Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

When I looked over, I saw that she was holding something in her hand. It looked like a credit card, but I couldn’t tell what kind.

I dropped the little girls onto the couch and followed Mary Catherine to Juliana. She held up the card in front of me and said, “I’m official. I got my SAG card. You only get that when you’re a professional actress.”

This was exciting news. When she held the card in front of me, I had to stare for a minute. All I could say was, “Who is Jules Baez?”

Juliana gave me a sly smile and said, “That’s my stage name. No two stage names can be the same.”

Mary Catherine said, “There was another Juliana Bennett?”

“No. I just felt this was more unique. The director helped me figure it out. He said it gave me more of an edge.”

I had to ask, “Why do you need an edge?”

“Jules Baez just sounds edgier . It’s subtle, Dad. You need to be in the industry to understand things like this.”

I was about to respond when I felt Mary Catherine’s hand on my shoulder. She had a way of gently calming me down and distracting me.

We let Juliana hurry into the dining room as all the kids gathered to see her fantastic new Screen Actors Guild identification card.

Mary Catherine eased me back into the living room and said, “She’s excited. Let her have her moment. I know you’re uncomfortable with her using a different name and wanting to be edgier, but you have to remember who she is. She’s a good girl who has never given you any problems. We need to trust her judgment. At least in something like this.”

I nodded. My fiancée had an outstanding connection to the kids. She read them as well as any parent I had ever seen. I’d be an idiot not to listen to her.

After dinner, the kids settled back into their studying routine. I was happy to see that Juliana had joined her younger brothers and sister at the dining-room table. Wearing her glasses, focused on algebra, she was my girl again, and I felt a wave of relief.

I joined Mary Catherine on the balcony, and we looked out toward the river. She leaned her head against my shoulder and said, “I hope you realize what a good dad you are.”

I thought about Brian. “I’ve made some mistakes.”

“Isn’t that what we humans are supposed to do?”

She never failed to make me feel better when I was a little troubled. I kissed her on the top of her head and said, “Have you given any thought to a date for our wedding?”

She turned and gave me a smile. Then there was a squeal inside the apartment. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual sounds of kids.

Mary Catherine turned from the railing and said, “What on earth?” Then she hurried inside without answering my question. I took a few moments to be alone on the balcony.

Alex Martinez drove her Chevy Silverado pickup truck from the parking garage near the El Dorado airport, in the northern section of Bogotá, all the way to her ranch outside the smaller town of Melgar, about two and a half hours to the southwest.

She could smell some of the animals at the Zoológico Cafam Melgar as she passed by. The simple municipal zoo carried a much different odor from her ranch. She attributed some of the smell to the presence of primates. Whereas she appreciated the smell of a horse, a primate was just a little too close to human.

Alex could barely contain the excitement she felt about returning home. All the major cities — New York, Paris, Mexico City — were just too crowded. The more time she spent in these places, the less human she felt.

The front gate to the ranch was open. They were expecting her.

She waved from the truck without slowing down as the families in the first two houses stepped outside to wave to her. She found a way to employ both husbands and both wives as well as provide an education for all six of the children. Sometimes it wasn’t easy.

A mile later, she slowed down in front of the main house. She could see the broad shape of her housekeeper, Maria, and her rail-thin husband, who handled all the maintenance around the house. Right next to them were the two people she really wanted to see.

She slipped out of the pickup truck, and her feet had not even touched the ground when tiny arms wrapped around her waist to give her a hug. She dropped to her knees to embrace both her daughters at once.

Clemency was six and liked to conduct herself with some dignity. Her neatly brushed hair hung straight back, as usual. Her little sister, Gabriela, who was just turning four, had her usual disheveled look, which warmed the heart of every adult she met.

Alex just took a moment and got lost in the emotion of her two girls hugging her. Every time she left, she felt she had been gone too long.

She walked toward the house with a girl hanging on to each hand. She wanted to hear everything that had happened and all that they had learned.

Maria embraced Alex and kissed her on the cheek as if she were her own daughter. Maria’s husband gave a stately bow. The older man had spent many years in the military before being forced out under suspicion of being associated with a drug cartel. She’d asked him about it once. He’d laughed and said, “If I worked with a drug cartel, would I be fixing your toilets now?”

The other six men and women, who worked in the stables near the house, kept their distance but gave Alex a polite wave. She was home, and she felt it. She didn’t think anything could dampen her mood.

As soon as Alex was inside and the girls were dutifully running one of her bags into her bedroom, she felt her phone vibrate. When she looked down at the text message, she immediately recognized the number. It was her contact with the Mexican drug cartel.

The text message was simple and to the point: Michael Bennett is alive.

Alex Martinez understood how much she missed her daughters when she was away. Today she was getting an idea of how much Gabriela and Clemency had missed her .

They were ready to ride, each in her own style.

Clemency wore everything perfectly. English riding boots halfway up her calves, her riding pants tucked neatly into the boots. And Gabriela looked just like an outlaw from a 1950s movie. Right down to the red bandanna tied around her neck. Her wild dark hair poked out from underneath the tiny Stetson.

Alex helped the girls saddle their own horses. She wanted them to be self-sufficient as well as understand how to keep the horses calm and healthy. She showed Gabriela the proper way to ease the bit into the horse’s mouth. The little girl focused on the lesson completely.

Clemency lately had favored a colt named Samuel. Alex didn’t think her daughter got the joke that someone had named the horse after the famous gun manufacturer Samuel Colt.

Gabriela had recently been riding a pony named Biscuit. Alex could see why. The little horse had a wild mane and was full of energy. They were made for each other.

When Alex was growing up, her British riding instructor had always referred to horses like Biscuit as a Welsh cob. That was not a term you heard frequently in Colombia. Out of respect for the man who was very important during her formative years, Alex still called Biscuit a Welsh cob.

As much as she relaxed at times like this, she always stayed aware of her surroundings, conscious of how many enemies an assassin makes during his or her career. Her 9mm Beretta hung in a bag from her saddle, always within easy reach. One of the habits she had picked up since she stumbled into her profession as a young college grad.

The girls’ father, Rafael, never agreed with her choice of jobs. That might have helped push him out the door to shack up with a cruise-ship dancer. The girls got postcards from all over the world now but rarely saw their shiftless father, who lived off a trust fund.