,” Vlad said. The fat man paused. “You sound different today, Miguel.”

“Different how?”

“Like you’re far away. There’s a great deal of background noise on this call. Where are you?”

“What difference does it make to you where I am?”

“It doesn’t. I was just curious.”

“I’m traveling.”

“So you’re not at the transfer station now?”

“Did I say I was?”

“You’re being evasive, Miguel.”

“And you’re beginning to bore me, Vlad.”

“You will be there when my men arrive?”

“Of course.”

“And you’ll oversee the transfer personally?”

“Haven’t I always?”

“Which is why I trust you to carry out my demands.”

“You have no demands, Vlad. You’re not in charge of this operation. I am.”

“You seem to be forgetting our earlier conversation.”

“About?”

“Supply and demand. You need us more than we need you. Without me, you have no operation. You would be wise not to forget that.”

Pompous, narcissistic, obese Russian asshole.

“You’ll have your supply.”

A smile was evident in Vlad’s voice. “Yes, I will.”

Ramos ended the call, looked at his phone. The device’s GPS location flashed steadily on the screen. He turned the pilot. “Find me that fucking bus.”

The pilot nodded. “Yes, sir.”

47

STOCKTON’S PHONE CALL was received by the AMOC Domain Awareness Center at March Air Reserve Base in Riverside, California as a high alert call, an imminent threat to national security, its highest emergency response level. The Director of the Air and Marine Operations Center took the call.

“This is Director Winscott. With whom am I speaking?”

“Sir, this is Border Authority Agent Ken Stockton in Arena, New Mexico. I have an urgent request which requires your immediate approval.”

“What’s so important that you had to call my office and not put your request in writing like everyone else, Stockton? You realize this is a mission task center and that this call has been flagged a high alert?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t have time for bureaucratic bullshit right now. I need your help.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want, sir. It’s what I need to make you aware of.”

“Which is?”

“I have a team of maintenance workers at the border wall in Arena as we speak.”

“And this concerns me how?”

“Because any second now, Command’s surveillance systems are going to scream out an alert.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we’re about to cut a hole in the wall.”

Winscott paused. “Did you say a hole?”

“Not a big hole,” Stockton said. “Just a few panels. Wide enough to let a busload of American friendlies into the country from Mexico.”

“Are you out of your mind, Stockton?” Winscott said.

Stockton continued. “Not to my knowledge, sir, but I’m open to you getting a second opinion. Here’s the situation, Director. We have limited manpower here at Arena. I don’t know how this is going to go down, but my twenty years of experience is telling me that in the next five minutes I’m going to need all the resources you can send me, both air and land. And I’m not talking from AMOC in California.”

“From where, then?”

“The New Mexico border station at Columbus. They have an interdiction team, right?”

“They do.”

“Both ground and air support?”

“That’s correct.”

“You need to send them here, sir. Right away.”

“They’ll need time to prep.”

“Then I better hang up and let you make that call, sir. Because the longer I’m on the phone talking to you, the quicker that time will run out.”

“Stockton, if this turns out to be a waste of resources, I’ll have your ass. You can kiss your twenty years and your pension goodbye.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take, sir.”

“Very well,” Winscott replied. “I’ll have a team deployed to your location forthwith.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Winscott ended the call, picked up the phone, called his executive assistant.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me Border Services at Columbus. Tell them it’s an emergency.”

“Right away, sir.”

48

MARCO SHOUTED AT Chris over the crashes, bangs, and squeaks the old school bus’s chassis made as it objected to being bounced, rocked, and rolled across the inhospitable terrain. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

“We didn’t have a choice,” Chris replied. “Better to be out of that construction zone than in it. If we’d gotten stuck in that cue, we’d be an open target for any cartel assassin on a motorcycle. They’d spray this tin can so full of bullets we’d all be dead. At least no one can pursue us if we travel across the desert. It might take us a little longer to get to the border, but we’ll get there.”

“Are you forgetting there’s no border crossing at Arena?” Marco said.

“Nope.”

“Then what do you expect me to do? Drive through the wall?”

“No. Just to get us as close as possible.”

“To what?”

Chris pointed. “That.”

In the distance, Marco saw sparks exploding like fireworks against the pre-dawn light. “What the hell is that?” he asked.

“Our ticket home.”

“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”

Chris nodded. “Good old-fashioned American tax dollars at work.”

“You convinced the Border Authority to cut a hole in the wall?”

Chris smiled. “I can be rather persuasive when I need to be.”

Marco shook his head in disbelief. “No shit.”

A massive pothole suddenly swallowed the front right tire.

Chris toppled off his feet, was tossed down the boarding steps into the footwell. He fell hard.

The boarding doors opened.

The bus righted itself, kept going.

Marco called out. “You okay, Agent Hanover?”

