"This is most unlike Charles," Dr. Fleinhardt said. He held the papers in his hands, perusing them. The papers were the print out of the results of the calculations that Dr. Eppes had run through the mainframe computer. Larry, at the request of Don, had walked over to the computer lab on campus with the special agent to investigate the research that Charlie had been doing for the FBI. They were standing in the computer area now, sheaves of paper neatly stacked, with a tidy scatter plot graph as the topic of the front most page. A bleary eyed student shuffled past, trying to figure out just what error in code had caused his own results to look like a child's game of 'pick up sticks'. "These results were available as of nine twenty-three last evening. Surely Charles would have retrieved them by now."

If he could, went unsaid. Don pulled out his cell. "Let me try home. Maybe he's showed up there."

His father picked up on the first ring, a sign of how nervous the older man was. "Charlie?"

"No, Dad, it's me. Charlie hasn't checked in yet?"

"No. Would I be saying his name if he had? Where is he? Is he there?"

"He's not at CalSci," Don told him. "I'm here with Larry, and Charlie never picked up the data that he was working on for me. Did you check that project thing you're working on? Was Charlie there?"

"We were there at the hacienda this morning," Alan said grimly. "No sign of Charlie. Plenty of signs of squatters, but no Charlie. Where is he, Donnie?"

"Good question."

"Could it be something in connection with your work?"

Don pursed his lips. "Probably not. The current case, the guy we're after doesn't even know that Charlie exists."

"What if it's not the current case?"

Don nodded, although his father couldn't see it. "I'll have my people check on the back cases, make sure that everyone's in jail. I can't see anyone going after Charlie, but I'd like to make sure. Have you called the local hospitals—"

"Already done," his father interrupted. "Not only do they not have any John Does, they don't even have any Jane Does right now. Where is he, Donnie?"

"I don't know, Dad—"

"Well, find him! Isn't that what the FBI is for? Finding kidnapped people?"

"We don't know that he's been kidnapped. There hasn't been any ransom demand—"

"And why else would he not be showing up?" Alan demanded. "He's not in the garage, he's not answering his cell, he's not at CalSci, he's not at the estate, he's not anywhere! Where is he, Donnie?" Fear came through loud and clear.

"I don't know, Dad!" Don felt like hanging up, anything to distance himself. "Listen, I'm going to call in to headquarters. I'm going to put people on this. I'll find him, Dad." He took a deep breath. "You stay home, Dad, in case Charlie shows up. I'll check in periodically." Another deep breath. "I'll find him, Dad."

Larry too shared the worried look. "Don?"

"Not home." As if that weren't obvious by listening to one side of the conversation. "What does this data say?" Might as well make this trip partially useful.

"I'm not certain, Don. This is Charles' equation, and I'm not clear on all the variables that he used. It appears to delineate a location, perhaps two."

"What locations?"

"Again, I don't have the necessary data. They are merely described as data points. Perhaps in Charles' office—"

"Larry, I hate to ask this of you, but I really need you to try and run those locations down," Don told him. "They could be important." Really important. If Don wanted to pull his team to look for Charlie, he was going to need all the data he could to justify pulling personnel off of the Rivera case. And that meant reducing the number of routes that needed to be covered to a bare minimum.

His phone rang again, and he flipped it open. "Eppes."

"Don? Megan. Listen, we've had a break. Senora Colon spilled everything. Rivera is holding a slave auction tonight, location unknown. David's getting together with the Tech team. We think we can plant a transponder onto Senora Colon without Rivera knowing about it, and follow her when he takes her and the other women to serve as waitresses at his little soiree."

Don barely heard her words. "Megan, is Charlie there?"

"Charlie? No, I haven't seen him. Has he found something—"

"He's missing," Don interrupted.

"Missing? Charlie—"

"Nobody's seen him for twenty four hours," Don said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. "We've checked home, CalSci, that project that he's working on with my father. Everywhere."

"Hospital emergency rooms?"

"There, too."

"Friends, maybe a girl he hasn't told you about?"

"Megan—"

"Right, he's working on the routes Rivera uses. You're right, Don. Charlie wouldn't leave you hanging on that. Hang on a second." There was an adjustment, and the volume grew more airy. "I've put you on speakerphone. David and Colby are here. What do you want us to do?"

