Don peered into the mystery room off of the master bedroom, trying not to sneeze at the dust. Cobwebs hung everywhere, vying with the dust for complete mastery of the room.
Someone had been in there, and recently. The evidence was clear. Fresh footprints dotted the entire place, and someone had disturbed the dust by recently napping in the easy chair, suggesting that they'd spent several hours at least holed up in the place. Had his brother been here? It seemed likely. Don pushed at the sliding door; it grated against the wood, sticking and old. There was an old newspaper on the table beside the chair, untouched. He glanced at the date: January 22, 1988. The paper had yellowed. Not surprising; it had been over a decade since anyone had entered this room.
Colby arrived back in the master bedroom. "They're gone. Both LAPD and the Border Patrol have left, with our thanks."
"They know that we've got a second operation planned?"
"Not a word. Neither do our guys, to be on the safe side. I didn't want anyone overhearing something that they shouldn't. I told our people to hang out for a couple of minutes before we go back to headquarters to debrief."
Megan came up behind him. "I've got our people back at Headquarters pulling the cell phone records for the three Border Patrol people. They were the easiest to pick out; we should have the results in a few minutes. We'll be able to tell if they made a suspicious call right before we came over here."
"Good work—David?" Don broke off.
The agent had a stricken look on his face. "Don…"
"What is it?" No, it couldn't be. Not…Charlie.
"Senora Colon…"
Just as bad. "She took off the wire."
"No…"
"They found her? She's dead?"
"No." David shook himself. "No, the wire didn't fail. She was in an accident. The bus she was taking home got crunched by a truck. One of our people was on the scene, saw the wire, and called it in. The hospital is keeping her overnight for observation." He swallowed hard. "Don, we have no way to track her to Rivera's auction! We don't know where it is!"
Don closed his eyes, fearing to open them. Senora Colon had been their back up plan to take down Rivera. If they didn't catch him here—which they hadn't—they would activate the tracing signal on Senora Colon and when Rivera took her and the other domestics to act as servers as his bash, where ever it was, they could move in. A fool proof plan. One that only a fool of a truck driver could thwart. And had.
Colossal bad luck. Bad luck that they hadn't caught Rivera's people right here. Bad luck that Charlie had been here when Rivera's men had moved in with their illegal cargo. Colossal bad luck that this had been the place that his father had been hired to renovate—his father! What was he going to tell his father?
"You have to call him, Don."
Dammit, was Megan a mind-reader? He started to round on her.
"He's involved, Don," Megan said. "He's in charge of this hacienda project. It would be better if one of us did the questioning."
His cell phone rang, and Don automatically flipped it open. "Eppes."
"Donnie? You find him?"
Dammit, another mind reader. One that from a couple decades of childhood he knew was damn good at it. "No, Dad." It wasn't a lie.
"He's not there?"
"No, Dad." That wasn't lie, either. "Listen, Dad, I have to talk to you. I have to find out about this place—"
"Not now, Don. I'm a little busy."
"Dad?" Don got another funny feeling, once again mixed with ice. "Dad, where are you? You went straight home, right? To wait for Charlie?"
"Not exactly." His father dodged the question.
Dodging a question? His father? Alan Eppes, who always had an answer for his boys, no matter what? "Dad?"
Silence.
Suspicion grew. "Dad, where are you?"
"I'm driving. I have to hang up. Don't you knowthat there are laws about driving and talking on a cell phone? It's dangerous."
"Dad, where are you?"
"I'm following those people, that's where I am."
Suspicion coalesced into terror. "Dad, that's dangerous! Get out of there right now! Turn around and leave!"
"It's all right, Don. They don't know I'm here."
"I know you're there!" Don all but shouted into the phone. "Dad—"
"Where is he?" Megan interrupted calmly. "Don, get a location. We can take it from there."
Don calmed down instantly. Megan was right. Without Senora Colon, they needed this lead. He tightened his jaw. "Get a chopper in the air five minutes ago."
"On it."
He uncovered the phone. "Okay, Dad. You've done a very stupid thing, but we're going to use it. Where are you?"
"Don't talk to your father that way."
Don gritted his teeth. "Where…are…you…?"
"East, past Bakersfield. You know that highway with the concrete green dinosaur in front of the motel with all the paint chips falling off—"
"I know it. What kind of vehicles?"
"Two white vans. You want the license plates?"
"You have them?"
"No, but I can get closer—"
"You stay back!" Don had been born into a family of crazy people. "Dad, you pull back at least a mile from those people." Megan waved at him, thumbs up. "Dad, there's a chopper headed your way. As soon as you see it, I want you to turn around and head home. Hear me?"
"Don—"
"Do it, Dad!" Don felt like howling. "Those choppers belong to the FBI. It will mean that we have the suspect vehicles in sight. All you can do is get in the way. Go home, Dad. Please." Don't mention the fact that Rivera—and Charlie—would be out of reach if his father hadn't pulled this crazy stunt.
