Kidnap and Ransom

Praise for the novels of

MICHELLE GAGNON

THE GATEKEEPER

“High stakes, tension, excitement—I loved The Gatekeeper.”

—New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

BONEYARD

“I defy anyone to read the first chapter of Boneyard and put the book down. Pure reading pleasure—creepy, terrifying, and utterly believable.”

—New York Times bestselling author Douglas Preston

“A compelling page-turner that pays due attention to the human heart. It’ll keep you up all night.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver

THE TUNNELS

“A stellar work of mounting suspense and terror…. Not to be missed!”

—New York Times bestselling author James Rollins

“Michelle Gagnon is a fresh and confident new voice in crime fiction.”

—New York Times bestselling author John Lescroart

“Michelle Gagnon’s stellar debut is an edge-of-your-seat story of suspense and intrigue. Highly recommended.”

—New York Times bestselling author Sheldon Siegel

“A brisk pace and likable leads…. Gagnon’s characters hold promise for an enjoyable series.”

—Publishers Weekly

MICHELLE GAGNON

KIDNAP & RANSOM

For Taegan

Contents

DECEMBER 15

Chapter One

JANUARY 25

Chapter Two

JANUARY 29

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

JANUARY 30

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

JANUARY 31

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

FEBRUARY 1

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

FEBRUARY 2

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

MARCH 15

Chapter Forty-Eight

Author’s Note

One

Cesar Calderon stepped outside to light a cigarette. It was a gorgeous night, unseasonably warm for December, even in Mexico. He took a deep drag and tilted his head back, aiming the smoke toward a waning moon.

“Quieres?” he asked, turning to his bodyguard. Moreno had stationed himself a few feet back, just outside the restaurant door. For this trip Cesar had selected one of his less imposing employees, determined to maintain a low profile despite the circumstances.

“No, gracias,” Moreno said.

Calderon nodded, then inhaled. Thalia would be apoplectic if she knew he’d taken up smoking again—even if it was only socially, on business trips like this one. Before returning home he’d have to make sure his clothes were laundered or he’d catch hell for it. Out of habit, he kept a close monitor on the surrounding area. The dinner was being held around the corner from their hotel in the Zona Rosa. It was one of the most exclusive sections of Mexico City, although in his opinion these past few years it had slid into tackiness, upscale antique stores ceding to kitschy tourist traps. Shame that they had booked the St. Regis instead of the Four Seasons.

A couple strolled arm in arm, the woman tilting her head back to release a giggle as her companion guided her into a bar down the street. A few storefronts away, a pair of feet jutted out of a doorway. Cesar’s eyes narrowed at the sight of them. He turned back to Moreno and raised an eyebrow. Taking the cue, Moreno went to investigate. Grumbles from the doorway, a tirade delivered with the slurred speech of an addict.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Moreno said in a low voice before falling back into position.

Heroin, Calderon thought, shaking his head. It used to be that the drug only passed through Mexico, but in recent years addiction levels had spiked. The latest law decriminalizing small amounts of heroin and cocaine hadn’t helped matters, in his opinion. An already poor country was now being ravaged by the same disease as its wealthier neighbor to the north. A decade ago, the sight of a stoned man collapsed in a Mexico City doorway would have been an oddity. Today it was rapidly becoming the norm.

Back inside the restaurant, someone laughed loudly—probably Leonard. Bastard always got drunk and inappropriate at these conferences. The other night he’d actually asked Cesar to share a hooker; he shuddered at the memory. The sad truth was that his field attracted people from a wide range of backgrounds, some shadier than others. After recent events, Calderon had decided this was the last time he’d appear as the public face of the company. These business trips were draining, dangerous and put too much of a strain on his already fragile marriage. From here on out he’d leave the heavy lifting to Linus.

Calderon turned at the sound of screeching tires. A white van careened toward him. He frowned and automatically panned right, to the opposite end of the street…where he discovered a garbage truck blocking the intersection. Calderon’s eyes widened as he realized what was about to happen. He spun on his heels, braced to dash into the restaurant. Saw Moreno’s head tilted back at an odd angle, hands clutching his throat as blood jetted from between his fingers. The addict stood behind him, brandishing a knife.

Clearly no escape that way. Calderon tossed his cigarette, scattering a trail of embers as he swiveled and bolted across the street, hoping the sudden move would throw them off.

Too late. Hands gripped him from behind, dragging him toward the van’s open door. His calves smacked the metal frame as they pulled him inside. The last thing he saw was the shocked expression on the maître d’s face, frozen behind the host stand. Then a hood was yanked over his head, the van door slammed shut and a voice barked in Spanish, “Wall one, wall one, we have him! Wall two, move in behind us.”

Calderon let out a yelp at the sudden, sharp pain in his thigh. Mierda, he thought, they’re drugging me…

Then everything went black.

