Certain Jeopardy (12 page)

PETE RASOR LA
Y IN
one of two hospital beds in room 201. The other bed was empty. Rich walked in with Jose and felt an immediate sense of relief that his partner was sitting up and had no tubes protruding from his nose or anyplace else. That relief melted at the sight of the dog tags tattoo poking out from beneath the sleeve of the hospital gown.

“How are you feeling, Junior?” Rich kept his voice low.

“I’m fine. Good to go.”

“What about pain?” Jose asked.

“The only place I hurt is my head, neck, back, hips, legs, and arms. My eyelids however are pain free.”

“That’s good to hear, buddy.” Rich stepped close to the bed and watched Jose move to the other side so he could keep an eye on the door. “Any idea what the docs say?”

“Yeah, the ER doctor speaks great English—told me he studied in San Francisco. He said I’m a lucky man. No broken bones, no internal bleeding, nothing but some bruises the size of Delaware.”

“Did he say when you would be released?” Rich asked.

Pete shook his head then winced at the motion. “He said he wants to keep me a few hours for observation. He’s worried about my head, which is strange. I’m sure I didn’t hit my head.”

Rich exchanged glances with Jose. “Did he or anyone comment on your tattoo?”

“My tattoo … oh, no.” The color drained from Pete’s face. “I know I was told to get rid of it. I even had a doctor’s appointment set up for next month. You know how the military medical complex works. Like everything else, it’s hurry up and wait.”

Jose ran a hand through his dark hair. “They may be keeping him for more than observation.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Oh, man. It’s not bad enough that I let myself get hit by a car, but I may have blown our cover.”

“When did you come to?” Jose asked.

“In the ambulance. I remember Rich kneeling beside me. Then things went dark, but I woke up before they put me on the gurney.”

“That’s good. At any time did they give you anesthesia?”

“No, I’ve been conscious the whole time.”

Rich looked around the room. “We can’t stay here. The doctor may have reported that an American with a dog tags tattoo just came through his ER.”

“Lots of people have tattoos.” Pete spoke in a tone that said he didn’t believe himself.

“That’s not our only problem,” Rich said. “The cops said they had more questions. They could arrive any minute.”

“Can you walk?” Jose asked.

“I said I’m good to go, Doc. Walk? I’m ready to dance.” He scooted up in the bed and moaned. “Okay, maybe I’m a little stiff.”

“I’ll get a wheelchair,” Rich said. “See if there’s a robe in the closet.”

Rich found a wheelchair at the end of the hall. He also noted that the second floor nurse’s station had only one nurse behind the counter and assumed the others must be about their duties with patients. A pegboard mounted to the wall held several white lab coats. The phone at the nurse’s station rang and the nurse snapped up the handset. Rich snatched one of the doctors’ coats.

Back in the room he tossed the lab coat to Jose. “Put this on. I’m pretty sure it won’t fit me.” Pete was on his feet like a man standing on marbles. Rich pushed the wheelchair close, and Pete lowered himself onto the seat. He made no complaints, but Rich could see the pain on the man’s face.

“We should avoid the ER where we might be recognized.”

“My rental is in the front lot. Let’s get him to the car. I’ll drive around back and drop you off. You can follow us to the hotel.”

“Let’s do this,” Rich said.

“That brown bag on the seat is my clothes. Get it. I don’t want to walk into the hotel wearing a robe.”

Rich grabbed the bag and set it in on Pete’s lap.

“You push him,” Jose said. “I’ll walk alongside.”

“One problem,” Rich said. “The elevator is the other side of the nurse’s station. Someone might want to know what we’re doing with the new guy.”

“That could be a problem,” Jose said, “but what are our options?”

Rich stepped to the open door and moved it so he could study the emergency plaque on the back. “There’s a stairwell at each end of the corridor. Nothing but rooms along the way.”

“I could change clothes in the stairwell,” Pete said. “That way I’ll be less conspicuous.”

Rich thought for a moment. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“ANYTHING?” MOYER ENTERED TH
E
panel truck; Martin Caraway followed behind and quickly shut the back door. Getting in and out of the truck without raising suspicions was tricky, but they chose their spot carefully, parking in the lot next to an abandoned industrial business.

