The Wrong Hostage (22 page)

S
OUTHERN
C
ALIFORNIA
S
UNDAY, 11:51 P.M.

G
RACE PULLED THE NOZZLE
out of the gas tank, racked it on the gas pump, and waited for her receipt.

“Ready,” she said.

“Almost done.”

She watched while Faroe removed a translucent plate and loosened a lightbulb in the back of the SUV. He put the plate aside with the others he’d worked on.

“You drive,” he said.

“Thank you, God,” she said, sighing.

“Hey, I got us here on time, didn’t I?”

“At slightly less than the speed of light,” she muttered, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Faroe slid into the back of the SUV and left the tailgate ajar. “At least I’m positive that nobody followed us.”

“Is that good?”

“No. They should have been all over us like a rash.”

“I had to ask, didn’t I?” Grace turned the key and the big engine growled to life.

She turned onto the city street and drove in silence. After five minutes she turned onto a two-lane county road.

“You’re sure Ted hasn’t installed any security since the last time you were in Lomas?” Faroe asked.

“Yes. The summary of assets for the divorce was exhaustive.”

“Remember the signals we discussed?”

“Yes.”

Faroe shut up.

When Grace turned off the road into the long paved driveway, he looked over her shoulder. The dashboard clock read 12:04.

“If I’d been driving, you’d be on time,” Faroe said.

Grace gave him a look in the rearview mirror.

He smiled, touched the nape of her neck beneath her short hair, and heard her breath break. Her responsiveness made him want to haul her into the back with him for the kind of sex that would steam every window in the fancy SUV.

“As you approach that big oak up ahead,” he said in a husky voice, “slow down to walking speed. When you hear the hatch close, pick up the speed again. Act like you’re alone. Go ahead and get the weapon out of the bedroom, but keep the gun out of sight, somewhere he won’t expect you to have it. He or someone else may be watching you from somewhere outside the house. If you see anyone, signal me.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“Out in the brush, right behind anyone who’s watching. I’ll start well outside an ordinary surveillance perimeter.”

Grace was still traveling at more than five miles an hour when she heard the faint whisper of fabric as Faroe stepped out of the back of the vehicle. In the dark glow of the taillights, she saw him come out of a running crouch and match the speed of the vehicle as he punched the button that automatically lowered and closed the tailgate. Then he slipped into the shadows of the big oak tree, vanishing into the spaces between moonlight and darkness.

Motionless, Faroe watched the Mercedes continue on up the gravel driveway to the deserted ranch compound. The chaparral lay on the coastal foothills in giant camouflage patterns, inky black and gray-green in the light of the moon.

He settled into the night. It was like going back to war again, where the choices were simple and the battle lines clear.

Infiltrate and exfiltrate, thrust and parry, win and lose.

Live or die.

I’ll let Ted take care of the dying part,
Faroe thought.
He has to be good for something, right?

Silent, motionless, Faroe watched the taillights of the Mercedes flicker when she made the turn into the little traffic circle. The turnaround ran in front of the large California-style Tuscan villa. He bit back a laugh at some architect’s idea of a ranch house. The stucco monster held the high ground overlooking the stables.

When Grace stopped, porch lights and several interior lights snapped on in welcome.

Motion sensors, right on time
.

He watched her get out of the car and stretch like she’d gone a long time without a break from driving.

Okay. Nobody in sight
.

She went into the house. Over the next several minutes, Faroe tracked her by watching lights come on downstairs and then on the second floor.

Nobody inside, either
.

Faroe climbed soundlessly over a paddock fence beside the oak and headed for the stables a hundred yards away. He stayed in the shadows of the fence line and the cover of a head-high oleander hedge.

Something exploded under his feet.

Jesus, what
—

A rabbit raced off, kicked out of its midnight nibbling by Faroe’s boot.

It took thirty seconds for Faroe’s heart rate to return to its normal measured pace.

He circled the stable quickly. Finally he reached a row of pencil cypress trees that burned like black flames against the moon-bright sky, defining the inland side of the property. He was about to slide into their cover and approach the house from the uphill side when he realized that he wasn’t the only predator at work.

