him alive.”
“What are they asking for him?” Jake’s chest had gone tight. In spite of himself, he pictured Mark swinging from a rope above the river they used to swim in, letting go at the top, arms pinwheeling as he vaulted through the air.
“That I couldn’t get—Tyr is going to great lengths to keep this quiet. You don’t want to know what I had to promise my guy for this intel.”
“Do they know where they were taken?”
Syd said, “Rumor has it they were all snatched by a Los Zetas offshoot. They pretty much own the eastern delegaciones, so Tyr is sending a team there.”
“Crap. This just keeps getting better,” Jake said.
Los Zetas were mercenaries who did the dirty work for Mexican drug cartels. They had kidnapping perfected to a science, executing the initial grab flawlessly, constantly moving their prisoners to thwart attempts to track them…They were the world’s best at what they did. None of which boded well for Mark and his unit.
“What do you want to do?” Syd asked, studying him.
Jake shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we call Tyr, offer to do a joint operation?”
“They won’t go for that.” Syd shook her head. “They’re still pissed off about the Lodi case. I doubt they’ll even take our call.”
“Well, shit, Syd, Mark’s my brother.” Jake ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t just leave him down there to rot.”
“So let’s go get him.”
“That’s nuts. Tyr will go ballistic.”
“If we run into them, we make it clear that if they want trouble, we’re more than willing to give it to them—one press release about what happened down there, and they can kiss all their major contracts goodbye. And that’s if we even run into them.” Syd snorted. “Doesn’t sound like they’re the best of the best anymore. No offense,” she added.
Jake thought it over. The steady sleet tapered off, replaced by chunky white snowflakes. “All right,” he said finally. “But we’re not taking anyone off an active case. Who does that leave?”
“Fribush is already in the air en route to Texas, we can have him dropped off in Mexico City instead. So we’ve got him, you, me—”
“I need you to stay here and hold down the fort,” Jake protested. “We can’t both go.”
“The hell we can’t.”
“I mean it, Syd. One of us has to stay.” Jake didn’t add what they both knew he meant—if things went south, someone had to survive to keep running the firm.
“This is your brother, Jake. You need the best we’ve got on it.” Syd stared him down. “That’s me, and you know it.”
Jake started to argue, then thought better of it. Of all the trained operatives they had, Syd was the best by far. And she managed to inspire a blind loyalty in the men that no one else could duplicate. “Fine,” he finally agreed. “But I want Jagerson and Kane backing you up.”
“Perfect, I was going to suggest them,” she said. “And Maltz.”
“No way.” Jake shook his head. Michael Maltz had nearly been killed on their first case the previous July. Ever since he’d been undergoing extensive physical therapy. As far as Jake knew he hadn’t been cleared to go for a long walk, never mind conduct special operations.
“He’s fine, I checked him out myself,” Syd insisted.
“Checked him out how?”
“Ran him through the course at Langley, plus a few others. Trust me, he’s ready to come back. And aside from him, everyone else is committed to other cases.”
Jake mentally ran through their roster in his head: she was right, short of hiring a freelancer, all their other field operatives were assigned elsewhere. And freelancers were notoriously iffy. “That makes a team of six,” he said dubiously.
“Lean and mean, just how I like it.” Syd grinned.
Jake wished he shared her conviction. One thing about Tyr, they attracted top talent. If Mark had been ambushed, anyone could be. Considering the adversary they faced, he’d prefer going in with a small army.
“It’ll be fine, Jake. Trust me.” Syd glanced at her watch. “Nearly six o’clock. I’ll handle the travel logistics, you contact the rest of the team and reroute Fribush’s plane.”
“Okay.”
“Great. We’ll be out of here by midnight.”
Jake watched her head toward the stairwell. Unless he was mistaken, there was a distinct bounce in her step. Nothing cheered Syd up like the prospect of an armed confrontation.
His cell phone buzzed and he glanced at the caller ID: Kelly. Jake groaned inwardly. He’d arrived home late last night from a business trip to California and had opted to sleep at the office instead of going home. Jake told himself he didn’t want to wake her, but deep down he knew it was more than that. He gazed blankly out at the skyline. Kelly wasn’t going to like this. Since the accident it was almost overwhelming how needy she’d become. It was understandable, considering what she’d been through, but still. He barely recognized her anymore. Sometimes it felt like the Kelly he’d fallen in love with died in that explosion, and now he was living with her shadow.
Jake ran a hand across his face, wiping away stray drops of water. Dodging the issue wasn’t going to make it go away, but he couldn’t deal with it now. He had to save Mark. When he came back, they could have that talk.
He shook his head and went back inside.
Four
Mark Riley came to with a jolt, reflexively reaching for his weapon. His fingers fumbled, finding nothing. It always took him a few seconds to remember.
He rolled his head from side to side as he took inventory. The surviving members of his team were in the same positions as when he’d fallen asleep. Kaplan, the spotter, lay on his back by the door, wheezing slightly thanks to his broken ribs. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, too, but so far there were no signs of infection. Flores and Wysocki were on their sides, foot to foot along adjoining walls. Decker, their driver, was the lucky bastard enjoying a turn on the cot. Aside from that, the room was bare: four walls and a filthy mat that might have been white once. The door to the bathroom had been removed, the only window was painted black. A radio in the corner blasted music nonstop. Hard to believe, but it barely registered. His hearing would probably never be the same again.
Mark shook his hands, trying to increase circulation. So far they’d only removed the zip ties binding their hands to allow them to eat, and then only one at a time. The Zetas were nothing if not cautious. Tough to scarf down food with the barrel of an LMT aimed at your chest, but he’d gotten used to that pretty fast, too. The food wasn’t bad, surprisingly. He’d even swear the tortillas were homemade.
This was the third dump they’d been stashed in. By the street noise he surmised they were still somewhere in Mexico City. Soon after being tossed in the first van they’d been drugged. He’d come to in a room much like this one, all of them stacked against the wall like cordwood. A few hours later they were moved again. No drugs that time, but the Zetas drove in circles for hours, obviously intent on disorienting them. They could have ended up in an apartment next door to the first and Mark wouldn’t have been able to tell.
Something must have happened to convince their guards that the last place wasn’t secure, because they were hustled out in broad daylight. Mark caught a glimpse of ugly tenement buildings through the weave in his hood before being stuffed back into the van. Another few hours of jostling against each other through turn after turn, the driver muttering under his breath until someone barked for him to shut up. Then this place.
Wherever they were, the Zetas