Chris bounced around in the tight space, tried to get back on his feet, fell back. His head struck the ground outside the vehicle.

Marco slowed the bus.

“Don’t stop!” Chris yelled. “For god’s sake, keep going!”

“You’re going to fall out!” Marco replied.

Chris yelled back. “I’ve got this!” He struggled against the bus’s violent back-and-forth gyrations, found his moment of opportunity, pulled himself back inside. He caught a small metal box in his hand as it fell from the underside of the driver’s compartment and bounced towards him. He rose to his feet, inspected the device. “You have to be kidding me,” he said.

“What is it?” Marco said.

Chris turned over the small box. A red light in its case blinked. A switch on its underside was set to the ON position.

“It’s a GPS tracker,” Chris replied. “This bus is hot.”

“Hot?”

“It’s being tracked. If not right now, it will be as soon as someone realizes it’s no longer parked where it should be.”

Jordan and Reyna walked to the front of the bus. “We saw you fall, Chris,” Jordan said. “Are you okay?”

Chris was too mad to answer. He held out the tracker. “Didn’t anybody think to sweep this thing for bugs before leaving the restaurant?”

“I’m sorry,” Reyna replied sarcastically. “You’ll have to forgive me. I was a little busy trying to make sure the vehicle was operable so that I could get everybody the hell out of there. My bad.”

“We’re in trouble,” Chris replied. “Marco, open the door.”

Marco pulled on the boarding door handle. The bifold doors swung open.

Chris turned off the tracking device, tossed it into the desert.

Marco closed the doors.

“You think they’re coming after us?” Jordan asked.

“Count on it,” Chris replied. “You saw the place. It’s always guarded, as it should be. These women are worth millions to the cartel. If you ask me, we got lucky catching them at the hour we did. It’s early morning now. The place is probably swarming with bad guys. Finding this bus just became their top priority. They’re going to pull out all the stops. Our only hope now is to make it to the border before they catch up to us.”

Jordan and Reyna looked out the window. “What the hell is that?” Jordan asked.

“Our welcoming party,” Chris replied, “courtesy of Border Patrol Agent Stockton.”

“That’s Arena?” Jordan asked.

Chris nodded. “They’re cutting a hole in the border wall to let us in. All we have to do is make it there in one piec⁠—”

Chris, Jordan, Reyna suddenly fell to the floor as the bus lurched to the right, then came to a dead stop. The collision threw Marco out of his seat and over the steering wheel. He crashed headfirst into the windshield.

The agents collected themselves, stood.

Reyna pulled herself to her feet, went to Marco’s aid. “You okay?” she asked. She pulled him out of the window well.

Marco shook off the impact. “I think so.”

“And you insisted that I not drive? Pot, meet kettle.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “Very funny.”

“Pop the door,” Chris said. “We need to assess the damage.”

Marco opened the bus door. The agents and Reyna stepped outside.

The front right tire of the bus had buried itself into a pothole as deep as the tire itself. It lay on an angle.

“Let me be the first to say it,” Reyna announced. “We are officially screwed.”

Special agents Serrano, Torres, and Duarte exited the bus through the rear emergency door. “You guys okay?” Duarte asked.

“The bus is done,” Chris replied. “Axle’s broken.”

Reyna inspected the damage and shook her head. “Thank you for choosing Cartel Bus Lines,” she mocked. “We hope you enjoyed traveling with us today.”

“How’s everybody?” Chris asked.

“A little shaken up but none the worse for wear,” Duarte replied. “Marco went to check on Sophie. She smacked her leg, opened the wound. It looks pretty bad.”

“Can she walk?” Jordan asked.

Duarte shrugged. “Don’t know. Things got a little chaotic back there when we crashed.”

“I’ll check with Marco and find out,” Torres said.

Jordan nodded. “Copy that.”

“We have to get everyone off the bus,” Chris said. “We’ll have to make it to the opening on foot.”

“Opening?” Serrano said.

Reyna pointed at the flurry of activity taking place in the distance at the border wall. “It seems Special Agent Hanover has friends in high places. They’re rolling out the red carpet for us, so to speak.”

Serrano couldn’t believe his eyes. “They’re cutting a hole in the wall. Holy shit.”

Chris entered the bus, yelled out. “Everybody out. If you have a weapon, bring it. Hurry! Go, go, go!”

The women quickly disembarked the bus, stepped outside into the cool morning air. Seconds later, the vehicle was empty.

Chris called out to the group. “You see those sparks in the distance? That’s the border wall. That’s where you’re going. Partner up. The terrain is rough, so choose your steps carefully. Torres, Serrano, Duarte… you’re on front escort. Jordan, Reyna, and I will cover the rear. Marco, carry Sophie. Everybody good?”

The group nodded.

“Okay,” Chris said. “Let’s move.”

