Off the Rails Read online

  She stayed with them, because there was safety in numbers. The police presence had caused a panic in the crowd. When she reached the railcars, she shot a glance over her shoulder. The officers had stopped to watch the passengers climb aboard.

  ¡Mierda!

  One of the young men next to her nudged his friend. “Should we wait to get on?”

  “No way,” his friend replied. “That will only attract more attention.”

  They started up the ladder.

  Maria didn’t know what else to do, so she climbed to the top with them. Her instincts warned her to avoid the police. They might be searching for Sarai. They might be searching for Ian. He’d scuffled with someone earlier, and donned a disguise for a reason.

  She did a quick survey of the other passengers on the surface of the railcar. More than a dozen men stared at her with curious eyes. She felt like a sheep among wolves. The train lurched forward and almost knocked her off-balance.

  She didn’t have time to find another spot. Her only option was to sit down and hang on. Stomach roiling, she found an open space on the metal grate. Then she hugged her knees to her chest and glanced up at the sky, praying for safe passage.

  Chapter 10

  Caitlyn waited for Armando to fall asleep.

  He didn’t go down easy without a helpful dose of morphine. His injuries kept him uncomfortable. But he was one of those hyper-alert types who refused to rest, even when he needed it, so that worked in her favor. After a few hours of flexing and pacing, he surrendered to exhaustion. He put all of the drugs in an empty sock and tied it to his drawstring waistband. Then he collapsed on the hospital bed and started snoring.

  Ugh.

  He was awful. Cold-eyed and hard-faced, with weathered skin and coarse hair. He’d probably kill her as a warm-up before he went on his next rampage. His idea to manipulate the boy wasn’t bad, though. Caitlyn had agreed to team up with Armando, but she didn’t trust him. He was a dangerous psychopath. If she could escape without him, she would.

  She let several minutes tick by to make sure he was in a deep sleep. Then she crept across the room on her hands and knees, silent as a cat. She reached the door and peered through the slot. The space was wide enough to stick her arm out to the elbow. She couldn’t see anything in the dark hallway, but she stayed there for a long time, keeping watch. It was an uncomfortable position. Her neck got sore and her knees hurt.

  After what felt like hours, the boy walked down the hall. She waved furiously to get his attention. He crouched down to her level, not saying a word. He’d never spoken to her.

  “Do you speak English?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  She almost fainted with relief. “Please let me go. I’ll do anything you want.”

  A hint of interest flickered in his eyes. Earlier, Armando had perused her figure and dismissed her as a seductress. She’d silently agreed with his assessment, so she hadn’t argued with him. Now she could see that the boy might be susceptible to that kind of offer. He seemed curious about her, at least. She moistened her lips, desperate.

  “I can’t,” he said finally.

  “He’s okay now. You don’t need me.”

  “We need you. For another…paciente.”

  Another patient? “No,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t stay here. I have a job, a family. People are looking for me.”

  He sighed and shook his head, as if this was a tiresome complaint. All of the hope drained out of her, like water flushing down the toilet. She couldn’t believe she was in this position, begging a teenage boy for favors. Despair overwhelmed her. Then something happened, like a switch inside her. All of the fear and helplessness transformed into anger, which bolstered her courage.

  This boy might be underage, but he wasn’t a child. He wasn’t innocent. He knew she was being held against her will. He was a criminal in training, standing between her and freedom.

  “I need a shower and clean clothes,” she said. “I won’t see another patient like this.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, starting to rise.

  She tried to grab his pant leg, but he moved out of reach. Then she felt the sharp pinprick against her neck, and a crushing fist in her hair.

  Armando.

  He wasn’t asleep, apparently.

  “Open the door,” he said.

  “I can’t open the door,” the boy replied. “You’re crazy!”

  Armando plunged the needle all the way to the hilt. “Open the door or I’ll fucking kill her.”