"Check the penitentiary list; cross it against cases that Charlie's worked on. They should be notifying me when a disgruntled customer is released, but that doesn't always happen."

"You think maybe someone's out for revenge? Against Charlie? Most of them don't even know that he was involved with their case."

"You have a better idea?" It came out more harshly than Don intended. "Sorry, Megan."

"Understandable. What about the Rivera case, Don? If we move fast, Senora Colon will cooperate. Her kids are there, and she thinks that Rivera is going to sell them into slavery. If we don't do it tonight, we'll lose her cooperation. She'll have nothing to gain, and everything to lose."

"I—" Don stopped. Not enough people. They'd need everyone of his team and then some to cover the Rivera case, to bring down Rivera and his operation and arrest all of his customers. They could scrap the plan to cover the border crossings, and put those people onto the very solid lead that Megan had snatched. They could do that without figuring out Charlie's data. They could do that no matter where Charlie was. And they had enough people for the auction. The border crossing plan was a crap shoot.

They were going to need at least a team of twenty to cover where ever Rivera held his slave auction, to put a team of two on each exit and still have enough to combat the firepower that Rivera undoubtedly had for protection, but the time would be finite. They wouldn't have teams scattered all across the desert for eight hour shifts, watching a route that might not pan out. This operation was do-able, and efficient, and would take out one very bad hombre and make not only the D.A. a great case but Area Director D'Angelo very happy with his year end budget. If they were lucky, they'd even be able to trace where most of the 'slaves' had ended up and make a whole bunch of mothers and fathers happy as well.

One person missing: his brother.

An entire illegal operation, rescuing perhaps hundreds of people and shutting down a major influx of drugs.

The decision was clear. Missing persons belonged with the LAPD. And Charlie wasn't even missing twenty four hours. Don knew what LAPD would say: that his brother had been swept off of his feet by a pretty skirt, or a pretty set of pants, depending on his inclinations, and accompany the remark with a snigger. They'd tell him that his brother would show up eventually. Did his brother demonstrate any signs of mental instability? Genius was next to madness, you know. Perhaps his brother had temporarily gone off the deep end. Maybe he had needed a break from the tension of academic life. Maybe he'd gone fishing. Maybe he was in the morgue; did you check there, Special Agent Eppes? Are you aware of how many people go missing in L.A. every day, Special Agent Eppes?

Don had a job to do. His brother was missing, but so were Senora Colon's children. And the children from many other families.

"This Colon woman, she's going to cooperate?"

"Yes, Don." Megan recognized the delaying tactic for what it was.

Don took a deep breath. "Wire her up. Set up for tonight. Make that the priority."

"I'll handle that end, Don," David inserted. "I don't need help until it's ready to go down." Which meant that the other two could help to track down one missing math professor until it was time to implement the Rivera raid.Itmeant six hours of top notch FBI expertise left available for other pursuits: missing person pursuits. "You guys go after Charlie. He's one of our own, Don. He's a consultant for the FBI, which makes him our responsibility."

A weight lifted off of Don's shoulders, a weight that he hadn't realized was there. He had a good team. He had good people.

And Don had a funny feeling that he'd need all the help he could get.


One more time, the voices died away. It was a relief; there was a lot of heartbroken sobbing this time. Very few sounds of blows; that, in Charlie's estimation, was a good thing. But he still didn't dare try to escape from his prison while it was going on.

There were a lot of voices this time, at least a dozen, Charlie thought, all speaking Spanish. Several were female voices, but not all. Some tromped through the master bedroom, and Charlie froze, fearing to be discovered. Boy, was he going to have a conversation with Don when he finally got out of here! This nest of squatters needed to be cleaned out and cleaned up. There was definitely something nasty going on, and Charlie would really rather not know the sordid details. Listening to the misery was enough for him. Dr. del Castillo had been right in her decision to turn this place into something that the neighborhood could be proud of rather than afraid.