49

BORDER AUTHORITY AGENT Ken Stockton and his team went to work on the wall, cutting through its tall steel panels with angle grinders, attacking it from top and bottom. Orange sparks from the tool’s cutting disc flew back from the steel, rained down around them, bounced off the ground. One dismantled panel at a time, the opening slowly widened. When they had successfully cut away six panels, they halted their work and tossed the equipment aside. Rifles raised, muzzle tips inches inside the U.S. border and pointed towards the Mexican desert, the team stood shoulder to shoulder and held the line in the newly created provisional entry route into America.

Approaching quickly from the west came the ground-shaking thrum of churning helicopter rotors.

“Sounds like the calvary’s on its way,” Stockton said aloud.

Seconds later, the inbound UH-60 Blackhawk slowed to a stop, hovered overhead. Clouds of sand blew up from the desert floor around the agents. They turned away as the mighty military chopper targeted its landing area, then set down.

The men deployed from the bird, ran to meet the agents. A voice called out from the approaching team: “Who’s Stockton?”

The agent stepped away from his position at the line. “I am,” he replied.

The man identified himself. “Sergeant Jim Collins, Field Operations Tactical Unit, CBP Columbus.”

Stockton shook his hand. “Thanks for the quick response, Sergeant.”

“Of course,” Collins replied. “You mind telling me why every piece of tech we have, from ground sensing radar to Smart Border infra-red surveillance cameras, is blowing up? Our alert stations are going crazy. Hell, even AMOC has dispatched an MQ-9 Predator drone to this location. There’s never been a response like this.” He shook his head. “You’d better have a good reason for calling out the dogs, Agent. Otherwise, your ass is done.”

“You want a good reason?” Stockton replied. “I’ll give you one.” He walked the sergeant to the gap in the border wall his team had created. The men stepped aside. Collins stared into the distant Mexican desert. “Holy Mary!” he said. “Is that what I think it is?”

Stockton nodded. “I’ve been watching it through binoculars since I got the call. Looks like the bus broke down, but what more would you expect with it traveling over that kind of terrain. They’re Americans, sir.” The men watched as the group disembarked from the bus and began their trek to their location. “At least two of them are FBI,” Stockton continued. “Special Agents Quest and Hanover. It was Hanover who called me and told me they were inbound. He claims the people they’re escorting are American hostages.”

“Hostages?”

“Victims of a human trafficking operation.”

“Jesus. Do we have any more intel?”

Stockton shook his head. “Negative, sir.”

“How many are there?”

“Forty. Could be more.”

“You know Tac U’s response here is limited, right?” Collins stated. “Unless they’re being pursued across our border and into the U.S., we’re unable to respond. To fire into Mexico without provocation would be seen by the Mexican government as an act of war.”

“You’re telling me we can’t cross through this opening into Mexico to rescue our own people? Not even under these circumstances?”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, Stockton. But the law is the law. We’re here to enforce it, not break it.”

“So that’s it? We just stand here and wait?”

“For now, that’s all we can do. We have no legal grounds to take further action at this time. Once they reach the wall, we’ll help them into the U.S. and confirm their citizenship. I reached out to Trauma and Rescue while we were in the air. They have a medical team en route. When they arrive, they’ll provide the breachers with any medical assistance they might need.”

“The breachers?”

Collins sighed. “You know what I mean.”

Stockton shook his head, stared out into the desert, watched as the group slowly made their way across the inhospitable plain. “Come on, Hanover,” he said anxiously. “Just a few thousand feet to go. You’ve got this, pal. You’ve got this.”

50

THE APACHE LIGHT attack helicopter hovered inside the Mexico/U.S. border crossing at Puerto Palomas. Ramos and Sega looked down from the sky, searched the hundreds of cars, passenger and tour buses, trucks, and transport trailers waiting in cue for the vehicle they were looking for. The school bus was nowhere to be seen.

Ramos spoke to Sega. “You see anything?”

“Nothing,” Sega replied.

Ramos opened his phone’s GPS tracking app and checked the display.

Previously, the transmitter’s locator pin had been steadily blinking on the screen, identifying its precise location. Now, the screen was blank.

“What the hell is this?” Ramos said.

“What is it?” Sega asked.

“The tracker isn’t transmitting. I don’t have a signal.”

“Could it be out of range?”

Ramos shook his head. “We track all our shipments using these devices. They’re satellite supported. I can follow them worldwide. It’s never been a problem.”

“Was it placed inside or beneath the vehicle?”

“What difference does that make?”

“If it was placed under the bus, it might have fallen off. Which means it could have been run over by another vehicle and permanently disabled. If it was hidden somewhere inside the bus, it could have been discovered and turned off.”

“Dammit!” Ramos said. “Tracker or no tracker, we need to find that bus!”

“I know.”

Ramos spoke to the pilot. “Sweep the area. I need to know if the bus is here or if I’m wasting my time.”