  Caitlyn screamed as he held the syringe in place, threatening to inject her with an overdose of morphine. Domingo watched with horror. She took several short breaths, on the edge of hysteria. One vial probably wouldn’t kill her, even if he managed to hit the vein, but that was a chance she didn’t want to take. She believed that Armando would do anything to escape.

  The two of them had a short conversation in Spanish. Armando growled his responses, seeming impatient. He gripped her hair tight and gave her head a shake for emphasis. She closed her eyes, wincing. To her surprise, his strategy actually worked.

  After a tense moment, Domingo opened the door. Armando lifted her upright and dragged her down the hall while the boy stayed behind, frowning. She screamed for help and let her heels slide on the tile floor. Even though she wanted to leave, she didn’t want to go with him.

  “Walk, perra.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He reached a door and turned her around to face it. “Open the door and move your ass, or I’ll pump you full of drugs.”

  “I won’t die from that.”

  “You’ll die if I snap your skinny neck!”

  She gritted her teeth and followed his instructions. The door led to an open garage. She walked forward and started down the same asphalt driveway where he’d face-planted the other night. The gate at the end of the driveway was locked, impenetrable. “Now what, genius?”

  He ducked behind a bush with her. His fist was still buried in her hair, the needle stuck in her neck. It hurt, even with the adrenaline coursing through her body. She couldn’t hold back a whimper of pain.

  A black SUV appeared in front of the gate with at least two men inside. Armando muttered something in Spanish. As soon as the automated gate rolled open and the vehicle pulled forward, he removed the needle from her neck. Then he just…let go of her. She dropped to the grass, knees buckling, while he darted through the gate and took off.

  He moved pretty fast for a guy with a gut wound.

  “He left me,” she mumbled in disbelief.

  That bastard. He’d never intended to take her. She hadn’t been eager to play Hostage 2.0 with him, but getting dumped in this hellhole wasn’t any better. Especially since she couldn’t run. She couldn’t think clearly. She clamped a hand over her neck, which was seeping blood. Her head felt woozy. Maybe some morphine had slipped into her system.

  The men got out of the car to observe Armando’s hasty retreat. She’d seen them both before, when she was first captured. One had a scar on his face. The other was stocky, with a thick beard. Neither seemed interested in chasing after Armando. Maybe they didn’t think he was worth the trouble. The gate slid closed, and her chances of surviving this ordeal disintegrated. She’d been used and discarded. The bad guy got away instead of her.

  What an unfair outcome.

  The boy came through the garage and got scolded in Spanish. Both men argued in raised voices, gesturing at her, at the street, at the car. Then the boy strode toward her and lifted her to her feet. She managed to stay upright, taking deep breaths. Her legs were shaky, but the weakness might be due to stress and lack of food, rather than drugs.

  While she attempted to regain her bearings, the bearded man opened the trunk. An awful stench assaulted her nostrils. She clapped a hand over her mouth and nose, gagging. She’d used the cautery equipment often enough in surgery to recognize the smell of burnt flesh. This odor was stronger and smokier. It was a gut-churning blend of fire, chemicals, a
nd death.

  Near death, rather. The thing inside the trunk wasn’t dead yet. It was still moving. She smothered a sound of distress as a mummy-creature was hefted from the depths. It took both men to lift the blanket-wrapped bundle, which emitted a low moan.

  “Your patient,” the boy said.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He guided her back inside, his expression grim.

  “I’m a veterinarian, not Dr. Frankenstein!”

  The boy didn’t seem to understand the reference. He returned her to the cramped cell she’d come to loathe while the two men placed the new victim on the bed. She studied the thing in horror. There was a charred face and blistered hands. Two arms, two legs, shoes melted onto large feet. It was a man, she assumed. The individual parts were more or less intact, but he couldn’t survive with third-degree burns all over his body.

  “What do you expect me to do?” she asked.

  The bearded man said, “Same as before. He live, you live.”

  She swallowed hard, trying not to panic. “This is far beyond my capabilities.”

