Clare spoke to several Mexican authorities after her text conversation with Zeb. The lateness of the hour didn’t matter. In her business, no one kept to any kind of schedule.
She exchanged updates with the head of the Federal Ministerial Police, their equivalent of the FBI, and then called Leto Grijalva.
The secretary of the Navy revealed that the two hitters hadn’t confessed anything more. ‘Strictly small fish,’ he declared. ‘You never went against the Jaramillo cartel, did you?’
‘No, sir. We knew of them, but there are bigger cartels out there that we were after.’
There’s no reason for them to kidnap the twins, was their unspoken thought.
Grijalva promised to extend any support Zeb needed, to which Clare responded drily, ‘You’ve met him, sir. I doubt he’ll call on you. The Jaramillo gang doesn’t know it yet, but they made a mistake. A big one.’
She grabbed a couple of hours of sleep and woke at six am. Half an hour of sit-ups, bench presses, and a fast run on her treadmill.
She showered, drank her juice, and bit into a banana while she watched the news.
The usual hotspots in the world were acting up, which was why she was going to the Pentagon that day.
When she emerged from her house, her security detail brought her car and drove her across the Potomac River to one of the most famous office buildings in the world.
An aide led her swiftly to an enormous conference room that was filling when she entered.
The meeting was organized by General Klouse, to discuss the deteriorating situation in Syria and Iraq.
The Syrian army was bombing Daesh recklessly without any regard to civilian life. There was widespread belief that Bashar Assad, the dictator president of Syria, was using Daesh as an excuse to crush the rebel forces against him.
His army and air force were shelling indiscriminately, and there were verified reports that rebel forces were being killed too.
The Russians, who wished to consolidate their influence in the region, were openly supporting Assad.
On the Iraqi front, Daesh was losing ground, pressed back by the country’s army. A Western coalition was actively helping the Iraqi army in their fight. However, progress was slow.
‘The president wants a decisive plan. One that will not only bring lasting peace to the region but also enhance our standing.’ General Klouse summed up in his opening statement and looked around the room.
There were fifteen attendees in the room. Prominent faces, that Joe Public knew were Kenneth Bravo, the director of national intelligence; Nicholas Macias, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff; Mark Hildred, director of the CIA; his deputy director, Joseph Clines; Pat Murphy, director of the FBI; and Nathan Himes, the FBI’s deputy director.
In addition, there were the heads of several clandestine agencies, which included Clare, as well as several generals.
Most of the attendees were well into their fifties. Klouse was older, in his sixties, as were Bravo, Macias, and Clines.
Only a few of them knew Clare’s identity. The National Security Advisor had introduced her and the other covert ops heads as interested parties.
‘Bomb the heck out of them. All this helping at arm’s length isn’t getting us anywhere. The Russians have the right strategy,’ a general growled, and that opened up the fierce debate.
‘Do nothing,’ Bravo said, putting forward another view. ‘Let the Russians do the dirty work. Let them claim credit. We’ll weaken them diplomatically and in the world’s eye. In fact, we should encourage the Russians. Assad’s not a problem for us.’
Hildred and Clines supported him, while Murphy and Himes took the opposite view.
The discussions raged for several hours, and when Klouse brought it to a close at lunchtime, no consensus had been reached.
There were two strong views. One was to take a more active role, send soldiers to war, and the other was to give the Russians a free hand and turn a blind eye to their atrocities.
Both views had strong proponents, and the National Security Advisor was unable to get unanimous support for any one option.
‘What do you think?’ Klouse asked Clare afterward as they stood at their waiting cars.
She flipped her hair back and smiled at him. ‘Why do I get the impression you just wanted to know which way each one of them blew?’
‘You got me,’ Klouse admitted. The president wanted a more united Security Council, and it was clear there were wildly opposing views among his team. Changes would have to be made.
Bravo, Hildred, and Clines were having a similar discussion in an inside corridor.
‘Think we’ll have our way?’ Hildred asked Bravo.
‘We’d better. We aren’t achieving anything with our current strategy.’
Meghan had suspected they were in, or near Laredo, as their captors hustled them through the tunnel.
There was no opportunity to resist, no window for escape. Their hands had been freed for climbing down the ladder, but the metal collars around their necks prevented any aggressive action on their part.
She had scraped her head a few times against the walls of the tunnel and hoped some hair would stick to the concrete. She wasn’t hopeful that the strands would be discovered by her friends, however.
There was a lot of debris around, and it would take days or even weeks to collect any DNA evidence.
They were met by seven gunmen at the entrance of the tunnel. Two men helped the sisters out, and as soon as they were in the house, their hands were secured.
Mexicans. Maybe a cartel, she surmised as she eyed each of the gunmen. They were the same height as the sisters, many of them unshaven, dressed in jeans, tees, jackets. All of them well armed and holding their weapons confidently.
Their driver and his companion went to another room, with one of the gunmen following. She could hear them speak in low voices but couldn’t make anything out.
One of the heavies came forward, lips parting to reveal dirty teeth. He raised a hand and stroked Beth’s hair, his fingers lingering on her cheeks.
Meghan saw red.
Her body flew off the ground, her bunched feet catching the gunman in his gut.
He collapsed with a grunt. She fell on her right shoulder.
She rolled immediately, ignoring the searing agony that ran through her. Raised her upper body awkwardly and plunged her right elbow into his throat.
Simultaneously, Beth fell on top of him, crushing his face with a knee.
The sisters had moved so fast that none of the watching men could react in time.
By the time they did, it was too late. Their fellow heavy lay on the ground, his face smashed, his neck crushed, gasping out his final breaths.
They shot forward and pulled the sisters away from their fallen man. One of them slapped Beth, another punched Meghan.
The commotion brought the three men back from the other room, and for a moment they stood stock-still in disbelief.
The lead gunman roared in anger. He yelled at his men to back off, and they fell away.
He helped Beth and Meghan to their feet, his eyes blazing in anger, and rapped out an order.
A hitter sullenly told him what had happened. Before he had finished, the leader whipped out his gun and shot him.
‘They are not to be touched,’ he grated at his men.
He made a gesture, and another heavy cut off the Petersens’ gags. Their collars remained, the controls with the Mexican leader.
Another hitter gave them a bottle of water, which they shared.
‘You?’ Meghan focused on the driver. ‘You’re Americans, aren’t you? Whatever happens next is on you. If you have a conscience.’
The driver didn’t meet her eyes. He and his partner disappeared into the tunnel.
‘I am Fabiano,’ the leader addressed them. ‘No one will touch you.’
‘Why are we here?’ Meghan demanded. ‘Who are you? Why did you kidnap us?’
Fabiano didn’t answer. ‘Gag them,’ he told his men, ‘and let’s go.’