Cool night air slid down the slope toward him. He smelled the faint edge of recent, yet not fresh, tobacco smoke. Someone had been smoking nearby.

Faroe froze, waited, heard nothing.

He took a slow look around a cypress trunk. Thirty yards away, a figure materialized from the shadows of the tree line.

Someone was watching the house from the same spot Faroe had chosen to be his own observation post.

L
OMAS
S
ANTA
F
E
M
ONDAY, 12:12 A.M.

M
OTIONLESS,
F
AROE RECALCULATED THE ODDS.

Not good.

But not surprising, either.

The man was dressed in some kind of night cammie suit. He had a long gun slung on his back, like he didn’t really expect to need it. When he looked in Faroe’s direction, moonlight sent a whisper-glow over the greasepaint that disguised the pale skin of the man’s face.

A professional night predator, all decked out in the tools of his trade
.

If the man had had his weapon trained on the house, Faroe would have found a way to take him down. But the intruder was acting more like a bored guard than a paid executioner.

So whose setup is this? Who is screwing who, and with what tools?

Motionless but for the very slow turning of his head, always keeping the gunman in his sight, Faroe began a thorough visual inspection of the ranch compound. He paid special attention to the places he himself would have chosen to hide.

The man in the tree line quietly cleared his throat. A smoker’s trait, unconscious, and deadly in the wrong circumstance.

Bad operational discipline
.

But it suggested the dude was indeed relaxed. Even though Grace had already arrived, the main event hadn’t begun.

Then what—or who—is the target?

Faroe identified two more hides, one in the brush at the edge of the clearing north of the house and another in the paddock area. He had just begun to examine the stable building itself when he noticed a brief green flicker in the partially open hayloft door.

An impatient sniper had just uncapped his starlight scope.

The telltale phosphorescence lit up his eye and the straight line of a watch cap on his forehead. He had spooled up his magical viewing device one last time, just to make sure it was still working properly.

All the bells and whistles, but their discipline needs a serious kick in the ass
.

Faroe was familiar with the problem. It came from doing it too many times in practice and never doing it for real.

Okay. So we probably have some kind of government field office’s special weapons team on a low-octane run, a step above routine drill, but not balls to the wall
.

The only reason he’d managed to penetrate the operation so easily was that nobody had been detailed to watch the back side.

Too many dry runs
.

Not enough wet work
.

Faroe wasn’t the only one to see the greenish glow. From down the tree line, he heard a quiet, edgy voice.

“Number Three, you’re showing a light.”

Instantly the cap went back on the starlight scope.

If Faroe had found himself in the middle of a St. Kilda operation, the team leader, the sniper, and the smoker would have been fired on the spot. The sniper should have known enough to keep his light capped, the team leader should have kept radio silence for anything short of life-or-death, and putting a smoker on the stalk was like sending up a flare.

The surveillance team scattered through the night around the Lomas ranch compound was made up of dudes earning a living, individuals of varying skill who were going through the motions, some more effectively than others.

Just people.

It was a simple truth that civilians had a tough time understanding. That and the fact that the government was armed by the lowest bidder.

Faroe lay back in the shadows, running scenarios in his mind. If Grace
had been the target, the men would have moved in after she arrived—or been waiting in the house for her.

Are these Hector’s men?

Doubtful. Even the Zetas mercenaries working both sides of the southwestern border spoke Spanish. If they’d hired gringos, it hadn’t made a ripple yet.

Besides, the Zetas had done enough wet work not to be careless.

Did Franklin advertise in Mercs “R” Us?

Possible, but it wouldn’t explain the feds following everyone—and then suddenly not following Grace.

The feds know she’s going to be here
.

Does Ted know about the feds?

Headlights turned off the country highway and hit the driveway. The high beams flashed twice.

Near Faroe, the voice in the shadows spoke into a handy-talkie. “Primary is on the move, arriving in thirty seconds. Heads up. We don’t want any surprises.”

The green glow of the starlight scope appeared in the hayloft again.

