Hunt Her Down

  More movement in the trash sent a shiver through her, but the rats on the ground were less terrifying than the ones they’d passed on the street. She glanced at the road where the truck was parked, but all seemed perfectly still.

  “Whoa. Prepare to breathe through your mouth,” Dan said. “Stinks.”

  She stepped over the threshold. The stench was overwhelming, like something had died in there. She covered her mouth and gagged.

  “Look at these crates,” Dan said, his undertone of excitement drawing her in. “They’re exactly the same as those in the shed at Viejo’s house. Exactly.”

  This time the shiver that ran down her spine wasn’t fear, it was a thrill of anticipation. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He set the flashlight on the floor so it spread an umbrella of light over the area at the far corner of the warehouse. The open area was lined with deep shelves for storage, most of them empty. But in one corner there were half a dozen or more shipping crates, all with reinforced wood corners and steel hinges.

  As she got closer the stomach-turning smell got worse. But Dan was already at work on one of the crates, using a crowbar he found on a shelf to force the lid open.

  He had to holster the gun to use both hands and he worked furiously. “This is a custom crate. Exactly what was in the shed. This came from Miami, I have no doubt.” He popped the top open and scooped up the flashlight to peer inside, swearing under his breath. “Looks like more damn tools.” He reached in and pulled out a thick, industrial-strength wrench. “No drugs.”

  “We’re not looking for drugs,” she reminded him. “We’re looking for laundered money.”

  “You’re right.” He turned the flashlight on the wrench, peering hard at it. He bit it, then examined it more closely. He pounded it on the crate, ran his finger along it, and finally looked at her in wonder. “You are so right, Maggie. We are looking for money—and I think that’s exactly what we just found.”

  Every hair on the back of her neck stood up.

  He held the wrench higher, the light casting an eerie shadow on his face. “It’s gold. If I’d had more time in the shed, I would have figured it out. These aren’t tools, they’re melted gold refashioned into something that will slip through customs unnoticed. I worked on a similar case years ago, with gold being used to make lighting fixtures and mailboxes. This . . .” He held it up, victory in his eyes. “Is laundered money.”

  They’d found it! They had what they needed to get Quinn back, what his kidnapper wanted. “Now what? How do we get it out of here? Don’t even think about some scheme to get this back to the government, or lure someone here with the coordinates. This …” She marched to another crate, pounding it to make her point. “Is Quinn’s ransom.”

  The opened lid bounced under her hand, sending a wave of the foulest stench rolling out from the crate. “Oh my God,” she said, backing away. “That smells . . . like . . . ”

  Nudging her to the side, Dan lifted the lid, then let out a grunt. “A dead body.”

  She staggered backward, bile rising up in her mouth so suddenly, she had to throw up. Holding it in, she ran to the door with a strangled, “I need air.”

  Before Dan could stop her she bolted into the alley, running around the back of the building to vomit. She gagged again afterward, then tried to catch her breath, her blood thumping in her ears.

  A dead body.

  The sound of footsteps in the alley pulled a shocked gasp from her. She froze, horrified, flat against the building as she listened.

  Did Dan hear them coming?

  The crack of a gunshot made her jump and slam her hand over her mouth to keep from giving herself away. Did she dare stick her head around the corner to see if Dan had escaped? He wouldn’t know where she went; he’d run to the car if he escaped. Should she scream or run or—

  Another deafening explosion of gunfire, two shots fired back to back. She stared at the alley, paralyzed. Then a shadow moved, a foot scuffed. Someone was right around the corner, about to find her. About to kill her. She lifted her gun, ready to fire.

  Another scuff, inches away. She took a breath, clenched her jaw, and prepared to kill to stay alive.

  Someone came around the corner, and she stared in horror at the familiar eyes that were wide in terror, a gun pointed directly at his temple.