The voices went back downstairs, rattled around for a bit, then, Charlie presumed, left. Doors opened and closed. It became quiet again, only the creaking of the old building creating the noise around him. Not that Charlie could hear all that much; apparently Elena's grandfather had invested in early Twentieth Century sound-proofing for this room. That was okay with Charlie; he didn't want to think about what he hadn't heard. What had gotten through was plenty. And a little sound-proofing on his end would keep them from hearing Charlie himself. Charlie waited until there were no more sounds left.

He had to get out of this room. Was he growing weaker? How long had he been here without food or water?

Naw. It was just his imagination running wild. Tired, sure; hungry and thirsty beyond a doubt. But it couldn't have been longer than a day at most that he'd been in this room. How long did it take to die of hunger and thirst? More than a day, that was for certain.

There had to be a way to get out. Elena's grandfather wouldn't have built this room as a trap. It was supposed to be a sanctuary, not a prison. All Charlie had to do was to find the exit sign.

In the dark.

He steeled himself. The latch would be somewhere, and certainly covered in cobwebs. Not the most pleasant of tasks, but staying here indefinitely had less to recommend it than getting his hands dirty.

He'd already searched that wall, the part where he had entered. That hadn't worked. Okay, move forward in a pattern. He took himself to the adjoining wall, cursing as he banged his shin against some unseen piece of furniture, feeling with questing fingers for anything that would depress, something that would be a hidden lock.

There were frequent pauses to wipe his hands against his shirt, shuddering as he did so. The shirt was ruined, of that Charlie was certain. But it would be a small price to pay to get out of here and into the sunlight. Heck, it was a tee shirt. It didn't cost that much.

Hey—was that a knot hole that he felt? And more than that: it felt like it could sink beneath his fingertips. Charlie grew cautiously excited.

Yes, it definitely moved. Charlie was on the right track. The knot hole depressed, and Charlie heard a tiny grating noise.

Decision time. Was there another knot hole needed to release the door, or would Charlie be able to slide the door open with just this one pseudo-lock? If Charlie went to the door and was wrong, he'd waste valuable minutes trying to retrace his steps in the dark. On the other hand, if this one knot hole was all there was to opening the door, he'd waste even more time and energy looking for something that wasn't there.

Logic, buddy boy. Try to think like the old man. What would Elena's abuelito have done?

Single knot hole, Charlie decided. Emerging from this sanctuary wasn't to be the difficult part. Getting in was the old man's challenge so that others couldn't find him, but getting back out should be routine. With one last brush of his fingertips against the slender circle on the side wall, Charlie made his way back to where the door was. He banged his shin—the other one—against the same piece of furniture. If that table isn't broken already, I will cheerfully break it myself in revenge.

More cobwebs sliding against his fingers, searching for the slender edge of the door—there it is. Insert the fingers, yes, push them against the too tiny slit, hope that someone in the past had sanded the edge extremely well so that splinters wouldn't be the price of his escape—yes!

The door grated, but it gave. Charlie increased the force, slipping his fingers into the crack he'd made, exerting more leverage to force the door open. That's it, six inches equivalent to 13.2 centimeters, most human bodies are less than one foot wide front to back, which meant that an opening 26.4 centimeters would be enough to—

Charlie squeezed out into the master bedroom, huffing and puffing and wheezing from the dust and exertion.

To be met by two pairs of dark and highly displeased eyes.


In this imperfect world, Colby reflected bitterly, there was a first for everything. That phone call had been a first for him: it was the first time in his career that he had ever been sorry to get a lead on a case.

Not just any case. It was this damn Rivera case, the one that they were busting their butts to close. The one where a certain kingpin most deservedly needed to come down hard.

And Colby had the key.

That phone call had been from the kid with the street name of Shark. He'd fingered the location where Rivera held the illegals that he'd crossed into America, the place where he kept them until he was ready to sell them or distribute the drugs that he'd forced the kids to carry into this country. With what Shark had given him, if they were lucky, Colby could set into motion a bust that would nab the entire sorry mob and let the FBI go home in time for dinner instead of this after-hours raid that David was setting up.

But it would mean diverting their efforts from the search for Charlie.

Colby liked Charlie. Didn't understand the guy, but after all the stuff that Charlie had done for the FBI Colby was certainly ready to appreciate the power of that math stuff.

