Deadly Games - Cate Noble [4]
And if Maddy was aware of the demand, she’d deduce that for herself. She knew the score. How many times had she and Rocco joked about how the Agency’s unwritten “good-of-the-many” weighted hierarchy sucked when you were “the few” on the bottom layer?
Don’t worry, Maddy. I won’t forget you.
He moved his black rucksack closer to the door, mentally inventorying the contents. It was difficult to plan an offense at this stage, so he’d stuck to basics. Lots of cash stashed in hidden pockets, two sets of fake IDs and passports, one for himself and one for Maddy.
While the packing crate wasn’t proof positive that she’d been smuggled out of the country, Rocco felt certain that Maddy was being held at one of Minh Tran’s strongholds in Thailand. Talk about a home-field advantage.
Frustrated, Rocco looked at the clock again. One minute, forty-five seconds. Call now, damn you. Let’s do this.
To his surprise, his cell phone started vibrating, the ringtone delayed. Rocco hurried back to the coffee table and activated the digital recorder he’d wired to his cell phone, simultaneously praying this wasn’t another delay tactic on Tran’s part. If the caller said Maddy still wasn’t available, Rocco would have to assume the worst.
Picking up his phone, Rocco groaned when he saw the number illuminated on caller ID. His former boss and friend: Travis Franks. That Travis was calling this late meant little. The man never slept. Travis had most likely just gotten wind of the fiasco at the office.
Rocco hit IGNORE and watched the screen fade to black. He would call Travis back in a few. For now, this line had to stay open.
Hell, Rocco had even ignored his sister’s call earlier. If Adele needed money, Rocco would send it tomorrow. But if she’d broken up with another boyfriend and wanted a sober shoulder to cry on, she needed to look elsewhere. Rocco’s sympathy for drunks had declined since their mother died of alcohol-induced cirrhosis last year.
He checked the time.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Two.
One.
“Blast it, ring,” Rocco muttered.
Nothing. Then … vibration. Buzz. PRIVATE CALLER the display read. He snapped the recorder on.
“Taylor,” he answered.
At first no sound came across.
“Rocco?” Maddy’s faint voice hit him like a battering ram in the spleen.
“Maddy! Oh, Jesus, honey! Are you okay?” She sounded sick. Drugged most likely. “Tell me—”
“Silence!” Heavily accented English came across the line.
“Put Maddy back on the phone.” Scumbag.
“You got your proof of life. Here are your instructions.”
“I don’t consider one word proof of life.” Rocco struggled to control his temper. Antagonizing the man might make circumstances harder for Maddy. “That could have been a recording.”
The man exhaled noisily. Static sawed at the connection, causing Rocco to worry the man had hung up. A second later the line cleared with a faint beep, confirming that electronic jammers were being employed to thwart tracing.
Rocco could hear the man shouting in an indistinct Thai dialect. There were other sounds, other voices, but he couldn’t catch the words.
Maddy’s voice came back across the phone, but this time at a distance. As if the phone was being held out.
“No!” she shouted. “Nooooo!” She was sobbing now. “Rocco … make … them—”
Maddy’s words broke off as she started to scream. Then the line went dead.
Chapter Two
Sugar Springs, TX
October 4, 12:05 A.M.
“Last one!” Gena Armstrong slid the screwdriver back into the leather tool belt at her waist. Stepping back, she took a moment to admire the newly hung bedroom door. Appreciation was a habit she’d picked up after years of watching and working with her friend Vianca.
Prior to her untimely death three months ago, Vi had been one of the few Hispanic female commercial building contractors in the country. She’d been damn good at it, too. I miss you, Vi.
Gena swung the door shut and checked the hinge alignment before testing the lock. Snap. Click. She tugged the handle. Perfect. It didn’t budge.
As locks went, this one wasn’t substantial, but