Kidnap and Ransom. Michelle Gagnon

wondered for a moment what kind of equipment they were getting, and where it was coming from—then decided that if she ever wanted to go back to the Bureau, she was better off not knowing.

      When Jake showed up yesterday he’d nearly caught her digging through a stack of case files her former partner had swiped for her. Just being in possession of those without formal permission could cost her job, but Kelly was going nuts sitting at home without anything to do. She figured if she could spot something that had been missed, she’d be forgiven for not filing the proper paperwork. And with any luck, that might help get her cleared for active duty again.

      So far the search had been unproductive. All she’d ended up with was a mass of paper cuts and the conviction that sometimes the follow-up from her people had been less than thorough. For instance, a case she’d been involved with a few years earlier had been marked as Closed, even though the killer’s body never turned up. She’d argued for more resources, but her boss at the time was more interested in filing one in the “win” column. Stefan Gundarsson had last been seen falling into a river, bleeding from a gunshot wound, and that was good enough for him. Kelly remained skeptical. Sometimes people who had been shot in the head continued walking around as if nothing had happened. She’d have felt better about it if a body had turned up.

      One victim’s family apparently agreed. They’d hired a P.I. to investigate further. Last year while Kelly was in a coma, the investigator had contacted the FBI. He claimed to have stumbled across irrefutable evidence that Gundarsson was alive and well in Mexico. But the FBI refused to reopen the case without more proof. Reading through the file last night, Kelly couldn’t help but think that if she’d been on active duty when the tip came in, the results might have been different. And then Jake walked in and announced that he was headed to Mexico on the next flight. It had seemed like fate.

      A horn blared, jerking her back to the present. Despite the predawn hour, they were trapped in a bleating, smoggy mass of cars in various stages of dilapidation. Vendors edged through the gridlock selling candy bars, key chains, cigarettes and a host of other random items, from gum to razors. A guy in a ratty T-shirt materialized and rubbed filthy rags across their windshield, ignoring blasts from the car horn to get him to stop. As Jagerson guided them forward in fits and starts, Kelly was suddenly overwhelmed by the noise and strangeness of her surroundings. A vise clamped around her chest, and she struggled to breathe.

      Not now, she thought, gritting her teeth. She pulled her backpack onto her lap and dug through it for her pills. When she couldn’t find them Kelly experienced a moment of panic so intense she nearly passed out, terrified that she’d forgotten them in the mad rush to get ready. Then her fingers closed on the smoothness of the bottle and she exhaled hard. She palmed a pill and slipped it in her mouth. Glancing up, she discovered Maltz watching her. Wordlessly he handed her an unopened water bottle. She nodded her thanks and took a swig. Kelly tried to hand it back, but he waved it away.

      “Keep it,” he said in a raspy voice.

      “You okay?” Jake shifted in his seat again, voice laden with concern. He knew that she had these attacks, although she’d never let on how frequently.

      “I’m fine,” Kelly replied. “How much farther?”

      “Next block,” Jagerson answered.

      “Good thing,” Maltz said without looking at her. “This traffic is killing me.”

      It happened sooner than Mark expected. He awoke to the door being thrown open by a Zeta brandishing an LMT. Had to be close to dawn; despite the fact it was still dark outside he felt well rested. And after years of early-morning drills, Mark’s internal clock always jarred him awake at 0500 hours.

      The guard jabbered at them in Spanish.

      “What now?” Sock grumbled from the cot.

      “He wants us to get dressed. They’re moving us again,” Flores translated, casting a sidelong glance at Mark.

      Mark nodded, his pulse quickening. It was time.

      In two minutes they were all awake and seated side by side on the cot.

      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