Mercy Killing (Affairs of State Book 1) (27 page)

He winced at having to admit the truth. “I’m the lowest rung on the fucking State Department ladder. It doesn’t matter who I go to or what I ask for. No one cares what I say.” The admission cost him. He felt hollowed out inside. He swallowed over a growing lump in his throat. “No one cares what I think or want. Not really.”

She looked at him long and hard. “You’re telling the truth now?”

He winced. “Yes.” For once. But wasn’t it supposed to feel good to unburden one’s soul? He felt miserable, ashamed.

Her eyes shifted away then swung back to him, decisive. “Since you can’t help me, you will at least promise not to interfere with what I need to do next.”

He heard himself whine, “Mercy,” and immediately hated himself for sounding weak.

“I mean it. From this moment on, where I go and what I do is
my
business alone. Got that? If I discover you’re tipping off the State Department, CIA or anyone else, about where I am or what I'm doing—I swear to God, Peter, I’ll file for divorce on the spot. And I'll very clearly state your repeated extramarital affairs as justification.”

He stared at her, horrified. Was she serious? The determination in her eyes and the set of her jaw cinched it. She wasn't bluffing. “You realize that would destroy my career.”

“Yup.”

“That’s blackmail!”

She nailed him with unforgiving brown eyes. “
That
is justice.”

33

Lucius fought the hypnotic hum of the Jeep’s tires and focused on the white line painted down the middle of the highway. He clamped hands on the steering wheel. Blinked away sleep. Two minutes later, he realized he was driving with his eyes closed.

Crap
!

He fished a couple of No-Doz from his glove box, chased them down with a gulp of Mountain Dew. Caffeine buzzed through his bloodstream. Running off the road into a ditch in these parts meant the arrival of the kind of help you didn’t want.

All roads south from Nuevo Laredo were treacherous, even by Mexican standards. You passed out of one gang’s territory, moved into another. The Juarez, Sinaloa, and Los Zetas cartels owned much of the territory between the Rio Grande and Mexico City. Each one enlisted local gangs, armed them, expected their members’ fierce loyalty. The cartels fought viciously to hang onto the areas they’d staked out, and the movement of drugs and arms through them.

When Lucius first set foot in Mexico in the 1990’s, the Colombians—mostly the Cali and Medellin cartels—still held all the power. After their downfall, everything changed. Now 90% of the cocaine shipped into the U.S. came through purely Mexican cartels. Moving in the other direction were weapons. Most in demand, as tools of the cartel trade, were the Cuerno de chivo and Chanate, respectively the AK-47 and M-4 Carbine with grenade launcher. Slap on a double-drum magazine, and the carbine became a weapon with bulls’ balls—thus its name. By now most of the weapons used by the cartels were purchased in the States and smuggled south across the border into Mexico.

So… drugs and slaves went north—guns, south. At stake was somewhere in the neighborhood of $40-billion in wholesale annual earnings for drugs alone. No one really knew the profit from guns or human trafficking, only that it was, at least, in the many millions.

As to the cost in human lives? Experts tossed around so-called “official” death tolls in the Mexican crime war. Some claimed 70,000 killed. Others quoted figures as high as 100,000—gang combatants, law enforcement, and innocents caught in the crossfire. He could understand why it was hard to come up with solid statistics. Often, people simply disappeared. How did you count bodies that were never found? He wondered if the two coyotes he’d taken out had been counted as recent casualties. Not that it mattered one way or another to him.

Meanwhile, Lucius found warm comfort in the .44 Remington Magnum tucked between the Jeep’s front seats. He liked it in many ways better than his Glock or even a .357, having a higher muzzle velocity and more stopping power at close range.

As backup, he'd laid the German-manufactured Mauser SP66 on the floor behind his seat, out of view of passing vehicles. The Rem was for nose-to-nose action, the Mauser rifle when you wanted to put as much space between you and your target as possible.

Be prepared. That’s me, a goddamn Boy Scout
.

He chuckled at his own humor but quickly returned his attention to the next task on his agenda. Finding out who had sent out one of the cattle baron's trucks loaded with non-bovine passengers. That is, if it wasn't actually Hidalgo.

In the days since the Davis woman had reported the stranded slave transport, he’d tried to unravel the puzzle. Hidalgo was no fool. He’d keep in touch with his drivers, know instantly if they were in trouble and send help. Abandoning contraband of any sort on a highway was just asking for the authorities to spot it.

So, his theory was—someone other than the rancher had intentionally stranded the truck to point a damning finger at Hidalgo. Clever! It was the sort of thing he might have done himself,
if
he’d wanted Hidalgo caught. Which he didn’t. Not yet. He didn’t want the fucking Mexican cops to arrest Hidalgo. He wanted the man for himself.

To get the two-million dollars in reward money for delivery to the DEA of any Mexican cartel boss. Most were untouchable, too well protected for him to get to. But Hidalgo was still new to the game. Vulnerable. Everything Lucius had learned in the past six months told him that Hidalgo had replaced the aging Joaquin Morales as the boss of the powerful Sinaloa cartel. But Lucius needed more proof before he could convince the powers that be. The joint US-Mexican government-funded reward, a head-hunting incentive, was his if he nailed Sebastian Hidalgo. And he intended to do just that. Of course he’d have to use a pseudonym to claim the money since government employees couldn’t earn the reward, but that wouldn’t be an issue.

As to Hidalgo, Lucius’ spies reported the rancher had been light-loading cattle trucks for months, maybe years. That meant he was saving room in the lorries for a reason. And he doubted it was for the comfort of the animals. He must be carrying something other than cattle. Slaves north? Then arms in the empty trucks as they crossed back into Mexico on their return trip?

