Get Back Jack (30 page)

Not that they could tell Neagley the Boss’s reasons; not that she’d care if they told her.

When neither Gaspar nor Kim offered a rebuttal, Neagley said, “We can’t drive a bus in there and snatch them back. For one thing, there’s the medical issues. For another, we’d be dead before we reached the bunkhouse.”

“Agreed,” Morrie and Gaspar said simultaneously.

“We’ll go over all the details. But the basic plan is simple, solid,” Kim said. “Neagley and Gaspar can handle the diversion. Morrie and I will confirm the hostages are in the bunkhouse, then call in the ambulances.” She told Neagley about the need to stagger the calls to the two communities to ensure they’d arrive together. “Once we have them loaded, Cooper will make sure they are evacuated to safety.”

Morrie asked, “How will we get in and get out?”

“Our vehicle should be in the motel lot, fully loaded, when we’re done here.”

“
Should
be?” Neagley asked.

Kim ignored her. “When Berenson’s arrested, she’ll be highly motivated to save her hide. That’ll be problematic for all of us and an even bigger problem for Neagley, Dixon, and Reacher. She’ll start talking about why she and Dean were so interested in Reacher’s crew in the first place. She’ll use the missing money as a bargaining chip. Might even manage immunity in exchange for testimony, assuming we get all the hostages out alive.”

Morrie looked at her as if she’d grown a third head.

As Kim had expected, Neagley said, “Berenson won’t be a problem.”

The waitress returned with the food and they stopped talking while they consumed it like a Shop-Vac sucks up dust.

“What about the timing?” Neagley asked.

“We’ve got some set up first,” Kim replied. “But we go in at your lucky time of the day. Four o’clock in the morning. What did you call it? KGB time? Are you feeling lucky?”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Tuesday, November 16

3:56 a.m.

Chacho, TX

The Boss had delivered on the first of his promises. A state-of-the-art armored SUV was parked at the motel, equipped with everything they’d need and a few extras Kim hoped wouldn’t be necessary. Gaspar behind the wheel driving with his usual lead foot, they arrived slightly before dawn’s weak light first bathed the countryside in soft haze.

Black Star Ranch nestled in a Texas Valley near the Rio Grande a few miles north of Mexico. Close enough for frequent visits and exchanges. Far enough outside Mexico’s jurisdiction to be both a blessing and a curse, depending on the crime. According to her intel, Las Olas laundered money by the truckload through this operation. Money laundering had to be done stateside. Murder and kidnapping and assorted mayhem was better handled in Mexico where corrupt authorities were more easily persuaded by extreme violence or bribery to look the other way.

In photographs, the scene was benign, enticing. No outward evidence of the evil within existed. Less like South Texas ranches, more reminiscent of Louisville, Kentucky horse farms.

Unlike its dusty neighbors’, Black Star’s lawns and pastures were well watered. Quarter horses grazed peacefully on lush grass divided by a bright white running board fence. Maybe 200 horses were visible from the last satellite photos she’d downloaded, but there were probably more. Horses were trained, bred, and raced here.

Black Star’s layout was similar to the compound in Valle Alto. Maybe Las Olas liked familiarity, which was fine with Kim. She liked familiarity, too. More predictable.

While not as bright as the stadium lighting in Valle Alto, the ranch was well lit from without and within. Each of the buildings was bathed in floodlights similar to those lighting buildings in Washington D.C. or Paris. Runway lights lined the drives and entrances.

Through the binoculars, Kim saw a spacious, ranch-style home sprawled at the end of the private drive maybe a hundred yards from the road where Kim sat inside the SUV with the blackened window lowered. The driveway widened to provide parking spaces large enough for horse trailers. But no vehicles rested there now. Barns and other outbuildings were scattered behind the house. Kim counted eight buildings in all, but her view was partially obscured.

She found the building Dean had identified as the extra bunkhouse where the hostages were being held. It looked similar in size and construction to the bunkhouse they’d found on the Ville Alto compound, but it was obviously newer. The FBI reports she’d read said Las Olas used it for human trafficking and as a holding cell for kidnapping victims for whom they expected to collect ransom.

