Gage turned to Abby, who stood in the doorway. Her chin was firm, her mouth set. Beneath her T-shirt, he could see the faint outline of the holstered revolver clipped to her waist.
The engine fired, and Trace pulled the Hummer out into the street. Gage checked his watch. “It’ll be close,” he said.
“We’ll make it.”
Gage just nodded. With any luck, they would be on time in Mérida. With better luck, they would live through the night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ABBY TURNED ON HER PHONE AND USED SIRI TO GUIDE THEM TO the address in Mérida, a small stucco house painted blue with a flat roof and a single-car garage. This late at night, the area was dark and quiet. The grass in front of the house was stringy and needed mowing. There was a car in the driveway, an older-model black SUV.
Abby prayed Edge, Trace, and Skye were somewhere nearby, but as Edge had warned, Abby couldn’t see them.
Gage pulled the second Hummer up in front of the house and turned off the engine. The front door opened, and four men walked out. The one in front was tall and lean, with thick black hair cut short and a solid, broad-shouldered build. The others were shorter, darker, one with a mustache, one with a goatee, one with a gruesome scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his jaw.
The tall man stepped away from the others. He was in his late thirties and handsome. “Abigail Holland?”
“That’s right.”
His black eyes shifted to Gage. “And you are Logan.”
“That’s right, and you are?”
“Paulo.” He turned back to Abby. “Your grandfather is not here. If you wish to see him, you will come with me.” He spoke English with a thick Spanish accent. He motioned to the other three men, who formed a circle around them. “Hand over your weapons.”
Gage flicked Abby a glance filled with resignation. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out the pistol he was carrying and set it on the ground.
Abby set her revolver down beside it.
“Santos, you search the woman.” The guy with the scar came forward to pat her down, but he was so intent on feeling her breasts, he didn’t notice the knife she had strapped to her calf beneath the leg of her jeans, the knife Mateo had given her to cut away leaves and vines at the old hacienda. Abby felt a shot of satisfaction.
“Hector, you search the big one,” Paulo instructed, speaking this time in Spanish. The man with the mustache did a pat-down on Gage but found nothing more. Paulo walked over to the SUV and opened the rear passenger door. “Get in.”
Abby started walking, but Gage caught her arm. “Where are we going?” he asked Paulo.
“You will find out when you get there. Get in the car.”
“We’ll follow you in our own car.”
“I said get in the car.” He pulled a pistol from a shoulder holster beneath his flowered short-sleeved shirt. “Now.”
Gage’s jaw hardened. He urged Abby forward, and they climbed into the back seat of the SUV.
“You drive, Tomás.”
The guy with the goatee, Tomás, got in behind the wheel, and Paulo got into the front passenger seat. The guy with the mustache and the guy with the scar walked halfway down the block and got into an old blue beater.
Paulo turned and tossed them a pair of black canvas bags. “Put these over your heads.” He kept the gun fixed on Abby.
As she pulled on the hood, she didn’t look at Gage. She knew how hard it was for him to give up control. She heard the bag rustle as he pulled it over his head.
“Drive, Tomás,” Paulo instructed, all of them now speaking Spanish.
The engine rumbled to life, and the SUV backed out of the driveway. Gage reached over and took Abby’s hand, and his warmth and strength seeped into her. She held on tightly as the car made a series of turns, pulled onto what she thought must be a freeway, and speeded up. She prayed Edge and the others would be able to follow.
They rode for what she figured was probably half an hour, though it seemed far longer. The SUV drove off the main highway, made a series of turns, and finally pulled to a stop. She could hear the other car pull in behind them.
The rear door opened. “Get out,” Paulo commanded, and they climbed out of the car. They were guided up some stairs and across a wide porch. As they walked through a doorway, her footsteps echoed on the surface of the floor. Tile, Abby thought.
Paulo removed their hoods.
Abby turned to survey her surroundings and was struck by the opulence, a crystal chandelier above the entry, a gilt mirror on the wall. The ceilings were twenty feet high, and marble columns lined a single long corridor with arched doorways off each side.
As Paulo led them forward, she could see into a large salon, elegantly furnished with carved rosewood tables and a sideboard, and a lovely pair of settees, though the green velvet upholstery was fading.
The house was at least a hundred years old, probably a lot older, one of the many haciendas in the Yucatán.
Paulo knocked at the first door down the hall, then pulled it open and led them into a room lined with tall mahogany bookcases. This room was elegantly done, with gilt-framed paintings on the walls and a graceful antique mahogany writing desk with a silk-shaded lamp on top.
A man rose behind it. He was trim and perfectly groomed in a tailored black suit and white shirt. He had a narrow, pointed face and shiny black hair that gleamed in the lamplight.
“Señorita Holland. Señor Logan. It is good of you to come.”
Gage stiffened. “This is hardly a social call. I don’t like your tactics, Señor . . . ?”
“You may call me Don Arturo. Until we have come to some sort of an arrangement, the rest of my name is none of your concern.”
“Where’s my grandfather?” Abby asked. “I want to see him.”
Don Arturo made a slight inclination of his head. “As you wish. I see no point in wasting time.” He turned to Paulo. “Take them downstairs.”
Abby’s heart was racing as she fell in behind Paulo, Gage beside her. As Paulo led them farther into the house, she could see that the rooms along the corridor were nearly empty; whatever furniture had once been there was gone.
Paulo opened a door and started down a narrow staircase that was clearly meant for the use of servants. Abby followed him down, Gage close behind her.
“We know what they want,” he said softly. “And that they’ll do anything to get it. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Electric light illuminated the stairwell and the space below. There was nothing elegant in these rooms. As they passed along the lower corridor, there was no furniture. The plaster walls were cracked, and the paint was peeling. It reminded her of the storerooms below the Hacienda del Oro Verde.
Paulo opened a door near the end of the hall. “Zuma,” he called out. “They are here.”
Paulo stepped back to let them pass, and Abby and Gage walked into the room to see a row of iron bars across one end. It was a prison cell. Inside, a woman sat next to a man lying on a narrow cot.
Abby rushed forward and grabbed hold of the bars. Dear God, surely the emaciated form under the thin blanket could not be King Farrell. But the recognition in the golden eyes that lifted to meet her own said that it was.
Her heart jerked, and tears blurred her vision. “What have you done to him!” She jerked on the iron bars that formed the cell door, and the door swung open. Abby rushed into the cell, her heart hammering wildly. “What have they done to you . . . ?” she whispered, wiping a tear from her cheek.