The pilot nodded. “Roger that.”

The helicopter left the border traffic behind, executed a steady turn eastward.

Sega called out seconds later. “I’ve got it!”

“Where?” Ramos replied.

“There! In the desert!”

“Go!” Ramos demanded. “Hurry!”

The pilot banked the chopper sharply, accelerated across the desert, bore down on the bus.

Ahead of the disabled vehicle, the cartel leader caught sight of his fleeing cargo as they trudged across the rocky plain.

Ramos and Sega spied the commotion at the border.

An opening had been cut in the steel wall.

Dozens of agents awaited the arrival of their inbound countrymen and women.

Ramos cursed. “No fucking way!” He leaned forward, disengaged an M4 assault rifle from its mount behind the pilot’s seat, readied the weapon, turned in his seat, yelled at the pilot. “Take out that fucking bus!”

“Roger that, sir,” the pilot replied.

The Apache nose-dived and flew across the rugged terrain. The pilot armed the war machine’s Gatling gun, called out! “Weapons are hot!”

The blurrrrrrrp of heavy machine gun fire that followed echoed across the desert. Half a mile ahead, the assault helicopters twelve-millimetre rounds found the bus, ripped through it, blew out its windows, decimated its chassis, sent hundreds of metal fragments and pieces of shattered glass flying into the air. The remaining bus tires exploded, obliterated by the deadly artillery. The vehicle dropped to the ground, one deflated tire at a time, until at last its bullet-riddled body lay dead on the desert floor.

Hearing the sound of the war machine unleashing havoc on the stricken bus, Jordan, Chris, and the group turned and watched in horror as the Apache laid waste to the vehicle.

Jordan yelled out to the others. “Ruuuunnnn!”

Chris ran ahead, took up a defensive position behind Marco and Sophie, the slowest moving of the former hostages, then looked over his shoulder.

Jordan had run back to the bus.

Chris called out. “Jordan! What the hell are you doing? Let’s go!”

Jordan waved him away, yelled back. “Get everyone to the border. I’ll deal with this!”

Chris shook his head. “Are you crazy? Move your ass! Now!”

The burst of machine gun fire blew up a cloud of dust in the sand beside Chris. He looked up. The helicopter had turned, angled itself toward the group. A gunman sat in the rear seat; his weapon trained on him.

He would not miss again.

Chris stared at his partner one last time, then remembered the oath he swore to protect the American people against all enemies, both foreign and domestic.

He opened fire on the gunman, then watched as the chopper evaded the attack by quickly banking away.

The retreat was temporary. When the bird returned, the consequences would be terminal.

“Jesus, Jordan,” Chris said aloud. “What are you thinking?”

He turned and ran after Marco and Sophie.

Together they headed for the border.

51

STOCKTON YELLED AT the Field Operation Tactical Unit commander. “They’re taking fire!”

“I see that, Agent,” Collins replied, his voice wrought with frustration.

“Then do something about it!”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“You realize that’s a goddamn Apache light attack helicopter, right? You saw what it did to the bus. Are you just going to stand there and watch it do the same thing to our people?”

“Watch your tone, Agent.”

“Fuck my tone!” Stockton yelled. He pointed to the UH-60 Blackhawk. “You’ve got a fully kitted military helicopter sitting on the ground behind us. Get it up in the air and take out that sonofabitch!”

“One more word out of you Stockton and I’ll order you to stand down,” Collins replied. “Is that what you want?”

“How about I tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want to see Americans who are within running distance of our border and trying to get home get shredded by that fucking chopper when you have the means at your disposal to stop that from happening. All you have to do is give the order!”

Collins was trying very hard to maintain his composure. “I wish it were that simple.”

Stockton threw his hands in the air. “You know what? Fuck this. If this is the extent of your authority at your command level, then something is seriously messed up with this organization, and that includes you!”

“That’s it,” Collins yelled. He called out to one of his men. “Escort Agent Stockton away from the line.”

The agent nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re making a mistake, Sergeant,” Stockton said as he walked away. “I only hope you can live with yourself when this is over. You could have saved lives today. If I were you, I’d make room in my calendar to attend forty funerals because those poor people will be coming home in body bags. And when they do, it’ll be on you!”

52

SPECIAL AGENT DUARTE reached the wall accompanied by the first contingent of hostages. She helped them through the emergency opening into the welcoming arms of the Tactical Unit agents.

Torres and Serrano had taken up a position at the back of the group, instructed them to keep moving.

Before long, Chris had reached the border with Marco and Sophie. When he had ushered them safely through the gap onto American soil, he turned.

“Where are you going?” Duarte asked.

Chris glanced at the bus. “I’m not leaving Jordan out there alone,” he replied.

Torres and Serrano joined him. “We’re coming with you.”

Chris shook his head. “You can’t.”