"I see the chopper," his father said. "You sure you don't want me to get the license plates?"
"I'm sure." Don had never so sure of anything in his life. "Please, Dad. Turn around and go home." He hung up before his father could argue any further. He turned to Megan. "Get everyone moving right now. Lights and sirens until we're a couple of miles away from the destination. Go."
Charlie had thought that he couldn't be any more miserable than when he was stuck in Abuelito's study. He found out that he couldn't have been more wrong. The situation was infinitely worse.
A comparison chart would work well. In the study in the hacienda, he could move around in a severely prescribed area. He could sit, stand, and even lie down on the floor if he were willing to share floor space with a few thousand spiders. The furnishings were comfortable but threadbare and old and filthy.
Here, in contrast, in this room with his fellow captives, the furnishings were sumptuous and clean. There were heavy drapes that did a magnificent job of muffling what little noise there was, noises mostly emanating from his fellow captives as they whimpered in fear from behind heavy gags. The carpeting was plush beneath their feet. Charlie knew this because sometime in the last hour he and the rest had been forced to remove their shoes. It made it harder to run away over the rocky desert sand outside. Of course, the fact that they were tied hand and foot to heavy metal rings fastened to the walls also tended to prevent escape.
Yet another comparison: in the study, Charlie had been hungry and thirsty. Here not only was he hungry and thirsty but the smells seeping in from the room next door were driving him mad. Someone in the other room was an excellent cook. Some of the aromas floated through: cinnamon, a hint of fresh oranges, the tantalizing scent of fresh ginger. So many scents meant a banquet next door. Wonderful. A feast before the auction. Charlie tugged at the ropes encircling his wrists. Blood oozed forth, scraping the skin below. Wasn't that supposed to make things slippery? Maybe he could get these ropes off before the main event, free everyone and make a daring escape. That would be nice. That would be more than nice.
The doors swung open. Charlie's heart sank.
Rivera had gathered together a collection of very rich men, men who were accustomed to getting what they wanted in this world and who knew that they needed to pay heavily for the privilege of ignoring laws and common decency. Charlie had worked to bring a few of those down during his time consulting for the NSA. Just fringe work, never came in contact with any of the slime, but enough to know that such people existed and that they shouldn't. Exist, that is.
And here was a collection of them, all gathered in this little room, scum of the earth every one of them, feasting their eyes on the assortment of human beings that would be going to new homes as property tonight, and heaven only knew what else. Charlie's eyes automatically went to one of the girls, one of the braver ones, who had tears running down her face but hadn't made a sound. Pilar, that was her name, Charlie had learned before they'd all been gagged. And her brother Miguel, tied to metal rung on the other side of the room, still trying to work his way out of the thick ropes. Every one of them had a name. Every one of them had a family, a family that would likely never see them again. Charlie swallowed hard. Charlie himself would probably fit into that same category.
"A little peek before dinner," Rivera announced to his appreciative crowd. "Here, look at this one." He fondled the boy closest to the entrance, lifting the boy's chin into the air for all to see the fine lines of the youngster's face. "Very young. He will last his owner a long time."
"A bit skinny," one of the prospective buyers said dismissively. "I like something with a few less bones. What about that one?" He pointed at Pilar.
"Very nice," Rivera agreed, looking past the stringy black hair, courtesy of the hosing down two hours ago. Pilar looked daggers at them; if she hadn't been gagged, she would have spat at them. And not missed.
Rivera gestured at one of his bodyguards. A small smile played across the big man's face; he had been given a treat. Taking hold of Pilar's blouse—nothing more than a wet tee shirt—he wrenched it apart. The material ripped.
Pilar tried to cry out, but the gag prevented more than a whimper of outrage. Bare skin glistened with drops of left-over hose water, a caramel-colored satin of flawless flesh. She struggled against the ropes, unable to resist the bodyguard's actions. Rivera's guest advanced to fondle the wares that Rivera was showing him. He took his time to explore what he wanted. "Yes, very nice," he agreed. "Senor, are you certain that I cannot purchase this one before the auction begins? I would pay very well."
"As would I," another guest insisted, sliding his own hand underneath some of the remaining clothing. Pilar tried to twist away, but the bodyguard held her firmly.
"What about the scientist? Rivera, you said that you had a scientist for sale," another put in. "Is that him?" He pointed at Charlie. "He looks too young to be worth anything."
Great. First I'm too old, now I'm too young. Just hope that soon I won't be too dead.
"He is a professor," Rivera insisted, a smirk on his face. "See, I have his ID card here. I even had someone look him up on the Internet; he is well-respected as a scientist. He has published many books."
Not all that many books. Mostly articles in professional journals. And some of the stuff I've done is still under lock and key at the NSA. Too scary to publish.
