“Good show. I’ll be waiting.”
Sam switched the light off as Remi shifted beside him. He exhaled softly and she moved closer.
“Still think this was a good idea?” she murmured.
Sam was already asleep.
A battered 1970s-era blue Ford truck loaded with cast-off wooden beams lurched up the dirt road that ran alongside the grounds of the building-supply warehouse on the outskirts of Mexico City. Inside the high cement wall that ran along the lot perimeter sat three vehicles, even though the warehouse was closed to business for the week—a black Cadillac Escalade, a white Lincoln Navigator, and a lifted burgundy H2 Hummer with oversize tires.
Inside the smaller secondary building, Carlos sat bound to a wooden chair, naked from the waist up, his face a brutalized mass of contusions, the chair back barely supporting his slumping weight as he struggled for breath against the ropes. Reginald paced in front of him, his cigarette smoldering, his face contorted with unthinking anger as he weighed the information he’d just received.
Reginald moved back to Carlos and punched him again, the tops of his black driving gloves slick with drying blood. Carlos gurgled; the blow barely registered after having survived so many from his enraged captor.
“I thought you told me that the permit was killed. You lied to me. You’ll regret that,” Reginald hissed, the menace of his threat obvious in every syllable.
Carlos leaned to the side and spat on the floor near Reginald’s handmade shoes. “It . . . was. When you kidnapped me, it . . . should have . . . stalled indefinitely,” he managed, blurring in and out of consciousness as pain ravaged his body.
“Apparently not. Our sources just told us that a permit for the Fargos, in partnership with the National Institute of Anthropology and History, is being walked through and has received the highest priority.”
“I . . . different permit . . . not mine. You . . . had me . . . days. Must . . . be . . . new,” Carlos mumbled, the word
s barely distinguishable, and then his chin lolled onto his chest as he blacked out.
Reginald punched the side of his head for good measure and then shook his own hand, which was sore from the blows. His fury gradually abated as he studied the unconscious archaeologist. He paced again for a few moments and then he stripped off the gloves and threw them on the floor in disgust before stalking from the room.
In the office next door, a dark-complexioned Hispanic man in his mid-thirties, acne scars pocking his features, regarded Reginald with pig eyes from his seat behind a cheap metal desk. Two younger men sat near the door with Kalashnikov AKM assault rifles in their laps and stared off at nothing.
“Well? Did you learn anything?” asked Ferdinand Guerrero, the Mexico City chief of the Los Zetas cartel, the most violent in Mexico—an international criminal enterprise with tentacles that reached as far away as Africa, Europe, and South America, as well as every major city in the U.S.
“No. He claims it’s not the same . . . issue . . . I was concerned about.”
“Maybe he’s telling the truth?” Guerrero asked, his soft voice out of place with his thick, fight-flattened nose and customary sneer.
“It doesn’t matter. His absence hasn’t bought us enough time to get our permit approved.” Reginald kicked the side of another metal desk in frustration, the sound like an explosion in the small space. Their source had gotten them the manuscript and translation. And a little money spread to an assistant with a drug problem and in over his head to Guerrero had gotten a copy of the lost permit, so they knew exactly where in Teotihuacan to target.
“What do you want us to do with him? Let him go free? If his usefulness is at an end . . .” Guerrero said, shifting behind the desk to study the silver tips of his burgundy Lagarto ostrich cowboy boots.
Reginald fought for control of his emotions and then waved a hand nonchalantly. “I presume you have a means to dispose of him?” He paused, thinking. “He can identify me.”
Guerrero laughed, a phlegmy sound devoid of humor. “You could say we do. Any special timing concerns?”
“Let’s wait till the end of the week so it looks like a kidnapping gone wrong. In fact, if you have someone who could contact the family and make a large ransom demand, that could be money in your pocket,” Reginald suggested. “Easy money for your trouble.”
Guerrero’s eyes narrowed. “I told you the price for arranging this.”
Reginald saw the danger and instantly backtracked. “Of course. Which we’ll be happy to discount from your organization’s next order. I meant additional money—more of a performance bonus.”
Guerrero laughed again and slapped the tabletop. “Ha! You’re a funny man. Much more than your brother, eh? But you talk the same way. A performance bonus!”
The two bodyguards, uncertain what had amused their boss, grinned, but didn’t dare go as far as laughing. Guerrero was notorious for mercurial mood swings. If he imagined an insult from a subordinate, it could be a death sentence. And his volatility wasn’t improved by his prodigious cocaine and methamphetamine intake, making him as dangerous as an armed grenade.
Guerrero nodded slowly and Reginald ventured a wan smile, choking back the tremor of unease that the cartel killer’s gaze induced. “Good show, then. I’d say wait until the end of the week, then do what you like with his body.”
“No problemo, jefe,” Guerrero said, his tone now neutral.
“Quite.”
Reginald paused by the door and one of the gunmen pulled it open for him. As he walked back to the SUV that Guerrero had thoughtfully provided for his use, he weighed strategies for keeping his latest scheme from his older brother, who would be livid if he found out about the kidnapping. Janus was too conservative, Reginald thought, and sometimes it was best to adapt to a situation on the ground as it developed. If things had gone as planned, the permit they’d applied for would have made it through the system while the Fargos’ application languished, and they’d have been able to supervise the dig themselves.