Hostage Zero

“No stealthy LZs,” Jonathan said. “We can’t afford to make noise.”

“How do we get in?” Boxers asked.

“Commercial. Just like Ponder. The Colombian government is quick to shoot down anything these days.”

“What about visas?”

“I’m going in as David Grossman. I’ve got you as Richard Lerner.” Both names came from the lengthy list of fully vetted and documented aliases that Jonathan had collected for them over the years. If things went well, the aliases could be recycled, but if not, they could just as easily be tossed.

“I wish we had a third,” Boxers mused aloud. “It’s doable with just the two of us, but another face you know you can trust is always a good thing.” He looked to Gail.

“No,” Jonathan said before he could ask. “Gail has a job to do.”

“Bruce Navarro has a sister,” Gail explained. “Apparently, I’m considered charming enough to squeeze information from her. We’ve got to find Bruce. We’ll never know it’s over if we don’t know why it started.”

Boxers moved back to addressing Jonathan. “What are we doing for manpower there?”

Jonathan cleared his throat. This was the hard part. “Josie promised to raise an army for us.”

“I’m not talking about cokeheads and farmers in green suits, Dig. I mean skilled operators. Shooters who are more likely to hit a bad guy than a good guy.”

Jonathan set his jaw against the rising flash of anger. “Time is short, Box. We’re going to have to live with a few shortcuts. Josie said he’d try to use as many familiar faces as possible.”

Boxers scoffed, “Oh, now that makes me feel better.”

Jonathan slammed the table with his palm. “Stop!” Everyone jumped. “Box. Gail and Ven. Let’s be clear we understand what we’re doing here. Look at the screen.” He pointed, but they continued to stare at him, startled. “Look at him, goddammit.”

Their heads all pivoted to the projected image of Evan Guinn. His face seemed small under his thick helmet of white hair. His blue eyes blazed. “Evan Guinn was my responsibility,” Jonathan said. “He continues to be my responsibility. If Ven is right-and Ven is always right-that boy has just been folded into luggage. Luggage, people. Like so much dirty underwear. We need to fix this.” He wondered if his hands might be trembling.

Heavy silence devoured the room. Boxers dared to be the one to speak. “Calm down, Dig. We’re all on the same team. We’ll get the job done. This isn’t the first time we’ve rescued a kid.”

His anger continued to burn. “It’s never been one of my own,” he said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Harvey Rodriguez made his way along the boat launch docks that ran behind and below Jimmy’s Tavern. He’d exited the front door, but rather than walk directly back to the mansion, he’d hooked a right to track along the water for a while. He figured he was far less likely to run into the mysterious Bostonian here than up on the street. He’d wander among the yachts for a block or two downstream, and then cut right and meander his way back to where he wanted to be.

About fifty feet into his plan, Denim stepped around the corner and cut off Harvey’s path. “Hi, again,” the man said. “We need to talk.” He held a pistol in his right hand.

Harvey reacted with the speed of a reflex, spinning on his heels and taking off at a dead run in the opposite direction. It’s amazing how quickly the brain can process thousands of bits of information when it’s fueled by raw terror. Denim needed information, which meant that he needed Harvey alive, which meant that the gun was purely a bluff. He couldn’t afford to fire anyway. Here along the water, the echo would roll for miles.

Still, the skin on Harvey’s back itched at the point between his shoulder blades where the bullet would hit if it was fired.

As his feet pounded along the dock’s wooden planks, he both heard and felt the drumbeat of his pursuer’s strides, but they sounded slower than Harvey’s, reflecting the thirty pounds that separated them.

Harvey dug deeper with each stride and quickened the rhythm. Back in high school, this was how he’d competed in track meets, and later, in the Marine Corps, this was how he’d finished in the top rankings of his training unit. But that was back when he was in shape.

If he was going to win this race, he’d have to do it in the next few seconds, before reality overcame adrenaline and he started to lose steam.

Ahead and to the left loomed the steps that led back to street level, but the stairs would require even more effort than running, and they would shave distance off whatever meager lead he’d opened up against his pursuer. Steps were out. Running wouldn’t be an option for long.

That left only a swim.

Navigating only by moonlight and the wash of light from the buildings up along the street, Harvey turned right at the next slip. When he caught a glimpse of Denim in his peripheral vision, his heart jumped. Harvey’s lead, such as it was, had closed to about ten feet.

“Stop, goddammit!” Denim commanded.