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FORTY-SIX

  Shep and I drive south for an hour and a half, most of it through canyoned scrubland, finally arriving at our destination at four in the afternoon. He parks his F-350 on the gravel side of Lake Hughes Road; we both pull packs out of the bed and begin hiking through hills. After thirty minutes of this we crest a rise and then drop to our bellies.

  We are most of a mile north of Rancho Esmerelda, just south of San Francisquito Canyon Road, and with the maps on our phones and the GPS on Shep’s watch we’ve picked this particular site as a good overwatch position for our evening of reconnaissance. We pull binoculars for a quick look, then unpack a high-end spotting scope Duvall brought along to get a better picture of the property.

  Spotting scopes suck in the night, but the buildings around Rancho Esmerelda are lit up and the moon is nearly full. These conditions help us this evening, although Shep and I both know they will hinder us tomorrow when we have to try to get as close to that target as possible without being seen.

  After looking through the optics for just seconds we realize we are facing a large and formidable property. The sixty-power scope Shep brought along helps identify the main guard force to be, as near as we can tell, Mexican or perhaps even Salvadoran gangsters. If experience is any guide, these men will be trained in the use of their weapons but not overly organized as a cohesive fighting force. They are carrying what appear to be civilian AR-15s and shotguns, mostly, and they amble about on foot, drive patrols over the sixty rolling acres in four-wheelers, or sit in covered fixed positions around the property.

  We don’t see any women milling about outside, but that’s no surprise. Still, we quickly get an idea about where the victims are being held. The guard force is centralized around the main building, a luxurious three-story ranch house we estimate to be somewhere around fifteen thousand square feet. While there are other outbuildings around the ranch, sheds and warehouses and a barn and a couple of cabins, from the disposition of external security we determine that the girls are located in the big house.

  The bunkhouses are to the east on the far edge of the property, but there are vehicles parked behind them and a halfway decent road through the undulating landscape to the big stucco house, a half mile to the west.

  Just after nine p.m., a pair of high-end SUVs turn off the main road, roll up the drive, and stop at a guard position. A minute later they continue forward, until they finally stop again in front of the main house.

  The drivers open the rear doors in both vehicles, and four men climb out and head up the steps to the front door. They disappear inside a moment later.

  Shep says what I’m thinking. “Johns.”

  “Yeah.” If I had a sniper rifle on me I’d be inclined to open up on these bastards, so it’s a good thing I don’t.

  I speak softly, knowing how voices can travel on a quiet night. “We’ll do a helo infiltration, concentrate forces on the main building. We secure hostages, and then, hopefully, fight our way back out.”

  “Hopefully,” Shep mutters.

  “Yeah, I know. Hope isn’t a strategy. But tomorrow night it will definitely have to serve as a tactic.”

  Shep nods. “We need two outside to keep the responding forces occupied. I’m old, my knees are pretty shot, but I can snipe. I’ll fly shotgun in the helo and provide air cover; me and Carl will circle the target during the raid. And A.J. can knock the stink off a gnat’s ass from a thousand yards. We’ll put him on that hillock over there on the other side of the canyon; he’ll do his best to keep the guys in the bunkhouse busy.”

  I laugh in the dark. “We make it sound so easy.”

  Shep spits into the dirt in front of him. “Getting in . . . not easy, but doable. Getting out . . . I don’t know.”

  “One problem at a time,” I say. Then I ask, “You’re sure Carl can handle this?”

  Without hesitation, he says, “He’ll be fine.”

  “You met him at the Agency?”

  “Nah, he’s been retired since, like forever. He flies that helo at a two-hundred-fifty-acre gun range north of Las Vegas. Weekend warriors go there to shoot targets from the air, and he gives them the ride of their lives.”

  “He knows he’s gonna get shot at tomorrow, right?”

  Duvall nods. “He knows the mission. Look, you’ve got five guys willing to face death to help save those girls and frag any of those fuckers holding them who try to stop us. Don’t look too deep into the motivations of any one of us, and we’ll try not to think too hard about yours.”

  “Fair enough. Have you seen his helo?”

  “Sure. Decent little four-seater.”

  I take my eye out of the scope and look at Shep. “A four-seater?”

  “Yep.”

  Confused, I point out the obvious. “You, me, Rodney, Kareem, and A.J. Plus the pilot. That’s six.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why doesn’t it matter?”

  “Because you, A.J., Kareem, and Rodney are riding the skids.”

  Shit, I think. What have I gotten myself into? “Says who?”

  Shep shrugs. “Carl in the right seat, me in the left. You guys outboard. When we’re about one and a half klicks out, Carl will drop A.J. off, he’ll set up a sniper position, and the rest of us continue on to the target. You can get off those skids faster than you can get out of the cabin of the helo, and the insertion has to be fast and smooth for us to be able to pull this off.”

  He’s right, but now I add falling off the side of a helicopter to my death to my long list of things to worry about.

  And with that we settle in for another hour or two of recon before returning to Bakersfield.

  * * *

  • • •

  Ken Cage worked in his home office all morning, beginning at seven, well before his normal start time of nine. Heather was annoyed, but she read his mood, and didn’t push things. She only peeked in once to see if he needed more coffee, and the kids didn’t come in at all.

