Victim or not, Jack was suspicious of any girl who would help lure children into the Palace. Especially after she, herself, had seen the heartbreak and brokenness of the girls being trafficked by her father.
“Got it.” Jack took the papers on his desk and looked them over. “When do we start with the details?”
“Ten minutes from now. In the computer lab down the hall. Every moment counts at this point.” Oliver picked up a satchel from the podium and handed it to Jack. “Here’s your flight itinerary, identification papers, Belizean money, falsified bank routing information, addresses, a cell phone, and the contact information you’ll need for the Blue Breeze Yacht Club.”
Oliver looked at TJ and Pen. “The two of you will lead the raid.”
“Yes, sir.” TJ collected his things.
Matthew did the same. “We’ll be ready.”
Jack felt the weight of the satchel in his hands. Just a few days to memorize his newest identity. This was standard. Jack was a quick study. It was one reason he was top of the list of agents sent out on TOC secret missions. Oliver once said Jack assumed identities as if he didn’t have one of his own.
The man didn’t know how true the statement was.
When the other agents were out of the room, Oliver looked at Jack. “Belize.”
The word hung in the air like the blade of a guillotine. Jack broke the silence. “It’s not a problem.”
Oliver knew the history, knew everything about Jack. It was why he had chosen Jack as an agent in the first place. Straight out of Navy SEAL training.
“You’re my top pick. But be honest, Jack. I can have another agent on this in a minute.” He sounded like Jack’s father now. “I need to know.”
“I’m fine.” Jack nodded. “It’s just another beach. Another operation.” Tears stung his eyes but only for a few seconds. “I want the mission.”
“Okay.” Oliver looked satisfied. “See you in ten.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack pushed thoughts of Belize from his mind. He grabbed the satchel and headed down the hall.
After learning and relearning hundreds of details that would make up the Belizean operation, Jack finally left the building. By six o’clock he was back at his Magnolia Heights apartment on Broadway near San Antonio’s famous River Walk. The bureau moved Jack around the city every six months or so, in case a criminal from a previous case figured out where he lived.
A few years ago an undercover agent was killed in New York City by a guy dressed as a doorman. He couldn’t be too careful.
Jack liked this particular apartment. He had a balcony overlooking the stream of people strolling along the famous stretch of shops and restaurants. Jack was one guy in one apartment on a street of apartment buildings. The place made him feel invisible.
Exactly how he liked it.
He took the satchel to the balcony and sat at the round metal table. Inside the package, on top of the pile, was his identification. Henry Thomas Ellington IV. A name Anders McMillan would trust.
Next in the stack of paperwork were several pages on the real man behind the set-up. Henry Thomas Ellington III had been an occasional customer at the Palace. McMillan and the senior Ellington had compared notes on their criminal empires. Then there was the airfare confirmation. First-class round trip to Belize City. He would take a cab to a local car rental agency. Going out of the way made it easier to stay under the radar. Like with every mission, he would have to trust a dozen people with his life. Any one of them could ruin the mission and put him in an early grave.
Whatever. Jack looked at the airline information again.
Belize.
Ten years ago he and his brother and their parents had flown first class, too. Jack stared at the distant clouds. A storm was inching closer. He closed his eyes and he could still hear Shane calling to him from down the beach. You might have a little competition at quarterback, big brother. He was so young. Just fourteen.
Why didn’t you stay on the shore, Shane? I told you to stay on the shore.
Jack opened his eyes. No, Belize wasn’t going to be a problem. The country owed him one. This one’s for you, little brother. Jack breathed deep. If only he believed in God the way he had back then. Back when his biggest problem was figuring out whether he was going to be a Navy SEAL or a politician like his father.
That endless summer all those years ago.
In the rare moments when he did still think God was possible, Jack could only ask the obvious question. Why? Why did Shane follow him into the water and how come Jack hadn’t been able to swim fast enough to save them both? The little girl and Shane. His best friend. If God were real, He had to have the answers. But Jack never asked. If God was there, if He was real, then He didn’t listen to Jack Ryder. Otherwise Shane would’ve lived.
The truth about God was that simple.
Jack stared at the sky again. The purpose he had felt that day—the way it felt to save the little girl—was all that mattered now. It drove him and compelled him to notch one successful mission after another. He lived for it. The feeling he would have at the end of the week when he returned home from Belize, sixteen trafficking victims and Eliza Ann McMillan free from the Palace forever.
The face of the little blond girl came to mind, the one Jack had saved instead of saving Shane. Some tourist, no doubt. Probably from Europe. Sweden, maybe. No big deal to her family, Jack guessed. The rescue was probably something her mother brought up every now and then at family parties. Like a favorite story.
Remember the time when…
Did the girl’s family even realize that Jack’s brother had died that day? Jack was never sure. But something had struck him about the girl’s mother. Something that had always rubbed him the wrong way and made him question what kind of person she must’ve been. Even now.
Jack distinctly remembered the look in the mother’s eyes. More anger than fear, a fact that still didn’t make sense. The woman had made eye contact with Jack as he brought the child up the beach and as he handed her over, just before he turned and ran to Shane. But something had been missing from the exchange. It was still missing.
Her mother had never said thank you.
CHAPTER FIVE
Streams of tears flow from my eyes because my people are destroyed.
—Lamentations 3:48
At eighty-six years old, Ike Armstrong knew everyone in the hillside Mennonite community of Lower Barton Creek, seventy miles west of Belize City. Most of them thought he was losing his mind, that he wasn’t as sharp as he had once been and that the stories he told were more fables than fact.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Sure, Ike talked slower than he had in his prime and he didn’t always remember what he had eaten for breakfast. But he could tell you the history of the Mennonite settlements in Belize without missing a name or a date. He had been the historian of Lower Barton Creek since its founding.
Children of the settlement considered history nothing more than a list of facts. Ike knew better. For five decades, he had been not only keeper of the facts… but keeper of the stories. The heart of life here in Belize. Passing on the more detailed village history was up to him, and to that end, he was sharper than anyone in the settlement.
The Belize City police chief knew that Ike had more information about Lower Barton than anyone. It was why the chief had dropped in on Ike yesterday, and why the man had arranged for the young FBI agent to come by today.