Hostage Zero (28 page)

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Authors: John Gilstrap

Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Thrillers

BOOK: Hostage Zero
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Gail scowled as she listened. “You’re a rich guy. Why didn’t you just make up the difference out of your own pocket?”
“Because I was convinced that I was dealing with a professional killer. I’m
still
convinced that I was dealing with a professional killer. Every scenario I ran through my head ended up with me dead. Especially because I didn’t come clean with what happened in my very first phone call from Arthur.”
“So you panicked,” Gail summarized.
Navarro shrugged. “I prefer to think that I reacted the only way that made sense at the time.”
Gail took a moment to catch her notes up and then to review what she’d written.
“There’s more,” Navarro said, interrupting her thoughts.
He had her attention.
“I’ve had a lot of time to think through all of this,” he said. “Thank God for the Internet. The amount of the payment I shuffled gnawed at me like an ulcer. That kind of money means something way bigger than any mob hit. That’s special money, requiring the services of a special killer. Expertise is expensive in any line of work, right?”
Gail nodded. “So the Slaters wanted someone dead in a big way.”
Navarro looked horrified. “The Slaters? Oh, lord no, this kind of hit wasn’t ordered by the Slaters. They were merely the middlemen. Someone wants someone else dead, you go to your local crime family and you work out a brokered deal. I laundered the money that they had already laundered once. Presumably, the contractor on the other end of the transaction laundered it a couple more times to make it damn near untraceable.”
Gail was lost. “So why are the Slaters even looking for you?”
“Well, they had to cover the loss, didn’t they? They had to make good on the transaction, or else the very bad man would have an issue to settle with them, and no one needs that kind of heartache. But to cover their hind parts, they’d want to make sure that every stakeholder knew that I’d fumbled the ball.”
Pieces still were not fitting for Gail.
“That’s your government connection,” Navarro said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. When she didn’t get it, he sort of growled in frustration. “The government was the customer.”
A glimmer of comprehension now.
“Well, not the government, per se,” Navarro corrected himself, making a twitchy wave-off gesture. “More like a powerful individual within the government.”
Gail found herself leaning forward in her chair.
“Remember when I said that when they asked for the second payment, no one had been killed? Well, I realized that I wasn’t looking at a big enough picture. I’d been assuming that the hit would happen near the site of the money drop. Then I realized that for that kind of money it could have been anywhere. That’s when it got scary.”
Gail waited for it. The dramatic exposition was wearying, but given the man’s years without human interaction, she tried not to show frustration.
“Do you keep track of Washington politics, Ms. Bonneville?”
“Quite the opposite, actually. I try very hard to avoid them.”
“Then perhaps you don’t remember the South Dakota senatorial campaign from that year. The one between Lincoln Hines and—”
“Didn’t he commit suicide?”
“So you do remember. Yes, the common assumption was that he had committed suicide, but there are those who say that he would never do such a thing. His family, for example.”
Gail rolled her eyes. “Ah, conspiracy theories. You gotta love ’em.”
“What was it that Henry Kissinger told Richard Nixon? Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that people aren’t trying to get you. You should look at some of the theories. Beyond what many say is a lack of suicidal motivation, there were issues with the positioning of the body, and with fibers found on his clothes and such.”
“As is frequently the case,” Gail said. Armchair detectives were the bane of every real investigator’s life. “Trust me. If those fibers and the rest were relevant, there would have been a prosecution.”
“How about if the prosecutor was of the same political party as the dead man’s opponent? And the sheriff in charge of the investigation, as well.”
Gail laughed at the absurdity of it. “So the opponent kills his competition and he just talks everyone into covering up his crime? Forgive me, Mr. Navarro, but it just doesn’t work that way.”
Navarro remained unfazed. “I’m not suggesting a conspiracy, necessarily. In fact, I’ll stipulate that it probably
wasn’t
such a thing. But perceptions inform assumptions, and assumptions drive investigations, do they not?”