The man grabbed Charlie's hair, forcing his head backwards. His voice was harsh, with Teutonic overtones. "He's not bad looking despite the bruises. You're certain he's a scientist?"
"See for yourself." Rivera held out the ID card. "Of course, you can always use him in your bed as well. In fact, that probably will be a good idea. My men tell me that he wasn't very cooperative when they found him. He'll need a little softening up in order to be useful."
"Hm." The man gestured to Rivera's bodyguard, who was only too willing to help out. Charlie's own tee shirt was ripped off his chest.
Still wet. The air feels cold. Didn't want that tee shirt any more; after Abuelito's study, it was filthy beyond redemption.
The man's hands felt dirty. Charlie couldn't help it; he squirmed, trying to flinch away. The man's hands lingered, caressing the muscles that he found there, pinching just to see Charlie's reaction, staring into his eyes with a hunger that Charlie found more than a little disturbing.
"His pants," the man demanded, reaching.
But Rivera stayed his hand. "You can do whatever you like with him—after you purchase him."
"I want to see him. All of him. I want to make sure that I'm getting my money's worth."
"After the auction," Rivera repeated.
"What's the matter?" the man threw at Rivera. "Doesn't he have all his parts? Why can't we see for ourselves? What's wrong with him?"
Rivera sighed dramatically, not at all unhappy to have been talked into this. "Very well." He motioned to his men. "Strip him."
Charlie bucked, fighting both the ropes and the men who were man-handling him. More hands, he realized; hands reaching and touching and stroking and—dammit, I'm going to be sick—
"Enough," Rivera commanded. "He's choking! Turn him on his side, quickly! Stay with him," he told one of the guards. "Make sure that he doesn't choke altogether; take the gag out if you have to. Come, my friends, back to the banquet. A simple bite to eat, then the auction will begin."
Through watering eyes Charlie could see the 'guests' file back out, gasping for breath through the thick gag. He could see the lingering gaze that several men sent in his direction.
Charlie had never felt so afraid in his life.
David materialized beside Don, the only thing visible in the dark the whites of his eyes. There were no lights where they hid, only two small street lamps in the distance barely pointing out Rivera's estate. Even the moon decided that the sliver of luminescence that it grudgingly presented would hide behind the single cloud in the night sky for the moment.
The estate too was dark. The windows were black, not even any light from behind heavy curtains escaping into the night. Don almost couldn't make out the outlines of the enormous building, the wing that spread back into the mountainside and another that provided protection for an Olympic-sized pool. The only noises were the quiet shushing of the waves of the pool and the crickets singing for their supper. It would have looked to be as abandoned as Dr. del Castillo's hacienda project if it were not for the acutely manicured lawn and gardens.
But Don knew better. There were two nondescript white vans parked inside an over-sized garage, along with more than a dozen limousines and foreign sports jobseach of whichcost more than twice his annual salary. There were a lot of heavy hitters inside attending a slave auction and having a lovely party. Don intended to crash that party.
David put his lips close to Don's ear. "We need back up. This place is huge."
"No time. It took us two hours to get here driving flat out. If we wait another two hours, the party'll be over and they'll have scattered."
"I counted more than forty men outside the house. All with guns. Big guns, Don. They're ready to take on a small army."
David didn't need to add more. The FBI team, without LAPD or Border Patrol, numbered twenty and Don was willing to acknowledge that Rivera's private army, supplemented by the troops brought by his 'guests', quite likely had enough firepower to make their single shot rifles look like pop guns. Going in with a frontal assault would be nothing less than suicide. And that was before anyone took a head count on how many armed guards Rivera had inside.
Don willed himself to think of a plan. This is all your fault, Charlie. You and your numbers. We've got twenty, they've got forty or more. How do we make twenty equal forty? Got a theorem for that, buddy?
One of the guards lit up a cigarette, the light flaring briefly in the dark before extinguishing, then the cigarette itself glowed each time the man took a puff. It identified the man's exact position. I could hit that guy with a baseball, Don thought grimly. All that practice that Area Director D'Angelo has been throwing me into this past two weeks. I could knock the apple off someone's head like William Tell…
He froze. The guards were singletons, placed apart from each other so as to cover the greatest amount of the perimeter. Most couldn't see each other. It was only when one did something like light a cigarette that anyone could tell that the place wasn't deserted. Don would bet that it hadn't been by accident. Too many men outside would attract unwanted attention. And if there was anything that Don Juan Rivera didn't want right now, it was attention.
Don cast around for a stone the approximate size of a baseball. It would be heavy, but that couldn't be helped. The size alone would have to do.
"Don, what are you doing?" Megan hissed under her breath.
"Evening the odds."
"Are you crazy?"
"Probably. You got a better idea?"
David stepped in. "No. But I can help." Bright teeth flashed briefly in the night. He pointed at one set of bushes. The on duty guard, bored out of his skull and yawning, was almost not visible. "I'll start there and work my way around to the center. Just don't mistake me for one of them." He grinned again. "Brings back memories of skulking around the Old Town in Tel Aviv. Never thought those skills would be useful again."
