Queen of Humbolt Page 10

  “Did I accurately describe the nature of your business holdings?”

  “You did,” Marisol sat forward, tapping her finger against the rim of her untouched water glass. “I also have an inordinate number of business dealings in countries with mountain ranges. Surely you don’t think I plan to smuggle the Andes into Chicago?”

  “What do you smuggle into Chicago?”

  “Objection,” Marisol’s attorney roared, looking flustered for the first time. “My client is not on trial.”

  “Of course,” Sloane replied, her chest warming with every bead of sweat popping up on the attorney’s brow. “I’ll strike the question.”

  “I think that concludes our participation in this farce,” he said, rising from his chair, fists planted on the tabletop. “I should’ve known your only intention was to harass my client.”

  He was out the door before the camera was off, but Marisol took her time straightening her jacket and rounding the table. Sloane watched Defense Counsel scuttle out, and so Marisol was almost on top of her before she realized it.

  “This was fun, Sabrina.” Her smile and silky voice were more suited to a dimly lit bar than a conference room. “We should do it again sometime.”

  “Given your criminal behavior, I have no doubt that we will. And don’t you dare use my first name.”

  After the court reporter slipped past them out the door, Marisol leaned in closer. “There was a time when you liked hearing me whisper your name. You liked it even better when I shouted it. Have you forgotten? Want a reminder?”

  As though she could’ve forgotten. For a heartbeat the rustle of stiff cotton sheets and muffled laughter filled her senses but vanished just as quickly.

  “Have you forgotten what it’s like in prison? Want a reminder?”

  Marisol’s face turned to stone in an instant and Sloane felt a flash of involuntary regret. Marisol’s voice didn’t purr when she said, “He’s off the street and the women are safe. Isn’t that enough for you?”

  Sloane’s pulse pounded so loudly she could barely hear herself ask, “What do you know about the women?”

  “I know they don’t have to work for that scum anymore.”

  “They’re missing,” Sloane said, grabbing Marisol’s arm and feeling soft leather bruise in her grip. “Every one of them. If you know where they are…”

  “I don’t,” Marisol said, a shadow passing over her deep brown eyes so quickly Sloane wondered if it was a trick of the light.

  “Marisol…”

  She smirked, leaning in so close now Sloane could smell the leather of her jacket and the musk of her cologne. It was the same one she’d worn to the courthouse that day. “You called me Marisol.”

  Sloane slammed the door behind her exit, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out Marisol’s low chuckle.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The heat was intense. It was a thick, heavy heat that clung to Marisol’s skin and made her mind sluggish as she forced herself to consciousness. She could tell from the temperature that they weren’t in Chicago. She tried to calculate how long they’d been in the air. Seven hours? Eight? She’d been unconscious for part of the journey so it was hard to tell. With that much air time they could be almost anywhere, but the humidity and the vehicle’s rattle from poorly maintained roads suggested South America.

  Brakes squealed. A burst of well-articulated Spanish and an aroma that made Marisol’s mouth water filtered in through the open window. Chicken and potato and the headiness of warm cream, but there was something else, too. A grassy, herbaceous scent that evaporated as soon as the vehicle ground back into motion and the smell of dusty, dried mud took its place.

  The smells and sounds poked at her brain, pressing her to pinpoint them and what they all meant. It only took a quiet moment to remember. An assignment from Washington four, maybe five years ago. She had been tracking down the source of a steady stream of kidnapped girls being smuggled into the country through Canada. Dominique had been a goodwill ambassador for UNICEF, and Washington had arranged a tour.

  They had spent a week in Bogota and the surrounding, impoverished communities. That was where they’d tried ajiaco, the most popular dish in the city. A soup of chicken, corn and three types of potatoes. It was similar to soups served in Peru and Cuba, but the Colombian version used an herb the others didn’t. Guascas, a weed everywhere except the Colombian Andes. Dominique had loved the soup so much that they’d eaten it nearly every night. It had provided the protein and carbs Marisol had needed for her late-night reconnaissance.