“Of course, but—”
“Hear me out. People suggest that the candidate who officially died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound was in fact murdered. Among the most logical suspects would be the man who stood the most to lose. The incumbent, no less, whose departure would throw the political balance in the Senate to the opposing party. So, your highly placed, very dapper and charming suspect says that the charges are ridiculous, that he would easily have won the race, even though the poll numbers at the time indicated that such might not be the case. Besides, he had an ironclad alibi for the time of the killing. Under those circumstances, where would your investigative instincts likely take you?”
Gail inhaled deeply and let it go as a sigh. In every investigation, there are wild-ass theories that simply have to be discounted or ignored. Otherwise, no case would ever close. It happened, sometimes, that a discarded theory turned out to be the one that defined the actual events, but it was a rare occurrence. Still, more than a few innocents were paying undeserved penalties in American prisons, Frank Schuler among them, apparently.
Navarro smiled and pointed at her. “Not laughing now, I see. Think about what was at stake: A senator had killed his competition using the Slater organization as a go-between. Everything would have been fine. Only the deliveryman”—he raised his hand—“screwed up and left loose ends that needed to be tied.”
“Which senator are we talking about?” Gail asked. “I don’t remember which one’s from where.”
“Oh, he’s not a senator anymore,” Navarro said. “When the president was elected, the guy was selected to be secretary of defense.”
“Jacques Leger?” Gail said.
“Exactly. See, you do pay
some
attention to Washington politics.”
Gail paused. She didn’t want to believe it; but Navarro’s wild theories did explain some things. “So help me think this through,” she said. “Would Arthur Guinn be in a position to know all of this?”
“Absolutely. All the way down to the little details. He wouldn’t say anything if he hopes to see tomorrow, but he would definitely know.”
Gail didn’t share the fact that he would be sheltered by witness protection. “So, to keep him quiet—if only as added insurance—it would make sense to kidnap his child.”
“Absolutely. That or just have him killed outright.”
Gail nodded. “And Frank Schuler would have to be considered a loose end, too; just in case Marilyn had said something to him. Maybe they even think he has the money. But that’s a loose end that the Commonwealth of Virginia will take care of in a week or so.”
“That leaves his boy. Call it a long shot that he’d know anything, but in for a dime, in for a buck, right?” A shadow of concern fell over Navarro’s face. “You know, that boy is probably dead. If we’re right and this is the scenario, then there’s no reason to keep him alive.”
Indeed there wasn’t, Gail thought. Thus the reason they left him for dead.
“So, do you think I’m right?” Navarro pressed.
Holy shit.
Did she think that a sitting secretary of defense ordered the murder of his senatorial rival? Did she think that the cover-up could involve kidnapping and more murder? Did she think that ambition could bring such darkness into a public servant’s soul? To think such things would sicken her.
“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s exactly what happened.”
Navarro smacked the table with both palms, a gesture of triumph. “Yes!” he proclaimed. “So what are you going to do about it?”
Interesting question, to which there was only one appropriate answer: “We set the record straight.”
The triumph drained from his face.
“We?”
Gail shrugged. “Okay. You, actually.”
Navarro laughed. “Like hell. I’ve gotten used to living.”
“The secretary of defense is a murderer. You can’t live with that.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve
been
living with it. He was every bit as much a murderer yesterday as he is today. The rest is not my problem.”
“I can arrange protection,” Gail said.
Navarro laughed harder. “Oh, you can, can you? That must be some private investigation firm you’re with.”
Gail didn’t retreat. “It
is
some private investigation firm I’m with. Certainly different than any you’ve heard of. We have connections.”
“Yeah, well, congratulations. I don’t. All I’ve got is me. I’ve come to care about me a lot these past years, and the more committed to me I’ve become, the less I care about anyone else. I gave you what you wanted. Now you take care of the rest.” He stood. The meeting was over. “Do travel home safely.”
Gail didn’t move. “Are you anxious to disappear all over again?”
He scowled. “What do you mean?” The way the color drained from his face, Gail figured he might have already figured it out.
“Mr. Navarro, there are some secrets that I just cannot keep. Not when the stakes are so high.”
“You mean you’d rat me out.”
“I don’t want to,” she said. She tried to keep a pleading tone in her voice. “But what choice would I have?”