  Her captors just stared at her.

  She made two fists in her hair. “What’s wrong with you people? He’s going to die. You have to take him to a hospital.”

  “No hospital.”

  Her legs threatened to collapse again, so she sat down. She focused on breathing. She understood that these men were high-profile criminals. Maybe they were facing execution or assassination or something. “Can’t you kidnap a real doctor?”

  The scarred man spoke to the boy in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “He says get to work,” the boy translated.

  She sputtered with laughter and disbelief. “With what supplies?”

  “We bring more, if you need.”

  Her mouth dropped open, then closed abruptly. “No. I won’t do it. You can’t make me.”

  The bearded man lifted the hem of his shirt a few inches, exposing the butt of a handgun. Although he didn’t draw the weapon, his intention was clear. She gaped at him, beyond fear. The man with the scar shook his head in disapproval. They discussed her fate for a moment, their voices clipped.

  “We will lock you in with El Jefe for a few days,” the boy said finally. “If he die, we bury you also. If he live, you go home.”

  His words chilled her to the bone. It was the same deal she’d been forced into earlier, with a more sinister edge. Would they really kill her in cold blood? The two older men hadn’t even fired at Armando during his escape. Maybe they weren’t ruthless psychopaths like him. Maybe they’d actually let her go home if she cooperated.

  Either way, she believed the first part. They would hold her captive in this room with this ravaged creature. She could stand by and do nothing while he suffered a long, painful death. She could listen to his labored breathing and smell his ruined flesh.

  Or she could try to save him, and herself.

  She rose to her feet again, testing her mettle. When she didn’t sway or pass out, she stepped forward. The man’s face wasn’t burned beyond recognition, upon closer inspection. His skin wasn’t charred, just covered in soot. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He was unconscious, wrapped in rags. She’d heard that burn victims were prone to hypothermia after their bodies cooled. Smoke inhalation could cause problems as well.

  With caution, she edged aside the fabric around his head. His scalp was singed, his hair gone. One of his ears was hanging loose, edges crisp. Her stomach roiled as she examined the rest of him. His hands, neck, and forearms were riddled with blisters that gave him a lagoon-monster appearance. His tattered shirt clung to a lean torso. Perhaps he’d been in an explosion, rather than a house fire. She looked under the blanket. He was wearing jeans. Everything below the waist appeared to have been protected by heavy denim.

  “His back is worse,” the bearded man said.

  Caitlyn didn’t want to turn him over until she’d started oxygen and an IV. She could see that his shoulders were blackened with deep tissue burns. If his entire back was like this, he would need surgery. Skin grafts and other complicated procedures she couldn’t improvise.

  She washed her hands at the sink, contemplative. His back might be a mess, but his front wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. There was a chance he’d live. She’d start with antibiotics, painkillers, and fluids. Then she’d have to clean and debride his wounds, which was a grueling process.

  He could die from the treatment. He’d definitely die without it.

  Eyes narrow, she faced her captors. “How old is he?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Was he in good health before this?”

  The men shrugged, evasive. Her patient was tall and strong, with an athletic build, but that didn’t mean he was in top condition.

  The boy said, “He was a heroin addict. Long time ago.”

  A heroin addict. Great. It would be a miracle if he recovered. She didn’t think a man like him was worth saving, either. He was some kind of top-tier criminal, a friend or enemy of Armando’s. The world would be a better place without both of them. But what could she do besides cooperate?

  “Bring me some hot water,” she said to the boy. “Clean hot water, in bowls or buckets. I also need bandages and antibiotic ointment.”

  The boy went to fetch the items while the bearded man stood guard.

  She attached an oxygen mask to the patient’s dirty face and she searched for a vein that would accommodate an IV. His hands and arms were toast, so she pushed up the leg of his jeans and removed a ruined shoe. It was fused to his sock, which had burned through the soles of his feet. Shaking her head, she peeled the fabric away from his skin and she swabbed his ankle. It was one of the least affected areas of his body. His blood pressure sucked, but she finally got in. She secured the IV and gave him several injections.