  So, she now understood they had been flown to Colombia. Probably around Bogota. Maybe even guests of the very people Marisol had failed to track down on that trip years ago. She’d dreamed of getting another shot at them, but this wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind.

  The vehicle hit a particularly deep rut and Marisol’s cheek and shoulder, already twisted uncomfortably, smacked into the bare metal floor. She opened her eyes to find Sloane staring into them, fear dripping from her face like her sweat in the oppressive heat. They were lying in the back of a cargo van.

  Marisol’s body ached, particularly her torso. She tried to move her chin and relieve some of the pressure on her face, but the moment she lifted her head, the van floor bounced up to meet it with bruising force. She couldn’t suppress a groan as her temple throbbed. She stretched her face muscles, opening her mouth and wiggling her jaw and eyebrows. The beating had been some time ago, but everywhere hurt.

  “Getting knocked out like this is probably bad for my health. I hope that anesthesia they’re using is FDA approved.” Sloane’s look of fear turned to annoyance in the blink of an eye. Marisol winked at her. “Still, better than getting punched out. The bruises definitely aren’t good for my gorgeous looks.”

  It was obvious Sloane’s hands had been tied for the journey too. Marisol followed a bead of sweat as it trickled down her long neck to dampen the high neck of her dress. Her eyes did not stop there. Sloane wasn’t oblivious to the inspection, especially considering how thorough it was, but it was possible she shifted her body to lessen her muscle strain rather than to hide her body.

  “How can you joke at a time like this?” Sloane hissed, keeping her voice low.

  Marisol rolled onto her back to relieve the cramp in her shoulders. The moment she moved, she regretted it. They’d replaced the handcuffs with rope while she was out and bound her tied hands to her ankles with one end looped around her neck. Rolling onto her back had pulled the noose tight, choking her. They’d hogtied her and done a thorough job of it. She managed to roll over and relieve the pressure on her throat, but it was a painful lesson. She took several long breaths before looking back into Sloane’s startled face.

  Marisol forced a dry laugh from her aching throat. “If I don’t make jokes now, I might not get the chance.”

  “I don’t know where the plane landed. We were in a hangar when they tied us up and tossed us in this van.” Her eyelids drooped as she looked around the confines of the vehicle. When she blinked, her eyelids didn’t seem to want to open again, but she kept prattling on in a hiss. “We’ve only been on the road a few minutes. I don’t know where we are, but I don’t think we’re in the US anymore. Not unless they flew in circles before they landed.”

  “We’re in Colombia.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know everything.”

  Sloane scowled at her and didn’t respond. She looked like she barely had the energy to breathe. Marisol tried to guess how long the Governor had been awake and decided it had to be a day and a half at least. Sloane was an early riser and it had been late when they’d been captured. Apart from the forced nap the tranquilizer provided, she’d been awake and on edge for far too long.

  Marisol scanned the van compartment, looking for something to help them. It only took a moment to see there was nothing. There wasn’t as much as a loose carpet nail for her to use on the ropes. The cab was closed off by a makeshift barrier of poo
rly cut plywood. There was a break at floor level on the driver’s side, Sloane’s side, but Marisol lay at the wrong angle to see through.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Sloane’s voice was so drained, Marisol stopped her inspection to look over. To her surprise, she saw tears floating on the red rims of Sloane’s eyes. Marisol bit the side of her cheek hard to control her response.

  “You’re going to take a nap.”

  “What? You can’t possibly expect me to fall asleep right now.”

  “You’re exhausted and completely spent.” The gentle concern surprised even Marisol, so she lightened her tone. “I need you at full strength when an opportunity presents itself. Understand, amante?”

  Sloane was quiet for a long moment, but there was a set to her jaw again. She nodded and closed her eyes. Silence filled the van for a few minutes as Marisol wished Sloane to sleep. Soon enough, her shoulders began to rise and fall in a regular rhythm and Marisol’s whole body relaxed.