“You could respect my openness and generosity and understand that I am in a very difficult position.”
Gail cocked her head. Surely he had to know better.
“I could kill you,” he said. “No one would ever find your body.”
She smiled. “All respect, I’d make you dead three times over before you got your finger on the trigger.”
“I could kill myself, then.”
Gail shook her head. “You’ve had years to kill yourself. The time has come for you to do the right thing.”
Navarro laughed. “Sure,” he said. “At this stage in my life I’m going to start—” His expression changed to one of concern, and he cocked his head. “Do you hear something?”
Gail cocked her head, too. At first, the answer was no, she didn’t hear a thing. Then she did—a very soft thrumming sound in the distance. In a city setting, it would have been inaudible, but out here, not only was it clear, but it was getting louder. “Helicopter?” she guessed.
Navarro shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. He snatched his shotgun from the counter with such speed that Gail found herself drawing down by instinct. “Don’t!” she yelled.
“What did you do?” Navarro yelled. “Who did you tell?”
But he wasn’t interested in an answer. He hurried out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up to the open front window.
“What is it?” Gail said, trailing after him.
“It’s a goddamn helicopter!” Navarro exclaimed.
“So? Maybe—”
“No maybe,” Navarro snapped. “What did you do?”
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE
Jonathan had no idea how Felipe had been able to scare up a late-model Range Rover, but as the roads got progressively nastier, he was thankful for the wide wheelbase and the four-wheel drive. Given the bargain-basement price for the vehicle, the smart money said that Felipe had either stolen it from someone himself, or he’d bought it from someone who had. The leather interior and the air-conditioning, though, didn’t exactly fit in with the nature of the cargo, or the mission that lay at the other end of their journey. Despite their best efforts to tie down their cargo, the weapons and equipment made a hell of a racket as they bounced along trails that only people in the third world would have the guts to call roads.
As they approached the rallying point—not a town or even a village, but rather the intersection of minutes and seconds of longitude and latitude—Jonathan told Harvey to stop the truck.
“Gladly,” he said. “The instant you want me to turn around, you just say the word and we’re out of here.”
Jonathan ignored him. Their time together had been defined by three hours of endless bitching, and he’d grown tired of it a long time ago. He was giving the guy a shot at a new life, for God’s sake, and all he could do was whine.
Jonathan lifted his portable radio from the center console and keyed the mike. “Big Guy, this is Scorpion. How do you copy?”
He’d expected a delay as the man on the other end of the radio scrambled to find the transmit button, so he was surprised when he heard Boxers’ voice respond right away. “It’s about time,” he said.
“We’re a half mile out,” Jonathan said. “I didn’t want to startle anyone.”
“I was hoping that was you,” Boxers said. “You make a hell of a racket. Come on in.”
“On our way.” Then to Harvey: “You heard the man. Tally-ho.”
Harvey eased pressure onto the accelerator, and they were on their way. Less than a minute later, Jonathan pointed ahead and to the right, where he spotted the first picket. “See the guy in the trees up there?”
Harvey nodded. “I got him. What do you want to do?”
Jonathan repositioned the M4 in his lap so that he could fire left-handed if he needed to. “Just keep going. If he brings a weapon to bear, I’ll take him out.”
“I thought these guys were our allies.”
“In an hour, maybe they’ll be allies. Right now, they’re just strangers with guns.”
“There’s another one on the left,” Harvey said. When he pointed, he kept his hand low so no one could misinterpret the gesture as aggressive.
Jonathan appreciated the smart thinking. “I see him.”
“How many directions can you shoot at one time?”
“When motivated?” Jonathan quipped. “You’d be surprised. Just keep going. Don’t speed up, don’t slow down. Nothing’s pointing at us, so I guess they got the word.”
“You have no idea how little comfort that gives me.”
It had been a mistake to leave the windows up, Jonathan realized. Shooting through glass was inaccurate at best. What he lacked in accuracy would have to be made up for in volume, and just to make sure he was ready for the possibility, he caressed the M4’s selector switch with his left forefinger and verified that it was in the three-round burst mode. As long as he was alive and still had a trigger finger, there wasn’t a target on the planet that he couldn’t hit with six rounds.
