Payne opened the clasp and peered inside.
Several pages were stapled together, hastily assembled by Hamilton a few hours before his disappearance. Payne removed the packet and stared at the title page.
A single name had been typed on the front.
It was a name he didn’t know.
Payne flipped through the document and cursed at what he saw. Everything was handwritten in Spanish. One photocopied page after another, filled with elaborate prose that he was unable to read. Every once in a while he spotted a word or two that he recognized from his high-school Spanish, but not nearly enough to make sense of things. He would need Maria for that.
Not ready to call in reinforcements, Payne decided to run a search of his own. He typed the name into his phone’s search engine and waited for the results, but a poor connection slowed his effort. His phone chugged through the data, giving him plenty of time to speculate.
He assumed the man would be local. Maybe a member of Hamilton’s team. Or his weapons’ supplier. Whoever it was, Payne hoped they could track him down for a long conversation, because at this stage of the game they needed all the help they could get.
Unfortunately, a chat with this guy wasn’t going to happen.
Not without a psychic.
Because the man was already dead.
39
Ricardo Córdova was a mid-level employee in Hector’s organization. He had started out as muscle for one of the local crews, but had recently been promoted to talent scout because of his eye for detail. In his new role, he was expected to spot the best candidates for flash kidnappings and point them out to his associates. Whether they were wealthy locals or foreign businessmen, it didn’t matter as long as they had money. On weekends, his favourite place to work was the Zócalo, because it was always packed with clueless tourists.
His afternoon had started like any other. He strolled through the plaza while scanning the crowd for signs of wealth. Expensive shoes. Designer clothes. Fancy jewellery. The type of items only the rich could afford. He had just spotted an elderly couple with high-priced watches when he was distracted by a black SUV. He turned and stared as it climbed over the kerb on the edge of the plaza, then headed directly for the flagpole. Although it was uncommon for cars to be driven into the square, the intrusion didn’t catch his attention. But the vehicle did.
He had seen it many times before.
It belonged to his boss, Hector Garcia.
Like most employees, Ricardo knew how important it was to impress his boss. Careers were often made or broken based on personal connections, especially in an organization where trust and loyalty were so important. At first, he was tempted to go over and introduce himself — just so Hector could put a face to his name — but then he realized it was the wrong move in this situation. Obviously something was about to go down, otherwise Hector wouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself in the middle of a public plaza.
So Ricardo decided to sit back and wait.
He figured, he would keep an eye on things for the next few minutes and hope for the best. If an opening surfaced, he would hustle over and introduce himself. If not, he would go back to work, like every other Saturday. After all, there was money to be made.
Then it happened.
Amongst the smoke and gunshots, he spotted the opportunity of a lifetime.
Not only did he have a chance to meet Hector.
He had a chance to save him.
From Tiffany’s perspective, everything was going smoothly until that moment. The money was being loaded. The medallion was in their hands. And the police were slow to arrive. Thirty more seconds and her crew would have left the plaza as they had planned.
But one bullet changed everything.
Because of the smoke, no one saw Ricardo until it was too late. He emerged from the haze like a thief in the night. One moment he wasn’t there, the next he was. Severely outnumbered, he knew his only chance at success was a surprise attack. No hostages. No threats. No questions of any kind. His gun would do all the talking.
Church was feeling good about the mission until he felt the barrel of the gun against the base of his skull. A moment later, he couldn’t feel anything at all. Ricardo squeezed his trigger and the bullet did the rest, tearing through Church’s brain like a drill through wet clay. Blood splattered as Church fell, collapsing 10 feet in front of Angel, who was kneeling on the ground in agony. Still bleeding from his shoulder wound, Angel ignored the pain and rolled underneath the SUV for cover. Much to his surprise, the gun that had been kicked out of his hand earlier was now within reach. He grabbed it and looked for targets.
Tiffany, who was guarding Hector, spun towards Ricardo and fired two shots, both of which narrowly missed. Ricardo returned the favour, firing two shots of his own. The first whizzed past her face while the second missed high, partially because she had dropped to her knee. In close combat, she knew the smaller she was, the harder she would be to hit.
Hector didn’t know who the gunman was, and the truth was he didn’t care. All that mattered was the chance to get away. Temporarily forgetting about his kids, he scrambled from the ground and sprinted into the smoke. By then, his lone goal was to survive. Within seconds, he had lost all sense of direction because of the haze that surrounded him.
North became south. East became west.
Everything looked the same.
From the flagpole in the centre, the plaza extended for several hundred feet in every direction. No cross streets. No landmarks. No signs. Just thousands of stone tiles, laid in rows, for as far as the eye could see. If Hector had taken a moment to collect his thoughts, he would have made it through the smoke in a hurry. Since the rows were straight, he could have followed any of them to the edge of the square. There was no mystery. No code to decipher. Every row led to freedom. All he had to do was pick one and he would have survived.
Unfortunately for him, he didn’t think of that.
He simply started to run.
While crouching on one knee, Tiffany fired a third shot at Ricardo. It caught him flush in the stomach, three inches above his right hip. He screamed out in pain and fired wildly. The bullet struck the left side of the SUV as he stumbled forward, nearly falling to the ground before he caught his balance with his free hand. By this time, Chase had entered the fray. Known more for his driving than his marksmanship, he fired several shots at Ricardo, hoping to avenge the death of his fallen comrade. One of the shots came close — missing by less than a foot — but the others were way off the mark. Somewhere in the distance, a car window shattered.
‘Shit!’ he screamed in frustration.
Tiffany glanced to her left, expecting to see Hector on his hands and knees, but the bastard was no longer there. At that point, she had a decision to make. Either risk their freedom and try to find him, or hit the road before the police appeared. For her, it was an easy choice.
They had the medallion and the money.
It was time for them to leave.
‘Clear out,’ she said into her earpiece.
Despite the shootout raging nearby, Cash remained near his car. His job had been to deliver the girl to the plaza and to pick up the money. Nothing more, nothing less. Now he wasn’t sure what to do. His share of the ransom was in his vehicle, but so was the kid.
He spoke up. ‘What about the girl?’
Tiffany fired, trying to keep Ricardo pinned down. ‘Cut her loose.’
He struggled to hear. ‘Say again?’