Colby stepped up. "Not as cold as Afghanistan but a bunch more bushes. I'll have to thank Rivera's gardeners after we're done. I'll hit that other side of the house." He eyed Don, the stone in Don's hand. "No walks, okay boss?"
"You got it."
Don hefted the stone. It felt heavy, but not too bad. He smiled grimly to himself, the expression lost in the night. He wasn't a pitcher, but his arm was good. There were plenty of times where he'd thrown to home, thrown to the catcher to beat the runner. Those balls had to be dead on, straight to the catcher's mitt. He'd been good at it, one of the reasons he'd made it so far in the minors. 'Dead-eye Don' was one of the nicknames that the local papers had tagged him with for a season or two before moving on to the major league hotties.
He chose his target. The plan was slowly coming into reality: the FBI was out-numbered and out-gunned. In order to rescue the people inside, they had to even the odds and they had to do it fast before the party broke up. They had to take down the outside force, and do it quietly so that whatever army inside remained unaware. It meant taking out the guards one by one.
He saw a guard on his right go from a black blob upright to a black blob on the ground, saw a shadow move on. The same thing happened to his left, and Don never felt so proud of his team as he did right then. Megan, acting as communications officer, ghosted to the rest of the FBI agents, filling them in on what was happening. Two more agents slid off into the darkness toward another section of the house, faces grim.
More covert ops trained people, Megan?
You got it, boss.
Deep breath with an upwardly directed thank you. Don didn't have covert ops, but he did have something that they didn't: a damn fine arm. He slipped three fingers around the rock, trying to convince himself that it was a smooth and round baseball, rotating his shoulder to loosen the muscles. Only one chance at this, Eppes. The count is three balls and two strikes. He's either out, or he walks. And you don't want to walk him.
His vision narrowed down to the one spot: the guard's head. Drill it in, Eppes. Put it in the catcher's mitt. This is it.
It went fast. He always threw better when he did it fast. And this way he didn't have too much time to think.
He threw.
The guard went down without a sound.
Yes!
Megan found him more stones, all the approximate size of baseballs, with smooth edges for a better grip and better concussion power. They were easy to find out here in the California desert. He chose carefully from among the selection of miniature boulders, going from best to worst, re-evaluating as more stones appeared. He went for the stones that felt most like the smooth and warm surface of a baseball.
The rest of the team, when it was safe, sidled over to the fallen guards and pulled them away to a handling area. There, the guards relieved of their guns and still relieved of the responsibility to stay awake, two agents were detailed to keep them quiet and out of the fray.
It took too long to subdue all forty, but Don couldn't afford to think about that. It was the only way they had. Megan had called for back up but, as Don himself had pointed out, it would take hours to get here. They would have to gather men from home, men who would understandably grumble about being called back in, and ship them out here to the High Desert. The original plan had called for LAPD and the Border Patrol to supply troops. After the hacienda fiasco, Don didn't dare try that avenue.
The answer came back. Megan, during one of her rock hunting forays, whispered, "I heard from Tech. It was one of the Border Patrol people, McNamera. He made a call to Rivera on his cell shortly after arriving at Headquarters."
Hah. That explained how Rivera had been able to avoid so many Border Patrols in crossing his cargo over the border. "Send someone to pick him up."
"Already done. They found him with his bags packed, trying to run."
The next rock had just a little more power and satisfaction behind it.
Next part: the mansion itself. Don didn't want to think about how many rooms they would have to search or how many more guards there would be. This would be more difficult. They couldn't count on the guards being singletons as they had been outside. They would have to take down groups. More chance for noise.
More chance for failure.
Half over. Charlie had never thought to be grateful for gags. Sure, sometimes for a couple of mouthy undergrads who thought they could outthink him, but never seriously.
This was serious. The auction was half over, and if it weren't for the gags, the room would have been filled with hysterically crying kids, himself included.
Charlie had always wondered if Don had sanitized the stories that he told about his cases, made them seem a little less horrific than they were. Don had always considered Charlie naïve and their father only a little less so. The tales that Don recounted always seemed to have a couple of details left out, some glossed over, a mistake or two that Charlie picked up on that suggested that some of the misery had been carefully swept under the carpet.
Today, Charlie knew for certain. His brother had tried to protect him. Even though Charlie had gone to crime scenes, had seen the aftermath, it didn't compare to the real thing.
This was horrible.
They were more than half way through the 'event'. One by one, the children—and Charlie used the word in its true sense—were dragged to the stage, kicking and struggling, screams muffled by the gags, then stripped of their meager clothing and displayed to the audience for minute examination. Humiliation didn't begin to describe what they felt.
Then the bidding began.