Serrano replied. “Why the hell not?”

“Because this is Juarez’s case. The bureau can’t afford to lose you. Stay with Marco and Sophie and keep them safe. With their cooperation and testimony, you’ll be able to take out the key players in the cartel’s human trafficking operation. Your number one priority right now is protecting them.”

“What about you?” Torres asked.

Chris smiled, winked. “Me? I’m arm candy. Remember?”

Torres shook her head. “Watch yourself, okay?”

Chris nodded. “I always do.”

He ran toward the bus in search of Jordan.

Jordan had positioned herself under the bus’s engine compartment, lying out of sight and in wait, listening for the change in frequency of the thrum of the choppers rotors as it completed its turn, heard the distinctive sound. It was on the approach again, coming in fast. She would have only seconds and one attempt to achieve her objective. She breathed in deeply, calmed herself, lowered her heart rate, waited until the time was right, then slipped out from her hiding place, took a knee, raised the assault rifle, and waited.

As the helicopter rushed overhead, she aimed and opened fire on its rear rotor.

The first round of bullets struck the bird’s tail rotor, the second its stabilizer and tail boom.

In the distance, a figure knelt on the ground, rifle in hand, weapon pointed upward at the oncoming Apache. The constant flashes erupting from its muzzle signaled the continuous volley of rounds being directed at the machine.

Chris.

Seconds later, tendrils of thick black smoke began to pour from beneath the helicopter. The choppers fluid compartment had been hit.

Chris continued to fire at the bird, heard himself screaming involuntarily as it bore down on him, then watched as it suddenly banked away from his position. The machine’s tail boom arced over his head, nearly decapitating him as it swung past. The wounded craft climbed skyward and followed an erratic path as it executed its retreat, but not before the gunman fired one last angry volley at the border wall.

Chris rose to his feet, saw Jordan, waved to her, called out. “You okay?”

Jordan waved. “All good.”

In the distance, the Apache turned once again.

It was not yet out of the fight.

A stray round from the gunman’s assault rifle ripped through the gap in the border wall. Agent Stockton felt the searing pain as the round penetrated his shoulder. He cried out, dropped to the ground.

The agent accompanying him from the front line screamed out. “Agent down! Agent down!”

Collins ran to the downed man. “Stockton!” He called out. “I need medical here! Now!”

The Trauma and Rescue team members ran to assist Collins.

“Where are you hit?” Collins asked.

“Shoulder,” Stockton replied.

“Anywhere else?”

Stockton shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

The trauma medic removed Stockton’s jacket and shirt, inspected the bullet wound. “It’s a through and through, sir,” he said. “You’re damn lucky.”

Stockton winced. “I don’t feel too lucky right now.” He turned to Collins. “What was that you said about not being permitted to fire into Mexico without provocation?” He pointed to his shoulder. “Is that enough fucking provocation for you, sir?”

Collins nodded, called out as he walked away. “Get the chopper in the air. Now!”

Stockton accompanied the medic to the trauma station and watched as agents run to the helicopter. “It’s about fucking time,” he muttered.

Chris watched as the attack helicopter executed its turn and danced drunkenly in the sky as it raced across the desert towards him. He shouted. “Jordan! Run!”

Jordan glanced over her shoulder. She could not believe what she was seeing. “This guy never gives up!” she said. She crossed the desert as fast as she could, aware she was attempting to outrun an onrushing military helicopter.

Chris closed the gap, met her halfway, then ran with her toward the border wall.

Behinds them came the sound of automatic gunfire.

Bullets ricocheted off rocks and ripped up the ground around them.

The craft’s failing mechanics caused it to begin to vibrate and shake. Its aeronautic instability made it impossible for the gunman to maintain a lock on his targets.

Jordan and Chris fell to the ground as the airship swooped down. As the helicopter flew overhead, the agent’s rolled onto their backs and emptied the remaining rounds from their M4’s into the belly of the bird.

From behind the border wall came the thwup, thwup, thwup of churning rotor blades.

The agents watched as the U.S. Border Protection Blackhawk took to the air, dipped its nose, then accelerated and passed overhead.

Jordan and Chris felt a rush of hot air as the Blackhawk engaged its deadly wing-mounted seventy-millimetre rockets. The projectiles took flight, raced across the sky. In less than a second, the cartel helicopter was destroyed. The fiery remains of the annihilated aircraft rained down from the sky, scattered over the ground.

The Blackhawk flew over the smoking carnage, hovered momentarily, then returned to the border and crossed into American airspace.

Jordan and Chris stood. They spoke as they walked toward the opening in the border wall. “You okay, J?” Chris asked.

Jordan nodded. “Never better. You?”

“All good.”

“That was intense.”

“You think?”

“I’ve never been attacked by a helicopter before,” Jordan said.

“Me neither.”