Which meant that Charlie was 'one of them'. And in Colby's mind-set, you didn't leave buddies behind. Colby wanted to be out there, looking for Don's brother. And, since Charlie had been looking for ways to take down this Rivera dude, that meant that Charlie was working on the same case. All the more reason to put your time into looking for the guy.

But…this was a damn fine lead. Reluctantly Colby picked up the phone.

"Eppes." Cold. Tight. Tired.

"Don? Colby." Colby motioned for Megan to step in to listen. "I got a lead. One of my snitches came through."

"On Charlie?"

"Sorry, no." Colby meant it. "Rivera. Fingered his hideout. It's a place in the center of L.A., one of the barrios. Some broken down old mansion type place. I have an address. Snitch says Rivera is keeping his cargo there right now, but gonna move 'em out tonight." He tried to keep his voice even.

"Damn." A pause, wrestling with a too strong conscience. "Damn. Call the troops, Colby. Talk to David. Get the flak jackets; we'll go in one hour. Get help from LAPD and the Border Patrol. The Patrol has earned the right to be in at the end; they've been chasing Rivera's tail longer than we have."

"What about Charlie?" Megan asked.

An angry sigh. "I talked to LAPD. They've started the hunt early, before twenty four hours, as a favor to me. They put out an APB."

None of them needed to elaborate on how successful they thought the APB would be.

"We'll find him, Don," Megan said firmly. "We'll find him."


"Callete, gringo!"

And since the words were accompanied by a blow that rattled his teeth, Charlie correctly deciphered that his captors wanted him to keep silent. He licked the sliver of blood from his lip and decided on the spot to shut up.

Bad points: hands tied behind his back. New bruise on his mouth and, he suspected, a black eye. Four small but—as they had demonstrated—very strong men who seemed intent on making sure that Charlie went nowhere. Tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Scared. And alone.

Good points: he now knew that it was late afternoon, which meant that he'd been stuck in Abuelito's study for a little more than twenty four hours. Charlie struggled to come up with more good points, and could only think of one: he was alive. It was a start.

His captors talked on cell phones in rapid fire Spanish, too fast for Charlie to keep up. He didn't like the way they kept eying him, either. Charlie would have expected them to stare at him with worried glances, afraid that he might call the police or, if they knew who he was, his brother the FBI agent. Instead, these men looked him over with an appraising glance. Charlie remembered his mother looking much the same way at some bauble she was thinking of purchasing: how much is it worth? It made him feel uncomfortable in the extreme. These men weren't afraid of him or what he might do. They were thinking in terms of profit.

They pulled his wallet out, examining the contents, and telling the person on the other end of the phone his name. One of them grabbed Charlie by the hair, staring at his face. Charlie yelped in sudden pain, and the man drew his arm back to deliver another blow.

A sharp word from the man on the cell stopped the blow. Another rapid exchange of Spanish, and Charlie's handler threw Charlie to the floor. Another bruise collected; with his hands tied behind him, Charlie was unable to break his fall.

More words, more instructions. They picked Charlie up and shoved him toward the stairs.


"They found Charlie?" His father's voice was instantly full of hope.

Don hated to dash those hopes. "No. But I've got LAPD looking for him. And the undercover people we have on the streets are keeping an eye out," he added.

Lips tightened into a thin line. "More than I can do."

Don swallowed hard. "We're doing everything we can, Dad," he said gently. "Charlie'll turn up. Listen, I have to go. Stay here; wait for me. Maybe Charlie will call in."

"Right." Then a light bulb went off in the senior Eppes' head. "Wait a minute."

"You thought of something?"

"Yeah. You remember that project that Charlie is helping me on? The hacienda with Elena del Castillo from CalSci?"

"Yeah." Not really, but go ahead.

"Donnie, I told you that Charlie had gotten it into his head that there was something funny about the way that the house was built. Something wrong with the numbers."

"Right. You were there yesterday. He wasn't there."

"But we didn't go inside!" Alan told him. "Elena wanted to clean up the outside a bit, make it look more like it did when she was there. Donnie, Charlie could have been stuck inside, and we never even looked!"

Probably not, Dad. Charlie would have yelled to you as soon as he heard you two come up the walk. Even if he was hurt, he would have called out. But—"go check it out, Dad. Call me inside of an hour, because if I don't hear from you, I'm sending the SWAT team." It will keep you busy and thinking that you're doing something productive.