“Not a thing.” J.J. yawned. He had been up most of the night and only grabbed a couple hours of sleep before being dragged from his bed and put back on surveillance duty while Moyer retrieved Caraway from the hotel. Jose’s mission to the hospital had left Caraway twiddling his thumbs in the hotel room. “The guard changed again, but there is still just one.”

“Okay, you and Caraway keep up the surveillance. Got word from Shaq that they sprung Pete from the hospital and that he’s going to be fine. Judging by Shaq’s tone, he didn’t check Pete out through normal channels.”

“Sounds like him,” Caraway said.

“Keep me posted.”

Moyer exited the vehicle, and a moment later J.J. heard him drive off.

Caraway took the empty metal folding chair and sat. “So, do you think Boss will kill Junior with his bare hands or use a weapon?”

“You mean because of the tattoo thing?” J.J. shook his head. “I can tell you he was not a happy camper.”

“Rasor could have killed the whole mission.” Caraway tilted back in the chair.

“Thank God the car didn’t kill him.”

“You thank him if you want, just leave me out of it.”

J.J. sighed. “That didn’t take long.”

“What?”

“Whenever we’re alone you start ragging on my beliefs.”

Caraway raised his hands. “Sorry, pal. Didn’t know you were so sensitive.”

“You can’t bait me into an argument. We have a job to do.”

“Most people who avoid arguments do so because they know they’re going to lose.”

“What’s your real problem, Caraway? I don’t get in your face. I give you all the room you need.”

“My problem? You really want to know? You’re weak, and that makes you a danger to the team.”

“I went through the same training as you. I’ve been on just as many missions, so how am I weak?”

Caraway leaned forward and lowered his voice as if someone were trying to listen in. “It’s all this Jesus nonsense. If you believe it too much, it makes you slow to act, to pull the trigger when necessary. That may get me killed.”

“Nonsense.”

“I saw the way you looked at those dead shepherds in Afghanistan. Some of us know that ancillary casualties are part of what we do. Can’t be helped.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Someone does. Somehow you’ve got the boss’s ear. He’s taken a shine to you.”

“He doesn’t treat me any different than he treats you.” J.J. refused to look Caraway in the eyes.

“Yeah, whatever. Keep lying to yourself, but you know I’m right.”

J.J. turned to face his accuser. “You’ve been aching to say this for a long time.”

“You got that right. You gonna run to Moyer and tell him I talked mean to you?”

“This is how it lays out, Caraway. My faith is part of me. You’re not going to change that. Not even death can change that. I’m not responsible for your wife leaving you. The fact that she’s a person of faith now is what eats at you, not me.”

“You’re all alike. And leave my wife out of this!”

J.J. pointed a finger. “Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to waltz in here and chew my fanny and expect me to sit and take it. If you think that’s how Christians respond, then you know even less about what we believe than I thought.”

“You little—”

Caraway seized J.J.’s upper arm. Before he finished locking down his grip, J.J. had a hand around the man’s throat. “Think, Caraway. Think. Is this how you want to end your career? Right here, right now, in the back of a truck in Caracas? Do you really want to do this?”

Long seconds clicked by, then Caraway furrowed his brow and cut his eyes to the monitor. “What’s that?”

J.J. didn’t look at first, expecting Caraway to try something sneaky. Finally he cut his eyes to the image. He let go of Caraway’s throat and focused on the video feed.

“Let me in,” Caraway ordered. J.J. relinquished his seat. Surveillance was Caraway’s specialty.

“It’s a van.”

“Well done. You recognized a van with no help.”

Caraway worked the controls that tighten the shot.

The dark vehicle pulled to the double-wide chain-link gateand waited. The lone guard jogged to the gate, removed the lock and chain that secured it, and pulled it open, stepping to the side to allow the vehicle in. The moment the back bumper crossed the threshold, the guard closed the gates and locked them again. He then jogged to the van, which had pulled to the large metal roll-up door on the south side.

J.J.’s eyes switched to the second monitor, which played the feed from the other remote video unit. The van blocked much of the view, but he could see the dark open space just beyond the open door.

“Uh-oh,” Caraway said.

J.J. swiveled his head back to screen one.
Three men exited the side door of the vehicle. Between them
were a woman and two children.

“They don’t look happy to be there,” J.J. said.