“Know what?”

“What?”

“I could do with a vacation right now.”

“Same here,” Chris said.

“The beach sounds good.”

Chris smiled. “Speaking of the beach, I’ve got sand in places a man is not supposed to have sand.”

Jordan laughed. “Too much information, Hanover.”

Chris continued. “We talked about taking Emma and Aidan to Redondo Beach this weekend. You still want to go?”

“Will there be attack helicopters involved?”

“I certainly hope not.”

Jordan smiled. “Then yes. I’d like that. So would they.”

The agents walked through the opening in the border wall and stepped onto American soil for the first time since their ordeal had begun.

They were home.

53

CHRIS SAT ON the back step of the Trauma and Rescue Unit’s mobile response squad, lifted his shirt, waited for the paramedic to check him out. The med tech pressed on his right side.

Chris winced.

The tech noted his reaction. “That hurts?” he asked.

“Like I‘ve been kicked by a horse,” Chris replied.

“That was a gentle palpation, Special Agent Hanover. The good news is nothing’s broken. It’s just a bruised rib.”

“Feels more like the right side of my chest has been caved in.”

“I can bandage your rib cage if you’d like. It’ll help a little. Unfortunately, this type of injury needs time to heal on its own.”

Chris shook his head. “I’ll manage.”

Jordan joined him, sat on the step, spoke to the paramedic. “So what’s the verdict? Is my partner going to live?”

The medic smiled. “A few weeks of R&R and he’ll be as good as new.”

Jordan pressed her shoulder playfully into Chris’s. “That’s what you get for rolling around on the boarding steps of a school bus while it’s bouncing across the desert.”

“It wasn’t exactly part of my master plan.”

“At least you managed to stay in the bus and not fall out. That could have been worse.”

“Could have been.”

“You could have split your head open.”

“Almost did.”

“Maybe even broken your neck.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Snapped a clavicle.”

“Will you be stopping at my waist or moving all the way down to my feet?”

Jordan smiled. “So much for the beach this weekend.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t play with the kids with a busted rib.”

“It’s not busted, it’s bruised. And just try to stop me.”

“You know how rambunctious Aidan gets with you.”

“Which is just the way I like it.”

“That’s why you’re their favorite Uncle Chris.”

“You mean there’s more than one Uncle Chris? Are you saying I have competition? Who is this guy? Does he know I’m authorized to use deadly force?”

Jordan laughed. “No, tough guy. You have no competition.”

“Damn right.”

Agents Serrano, Torres, and Duarte walked over to the medical unit to check on Chris.

Serrano glanced at Chris’s purple rib. “Ouch,” he said. “That looks bad.”

“Not as bad as your face,” Chris replied. “And I’m talking pre-cartel beating.”

Torres laughed.

Serrano scowled at his partner.

Torres smiled. “Hey, it was funny.”

Serrano smirked. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“That was a brave thing you did out there, Agent Hanover,” Duarte said. “I can’t think of very many people who would use themselves as bait to draw out a military helicopter to save their partner’s life.”

“I had no choice,” Chris said.

“Yes, you did,” Duarte replied.

Chris shook his head. “You don’t understand. You haven’t seen Jordan’s wine cellar. Amazing. I figured if I saved her butt, she’d finally break out a bottle from her vintage collection.” He turned to Jordan. “Well?”

Jordan smiled. “You can have your pick.”

Chris smiled, gave Duarte a thumbs up. “See? My ulterior motive worked.”

Duarte laughed. “I’m glad you’re both okay,” she said. “I hate to spoil the moment, but I have to ask Agent Quest a question.”

“Ask away,” Jordan said.

“It concerns agents Cruz and Garcia. We could use your help locating them, wherever they might be.”

“Of course,” Jordan replied. “It would be my honor.”

“Thank you, Agent Quest.” Duarte stared at the many women around them being assisted by medical personnel. “I’m amazed that not one of the hostages was seriously hurt during their rescue,” she said. “There are a few bumps and bruises here and there, but nothing major.”

“We have Reyna to thank for that,” Serrano said. “If she hadn’t taken action when she did, Torres and I would be dead now. She saved our lives, which led to us saving theirs.”

Duarte nodded. “I’ll submit her name for the Carnegie Medal. It’s the least I can do.”

“I agree,” Serrano replied.

“Well, if you four are okay, I’m going to check on the women, then arrange for their transportation to Albuquerque,” Duarte said. “It’s the closest FBI field office from here. After we’ve taken their statements, they can reunite with their families and go home.”

Jordan glanced at Marco and Sophie standing at the border wall staring into Mexico. She smiled. “Maybe something good came out of this after all,” she said.

Chris nodded. “You might be right.”

“So, I guess this is goodbye,” Marco said.

Sophie nodded. “I guess it is.”

“You think you’ll ever come back to Mexico?”

