CHAPTER 13
CAL’S PHONE BEGAN BUZZING. He rolled over and squinted at the screen’s blinding light. Who’s calling me at 5:30 in the morning?
“Hello?”
“Cal, I thought you said your friend at the FBI could help?”
“Noah, is this you?”
“It sure is, Cal. And I’m not happy. The FBI’s lead wound up dead, and those bastards have probably already killed my son by now.”
“Whoa. Slow down, Noah. When did you talk to them?”
“Last night. I called Agent Anderson like you asked me to do and he told me the lead they had was dead.”
“Well, don’t give up hope just yet.”
“It’s Wednesday, Cal. Wednesday! Time is running out.”
“I’ll give Agent Anderson a call today and find out what else is going on. Just don’t panic, OK? They’re going to find your son.”
“You don’t know that, Cal.”
“You’re right. I don’t know that. But I believe they’re going to find him. Just don’t give up hope so easily.”
“OK. Call me if you hear something.”
“I will.”
Cal hung up and rolled back into the middle of his bed. Not that he could go back to sleep now. His mind was already wild with ideas about who was holding Noah’s son and what their real motivation was behind it all. Could this simply be about money? It always seemed to be. That’s the number one rule in investigative journalism, right? Follow the money. But in reality, it wasn’t always that simple. Following the money had led to the FBI finding one dead lead according to Noah. Every rule had exceptions.
* * *
CAL’S NEXT SCHEDULED PRESS conference was at 12:30, giving him plenty of time to prepare for his day. He decided to wait until the sun was up in Vegas before calling Anderson.
At 9 a.m. he dialed Anderson’s number.
“Cal? What are you doing calling me so early?”
“Just anxious to hear about what’s going on in the case. Noah called me this morning. He crawled all over me for telling you and was panicking that your lead was found dead. Is that true?”
“Yeah, that’s true. But we got another one after I spoke with him. And now we know who’s behind it all.”
“Really? Can you tell me who?”
“Yeah. But it won’t mean anything to you. It’s a name I doubt you’ve ever heard.”
“So, who is it?”
“The Hernandez cartel. Ever heard of ‘em?”
“Nope. Where are they located?”
“Juarez.”
“Mexico?”
“Yeah. Crazy, huh?”
“Oh, man. That’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t. But we’re going to work on a plan this morning to rescue Jake. We’ve just got to find out exactly where he is first.”
“OK. Good luck with that.”
“I’ll be in touch, Cal.”
Cal hung up. In an instant his confidence in the FBI vanished. Going into Juarez was a suicide mission. Mexican authorities notoriously refused to cooperate with U.S. law enforcement. And if they did, there were at least a dozen dirty cops on the take that would warn Hernandez. Everyone knew the cartels had the police in their pocket.
He decided to wait before he called Noah. No use in making the poor guy panic needlessly. Cal needed more facts, more substance. If he didn’t have enough to write a story, he didn’t have enough to tell Noah. At least for the time being.
Suddenly, covering the Super Bowl seemed like a second-rate assignment to Cal. He wanted to see these monsters brought to justice. He didn’t want his enduring image of Jake to be one of him gagged and guarded by his captors.