"Right." Alan looked at his son grimly. Whatever his FBI agent son was up to, it had to be something major. Nothing less would drag him away from looking for Charlie. "You be careful, son." I can't afford to lose you, too, came out loud and clear.

Don nodded. "You too, Dad."


Butterflies in the stomach were a given when Don strapped on a flak jacket. Armoring up meant a high risk operation, a situation where he or someone else stood an even chance of getting something important—and frequently painful—shot off.

This time was worse. Not only was he going after one of the major crime figures in the area—one with a reputation for eliminating those who annoyed him—but he was doing it while his brother was missing, and his father headed into one of the less savory parts of L.A. to look for him. Don sighed. He'd have an ulcer before this day was through.

His team didn't look much better. Megan looked good, but that was only because she was having a good hair day. The tight lines around her eyes betrayed her concern. She agreed with Don's decision to go ahead with the raid because it was the right thing to do but that didn't mean that she had to like it. Like everyone else, she wanted to be out looking for Charlie.

Colby was in the corner, briefing the three Border Patrol men that had come to join in. Each looked grim, and loaded for bear. The rifles that each carried so easily shone with deadly firepower. Colby had introduced them a few moments ago; what were their names? Morales, McNamera, and Wright. Two of 'em tall and rangy, the other short and swarthy and looking like he could hole up in the canyons for weeks on end. None of them were people that Don particularly wanted to have angry at him.

David made his way over, lacing up his own jacket. Don made a point of edging over to him. "Everything set?"

David nodded. "Senora Colon's wired for sound and on her way back home. Hopefully we won't need her. Hopefully we can nab everybody in this go around and bag the raid on the slave auction." And get back to looking for Charlie soonest.

Don grimaced. "Her first clue will be when her boss doesn't show up." He looked around at the room filled with FBI agents and Border Patrol. LAPD would meet them at the scene. "Anybody know that this may turn into a two part scenario?"

"Not from me," David said easily. "Figured that since Rivera seems to be so good at getting information and eliminating the competition, I'd like to keep him off guard. Just in case he slips through our fingers. Nobody except us knows about Senora Colon. They all think they're here from Colby's lead."

"Rivera may not even be there at the L.A. site," Don added gloomily. "He's got people to handle the merchandise for him. He's probably where ever he needs to be, supervising the preparations for tonight's bash and slavery auction. Is the champagne chilled?" he added mockingly.

David changed the subject. "Anything from Charlie?" As in, that's where we really want to be.

Don looked away. "My father's checking out the housing project again. He should be checking in—" His cell buzzed at him. "That's him." Don flipped open the device. "Dad?"

"Donnie? Listen, there's a problem—"

Not another problem. I can't handle much more, Dad. Just tell me you found Charlie. Don swallowed. "What is it, Dad?" His father wouldn't sound so calm if he'd found Charlie lying in a pool of blood. "Did you find Charlie?"

"Donnie, I can't get in to the del Castillo hacienda. I drove up to the place, and there's a bunch of squatters in there, making a mess and yelling. Under the circumstances, I didn't want to go up to the door and politely ask them to leave—"

It wasn't merely an ice cube that formed in the pit of Don's stomach. The suspicion that erupted was enough to match the iceberg that sank the Titanic. "Dad, what's the address of your project?"

"What's that got to do with—"

"What's the damn address?" Don didn't mean to yell. It just came out that way, born of fear.

Alan gave it. "It's just a few blocks away from—"

"I know where it is. I know exactly where it is." Don took a tight rein on himself. "Dad, listen to me very carefully. Are you in your car?"

"Yes, but—"

"I want you to leave. Now. And make sure the car doors are locked. And the windows up."

"Donnie—"

"Now, Dad." Don said it with quiet determination. "Please don't argue. Just do it." He took a deep breath. "If Charlie is in there, Dad, we will find him."

"Donnie?" Alan caught his fear.

"Please go, Dad. I want you safe."

"Donnie, what's going on?"

Don took a deep breath. "Dad, in just a few minutes that place is going to be swarming with FBI. Get out of there. Please, Dad. I need you to go. Now. Immediately."