Sophie shook her head. “Not on your life.”

“I get it.”

“If Sierra and I hadn’t gone to Juarez she’d be alive right now.”

Marco nodded. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Sophie.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell her parent’s how she died.”

“The FBI will help you with that. They’ll accompany you when you meet with them.”

“Will you?”

Marco nodded. “I will if you want me to.”

“I do.”

Marco and Sophie stood in silence for a moment. Sophie spoke. “You know, I’ll bet it’s a beautiful motorcycle ride from Mexico to Connecticut in the summertime.”

Marco smiled. “I’ll bet it is.”

“You know what’s in Connecticut?”

“What?”

“Yale University.”

“Really?”

Sophie nodded.

“Are you suggesting that I should come for a visit?”

“I am.”

Marco sighed. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Why not?”

“It won’t be easy finding a sitter for Rosie. She suffers from separation anxiety. I can’t be away from her for too long.”

Sophie giggled. “Is that so?”

“I’m considering getting her professional help.”

“Not for you, too?”

“Of course not. There’s nothing wrong with me whatsoever.”

“Says the man with the pet rose bush.”

“Besides, I’m not sure how she’d feel about me seeing you again. You tried to kill her once. She could develop trust issues.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Marco paused. “Connecticut in the summer, huh?”

“You’d have me all to yourself.”

“That’s tempting.”

“All to yourself.”

Marco smiled. “Well, since you put it that way…”

Sophie leaned in, kissed him.

“That was nice,” Marco said.

Sophie winked. “Wait until you get to Connecticut, Chef. There’s more than that on the menu.”

Marco smiled. “Consider it a date.”

Reyna checked on her sister, Conchita. “How are you doing, Chi?” she asked.

Conchita smiled. “Better, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Chi stared at the group of women. “Look at that,” she said.

Reyna shrugged. “What?”

“They’re smiling. Some of them are even laughing.”

Reyna nodded. “They’re a pretty resilient bunch.”

“They all just went through hell and back, and not one of them is crying.”

“That’s how it is,” Reyna said. “We’re not programmed to endure suffering. It’s in our nature to seek happiness, to find it even under the worst of circumstances.”

“Strange,” Conchita said. “We were together for such a short time, yet it feels like forever.”

“Believe it or not, some of these women will form lifelong friendships from this experience.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. It happens in battle. Make no mistake about it. They’ve been through a war. Maybe not a physical one, but most definitely a psychological one.”

“Did that ever happen to you?”

“Many times.”

“I had no idea.”

“No one does.”

“Top secret stuff, huh?”

Reyna nodded. “For the most part.”

“Remember what you told me?”

“What?”

“You said when this was over, you’d buy me a beer and we’d talk about it.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Feel like getting that beer now?”

“First, we need to give our statements to Special Agent Duarte.”

“And after that?”

Reyna put her arm around her younger sister, hugged her, smiled. “Then the beers are on me, kiddo.”

EPILOGUE

IN THE DAYS that followed their precarious assignment in Mexico, Chris accompanied Jordan as she led the Juarez sub-office Evidence Response Team by helicopter to El Llanto. It was there, on a large parcel of uninhabited Mexican land, where the bodies of murdered special agents Cruz and Garcia were found and recovered.

Based on the after-action report submitted by Special Agents Torres and Serrano, the ERT, in collaboration with Mexican law enforcement officials, investigated the location of the former Mariachi Grill. Two bodies were recovered from the premises. Clothing samples obtained from both men were sent to the FBI crime lab in Quantico and tested for the presence of DNA. Although the first man’s sample produced no findings, the DNA and fingerprints belonging to the second man found matches in both the Combined DNA Index System, known as CODIS, and AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. The party was identified as Ariando Paquela, a known CJNG cartel enforcer. Paquela’s forensics also proved to be a match to the DNA samples recovered from the body of Evelyn Wardell. He was found to be responsible for her murder, a fact further corroborated by the many hostages who had witnessed her demise at Paquela’s hands.

The missiles deployed against Ramos’s cartel-owned Apache attack chopper by the pilot of the U.S. Border Patrol’s Blackhawk helicopter on Mexican soil was thoroughly investigated. A nearby tower-mounted border protection camera clearly showed machine gun fire emanating from within the passenger compartment of the Apache, then passing through the Mexico-facing side of the border wall. The single bullet that had passed through the wall opening and struck Agent Ken Stockton had indeed warranted a just cause military response. The defensive action taken by the Blackhawk pilot to enter Mexican airspace and put an end to the imminent threat facing the fleeing FBI agents was deemed to be justified. No further disciplinary action was taken against the U.S. government.

