The gang highest on their target list is Vecindario 18, a transnational criminal organization that actually started in Los Angeles and spread southward where it has grown tremendously. As members were arrested in LA and deported to their home countries, the numbers swelled in Latin America. There are an estimated thirty to fifty thousand members of Vecindario 18 with the most violent congregated in Central America. The arms that Hugo Mejia traffics run on a two-way street between Central and North America, and since that puts US citizens in danger, he has to be taken down on his home turf.

  Gathering intel on Mejia included a hell of a lot of following him around, stakeouts watching his house and weapons compound, as well as a long process of becoming a housekeeper so that I could eventually infiltrate his office and steal data.

  That was done successfully just yesterday after working deep undercover in his home for almost two months. I played the part of a lowly, not-so-smart maid, easily passing as a native, given I have my Argentinian mother’s complexion and I’m fluent in Voseo Spanish and the local vernacular of Caliche.

  While cleaning his office one day, it was quite simple to pop a USB drive into his laptop as he ate lunch with his family. The drive contained a virus that would hack past his firewall and password and download a mirror image of his entire hard drive. When it started the download, I knew I’d hit pay dirt—scrolling rows of dealers, suppliers, as well as the gang cells he sold to. Even a terrorist sleeper cell I recognized to which he’s supplying grenade launchers, mortars, and antitank guns.

  I retrieved the USB just as I finished dusting. It was nearly quitting time, and I was less than half an hour from a clean getaway.

  And that’s when the proverbial shit hit the fan when a guard walked in and saw me slip the USB drive into my pocket.

  What followed was a long, drawn-out affair—me against several guards—including a rousing chase through the city, but I was no match for Mejia’s reach. I was captured, and now I’m in a cell.

  I have no clue where it’s located as they put a bag over my head until we reached our destination. I was taken to a sublevel floor with no windows and shoved into a cell complete with mold-covered walls and iron bars. There’s a bucket in the corner for a toilet and a filthy mattress on the floor. I’ve been pacing back and forth ever since, trying to make contingency plans on how to save my own life.

  The only saving grace is they haven’t found the USB drive, and I most certainly didn’t swallow it. As long as I don’t give up the location, I’ll stay alive and hopefully will figure out a way to escape.

  Every once in a while, a man will walk by my cell door. While Mejia clearly uses Vecindario gang members as his muscle—and they’re all easily recognizable with some form of the number eighteen on either their clothing or tattooed on their skin—the men patrolling this basement level are a militarized force. They’re wearing uniforms of black shirts and fatigues with combat boots. They’re carrying M4 Carbines with pistols holstered at their hips. While I don’t see any identifying patches, it makes me wonder if they’re local, off-duty police on his payroll or just former military for hire.

  Regardless, I’m well-guarded, and escaping from this cell will be difficult, especially given the fact I don’t have a single item on me or in this cell that I can MacGyver into something to pick the lock.

  Of course, the danger of this job is what draws and fulfills me. The only thing that makes me feel really alive. Which is fucked up, when you think about it. Near-death experiences enhance my joy of living. I’m sure a shrink would have a field day getting into my head, but I’d simply tell them I have nothing else.

  Men’s voices filter down the hall. They get closer, the sounds of their boots on the concrete floor echoing off the walls. I take a few steps back from my cell door, and Hugo Mejia comes into view, along with two other men.

  One is wearing a military uniform while the other is clearly Vecindario 18, as evidenced by the Roman numeral XVIII tattooed over his left eyebrow. He’s wearing a pair of baggy jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and a plethora of gold chains around his neck and wrists. He gives me a leering smile, and one front tooth flashes a diamond.

  “Señorita,” Mejia says, his tone heavy with disappointment in me as well as the promise of retribution. “You have stolen from me, and I don’t like that at all.”

  I don’t reply, keeping my eyes locked on his.

  He continues on as he slowly takes a key from his pocket and inserts it into the cell lock. “I know you thought you were slick downloading information from my laptop, but you can’t outfox a fox.”

  I want to roll my eyes. Snort in derision. I’m not sure how he knew I took something from him, but what I want to say is if he’s so cunning, then how come I got away and had time to hide my spoils before he could get me?

  But I’m not stupid. I keep my mouth shut.

  Mejia turns the key, the old tumblers inside creaking as they line up to unlock, and the door swings open with a mighty groan. He doesn’t step inside, though, but merely says, “Espada.”

  Blade.

  The man steps through and I hadn’t noticed, but he has a length of rope in one hand and a large knife strapped to his hip.

  I resist the inclination to back up farther, but I need what little space I have to fight if he pulls that knife. I won’t win, but I won’t go down meekly either.

  Rather than touch the weapon at his hip, he orders in Spanish, “Put your wrists together.”

  “I’ll pass,” I say in English.

  The man clearly doesn’t understand me and looks back at Mejia.

  Mejia chuckles, as if delighted by my snark. But his words are cold and hard as he tells the man, “She’s going to fight. Don’t draw it out.”

  That’s all the man needs, and I don’t have time to react. He swings a balled fist, and it connects with my left temple. I feel myself falling as the world goes black.