Two

Riley adjusted his grip on the MP-5. It was almost dawn. Aside from the sound of an occasional car, the streets below were silent. Almost eerily so, considering Mexico City had more than eight million residents. Riley looked down the line of men in the hall. Four of them pressed against the wall in tight formation, wearing urban camouflage and night-vision goggles. Outside he had Decker manning the wheel of their getaway van, and a sniper and observer in the building opposite. Eight total: more than enough to overwhelm the team holding Cesar Calderon. Still, despite the weeks of planning to set this operation in motion, it was hard for Riley to shake the sense that something was off.

Just nerves, Riley told himself. He had good intel that they were only dealing with three kidnappers. Monroe and Kaplan, his sniper/observer team, would create a distraction, taking out at least one of the bad guys at the window. The rest of his unit would swarm the apartment using a five-man cross-button entry strategy, eliminating the other two kidnappers and egressing with their hostage. All told, the operation should be over in less than five minutes. An airfield ten miles away had a plane waiting, and they’d be stateside by noon. Easy, just like Smiley had promised.

Riley’s earpiece buzzed. “Target confirmed. Are we green?” Kaplan asked in a low voice.

“Confirm green, we are in position,” Riley replied.

“Roger that. Sighting in.”

Riley glanced at his watch. Despite the early hour, he worried that one of the other apartment doors might open, ruining the element of surprise. They were in a run-down tenement building in Iztapalapa, one of the worst slums in Mexico City, which was saying something. The walls were riddled with holes, they’d sent rats scurrying in the stairwell as they ascended, and the whole place stank of piss and rotten meat. All things considered, there were sections of Baghdad he’d feel safer in.

Plus, the kidnappers they were about to engage were no ordinary hacks. Los Zetas was an elite paramilitary organization, former Mexican army soldiers who defected to work for a drug cartel. The men he was about to confront had been through the same training as his unit. They had attended the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation in Fort Benning, Georgia, learning firsthand from the best in the business the very techniques he was about to employ. All of which made this one of the most dangerous rescue attempts he’d ever participated in. And, officially at least, it was the first he was solely in charge of.

The hostage was something of a unique case, too. Cesar Calderon was the CEO of the Tyr Group, the world’s premier Kidnap and Ransom organization. Calderon had personally negotiated the release of hundreds of people over the course of his career. Then, five weeks ago, he’d been snatched from a security symposium where he was the keynote speaker. He walked out of a restaurant, disappeared into the back of a white van and hadn’t been heard from since. The rescuer became the victim—ironic, Riley thought. He’d never met Calderon personally, but in addition to being his boss, the man was a legend in K&R circles.

From inside the apartment, Narcocorridos music blared at top volume. Riley guessed that the neighbors were either Zetas sympathizers or too frightened to complain. The music provided good cover for the kidnappers, and had the additional benefit of disorienting and demoralizing their hostage. On the plus side for Riley, it meant his team didn’t have to worry about a stealthy approach. Hell, they could be escorted by a ten-piece band and still not be heard over the racket emanating from the apartment. Amazing that anyone could sleep through that, but after a while they probably tuned it out.

His earpiece buzzed: “Request permission to engage,” Kaplan asked. The spotter was probably itching to get this over with. He and Monroe, the sniper, had to keep their focus on the apartment from across the street, without any backup, putting them in the most vulnerable position. Especially in this barrio, where each building was more dangerous than the next.

“Permission granted. Fire, fire.” Riley turned and gave the rest of his team the Go signal. Two of them moved forward to flank the door, a compact battering ram between them. He’d act as point man—first through the door and ready to take out whatever lay on the other side. The clearing man would follow, covering his back. The rest of the team would split up to sweep each room, securing the hostage and eliminating any hostiles with extreme prejudice.

Over the din inside the apartment, he heard the distinct sound of shattering glass. Monroe must have shot out the window, hopefully eliminating one of the hostiles at the same time. Riley nodded. The ram swung back, and the door burst inward with a splintering of wood.

“What the fuck was that?” asked Monroe.

Kaplan refocused the Elcan scope on his M-16 rifle, most spotters’ weapon of choice because it provided the best night vision. He was spotting for Monroe, arguably one of the world’s best snipers. Monroe had come up through the ranks of the Army’s elite Olympic sharpshooting team, racking up medals until he got tired of firing at bull’s-eyes and joined the private sector. The two of them were ensconced in an apartment across the street from their target. They’d built their nest a few feet back in the room so the gun muzzle wouldn’t be spotted, and covered most of the window with strips of burlap. The figure they’d zeroed in on had vanished, the window he’d been standing in front of now completely shattered.

“You got him.”

“Bullshit, I didn’t get anyone,” Monroe said. “I haven’t fired yet.”

