“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.
