Kidnap and Ransom

Another Zeta came in with the hoods and pulled them over their heads while his partner covered them. Mark waited his turn, staring down at the floor as directed, praying they would leave their hands zip tied in front rather than changing them to the back.

Time must have been pressing, because as soon as Mark’s head was covered, hands pushed him out the door. He and the others were jostled along a hall and down a flight of stairs. A temperature shift, cool air raising the hair on his arms as they were propelled into the night. Same drill as before, they were shoved into a waiting van. The door slid closed, then a screech as they pulled away from the curb.

Mark strained his ears. It was critical to determine how many Zetas were in the van with them. The last time he was pretty sure there had been three. He hadn’t heard anyone else fall in line with them, but there hadn’t been a delay so a driver was probably already at the wheel. They’d planned for three, including sack boy and the gunman. Any more and their plan would probably fail.

Kaplan wheezed beside him. Mark drew his knees up to his chest, then lengthened them as if stretching. He didn’t hit anything, there was a clear path in front of him. So far, so good, he thought.

A mutter from the front seat: the driver, sounded like the same one as before. They’d dubbed him “Crybaby” since he constantly complained.

Someone snarled for him to shut up. That would be “Scarface,” the guy who liked to wave his gun around. He’d been in the room when they were first grabbed, and accompanied them on every move so far. Mark figured he’d be the toughest to deal with—guys like that were always itching to pull the trigger.

Mark waited, but the van lapsed into silence. Blood roared in his ears. They had decided to wait at least ten minutes before making their move, allowing time for their captors to settle into complacency. It was a gamble, though. This time, they might only be taken a few blocks. There was no way to tell if they’d be in the van for hours or minutes.

The street noise outside was muted. Mexico City was comprised of sixteen boroughs sprawled across almost six hundred square miles. Add in the surrounding area, and you were facing another ten million people in three thousand square miles, an area larger than the state of Delaware. It was a hell of a haystack for anyone to find them in, which reinforced the realization they were more or less on their own.

The van picked up speed. Mark recognized the familiar sound of tires bumping over reflectors, and his heart leaped. They were on a highway, almost too much to hope for. Even if another car was following them, their ability to interfere would be limited. It was now or never.

He doubled over suddenly and groaned. There was no response. Mark clutched his gut and moaned louder.

“Cállate!” Scarface growled.

“Jesus, my stomach!” Mark gasped.

A murmured exchange in the front seat—he’d guessed right, there was someone else up there. The muzzle of a gun nudged his leg. Scarface barked something in Spanish.

“He wants you to be quiet.” Flores sounded panicked. “If you don’t shut up, he’ll shoot you.”

“Tell him to put me out of my misery,” Mark said through clenched teeth, rocking back and forth as if convulsed by spasms. “I swear I’m going to shit myself.”

Flores repeated what he’d said. Scarface talked over him as he translated, sounding increasingly irritated.

“He said, go ahead, Yankee swine, you deserve to wallow in your own shit.”

“Tell him to go fuck himself,” Mark spat.

Apparently Scarface knew enough English to understand that. The muzzle of the gun returned, this time pressed against his chest. Mark held his breath as the van rocked them back and forth, praying the safety was still on. Scarface’s leg brushed his as he called out to the front seat. The Zeta on the passenger side was clearly in charge, a low voice ordered Scarface to stand down.

Too late, Mark thought, taking advantage of the distraction. While Scarface argued with his boss, Mark grabbed the muzzle of the gun with both hands and thrust up sharply. At the same time, he swept sideways with his legs, knocking Scarface off his feet.

A grunt as Scarface landed, air squeezed out of his lungs. The sound of the rest of the Tyr team scrambling. Mark struggled for a second with the hood covering his head. The van swerved sideways as his fingers finally found a purchase and yanked it off.

Chaos reigned in the rear of the van. Sock and Flores were struggling to hold down Scarface, who bucked against them, nose broken and bleeding. Sock punched him, three swift blows to the head. Scarface’s eyes rolled back and he went limp.

Decker and Kaplan were engaged in a battle with the driver and passenger. The LMT had come to rest beside Mark. He flipped it around in one smooth motion.

A gun went off in the front seat, the explosion so loud his ears rang. Kaplan collapsed backward. Mark shoved past him and drove the muzzle of the LMT against the passenger’s head. “Drop it!” he yelled. “Flores, tell this motherfucker to drop the gun!”

The driver had slowed. “And he needs to keep driving at the same speed,” Mark snapped.

The Zeta in the passenger seat had dropped his Glock, but still wore a shit-eating grin.

“What are you smiling at, asshole?” Mark shoved the muzzle farther into the guy’s chest.

The guy gave him another bemused look, then said something to Flores. Both he and the driver blanched. The driver began muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

“What did he say?” Mark demanded.

“He said the van is wired to blow. All he has to do is push a button,” Flores said.

“Bullshit,” Mark said.

The guy held up his other hand. A transmitter was nestled in his palm. Mark wasn’t a demolitions expert, but he’d been around enough to recognize the real deal when he saw it. He swore under his breath.

“What the fuck do we do now?” Sock asked.

“Tell him to give me the transmitter.” Mark kept his gaze locked on the guy. “He doesn’t want to die any more than we do. He hands it over, we’ll drop them off at the side of the road. He can tell his boss we overpowered them.”

“They’ll kill me anyway,” the man said in thickly accented English before Flores could respond.

“Then run. Get the hell out of here,” Mark said.

The man just shook his head. Mark recognized the look in his eye. He’d seen that same expression on a kid’s face at a roadblock outside Baghdad, right before the blast that took out half his unit.

Mark dived forward a second too late. There wasn’t even time to shout a warning before the guy pressed the button.

Six

They’d been at the motel for over an hour when Syd knocked on the door. Jake opened it to find her, Kane and Fribush loaded down with two duffel bags apiece.

“A little help?” she grunted.

Jake took one of the bags from her, staggering slightly under the weight. She hauled the other into the room, Fribush and Kane at her heels. Jake slammed the door behind them and double-bolted it.

“That was quick,” he said.

“Ya gotta love Mexico,” Syd said. “They were even having a sale on C4. We cleaned them out. Figured we were doing the country a favor, getting this stuff off the streets.”

“I feel like a patriot.” Fribush pulled an Uzi out of one of the bags and looked it over appreciatively.

Kelly sat on a threadbare comforter mottled with stains. Her jaw had tightened, but she didn’t say anything. Jake wondered again what the hell he’d been thinking, allowing her to come along.

“So what’s the plan?” Maltz asked. He was sitting on a chair in the corner, methodically cleaning his nails with a knife.

“I heard from my contact at Tyr. They narrowed the search down to two boroughs.” Syd unfurled a map of the city on the bed. Kelly shifted to make room for it.

Syd pointed at two boroughs on the Eastern side of the map. “Iztapalapa and Iztacalco. Think of them as the South Bronx of Mexico City. Both Zeta-friendly, lots of safe houses there. The initial raid took place in Iztapalapa, and Tyr thinks they hung around.”

“Where’s the Tyr team?” Jake asked.