Page 8 of Resurgent
He runs off to find his brother and I sit on the porch and scan the internet, hoping as I do every day for some news article vindicating me, some explanation for the impossible, or something that will jog my memory and cast some light on why in the hell I would betray the country I swore to protect. Thank God for modern technology, and the fact that my crazy travel schedule means I prepay for things like my cell phone a year in advance. I’m about to switch it off and tell Anil to put his shoes on when theCharleston Post & Courierheadline catches my eye. “Charleston Wedding Business Owner Missing—Foul Play Suspected.”
McKenzie! My blood runs cold as I click on the link, but it’s not my sister’s familiar face in the accompanying picture. Still, there’s no mistaking the big brown eyes, heart-shaped face, full pouty lips, and dark hair long enough to wrap around your fist as you pull her head back to kiss the smooth column of her neck as she shudders deliciously. I should know. I’ve seen that face a hundred times in my dreams.
They’ve got Charlotte.
Driven by a powerful combination of rage fueled with terror, I throw my meager things in a bag and go look for Dr. Singh. I find him feeding the goats, one his favorite pastimes.
“I’ve got to go. Back to the States.”
He looks up from the small brown kid that is nuzzling his hand. Mild-mannered as always, he says calmly, “I think a few more weeks would be best. But I can see by the look on your face that you are impatient. At least let me do one more scan, just to be sure. I will call the office and have them set something up for Friday.” He turns back to the goat.
“No. I appreciate everything you have done for me, and one day I will repay you, but I have to leave now.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You have remembered?”
I nod, praying God will forgive the lie, and the fact that I’m about to use the drug money I swore I wouldn’t touch. “Someone I love is in trouble. It’s time.”
He looks at my face as if he stares hard enough, he’ll be able to see my thoughts. Satisfied, he nods. “What can I do to help?”
…
That was three days ago. Dr. Singh drove me to Mumbai (“Anything is possible in Bombay,” he’d said with a small smile that made me wonder what interesting stories he would one day tell his grandchildren), and we’d gone to a bank owned by a friend of his, who’d helped me complete the wire transfer. I’d given the doctor fifteen thousand dollars (I tried to give him more, but he would only take what was owed for the hospital bill), thanked him for his faith and trust in me, and we’d hugged each other before saying goodbye.
I’d found a black-market dealer who, for the right price, would get me a fake passport and one that will suffice for Charlotte. Less than twelve hours later, I—or rather Robert Johnson—was on an international flight to Guadalajara, Mexico. I don’t know where Charlotte is, but I know her kidnapping has something to do with me.According to the news accounts, Charlotte had disappeared from Charleston, South Carolina, where she, my sister, and Gemma run a wedding business, and witnesses had seen her being forced into a car. They’d called 911 and a police officer had given chase until the car stopped at an intersection. Two gunmen jumped out and stood on either side of the car and fired more than a dozen shots, forcing the officer back into his car. The car had been found empty a few hours later at a small airport that catered to private jets, and Charlotte had disappeared without a trace. The plates were traced to a man with connections to Mexico, and the news stories had swirled with allegations that the kidnapping, which happened outside of McKenzie and Gemma’s apartment, had something to do with me and my alleged dealings with the cartel. I know instinctively that Noah Payne is the key to finding her.
I arrived yesterday, and quickly found out that Noah is currently out of the country. A kink in my plan, butit had been easy enough to find a lobo, one of thelone wolves who doesn’t work for any specific cartel but operates their own circle of bandits and often freelances in gunrunning, human trafficking, and prostitution. Then it was just a matter of dropping Noah’s name and mentioning that I had some military weapons I wanted to sell in exchange for some information, and he agreed to meet me at a dive located just outside of Guadalajara.
“Señor Johnson?” The Hispanic man’s eyes dart nervously about the seedy cantina as he approaches the scarred Formica-topped table where I’m sitting nursing a michelada—beer with lime juice and a mix of seasonings that’s Mexico’s version of a Bloody Mary. He takes the seat across from me, exposing several rotting teeth.
“You Estevan Rodriguez?” I ask.
He nods, gesturing at the waitress to bring him a cerveza, then settles back into the chair. “The weather here…it is hotter than the U.S., no?”
“Hotter than hell,” I agree with a fake drawl. The truth is, it’s nothing compared to the unrelenting heat of the Iraqi desert, but he thinks I’m a two-bit gun dealer from Texas with vague ties to the American military, here to make a deal in exchange for some information.
I pull out my phone and click on the picture of the crates of AK-47s I apparently smuggled out of Iraq and already sold to La Frontera. Luckily, he doesn’t know that. I slide my phone across the table to Estevan. “AK-47s. Unmarked. I’ve got twenty of ’em. Fifteen hundred a pop.”
He glances at the photo and licks his lips, practically salivating. It’s a deal he can’t refuse.“What do you want to know?”
I pause, draining my drink before I answer. “A girl was kidnapped from the States a few days ago. From Charleston, South Carolina. I want to know where she is. You know anything about that?”
He stares back at me. “No,señor. I don’t know.”
“Okay.” I set my glass on the table with a deliberate thud and tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Wait. I…I might remember hearing something.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve heard there’s an Americangringanear Manzanilla, at the home of one of El Gato’s trusted men.”
El Gato. The undisputed head of La Frontera. No surprise there. It’s the cartel I sold the guns to.
“The word is the girl is the sister of the man who sold over a million dollars in guns to El Gato, but never delivered them.”
The lobo’s words jar me. “What?”
“Thegringa…she’s the sister of the guy who cheated El Gato out of half a mil he already paid.”