The bidding was in American dollars. Charlie could see some of the buyers with calculators, working through the exchange rates, estimating the worth of the merchandise, struggling with calculations that Charlie ran automatically and effortlessly through his own mind. Some of the bidders ran brothels and were looking for fresh meat, both male and female. Others wanted the children for more sinister purposes. Those were the worst; the ones practically salivating over the terrified kids, thinking about what unspeakable acts they could perform on them. Charlie tried to find a pattern in what he was seeing: were the girls worth more than the boys? Did it have something to do with how skinny each one was? Whether they tried to scream or merely whimper quietly, sinking into shock to be led away on a leash? Charlie couldn't stand to watch, so he took his refuge in trying to make the scene fit into tidy and comforting numbers, closing his eyes to block out the reality of the scene.
Rivera took the part of the auctioneer, a grotesque mockery of elegance standing before a podium with a gavel. "This young lady is only fourteen, so she'll have plenty of years in her, gentlemen. Note the barely emerging breasts—" and he twisted at a sensitive part, squeezing out a startled and outraged yelp from behind the gag—"and you can see that her spirit hasn't been broken. This one is not for the meek, gentlemen, and I suggest that you bind her tightly if you don't want her to run away the first chance she gets. What am I offered?"
A lot. Charlie was astounded at the quantities of cash being tossed casually back and forth. These were men who meant business in one form or another. It sickened him.
"I do have a few rooms with sound-proofing in another part of the house if you can't wait to try out your new purchases," Rivera announced by way of an incentive. "They won't have all the amenities you're used to, but I do have plenty of rope. And I've certified your purchases as clean." He frowned. "All except for our last prize. He was rather a late-comer, and I didn't have the opportunity to have him checked over. Given his history, though, I doubt that will be an issue for anyone."
Rivera was talking about him, Charlie realized. Once again, his blood ran cold. He couldn't believe that this was happening. This didn't happen to mild-mannered math professors. Mathematicians didn't get trapped inside old hidden rooms, kidnapped by drug dealers, and sold to slave traders as an interesting side line. It just didn't happen.
But it was. It was his turn. Rivera's men dragged him up to the stage, unable to walk with his feet hobbled together.
"An interesting acquisition. You can turn him to a variety of uses, friends. There's always the usual." Rivera turned Charlie around to display his back. "Look at this skin. Untouched by any whip. Virgin territory, friends. A little older than the rest, but very teachable." Rivera turned Charlie back around to face the buyers. "And you've already seen the rest of him; you know what's there and what you can do to him." Charlie's face flamed. He could see that particular buyer in front, the one who had insisted on tactilely examining 'the wares'. The man was licking his lips. Charlie swallowed hard, willing himself not to heave.
"Of course, the more business-minded of you will also be interested in him as a pass through purchase. Think about what he'll bring on the black market! This is a certified genius, friends! Consider the acquaintances that you have, where you might broker a lucrative deal—"
"Enough," the man in front broke in. "Start the bidding. I wager one hundred thousand."
"Two."
"Three."
"Half a million."
Rivera beamed. It was substantially more than anything he received for any of his other items. The illegal immigrants were, in his opinion, a dime a dozen, and easily replaced by bringing another unsuspecting group across the border and kidnapping them. But this one? Clearly he had lucked onto a very valuable piece, and he intended to make the most of it. He preened.
One buyer backed out, shaking his head. "I'm an end user, not a retailer. He's interesting, but not that interesting." He looked down at his previous purchase. It was Pilar, tied at his feet. "Come along, bitch. Crawl if you can't walk."
The daggers in her eyes were enough to kill, but the gag prevented her from saying anything.
Rivera re-focused their attention. "I have half a million, gentlemen? Do I hear one million? What is he worth?"
"One million."
It went on. Charlie found it hard to believe that they were bidding on him. This didn't happen in real life.
They'd get him back. Don would find him. The NSA, knowing what secrets Charlie had in his head, would mount a rescue operation. They'd get him before—
"Sold!" Rivera brought the gavel down.
And Charlie hadn't even heard the final sale price.
He froze. He saw the winner. The buyer. The purchaser. His new owner: the man with the intrusive hands. Who was now licking his lips in anticipation.
Charlie threw up into the gag.
There were four entrances, and Don split his team of twenty into four with five agents each. "Remember, silence is the operative word. We don't know how many are inside, but we still may be out-numbered. We nibble away at the edges until we take them all down." And rescue the hostages, his mind added bleakly. "The longer we keep them unaware of what's happening, the better our chance of success. Move out."
The other teams moved. Don had kept working units together as much as possible, so he had his own team with him plus one.
The lock yielded to the pick, and Don slipped his tools away, hoping that Rivera hadn't invested in a silent alarm system. One by one, they stepped inside, keeping their footsteps silent.
They went room by room. Inside, the curtains carefully masking the windows, it was bright and cheery and easily to see the three guards lounging around the kitchen table, sipping at coffee and looking longingly at the bottles of scotch on the counter. The guards were clearly too well-trained to drink on the job, but that didn't stop them from wishing.
