Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(65)
“Emm, this is not only dangerous it’s suicidal—”
“Yancy and Jennifer will be dead in a few days if we don’t go.”
That shut Curt up. After a moment, he said slowly, “How can you make a definitive statement like that? For all we know, they’re both somewhere in Europe by now.”
“The DEA, CIA, FBI, yadda yadda yadda, WTF is a better name for every damn one of them as far as I’m concerned; anyway, they have their uses. They’ve had a certain compound outside Mexico City under surveillance for a number of days. I wasn’t supposed to share this info, so you absolutely have to keep it between the two of us, no inclusion in your book. But Ross showed me photos of both Yancy and Jennifer, wearing evening attire, standing by a limo outside the gate. Snippets of their dresses were found in the pockets of a dead Los Lobos lieutenant who was supposedly feeding information to the Knights Templar. His heart was cut out.”
Curt absorbed this, his handsome face now grayish as he listened. Finally, he said, “So you just want to drive around outside the city hoping to find them? And this is an armed compound? How would we get in, even if we stumble across it?”
Emm snapped her cup down in her saucer so hard the china clanged. “Please, give me a bit more credit than that. I spent hours on Google Earth. The ironwork and brick wall in the background of the photo are very distinct—a European, not a Spanish or Mexican style. I only found three homes that match.”
Curt blinked rapidly. “Are you insane? Even if we pick the right one, do you think we can just waltz into the compound of one of the world’s most ruthless drug lords and ask to see his mistress?”
Emm smiled and rummaged in her purse. She offered him two cards, one his own, which she’d saved in her card case, and her own as historical preservation consultant—the title she’d used before landing her most recent job—with a Maryland address. She knew better than to offer anything with even a whiff of association with the US government.
She tapped the cards, her voice lowering to be sure no one heard her. “I’ve been doing my own research. And the last Mexican high lord of crime, El Chapo, who was apprehended several years ago, actually gave interviews on occasion. We live in a digital world, and the latest cocaine czars like Arturo Cervantes need notoriety to oil their international connections and spread fear. I believe he’ll happily let us inside if we present ourselves properly and promise to keep certain incriminating details vague. What do you think it would do to your book sales to have such inside . . . well, forgive the pun, dope on your story?”
Finally, Curt looked intrigued.
Not far from the compound under discussion, but in a much seedier area of Mexico City, Yancy yanked yet again at the handcuffs that held her securely to the iron bedstead by one arm. She was nude, had been for the last couple of days. The two Chechens had taken turns with her. At first she’d fought and bit, which had only led to her being cuffed and brutalized. She pretended to be comatose when she could, and that had helped some because they hadn’t pestered her now in over twenty-four hours. They’d even sent a girl in, apparently of Chechen descent, because she spoke neither Spanish nor English, to bathe and feed her.
Like cattle, Yancy thought bitterly, being prepared for market. But she knew she needed all the strength she could muster, so she forced herself to eat whatever they brought. And with every bite, her rage at Arturo grew. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know when, but she would help bring him to justice if she died trying . . . He was the poisonous head of the snake. While there would always be other bosses ready to take over, none of them were as resourceful and ruthless. Just disrupting the flow of funds and drugs Los Lobos funneled around the world would give the authorities time to rescue some of his human trafficking victims before another head of the hydra grew powerful enough to take over.
But as she ate with one hand while the frightened girl cleaned her with a rough washcloth and a bowl of soothing warm water, Yancy had to gag down the last of the stale tacos with a filling that was indistinguishable, but didn’t taste or feel like meat. While on one level of her brain she knew the poor quarters and supplies were a frightening indicator of her value to the Chechens, at the moment there was only one human trafficking victim she was concerned about. When they’d arrived, Yancy had heard Jennifer’s screams down the hall, but in the last twenty-four hours the deadly quiet had been even more terrifying than her daughter’s pain.
Yancy swallowed the bile of her own fear. She pointed down the hall, lifted a hank of her own dirty but still fair hair, and used a word even those not fluent in Spanish sometimes understood. “Ni?a? Muy bonita?” Yancy mimed sleeping by folding her hands and resting her cheek. She nodded down the hallway.
The girl’s eyes flickered but she only shrugged and collected the water and the rag.
Yancy pulled viciously at the cuffs, which the girl had never undone. Her wrist was raw and she knew if she kept pulling she’d begin to bleed, so she forced herself to desist. When the girl turned to the door, Yancy begged, “Please, help us.”
The girl’s shoulders sagged a bit, but she exited without a response.
Yancy was alone in the dark, left to her own initiative. She should be used to that, she thought vaguely. But this time, she was fresh out of ideas.
This time, when the tears came, she couldn’t stop them.