Three partially incinerated bodies were found at the Apache’s debris scene. Ramos’s body was the only one positively identified by Mexican authorities. His bejeweled handgun was found several feet away from his body. He was still holding his assault rifle. In his pocket, police found a partially melted U.S. driver’s license in the name of Sophie Clemons of Arizona. The bodies of the two other men found at the crash site were later identified through dental records as Emmanuel Sega and Raoul Bolivar.

Two weeks after returning to the United States, Jordan, Chris, and the families of Special Agents Cruz and Garcia were invited to attend an Honorary Medals Ceremony at FBI Headquarters in Washington D.C. as special guests of Human Resources Director, Paul Stevenson.

At Duarte’s behest, Jordan was awarded the FBI Shield of Bravery for her task force cooperation and assistance in locating and recovering the bodies of Special Agents Cruz and Garcia.

Chris was awarded the FBI Medal of Valor in recognition of his outstanding act of heroism for intentionally drawing fire from Ramos’s attack helicopter away from his partner and the fleeing hostages under threat of great personal injury or death.

The families of Special Agents Eduardo Cruz and Maria Garcia were posthumously awarded the FBI Memorial Star in recognition of the loss of their loved ones in the line of duty.

Special Agent Duarte’s internal investigation into the possibility of a mole operating inside the FBI’s Juarez sub-office continues.

Alfredo Rabal was found guilty of the murder of Sierra Westlake and sentenced to life in prison. At his sentencing, victim impact statements read by Sophie and the Westlake family left him unmoved and unapologetic for taking her life. Five days after entering El Hongo, Mexico’s toughest prison, Rabal was stabbed twenty-one times and left to die in the prison yard. His murder was never investigated. Although the matter was never pursued, authorities found it curious that his number of stab wounds matched Sierra’s age at the time of her death.

After reading the details of Reyna’s incredible acts of bravery, both in defense of the hostages and the rescue of Special Agents Serrano and Torres in Serrano’s after-action report, FBI Juarez sub-office director Eva Duarte submitted Reyna’s name to the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission for consideration as a recipient of its prestigious Carnegie Medal. The submission was accompanied by individual witness statements provided by Jordan, Chris, Torres, and Serrano in support of the recommendation. Reyna’s application was considered and accepted. Six months later, she was honored by the committee at a special Medal presentation in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which was attended by all, including Reyna’s sister, Conchita. Reyna was presented with her medal and her name added to the organizations Roll of Heroes and Heroines. Jordan was so impressed with Reyna’s skills, ability, aptitude, experience, and intelligence that she funded Reyna’s secret dream to create Spectrum Global Protection, a celebrity and executive close protection services company. The company is an elite level bodyguard and threat deterrent service dedicated to providing overt and covert personal protection for the world’s wealthiest, most powerful, and famous individuals. Reyna serves as president, while Conchita serves as Spectrum’s Director of International Operations. The company has since made them both multimillionaires.

One day after class, Sophie returned to her dorm room to find a package that had arrived from Marco. A bouquet of red roses accompanied it. She opened the parcel and removed the box it contained. It was wrapped in fast-food takeout paper and finished with a bright red ribbon and bow.

She read the attached card:

Something to remember us by.

Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Love,

Marco and Rosie.

The box contained the garden shears Sophie had left behind at Marco’s restaurant and a packet of rose bush seeds.

She laughed.

Jordan and Chris enjoyed a wonderful day at the beach with Aidan and Emma. Jordan honored her promise and presented Chris with one of her favorite vintage French Bordeaux red wines, a 1973 Chateau La Mission Haut-Brion.

Chris claimed it helped relieve the pain from his broken ribs immensely.

Jordan didn’t believe him.

ALSO BY GARY WINSTON BROWN

JORDAN QUEST FBI PSYCHIC THRILLER SERIES

Intruders (Book 1)

The Sin Keeper (Book 2)

Mr. Grimm (Book 3)

Nine Lives (Book 4)

Live To Tell (Book 5)

Nemesis (Book 6)

Tiny Bones (Book 7)

Old Ghosts (Book 8)

The Bad Man (Book 9)

Two Graves (Book 10)

Jordan Quest Digital Boxset 1 (Intruders, The Sin Keeper, Mr. Grimm)

Jordan Quest Digital Boxset 2 (Nine Lives, Live To Tell, Nemesis)

Jordan Quest Digital Boxset 3 (Tiny Bones, Old Ghosts, The Bad Man)

MATT GAMBLE ACTION THRILLER SERIES

Good As Dead (Book 1)

Devil’s Road (Book 2)

NOMAD (coming soon)

STANDALONE THRILLERS

The Vanishing

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gary Winston Brown is the author of the Jordan Quest FBI Psychic Thriller series and Matt Gamble Action Thriller series. He lives outside Toronto, Canada.

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TWO GRAVES Copyright © 2024 to present by Gary Winston Brown. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this eBook/print book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, cloned, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form, by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please contact the publisher at Gary Winston Brown [dot] com.

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