OTAY MESA
MONDAY, 12:21 P.M.
GRACE STOOD BESIDE THE door of the warehouse bathroom and listened to the noises that welled up from the open hatchway. Everything was clear, distinct, almost too loud. She heard footsteps drawing closer, followed by a muffled cry.
Lane!
Then came Hector’s voice, surprisingly close, cold.
Deadly.
“Stop here,” Hector said. “Shut up. If you good, I good. You bad, I fock you mother and you father and you. Then I kill todo el mundo. ?Claro?”
The sound Lane made was a growl of fear and anger.
Grace gritted her teeth against the scream clawing to get out of her throat.
Hurry, Joe. Lane needs you.
I need you.
I’m not nearly as good at this as you are.
Silently she backed away from the bathroom door where light spilled out brightly. Holding the pistol against her thigh, she walked quickly through separate pools of light and ribbons of darkness. She stopped near the back wall of the hangar, where pallets cast dark shadows. Seventy feet of empty darkness and vertical tunnels of light separated her from the bathroom.
She turned sideways, keeping the gun out of sight.
From inside the bathroom came the hollow ringing sound of someone climbing a metal ladder. The black muzzle of a heavy-bore semiautomatic pistol rose up out of the floor. The weapon was equipped with a black device mounted like a sight on top of the barrel. A pencil-thin beam of red light reached out. Wherever the beam touched, a bullet could instantly follow.
Hector’s black hair appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. He stuck his head up slowly, eyes glinting, like a rat coming out of a sewer.
The red light lanced out across the emptiness, piercing the cones of light, a red finger that touched first Grace, then the shadows and spaces behind her.
She thought about shooting Hector, but the range was extreme, the pistol unfamiliar, and Hector could have left someone down with Lane, a gun at his head.
“Where is my son?” she demanded.
Her voice carried clearly through the warehouse.
Hector climbed out of the tunnel and pointed his heavy black pistol at her. The red light danced in her eyes, then came to rest on her collarbone.
“Where is Faroe?” Hector asked.
“He didn’t feel like hanging around waiting for you to kill him.”
“He leave you?”
“Yes.”
Hector shook his head. “You no have good luck with men.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Where is Franklin?”
“You’ll get him when I get my son.”
Hector walked into the warehouse with a faintly dragging step. Using the laser beam, he checked out the stacks of cartons and piles of red stone pots. Satisfied that no one was hiding there, he walked toward Grace.
The red dot settled on her breast.
“Maybe I kill you now,” Hector said. “Then Franklin. And the boy.”
Has Jaime already killed Joe? Grace thought. Then she shoved the thought away. She had to stay calm.
For Lane.
Hector kept coming toward her, flashing in and out of darkness like a ghost.
Fifty feet. Forty feet. Thirty.
Twenty.
Grace turned fully toward him and assumed a shooting stance. Reflected light slid over her dark pistol like water. “You’ll be the first to die.”
Hector grinned and kept walking. “You shoot good?”
“Yes.”
She centered the black blade of the pistol sight just south of Hector’s shiny belt buckle.
He chuckled, stopped, and lowered his pistol. “Basta. Enough.”
“It’s not enough until Lane appears here. Unharmed.”
“Where is that burro Franklin? I see him on TV, but no more.”
“He’s here. Where is Lane?”
Grace’s pistol didn’t waver.
Hector shook his head. “Ah, senora, Judge, I no like this. You demand too much.”
Pistol at his side, he took one step, then another, staring past Grace, trying to see into the shadows.
There was just enough light for him to see her finger taking up slack on the trigger.
He stopped. “You tough, you know?”
“No closer” was all she said.
Hector gathered his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “I no like orders from a woman.”
“Then consider the orders from the gun, not the woman,” Grace said.
“Aiee, such a ball-breaker.” He laughed. “I get Lane. You get Franklin. But if it go bad, the boy die first.”
“Nothing will go bad. You want Ted. I want Lane. End of negotiation.”
Hector dropped his chin and glared at her. “I no believe Faroe leave you. He is here, escondido, to kill me.”
“Joe Faroe wants Lane alive more than he wants you dead.”
Hector shook his head.
The pistol Grace held felt like it weighed fifty pounds. Cold sweat trickled down over her ribs. Joe, where are you?
Hurry!
“Joe is Lane’s biological father,” Grace said roughly. “That’s why Ted gave Lane to you as a hostage. It didn’t matter to Ted.”
Hector’s eyes glinted. “This is true?”
“As true as death. Joe and I won’t double-cross you for any amount of money. We want our son alive and well.”
Hector glared at her, then he spat in disgust. He dug a Marlboro pack out of his shirt pocket with his free hand, shook loose a cocaine-laced cigarette, and took it out with his teeth. He put away the pack, dug a lighter out of his jeans pocket, and struck a flame.
The movements were ritualized, including the deep breath full of cocaine smoke he drew into his lungs. A shimmering haze of pleasure and power swept through him.
“We do it the gun’s way,” Hector said. “This time.”
He walked back across the concrete to the bathroom and disappeared down the hole.