On her side in a nightgown, a woman lay half-covered by a single sheet. Long dark hair covered her pillow.
On the muted flat-screen TV, a black-and-white western aired to a sleeping audience. An empty wineglass sat on the nightstand along with an ashtray containing several cigar butts. He also saw a cell phone.
Franco eased inside and approached the bed. The tobacco smell was stronger in here.
He stood over her motionless form for half a minute, soaking up the feeling of power, of owning this woman.
Time to get down to business.
He tucked his Sig into his waist pack and circled to the opposite side of the bed.
In a quick move, he clamped his right hand over her mouth and yanked her to the floor. Staying behind her, he wrapped his left arm around her torso and hauled her upright. In the mirrored closet door he saw her eyes register confusion first, then abject terror.
“I’m not going to hurt you. If you resist or scream, I’ll make you regret it. Do you understand me?”
Completely overwhelmed with panic, she issued a muffled whine. When she tried to shake her head back and forth, Franco tightened his grip on her jaw. He pressed his groin firmly against her hip and moved his head in close. In the event she possessed self-defense training, he didn’t want his balls grabbed or crushed, and he didn’t want to be head butted. A broken nose would require an explanation.
Franco wasn’t completely devoid of compassion. He knew this woman was terrified beyond all control. He had the power to ease her fear or enhance it.
“I know you’re frightened, but I’m not going to rape you. All I want is information. Now I’m only going to say this one more time. If you scream or try to run, I will hurt you. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded.
“I’m going to uncover your mouth.”
“Please, I don’t have much money in the house.”
“I’m not here for your money. I want you to sit on the edge of the bed and answer my questions. Do you think you can do that?”
She nodded.
“Don’t try anything stupid. If you attempt to run, you’ll be punished. Now please sit down.”
The woman complied, keeping her legs together with her hands in her lap.
“Where is your husband? You’re married, yes?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“He left yesterday morning.”
“Did he say when he’d return?”
“Tonight,” she said, but it sounded forced.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“He said it might be a few days.”
“So he didn’t tell you where he was going?”
She shook her head.
“Where does he work?”
“At embassies.”
“Your husband works at embassies? In Managua?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones?”
“Mostly United States and Canada.”
“What does he do at the embassies?”
“I don’t know. He never talks about his work.”
Franco turned on the nightstand light; he wanted to see her face more clearly. That’s when he saw it, a small framed photo. He stared in shocked disbelief, then picked it up.
“This is your husband?”
“Yes.”
“This guy, right here.” He pointed to a clean-shaven man with a full head of dark hair standing next to several US Marines in dress blues.
“Yes.”
Viper!
Franco felt his stomach twist. “Was Pastor Tobias your husband’s father?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been married to him?”
“Twelve years.”
“How long has he worked at the embassies?”
“Seven years.”
“Does he work for the government?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know about his work?”
She wiped a tear and didn’t answer.
“I know you’re frightened, but you’re doing fine. You said he doesn’t talk about his work much. Have you overheard any of his phone calls, anything that might give you a clue about his work?”
“I’ve heard him talking about American and Canadian companies.”
“What kind of companies?”
“I’m not sure. Mining, I think.”
“Mining?”
“Yes.”
Intriguing. “What else can you tell me?”
“I don’t know. He travels to America and Canada a lot. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks.”
“Do you think he’s up north now?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t pack for a long trip.”
“Is that your SUV in the garage?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of vehicle does your husband drive?”
“A truck.”
“A pickup? What color and make?”
“A tan Ford.”
“What is your security code to the house?”
She gave him the number.
“Does his office computer require a password?”
“I don’t know. He never lets me touch it.”
“What about you? What do you do for work?”
Her voice cracked again. “I’m a volunteer at the hospital. I also manage a nonprofit program there.”
Questioning this woman further would be useless. She was either a really good liar or she truly didn’t know much about her husband’s line of work. He had no desire to torture her in order to find out.
Franco pushed her backward and straddled her with his thighs. He pulled his handgun and struck her on the side of the head. The trick was hitting hard enough to cause unconsciousness but not hard enough to kill or cause permanent damage.
She managed a yelp of terror before going limp.
He eased off her and checked for a pulse. Faint, but present. He’d stay put a little longer to be sure the woman didn’t regain consciousness too quickly. He glanced at the TV. A black-and-white western showed a posse of mounted lawmen chasing a lone bad guy through a rocky canyon. The bad guy kept pivoting in his saddle and firing at his pursuers.
Franco pocketed her cell phone and left her bedroom.
Down the hall, he entered the office, closed the blinds, and turned on the desk’s light. He powered on the computer, and not surprisingly, he was greeted with a log-in password screen. He made several attempts to log in using common passwords, but the system locked up after five attempts. It was worth a try, but getting information out of his old kilo friend would have to be obtained the old-fashioned way — through an interrogation. Franco conducted a quick search of Estefan’s office, looking through file drawers and opened mail for anything that might shed light on the man’s profession. Verifying what his wife had said, he saw several textbooks on mining in a small bookcase.
Back at the door leading to the garage, he punched in the security code. The LED turned green.
He returned to the bedroom and hoisted the woman over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry technique. She felt light, no more than fifty kilograms. Hauling her through the house and out the sliding glass doors to the western edge of the property took less than a minute. Back in the garage, he grabbed one of the five-gallon gas cans he’d smelled earlier and returned to the master bedroom. He left it there and began scanning the ceiling for smoke detectors. He found four.
Using a chair from the dining room, he reached up to the ceiling and removed the battery from the kitchen’s detector. He repeated the procedure in the other three locations, including the garage. If the devices were wired into the security system, the fire department’s response would now be slower. Someone would have to see the fire and call it in. Because of the late hour, the house would probably be fully involved before anyone noticed it. Franco knew modern homes didn’t burn easily unless they had some help — such as an accelerant. The gasoline would speed things up nicely. To give the fire more oxygen, he opened some of the windows. Next, he located the attic access in the first bedroom and stood on the bed to push the cover up and aside.