Faroe watched the sniper sweep the grounds with his magic eye, prying into the darkness, covering the compound.

Covering.

Okay
. Faroe let out a long, silent breath.
The weapons team isn’t here to make an arrest. They’re protecting an operation
.

The vehicle appeared at the end of the gravel driveway and swung around into the lighted traffic circle in front of the house. It was an oversize black SUV, a Suburban, but in the dark it looked a lot like the ominous Escalade Hector’s gunmen used.

Must be a machismo thing
.

And at night, with the lights off, black vehicles vanished.

The Suburban pulled past the front door and didn’t stop until it found a place where the escape route couldn’t be blocked. The driver was a professional trained in kidnap evasion.

“Primary, you’re good to go,” the radio voice said. “Make sure Franklin comes out last.”

The headlights of the Suburban flashed again, proving that the vehicle
was on the same radio frequency as the sniper and the weapons team. This was all for the benefit of one man.

Theodore Franklin.

Feds.

Bad combination.

Faroe slid back deeper into the shadows. If he showed himself now, the last thing he’d see in this life would be the green eye of the sniper’s rifle.

The driver of the Suburban got out and searched the darkened compound. He muttered something and another man got out of the front seat. Both men were wearing dark windbreakers with bright lettering across the chest and back.

Law enforcement raid jackets.

The side door of the vehicle opened and a third man, heavyset and a little awkward, stepped down. The officers in the windbreakers fell in on either side of him and ushered him toward the front door.

Must be Ted
.

The son of a bitch
.

Franklin moved flat-footed, almost like he was in leg chains.

Behind him a fourth man slid out of the car. He wore a suit and carried a leather briefcase shiny enough to reflect moonlight. He walked like a man who owned the world.

One of the cops knocked firmly on the front door. The sound carried through the night. From Faroe’s right came a voice from the team leader’s radio.

“She’s in the kitchen, headed for the front door right now.”

Faroe was glad Grace didn’t know that she was being tracked by a sniper’s telescopic rifle sight.

The lawman was about to knock again when the door swung open. Grace was outlined in the hallway light. Obviously car registration wasn’t the only detail she hadn’t had time to take care of. She must have left clothes at the place because she was now dressed in dark slacks, a dark blouse, and flat shoes. She said something that Faroe couldn’t hear.

“Mrs. Franklin, we’re here on official business,” a man said. His command voice carried clearly through the night. “It would be best if you cooperate.”

Grace moved back and let them enter. As the second officer walked underneath the porch light, Faroe saw the lettering on the back of his raid jacket.

US MARSHAL

The door closed.

Well, that does it. This has gone from a goat roping to a clusterfuck
.

Marshals weren’t garden-variety cops. They protected courtrooms, served papers, transported prisoners, chased fugitives. And they administered a highly specialized program called “witness protection.”

Franklin had found himself a mink-lined hideout protected by the kind of bureaucracy that made an art out of delay.

But Lane had only a bit more than twelve hours to live.

All bets were off.

L
OMAS
S
ANTA
F
E
M
ONDAY, 12:20 A.M.

F
AROE TURNED TOWARD THE
officer in the camouflage coveralls. “Hey, you, over there in the trees. You’re trespassing on private property. Come out with your hands up!”

The instant response was silence.

Then the officer slowly turned his head in Faroe’s direction. At the same time, his right shoulder dropped.

He was sliding the assault rifle off his shoulder.

“Reach for that weapon and die,” Faroe said flatly.

The man froze.

“Can you see him?” the man said into his radio.

The answer must have been negative because the man slowly raised his hands.

“We’re federal law enforcement agents on official duty,” he said. “Step out where we can see you.”

“I don’t care if you’re aliens from the third galaxy over. You’re trespassing and you’re armed. I’m in fear of my life and I have every right to shoot you where you stand. Step backward out of cover so I can see you.”

After a few seconds the man slowly straightened. Keeping his hands where they could be seen, he stepped backward out of his position. In the moonlight, Faroe could see reflective yellow letters on his back.

Another marshal.