The interior photos the Boss sent were a couple of months old, and consistent in every respect with Dean’s descriptions. The interior of the bunkhouse was equipped with the usual conveniences. A small kitchen and eating area on the front, two bathrooms with toilets and showers and sinks across the north side. The remainder of the interior space was divided into two large dormitory rooms and one smaller private sleeping quarters with its own toilet and sink and shower.

Kim could see four small, high windows on the front of the bunkhouse reflecting the yellow glow of incandescent bulbs. Someone inside was already awake. A sedan and a black pickup truck were parked perpendicular to the building, blocking the doorway from her line of sight. Nor could she see the back of the building from this vantage point, but the photographs had shown the same window layout on the back. Windows too high and too small to enter or escape through. Unless you were a tiny Asian woman with a tall dude to boost you up.

She found the third barn. It wasn’t far from the extra bunkhouse. Through the binocs, she saw two trucks and a tractor with a trailer parked at the side.

She counted seven ranch hands moving around outside, even at this early hour. There were lights on in the main house, too. This was a working ranch and there were horses to feed, chores to do. Maybe horses and other things were being shipped and received, too. People were on the job.

“Are we clear on what we’re doing here?” Kim asked. “Morrie and I will take the bunkhouse. Gaspar and Neagley, you get the barn. Open communication between us.”

Morrie said, “We’re going into the bunkhouse to confirm the hostages are still here. Assuming they are, I call and bring in the ambulances to take them to the hospital.”

“Exactly,” Kim said. “Neagley?”

“We’ll get the diversions going. Worry about your end, Otto.”

Why did she have to be such a constant prickly female?

“Don’t ignite the explosions until we confirm the hostages are actually still in there,” Kim pressed. “If they’ve been moved again, we’ll need to find them before we launch the plan. And we can’t get too far ahead of our timeline.”

“As I said,” Neagley said, “you worry about your end.”

Gaspar said, “You left out the part where Black Star is guarded around the clock by Las Olas, inside and out. Those guys would love to have a nice big guy like you for a cookout, Morrie.”

Morrie frowned. “They do that in Mexico. Not here.”

“Don’t count on it,” Neagley warned. “There’s almost nothing they can’t do here, Morrie.”

Kim said, “We’ve also got Berenson to deal with.”

“I’ll be back to take care of her,” Neagley said.

“No.” Kim was a Federal agent. She wouldn’t authorize Neagley’s brand of justice. “She’s in our wheelhouse. Morrie and I will deal with her.”

Neagley said, “Suit yourself. I’ll be there anyway. Let me know if you change your mind.”

They tested their earpieces and opened the conference channel on their burner phones. The entire operation had the feel of
déjà vu
. They’d tried this same operation without the diversion or the ambulances last night at Valle Alto and failed to get the hostages out. They had to finish before Berenson killed another hostage, if she hadn’t already.

The one thing Dean couldn’t confirm was whether Berenson had followed their plan to keep all of the hostages alive until 6:00 a.m. Kim and the others had no choice but to assume Berenson was on plan.

“You think this is going to work?” Morrie asked.

“Only one choice, Morrie. It’s got to work,” Kim replied, with more conviction than the situation warranted. But there was nothing else she could do.

They waited until a truckload of workers pulled into the long driveway and Gaspar pulled the SUV in behind them, following them past the house and toward the barns.

“You really think it’s going to be this easy?” Morrie asked. “Driving right in?”

Gaspar shrugged. “We can hope. It’s awful early.”

“That’s our plan?” Morrie said. “Hope?”

“And a prayer,” Kim added. “If you’re so inclined.”

“Can we cut the chatter?” Neagley said.

As they drove past the third barn, Gaspar turned off at the bunkhouse, pulled the SUV around back and cut the engine. They all sat still, listening to the ticking of the engine and watching out the windows for Las Olas security forces to sweep down on them.

Morrie said, “This prayer thing’s pretty impressive.”

Gaspar pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them on the floor by the brake pedal. “Anybody needs to drive besides me,” he said, leaving the sentence unfinished.