  “Just do what he says, Mom. Drop the gun, or he’s gonna kill me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TWO MEN STOOD over the open crate ten feet away from where Dan lay, swearing in Spanish as they pulled nails, then a wrench from the crate. He knew enough of the language to know that they’d been duped, expecting money for the shot they’d just taken.

  They might not like what they’d found, but one of those tools had just saved his life. The metal was warm against the skin of his belly where he’d shoved it when he heard the footsteps, where it had deflected a bullet aimed at his gut.

  But he didn’t dare move. They thought they’d killed him, and were too pissed or distracted to notice there was no blood coming from the hole in his shirt. At least they didn’t know about Maggie.

  “No lo siga.” Don’t follow him. “El es un asshole.”

  Who was an asshole?

  Was someone else out there? With Maggie? Moving just his eyes, he managed to locate his weapon about a foot away.

  “Mierda!” One lifted the lid of the body crate and waved the stench away. “Maracucho cabrón.” He dropped the lid with a soft thud and spoke in rapid, hushed tones to the other one, and Dan was only able to decipher bits of what they said.

  They were going to take the tools anyway, even though they wanted money. Let the guy go to the country? Is that what they said? Take . . . her or him to the plantation? The plantation.

  He wasn’t sure, but these two weren’t alone—someone could be out there with Maggie.

  Dan lunged for the gun. One of them whipped around, reaching for a weapon, but not fast enough. Dan fired right at his face, then again at the stomach, taking him down as the other fumbled to find the gun that he’d put down.

  It gave Dan just enough time to roll up and charge forward, shooting him in the leg. He scooped up his duffel and ran into the alley. The truck was still there; no sign of Maggie.

  He turned in the opposite direction, to the street that ran behind the back. It was empty, but for more trash and her little .22. He swore, bending to pick it up. Next to it lay three silver bracelets.

  Three means . . . follow me.

  To the plantation?

  He bolted for the car, leaving bodies and an injured man and damn near a hundred million in gold behind. Nothing mattered but Maggie, and getting to Viejo’s plantation.

  If only he knew where the hell it was.

  Maggie closed her fingers over the torn vinyl seat in the back of the van. The vehicle careened down city streets at a dangerous speed, and in an even more dangerous direction. West, to the mountains, to Monte Verde. To El Viejo, who knew her every secret now, and would exact his revenge on her.

  And on Quinn.

  They couldn’t see each other, sitting back to back on the floor of a gutted out, windowless van. Their hands bound together, Maggie could feel her son’s body trembling in fear, and the occasional sniff told her he was losing the battle not to cry.

  During the few moments when she didn’t use every brain cell to pray for her life and Quinn’s, she stole glimpses of her captor.

  How could they have overlooked him? He’d been with El Viejo right from the start. Before Maggie arrived, and before Dan. And after it was all over, he was still there, safe in one of his many disguises. Including the most powerful one: FBI agent.

  Had Dan ever questioned Joel Sancere’s role from the day he got “sick” and stayed with El Viejo to this week when he scoffed at the rule-bending and offered his unsolicited advice about who she should trust? Not really.

  He faced them, leaning against the back doors, his threatening stare and gun trained on them, his heavy shoulders squar
e and unyielding.

  She took a breath, working up her nerve. “Why are you—”

  He lifted the gun, silencing her.

  “Mom. Don’t,” Quinn insisted, his voice husky from crying. “The guy’s a jerk. Just don’t.”

  The sound of Quinn’s voice squeezed her heart. It was the first thing he’d said since they were taken at gunpoint into the waiting van.

  “Are you okay, honey?” she asked.

  Their captor frowned, but didn’t move his weapon.

  “I’m scared,” he admitted softly. “And I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be scared,” she said, the words sounding hollow as the van took another terrifying turn at sixty miles an hour.

  She could only imagine what had happened back in the warehouse. Was Dan lying there dead? Her whole body ached at the thought.

  Maybe he’d escaped. Maybe he’d found her bracelets. Maybe he’d understand the clue.

  But how would he know where to go?

