“Money,” Brody sighed. “All right. Elliot Savige?”
“His body’s been recovered.” Jack’s throat tightened, but he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of time to grieve. Not right now. Not when every minute meant another minute Ariana was in the hands of people who would murder six innocent people and crash a plane just to get their hands on her. Jack needed to focus. There’d be time to grieve later, he hoped. “And two other former Rangers. Raul’s people are making the arrangements, and I’ll accompany them back to the US as soon as I’ve recovered Ariana.”
“Good. What do you need, Jack?”
Thank God for Brody’s calm directness, Jack thought as he gave the coordinates for the satellite photographs they’d need. Brody told him that he’d call back as soon as he had them, and Jack hung up, never doubting for a moment that his superior officer would get the job done.
* * *
Two hours later, Jack lounged in a Guàlize City park alone on a park bench, wearing civilian clothes hastily sourced by Raul’s secretary. Sipping on an iced fruit drink he'd bought from a nearby vendor, he looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world and was just watching the brightly colored tropical birds flitting among the nodding palm trees in the warm afternoon breeze.
About five minutes after he sat down, a tanned, local-looking man sat down too, setting a folded newspaper down between the two of them on the bench.
“These didn't come from us,” the man said softly in locally-accented Spanish, his lips barely moving.
“Muchas gracias,” Jack said quietly in return, picking up the newspaper and ambling away. He could feel the envelope of stiff paper tucked in between the softer newsprint pages, but he wasn’t rookie enough to take it out here and now. That could wait until he was back in Raul’s office, away from prying eyes.
* * *
The photographs weren't the unbelievably high-definition ones Jack had seen used when planning field operations in Afghanistan and other trouble spots, but then again the US military still liked to pretend they weren't quite that capable, at least to foreign government officials. The images were still more than good enough for his purposes. An unsigned note tucked into the envelope apologized that there were no satellites in position for imagery at the time of the plane crash, but they'd provided some from a pass about two hours later.
“This is a road,” Raul murmured in a surprised tone, tracing his finger along the thin dark line winding between the trees. It wouldn’t have been visible at the standard resolution; certainly they hadn’t seen it when they’d taken a look at the available images on the Internet. “And a paved one, at that, except here and here, at the ends, do you see?” He pointed at two spots on the map, his eyes widening as he did so. “Madre de Dios, those bastards have built a paved road out here to facilitate their movements, and the government knew nothing of it! It cuts — maybe thirty miles off a journey between San Cristobàl and Tierra Verdes, thirty miles of bad road that takes at least an hour to traverse!” He turned away from the map and paced up and down the office, slamming his fist against his hand. “No wonder we could never catch up to them, never figure out how they were getting their filthy product from the highlands down to the ocean!”
Jack let him pace and curse for a minute before calling his attention back to the photographs. “Raul. Raul, look.” Carefully, he compared the satellite photos with the map, transposing coordinates and sketching the road onto the map with a pencil. “Look, the road goes right through the projected landing zone.”
“It was all pre-arranged,” Raul spat furiously. “Fuentes knew exactly when and where to jump. No doubt they were picked up and on their way before the plane even crashed.”
Jack nodded; he’d already surmised as much. “And long gone before this satellite pass. But the question is, which way did they go?”
There were no vehicles along the length of the secret road on the photographs they had, but several traveled on the larger roads it eventually connected with in both directions.
“Down to the coast, or back up to the mountains,” Raul mused. “That all depends on who took her, doesn't it?” He shared a dark look with Jack. The more time that passed without a demand for ransom, the more concerned they both became.
“Sir,” Gutierrez, Raul's chief bodyguard and the only other man Raul trusted in the room with them right now, stood up from the desk, his bearded face pale. “Sir — an email just arrived!”
Chapter Seven
He's younger than I expected, was Ariana’s first thought upon meeting the man who she was sure would kill her. He couldn't be all that much older than Ariana herself, mid-thirties perhaps, and tall and handsome. Though, as he stood to smile at her, she saw that the smile didn't reach his eyes, flat and dead as a shark's.
“Miss Monterro. May I call you Ariana?” he said politely in Spanish, moving around his desk toward her and extending his hand. His accent wasn’t Gualizean, she noted at once, definitely more Colombian, which would give credence to the rumors about his origins — except he didn’t look Colombian, either. Because The Black Wolf was white. Blond-haired and blue-eyed, freckles scattered across his pale skin. A tattoo peeping above his shirt collar, she couldn’t quite make out what it was, sharp-tipped and angular.
What the hell is this?
“No.” Her tone was flat and cold, her expression scornful as she ignored the offered hand. She had no intention of pretending civility, cooperating with whatever plans he had in mind, or making things easy for him by being docile and easy to manipulate. If she was to die, she'd die defiant, on her own terms, unbowed.
The Black Wolf blinked. “I see,” he murmured. He studied her for a long time, but she refused to grow uncomfortable. Instead, she looked around the room, her head held high, disdain in her gaze as she noted the expensive artworks cluttered together, the gilded decorations, the tastelessly ornate furniture. Money but no class, she thought. Like so many of his kind, he desires legitimacy. Well, he will not get it from me.
“You may call me El Lobo,” he broke the silence first, which she counted as a small victory.
“I think not,” she responded in the same icy tone as before, ignoring him as she studied a small painting she thought might be a genuine Renoir… and one which she was sure she had seen on a list of famous stolen masterpieces.
He laughed, moved up behind her quickly, and grasped her elbow. Jerking it from his grasp, Ariana whirled on him, her eyes flashing. “Do not touch me!”
“You are quite magnificent, even more beautiful than your pictures,” El Lobo said admiringly. “Perhaps you will call me Gustav, then.”
“Perhaps I will call you Asshole. Kidnapper. Murderer. Monster!” she snapped back, repulsed at the thought of being on a first-name basis with the man who had ordered the murder of her friends.
“You would be wise not to antagonize me, Ariana,” he said warningly. “At the present, you are an honored guest here. That can change at any time.”
“Fuck you!” she snarled. “My father will never cooperate. Never. And neither will I!”