Fields' Guide to Abduction, - [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

Thud.

We turned our heads toward the sound on the stairs.

André appeared at the bottom and glared at Mia. “Is there a water buffalo in your room?”

Mia shrugged. “It’s Mike.”

“Warn a guy.” André rubbed his sunken cheeks. “I could have found a quieter room at a gun range.”

Mia rolled her eyes. “You’re just being ridiculous.”

And she was just arguing because that’s what Mia and André did—bickered like siblings.

“What’s that?” André pointed to the emerald green minaudiere on counter. The little bag looked especially verdant against the dove gray granite of the countertop.

“That is a handbag.” Wasn’t it obvious?

“Looks like a piece of kryptonite.”

Mia rolled her eyes again. “It’s a Baker Street.”

“A what?” André scrunched up his face and rubbed his eyes. “Where are the coffee mugs?”

“Cabinet to the left of the sink,” I replied. “And I second André’s question, a what?”

“You don’t know what it is?” Mia picked up the little bag and stroked its emerald edges with an almost reverent touch.

“Oh, please. The only reason you know about esoteric bags is because you were looking at starting that handbag line.”

“I still am.”

“You are? I thought you gave up on that idea.”

“No. I gave up on the hair extensions idea. The handbags might happen.”

André pushed the Keurig’s button with unnecessary force. “Tell us about your handbag plans later. Right now—” he pointed “—tell us about that thing.”

“It was handmade by artisans in Dover of all places. It retails for upwards of ten thousand.”

“Dollars?” Now André ran his hand across his stubble-darkened chin. “I’m in the wrong business.”

Mia smirked at him “No you’re not. You make ten thousand dollars a day matching reality stars with charcoal powder for their teeth.” She shifted her gaze to me. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about this.”

“About what?”

“The bag.” She held it up so we could all admire its shiny greenness.

“What about it?”

“Um, when you got it? Where you got it? You usually text me pictures before a major purchase like this.”

“But it’s your bag.” A queasiness in my stomach told me I wasn’t going to like what Mia said next.

“No, it’s not.”

The sour feeling in stomach was right.

We all stared at the handbag. It glowed in the morning light pouring through the kitchen window. But, unlike the Keurig with its golden halo, the green aura surrounding the bag was sinister.

“Where did it come from?” asked André.

“I grabbed it when I was helping Poppy pack,” Mia explained.

I rubbed my eyes (something I seldom did because Chariss assured me the stress on my skin would give me wrinkles). “Where was it?”

“Peeking out from underneath the couch.”

I swallowed. “You thought I left a ten-thousand-dollar bag on the floor?”

“You did go wading in a fountain in a pair of Jimmy Choos.”

“One time!” And I’d drunk too much Moët (Champagne provided by Mia). And we’d just graduated from high school. “You’re going to have to let that go.”

“They were my shoes.”

André held up his hands—he’d heard this argument before. “So, if it’s not yours—” André nodded to Mia “—or yours—” he nodded my direction “—who does it belong to?”

“Marta.” It was the only explanation and the reason for my stomach’s queasiness.

Her name hung in the air. Like a pulsing green neon sign.

“What’s inside?” I was afraid of the answer.

Mia opened the little bag and pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit gum and a room key. “Nothing.” She put the bag down on the counter and stared at it with a furrowed brow. “They’re called Baker Streets because of the puzzle.”

“The puzzle?” André tilted his head.

“Mmmmhm. Baker Streets for Sherlock Holmes.”

“What kind of puzzle?” I asked.

She picked up the bag and turned it in her hands. “Each bag has a hidden compartment.”

The bag was no bigger than two fists pressed together. What could a hidden compartment in a bag that size hold? “It’s so tiny. Why bother?”

Mia rolled her eyes. “Not everyone hates party drugs, Poppy.”

Oh.

André ran his hand over his stubbly chin again. “Do you think you can open it?”

