Page 33 of Crocodile Tears
“Thank you.”
“Calvin?Be careful with this one.South American contractors don’t take prisoners for negotiation purposes.”There’s no missing the concern in his tone.
The line goes dead, leaving me with the uncomfortable knowledge that Rebecca’s situation is even more dangerous than I initially assessed.
“Agent Scales,” says Margo from Rebecca’s computer, “I’ve got good news.”
“Calvin.And what’s the good news?”
“I’ve identified three private jets that filed flight plans from regional airports within driving distance of the university in the past four hours.”She turns the monitor so I can see a map displaying flight paths.“One of them filed a suspicious route to Colombia with falsified passenger manifests and cargo declarations.”
“Good job, Margo.How fast can you get detailed information about that flight?”
“Give me twenty minutes and access to some databases that I’m technically not supposed to access.”She grins with obvious excitement.“This is exactly the kind of challenge I’ve been missing since I went legit.”
While Margo works her digital magic, I contact my equipment cache and arrange for tactical gear that might be useful for international operations.The irony of going from dinner dates to rescue missions in less than twenty-four hours isn’t lost on me.
“Agent Scales, I’ve got flight details, passenger information, and probable destination coordinates.”She prints out several pages of information with obvious satisfaction.“Also, I put together a rescue kit for Dr.Lawson.”
“What kind of rescue kit?”
“Protein bars, first-aid supplies, water purification tablets, and a romance novel in case she gets bored during the rescue.”She hands me a small backpack with obvious pride.“The book is really good.It’s about a woman who gets kidnapped by pirates and falls in love with the guy who rescues her.”
I’m oddly touched on Becci’s behalf by the gesture.“Margo, that’s thoughtful.”
“Just bring her home, Agent Scales.”
“Calvin,” I say testily.“Or Cal.”
She shrugs.“Whatever.Just bring her home.”
By midnight, I’m on a cargo plane headed south with weapons from my emergency cache, intelligence provided by Nikolai’s contacts, and Margo’s ridiculous but surprisingly comprehensive rescue kit.I wonder how my attempt at normal dating turned into an international rescue mission.
The answer, of course, is that nothing about Becci is normal, and nothing about my attraction to her follows conventional patterns.She’s brilliant, passionate, occasionally dangerous, and apparently valuable enough for professional kidnappers to risk international incidents.
As the plane climbs toward cruising altitude, I study the intelligence Margo gathered and plan approaches for scenarios that range from simple extraction to full-scale assault.Her safety is the only priority that matters, but I wonder what happens after I bring her home.
The romance novel in the rescue kit backpack suggests Margo thinks everything will work out perfectly, but real life is more complicated than fiction, even when fiction involves pirates and kidnapping.
Chapter 9
Becci
Consciousnessreturnswiththetaste of copper and the sound of insects chattering in humid air.My head throbs with the particular ache that comes from specialized sedatives designed to keep shifters unconscious longer than their enhanced metabolisms would normally allow.
I’m lying on a narrow cot in what appears to be a converted laboratory space.The walls are concrete block painted institutional green, and the windows are barred with steel that’s been reinforced beyond what would be necessary for keeping regular humans in.Fluorescent lights hum overhead with the inconsistent flicker that suggests generator power.
The restraints around my wrists and ankles are immediately concerning.The specialized cuffs are made from some kind of polymer composite.When I test them experimentally, sharp pain shoots through my nervous system like feedback from a badly calibrated electrical system.
Definitely custom equipment for shifter containment.
The air carries the thick humidity of tropical lowlands along with jungle sounds that mean I’m nowhere near civilization.I hear howler monkeys in the distance, rustling vegetation, and bird calls I definitely can’t identify.
I test the restraints more systematically, examining the construction for potential weaknesses.The cuffs are well-made but not perfect.A small crack near the locking mechanism on my left wrist might be exploitable, but heavy footsteps approaching in the hallway prevent me from finding out right now.I arrange myself to look less alert while tracking the sounds through what appear to be multiple doors.
A key turns in a lock, and the door opens to reveal a man in an expensive suit that looks completely out of place in a jungle laboratory.He’s middle-aged, well-groomed, and carries himself with a confidence that says he’s accustomed to getting his way.
“Dr.Lawson, I trust you’re feeling better.”His English is excellent but carries a slight accent that suggests Spanish as a first language.“I apologize for the rather dramatic methods required to bring you here, but your research has attracted some very powerful attention.”