Ten seconds later, they were past the sentries and closing in on the clearing that would be their base camp. Including the pickets, whom he could see in his rearview mirror following the Rover, Jonathan counted seven soldiers, all dressed in jungle camouflage, and all holding rifles. To the left of center, Boxers towered over the others, and next to Boxers stood an utterly unchanged José Calderón.
“Boy, you don’t really get how friggin’ huge he is till you seem him next to other people, do you?” Harvey said. “He looks like Frankenstein.”
Jonathan pointed to a random spot on the ground beyond the front bumper. “Just stop anywhere in here,” he said. “And Mr. Smith?” Jonathan was fanatical about not using real names on operations, even when outside the hearing of others.
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna give you a literal life lesson right now. As in, a lesson that will lengthen your life. Big Guy doesn’t like it when people call him names like Frankenstein. He doesn’t like Lurch; he doesn’t like Paul Bunyan. Frankly, he’s not all that fond of Big Guy, but he puts up with it because it’s his code name. In general, he doesn’t tease well.”
“A bit of a sociopath, is he?”
Jonathan’s glare darkened. “That would be calling him a name, wouldn’t it? As the man whose ass he’s saved on more than one occasion, you’re beginning to piss me off.”
Harvey opened his mouth to say something, but Jonathan wasn’t interested. He pulled the door handle and stepped out into the jungle sauna. By the time he got his door closed again, Jammin’ Josie was already on his way over, his arms outstretched. Again with the
abrazos
. “Señor Jones, it’s been too many years.”
Jonathan held out his arm to stop the man. When he complied, the sign to halt became an offer for a handshake. “How are you, Josie?”
At first, José looked confused, but then he offered up a wide grin. “I forget that you don’t like to touch,” he said.
“I don’t mind touching,” Jonathan said. “I just don’t like having to check for my wallet afterward.”
José put a hand to his chest, feigning a wound. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“Actually, it’s not at all how I greet old friends. How many people know that I’m here?”
The wound grew deeper. “I have told no one, Señor Jones.”
Sensing trouble, and no doubt welcoming the opportunity to settle it, Boxers moved closer. Behind him, Harvey stepped out of the Range Rover. José’s troops sensed it, too, and several unslung their rifles.
“Don’t be an idiot, Josie,” Jonathan said. “Where do you think I got the Range Rover?”
The smile dimmed, and then returned. “Oh, well, Felipe knows, of course.”
“Of course.” He scanned the faces of the men who continued to close in, ever so slowly, and reflexively calculated lanes of fire. They still had time. “Tell your men to stand down,” he commanded.
José said the right words in Spanish, and when the men hesitated, he repeated them more forcefully. His troops relaxed, but not entirely.
Boxers said, “You watching this, Boss?”
Jonathan opened his stance so he could keep a better eye on the crowd as he continued his chat with Josie. “Mr. Smith?” he called without looking.
Harvey said, “Sir?”
“Arm yourself, please.”
Concern fell across Josie’s face. “What are you doing, my friend?”
Jonathan dared a glance to satisfy himself that Harvey had picked up his weapon from the Rover’s seat.
Josie said, “You seem to be expecting violence from me. I am your friend.”
“Tell me how Felipe knows so much,” Jonathan said.
José shuffled his feet and forced a smile. “Felipe knows everything, yes?”
Boxers made himself taller still, and Josie seemed to shrink accordingly.
“Who else knows?” Jonathan pressed.
The little man held his hand as if taking an oath. “On the grave of my mother, I have told no one.”
Boxers growled, “Careful, Scorpion. Snakes aren’t born. They hatch.”
José turned on him, craning his neck to look Boxers in the eye. “I don’t like you,” he said. “I been nothing but nice to you all day, you been nothing but lousy in return.” Then he faced Jonathan. “And then you come and treat me like I am traitor. I never betrayed you, Mr. Jones. Never once, not even during our fight with Pablo. I could have been a rich man if I had betrayed you, but I never do.”