“Agreed. If body language means anything, I’d say the family is there against their will.”

As he spoke, Caraway tightened the shot from both video locations, swinging the camera in an effort to capture faces. J.J. didn’t know when he did it, but Caraway had activated the recorder.

Fewer than two minutes after the van arrived, the roll-up door closed and the building and lot returned to the very picture of inactivity. But Caraway wasn’t done. He zoomed in on the van, first focusing on the license plate then surveying as much of the exterior as the cameras would allow.

J.J. activated his cell phone. “We got activity, Boss.”

MOYER PULLED INTO TH
E
parking lot of Hotel Azteca, parked, and walked into the building. His gait indicated a man of leisure, untroubled by the pressures of the day. It was a lie. The man inside, while calm and thoughtful, fought a battle to keep his anger in check.

He made eye contact with no one. Instead he stared at his cell phone as if looking up a phone number. The lobby design and décor told Moyer that this place was a notch or two lower on amenities than the hotel he and J.J. were set up in.

He stepped into the elevator, joining a mother with a young girl whom she held by the hand. He guessed she was four or five. She waved at him. Moyer smiled and waved back but said nothing. The mother tensed, so Moyer returned his gaze to the phone he had no intention of using.

The mother and daughter stepped from the elevator cab on the fourth floor; Moyer continued to the twelfth. Green letters on yellow signs with arrows pointed him to room 1222. He knocked lightly on the white door. It looked like wood but felt like metal. A fire door, he assumed.

A moment later the door opened. Rich stood just over the threshold and seemed to fill the doorway from jamb to jamb. At times Moyer forgot how big his assistant team leader and friend was.

Rich stepped aside and Moyer entered. Jose sat in the chair by the work desk.

“Hey, Boss.”

The greeting came from a man reclined on the bed. He started to rise.

“As you were, Pete.”

“It’s okay, Boss. I’m fine. Just a little stiff.”

“I said, ‘As you were.’” There was heat in the words.

Pete lowered himself back to the bed. To Moyer’s surprise, he saw no bruises or contusions on Pete’s face. Both hands sported a road rash but nothing that couldn’t be concealed by placing his hands in his pockets.

Moyer looked at Jose. “How is he?” The heat in Moyer’s delivery cooled. He was as mad at Pete as he had been at any man, but Pete had proved himself a good soldier time and time again. Staring at a man that had just missed the express train to death tempered Moyer’s fury.

“I’m fine, Boss. A little banged up, but—”

“I’m asking Doc.”

Pete blanched. “Understood, Boss.”

Jose looked at Pete then back to Moyer. “He is the luckiest dog I’ve ever seen. His injuries include a deeply bruised right thigh, bruised upper arm, separated—but not broken—ribs, and some abrasions.”

“He jumped just before he was hit,” Rich said. “Rolled over the top of the car. If he’d hesitated a split second, we’d be sending him home in a body bag.”

“It was just reflex,” Pete said.

“Reflex or not, it saved your life.” Jose leaned back in the chair. “They gave him something for the pain at the hospital. That should be wearing off pretty soon. After we got him here, I slipped out to a pharmacy and bought some ibuprofen and acetaminophen. He can take those in tandem for pain and inflammation. It should keep the edge off.”

Moyer nodded. It was all good news, especially considering how bad it could have been.

“Boss, I’m sorry about the tattoo thing. I really did mean to get it removed, but you know how it is. I just couldn’t—check that— I
didn’t
make the time. I couldn’t decide between having it surgically removed, which might take me off duty for a few days, or go the laser or abrasion method.”

“Well, you’re going to have time to think about it the next few days. I want you to take it easy.” Moyer looked to Rich. “When do the maids come by?”

“They came by about 1100 hours yesterday and were just down the hall today when we went to lunch.”

He faced Pete again. “When the maid comes by, take a walk, but get back in here when she’s done. Clear?”

“But, Boss, I’m still good to go. The pain relievers will handle the aches. I want to do my job.”

“This is not a discussion, Junior. Doc will check up on you from time to time. When he gives me the go-ahead, I’ll put you back in the rotation. For now, I want you to lie low. Got it?”

“Got it, Boss. But why are we worried about the maids?”

“Anyone want to answer that?”