  Marisol was used to being a lone wolf. She had underlings and bodyguards and even a few friends, but the work that meant the most to her she did alone. Only herself to worry about. She needed that feeling now. The luxury of not having to school her features. Not having to play a part. It was exhausting to be so many things to so many people.

  She needed time to think. To plan and strategize. Unfortunately, though she had time now, Sloane being in her space was more than a little distracting. Instead of forming a plan, she watched Sloane’s face melt slowly into serenity. Watched her chest rise and fall beneath the clinging dress providing incontrovertible proof that Sloane was alive and here, close enough for Marisol to touch.

  Sloane’s long eyelashes fluttered open and Marisol quickly slipped her mask back on. In a voice draped in sleep, she asked, “You saved my life on Inauguration Day?”

  She was adorable, childlike in her drowsy innocence. Marisol couldn’t help the light, bubbly feeling in her chest. She let herself chuckle low and there may even have been the hint of a blush on her brown cheeks.

  “Yeah. I did.”

  Sloane’s eyes slid shut and she drifted back off to sleep. Something that sounded very much like “Thank you” escaped her barely parted lips, but Marisol forced herself to believe it was just a sigh bordering on a snore.

  Marisol sighed herself, making her decision. She had to see what she was dealing with. It was easier said than done, but she steeled herself and pushed hard off her shoulder. The choking began the moment she moved and didn’t lessen as she finally struggled to her knees. Bright white lights popped in front of her eyes, so she pushed herself over into a better position.

  She landed almost exactly as she wanted to, mere inches from Sloane, and gasped for air. Underneath their mingled sweat, Marisol could still catch the faint scent of Sloane’s expensive perfume—lilies and peaches. Marisol’s body quaked at the closeness, her oxygen-starved mind begging to close the gap between their bodies. Before she lost all control, Marisol stretched her neck back, peering through the gap in the barrier.

  The view of the cab wasn’t great. Just the underside of the steering column and a few boots, but that was all she needed. The keyring dangling from the ignition had a rabbit’s foot keychain dyed a bright, garish purple. She counted four pairs of boots, one set significantly smaller than the others. Jordan had always been ridiculously proud of her tiny feet. So they hadn’t been passed off to someone else. Jordan was still in here. Whether or not she was still in charge, she was a known enemy and that meant Marisol had an advantage, however small, over one of her kidnappers.

  Marisol relaxed her tortured neck and closed her eyes. She allowed herself one long moment of watching the quiet rhythm of Sloane’s breathing. To feel the heat rising from her skin. She had to get back to the other side of the van. If she was out of place when they opened the doors, Jordan would know she’d been up to something. Worse, she might suspect the reason Marisol spent so much time rescuing Sloane. Her words and actions wouldn’t betray her, but her body might. It responded to Sloane in a way it never had to anyone else. Still, she couldn’t make herself give up this wonderful spot. Not yet.

  Just when she was about to force herself back to her knees, the van slowed and then shuddered to a halt. Over the ticking of the engine, Marisol heard a voice that made her blood go cold. The van ground back into motion and the voice disappeared.

  It was all she needed to know who was pulling Jordan’s strings. The man who had brought Marisol and Dominique to Bogota before. How Jordan had gotten involved in all of this, Marisol couldn’t imagine. He was out of Jordan’s league by several million degrees, but he was here and it all started to make sense. She didn’t have a lot of time.

  Marisol allowed herself one more deep breath of Sloane’s scent before forcing herself to her knees. She tried to be quick, but her fatigue was nearly fatal. She slipped into a half-crouch, her weight falling forward, and she couldn’t correct it. The noose dug into her neck, cutting off her air.

  She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t think. Darkness started closing in from all sides, taking her vision down to a narrow tunnel. At the end of that tunnel was the still peaceful, still sleeping face of Sabrina Sloane. Her consciousness slipped and her mind thought, for the briefest moment, that at least she would die looking into that face.

  The van hit a deep pothole and Marisol tumbled onto her side. She opened her mouth as wide as it would go and sucked in all the air around her. Life flowed back into her. Her vision cleared by degrees, letting the world back in.