Mia turned her cerulean gaze his way and raised a single brow. “Of course.” Mia was one of those people—one who was good at things like algebra and physics and puzzles. Just don’t ask her to boil water.

André and I watched as she ran her fingers over the little bag, pushing here, poking there.

“This would be easier without an audience.” She sounded put out.

“Probably.” I didn’t move a muscle or shift my gaze.

André sipped his coffee. “It really does look like a piece of kryptonite.”

“Is kryptonite a real thing?” I wondered out loud.

“No,” snapped Mia. “Didn’t either of you pay attention in chemistry?”

I couldn’t speak for André but the only thing I remembered was that the peanut butter in the cafeteria tasted like lead. PB. Lead. The sole entry on the periodic table that stuck with me.

“Please.” André rolled his eyes at Mia. “You only paid attention because you had a crush on Mr. Lewis.” André made a good point. The high school chemistry teacher had been crush-worthy (not crush-worthy enough for me to pay attention in class but Mia’s brain worked differently).

She twisted the handle, poked at a little bit of kryptonite, and a tiny panel opened.

“What’s in there?” I leaned forward.

“A flash drive.”

Oh, hell. “We should call Agent Gonzales.”

“I thought he was a detective.”

“Whatever.” I wasn’t ready to tell them about my conversation with Ruth and most especially about Jake not being dead.

“Let’s plug it in,” said André.

Such a bad idea. “We need to call the authorities.”

“Where’s your Mac?” André looked around as if I hadn’t spoken.

“We need to call the authorities.” It was a point worth repeating.

“It’s in her room.”

André hurried off, returning seconds later with my MacBook.

“What’s your password?”

No way was I telling him. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Her password is Conroy1.”

“Conroy?” André typed with two fingers. “Is that a digit for the one or spelled out?”

“A digit and Conroy because Pat Conroy is one of her favorite authors.”

I needed new friends.

My ex-dear friend finished entering the password and plugged in the flash drive. “It’s a Word file.”

I looked over his shoulder and saw Spanish. “What does it say?” I couldn’t read a lick but André was four-years old before his parents realized he didn’t speak any English.

Rosita, the housekeeper who raised him, had spoken to him in only her native tongue.

He was still fluent.

He scanned the document. “It’s an assessment of the Zetas.”

“Who or what are the Zetas?” asked Mia.

“A cartel,” André replied.

“That’s helpful.” Mia’s tone dripped sarcasm. She held up her phone. “Siri, who are the Zetas?”

Siri filled us in. The Zetas were a drug cartel formed when a group of mercenaries turned on their former bosses in the Gulf Cartel. The Zetas were into drug trafficking, sex trafficking and gun running. The original members were given numbers as names—the first leader was Z1 and so on. The cartel controlled much of southern Mexico but their base was in Nuevo Laredo across the border from Laredo, Texas.

André continued reading. “According to this, the Zetas’ power structure has splintered with the arrest or death of most of the numbered Zetas. There’s lots of infighting—partly due to the Mexican army’s new focus on burning poppy fields in southern Mexico.” André glanced at me and grinned. “Poppy fields—that’s what it says. Poppy fields.”

I gave him the arctic look he deserved.

“What else?” Mia read over his shoulder. Or pretended to—her Spanish wasn’t any better than mine.

“This says the Zetas’ disarray is an opportunity for the Sinaloans. They intend to take over Nuevo Laredo and have identified a new source of heroin.”

“A new source of heroin?” Mia asked.

“They need one because of the burnt poppy fields.” André glanced my way then quickly returned his gaze to the screen. “Okay, it’s an old source of heroin that’s new to Mexico.”

“What do you mean?” Again Mia tried reading over André’s shoulder. She caught her lip between her teeth. She squinted. Nothing helped. She still couldn’t read Spanish. “Siri, which country produces the most heroin?”

Siri’s answer was Afghanistan.

“The Sinaloans