Not well-trained enough. Don held up his hand: one, two, three.
They leaped into the kitchen, guns drawn.
"FBI. Hands on the table," Don said quietly, icy steel in his voice, hoping there was no one else in the next room over. "Unless you want to have a brand new hole in your head."
Sheer bluff. Silence was what was needed, and a gunshot would ruin that. But the guards didn't know that. Guns were confiscated, hands tied, and the fifth member of Don's team, an agent named Lowe, was assigned to keep them quiet.
Don took a moment to check on the other teams.
"Three taken out here," was one reply.
"Two here."
"Got six. Bastards, everyone of them. Found one of the hostages. Manny is questioning him now. Kid's an illegal, just got 'sold' to one of the slime that we took down. You don't want to know what they were doing to this kid, Don." The agent's voice took on a grim tone. "I'm going to have a hard time describing this to a judge in polite language. I've already called for the paramedics."
"Practice with your report. Where are the other hostages?" Where was Charlie? was what Don really meant. "How many?"
"Don't know how many guards, although not as many as outside. The kid says there were twelve hostages, six boys and six girls, that crossed the border. And one older man that joined them in the house, he says." The agent didn't have to add your brother. That went without saying. The entire L.A. division of the FBI knew that Charlie was missing. The entire L.A. division of the FBI had volunteered to assist with the search. "He says he got taken away before they started bidding on the older man." Carefully not saying Charlie's name. It might not be Charlie. It wasn't a given. Charlie, frustrated with the density of the current freshman class, could have taken an impromptu camping trip and left his cell phone behind to clear his head instead of being held captive in this place and auctioned off like a Ming Dynasty vase with a crack in it.
And there was always the possibility that the sun might decide to rise in the West tomorrow.
"Room by room," Don directed. "Clear out everything, and keep it quiet until we know that we've gotten everyone. Hostages a priority. Let's keep count, and make sure that we get all twelve. Thirteen." Lucky thirteen: my brother.
The buyer licked his lips, dry-washed his hands. "Come along, little professor," he crooned. "Come to papa. We're going to have such a good time."
Charlie's knees felt weak. This couldn't be happening!
Rivera finished making a notation on his papers. "Would you like a room next door?"
"No," the buyer decided. "No, I want to have him in my own little playroom, with my own things, for the first time and for a few times after that. The professor and I are going to be doing some very interesting research while I arrange for the sale of his brains. Wouldn't you like that, professor?" He giggled.
No, Charlie would definitely not like that.
"You realize that you are responsible for getting him out of the country," Rivera reminded the buyer. "Security has tightened up considerably over the last few years."
The buyer waved a dismissive hand. "Not a problem. In fact, we'll be leaving momentarily. I've made all the arrangement, although I didn't realize that I'd have such valuable cargo. Hold him, please."
Rivera's guards tightened their grips on Charlie's arms. Charlie tensed.
The buyer pulled out a small bottle with a clean white handkerchief and poured some of the bottle's contents onto the cloth. An acrid odor permeated the air. "Hold him," he repeated, licking his lips. "He may struggle a bit. They generally do, and very nicely, I might add." He pressed the moist handkerchief against Charlie's nose.
Bitter smells assaulted him. Charlie tried not to inhale, tried to keep the noxious odors out. He fought to turn his head away, but the buyer was relentless and the guards too strong.
"That's it, nice deep breaths," the buyer crooned. "It'll all be over in a moment." He held the cloth more firmly against Charlie's face, grabbing Charlie's head with his other hand to stabilize and force the anesthesia into him.
Dizziness. Nausea. Don't breathe! Fight! Fight, dammit! Escape!
Knees going.
Blackness.
Damn…
The main foyer became the impromptu holding area for captured guards and customers. The hostages Megan took outside, many too overwrought to keep from wailing once the gags were removed from their mouths, and that would have alerted the remainder of Rivera's people. Most of the captured guards simply watched the agents with bored expressions: it was their bosses that the FBI was after, not the bodyguards. A year or two at most behind bars, and they'd be out looking for work. Not worth fighting over. Even the buyers merely glared at the agents with hatred, no doubt adding the cost of expensive lawyers to their lost purchases.
"How many?" Don asked, looking over the haul grimly.
"We got all of the twelve hostages," Megan told him. "They're all right. Shaken up and upset, but all right for the most part. We got to them in time." She indicated one girl who was comforting a boy three inches taller than she. "That's Pilar, and Miguel. Senora Colon's children. She'll be relieved, probably enough to tell us everything she knows about Rivera's operations."
"Where's Rivera?" Don asked. And Charlie, he wanted to add.
"We have the top floor left to search," David said, "and the basement. Which do you want?"
The decision was clear. "I'll take the basement." It sounded the most likely. "And I want you and Colby with me. Have Gallagher and his team sweep the top floor."