  Exhaustion took her then. Her eyes rolled back and she fell into a deep sleep. As the world faded away, Sloane’s last, sleepy question echoed in her delirious mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  2019

  Letting her steps roll quietly from heel to toe, Marisol crept across the dark warehouse. The floor was concrete, and her boots would slap loudly if she wasn’t careful. Clouds covered the half moon, the skylights and high windows barely glowing. She’d kept one eye closed while picking the lock, preserving her night vision.

  Despite her careful pace, she was able to cross the warehouse in little time. She’d watched an endless stream of tractor trailers leave earlier in the day, so she wasn’t surprised to find the place empty. It wasn’t in the greatest area of town and she worried about squatters. Once she reached the stairs at the far end of the building she was confident that she was alone in the freezing warehouse.

  Moving with more speed and only slightly more sound, she climbed the stairs. The lock on the office door was pathetic, just a rattling knob with a three-pin lock. Marisol had it open in fifteen seconds. Sweeping the room with her dim flashlight, she took a moment to slide aside a tile from the drop ceiling.

  The computer on the desk was a red herring. It was a dusty old box that would probably take an hour to boot up. She doubted it held more than shipping manifests and preinstalled solitaire. If her intel on these guys was anywhere close to accurate, the solitaire got a lot more play than the paperwork. They were so sloppy she sneered at even calling them businessmen.

  The file cabinet against the back wall was a little more helpful. Nothing was incriminating by itself, but she got a few useful names and addresses. She didn’t have anything personal against them, so maybe she’d just send them to prison rather than kill them. Killing was so messy and, after all, she hadn’t gotten the ex-State’s Attorney a parting gift yet.

  The flashlight played across a cheap folding table. A familiar map caught her eye. Incredulous, she studied the papers. The maps, diagrams and reports were all familiar. Marisol had a copy of them herself, and she had come by them at great expense and trouble. Unlike her copies, these were Chicago Police Department originals.

  Marisol’s phone vibrated insistently in her pocket. She flipped off her flashlight and pulled herself into the ceiling. The warehouse door banged open just as she slid the tile back into place, leaving a barely perceptible gap. Balanced on a ceiling beam a
bove the office, she could hear the men climbing the stairs to the office. Among the rafters was an open skylight a hundred yards away, but she waited to see if these jokers had anything interesting to say. They chatted like TV-show bad guys, complete with dick jokes and long, obviously untrue stories about women they’d picked up in bars. Marisol was about to leave when the office door opened again and the laughter died.

  Marisol couldn’t see the newcomer’s face, but there was no mistaking those orthotic black sneakers and black polyester uniform pants. Whoever this guy was, Marisol hadn’t seen any cops with these guys before.

  The energy in the room changed the minute the cop walked in. It had been jovial but now it was a full-on sausage party. Marisol could feel the testosterone in the air as each party tried to act like the one in charge. The goons won out in the end. The uniform proved the cop wasn’t a detective and the gangsters were the old-fashioned type—greasy hair, cheap suits and enough pinky rings and gold crosses to fill a pawn shop.

  Passing over the money was perfunctory. The zipper on the duffel screeched as the cop yanked the bag open. His hosts bristled as he counted his fee, but he didn’t linger over it. One of the suits dropped a cell phone into the center of the flimsy table, turning on the speaker. It rang twice before the other end picked up.

  Marisol could barely believe their stupidity as they laid out their plan for the morning. The cop marked all the security points on a map with a red felt pen and the questions from the phone could only be from the main shooter. They were either incredibly bold or incredibly stupid to try such a straightforward, simplistic plan.

  Marisol didn’t have to see the map to deduce which building would house the assassin. It was the most obvious, of course. The cops had assigned a single spotter supporting a single sniper. Unfortunately, he’d be a sitting duck, since his spotter was currently plotting his death in an abandoned warehouse. This cop didn’t seem to worry about killing one of his brothers in blue.