  Then she rolled up her sleeves and began to work.

  Chapter 11

  Ian didn’t get a chance to watch Maria disappear into the crowd.

  As soon as she left him, the train’s engine rumbled to life and his cellphone vibrated with an incoming call. He fished it out of his pocket, cursing. There was too much noise in the open area, so he ducked behind the block wall once again.

  “I’m here,” he answered.

  “On the train?” LaGuardia asked.

  “About to board. I don’t have much time.”

  “Understood. Sorry it took so long to get back to you.”

  Ian wondered if the delay had been strategic. He didn’t expect LaGuardia to keep him on speed dial, but some serious shit was going down. Ian had found a dead body and been instructed to avoid the police. This situation was urgent, and those orders were questionable, at best. Even though Ian was new to ICE, and just a grunt on temporary assignment, he knew the regulations. U.S. agents couldn’t ignore Mexican authorities while operating in Mexico. Not overtly, anyway.

  If Ian happened to get caught, he’d make a great fall guy. Who would believe him, a disgraced DEA agent with a record of going rogue?

  Plausible deniability. LaGuardia had it in spades.

  He might have been waiting for Ian to get a safe distance away from the federales before he bothered to initiate another communication.

  “I didn’t expect company that fast,” Ian said, cautious.

  “Did they get a good look at you?”

  “No,” he replied, which was only half-true. One of the men had seen his face, but so what? Ian was hot on Sarai’s trail. He wanted to stay the course. He wanted to find Sarai and help nail Armando Villarreal to the wall. His career hung in the balance.

  “I have some new intel on the target,” LaGuardia said. “Are you familiar with the PFM?”

  If memory served, PFM stood for Policía Federal Ministerial. It was a special agency in Mexico that investigated police officers, sort of like Internal Affairs. “Yes.”

  “Villarreal has connections to that organization.”

  “He was an informant?”

  “He might have
been an agent.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. A man named Armando Villarreal Castillo worked as an armed guard in the capital building for almost ten years. During that time, the PFM was created to fight police corruption. We believe that Villarreal was recruited for an organized crime unit.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Based on the sequence of events. The Los Rojos cartel went on a killing spree, targeting the families of the investigators. Villarreal’s wife was among the victims. After her death, three of Los Rojos’s top members were murdered by an unknown assailant. Then Villarreal fled to San Diego and hooked up with Carlos Moreno.”

  Ian absorbed this information with a frown. He didn’t know much about the Los Rojos cartel, which operated in central Mexico. He was more familiar with their rivals in Tijuana. “You think he joined the Moreno cartel for protection?”

  “Either that or he was following orders,” LaGuardia said. “The guy in charge of the PFM’s covert ops was assassinated two years ago. He took the names of his agents to the grave.”

  “Two years is a long time to stay in a broken assignment.”

  “Maybe he couldn’t leave.”

  “Why didn’t he approach U.S. authorities?”

  “Would you have in his position?”

  Ian rubbed a hand over his jaw, uncertain. Everyone liked to point fingers at Mexico’s corrupt law enforcement system, but there were dirty players on both sides. Villarreal wouldn’t have known who to trust, and he’d been in the country illegally. “I wouldn’t have gone on the run with a hostage. That’s the act of a desperate criminal.”

  LaGuardia didn’t argue there.

  “Does this information change my orders?”

  “Not at all. I just wanted you to know who you’re up against. Los Rojos has a major beef with Villarreal. They will be extremely aggressive in their pursuit.”

  “I appreciate the heads up,” he said. He doubted this was new intel, and he’d rather have been told sooner, but he wasn’t deterred by the extra danger. If anything, it invigorated him. He was about to sign off when he noticed a stir of energy in the crowd. He glanced over the top of the wall and his stomach dropped. The federales were here.