Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

Faroe’s eyebrows rose. “Then he can find both entrances again, right?”

Galindo nodded eagerly. He understood Spanish a lot better than he spoke it.

Faroe called Steele to tell him they’d caught a break.

No one answered.

Frowning, he tried again.

Still no answer.

The helicopter picked up speed, then dropped off the radar as soon as the terrain allowed. Soon waves were rushing by beneath. Just beneath. The pilot circled back into U.S. airspace at wave-top height and settled onto the sandy RV park north of Imperial Beach.

Faroe started swearing under his breath when he spotted the extra cars through the flying sand caused by the prop wash. He thought about keeping everyone aboard and running for it.

He didn’t.

There was no time to run and no place to hide.

“Everybody out,” Faroe said.

Galindo and Father Magon stumbled to the ground, shielding their eyes from the sand.

“That’s it,” the pilot said as Faroe jumped out. “I’ll get away with that stunt once. But if you don’t start checking in with customs and immigration, there will be F14s from Miramar waiting to shoot you down.”

“Thousands of Mexican peasants make it across the border every night,” Faroe said.

“They aren’t flying helicopters.”

Faroe slammed the cockpit door.

Instantly the chopper lifted off the sand just enough to fly back out to sea, below the radar. Everyone turned their backs on the gale of sand and air. The grit from the prop wash hadn’t even settled before a black Suburban raced up. The two people who jumped out had FBI written all over them.

No wonder Steele wasn’t answering his phone.

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 9:40 A.M.

“NICE OF YOU TO give us a ride to the motor coach,” Faroe said as two agents ran up.

Agent Gonzalez and Agent Daily didn’t smile.

“ID,” Daily said curtly.

“Last time I checked, this was the United States,” Faroe said to him. “So why don’t you show me some ID first?”

“Read my raid jacket,” Daily retorted.

“Want to read mine?” Faroe asked. “I’ve got quite a collection. Gotta love eBay.”

Magon bit back a smile.

Gonzalez flipped out her badge holder. “Who are you and where did you come from?”

“You may not know it, but we’re on a real short clock,” Faroe said. He gestured toward the vehicles parked across the exit. “Who’s in charge of all these boys and girls?”

“Agent Talon Cook,” she said.

“Ah, good old Short Order. Take us to him.”

Agent Daily coughed. “Are you Joe Faroe by any chance?”

“Does it matter?” Faroe asked.

Gonzalez pulled out a two-way. When Cook picked up, she said, “We’ve got three unidentified males, two probably Mexican nationals-”

“Don’t bet on it,” Magon said, smiling.

“-and one six-foot-plus, dark-haired, green-eyed American with attitude who’s got the moves to back up his smart mouth.”

“Faroe,” Cook said, disgusted.

“Hey, Short Order,” Faroe said loud enough for the radio to pick it up. “Still hangin’ tall?”

Daily coughed again.

“Bring the son of a bitch to Steele’s coach,” Cook said.

“What about the other two men?”

“Pat them down and keep them with you. If you find any weapons, cuff them.”

“What about the chopper?” Gonzalez asked.

“You see any numbers on it?”

“No.”

“Then what chopper are you talking about?” Cook asked sardonically. “Get Faroe over here.”

“You want him patted down?”

“Oh yeah. I really hope he’s carrying. Then I’ll have his ass in prison.”

“Hold your breath, darlin’,” Faroe called out.

What Cook said was illegal over U.S. airwaves.

Daily coughed again.

“Better take something for that,” Faroe said, holding his arms out and taking a wide stance. “Might be contagious.”

“Smart-ass,” Daily muttered.

Faroe winked.

While Daily patted him down, Faroe congratulated himself on leaving Grace’s Browning in the motor coach with Harley. A lot of times, a weapon was just more trouble than it was worth.

This would have been one outstanding example.

Daily patted down the other two men, found only the antique gold crucifix, and looked at Magon curiously.

“All clean,” Daily said into his two-way.

“Bring Faroe” was all Cook said.

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 9:50 A.M.

AGENT COOK OPENED THE door while Faroe was still a step below the doorway, which put the men on a fairly even footing.

“Well, well,” Cook said. “Look who’s going back to prison.”

Faroe took the last step up.

Cook held his place long enough to give a hard push.

Faroe had been expecting it. He didn’t budge.

The FBI agent smiled. His teeth were perfect and white, his hair curly and black, his body fit and muscular. He would have been pretty if his eyes weren’t like ice.

Faroe knew for a fact that the FBI agent was deadly in unarmed combat.

Too bad Cook can’t get over being short. It makes life hell on everyone over five feet six who gets close to him .

“You playing doorstop today?” Faroe asked.

Cook turned just enough to let Faroe inside.

Grace got up and came to Faroe with questions in her eyes.

He nodded slightly.

She was so relieved she sagged against him. He put one arm tight around her, tucked her into the banquette, and slid in beside her. He knew Cook would feel better looking down on him.

“Since when do you hang with felons, Judge?” Cook asked.

“They come through her courtroom all the time,” Faroe said. He leaned close to Grace and breathed in her ear, “We’re in.” Then he looked at Steele. “Any warrants?”

“They’re working on it,” Steele said dryly.

“What are we working on?” Faroe asked.

“Oh, you’re all lawyered up,” Cook said. “Your lawyers are talking to ours, and we’re talking to each other. But hey, I don’t have my legal dictionary and I can’t remember the U.S. Code sections that cover interfering with a federal officer, impeding a federal investigation, and-oh yeah, violations of the Neutrality Act. I love that one. Is it a capital felony, Judge?”

“Since I’ve already called corporate counsel,” Steele said, “I was just suggesting that Agent Cook discuss those matters with him.”

“I don’t talk to lawyers,” Cook said. “I leave that to the U.S. Attorney.”

“You don’t talk to lawyers?” Faroe said. “Then how do you cut a deal with the likes of Ted Franklin?”

“Franklin’s not a defendant, which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about you. You’re going down like you did last time, only this time you ain’t coming out.”

“Turn down the volume,” Grace said flatly. “You don’t have any warrants. You don’t have any probable cause. You don’t have anything but a badge that’s so heavy it’s a wonder you can stand up straight.”

Both Faroe and Cook looked at her in surprise.

“I’ve had a gutful of your bullshit,” Grace said evenly, staring at Cook. “We don’t have the time, I don’t have the patience, and you don’t have the authority. Either get back on topic or get out of St. Kilda’s bus and off its property.”

Steele rubbed his mouth and looked bland, but his eyes actually twinkled.

Faroe looked at Grace like he’d never seen her before. And he hadn’t. Not this Grace, the one who would go toe-to-toe with a supervisory special agent and rip his face off.

“And the topic of the day is…?” Faroe asked into the shocked silence.

“The FBI’s fabricated case against St. Kilda,” Grace said, “which we’ve already shot down. We were just opening the topic of Ted’s computer files, without which no one has a case against Hector Rivas Osuna and Carlos Calderon. No files means no one seizes fifty million dollars along with the kind of headlines that advance careers.”