They found Rivera in the basement, counting his illegal earnings. The man wasn't hard to take down; he was alone, not trusting anyone but himself when it came to money. One peep into the room saw the man all alone. Don slammed the door open, pulled his gun, and snarled, "FBI! Freeze!"
If it had been a single FBI agent, he thought later, then Rivera might have gone for the pistol that he kept under the podium that he was writing on and Don would have been able to put a bullet between the scum's eyes without regret. But David and Colby flanking the senior FBI agent made the difference. Rivera surrendered. Better to let the lawyers fight it out. That's whatRivera paid them for. This American system of justice, it would merely give Rivera a slap on the wrist, a fine, and he could go back to business as usual.
Don let the criminal think that. This time would be different. This time, Rivera hadn't distanced himself from the dirty work, from the drug dealing and the border crossings. This time, they'd caught Rivera with his pants down. Or, rather, with pants down on his hostages.
"Where's Charlie?" he demanded, getting in Rivera's face.
"Who?" Rivera smiled, unafraid. Clearly he knew exactly who Don was, had known ever since the agent had been assigned to take over the case. Don Juan Rivera was not a stupid man. "Oh, you mean the little professor? I made a lot of money on him, money that has already been wired to my off-shore account."
"You—" Don hauled back.
David caught his arm. "Don! Don't help him walk on a technicality."
Don sobered immediately. David was right. They needed answers from this man, needed to find Charlie first. "Where is he?"
Rivera laughed. "Gone." He leaned forward. "This man, he means something to you, doesn't he?"
"Where is he?" Don growled.
Rivera laughed again. "I can tell you who bought him, and what country he will go to. But only if you let me go."
Don got into Rivera's face. He spoke in a very quiet voice. "That man is my brother. And he's helped everyone of us in the FBI. If you want to walk out of this place alive, without suffering a very serious 'accident', then you will tell us where he is. Do you understand me?"
David and Colby thought it was a bluff. They thought that Don did it extremely well. They didn't know that Don—
Megan called frantically over the radio. "Don! The garage! There's someone out there!"
Don flew out of there, calling for Colby to deliver Rivera to their pseudo-holding cell and collect the rest of the agents. There was no time to waste.
Shots fired!
Don raced out of the house, David on his heels, to find Megan with a smoking gun.
"There!" she called out, pointing. "He's getting away!"
It wasn't easy to see in the dark, but as Don's eyes swiftly adjusted he could see a car slewing across the road, a tire shot out, the desperate driver inside trying to control the vehicle and carry the passengers to their escape despite the flat. Even as he watched, the car tipped into a ditch, the nose diving in and the tail rising up. Three people staggered out.
Don was already running down the slope to the scene, David and Megan and six others after him, guns drawn.
"FBI! Hands in the air!" he barked.
Two pairs of hands went up, one staggering to keep his feet on the rocky side of the road. A third set of handsfumbled fora gun.
Three pistols went off. The gun dropped to the sand, almost invisible in the dark. The body followed.
"On your knees," David ordered the two survivors, pulling out handcuffs. Megan twisted the other's arms behind him, slapping her own cuffs on the second prisoner.
Don toed the gun away from the third man, checking swiftly to make certain that he would never menace anyone ever again. He peered inside the upended car, searching the empty interior swiftly. "Where's Charlie?" Dammit, was this the wrong car? Was Charlie with another one of those pieces of slime, being shipped like so much cargo to another country?
David nudged his captive with the barrel of his gun. "You heard the man. Where is he?"
"In the trunk." A flunky, and not stupid. His boss had already gone down. He didn't need to do the same.
"Give me a hand." Leaving Megan to keep a gun on their two captives, Don and David pushed at the car until they could reach the end of the car stuck up in the air. "Charlie? Charlie? You in there? Can you hear me, buddy?"
No answer. It took a moment for Don's heart to start beating again. He demanded that it beat swiftly; Don needed the strength to continue the search.
"Keys," he demanded.
"In the ignition."
David retrieved them, still dangling from the starter, and fumbled to find the right one. Don willed him to hurry.
The trunk wouldn't open. A dent at the wrong place—
Don couldn't wait. He grabbed the edge of the trunk and heaved. Metal tore, shrieking.
There was a body inside. A limp body.
"Charlie?" Was he breathing?
"Help me get him out, Don." David seized Don's brother under the shoulders, wrestling him out of the trunk of the car. He caught a whiff of something, yes, he knew the smell—
"Chloroform. A real devotee of old-fashioned methods," David said in disgust.
Don didn't care. He wrestled with the gag in Charlie's mouth, using his pocket knife when the fabric refused to come apart in his fingers. "Is he—?"
"He's breathing, Don." David put a reassuring hand on Don's wrist. "He's breathing. Let's get these ropes off of him." He raised his voice. "Megan, call up to Colby. We need the medical kit, and the oxygen in Don's vehicle."