  It was hopeless. Viejo would never let her live. And Lola had faxed that birth certificate to him, so he knew the truth about Quinn. He’d never let him live, either.

  Through the screen of thick wiring that separated them from the driver, she could see mountains. They were leaving the city.

  “You shouldn’t have meddled in my case.”

  Maggie looked at Joel, surprised. “This is how you handle a case? Abducting kids and witnesses? Shooting a former agent?”

  “What I meant to say was that Dan shouldn’t have meddled in the case.”

  She bit her lower lip and turned away.

  “I had it completely under control.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” she said under her breath.

  “I’ve been working Viejo for years,” he said, leaning forward. “Shipment by shipment, box by box, I’ve been getting the money back to where it belongs. The government.”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “I was in that ware house. I saw the tools made of gold. None of that is being shipped to the federal government.”

  “You’re wrong, my dear. I’m merely the conduit, taking Viejo’s unlaundered cash and getting it into a safe place where it will be turned over to the U.S. Government. When I have it all, which should be very soon, I’ll be a hero.”

  She dropped her gaze to the gun. “Hardly.”

  “It’s all part of undercover work. Sometimes you have to use some of the bystanders. You understand that, Maggie. You were a bystander once.”

  And you were used. “So the FBI knows you’re here?” Was that possible?

  “Nobody knows any of us are here. The decision to finish this job when Viejo got out of prison was all mine. I’d built a relationship of trust with him back in the nineties, and it wasn’t hard to do it again. He thinks I’m a rogue agent, but I’m just doing what your buddy Dan would do: bending the rules to get things done.”

  “Then let us go,” she said. “Finish your job. Take the damn gold and hand it over. Why are you taking me to him?”

  “He wants you and I told him I could deliver. He has to believe I’m working with him, getting that cash melted into tools, returning it to him. And I have, little by little. Once I figured out where he was stashing it, I could get it all back and give it to the government.”

  “And be a hero.”

  He shrugged. “I had to try something different this time. It works for other people. It worked for Dan. It wasn’t exactly ethical to screw a teenage girl to get information.”

  She glared at him, noticing the mole under his jaw, and remembering Lola’s description of her attacker. “And what about cutting Lola? What do you call that?”

  “I had to get that fortune.”

  “And Brandy? Down in the Keys?”

  “Blame Ramon.”

  “Dan trusted you,” she said. “He never doubted you.”

  Another shrug. “Of course not. I’m one of the good guys. I hate to break it to you, but I can’t stand your buddy Dan. Anything that made his life suck made mine better.”

  Made—past tense. “What happened in that warehouse?”

  He gave her a nasty grin. “Old Irish eyes ain’t smiling anymore. But to be fair, you shouldn’t have killed my guys in the boat. They were just local fighters trying to make a little extra cash.”

  Maggie’s throat closed too tight to respond.

  “But you did your job, Mrs. Smith,” he said. “You got me the final coordinates by playing right into my hand. I thank you, and the government should thank you. But I don’t know if Viejo will let you live long enough to be rewarded.”

  “You wrote the wrong numbers in the FBI case notes, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, Dan was the one who believed what he saw. Who can stop him and his Bullet Catcher machine when they get on a roll, huh?” His voice with rich with ridicule, and envy.

  “How did you know I still had one of the fortunes?”

  “Because I study people, Maggie. I knew you were superstitious. And I knew you were pregnant. Remember? Juan cleaned out the trash at the house, and you took at least four pregnancy tests and did a lousy job hiding the evidence. And of course I’ve had my eye on you and Quinn for years.”

  Her stomach lurched. “You have?”

  “You think I’d let an important contact disappear? A key to solving an open case?” He snorted. “I knew when you got married. I knew when you took fishing vacations, and bought boats, and every time your husband refinanced his bar. I like what you’ve done with it, by the way. I think you and your new partner could probably dig yourself out of debt one day.”

  He’d been in there?

