Kidnap and Ransom. Michelle Gagnon
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“The pharmacy used to be a bar. This was where they stored the liquor,” she said.
“Which way out?” Decker asked.
She pointed, and Mark pushed past her. Up ahead, a short flight of stairs led to a set of double doors, bolted from the inside. A smooth ramp ran parallel to them.
“For kegs,” she explained.
The sound of thumping metal behind them: someone was trying the door. Voices shouted orders in Spanish. Then the steady pound of bullets against metal.
“Where does this come out?” Mark asked.
“Follow me.” She unbolted the lock and pushed the doors open.
It took a second for Mark’s eyes to adjust to daylight. He focused on Decker, running ahead of him down the long alley behind the store. A line of metal service doors abutted overflowing Dumpsters. A few doors down a guy in a soiled apron smoked a cigarette in an open doorway. Through slitted eyes, he watched them pass.
The girl led them to the end of the block, took a sharp right down a narrow street, then hooked left. Mark and Decker trotted behind her, guns held down by their sides. At any moment Mark expected to feel bullets tearing through him from behind. The few people they passed took them in, then quickly looked away. Didn’t want to get involved, Mark gathered. He’d seen the same thing in Iraq and Afghanistan, people so acclimated to violence they went about their everyday lives as if it wasn’t happening all around them.
The girl set a good pace, weaving with the confidence of a native through a maze of crumbling adobe buildings. After five solid minutes of running she ducked under the metal fence surrounding a dilapidated warehouse. Decker and Mark followed. She eased aside a door that dangled on its hinges and came to a stop in the middle of the room.
It was an old factory, long abandoned by the look of things. In the far corner a rat scratched at something in an oily puddle. It glanced up at them, then returned its attention to lunch.
“Where are we?” Decker asked.
It was a good question. They’d taken so many turns that even with his infallible sense of direction Mark would be hard-pressed to find true north.
“El Eden,” the girl responded.
“Is that still in Mexico City?” Mark asked.
“You really were kidnapped, weren’t you?” The girl examined them more closely. “You’re in Iztapalapa. It’s one of the delegaciones.”
“The ninth borough,” Mark said, remembering the map he’d studied prior to the mission.
“Shit, we barely moved at all.” Decker barked a short laugh.
He was right. The rescue mission had been launched in the southern section of Iztapalapa. They were probably less than two miles from where this all began.
“Thanks for getting us out of there,” Mark said. “Now we gotta get back to our friend.”
“I didn’t hear about any Americans getting kidnapped recently.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you don’t look like turistas.”
Decker was tearing open the packaging for the phone they’d taken from the store. He squinted at the instructions. “Do I need a code or something for this thing?”
“It only works if it’s activated at the register.”
“Crap,” Decker said.
The girl drew a cell phone out of her jacket pocket and tossed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “What’s your name, anyway?”
“Isabela Garcia,” she said. “Who are you calling?”
“A friend.”
Mark waved him over, keeping an eye on Isabela. “I don’t think we should call Tyr,” he said in a low voice.
“Why not?” Decker’s brow furrowed.
“Because there’s a leak. The mission went south because someone set us up. Until we know who, I don’t trust the organization.”
“Then how the hell do we get out of here?” Decker asked dubiously.
“We call my brother,” Mark said. “He’s got his own K&R firm, he can help.” He didn’t add that they hadn’t spoken in years. Jake could be a jerk sometimes, but in a situation like this he’d put his personal feelings aside. At least, Mark was hoping he would.
“All right.” Decker handed him the phone. He jerked his head toward Isabela. “What do we do with her?”
“We wish her the best and send her home.”
He started to dial, but was interrupted by Isabela. Arms crossed over her chest, she said, “You’re here for Cesar Calderon, aren’t you?”
The room erupted in smoke and blinding lights. Flores squeezed his eyes shut. His ears rang, which he took as a good sign. A real grenade would have separated them from his head. A flashbang, then. Thank God for small favors.
Shouts all around him. Flores squinted to see through the tears streaming down his face. Latino men in a motley assortment of camouflage streamed through the door, bandannas tied over their mouths. They were brandishing automatic weapons. He groaned—déjà vu all over again.
Sock was facing the wall. He’d dropped the gun and crossed his hands behind his head. One of the guys kicked his knees in from behind, then leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Sock replied in a low voice. The man glanced up, saw Flores watching. He walked over, swinging his gun back as if it were a bat.
A thousand stars exploded in Flores’s head as the butt of it made contact with his skull.
“What now?” Jake asked.
They’d emerged on the outskirts of Iztapalapa, in a neighborhood labeled San Miguel Teotongo on the map. The blood trail they’d been following had petered out on the other side of the tree line. Either Mark’s team had made more of an effort to cover their tracks, or somehow they’d managed to stem the bleeding. There was a third option, that whoever had been spilling so much blood was abandoned, but knowing his brother Jake doubted it. One thing Mark had always taken seriously was the precept to leave no man behind. Syd had someone in her network checking local hospitals just in case.
They were back to square one.
“Maybe they already made contact with Tyr,” Jake said. “We could call them directly and ask.”
“I doubt they’d tell us anything,” Syd snorted. “Besides, my guy there said he’d call if anything changed. And I haven’t heard from him yet.”
“We could canvass the area,” Fribush said.
“And what, ask if anyone saw a bunch of injured Americans stumbling around?” Syd shook her head. “We stay out here, we risk running into the Zetas looking for them. We need to regroup.”
“If one of them is bleeding, they’d start by trying to patch him up,” Jake said thoughtfully. “We could scope out the pharmacies.”
“Good.” Syd spun on her heels. “Let’s get back to the cars.”
Maltz had reported their position via radio a few minutes before. Syd led the four of them through a dusty lot and around an adobe building that was in the process of melting back into the earth. She stopped short, and Jake nearly crashed into her.
“Christ, Syd,” he grumbled. Then he saw what had stopped her. Kelly and Maltz were next to one of their cars, hands on their heads. They were surrounded by more than a dozen men bearing automatic weapons.
Syd reacted before he did, an H&K materializing in her hands. She shoved Jake back, ducking down beside the building. Kane, Fribush and Jagerson followed her lead, guns ready. Jake fumbled with the Glock tucked in his