leave?”
“Fribush is already in the air en route to Texas, we can have him dropped off in Mexico City instead. So we’ve got him, you, me—”
“I need you to stay here and hold down the fort,” Jake protested. “We can’t both go.”
“The hell we can’t.”
“I mean it, Syd. One of us has to stay.” Jake didn’t add what they both knew he meant—if things went south, someone had to survive to keep running the firm.
“This is your brother, Jake. You need the best we’ve got on it.” Syd stared him down. “That’s me, and you know it.”
Jake started to argue, then thought better of it. Of all the trained operatives they had, Syd was the best by far. And she managed to inspire a blind loyalty in the men that no one else could duplicate. “Fine,” he finally agreed. “But I want Jagerson and Kane backing you up.”
“Perfect, I was going to suggest them,” she said. “And Maltz.”
“No way.” Jake shook his head. Michael Maltz had nearly been killed on their first case the previous July. Ever since he’d been undergoing extensive physical therapy. As far as Jake knew he hadn’t been cleared to go for a long walk, never mind conduct special operations.
“He’s fine, I checked him out myself,” Syd insisted.
“Checked him out how?”
“Ran him through the course at Langley, plus a few others. Trust me, he’s ready to come back. And aside from him, everyone else is committed to other cases.”
Jake mentally ran through their roster in his head: she was right, short of hiring a freelancer, all their other field operatives were assigned elsewhere. And freelancers were notoriously iffy. “That makes a team of six,” he said dubiously.
“Lean and mean, just how I like it.” Syd grinned.
Jake wished he shared her conviction. One thing about Tyr, they attracted top talent. If Mark had been ambushed, anyone could be. Considering the adversary they faced, he’d prefer going in with a small army.
“It’ll be fine, Jake. Trust me.” Syd glanced at her watch. “Nearly six o’clock. I’ll handle the travel logistics, you contact the rest of the team and reroute Fribush’s plane.”
“Okay.”
“Great. We’ll be out of here by midnight.”
Jake watched her head toward the stairwell. Unless he was mistaken, there was a distinct bounce in her step. Nothing cheered Syd up like the prospect of an armed confrontation.
His cell phone buzzed and he glanced at the caller ID: Kelly. Jake groaned inwardly. He’d arrived home late last night from a business trip to California and had opted to sleep at the office instead of going home. Jake told himself he didn’t want to wake her, but deep down he knew it was more than that. He gazed blankly out at the skyline. Kelly wasn’t going to like this. Since the accident it was almost overwhelming how needy she’d become. It was understandable, considering what she’d been through, but still. He barely recognized her anymore. Sometimes it felt like the Kelly he’d fallen in love with died in that explosion, and now he was living with her shadow.
Jake ran a hand across his face, wiping away stray drops of water. Dodging the issue wasn’t going to make it go away, but he couldn’t deal with it now. He had to save Mark. When he came back, they could have that talk.
He shook his head and went back inside.
Four
Mark Riley came to with a jolt, reflexively reaching for his weapon. His fingers fumbled, finding nothing. It always took him a few seconds to remember.
He rolled his head from side to side as he took inventory. The surviving members of his team were in the same positions as when he’d fallen asleep. Kaplan, the spotter, lay on his back by the door, wheezing slightly thanks to his broken ribs. A bullet had grazed his shoulder, too, but so far there were no signs of infection. Flores and Wysocki were on their sides, foot to foot along adjoining walls. Decker, their driver, was the lucky bastard enjoying a turn on the cot. Aside from that, the room was bare: four walls and a filthy mat that might have been white once. The door to the bathroom had been removed, the only window was painted black. A radio in the corner blasted music nonstop. Hard to believe, but it barely registered. His hearing would probably never be the same again.
Mark shook his hands, trying to increase circulation. So far they’d only removed the zip ties binding their hands to allow them to eat, and then only one at a time. The Zetas were nothing if not cautious. Tough to scarf down food with the barrel of an LMT aimed at your chest, but he’d gotten used to that pretty fast, too. The food wasn’t bad, surprisingly. He’d even swear the tortillas were homemade.
This was the third dump they’d been stashed in. By the street noise he surmised they were still somewhere in Mexico City. Soon after being tossed in the first van they’d been drugged. He’d come to in a room much like this one, all of them stacked against the wall like cordwood. A few hours later they were moved again. No drugs that time, but the Zetas drove in circles for hours, obviously intent on disorienting them. They could have ended up in an apartment next door to the first and Mark wouldn’t have been able to tell.
Something must have happened to convince their guards that the last place wasn’t secure, because they were hustled out in broad daylight. Mark caught a glimpse of ugly tenement buildings through the weave in his hood before being stuffed back into the van. Another few hours of jostling against each other through turn after turn, the driver muttering under his breath until someone barked for him to shut up. Then this place.
Wherever they were, the Zetas seemed to feel they were safe from discovery for the time being. Three straight days they’d been trapped in this eight-by-eight-foot cell. They’d been forced to strip on the first day, so instead of black commando gear they now sported a motley assortment of clothing that suggested their captors had a sense of humor. Kaplan was given a T-shirt two sizes too small with Britney Spears grinning from the front. Decker wore a UNC Tar Heels sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of red sweatpants. Flores had a white dress shirt, missing the buttons, and Wysocki was stuck with jean shorts. All in all, they looked like refugees from a zombie film.
Mark lumbered to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom, trying not to wake the others. In order to kill time, they spent much of their captivity napping. Judging by the dim light filtering around the edges of the window, dusk was falling outside. In another half hour or so the Zetas would serve dinner, then leave them alone for the night.
Mark took a piss, never an easy feat with bound hands, and splashed some water on his face. There was a curtainless stall in the far corner that spit out a thin stream of tepid water. Despite hailing from different military branches, they’d all been conditioned to appreciate the comfort of routine. On day one Mark had set the schedule for showering, exercise and shitting. So far no one had questioned his authority to do so.
That morning had been Decker’s turn, followed by Kaplan, Flores, Wysocki and him, staggered three hours apart so that the towel they shared had time to dry. Tomorrow Kaplan got the dry towel, and they went back through the rotation.
Hopefully by the time his turn rolled around again, they’d be headed home. Mark heard a muffled grunt followed by an oath.
“Stop