  He read her look. “Who do you think’s been supplying Viejo with pictures of his grandson all these years? He has a weakness, and I had to exploit it. Unfortunately, that bitch Lola had to wreck it by sending him the birth certificate.”

  She just stared at him, wondering how many times she’d come face-to-face with this man, served him drinks, nodded at him in a grocery store line . . . and never knew who he was.

  The van turned sharply and started up a steep hill.

  “Monte Verde: a beautiful plantation in the mountains of Venezuela, where your son can meet the man who’s not his grandfather. He’ll be pissed because I promised him all three of you, but I couldn’t resist the pleasure of putting a bullet in that son of a bitch’s heart.”

  Sancere’s gaze slid to Quinn, who leaned hard against her back. “He’s not a kind man, son. Brace yourself. He’ll probably start by cutting your balls off and making you eat them.”

  “Stop it!” Maggie tried to jump up, but the gun in her face stopped the attempt.

  “Shut up!” His voice turned harsh. “For all his tough talk, your little boy is such a baby, crying. Guess he didn’t get his Daddy’s nerves of steel, huh? Too bad. He’s about to need them.”

  She felt Quinn shudder and ached to hold him. But all she could do was squeeze her hands against his and try to give him strength while he sobbed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  DAN KEPT THE accelerator to the floor and tore the shit out of the little truck, bouncing over potholes the size of small craters while he demanded that Lucy’s assistant suck the Bullet Catcher database dry until she found the location of Monte Verde. They had a general idea but Avery hadn’t yet given him the exact coordinates, and he had to make a choice in westbound roads.

  He picked the one with the church on the corner— Santa María de la Magdalena, which he took as a direct message from Maggie’s grandmother.

  His cell phone rang with a digital beep of hope, and he grabbed it and hit Talk. But it wasn’t Avery Cole calling from the Bullet Catcher headquarters; it was Lucy calling from Miami.

  “Tell me you have news about Quinn,” he said.

  “No. But I’m at the FBI offices in North Miami, and we might be able to help you.”

  “Did Avery tell you where I’m going?”

  “Viejo’s plantation. Is that where the money is? Not the Las Marías lo
cation that you were sent?”

  “That’s where Maggie is.” He hoped. “I lost her. I found the money and lost her.” He clenched the steering wheel to keep from pounding it in frustration.

  “Special Agent in Charge Tom Vincenze is with me.”

  Dan’s gut tightened even more. Something smelled at that office, and it started stinking right about the time this guy started, friend of Lucy’s or not. “I’ll confirm the location of the money, or most of it,” he said calmly. “If someone there will tell me the precise coordinates of Monte Verde in Venezuela.”

  “We can do that,” the man said.

  “And find my son. Now.”

  “We’re working on it, Dan.”

  “I need satellite images of the plantation. I need to figure out a way in there without being seen. I need to blindside them, and fast, before anything happens to Maggie.”

  “I might be able to help you.” A woman’s voice joined the conversation. “I spent summers there when I was young.”

  Lola? “What are you doing there?”

  “Ms. James is working out a deal with the FBI,” Lucy said. “Apparently she has a few insurance claims that are under question, but Mr. Vincenze is willing to overlook them if she can help.”

  When Lucy pulled strings, it could be a damn beautiful thing.

  “We have the location,” Vincenze said. “Here are the coordinates.”

  “They better be fucking right,” Dan muttered. He punched them into his GPS as Vincenze read them, splitting his gaze between the winding mountain road and the image that popped up on the screen.

  Yes. Santa María Magdalena had sent him on the right road.

  “How’d the fortune get put back in the ev files, Mr. Vincenze?” he asked pointedly.

  “We’re investigating,” Vincenze said. “Only three people had access to those files. The evidence clerk, the agent of record, and me.”

  “Who’s the agent of record? Joel Sancere?”

  “Joel!” Lola exclaimed. “That was the guy who attacked me. I couldn’t remember it, but that was the name he used the night I met him in South Beach.”

  Sancere?