Hostage Zero (31 page)

BOOK: Hostage Zero

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C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

Mitch Ponder ordered a Modelo beer to go along with his fourth club soda and lime. With his guest running late and the restaurant filling up around him, he figured he had to order something with a price tag just to keep from getting thrown out.

The fact that he hadn’t yet heard from José meant that the man had either had a change of heart, or he had gone to the other side. Either way, his family would be dead by morning. A promise is a promise, after all, and actions must have consequences. Mitch wouldn’t handle the details himself, of course—finding street thugs willing to kill was not a challenge in this godforsaken country—but they would be handled. Mitch intentionally did not immerse himself in the minutiae. Whatever itch he had for taking lives was more than adequately scratched by people who were willing to pay for the service.

Continued good pay, however, required continued competent service, and by any measure he’d come up short of that on the Lincoln Hines hit. Who knew that something that happened so long ago could have legs for so many years?

It wasn’t even a complicated hit. Sure, it was high-profile, the guy being a Senate wannabe and all, and the guy who paid for the hit was naturally the first suspect, but engineering a fake suicide was the easiest thing in the world. You plant a few distressed e-mails in the guy’s past, establish a tawdry double life he never had, and then make sure that someone finds the bogus blackmail letters that drove him to do the dirty deed. With the pieces in place, you follow him closely enough to know when he’s going to be alone, and then you pop him. People find the body, they find the fake evidence, they force two and two to equal four, and you’re done.

The fact that the financier—Jacques Leger, in this case—was such an obvious suspect actually worked in his favor in the end. Everyone assumed that no one would be foolish enough to bring that kind of attention down on himself.

Mitch had been doing this shit for years, and he was damn good at it. Good enough that on the rare occasion when things went wrong, he readily and easily cleaned up after himself. Where third parties were involved—like today, for José’s family—the hoods who jumped at the opportunity to work for
El Matador
were so paranoid about ending up on Mitch’s shit list that they would figure out a way to violate the laws of physics and chemistry if they had to, to make sure that nothing went wrong.

Mitch had worked long and hard to establish his reputation as a harsh master. In his business, fear kept you alive. That universal business truth explained why he’d always been comfortable working for Sammy Bell and the Slater family. People were at least as afraid of them as they were of Mitch Ponder. With fear up and down the chain of command, things worked like clockwork.

Given all the moving parts that are involved in a hit, who would have ever thought that a smooth operation would break down at the payment phase? What special breed of idiot would a person have to be to abscond with money from a crime family on its way to a hired killer? And who would ever have guessed that that special breed of idiot could actually get away with it?

The Slater organization made good on covering the debt to Mitch, of course, but it was a stupid career decision on the part of the lawyer who took it. Bruce Navarro.

Except Navarro wasn’t the thief.

The real thieves were Navarro’s secretary and her boyfriend. Some bitch named Schuler. Mitch had deduced that connection within an hour of hearing that she’d turned up dead. The boyfriend killed the secretary and got away with the cash. In Mitch’s book, the buck twenty-five wasn’t nearly enough dough to sentence yourself to a life of looking over your shoulder, but he had to admire the boyfriend’s originality. It was a pretty slick move how he pinned the murder on the husband. Damn good job, too, all things considered. Hubby got sentenced to death, for God’s sake. How much better could you get? Having gotten away with murder, all the boyfriend had to do was try his best to prevent his own.

From Ponder’s perspective, the whole cluster fuck had evolved into an amusing stability. Navarro kept his head down because of the active contract on it, the boyfriend was living the high life on the run, and Schuler’s husband was going to be offed by the state. Jacques Leger’s involvement was protected by an armored shield of secrets. Everybody could relax.

And then Arthur Guinn got himself arrested.

Good God almighty, of all the shitty luck. When old man Slater passed away in the late nineties, and Sammy Bell ascended to the throne of the organization, Arthur ascended to number two, the position originally held by Sammy. That made him heir apparent, and the fact of his arrest sent Sammy into a panic. He put out a contract on Guinn within two hours of him being taken into custody, but by then the window of opportunity had slammed shut. The FBI knew what they had in Guinn, and they knew how many people were gunning for him, so they made him invisible. When he moved from one place to another, the security was like something you’d expect for the president of the United States. They even shut down airspace, for God’s sake.

Mitch had done a lot of business with the Slater family over the years—as he had done business with their competitors and, once upon a time, for the federal government—but he’d never seen Sammy Bell as shaken as he was in the months following Guinn’s arrest. The details were none of Mitch’s business, but it was clear that Guinn knew
everything
.

The silver medal for panic response came from Senator Leger. When you’re a powerful man and you hire powerful criminals to do your dirty work, you expect absolute confidentiality. Mitch was sure that Leger paid dearly and regularly for that kind of confidence. It was no wonder that he went into orbit when he learned that Guinn was in custody.

But then absolutely nothing happened.

After the initial panic had gone unrequited, and no one else had been arrested in the next twelve months—and then twenty-four and thirty-six months—Sammy had begun to relax. He’d talked himself into believing that maybe Arthur would honor his friendships and keep true to his loyalties. Mitch had tried to believe it, too, even though he knew from experience what hard time can do to a man. Mitch had known all along that it was just a matter of time.

Then the new administration was elected into power, Leger became secretary of defense, the rise in profile started to make people nervous again.

Apparently Sammy Bell had good sources within the FBI or the prison system—maybe both—and about a week ago, those sources told him that Guinn was ready to cut a deal in return for protection. He was driving a hard bargain, too—he’d give everything if his conditions were met, and nothing at all if they weren’t. Mitch had heard rumors that the ultimate decision went all the way to the White House, and part of him really hoped that Leger was in the room when the attorney general or FBI director made the pitch. That must have triggered a special breed of panic.

