Haggar glanced down at his notes. “Laura Collins, is that right?”
“Yes. I’m-I’m friends with Jake Dent, Laura’s ex.”
“And you were concerned because why?”
“Because I thought Jake might do something in retaliation for what happened to Laura. He was also worried that his son was missing, and he couldn’t get in touch with several of his son’s friends.”
“Does he think his son is a hostage?”
“It’s definitely a concern.”
“Have you given those names over to our team? The son’s friends, I mean.”
Ellie nodded. “Yes, of course. I told my lieutenant and he said he’d relay the information to the FBI.”
That intel hadn’t made it to Haggar. A clog in the pipeline he’d clear by ripping somebody a new asshole.
“Jake Dent-do you know where he is now?”
“That’s the thing,” Ellie said. “I can’t get in touch with him. Before your team got here, I brought up my concern about Jake to the state police and they sent two detectives to follow him.”
Haggar scowled. He should have been briefed. The size of the asshole he was going to rip just grew. “Did they find anything?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Ellie said.
Haggar got on his phone and within minutes got an earful from a detective about being left on a lengthy stakeout for what was certainly a dead end. Jake Dent had gone into his home hours ago and nobody had come out. They even canvassed the woods behind his house. The car was there, TV was on, and the shades were drawn. Haggar didn’t like that one bit. He knew nothing about Jake Dent, but he did know something about being a dad.
“Try to coax him out for a chat. Hell, see if he’s even there for goodness sake,” Haggar barked into the phone. There was a pause while Haggar listened to some response. “Call me back when you get some useful information,” Haggar said before ending the call.
“We can go in other ways,” Ellie suggested. She was tiptoeing on a line that wasn’t frequently crossed. The FBI was a stickler for rules and procedures-in part because the organization operated under the microscope of media scrutiny, but also because they were tasked with upholding the law, not breaking it.
“I’ll get a warrant if it comes to it,” Haggar said. “In the meantime, I’m going to learn everything about Jake Dent that’s possible to know.”
CHAPTER 31
Fausto brought the teens back to the auditorium. His expression had changed. The playful glint in his eyes was gone. The cat that had been toying with a cornered mouse seemed to have grown tired of its game. Fausto sat all six members of The Shire in the front row. The kids were no longer tied up, gagged, or blindfolded. Fausto had terrorized them enough so they wouldn’t attempt anything foolish, he believed. The dead bodies were off the stage; the lifeless forms of El Gallo and the two other cartel members had been dumped through a trapdoor. Normally, the door was used for theatrical productions, but in this case it functioned as a quick disposal mechanism.
Andy sat at the end of the row, next to Hilary. Beside Hilary sat Solomon, followed by Rafa, then David, and last Pixie. Fausto, Efren, and Armando, whose scars were more apparent under the harsh glare of the theater lights, clustered onstage, talking in Spanish. Four of the cartel sat in the row behind the teens with their weapons resting on their laps. One guard was posted at the door. There would be no tolerating another surprise visitor.
Andy’s legs bounced up and down continuously, and the rest of him-arms, neck, head-had trouble keeping still. He sweated as if he were hot, but shook as if he were freezing. Hilary took hold of Andy’s hand, linking her fingers with his, making an effort to settle him. Andy ripped his hand away and flashed Hilary an angry look.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered in a harsh, scolding tone. “I don’t want to be touched.”
His speech came out thick, the words a bit slurred. At first, Hilary was offended, but almost as quickly she understood. She saw all the symptoms. Andy had educated The Shire, his closest friends, about what to look for in the event he hadn’t managed his blood sugar properly. He was irritable, sweating profusely, and not speaking clearly. There were progressive stages of hypoglycemia, and Hilary believed Andy was past the point where food would work fast enough. He needed his glucose tablets, more likely an injection of glucagon. She knew he kept an emergency kit in his backpack at all times. Andy clutched his stomach as though he was going to be sick, and he couldn’t quiet the shaking in his arms and legs.
“What’s your blood sugar level?” Hilary whispered to Andy.
“Gonna kill Whippet. Gonna kill him,” Andy breathed out the words.
Hilary saw that Andy’s gaze was locked on an exceedingly thin man with just a trace of a mustache, guarding the door and brandishing a gun sleek as he was. To her eyes, he did, in fact, resemble a whippet-lean and muscular.
“Calla la boca,” Tornado, with the frizzy hair, scolded.
Hilary ignored him. Same as she had ignored the scar-faced man who had interrogated her, groped her, insulted her, and threatened her. There was nothing else she could do. Every answer was the same: “I don’t have the money,” even when they showed her the video feed of poor Javier.
“Your backpack with your medicine, Andy. Where is it?”
“Backpack,” Andy managed.
El Tornado yanked on Hilary’s hair hard, wrenching her head back and snapping her neck so hard she yowled.
“¡Cállate!” he said. “Shut up!”
Fausto, drawn to the commotion, looked displeased. He stepped to the front of the stage and spread his arms in a dramatic gesture.
“We have spoken to each of you individually,” he said in a booming voice. “You have all seen the pain you caused Javier Martinez, father of your classmate. I cannot drill another hole without killing him, and, sadly, I need him alive. I showed you the horror of me and yet you still do not cooperate. I take this as a personal failing. I am deeply disappointed in myself. I admit this. But I do not give up easily. So I try something new to inspire you.”
Fausto exited to his right, leaving Efren and Armando alone on the stage. The enforcers chattered among themselves, and Hilary used the distraction to lean into Andy. “Your medicine,” she whispered. “Where is your backpack?”
Andy’s head rolled onto his chest. Hilary could tell it was an effort for him just to lift it. His blinking turned rapid. Reaching across her body, Hilary touched Andy’s chest and could feel his heart mimicking the pace of his fluttering eyes.
Fausto returned to the stage, brandishing a massive knife, more like a machete. “Who here has been to a pig roast before?” he asked.
One of the enforcers raised his hand.
Fausto glowered at him from the stage. “¡No, pendejo!” he barked. “Not you, the kids. Los malditos. Who here has been to a pig roast before?”
No hands went up this time. Fausto came to the front of the stage.
“Please, Andy, you’re sick,” Hilary whispered again. “Where is your backpack?”
Andy strained to make eye contact. His head bobbed up and down as if he were going for an apple inside an invisible tub of water.
Fausto hesitated, scanning the front row. His gaze settled on Solomon. “You, fat one. Come up here.”
Solomon shrank in his seat. He looked to his left and right as if perhaps a different Solomon had entered the room. Fausto brushed the hair off his face so his eyes could be seen and his intent understood. He was in no mood for delay tactics.
“Bring the fat one to me,” Fausto commanded.
Two of the enforcers, Una Mano and El Cortador, rose from their seats and came around to the front row. Each took one of Solomon’s arms and with effort hoisted him to his feet. They dragged him to the stage and up a short flight of stairs, with Solomon whimpering the whole way. Once they got him onstage, the pair shoved Solomon hard from behind. He stumbled as he lurched forward, arms whirling for balance before he dropped to his knees.