Jo went into the bathroom and put on a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt while Clark examined the camera and computer setup.
By the time she came out, he had Dorian sitting upright, hands behind his back, a piece of duct tape across his mouth. On the other side of the bed, as far away as humanly possible without falling off, the purple-haired girl breathed peacefully, fear or embarrassment making her keep up the unconscious act.
“You like music?” Clark asked.
Jo nodded.
He’d pulled up some music his grandson liked on his cell phone and connected the earphones he carried for backup communication with other Campus members.
“How about . . . Imagine Dragons . . . or . . . Maroon 5?” In truth, Clark was just reading off a playlist. He had no idea what either of the bands sounded like, but if his grandson liked them, maybe the girl would, too. He imagined she hadn’t gotten to make a choice about anything in some time.
Jo almost smiled.
Clark pulled the only chair in the room away from the wall.
“How about you listen to the music,” he said. “I have some things I need to talk over with Dorian.”
Clark put the purple-haired girl’s earbuds back in her ears. Hopefully, her music would blot out what was about to happen. He was beginning to fear that something might be physically wrong with her, but she opened one eye, chickenlike, and shot a quick look at him before slamming it back shut again.
Across the room, Jo slumped low in the chair, suddenly a teenager again. She looked up suddenly and took out one earbud to give Clark a quizzical look. Her voice was calm now, matter-of-fact.
“You gonna kill him, mister?”
Dorian gave a muffled cry behind the duct tape. He began shaking all over, eyes wide as saucers.
“No,” Clark said. “We’re going to use his computer to let him call the police.”
“Cool,” Jo said, and went back to her music.
Clark ripped the tape from Dorian’s mouth and then walked back across the room to retrieve the screwdriver from Parrot’s jaw. It came out with a sickening croak, which only added to the psy ops. Palmetto was used to being in charge—the one calling the shots over kids like Magdalena Rojas, Jo, and the girl with the purple hair. Finding himself at the mercy of a determined killer like John Clark had him completely unglued.
Dorian’s chest heaved with sobs. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Oh, I know that,” Clark said, leaning in close so the girls couldn’t hear. “What I’d really like to do is put a bullet in your brain pan. And to be honest, I still might. But I need some information first.”
All the air seemed to leave the man. “What do you want? I mean, just take the girls. They’re yours, man.”
Clark didn’t bother to wipe Parrot’s blood off the blade, but held it in plain view while he quizzed Palmetto in a harsh whisper about Matarife and Zambrano. Palmetto held nothing back, giving the location of Emilio Zambrano’s ranch as well as an address west of Dallas where Matarife might be hiding out.
Clark cocked his head to one side, holding the bloody screwdriver like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. “So you’re the one who found Magdalena?”
Palmetto nodded. At this point, he hadn’t figured out exactly what Clark’s game was. He decided wrong, and guessed a member of the competition. “Everyone’s always looking for a Magdalena.” His confidence was returning since Clark hadn’t killed him yet. “I gave her mother five grand. She has two other daughters, though. I’m happy to put you in touch—”
Clark pressed the business end of the screwdriver against Palmetto’s thigh and leaned in, feeling the satisfying scrape as the flathead nicked his femur.
The man yowled in pain and surprise, but Clark hit him before he could form words—GI Joe smacking a Ken doll.
Clark grimaced. “Geeze,” he said, showing mock concern. “You’re gonna want to have that looked at. I’m thinking Parrot might have had a few STDs.”
Palmetto swayed like he might pass out.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Clark left the screwdriver buried in the leg, but nudged the handle toward the centerline, using it like a lever.
Palmetto’s eyes lit up and he lurched, kicking his foot as if shocked.
“Felt that, did you?” Clark said. “That’s what we call your common peroneal nerve. We should stay away from that. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”
Palmetto clenched his jaw and nodded quickly.
“Where is Magdalena now?”
“Z . . . Z . . . Zambrano,” he said. “I heard he won her at auction.”
“Isn’t he the boss?”
“Yesss,” Palmetto said, biting his lip. His eyelids fluttered. “I . . . I think he bought her as a present for Chen.”
Clark moved the screwdriver involuntarily at that, scraping bone again.
“Stooooopppp!”
Both girls looked up and then just as quickly turned away.
“Why give a present to Chen?”
“She’s . . . his girlfriend.”
“Chen’s male.”
“N . . . Not Vincent,” Palmetto said, hyperventilating now. “Lily, his sister. Like I told you, she . . . she’s Zambrano’s partner. Brings triad money and muscle into the cartel.”
Clark withdrew the screwdriver. So Vincent Chen had a sister. This was all beginning to make sense—not complete sense, but at least the pieces were starting to fall into place. Lily Chen would possess information on her brother and his business dealings that would help Ding and the others. That was plenty enough reason to hunt her down. Clark shot a glance at the two girls, one of them branded and raped, the other having only narrowly avoided the same fate. He’d never admit it, not even to himself, but he didn’t need another reason.
“Let’s have the password for your computer,” he said.
Palmetto clenched his eyes shut, pressing tears through the lashes. “It’s . . . unlocked.”
“I’m working with geniuses here,” Clark said.
He used Dorian’s cell phone to call the Fort Worth Police Department Vice Section and requested an e-mail address to which he could make a video confession. He’d made enough Skype calls to his wife and grandson that it was a fairly simple matter to put through a video call—even for him.
Jo and the other girl listened to their music, eyes closed.
Clark stood just off camera with the bloody screwdriver as Dorian Palmetto began to spill his guts to the female detective with the Fort Worth Police Department. He couldn’t help grinning behind the black balaclava. Vengeance shouldn’t feel this good. But it did.
He looked at his watch. The coppers would be tracing the computer’s IP address and should be here in short order.
Time to make a call.
48
Yukiko’s GSM listening device had been completely silent for the last hour and a half. Jack Ryan, Jr., leaned back in the loveseat with both hands behind his head. The Japanese woman sat beside him, gazing forward in a thousand-yard stare, deep in thought. Chavez snored softly a few feet away. Adara and Midas were sacked out on the unmade bed.
“You okay?” Jack asked. He didn’t whisper; that would have woken everyone in the room. Instead, he kept his voice low and unthreatening.