Justice Run. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER TWO

      Jennifer Rodriguez knew she needed a miracle.

      She paced her makeshift cell and wondered about her next move. Her captors had taken away her watch and, obviously, her smartphone, and her cell contained no clocks. Combine that with the fact she was apparently in a basement of some kind, with no windows, and she really had no idea how long she’d been down here. She guessed it’d been twenty-four hours, but she couldn’t be sure.

      She did know she was losing precious time. She’d come to Monaco to find answers. In the past several months, there’d been murmurs in the underworld about Dumond’s gunrunning operation expanding. A lot of the talk had been troubling because the Frenchman supposedly had begun acquiring large quantities of weapons from rogue military generals, particularly in the Middle East, where the U.S. supplied weapons to friendly nations. Dumond had a record for selling weapons to anyone willing to pay the price.

      Initially, some had worried he’d sell arms to China so it could study the technology. Working undercover, Rodriguez had learned the weapons weren’t advanced enough to pique China’s interest. She’d also learned the tools of the death trade that were being trafficked also were coming from countries at odds with the U.S., such as Libya.

      Once they crossed espionage threats off the list, at least as far as major powers were concerned, the problem became identifying the buyer. Was Dumond going to sell weapons to al Qaeda, Hezbollah or another major terrorist organization? They’d tried for months to get an answer, but kept coming up empty. While Dumond wasn’t discerning about his clientele, he did fret over security.

      U.S. intelligence had found it damn near impossible to hack his computer. He switched phones regularly, handing the old ones to his lieutenants to carry and use. This confounded the intelligence agencies trying to track him and often kept him a step or two ahead of authorities.

      That was why Washington had decided to send Rodriguez after him. She’d spent months infiltrating another arms-smuggling ring, had made lots of contacts, many of them mutual “friends” of Dumond and her. She’d put out the word she wanted to meet with him. The wheels had started turning, albeit slowly, and it had taken weeks before she got an audience with him.

      She thought she’d gotten a break. Instead she’d walked into a trap.

      Dumond’s people had overpowered her and searched her for a wire. The absence of one hadn’t improved her situation. They’d knocked her out and transported her from the meeting site to here, wherever that was. She had no idea whether she’d been moved across town or across the globe.

      The whole thing had taken a weird turn when they’d started asking her about Fred, her first boss with the FBI. She’d tried to play stupid. That strategy had fallen apart when Dumond had held out a smartphone to her.

      “Take this,” he said. “Look at the screen.”

      She’d hesitated, then taken the phone from the outstretched hand and looked at the screen. Though she’d tried to keep her best poker face, she doubted she’d succeeded. The single image had triggered a flood of conflicting emotions—shock, grief, anger and fear being just a few. It had been a photo of Gruber, his wife, Kate, and Rodriguez, at Gruber’s retirement party. He stood in the middle of them, clad in khakis and a polo shirt, a tight grin on his lips, an arm around each of the two women. His successor, Donna Goldman, had shot the photo for him.

      Rodriguez had noted the slight glaze of alcohol in his eyes and remembered how drunk he’d gotten that night, singing “Love Me Tender” with the karaoke machine, a record nine times. Aside from fueling his bad attempts at impersonating the King, the drinking had been notable for another reason. Gruber rarely drank and then in moderation. However, he’d arrived for his own party, seeming sullen and withdrawn. Kate later had confided that he hadn’t wanted to retire and that she was worried how it would affect his health. The alcohol had dissipated the black cloud around him and he’d loosened up, at least for the evening. The following day, though, he’d sunk back into his depression and remained there until he’d hung out a shingle as a private detective. Having a job had restored his sense of purpose and made him feel useful again.

      He’d always sworn the PI gig had saved his life.

      Since his death, she’d thought back on the bitter irony of those statements.

      The photo had delivered a punch right to her heart.

      Had she stared too long? Had her eyes glistened with tears? She didn’t think so. But, when it came to emotions, she knew the mind played tricks and the face sometimes could reveal too much information.

      With little time to think, she’d made up the best story she could. She said she vaguely remembered meeting the couple at a party, but didn’t know them beyond that. Why did he have the photo on his phone? She’d shrugged and said maybe the guy was a pervert and liked looking at the picture. Her stomach had clenched as she’d uttered the words about Gruber, though she knew he’d understand.

      It hadn’t taken Dumond long to shoot holes in her story. After more interrogation, he’d slapped his thighs, stood and given her a halfhearted smile.

      “I don’t believe you,” he had said. “I will give you some time to consider your situation. Then I will come back and see you again. If you don’t offer a better explanation—” he shrugged “—I will use more aggressive methods of securing answers.” He turned the phone screen back in her direction. “I have friends in America. They would be happy to pay this woman a visit.”

      His security chief, a man named Bellew, stood to his right. Dumond turned and looked over his shoulder at him. “What was her name again?”

      “Kate,” Bellew said. “Kate Gruber.”

      “Yes,” Dumond said. His lips split into a wider smile. “She’s a widow. Perhaps she would like the company.”

      Rodriguez had tried her best to feign apathy and maintain her cover. When she’d spoken, her throat had felt tight and pushing out the words took effort.

      “Hope those thoughts give your limp Johnson a little lift,” she’d said. “While we’re swinging things, you might want to think about what you’re doing here. I came here, with references, to transact business. If something happens to me...”