Unfortunately, he still needed Mercy Davis. He’d strung her along pretty well until now. But she was getting pushy, demanding information about her mother he couldn’t supply. His guy in New York had sent him more show-and-tell junk, slipped out of
Geo-World
’s office by his girlfriend.

Lucius had agreed to meet Mercy with important news about her mother. He'd show her one or two new bits of information and save the rest.

Where was the famed Talia? Was she even alive?

Hell if he knew. But he had to preserve the illusion of hope, if he wanted to keep the consul’s wife working for him.

After driving all night Lucius reached the outskirts of Mexico City. He pulled off the road, pissed on a bush, changed clothes. An hour later, he was negotiating the congested streets of the
Zona Rosa
. Dressed in white canvas pants, a colorful tropical shirt, leather espadrilles and a straw hat with a snappy brim, he felt quite dapper.

Mercy Davis was seated at a sidewalk café overlooking the statue of Diana, the Huntress. This time he wasn’t able to surprise her. Although she appeared absorbed in her menu, she spoke to him over her shoulder as he approached and before he announced himself.

“You’re late.”

“Best I could do,” he said. “I was out of town, and you insisted: Today, in person.” He pulled out the only other chair at the Frisbee-sized cocktail table and sat, giving her a sunny, avuncular smile. Leaning forward, he whispered, “V. pleased with your work, my dear. You should do this for a living.”

Her eyes flashed. “No thanks. I'll leave espionage to the smarmy pros—like you. What do you have for me?”

“No pleasantries before getting down to business? I’m terribly thirsty.” He signaled a waiter.

She shoved the bar menu at him. “Order whatever you like, but talk to me while you’re sitting there looking smug.”

He raised a brow. The woman had changed. There was a tough edge to her words, a sharpness to her body language, grit in her gaze.

Why do I put up with such attitude?

It would be easy to slip the needle-thin blade out of the leather sheath taped to his calf. Just ease it under the table. A single swift jab up and between her ribs and, oh-so-sweetly, into her heart. Before she fell into her coffee he’d have strolled away. End of arrogance.

Lucius smiled at the waiter, “
Por favor, un Negro Modello
.” Then, when the man had left, “Here.” He took a paper napkin from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of her.

“What is this?” She frowned, looking suspicious.

He shrugged. “Look inside. A memento.”

Her fingers trembled for an instant then steadied. She parted layers of rumpled paper then picked up the tiny gold frame, no larger than a silver dollar. Her fingers gently bookended it.

His beer arrived. He drank half of it straight down, giving her time. “I gather that’s a photograph of you?”

“I was five years old when my mother shot it.” Her lips barely moved. Pain brimmed in her eyes.

“Must have had it with her in the hotel room in Kiev.”

Her gaze lifted accusingly from her hands to him. “How did you get this?”

“I assume it was sent back to the States by the hotel where your mother was staying, along with other personal items, as a courtesy to her publisher. Somewhere between the magazine’s mailroom and the editor-in-chief’s desk, an item or two might have wandered.” He smirked.

Mercy felt her insides implode. She pinched together parched lips and swallowed the collection of vile names she was dying to scream at this excuse for a human being. If she’d had doubts about him before, now she was sure. He had been manipulating her, playing on her emotions. For far too long.

She was about to put a stop to it. The trick was not letting him know it.

“I also have information for you,” he went on, taking another long, leisurely pull on his beer. “My sources have pinpointed your mother’s last verifiable location.”

“Where?”

“Pripyat.”

“Why should I believe you?” She slipped the framed photo into her purse.

“Word is, Miss Talia somehow offended local criminal elements. They pulled her out of a tour group she was traveling with.”

“A tour of the Chernobyl disaster sites?” She watched for his reaction.

He blinked, as if surprised she knew this.

“What did they do with her?” she asked.

“My source claims Kiev Syndicate boys had her then somehow lost her. They’re still searching quite enthusiastically for her.”

“But if
they
don’t have her,
who
does? Someone took that photograph of her.” She swizzled her drink, intent on not appearing desperate.

He shrugged. “I expect one could find out, with sufficient resources—”

“You mean, bribes.”

“Of course. That’s the way things work, over there.”

“And there’s no way at all I can investigate my mother’s situation legally, through you and, say, the U.S. embassy?” She knew she couldn’t do it alone, but maybe through an intermediary?

“’Fraid not. Mummy is taboo, thanks to dear Interpol. They view her less as a victim, more as a collaborator with the syndicate.”

She widened her eyes, wanting him to assume this was news to her. If he thought she knew less than she did, she might use that to her advantage.

To be honest, by now she was wondering if he was CIA at all. Did he even care about shutting down human trafficking? Or did he have his own agenda? But she had to convince him she still trusted him, even if all he fed her were little morsels of the truth. At this point, anything she learned about her mother’s condition or whereabouts was gold.

“I have a suggestion,” he said, leaning back in his chair, legs extended, crossed at the ankles. His usual serene pose, which she’d by now decided was meant to conceal his vigilance.

“What?” she asked.

“My contact over there, the one who sent me the photograph, he’s made a few friends—displaced village folk, petty government officials in the towns that weren’t evac'ed. Great at scavenging and getting into places you wouldn’t think they could.”

“So?”

“For a hefty enough price, they might risk going up against the syndicate. If they locate your mother, they could be convinced to spirit her out of the country. It’s been done before.”

Mercy leaned across the table, itching to tell him she wanted to never see his spongy moon-face again. “How much?” she snarled. “Name a price. How much do I need to pay to get their help?”

He shrugged. “Twenty thousand, as a finder's fee, would get their attention and cover the cost of false documents and transportation. But then you'd need to add bribes to border agents, fees to the guides who move her, and for those who shelter or provide medical care for your mother along the way. Say fifty thousand, US dollars, total.”