“You see the lettering on the back of my coverall?” the marshal de
manded. “That’ll tell you who we are.”

“How stupid do you think I am? You can buy anything on eBay. Keep walking backward toward me.”

“You aren’t being very smart.”

“I aced target practice, which is all the smart I need. Back up.”

Slowly the marshal backed up. When he was six feet away Faroe stepped out of the shadows, keeping the marshal between him and the barn.

“Tell your shooter in the hayloft to ease back on his trigger,” Faroe said.

The marshal stood still but didn’t say anything.

“Tell him.”

“Hold fire,” the officer said. He turned slightly, trying to get a look behind him.

In the half-light, Faroe could see the slender stalk of a radio microphone outlined against his cheek.

“Eyes front,” Faroe snapped.

“We’re federal officers. You’re dipping yourself in deep shit.”

“You’re already up to your own lips in the stuff,” Faroe said. “You and I are going to walk toward the house, where there’s good light, and we’ll let the judge sort out who’s doing what and with which and to whom.”

“You her bodyguard?”

“Give the man a prize. I’m walking in your shadow, so remind your boys about Ruby Ridge and what happens to snipers who take bad shots.”

“He’s the judge’s bodyguard!” the marshal shouted. “Hold fire. We’re going inside.”

Faroe stayed close behind the marshal as they stepped out of the tree line and walked slowly across the front lawn. The skin at the base of his skull tingled as he sensed the gentle, giddy sensation of crosshairs intersecting there. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow, the posture of a man holding a gun.

Except he didn’t have a gun and he sure didn’t want anyone to know it until he was inside.

As the marshal reached the first step of the porch, the front door swung open. The marshal inside had been monitoring the radio traffic. He held a
pistol close to his leg, ready to bring it to bear.

“Relax,” Faroe said.

Then he stepped into the light and showed his empty hands.

“Oh, shit,” the marshal in the coverall muttered.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Faroe said. “I just wanted to get inside without being whacked by an eager shooter.”

“Who are you?” the man in the doorway demanded. “This is a federal crime scene. What are you doing here?” His windbreaker carried the name “Harkin” in yellow letters above a federal marshal’s logo.

“Marshal Harkin, I’m representing the interests of an officer of the federal court,” Faroe said clearly. “Her name is Judge Grace Silva. Do you have a warrant to be on her property?”

“You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal officer, and that’s just for starters.”

Grace appeared in the hallway behind the marshal. She’d not only changed her clothes, she’d wiped off the streetwalker makeup.

“He’s not interfering with anything,” she said to the marshal in her best bench tone. “He’s doing his job.”

“Sneaking around in the dark?”

Her smile could have frozen fire. “When Ted demanded a meeting, at midnight, in a deserted house, I decided to bring somebody. Looks like Ted decided the same thing.” Her dark glance raked the marshals. “Next time you ask for a command performance, tell me why in advance.”

Faroe kept a poker face, but he was really glad Grace wasn’t aiming all that power and scorn at him.

“Come in,” she said to Faroe. “These are bona fide federal marshals. Apparently Ted is a federally protected witness, though no one will tell me what case he’s a witness in.”

Faroe walked into the house before the marshal could stop him. “Protected witness, huh? We used to call them snitches. They waste a lot of time before you get anything good.”

Grace understood the message and sent one of her own. “I’m used to cutting through the bullshit.”

Faroe nodded and gave her the lead. He might be hell on wheels in the
shadows, but this was her world.

And she was good at it.

He followed her down the hallway and into a comfortably furnished living room that would have been called a salon if ranch houses had salons. Another marshal in a windbreaker stood in the middle of a large, magnificent Oriental carpet. His jacket bore the name “Tallman.”

Ted Franklin stood behind Tallman, using him as a shield.

Faroe moved to one side. He wanted to see the man who had raised Lane and then given him to the Butcher of Tijuana.

Franklin was big, bulky, with the look of a man who liked alcohol too much and exercise not at all. He was wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and shiny loafers. His face was puffy, either from booze or lack of sleep. Both, probably. His eyes were bloodshot slits.