  ♦

  I’m not out long. The pain in my shoulders wakes me as I feel myself being hoisted. I blink back tears, not from fear but pain, and see Mejia standing in the cell doorway.

  My shoulders wrench again, and I look up to see my wrists tied and the rope looped over a hook in the ceiling that I’d noticed when first thrown in here. I had considered the hook a potential weapon, but it was too high for me to reach.

  The gang member who hit me pulls once more, so I almost have to go on my tiptoes, and then knots the rope securely. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I know I’m in deep shit.

  I’ve been in bad situations before, more times than I care to remember. I’ve got scars and had therapy for some of those times, but I’ve always persevered.

  Something about this, though, seems to have a ring of finality to it. I know I’m not in danger of dying anytime soon, but I feel in my gut that I’m not walking out of here alive.

  The man steps back, and Mejia moves in closer to me. “Tell me… what exactly were you after?”

  That tells me he may know I was in his office and rooting around for something, but he doesn’t know what. I hold my tongue and pray it’s not cut out at some point.

  “Who are you working for?” he asks, not seeming to mind I didn’t answer the first question.

  I remain steadfastly silent.

  This seems to please him, and his mouth curves into an evil smile. “Don’t want to talk, huh? Good. My men are bored.”

  A tremor of fear races up my spine, and because I’m all kinds of fucked up, it also heightens my adrenaline. This is one of those times I feel more alive than ever.

  “Prepare her,” Mejia barks in Spanish as he turns away from me, and the man he called Espada removes the knife from his hip.

  Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear.

  Stepping before me, he holds up the knife. The blade is at least nine inches long and would gut me from sternum to pubic bone without much effort. Rather than plunge it into my body though, he grabs hold of the waistband of my leggings I’d been wearing while cleaning the house earlier and uses the knife to cut them off my body. It takes no more than four slices at various points, and my pants are gone. I’m left with only a T-shirt and panties on.

  It’s clear he doesn’t plan to kill me, but something that’s probably worse than death.

  But the man doesn’t touch me further, instead turning on his heel and walking out of the cell.

  Once again, Mejia stands before me, his face inches from mine. “I want you to have some alone time to think about what’s going to happen to you. I could have you tortured for hours, but I don’t want to drag this out. You’ve got an hour to decide how you want the rest of your life to go. I’ll be back with several men, and they’ll each take a nice turn with you, and then I think you’ll be in a talking mood. And when they take you, there are no rules. They can do whatever they want, as long as you have a heartbeat when they’re done. If you’re smart, however, you’ll have the information I want, and you’ll give it up freely. You do that, and I promise you a quick death… a bullet to the brain. You have my word.”

  I want to spit in his face, but I’m sure he’ll react with violence, and I need to keep my wits about me. So I maintain my silence, refusing to say one single thing to him.

  We engage in a staring contest for a bit, and when he’s satisfied I understand the terms and am intent on taking my hour to think things through, he smiles.

  He’s confident he’ll have the information he needs in an hour’s time.

  I’m confident I won’t give it up, even if he sets the entire local Vecindario 18 on me. As a woman, rape is always a concern if I were to get captured, and it’s something I’m prepared to endure. I have no other choice.

  The only thing I can do at this point is hope that the CIA is sending a team for me. I missed my ex-fil more than five hours ago by my estimation. A local team should be well on their way.

  They’re probably nearby, plotting the best way in without getting me killed at the same time.

  Yes, I’m sure the cavalry is right around the corner, and I have nothing to worry about.

  Unless I’ve been disavowed, and that’s always a possibility. If that’s the case, I’m up shit creek without a paddle.

  CHAPTER 3

  Ladd

  Ultimately, the CIA came through with everything I requested to go into San Salvador to rescue Greer. They gave me a legit cover as a foreign investor from Canada as well as use of a private charter jet that’s really owned by the US government and kept at Camp Peary with a host of other aircraft. I also have a cache of weapons, including firearms and explosives. They were even able to accommodate my request for C-4 and a drone, although they wouldn’t let me travel with the explosive. I’ll have to pick that up from an agent stationed undercover in the city.

  Lastly, I was given a satchel of money to use for bribes and information, which shows me just how much they want whatever intel Greer collected.

  I’m also well stocked with Jameson support, which includes a laptop that Bebe and Dozer loaded with the best decryption software available as well as programs they created themselves that can hack any Wi-Fi network in the world. They will be my eyes and ears from afar.

  The four-hour plane trip from Pittsburgh to San Salvador was spent planning. Kynan, Dozer, Bebe, and Jackson roundtabled with me via satellite link. We went over all the information the CIA provided, which was guaranteed not to be everything that was pertinent. This I know from my own days working for the Company.

  We learned from Greer’s regular intel reports she’d been sending that Mejia works mainly from his home where he lives with a wife and five children, as well as a small troop of paramilitary soldiers. While he has deep ties with Vecindario 18, they do not come near his home.

  He also has a warehouse about thirty miles outside of San Salvador guarded by the same type of soldiers but also by gang members. Oddly, though, not as many protect the warehouse as his home, telling me that his own life, as well as those of his family, are more important to him. It also may be that he doesn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to steal from him. Regardless, the warehouse is less fortified than his house. We figure if Greer is being kept, it’s in one of these two places, but there is a chance it could be somewhere else entirely.