  But by ten a.m. Cage realized that he couldn’t stay on task today. No, there was too much on his mind.

  He didn’t know how close he’d come to getting killed the night before last, certainly closer than he’d ever been in his life.

  White Lion had never had a serious injury in the five years they had been protecting and overseeing the pipeline, but now they had a man dead.

  Sean Hall was scared, Kostopoulos was dead, the way station in Bosnia had been closed, and the Serbians, the Albanians, the Greeks, and the Italians were all freaking out about this new danger to the Consortium.

  Verdoorn and Hall were both here at the Hollywood Hills mansion today: Hall was outside the office in the living room, working in his close-protection role, his six men patrolling the grounds. Verdoorn was camped in a guest room on the third floor, using it both as a residence and as an office. His men, the eight of them still alive, were up at Rancho Esmerelda, although Cage didn’t exactly know why.

  In all the years he’d run the Consortium, Cage had never felt himself on shakier ground. He knew he had to be the leader now, he had to show strength, and for this reason he called in Hall and Verdoorn for a conference in his home office.

  The billionaire financier turned up the ambient sound, had Hall lock the door, and then the three men sat together in chairs in front of Cage’s desk.

  Cage looked to the South African first. “Any danger your dead guy in Italy is going to get traced back to you?”

  “None. All my men have their own offshore corps set up; there’s nothing to trace them to White Lion, any other corporations involved in the Consortium, or you.”

  Cage next turned to Hall. “I’m going to Esmerelda tonight. That going to be a problem?”

  Sean Hall looked to Verdoorn, then back to his boss. He was obviously less sure of himself than Jaco. “We have no intelligence that says Gentry is in America, or that he even knows
your identity. But he’s managed to show up at location after location along the pipeline. I know we’re in America, and that may mean he’s less likely to present himself, but still . . . I think it would be best if you laid low for a couple of weeks, just until Jaco and his men get this situation handled.”

  The South African spoke up immediately. “I disagree. As Hall said, we’ve got nothing to say he’s here, he’s coming here, or he even knows about here.”

  Cage replied coolly. “You said that in Italy. How did that work out?”

  To this Verdoorn shrugged. “Look how bladdy close we got to the prick.”

  “How should I know how close you got?” Cage snapped. “Sean and his boys had to rescue me before the Gray Man got within striking distance.”

  Verdoorn’s eyes narrowed, but only for an instant. “We were close, sir. We’ve got feelers out for him here, too. If he arrives, we’ll know, and we’ll put a stop to him. I’ve got my men at Rancho Esmerelda, supporting the guard force there. We’ll get him this time, should he come.

  “You’ve said yourself a dozen times there is nothing in the paperwork that ties you to the ranch. Even if he does go there, even if he comes with federal cops, you are safe.”

  Hall shouted now, the first time Cage had ever heard him doing so. “Not if he’s there on the property when they come!”

  To this Cage said, “Calm down, Sean. Look, the feds can’t touch me, we all know that. I’m too important to them. I want to go to the property tonight. Jesus, after what I went through a couple of nights ago, I need it. Your men, Jaco’s men, the Mexicans at the ranch, you’ll all keep me safe.” Cage smiled a little. “Won’t you?”

  Hall said nothing; he only looked at Jaco.

  “Won’t you?” Cage demanded.

  “Of course, sir,” Hall replied.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sean Hall pulled the icy-cold bottle of Grey Goose from his freezer, yanked off the lid, then took one long, hard swig. Wincing with the sting of the alcohol, he walked to the front window of his residence and looked outside at Cage’s mansion, just seventy-five feet away across the pool.

  This is bullshit, he told himself.

  He looked down at his phone for a moment, saw he’d gotten a text from Cage’s oldest daughter, Charlotte. The two of them had planned to go surfing the following morning, but she’d backed out in favor of spending a couple of days with friends at Lake Arrowhead. He started to read her text, but movement on the patio diverted his attention.

  Jaco Verdoorn walked in Sean’s direction, through the manicured gardens, and then across the patio.

  “Bullshit,” he said aloud now, and he put his phone back in his pocket, then swigged more of the frigid alcohol.

  He let Jaco in a moment later, still holding the bottle, and this wasn’t lost on Verdoorn.

  “Drinkin’ by noon? On the job, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck you.” Hall took another swig.

  Verdoorn sighed. “Look. You’re right. Gentry will find the ranch. But that’s a good thing. I can end this, once and for all, as soon as he shows. But to do that without risking Cage, I need you watching over him, and supporting my mission.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Verdoorn said one word. “Maja.”

  Hall cocked his head. “The Romanian? What about her?”

  “Gentry is after her. This entire fookin’ thing, all the fighting and dying and burned-down way stations, it’s all about that one little bitch.”

  Hall was confused. “How . . . how do you know this?”

  “I know,” Verdoorn replied, but said nothing else.

  Now the American security agent sat down on his sofa, his eyes distant. “Does Ken know this?”

  “No, and you’re not going to tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll look bad. And if you make me look bad, I’ve got more than enough on you to make you look very bad.”

