Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

There! Thank God .

To his mother, Lane blazed like a torch in the center of the field. He moved with such quickness and poise that he looked more like twenty years old than fifteen. Coolly he tap-tap-tapped the soccer ball between two converging defenders. At the last instant he leaped over their sliding tackles, made contact with the ball again, and headed for the goal.

Maybe it was the smell of the air, hot, humid, heavy with the coming storm. Maybe it was Lane himself, lean and fluid, confident in his own body. Maybe it was the time of the month. But suddenly Grace found herself remembering what she’d worked so hard to forget, the days sixteen years ago when she’d slipped her self-imposed leash and spent a long weekend with Joe Faroe, the only man she’d ever met who seemed worth any risk.

The rhythms of the monsoon storm surge pounding on the shore, on her, through her, and Faroe’s long, lean body fitted so perfectly with hers, driving her, driving him, and the unleashed woman in her demanded more, gave more, took more…

Grace shook her head harshly, denying the memories. When she’d married Ted, she truly hadn’t known who was the father of the baby growing in her womb-Ted or Faroe. But she’d known that the odds were heavily with Ted.

And when she held the baby in her arms, she didn’t care who the father was. For the first time in her life she was completely in love. Lane’s tiny hands, perfect fingernails, and beautiful, blissful hazel eyes were her world.

He’d grown so fast.

Too fast.

She hadn’t wanted him to play soccer, but she’d given in, figuring it was safer than football. Now she was glad she’d allowed her son to compete head-to-head with other healthy young males. Like his biological father, Lane was a natural athlete.

Lane zigzagged deeper into the attacking zone, playing the ball like an extension of his body. Suddenly defenders raced at him from all directions.

My God. They’re so much bigger than Lane. Older, stronger .

Even when his own teammates fell back, Lane pushed ahead. A defender wearing a red bandanna rolled into a sweatband threw himself in a sliding tackle that was clearly aimed at Lane, not the ball. Lane leaped, but the other “boy” stuck out his feet, tripping Lane in midair and slamming him to the ground.

Grace was reaching for the car door when the referee’s whistle sliced through the air. While his teammates gathered around Lane, the referee drew a yellow card from the hip pocket of his shorts and waved it at the tackler. The player came easily to his feet and loomed above Lane, daring him to get up.

Lane rolled over onto all fours, shook his head, and scrambled to his feet. He stepped around the referee, trying to get at his attacker. Standing face-to-face with Lane, the tackler was clearly older and bulkier. His red bandanna held his black shoulder-length hair from his blunt, handsome mestizo features. He could have been a warrior as easily as an athlete. His smile was calm and cold.

The referee stepped back between the two players, waving his arms and speaking quickly.

After a moment Lane turned and jogged away, joining his teammates to wait for the corner kick that had been called.

Grace felt herself begin to breathe again. Her son had a temper. It made him brave but not always smart.

Like Joe Faroe.

As play resumed she heard a gentle tap on the passenger-side window. She looked over and saw the genial brown face of Carlos Calderon. He grinned around his customary black Havana cigar and gestured for her to unlock the passenger door.

More men with more weapons-long guns slung over their shoulders or submachine guns held casually, muzzles toward the ground-flanked Calderon. They had the same easy insolence and edgy eyes as the gate guard.

Do they have federal police badges too?

But Grace didn’t say anything aloud. She touched the switch that unlocked the vehicle doors and picked up her purse from the passenger seat. When Calderon opened the door, she thought about asking him to leave his cigar outside. Then she decided to keep her mouth shut and be the deferential female Calderon expected in Mexico. It grated, but not nearly as much as seeing Lane illegally tackled, tripped, and slammed to the ground.

She extended a cool hand to prevent the more intimate Mexican greeting. “Hello, Carlos. How are you?”

“So nice to see you, Your Honor,” Calderon said in unaccented English.

With a nod of his head that was just short of a bow, he took her hand in his own soft, well-manicured one. He held on to her fingers moments longer than necessary. It could have been an accident. It could have been a silent reminder that he was a man of power.

He set the limits of politeness, not her.

“I’m very disappointed that you couldn’t persuade Ted to come with you,” Calderon said.

Grace withdrew her hand. “I told you that Ted is away.”

Calderon gave the graceful shrug that was the hallmark of the Mexican male. He lived freely on both sides of the border, but he’d been born in America. He and Grace had even gone to the same private high school in Santa Ana. Yet here, south of the line, he was todo mexicano, formal in the way a Mexican businessman might be.

Grace preferred the American version of Calderon.

“I’ve been very busy,” she said evenly. “I haven’t spoken to Ted in quite a while. I haven’t had any chance to pass on your message.”

Calderon puffed on his cigar. “How disappointing.”

“You’re a very important client of Edge City Investments,” Grace said. “Why don’t you just call the firm and ask for Ted?”

Why lean on me and make me afraid for my son?

But she didn’t say that aloud. Her Kazakh grandmother had been very clear on that point-never show fear.

“Oh, I’ve tried many times,” Calderon said with a rueful smile.

Thick blue smoke swirled around the interior of the vehicle.

Grace put on her courtroom face, the one that wouldn’t notice the smell of sewage if it was shoved up her nose.

Calderon glanced over toward a group of men who stood beyond his bodyguards. He took another deep puff on the cigar. The tip glowed hot and red.

She realized that he was nervous.

Not good. Not at all good. She didn’t want to know what it took to frighten a man of Calderon’s wealth and power.

“You called me down here to talk about Lane,” she said. “Ted isn’t necessary for that.”

Then she snapped on the ignition switch and ran down every window in the SUV. Cigar smoke had made her hurl when she was pregnant. She didn’t like it much better now.

Calderon drew hard on the cigar and blew a plume of smoke toward the windshield. “I’m sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. There are some aspects of your son’s welfare that only Ted can address.”

Grace’s heart hammered hard beneath her ribs. “Then speak clearly now. Why is one of Ted’s oldest friends and his most important business associate threatening me?”

Calderon looked at her, surprised. “Threatening?”

She gestured toward the armed men. “Telling me to come here among all the men with guns. They weren’t here before.”

“The guards? They’re just a precaution. Some very wealthy people send their sons to All Saints. Unfortunately, in Mexico there are kidnapping and other security issues that rarely trouble American parents.”

“Interesting, I’m sure,” she said evenly, “but what does that have to do with Ted?”

And Lane .

“Since Ted is the parent who signed Lane into All Saints,” Calderon said, “the people who run the school asked me to contact Ted.”

“I’m as much a custodial parent as Ted is. Either of us can speak for Lane’s welfare.”