“You would have been a
dead
man if you’d betrayed us,” Boxers said.
“Back then we all think we are dead men anyway,” José countered. “I could have been much safer telling people about you, but I never do that.”
Jonathan felt tension draining from his shoulders. Jammin’ Josie was exactly right. During the shoot-’em-up drug war, there had been a time when the only safe people were the ones on the wrong side of the law. A man like Josie could have retired on the reward for betraying the good guys.
“You’ve always been a good friend to me,” Jonathan said. “But it’s been a long time, and things are different now. Josie, right now is your one and only opportunity to tell me if your loyalty has been compromised. Tell me the details of what you’ve told others, and I promise that I’ll let you all walk away. I won’t come looking for you.”
Something changed in Josie’s eyes. A brief flash of panic, maybe. Boxers saw it, too, and he shifted his grip on his rifle, allowing his gloved finger to slip into the trigger guard of his M4.
“Oh, shit,” he said.
 
 
Harvey sensed the tension between Jonathan and his old friend, but there was nothing about their interaction that seemed critical. The order to arm himself surprised him, but even then he didn’t sense urgency. As ordered, he’d lifted out his MP5 machine gun, but he thought it was more a symbolic gesture than preparation for combat, so he didn’t even bother to extend the telescoping stock. He stood, watching and doing his best to listen, with the weapon dangling from his hand like an overgrown pistol.
Such was his posture when one of the mercenaries on his left shouldered his M16 and brought it to bear.
Boxers said, “Oh, shit,” and then the jungle exploded in automatic weapons fire.
Harvey dropped to the ground for cover, but by the time he rolled to a prone shooting position and brought his weapon up, it was over. None of the mercenaries remained standing. Most appeared to be dead, but the one closest to him writhed from his wounds, one of which pumped blood at a fatal rate.
Harvey whipped his head toward the spot where he’d last seen Jonathan and Boxers, and both of them had dropped to a knee. Barrels smoking, their weapons remained locked in on their targets. In less than five seconds, they’d cut down seven men. Harvey had never seen anything like it.
“Mr. Smith, are you all right?”
Harvey gaped. His ears felt like they’d been stuffed with cotton. “Yeah,” he said. “Holy shit.”
While Jonathan held his aim, Boxers rose to his feet, and with his weapon always at the ready, approached the bodies. “If you’ve got nothing better to do, how about giving me a hand?” the Big Guy said.
“M-me?” Harvey stammered.
“Y-yeah, y-you,” Boxers mocked. “Disarm these men.”
Harvey rose to his feet. “But they’re dead. Jesus.” Once he stood, he could see just how dead they were—every one a head shot.
“Disarmed and dead is better than just plain dead.”
“No, Big Guy, I need him here with me,” Jonathan said. He was kneeling over Jammin’ Josie, his bloody hands pressed against the other man’s belly. “Find the aid kit and bring it here.”
The trauma bag lay on the top of the equipment piled next to one of Josie’s Blazers.
Harvey knew it was bad the instant he saw pallor in Josie’s face. The location of the bullet wound in the upper left quadrant of the abdomen, combined with the flow of blood, said that his spleen had been hit.
“He needs a surgeon,” Harvey said.
Jonathan gave him a knowing look. Josie was not long for this world. “Do what you can.”
A new kind of fear gripped Harvey’s insides. He hadn’t seen a bullet wound in years; and the last time he did, a medevac chopper was always a radio call away. He had no magical powers. This man was going to die, and Harvey was going to have to tend him while it happened.
“What’s this all about?” Harvey asked. “What just happened?”
“You tend to the wounds, Doc,” Jonathan said. “And we’ll find out the rest together.”
Jonathan helped Harvey strip Josie of his shirt, exposing the wound that had been inflicted by one of Josie’s own—by accident, Jonathan assumed, but with mercenaries, you could never be sure. This man who’d betrayed him had a chest and belly much like Jonathan’s own—less developed, perhaps, but equally disfigured by scars from previous wounds. This new one was a perfectly round hole in the front, about the diameter of a number-two pencil, while the exit wound in his back was a ragged avulsion three times the size of the entry hole.

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