Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

The only reason he’d managed to penetrate the operation so easily was that nobody had been detailed to watch the back side.

Too many dry runs.

Not enough wet work.

Faroe wasn’t the only one to see the greenish glow. From down the tree line, he heard a quiet, edgy voice.

“Number Three, you’re showing a light.”

Instantly the cap went back on the starlight scope.

If Faroe had found himself in the middle of a St. Kilda operation, the team leader, the sniper, and the smoker would have been fired on the spot. The sniper should have known enough to keep his light capped, the team leader should have kept radio silence for anything short of life-or-death, and putting a smoker on the stalk was like sending up a flare.

The surveillance team scattered through the night around the Lomas ranch compound was made up of dudes earning a living, individuals of varying skill who were going through the motions, some more effectively than others.

Just people.

It was a simple truth that civilians had a tough time understanding. That and the fact that the government was armed by the lowest bidder.

Faroe lay back in the shadows, running scenarios in his mind. If Grace had been the target, the men would have moved in after she arrived-or been waiting in the house for her.

Are these Hector’s men?

Doubtful. Even the Zetas mercenaries working both sides of the southwestern border spoke Spanish. If they’d hired gringos, it hadn’t made a ripple yet.

Besides, the Zetas had done enough wet work not to be careless.

Did Franklin advertise in Mercs “R” Us?

Possible, but it wouldn’t explain the feds following everyone-and then suddenly not following Grace.

The feds know she’s going to be here.

Does Ted know about the feds?

Headlights turned off the country highway and hit the driveway. The high beams flashed twice.

Near Faroe, the voice in the shadows spoke into a handy-talkie. “Primary is on the move, arriving in thirty seconds. Heads up. We don’t want any surprises.”

The green glow of the starlight scope appeared in the hayloft again.

Faroe watched the sniper sweep the grounds with his magic eye, prying into the darkness, covering the compound.

Covering.

Okay. Faroe let out a long, silent breath. The weapons team isn’t here to make an arrest. They’re protecting an operation.

The vehicle appeared at the end of the gravel driveway and swung around into the lighted traffic circle in front of the house. It was an oversize black SUV, a Suburban, but in the dark it looked a lot like the ominous Escalade Hector’s gunmen used.

Must be a machismo thing.

And at night, with the lights off, black vehicles vanished.

The Suburban pulled past the front door and didn’t stop until it found a place where the escape route couldn’t be blocked. The driver was a professional trained in kidnap evasion.

“Primary, you’re good to go,” the radio voice said. “Make sure Franklin comes out last.”

The headlights of the Suburban flashed again, proving that the vehicle was on the same radio frequency as the sniper and the weapons team. This was all for the benefit of one man.

Theodore Franklin.

Feds.

Bad combination.

Faroe slid back deeper into the shadows. If he showed himself now, the last thing he’d see in this life would be the green eye of the sniper’s rifle.

The driver of the Suburban got out and searched the darkened compound. He muttered something and another man got out of the front seat. Both men were wearing dark windbreakers with bright lettering across the chest and back.

Law enforcement raid jackets.

The side door of the vehicle opened and a third man, heavyset and a little awkward, stepped down. The officers in the windbreakers fell in on either side of him and ushered him toward the front door.

Must be Ted.

The son of a bitch.

Franklin moved flat-footed, almost like he was in leg chains.

Behind him a fourth man slid out of the car. He wore a suit and carried a leather briefcase shiny enough to reflect moonlight. He walked like a man who owned the world.

One of the cops knocked firmly on the front door. The sound carried through the night. From Faroe’s right came a voice from the team leader’s radio.

“She’s in the kitchen, headed for the front door right now.”

Faroe was glad Grace didn’t know that she was being tracked by a sniper’s telescopic rifle sight.

The lawman was about to knock again when the door swung open. Grace was outlined in the hallway light. Obviously car registration wasn’t the only detail she hadn’t had time to take care of. She must have left clothes at the place because she was now dressed in dark slacks, a dark blouse, and flat shoes. She said something that Faroe couldn’t hear.

“Mrs. Franklin, we’re here on official business,” a man said. His command voice carried clearly through the night. “It would be best if you cooperate.”

Grace moved back and let them enter. As the second officer walked underneath the porch light, Faroe saw the lettering on the back of his raid jacket.

US MARSHAL

The door closed.

Well, that does it. This has gone from a goat roping to a clusterfuck.

Marshals weren’t garden-variety cops. They protected courtrooms, served papers, transported prisoners, chased fugitives. And they administered a highly specialized program called “witness protection.”

Franklin had found himself a mink-lined hideout protected by the kind of bureaucracy that made an art out of delay.

But Lane had only a bit more than twelve hours to live.

All bets were off.

LOMAS SANTA FE

MONDAY, 12:20 A.M.

FAROE TURNED TOWARD THE officer in the camouflage coveralls. “Hey, you, over there in the trees. You’re trespassing on private property. Come out with your hands up!”

The instant response was silence.

Then the officer slowly turned his head in Faroe’s direction. At the same time, his right shoulder dropped.

He was sliding the assault rifle off his shoulder.

“Reach for that weapon and die,” Faroe said flatly.

The man froze.

“Can you see him?” the man said into his radio.