“We sprung you from the hospital without telling anyone,” Doc said. “The medical staff got a good gander at that tattoo and may put two and two together. If they do, they’ll call the local police. If you were a Caracas cop looking for an American with a military tattoo on his arm, what would you do?”

“Search the hotels,” Pete said and raised a hand to his eyes. “Of course.”

“There’s also a good chance that they’ll notify the military.” Moyer leaned against the wall. “It’s time to be a little paranoid, gentlemen. We carry on as if nothing happened, but vigilance is the order of the day.”

Moyer’s cell phone rang. He answered and listened. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

* * *

THE CHILDREN WERE FRIGHTENED,
and although Julia tried to hide it, so wasshe. During the drive from the hotel, they had not said a word.

“Where are you taking us?”

No answer from the driver, the man in the passenger seat, or from Miguel Costa—if that was his real name—who sat behind her with a handgun.

“Let the children go. You don’t need them. You have me.”

No response.

“My husband is due to meet with President Chavez. If I’m not at the airport to meet him, he’ll appeal to the president for help. He’s an important man—”

That was when it hit her. This wasn’t about her or the children; it was about Hector.
Dear Jesus, protect Hector. Protect us.
She needed to keep the children cool, and the best way to do that was for her to remain calm.

Her mind raced to make sense of things, to find something she could do to protect Nestor and Lina. For a moment she had thought of jumping from the van as it slowed to turn a corner, pushing the children ahead of her, but she quickly abandoned the idea as foolhardy. She could have pounded on the window and screamed for help, but that would last only a moment before Miguel struck her or shot her or hurt one of the children. She even considered jumping forward and grabbing the steering wheel. She wore no seat belt. She could do it. If she could crash the van, or just cause the driver to swerve, then perhaps the erratic driving would draw the attention of the police or another driver. If she sideswiped a car, then the driver would certainly call the police. But she was not a strong woman and it would be just her against three men. She dismissed that idea but did not give up trying to formulate a plan.

Julia forced herself to think. Many times she heard Hector tell the children, “Nine out of ten times your brain will help you more than your brawn. Think first. Always think first. Use the brain God has given you.”

The more Julia thought, the more disturbed she became. Some things didn’t add up. Miguel was clearly Venezuelan, or at very least, South American. His Spanish flowed naturally, and he used local colloquialisms. The other two men didn’t fit. The hue of their skin was different. The only communication between them had been one way, with Miguel doing all the talking, which he did in English.

Clearly this was about her husband, but why kidnap her and the children? They were not wealthy. They lived well on a professor’s salary, and Hector said that they would be rich once the commercialization of his new project was sold. But until then, they were strictly middle class. They must want something other than money, and the only thing that could be was her husband’s knowledge.

One other thought bothered her: Her captors had not blindfolded her or the children. That meant they didn’t care if she memorized the way to their destination—wherever that might be. If they didn’t care what she knew, then they might not intend to let them go. She started to pray again.

The inside of the building they had come to was dark and smelled of oil and dust. The building had housed some kind of industry, maybe a machine shop. Now it was a shell, an open expanse with a few small rooms she assumed had once been offices.

Miguel motioned to the distant wall. Another small room with white exterior walls was tucked in the corner. The structure had two doors. Placards identified the doors as leading to the restrooms.

“Get in.” Miguel pointed to one of the doors. Julia saw no choice but to obey.

The bathroom was small, with one filthy toilet, a sink, several plastic bottles of water, and a chipped plate with a pile of energy bars on the floor. Like a hen guiding her chicks, Julia kept the children in front of her and stepped into the dark room.

“Against the wall.”

“Why? What do you want?”

“Back against the wall. Children in front of you.”

He’s going to shoot us. Right here. Right now. In this filthy
bathroom.

“No.”

Miguel didn’t blink. He pointed his gun at Lina’s head.

“Mamá!”

Julia stepped in the line of fire. “Leave her alone. What do you want?”

“I want you to stand with your back against the wall, with the children in front of you.”

Julia did as she was told.

Miguel motioned to one of the other men, who appeared with a digital camera.

“Say cheese,” the man said.

Julia recognized a Middle Eastern accent, possibly Arab, maybe Persian.

The flash made her eyes water. A second later the door closed.