Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(98)

But Vail was hoping for the birth of something far different: a lead they could pursue hard, and fast. Something that would bring her closer to finding Robby.





65


Robby awoke to the sickly sour scent of rotten eggs. Not rotten eggs—sulfur. Why? He didn’t know, and in his current state, it did not matter. He had greater concerns. But before he could consider those issues, he drifted off again.

Sometime later, Ernesto Escobar knelt in front of him. A large gleaming silver pistol with a diamond-encrusted handle caught a crack of light and sparkled off the black of Escobar’s eyes. His captor made an exaggerated point of displaying the handgun, its power inherent and unspoken, a method of control as effective as a set of handcuffs.

The naps had done Robby good. He glared at Escobar, a newfound defiance etched in the tight set of his jaw.

“You probably don’t know it,” Escobar said, “but you are a fortunate man. If it were up to me, you’d have been killed days ago. We usually behead traitors like you. Then we cut up your body and cook it in acid. I’ve done it in the reverse, too. Cook you in acid, then while you’re screaming in unbelievable pain, I slice off your head with a machete.”

Robby frowned. “I got what you meant when you said you’ve done it in reverse.”

“It’s called levanton,” Escobar said, ignoring Robby’s comment. Apparently Escobar felt that using its official name would make it seem more real. He shifted his weight left and pulled a long, thick machete from a scabbard along his right thigh. The silver gleamed except for a red smear that coursed the blade.

Robby kept his face impassive, his gaze riveted to Escobar’s, refusing to direct his eyes to the weapon. He was not going to give his captor any ground in this escalating war of nerves.

Escobar leaned back, appraised Robby, and smiled. Then he pressed the knife’s edge against Robby’s cheek, brought it down swiftly and drew a bead of blood. “I’m looking forward to doing levanton on you.”

Although the pain was searingly sharp—the nerve endings in his face were already hypersensitive because of the beatings Escobar had inflicted—Robby did not flinch.

Escobar tilted his head, appraising his prisoner’s lack of response. His eyes narrowed, no doubt in frustration and anger. If there was one thing Robby was able to draw upon from all that Vail had taught him about psychopathic killers, it was the issue of control. And Robby was not going to accede any to Escobar by giving him the fear he expected and wanted—no, needed.

“Because of your attitude,” Escobar said, “I will do it in reverse. Cook you first, then cut off your head. What do you think?”

Robby grinned. The broadening of his face opened the cut wider, and the blood trickled across his lips, into his mouth. He licked it, brought his eyes level with Escobar’s, and said, “I think, Ernesto, that you are a coward who needs big guns and knives and whips to take me on. Because without all that, I’d wipe the walls with your pinche ass.” He made a quick move with his head toward Escobar, who recoiled. “So enjoy your advantage, asshole. Because to me, you’re just a piece of shit.”

Escobar looked down at his knife, tilted it, and examined it as if for the first time. “You think you are a brave man, talking like that. But we will see, won’t we? Because in the end, you’ll just be a pile of bleeding, burning flesh.”

“I may not survive to have my revenge,” Robby said. “But I guarantee my friends will hunt you down. And you will pay for whatever happens to me.”

Escobar laughed. “Your police buddies? I’m shivering in my boots, amigo. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m disappointed.” He rose from his crouch, walked to the door, and knocked. “Coming out.”

It swung open and Escobar disappeared into the bright sky. The door slammed shut and Robby was, once again, alone. “Not just police,” he said under his breath. “Karen Vail. You know not the wrath you have wrought.”





66


The hour passed like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, the sky was beginning the changeover to dusk. As the clock ticked beyond 6:00 PM, the fading light was yet another reminder that the day was coming to a close. Vail had made a point of perusing the wall displays in the command center, including the photo array and brass bust devoted to the revered and fallen DEA undercover agent, Kiki Camarena, the building’s namesake. Farther down was a depiction of the decals and logos of the eighteen state and federal agencies that served on the San Diego County narcotics task force.

As the room lights brightened and the sky shaded a deep steel blue, Vail walked into the next room over, the break room, where she grabbed—and downed—a can of Diet Coke. She then paced the hallway, where she fended off Dixon’s attempts to keep her mind focused on other matters. But Vail found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than Robby.

At some point, Mann had ventured downstairs and gotten a status report on the downed SWAT officers. They had suffered moderate concussions and one would likely have a temporary hearing deficit, but otherwise they would fully recover.

DeSantos, after talking with a number of agents and support personnel in the building, now had his sleeves rolled up and was huddled in the corner of the conference room. He seemed deeply committed to working his phone, trying to track down known associates who could provide a lead for them to pursue—some way of narrowing their search in a meaningful manner.