It certainly triggered an urgent phone call to Sammy Bell, who then passed the urgency to Mitch. At the end of the day, this mess was his loose end to be tied, and everybody expected him to finish his job.

So, how do you keep a man from spilling his guts to people who are willing to give him whatever he wants? You threaten his family. The tactic works just as well with big shots as it does with peons like José. Family in general—children in particular—are everybody’s Achilles’ heel, from hero to sociopath. The tricky part was to make the threat viable, and to keep it perpetual. It’s the threat of violence that motivates silence in a case like this, not violence itself.

They knew that Guinn had a kid somewhere, and research led them to a school in a little Virginia town that no one had heard of. The most logical solution was to grab him and hold him hostage, but that strategy came with huge risks—not the least of which was the involvement of the FBI, whose mission it was to solve kidnappings. This one would be rendered even more challenging by the need to constantly remind Guinn of the stakes. Snatching someone and disappearing with him was difficult but doable. Keeping them disappeared while at the same time remaining in frequent contact raised the stakes enormously. Each new communication created an opportunity for the FBI to dial into the chain of evidence—and there was always a chain of evidence, no matter how careful you were to prevent one.

The solution came from Troy Flynn, the man who nominally succeeded Arthur Guinn after his arrest. (
Jesus, you think too much about this stuff, and it starts to sound like a royal chain of succession.
) Flynn suggested an offshore kidnapping. He said that he had assurances from very reliable sources that if they chose the country carefully, the FBI would be unable to follow, and if they did, they’d be unable to secure extradition.

And wouldn’t you know it? One of the leading countries suggested was the very one in which Mitch Ponder had a number of existing business interests that were always looking to prosper from an addition to the labor pool.

Mitch read that as a guaranteed safe zone to spirit the kid off to after they snatched him. But first they had to get their hands on him, and for that Mitch needed a team. He hated working with teams. The extra players posed that many more opportunities to screw things up, and that many more people whose loose lips could sink the Steamship Ponder.

In this case, though, having a third party involved actually helped Mitch with another problem. Because of the complexity of what they were attempting to pull off, and the fact that Leger and his contacts were going to be giving him some backup, he needed a way to communicate directly with the secretary. Troy Flynn and Sammy Bell didn’t want to be seen in the halls of the Pentagon any more than Leger would have wanted them there. For all the same reasons, the further away Mitch could stay from direct contact, the better off he was going to be.

Enter Jerry Sjogren, the hulking Bostonian who, as far as Mitch could tell, feared no one. Mitch had never worked with him before, but he certainly knew the name. Sjogren looked and sounded like a barroom bouncer. He’d approached Mitch, in fact, and, without actually saying the words, made it extremely clear that he considered himself to be Secretary Leger’s go-to guy.

Sjogren was the one who’d first noticed that Marilyn Schuler’s kid went to the same school as the Guinn kid, and brought word that his boss wanted the Schuler boy snatched at the same time. Mitch had argued against it if only because of the daunting logistics of snatching two at once and getting them out of the country. When you double the scope of an operation like that, you
square
the logistical hassles. To risk success with a high-value target like the Guinn kid by snatching a low-yield target like the Schuler boy—honestly, what were the chances that the kid knew anything that could hurt Leger?—was a special brand of foolishness.

But Sjogren had been firm. Besides, he’d argued, Mitch would never have to worry about the second kid because they were going to pop him after they snatched him. For Mitch’s little corner of the operation, nothing would change.

Yeah, right.
Never in the history of Murphy’s Law had so many things gone perfectly wrong at precisely the worst moments. Everything Sjogren touched had turned to shit, up to and including the capping of a child.
Good God.
And he’d already been drugged, to boot.

The litany of things gone wrong swirled through Mitch’s mind with such intense clarity that he nearly missed the arrival of his guest, who announced himself by casting a shadow over Mitch’s untouched beer.

“Good evening,” said the new arrival in heavily accented English.

Mitch looked up, at once pleased that his guest had finally arrived, and concerned that he had allowed himself to drift so far away from the present. Inattentiveness was a fine way to get yourself killed.

Mitch rose to greet the man and shook his hand. “General Ruiz. How are you sir? Thank you for joining me.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Please sit.”

General Ignacio Ruiz was the head of the PNC—
Policía Nacional de Colombia
—the Colombian national police force. He had risen through the ranks, as had most of his predecessors except for a brief period in the late nineties and early 2000s, on the corpses of assassinated and disgraced former leaders. Given the brief tenure of most incumbents in his position, they tended to live large and fast during the time allotted to them. This evening, the general had shed his uniform in favor of beige linen pants and a white
guayabera.

Ruiz looked around uncomfortably. “I think this is perhaps the wrong place,” he said.

Mitch resumed his seat. “With all respect, sir, I think this is exactly the right place. You’re not in uniform, we can converse in English, and I will remain in a public place during my meeting with a man who is so ...
renowned
for his skills.”

Ruiz hesitated a moment longer, then produced a smile as he lowered himself into his chair.

“State what is on your mind,” the general said.

The waiter returned. The recognition was both instant and awkward. Having clearly been made, the general told the young man in Spanish to leave them. Two seconds later, they were alone.

“You were saying,” Ruiz reminded.

Mitch smiled. “Yes, I suppose I was. I came here to alert you to an invasion that is ongoing in your country.”

BOOK: Hostage Zero

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