"Is he all right?"
"He will be," David chuckled in relief.
Don pulled off his jacket, tucking it under his brother's head, still alarmed at how limp the man was. Charlie's shirt was ripped to the point of being useless against the cool night air, and Don shucked his own shirt as a meager covering. What if Charlie wasn't all right? What was Don going to tell their father?
Charlie groaned.
"Charlie? You all right, buddy?"
Another groan. "Don?"
"It's okay, buddy. We've got you." Don could feel the sweat breaking out in relief.
"How…?"
"Long story, buddy." Don accepted the blanket from Megan, draping it over Charlie's body. "Here, breathe this."
Charlie, unaccountably, fought him, panic flaring.
"Charlie, it's oxygen. Charlie, listen, it's me! Put this on."
"It's oxygen," David added, leaning over to help. "It's okay, Charlie. You're safe. We've got you."
Charlie coughed, settling feebly. "Sick."
"It's the chloroform," David told him. "People in the Middle East use it all the time because it's cheap and easy to get. Makes you sick as a dog afterward."
"Keep the oxygen on," Don told Charlie, not convinced. Nothing would convince him until he saw his brother up and walking around. Healthy. Whole. "Lie still; I've got you. You all right?"
Charlie started to shake. "Sick."
"He's going into shock," David said. "Megan, you called for the medics?"
"Helicopter's coming in," she called back. "We're too far out for an ambulance to get here in any kind of time. Colby's bringing down more blankets."
"Good." Don tried to get control of himself. "I'll stay with Charlie. David, you take over here. Bring back the Suburban for me." He handed over his keys.
David caught his arm. "He's going to be okay, Don. You got here in time."
"Yeah. We all did." Don clutched the shaking form a little tighter. Then he pulled out his cell phone. There was a very important call that needed to be made, one that couldn't wait. "Dad?"
"Donnie?" Full of hope. Full of fear.
"We got him, Dad. He's going to be all right."
The ball arced high in the air. Easy out; Don caught it in a well-worn glove and fired it at the catcher. Colby, behind the catcher's mask, just barely got his own glove on the ball in time to tag the runner heading in from third base.
From the bleachers, Charlie sat with his father, Larry, and Amita. The bruises on his face had faded, the black eye a mere shadow half-disguised by the cap that he wore to block the sun. "That's the third one in six innings." He scratched another mark on his clipboard. He coughed, and took a sip of his drink.
"He's carrying the team," Alan agreed. "I don't think I've ever seen him throw so hard. Colby's having a hard time catching them."
Charlie shrugged. "Score's eight to one. We're blasting LAPD out of the ball park." He grinned. "Seems like old times, Don playing ball and me keeping the stats."
Larry nodded. "Your brother is quite good, Charles. I knew that he had played ball, but it's a different story between hearing it and seeing him in action."
"No wonder the director wanted him to play," Amita added. "How much was the wager?"
Charlie smirked. "Don wouldn't tell me, but David thinks that it's in the five hundred range. Plus bragging rights; infinitely more valuable." He coughed again.
Alan thwacked him on the back. "You sure you're all right? The doctors—"
"The doctors all said I'm fine, Dad."
"They said you got pneumonia from that stuff you were drugged with. You've only been out of bed for two days. Maybe I should take you home."
"Maybe you should get us all another round of drinks instead," Charlie suggested. "The profits all go to charity. Isn't that how this all started? With you telling me to give something to charity? Elena del Castillo's hacienda type charity?"
"Smart aleck," Alan muttered, a gleam in his eye.
Don stepped down into the dugout, pulling off his cap to wipe his brow. It was hot under the Los Angeles sun. The bleachers were filled with spectators, friends and family of both the FBI and LAPD, and a stand stacked with the kids that would benefit from this charity. Don automatically scanned the area for his family, relaxing only when he spotted his father and brother at ease on the hot seats. Safe. And Don wasn't thinking about the runner at second.
Area Director D'Angelo, the official coach of the FBI team, greeted him. "Nice work, Eppes. Can you bang in another homer this inning?" White teeth flashed with an almost grin. "Wouldn't mind rubbing it in, just this once. LAPD was a little snarky last time." Another grin. "And Police Chief Williams is whining about us bringing in a ringer, like he hasn't done the same thing for the last two games. Don't mind telling you, Don; I'm enjoying this. My ringer is whaling the tar out of his two ringers." D'Angelo cocked his head. "And those balls you're throwing. Don't remember you putting quite that much power on in practice."
Don rubbed his shoulder. The memory of his brother shuddering on the rocky hillside would stay with him for quite a while. A vision of another guard beaned by astone floated in front of him; that same vision had haunted his nightmares for the last two nights. An inch off target, and the guard would have gone screaming for help. Nice incentive for accuracy. "Got in a little extra practice time, you might say." He went for a return grin. "Anything for charity, sir."