  Hall just stared up at the bald South African.

  Verdoorn continued, “You accused me of using the Director as bait over in Italy. Maybe I’m guilty of that, but it was a reasoned calculation that you could protect him while I killed off Gentry. My boys didn’t get the job done there, so now we’re here. This time, Maja is the bait. I’ve got my men at the ranch, surrounding her. I’m going there myself, and we’ll be lying in wait. When Gentry comes . . . we’ll be ready.”

  Hall looked down at the rug between his feet.

  “Why not tell Cage to stay away until that happens?”

  “Because I’ll have to tell him why. If Cage finds out Maja’s radioactive, he’ll have me kill her, and then who knows if the Gray Man will continue the hunt? No, she has to stay alive, for now.”

  “And after?”

  “After? After, I’ll tell Cage myself that she was the one who caused all this shit. Make it look like I just found out. Don’t worry about anyone else comin’ lookin’ for that little whore. When Gentry is dead, when she’s dead, then this little problem will be sorted.”

  Hall put the lid back on the bottle, then he nodded slowly. This was Verdoorn’s operation, Verdoorn’s mess.

  He shook away the cobwebs the vodka was laying in his brain and stood up. “Fucking kill this guy, Jaco.”

  Verdoorn nodded curtly, turned, and left the pool house.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Roxana Vaduva sat on a small love seat in her room as the light faded outside, and she stared down at her hands. She was alone now, but an hour before an Asian woman who either spoke no English or else pretended like she didn’t arrived without warning and painted Roxana’s fingernails and toenails in fire-engine red. This came after evening wear had been selected for her, after she’d been told to bathe thoroughly, and after a stylist had arrived to straighten her brown hair.

  This was Roxana’s second day at the ranch. The evening before she’d remained in her room because Dr. Claudia had told her that while she was free to roam the interior of the house during the day, she would not have any duties herself on her first night, so she should stay away from the guests.

  Duties and guests. Roxana had thought at the time the words to be sickeningly euphemistic. Duties and guests.

  Tonight’s attention, the nails and the makeup and the clothing and the hairstylist, she took to be a very bad sign. Last night Roxana had taken her dinner in her room, but still she heard men arrive, usually in groups of two to four, for hours and hours. She pictured the other women and girls on the property, imagined they were all dressed up like she herself was now, and she had no doubts at all about what had happened on the other side of her closed door.

  There were no clocks in the building that she had seen during the early afternoon today when she’d spent a half hour walking around, looking out the windows, trying desperately to figure out where, exactly, she was. She’d made some light conversation with a few of the girls, as well as a woman Claudia had introduced who called herself Patty. Claudia said Patty was the coordinator, and Roxana took this to mean she was the madam, here to make sure the men who arrived to be serviced by the girls got what they came for.

  The guards around the building were mostly Latino, and while they eyed the girls up and down, they did not speak to them directly. There were also several well-dressed Caucasian men she took for South African here, and one or two of them she remembered from the night she was transported to the yacht that took her to Venice. She had yet to see the man called Jaco since she’d gotten off the Gulfstream the day before, but she could feel his ominous presence in the other men, all of whom had hard edges to them.

  Dr. Claudia entered Roxana’s room just after eight in the evening. She was dressed in a business suit, not like the gown Roxana was wearing or those she’d seen on the other women.

  She spoke in a calm voice, the words coming out through her pract
iced smile. “Tonight is the night, Maja.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Director is coming up this evening, just to see you. You should feel very honored.”

  The twenty-three-year-old Romanian nodded absently.

  “Remember,” Claudia said, “Jaco is watching you very carefully. Don’t cross the Director, and don’t cross Jaco, and all the good things that I’ve been promising you for the last several days will be yours.”

  The doctor left the room.

  Roxana’s heart began to pound in fear, but she also saw this as an opportunity. If the Director was coming here, into her room, then there was a good chance his phone would be with him. And even if she didn’t know where she was, she could call her sister, make some sort of contact, and describe everything she knew about this property and the people around her. She could describe the little part of the airport property she saw and the drive north and the ocean and the landscape and maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to help.

  She knew Tom’s arrival would present an opportunity, but that wasn’t the chief emotion she was feeling right now. No, it was fear. Abject, unadulterated terror. She knew she was going to be raped. She could fight it, but she’d seen over a dozen armed men in the house so far, and she had no doubt they all worked for the Director. If he attacked her tonight, he would have all the reinforcements he needed to exert his will.

  And how could she sneak his phone if she was in hand-to-hand combat with him around the room?

  The thought of killing herself returned for a brief moment, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Part of her preferred death to what she knew was soon to occur, but another part of her wanted the pipeline exposed, no matter the personal cost. She wanted the Director and Claudia and Jaco stopped, and she knew that she, her sister, and the killer working with her sister were the best chances to make this happen.

  The makeup artist entered the room and put her cases on the vanity next to her.

  Roxana did not speak to the woman; she did her best to hold in her fear, to concentrate on her task, and to try to get herself mentally prepared for the hell, and for the opportunity, that were both sure to come.