The Wrong Hostage Read Online Free PDF Page B

do business.”
    He got out of the vehicle and gestured in the direction of the sidelines. Two men separated from the crowd and strode toward the Mercedes.
    “Please,” Carlos said urgently, “stand with me to greet him. It is simple respect, something a judge understands, right?”
    Reluctantly Grace got out of the car and stood an arm’s length from Carlos. One of the approaching men was a black-haired Mexican in clean, creased blue jeans, ostrich-skin boots, and a crisp white pearl-buttoned shirt. Around his neck hung a heavy gold chain holding a large, diamond-crusted medallion.
    It was hard to guess the man’s age, except that he wasn’t young. He had too much sheer macho confidence to be under forty. He walked with a faint limp, like a retired rodeo cowboy with narrow hips and old injuries. His dark face had the strong, blunt features of the people who had lived in Mexico long before Cortés rode roughshod over the land. The man squinted in the shimmering, hazy light. His left eye was milky. He was no taller than Grace.
    Understanding went through her like an icy spear. I know him .
    Hector Rivas Osuna was head of the most powerful, most violent crime family in Tijuana. Grace had seen his face in newspapers and in U.S. post offices on the ten-most-wanted broadsheet.
    No wonder Carlos is sweating .

A LL S AINTS S CHOOL
S ATURDAY, 12:25 P.M.
5
    T HE MAN WALKING NEXT to Hector was a younger, more polished version of the rough-edged crime lord. He wore a silk shirt, Italian slacks, and thousand-dollar loafers without socks. His hair was styled and blown dry. His skin was lighter, his body less beaten. He hid his eyes behind aviator sunglasses.
    But the family resemblance was marked, right down to the narrow hips and swagger. Father and son, perhaps, or uncle and nephew.
    “Who is the younger one?” Grace asked quietly.
    “Jaime Rivas Montemayor,” Calderón said very softly. “He’s the heir apparent to the Rivas-Osuna Gang. The ROG. Very violent. Very dangerous.”
    Grace didn’t answer, but now she understood why the federal policeman had been eager to cover his badge. He and his buddies were dancing to a tune called by either Calderón or the most corrupt crime boss in Mexico. Seeing Calderón’s nervousness, she was betting on Hector Rivas Osuna being the man in control.
    Hector stopped a respectful distance away and bowed his head formally to her. “Your Honor.”
    There was only the faintest trace of derision in his tone.
    Grace nodded in return and kept her mouth shut.
    “You tell about her son?” Hector asked Calderón.
    Hector’s English was close to Spanglish, the border creole, rough but useful. As he spoke, he watched the banker with his good eye, tilting his head in a way that pulled apart the lids of his blind eye. It was obvious that he’d been injured—scar tissue puckered whitely in a ragged line all the way to his thick hair. Most men would have worn a patch to conceal the eye’s ruin.
    Hector wasn’t most men.
    “Not completely, Carnicero, ” Calderón said. “I thought some of the details would be more convincing if they came from you.”
    Carnicero .
    Butcher.
    Grace was surprised that Calderón would use such a nickname to Hector’s face. She glanced beneath her eyelashes at the nephew. He was watching his uncle with an expression of distaste. Either Hector didn’t notice or didn’t care.
    Hector looked at Grace again, examining her the way the Mexican customs inspector had, but Hector’s expression was more complex. Some traditional Mexican males were fascinated by powerful women, so long as that power didn’t extend south of the Tía Juana River. Apparently Hector was one of those men.
    Grace couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
    “I hear you ver’ important woman, a judge,” he said to her. “That mean you smart, so pardon me if I speak plain. I am a plain man. Do you know me?”
    Grace nodded.
    “ Bueno . Tijuana is my world,” he said calmly. “I make