Sinclair Justice (Texas Rangers #2)(76)
The center of attention in the luxurious study, Emm tried a low number first, like a true monied Rothschild. “One hundred thousand.”
Cervantes scoffed a laugh and bit off a nasty remark. Curt said, “He can make that on Jennifer in six months. He wants five years’ worth of revenue or he isn’t interested.”
Emm did some quick calculations. “He wants a million just for Jennifer?”
The drug lord smiled broadly. His English was apparently good enough when it came to hard, cold Yankee dollars. He nodded. “Sí.”
The cold sweat had extended to Emm’s hands, but she only said coolly, “And for Yancy?”
Curt interpreted. “Half that. Take it or leave it.”
Together, that would be 1.5 million; a lot of money even for a Rothschild heir. Emm debated negotiating longer to give Ross more time, but the truth was she was frantic to see Yancy and Jennifer. She needed to start that process. There was something about Cervantes’s attitude that made her uneasy, aside from his obvious lack of scruples. He was hiding something.
“Very well. But I’ll only call for the funds once I see for myself that Yancy and Jennifer are okay. Are they here?” She watched his response very closely.
He shrugged, pulled out his cell phone, and made a call. He said something hesitant and indistinguishable, but it sounded like Russian. Emm and Curt exchanged a look.
So it was true. He was working with Chechen gangsters.
Cervantes listened. He scowled at the response, gave one harsh command, and hung up abruptly. He stood, stretching, and bit off an order to his lieutenant. The gun lowered.
“They’ll be brought to you shortly,” the lieutenant said in English, and Emm realized he’d understood every word she and Curt had exchanged. “While we wait, Se?or Cervantes would invite you to dine with him.” He listened to Cervantes’s genial description of the menu and smiled at Emm. “Argentinean beef. Rare.”
A delaying tactic? Emm wasn’t sure she could eat a bite, but she only nodded graciously, aware she had to be true to the role she’d created. “You’re having Yancy and Jennifer brought here?”
Cervantes nodded, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. She looked outside. The moon was rising. She’d forgotten her watch and had no idea of the time. Except that it was late.
And getting later . . . fast.
Where was Ross?
Outside on the hillside, Mexican Marines, heavily weaponized in body armor and guns, snaked up the slope until they could peek above it. Further down, the US agents remained crouched and waiting for their okay to advance.
Chad held a lethal tactical shotgun, the barrel too short to be legal for anyone other than law enforcement, and packed a machine pistol on one shoulder, his pistol on his hip. Ross held his issue weapon at the ready, with his custom .45 loaded and waiting in his holster.
The Mexican Marine captain leading the squadron of elite special forces lifted his fist and began counting, his fingers rising in a countdown. One, two, three . . . he was reaching for four when car lights split the ess curve.
They all had to go flat as a Lincoln rounded the last dogleg. Ross and Chad crawled up the slope, careful to keep their heads as low as possible. The car drew to a stop in front of the compound, blocking the entrance. A veiled woman wearing spike heels, dressed like a hooker, got out to meet the angry guard who exited to berate her for blocking the driveway. She sashayed to meet him, her hips swinging, not intimidated when he poked her in the stomach with a machine gun. She said something to him they couldn’t hear, dropping the veil. More guards poured out as every exterior floodlight snapped on.
The marines and Texans all cursed and ducked down at the same time. They waited a moment, but the loud, excited exchange indicated the guards were too involved, and probably blinded by the lights, to see them. They peeked over the slope again. The woman advanced into the light, saying something, and offered a small and shiny object that looked short but sharp, from her pocket as they frisked her. The oldest guard used his radio and got an immediate response. They grabbed her arm to force her inside the gate.
She stumbled, and Ross caught her profile illuminated in the bright lights. “Holy shit, it’s Yancy Russell,” he hissed to Chad. Chad passed the word to their colleagues and the marines. A brief conference ensued on whether to delay the raid or not. They all looked down the slope at the general, who had maps and radios spread on the hood of the armored truck, which they’d parked beneath a huge tree. Abby stood next to him, speaking into a phone, and Ross realized she was trying to get drone assistance for the infrared imaging. They hadn’t been able to get close enough to the structure to use the equipment they’d brought, so if they invaded now they’d be going in blind. Because she was a consultant, they hadn’t allowed her near the tactical side of the operation, but they wanted her there for data collection at the end.
But the general and his men were growing impatient. . . .
As they debated, Ross caught something shiny that looked black in the lights as Yancy was yanked inside. It was coming from her wrist, dribbling behind her in thick dollops on the pavement. “Shit, she’s bleeding,” he whispered to Chad. “She has hemophilia. Emm will be frantic.” He gave his friend a pleading look. “We have to go. Now, before they have time to get organized. The minute Emm sees her bleeding, all hell will break loose. Looks like Jennifer isn’t with her.”