“What?”

“I was about to, when the window blew.”

“So what the—”

The door behind them suddenly exploded. Kaplan’s hands jerked instinctively to cover his head, before he regained himself and swung the M-16 around.

A sharp pain in his shoulder, followed by one in his chest. Something wet smacked into his face, and he jerked sideways away from it. Men swarmed the room, faces covered by masks attached to black helmets, giving them a wasplike appearance. They all carried machine guns. Kaplan slowly raised his hands in the air, gasping slightly from the pain in his chest where the second bullet had hit. It didn’t seem to have penetrated his vest, but a stream of blood flowed from his shoulder.

They rolled Kaplan onto his back. He winced: Monroe hadn’t been as lucky. There was a big hole where the back of his head used to be. Kaplan recognized the damage: hollow point bullets. And they were brandishing military-issue LMT modular weapons—almost impossible for civilians to get their hands on, even in Mexico.

They zip tied Kaplan’s hands together behind his back and yanked him roughly to his feet. As they jerked a hood down over his head, Kaplan wondered why they hadn’t killed him yet.

Riley swept into the apartment. The hallway was empty, which was surprising: breaking down a door usually brought someone running. The music was loud, but not enough to cover that.

He waved the rest of the men down the hall to search the bedroom on the right. Jordan stayed on his heels as he paused outside the door on their left, which according to their intel led to a living room. Once they entered the room he’d break right while Jordan moved left, hopefully throwing off any hostiles waiting inside.

Riley took a deep breath, then lunged quickly around the door frame and into the room, automatically panning from side to side with his gun. It was also empty, and if the blueprints were accurate the apartment wasn’t that big. Jordan lifted his eyebrows, and Riley shrugged. He motioned for them to approach the door at the far end of the room silently. Jordan nodded.

Riley heard the rest of the team heading away from them toward the kitchen. No gunfire yet, so they hadn’t encountered anyone, either. According to plan, they’d check the kitchen and adjoining bathroom, while he and Jordan entered the bedroom where they expected to find Calderon.

Riley moved as silently as possible, rolling through his feet. Music blared from the back room, underlaid by a sitcom laugh track. At this proximity the noise made his ears smart, and that was through a helmet. The door leading to the bedroom was closed, a simple padlock securing it from the outside. Jordan stepped forward with his shotgun. Riley raised his gloved hand, counting down: three…two…one…

The lock blew away, taking a good chunk of the cheap door with it. Riley swept into the room. Aside from a bed, there was no other furniture. The windows were boarded up. On the right, another door led to the bathroom. Jordan moved to clear that while Riley held his MP-5 steady on the room’s sole occupant.

The hostage was lying on a bed, hands and feet trussed. The black hood covering his head was knotted loosely around his neck. His clothes were filthy, an undershirt mottled brown with stains and a pair of suit pants that were nearly reduced to shreds. The head jerked toward him, and he heard muffled pleas.

Jordan stepped out of the bathroom and nodded: all clear. Despite this, he wore an expression of concern. Riley felt the same way: they should never have been able to enter the apartment without encountering resistance. The abduction of Calderon had been done with precision by a skilled team. No way they would leave Calderon alone and unattended. And still no gunfire from the other side of the house, yet the rest of his team hadn’t reappeared. Riley glanced at his watch: ninety seconds since they’d entered the apartment. The little voice in his head was screaming at him to grab this guy and get the hell out.

Riley nodded for Jordan to cover him. He shouldered his MP-5 and unholstered his sidearm. Crossing the room in two steps, he aimed the gun with one hand while untying the hood with the other. He yanked it off and stepped back, keeping his weapon leveled at the man on the bed. The guy was bruised almost beyond recognition, cheeks sunken and gaunt. His eyes were wild, hair matted with blood, mouth duct-taped. He didn’t look much like the hale, robust man in the company photos, but it was hard to tell. Six weeks as a hostage would ruin anyone’s good looks.

Riley barked, “Don’t move!” He edged in again, ripped off the duct tape. “Where are the hostiles?”

A slow smile crept across the guy’s face. At the sight of it, Riley went cold. “Behind you, amigo,” the man said.

Riley spun. On the other side of the entryway, five men had assault rifles fixed on him and Jordan.

“Fuck,” Jordan muttered.

Riley debated for a second, tightening his grip on his weapon. One handgun against enough firepower to take out a village—he didn’t like his odds. Still, he’d faced worse.

“Don’t be a fool, señor,” the man continued. “We have your other men. Surrender and they all survive.”

Slowly Riley lowered his weapon. The guy’s wrist bonds must have been faked, for he was suddenly at Riley’s side, yanking the handgun from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, Riley linked his hands behind his head. Gunshots, right by his ear. He whirled around in time to see Jordan’s body collapsing to the floor. The bastard was standing over him, grinning.

