“Ah,” Clark said. “The lid needs to be closed.” He reached toward the hinge and flipped a manual override that allowed the mechanism to operate with the lid open, before hitting the red button again.
This time, the heavy door at Pacheco’s feet began to slide upward, metal squealing against metal. At the same time, the ram at his head pushed him toward the waiting flames. Pacheco tried to brace himself, but even if he hadn’t been tied, the slippery steel box would have made that all but impossible.
Clark pushed the button again, relieved that the hydraulic ram actually stopped. It occurred to him that he should have tested it beforehand.
“Okay, Ernie,” he said. “Here we go. I need information. You have information. It’s a simple process.”
Pacheco nodded, seeing a possibility of survival for the first time.
Clark continued. “I should tell you, I’m not a patient man. I’m looking for Magdalena Rojas. You’re going to tell me where she is.”
More nodding and some muffled grunts.
Clark shrugged. “Not good enough. I told you I wasn’t patient, Ernie.” He pushed the red button again, waiting for the door to get halfway up and the ram to begin its movement before pushing it again.
“Sorry about that,” Clark said, ripping away the tape. “Guess I do need to take this off so you can talk.”
Pacheco spat out the paper towel and let fly a string of Spanish curses, hyperventilating to the point that Clark thought he might vomit. Clark reached as if to push the button again.
“Okay! Okay!” Pacheco said. “I dropped her at Emilio’s. She was good when I saw her last. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
“I’ve probably seen your mother’s grave,” Clark mused. “Zambrano. Where do I find him?”
Pacheco gave him directions to the ranch Caruso and Callahan had already visited.
Clark shook his head. He left his hand over the red button. “Already tried there.”
“Hang on!” Pacheco cried. “He’s got another place out in Palo Pinto County.” He rattled off the directions.
“And if he’s not there?”
“If he’s not at his other place, that’s where he’ll be,” Pacheco said. “Good luck getting to him, though. He’s got a shitload of guards. Lily’s guys. Emilio is a badass, but his woman, I ain’t shittin’ you, man, she’s the devil. And her guys ain’t much better.”
“Triad?” Clark asked. He’d been wondering where all the Sun Yee On goons were hiding.
Pacheco nodded. “She keeps a dozen or more around all the time. Look, amigo, I told you what you wanted to know. Can you please untie me now? You’re scaring the shit outta me. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“I’m not your amigo,” Clark said, his voice hoarse and pointed. “Let’s say Magdalena’s not with Zambrano. Where else would I look for her?”
Pacheco snorted. “What is it with bitchy little Magdalena? Did you bid on her? And if you did, how did you find me?” He studied Clark for a moment and then threw him a conspiratorial smile. “You wily bastard! I knew Lupe didn’t know how to make that computer anonymous. You found me with the IP address, didn’t you?”
Clark nodded. “How much did Zambrano bid?”
“Twelve grand,” Pacheco scoffed. “Can you believe that shit? Hey, come on, let me out and I’ll get you set up with somebody even better. If Magdalena’s your type, I got a line on a couple young ones down in Reynosa—”
Clark slammed his fist into the red button. The trapdoor rattled upward. The fire greeted them with a terrifying roar. A cyclone of orange and yellow whorled and danced inside the glowing chamber. At the other end of the chute, the ram slid into the battery with a resounding clunk. Pacheco drew himself into a ball, flipped sideways, bent his neck, doing everything he could to brace himself. Nothing he did would stop the unrelenting steel ram from pushing him toward the flames. Now free of the gag, he loosed a shattered scream—surely the same kind of cry the countless young women he’d murdered had screamed before him.
Clark lowered the heavy door to the sound of metallic thuds and hysterical, shrieking pleas. The frenzied howls grew more intense, drowning out the hydraulic hum of the ram—and then fell silent, leaving only the roar and pop of the flames.
? ? ?
The Slaughterer,” Clark said, sliding in behind the wheel of his rental car. “What a dumbass name.”
51
The Hendley Associates Gulfstream touched down on Atlanta Hartsfield’s runway 8 right at nine thirty-four a.m. Pilot in Command Helen Reid made the short taxi to Signature Aviation FBO and brought her airplane to a stop on the FBO’s ramp. She hung her Lightspeed Zulu headphones over the yoke and climbed out of her seat to go check on fuel. Chavez wanted a quick turn-and-burn—and it was Reid who would make that happen. The flight from Buenos Aires to Atlanta had been just over nine hours, thanks to a decent tailwind. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t be quite so lucky on the Atlanta-to-Tokyo portion of the trip. First, she’d have to take the time to grab more fuel in L.A., and the winds were on the nose, adding back any time they’d gained on the trip north and then some.
Reid liked the hell out of Domingo Chavez. He was a good guy with lofty goals and a commitment to mission that was beyond laudable. But no matter how important the mission, physical laws being, well, the law, Tokyo was a lot of miles and minutes away. Reid expected total time in the air to be almost twenty-five hours. She and Hicks were talented pilots, but no one wanted to fly with a pilot who’d been awake for twenty-five hours. To that end, Reid had made a call to her boss before they left Buenos Aires. To his credit, Gerry Hendley had two G550 pilots waiting inside the FBO when they landed in Atlanta. Sonny Cobb and Rich Caudill both had thousands of hours in the Army’s C37B, the military version of the G550. After the military, Cobb had flown for the U.S. Marshals Service’s Justice Prisoner and Alien Transportation Division, and Caudill for the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams. Neither of the pilots was a stranger to Campus operations, and they often provided relief and augmentation to Reid and Hicks.
Reid gave each man a peck on the cheek and then went to hit the head inside the FBO, relieved that they’d made it to Atlanta so she didn’t have to let Chavez down.
Twenty minutes later, Reid and Hicks were back aboard and snoozing in the forward seats across from Lisanne Robertson. The Signature ground crew pushed the Gulfstream back from the ramp with Cobb and Caudill in the cockpit for the Atlanta–Los Angeles leg.
In the rear of the airplane Ding had Gavin Biery on speaker.
“Any information on Chen’s phone?”
“The last activity was a ping off an antenna in Buenos Aires at . . . seventeen-thirty Argentine time.”
“Shit!” Chavez said. “I saw him use his phone after that. That means he’s already dumped the phone we know about.”
“Well,” Biery said, “for whatever reason, he’s gone dark.”
“I don’t like this,” Jack said, feeling an uncomfortable gnawing at his gut.
“Maybe Yuki and her team will grab him,” Adara said. “If he uses one of the IDs Gavin found for him.”