The answer must have been negative because the man slowly raised his hands.

“We’re federal law enforcement agents on official duty,” he said. “Step out where we can see you.”

“I don’t care if you’re aliens from the third galaxy over. You’re trespassing and you’re armed. I’m in fear of my life and I have every right to shoot you where you stand. Step backward out of cover so I can see you.”

After a few seconds the man slowly straightened. Keeping his hands where they could be seen, he stepped backward out of his position. In the moonlight, Faroe could see reflective yellow letters on his back.

Another marshal.

“You see the lettering on the back of my coverall?” the marshal demanded. “That’ll tell you who we are.”

“How stupid do you think I am? You can buy anything on eBay. Keep walking backward toward me.”

“You aren’t being very smart.”

“I aced target practice, which is all the smart I need. Back up.”

Slowly the marshal backed up. When he was six feet away Faroe stepped out of the shadows, keeping the marshal between him and the barn.

“Tell your shooter in the hayloft to ease back on his trigger,” Faroe said.

The marshal stood still but didn’t say anything.

“Tell him.”

“Hold fire,” the officer said. He turned slightly, trying to get a look behind him.

In the half-light, Faroe could see the slender stalk of a radio microphone outlined against his cheek.

“Eyes front,” Faroe snapped.

“We’re federal officers. You’re dipping yourself in deep shit.”

“You’re already up to your own lips in the stuff,” Faroe said. “You and I are going to walk toward the house, where there’s good light, and we’ll let the judge sort out who’s doing what and with which and to whom.”

“You her bodyguard?”

“Give the man a prize. I’m walking in your shadow, so remind your boys about Ruby Ridge and what happens to snipers who take bad shots.”

“He’s the judge’s bodyguard!” the marshal shouted. “Hold fire. We’re going inside.”

Faroe stayed close behind the marshal as they stepped out of the tree line and walked slowly across the front lawn. The skin at the base of his skull tingled as he sensed the gentle, giddy sensation of crosshairs intersecting there. He kept his right arm bent at the elbow, the posture of a man holding a gun.

Except he didn’t have a gun and he sure didn’t want anyone to know it until he was inside.

As the marshal reached the first step of the porch, the front door swung open. The marshal inside had been monitoring the radio traffic. He held a pistol close to his leg, ready to bring it to bear.

“Relax,” Faroe said.

Then he stepped into the light and showed his empty hands.

“Oh, shit,” the marshal in the coverall muttered.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Faroe said. “I just wanted to get inside without being whacked by an eager shooter.”

“Who are you?” the man in the doorway demanded. “This is a federal crime scene. What are you doing here?” His windbreaker carried the name “Harkin” in yellow letters above a federal marshal’s logo.

“Marshal Harkin, I’m representing the interests of an officer of the federal court,” Faroe said clearly. “Her name is Judge Grace Silva. Do you have a warrant to be on her property?”

“You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal officer, and that’s just for starters.”

Grace appeared in the hallway behind the marshal. She’d not only changed her clothes, she’d wiped off the streetwalker makeup.

“He’s not interfering with anything,” she said to the marshal in her best bench tone. “He’s doing his job.”

“Sneaking around in the dark?”

Her smile could have frozen fire. “When Ted demanded a meeting, at midnight, in a deserted house, I decided to bring somebody. Looks like Ted decided the same thing.” Her dark glance raked the marshals. “Next time you ask for a command performance, tell me why in advance.”

Faroe kept a poker face, but he was really glad Grace wasn’t aiming all that power and scorn at him.

“Come in,” she said to Faroe. “These are bona fide federal marshals. Apparently Ted is a federally protected witness, though no one will tell me what case he’s a witness in.”

Faroe walked into the house before the marshal could stop him. “Protected witness, huh? We used to call them snitches. They waste a lot of time before you get anything good.”

Grace understood the message and sent one of her own. “I’m used to cutting through the bullshit.”

Faroe nodded and gave her the lead. He might be hell on wheels in the shadows, but this was her world.

And she was good at it.

He followed her down the hallway and into a comfortably furnished living room that would have been called a salon if ranch houses had salons. Another marshal in a windbreaker stood in the middle of a large, magnificent Oriental carpet. His jacket bore the name “Tallman.”

Ted Franklin stood behind Tallman, using him as a shield.

Faroe moved to one side. He wanted to see the man who had raised Lane and then given him to the Butcher of Tijuana.

Franklin was big, bulky, with the look of a man who liked alcohol too much and exercise not at all. He was wearing an expensive pinstripe suit and shiny loafers. His face was puffy, either from booze or lack of sleep. Both, probably. His eyes were bloodshot slits.

“Who’s this guy?” Franklin demanded.

“You brought your friends to the party,” Grace said. “I brought mine.”

“Who is he?” Franklin demanded again. He turned to Tallman. “Make him show you some ID.”

Tallman frowned. “You’re not my boss, Mr. Franklin. Technically, you’re not even a protected witness. We only agreed to go along on this visit as a courtesy. So until you and your attorney have concluded your plea negotiations, don’t give me attitude.”

Franklin looked like he’d been slapped. He straightened his shoulders and turned toward the fourth man, the one with the polished briefcase. He was coming down the stairs from the second floor.