All four left the SUV and gathered behind it for last minute equipment checks. When they were done, Neagley held her fist out, shoulder height. “Fist bump. It’s what the special investigators always did before and after a mission.”

“Who knew you were so superstitious,” Kim said. But they all bumped fists, just in case.

Neagley and Gaspar crouched low behind the building and moved ahead in the shadows while Morrie and Kim waited below the high windows of the extra bunkhouse.

Across the back of the bunkhouse were four windows. They were sixty-five inches off the ground. Kim guessed each one measured twenty-four by thirty inches. She’d studied their wood frame construction and metal lever operations on the manufacturer’s website earlier tonight.

Each window was hinged on the top and opened at the bottom. An interior handle swung from right to left, pushing two metal arms on a track that opened the base of the windows outward about ten inches. The handle and arm mechanisms operated in reverse to close. Pop a metal pin from the arms and open the window wider for cleaning or to replace them, the online directions said.

No light emanated now from the four back windows, which might be okay. The hostages were sleeping and if there were no lights in the wards, then maybe that meant no one was guarding them. Or, if someone was watching, the guard could be asleep. Either way, Kim took it as a good sign that the wardrooms were dark.

She’d need to create muffled noise to pry the bottom of the window open slightly, pop two pins, remove the metal arms, and lift the window wide enough to slip inside.

The old interior photos and Dean’s recent drawing showed an interior door between the two wardrooms and the front living spaces. At least one person, and maybe more, was awake and moving around in the front of the building. She’d need to be armed and ready, should someone hear her drop to the floor inside.

Kim checked her watch. Neagley and Gaspar should have reached the third barn by now. They should be setting up the propane triggers at the gas pumps and the 500-gallon propane tank. They’d be ready in three minutes.

Kim figured she’d need two for herself and one for Morrie.

“Going in,” she whispered.

“Okay,” Gaspar whispered back in her earpiece.

Kim slipped on her night vision. Morrie made a bridge with his paws and Kim put her petite foot in it. He lifted her as if she were lighter than a teddy bear.

She looked inside the window first. Even with the night vision, she couldn’t see much. A thin line of light showed under the interior door coming from the kitchen, but it provided little illumination. She pushed her night vision down to hang around her neck and grabbed the micro flashlight out of her pocket and shined it into the dark cavern.

She lifted one foot out of the palm of Morrie’s hand in the brief signal they’d agreed to in advance. He lowered her until she could jump onto the soft earth, landing quietly. She whispered loud enough to be picked up by her headset.

“Looks like there’s no wall between the two wards now. There are ten beds. Hard to tell how many are occupied, but a few are. I saw the IV poles and probably people lying under light blankets. I’m going to go in there. Hang on.”

“Ten-four,” Gaspar said.

“Smartass,” she replied.

She pulled out the screwdriver she’d brought along for this purpose.

Morrie made his palm-bridge again. She stepped into the lift.

At the top of the lift, she used the screwdriver to pry the bottom of the window open wider. Reached into the opening with her tiny hand. Forced the opening wider until she could reach her arm inside, grab the lever, and throw the window open wide enough to pop out the pins that held the metal arms in place.

Morrie shifted her weight to his right hand and reached up with his left to hold the window open with his palm while Kim wiggled inside. Briefly, she bent double over the window casing at her waist. She put her toes against the outside cement block wall and slithered the rest of the way into the room and dropped quietly to the floor.

“I’m in,” she whispered into her earpiece.

“Ten-four,” Gaspar replied.

Okay. Now that was just annoying.

Inside, the room was darker than she’d expected, even with the thin light ribbon under the door. She slipped her night vision up from her neck and over her eyes and looked around.

The room was the one from the videos. Dark, rectangular, barren. Cots rested perpendicular to each wall, lengthwise along both sides, like an old Army barracks. A narrow walkway lay open between the ends the beds. She counted twenty-four beds, twelve on each side.

Seven were occupied.

“Seven present,” she whispered.

“Ten-four,” Gaspar said.

She approached the first bed and looked down at its occupant. She saw a woman she barely recognized as Karla Dixon. Quickly, she made a positive ID on the other six.