  To know for sure, my first order of business is to use some of the bribery money to meet with a Vecindario 18 informant and hope to God he’s on the inside enough to know where Greer is being held.

  The informant’s name is Frankie Orellana, a first-generation Salvadorian who had emigrated to the United States and found himself in Los Angeles. Hard on his luck, he was recruited into the 18th Street gang there and spent a handful of years committing crimes—mostly drug related—for the betterment of his gang. He also was married and had a young son when he was arrested for an offense that would send him away for a long time.

  Instead, he was deported back to El Salvador, forced to leave his American wife and American-born son behind. He was a prime recruit for the US government, offered the chance to be reunited with his family if he worked as an informant. Frankie agreed and insinuated himself into one of the larger gangs under Vecindario 18, where he’s been for the last four years.

  His handler set up our meeting, and to be cautious, it’s happening outside the city at an abandoned farm. It takes me thirty minutes to get there from the airport, which is time I hate to waste. Unfortunately, he’s my best opportunity to find Greer. However, I have to take his information with a grain of salt. He’s been the CIA’s lapdog for four years now and still hasn’t been reunited with this family, so he may be more loyal to his gang than to the US government at this point.

  When I pull onto a narrow dirt road with high vegetation on either side, I have to travel a good fifty yards to see that Orellana has already arrived. He’s leaning against the side of an old Buick, so rusted I’m surprised the doors are hanging on.

  He’s a wiry man, a good foot shorter than I am, I note, as I exit the Jeep provided to me at the airport. Orellana twists his neck, left and right, as if he’s expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at us. He looks cagey and ready to take flight. By the hostility in his eyes, I can tell he’s not happy about this meeting.

  I don’t bother offering my hand. Just a curt nod. “Thanks for meeting me, Frankie.”

  His eyebrows shoot high in surprise that I speak Spanish. I also speak Russian, but I’m nowhere as good as Greer. She’s one of those people with an aptitude for languages.

  Frankie replies in Spanish, but the petulant tone is universal. “I don’t want to be here.”

  Not going to waste time trying to assuage his feelings. “I’ve got fifty thousand US dollars for you in that Jeep if you have good information for me.”

  Now it doesn’t seem all that off-putting to meet with me. Frankie’s eyes cut to the Jeep, and I can read the shrewd expression on his face as he looks back to me, sizing me up. “Before you even think about reaching for that gun in the back of your pants, I want you to know I’m faster than you are. You’ll be dead before you get your hand on it. Furthermore, if you don’t help me to the best of your ability, and I don’t check in with your handler after this meeting, you’re never going to be reunited with your family. Are we clear?”

  Frankie glares at me, but nods. “Clear.”

  “Good. Anything you say here stays between you and me. It goes no further, not even to your handler.”

  Again, Frankie blinks at me in disbelief.

  “I’m not US government,” I explain. “I’m private, so I don’t report to anyone.”

  It’s the reassurance the man clearly needs because he relaxes, shoulders lowering a bit. “What do you need to know?”

  “Hugo Mejia kidnapped an American woman this morning. The newspaper reported her as a spy, and they’re saying she’s being held in your local jail. We know that’s not true, and I’m positive Hugo has her somewhere else. I need to know where.”

  Frankie again looks around the area, and he rubs at the back of his neck.

  “Do you know anything?” I ask, a bit harshly to get his attention.

  His eyes snap back to mine, and he admits, “I think I know where she’s at. I don’t work directly for Mejia, but some of my friends do, and he’s called in a few to head out to his warehouse, just south of Tonacatepeque.”

  “Is that the warehouse where he stores his arms?” I ask for clarification.

  Frankie nods. “Guns, munitions, and some explosives. He has another warehouse for the larger stuff, but since he’s ordered some of the Vecindario 18 to go there, I’m guessing that’s where she is.”

  “Word is he has more protection around his home, most of it military-trained forces. Any chance she could be there?”

  Frankie shakes his head. “No, the man keeps up a respectable appearance as a legitimate business and family man. He wouldn’t bring illegal stuff to his residence.”

  “You’re sure?” I press him.

  “I’m only sure he’s asked for more support at the Tonacatepeque warehouse. If you give me a few days—”

  “I don’t have a few days. I’ve got minutes. How far is that from here?”

  Frankie shrugs. “Twenty-five minutes, give or take.”

  I have no choice. I’m going to have to reconnoiter the area and hope to God she’s there.

  Efficiently, I dole out the fifty thousand I promised, keeping a careful eye on his hands and body positioning. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to take me down for whatever other goodies I have in that Jeep. If he knew I actually had another fifty grand in there, I’m sure he’d make a play for it, but I didn’t let him have a peek.

  With our business finished, I deliver a dire warning. “Just as I promise to keep this meeting to myself, if you tell anyone about me being here or that I’m looking for this woman you’re going to have a lot more to worry about than getting to see your wife and kid again. Understand?”

  The man nods vigorously, and that’s all I need.