“Who’s this guy?” Franklin demanded.

“You brought your friends to the party,” Grace said. “I brought mine.”

“Who is he?” Franklin demanded again. He turned to Tallman. “Make him show you some ID.”

Tallman frowned. “You’re not my boss, Mr. Franklin. Technically, you’re not even a protected witness. We only agreed to go along on this visit as a courtesy. So until you and your attorney have concluded your plea negotiations, don’t give me attitude.”

Franklin looked like he’d been slapped. He straightened his shoulders and turned toward the fourth man, the one with the polished briefcase. He was coming down the stairs from the second floor.

“Tell them, Stu,” Franklin said.

“Yes, Stu,” Grace said coolly, “do tell everyone what this farce is all about.”

Sturgis glanced around, saw a stranger, and kept his mouth shut.

Faroe looked at the man who must be Stuart Sturgis, lawyer to the criminally rich. He was in his late forties, clean-shaven, and sporting a two-hundred-dollar razor cut on his collar-length steel gray hair. He wore a two-thousand-dollar black silk suit with a black silk shirt and a white tie.

Mobster chic must be back in fashion.

“Did you find it?” Franklin demanded.

“No. Who’s this?” he asked, looking at Faroe.

“Where is it?” Franklin snarled at Grace.

“Where’s what?” she asked carelessly.

“The computer!”

“Computer? You mean Lane’s computer, the one he used before he went to All Saints?”

“It’s my computer,” Franklin said in a rising voice. “I paid for it. Damn you, bitch, where is it!”

Faroe started for Franklin.

Tallman stepped between Franklin and Grace. “Judge Silva, we came here to help your husband retrieve some of his personal effects. If you could just help us, we’ll be on our way.”

“Legally,” Grace said in her calm, cutting bench voice, “the computer doesn’t belong to Ted. He gave it as a birthday present to our son. So even if you find the computer, you have no right to it. If that’s all, gentlemen, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Franklin shouldered his way around Tallman and towered over Grace. “Where’s the fucking computer? So help me God, I’ll break your neck if you don’t—”

“Mr. Sturgis,” Grace interrupted coldly, “would you define simple assault for your client? Or shall I?”

The marshal took Franklin firmly by the arm and turned him around. “Where is this computer supposed to be? I’ll go look myself. If I find it, we’ll let the lawyers sort out who it belongs to.”

“In the bedroom at the end of the hallway on the right,” Franklin said. “It’s got to be there.”

Tallman looked at Grace uncomfortably.

Faroe understood how Tallman felt. In the marshal’s world, federal judges were gods. He really didn’t want to piss one off.

“We have a warrant to seize the computer, Your Honor,” Tallman said, producing a paper. “It’s evidence in an ongoing investigation.”

Grace read the paper with speed and care. She’d seen a lot like it. She gave the warrant back to Tallman. “Take any computer you find upstairs. But be quick about it. If I wanted to spend time near Ted, we’d still be married.”

Tallman went up the steps two at a time. His footfalls sounded down the hallway.

Sturgis tossed his briefcase on a damask couch and sat down. He looked like he’d had a long day, too.

Grace went to a large cherry sideboard and opened a pair of glass doors. She pulled down a crystal decanter and began removing matching glasses from the shelf.

Faroe watched her. He seemed to be the only one in the room who could sense the rage and contempt beneath her outward calm.

“Drink, anyone?” she said.

“Please,” Sturgis said. “Scotch.”

Grace poured two fingers of golden liquid into a crystal glass and handed it to him.

Franklin’s eyes followed the glass hungrily.

Grace lifted an eyebrow at him.

He looked away.

She poured another glass and stood in front of him. Franklin looked at her with hatred in his eyes. Then he snatched the glass from her hand and knocked it back in an eye-watering swallow.

Grace’s smile lifted the hair on Faroe’s neck. He reminded himself never to get between this woman and the welfare of her son.

“Poor teddy bear,” she said with no sympathy at all. “What did you do that requires the services of the most expensive criminal litigator in California?”