“Lo siento,” he said casually. “You brought too many.”

“Fuck you,” Riley spat, unable to contain his rage.

The guy ignored him, barking orders to his men. The hood he’d just pulled off was tugged over Riley’s face. It was difficult to breathe through the thick fabric. His hands were zip tied behind him. They pushed and prodded him down the hall. Riley considered yelling, but knew they were in Zetas-friendly territory; there was little chance any locals would come to the rescue. In this town, it was hard enough to gauge whose side the police were on.

He stumbled a few times on the stairs. Hit a landing and heard a door clank against the wall. They must be leaving through the same service exit his team had used to enter the building. The sound of an engine running, and Riley was suddenly sent flying forward. He smacked his head against something hard. Hands shoved him against the far wall into a sitting position. Other people crashed into him, muttering curses. An engine roared, and the vehicle they’d been loaded into peeled away from the curb.

Riley swayed, bracing his feet hard against the floor to stay upright. It felt like a van—probably the one they’d requisitioned for their own getaway. He wondered how many of his men had survived, and what was going to happen to them. Most of all he wondered why the hell any of them were still alive. Clearly they’d walked into a trap—someone knew they were coming. Riley resolved right then and there to find out who. And if he managed to come through this in one piece, he fully intended to hunt them down and kill them.

Three

Kelly Jones relaxed. The water surrounding her was warm, womblike. She let herself drift as images flashed across her mind’s eye. Agent Leonard barking a command as he ran alongside her, before vanishing in a flash of light and heat. Her former partner, Rodriguez, laughing at his own jokes. Her family, all together again, making pancakes. And finally Jake Riley, the man she had promised to marry. She was focusing on his easy grin, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, when a voice jolted her back to the present.

“That’s not bad. Now raise and lower it one more time.”

Kelly opened her eyes. She was floating on her back. The ceiling above the pool danced with the shadows of ripples. From this distance it almost appeared alive, like some great writhing beast. She gritted her teeth and tried to do what she was told, focusing on her right leg, forcing it to resist the hand pressing against her quad. A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead and into the water.

“Not bad. But try to raise it all the way up.”

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you stopped pushing it down,” Kelly muttered, teeth clenched.

“Sure would, but that’s not my job. Remember our goal?”

Kelly had disliked the physical therapist on sight, and her chirpy voice with the irritating habit of emphasizing every other word had only become more grating over time. Still, she was supposed to be the best in her field. And to get back on active duty, Kelly would tolerate almost anything. Even a she-devil named Brandi.

“One more time and we’re done.”

“That’s what you said before the last one,” Kelly protested.

Brandi shrugged. “I lied. C’mon, you can do it!”

Kelly closed her eyes again. She strained hard, clenching her leg muscles and gluts. There was a splash: her stump had broken the surface of the water. She let her head drop back down, still unaccustomed to the sight of it. “That’s what I’m talking about!” Brandi exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “All right, now you’re done. See you on Thursday.”

“I thought we could meet tomorrow instead,” Kelly said. She hated the pleading tone in her voice, but she needed this. The more PT she did, the faster she’d be able to get back to work. Seven months off and she was climbing the walls. At this point it felt like another few weeks would kill her. And the only person who could clear her for active duty was standing in front of her, ponytail pointing straight up like an exclamation point, glossy pink lips pressed firmly together.

“Now, Kelly.” Brandi shook her head disapprovingly. “Remember our chat about recovery time?”

“I’m never sore the next day anymore,” Kelly protested.

Brandi’s expression didn’t soften. “No way, missy. I will see you on Thursday.” She leaned in. “But if you like, I’ll sneak in an extra half hour.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She watched Brandi swim fluidly over to the ladder. The pool wasn’t kept locked, she reasoned. There was nothing to keep her from sneaking in tomorrow to do the exercises herself.

As if reading her thoughts, Brandi called back over her shoulder, “And don’t even think about coming in here alone. I’ll have Ray at the front desk buzz me if you do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kelly sighed.

“Sure you wouldn’t. See ya!”

Kelly watched Brandi bounce toward the locker room. What she’d give for her sidearm at a time like this. Not that she’d actually shoot the girl, but the thought of scaring the smug grin off her face was tempting. Of course, then Kelly could definitely kiss her job goodbye.

With a deep sigh Kelly dived, kicking hard with her good leg and digging her right arm in deep with each stroke to keep moving in a straight line. Reaching the side of the pool she gripped the ledge hard, using her triceps to haul herself out of the water. Her upper body was strong, more defined than it had been before the accident, thanks to months in a wheelchair. She flipped herself around so that she was sitting, then drew her left leg out of the water and used it to push herself back. Kelly kept her eyes averted as she reached for a towel.