"And I want both my sons safe," Alan muttered with an I'm-this-close-to-charging-inside-right-now tone. "I'm out of here. Call me, Don, as soon as you know anything. I mean it, Don."

"I will, Dad." Don closed the cell before his father could raise any more objections.

Megan moved up to Don's shoulder. "Don?"

Don met her eyes. "Three guesses as to where this 'project' of Dad's is. And the first two guesses don't count."

Megan caught her breath. "Don't tell me—?"

"You got it. Right in Rivera's little hideaway. He says that it's swarming with people."

"Is Charlie there?"

"If he is, he's in big trouble. And that's not from me. My father didn't see him, just a bunch of squatters."

Megan frowned. "At least we know that Rivera hasn't moved his cargo yet. We can catch him with his pants down."

"Then let's do it." Don raised his voice. "Everybody ready? Move out."


The hacienda was almost the way his father had described it, except that Don wasn't seeing the same potential that his father and his father's client saw every time they were there. The place was a two story ramshackle and rundown adobe place, astoundingly large to be found in L.A. and reminiscent of a Mexican don's estate before California was part of the U.S. Except for the weeds, Don could imagine a bunch of grimy peasants coming to pay their respects and their taxes to the lord of the manor, leading burros laden with corn in burlap sacks. All that was missing was the piles of horse manure still to be shoveled away.

But now, in the New Millenium, there weren't grimy peasants but illegal immigrants who had crossed the border in search of a better life and were now finding that their hope of salvation had turned on them.

The place looked eerily quiet. His father had said that there were squatters, but Don saw no sign of them, no lights inside against the deepening dusk and no muted sounds from within suggesting that breathing bipeds were anywhere but surrounding the house. He frowned. Had Rivera moved them out? Had he gotten the word that a raid was imminent? Don couldn't see how. Colby's snitch had only called in less than two hours ago, and Megan had pulled the troops together in under sixty minutes. There hadn't been time for Rivera to be alerted.

Maybe Rivera's people had their cargo tied and gagged. There was likely to be a lot of sobbing and wailing, not exactly the sort of thing that Rivera would want to parade on the street.

Don got that hinky feeling, the one that suggested that, under the right circumstances, he had a bull's eye on his back and he'd left his bullet proof vest at home. The same feeling that told him that he'd made a big, fat boo-boo. Or was walking into an ambush. He'd learned not to ignore that feeling.

He pulled out his walkie-talkie, speaking quietly. "Everybody in place?"

A murmured crowd of affirmatives.

He exchanged looks with Megan. She could see how worried he was. She raised her eyebrows: what?

He shrugged. Beats me. You feel it?

Yes. And it makes me nervous.

Don tabbed the walkie-talkie. "Heads up, people. We're going in fast and hard, on my signal. Everybody keep their eyes peeled."

The one advantage to this operation, Don decided, was that there was no need for a warrant. One call to his father's client, a Dr. Elena del Castillo, gave them permission to knock the creaky door in with her heartfelt blessing. Don nodded to David and Colby, the pair armed with a battering ram and with a squadron of FBI agents armed to the teeth behind them. He held up his fist: on the count of three…Go!

David pounded on the door. "FBI! Open up!"

Colby gave them no opportunity to comply. The battering ram slammed against the rickety door and gave after no more than a token resistance.

"Move! Move! Move!"

Helmeted men flooded inside, guns held at ready, shouting and trying to terrify the illegal inhabitants into instant submission.

There was only one problem: there was no one to terrify.

Elvis had left the building.


Don set up a rapid action command post outside the front door. "Anything?"

"They were here," David reported, as if that weren't a given. "We found traces of inhabitants, including food wrappers and dirty clothing. A couple of pesos in some pockets, and a lucky rabbit's foot."

Don grunted. "Not so lucky."

"Not for them, or us," David agreed. "They were here, I know it."

"You and me, both. Any sign of Charlie?"

"No distinguishing evidence of anyone. Nothing personal, nothing to identify anyone. There was at least a dozen people here, to judge by the amount of trash they left behind. They were moved out just moments before we arrived."

"Couldn't have been too long," Don agreed. "My father saw them here less than twenty minutes earlier. What happened?"

"That many people, someone must have tipped them off," was Colby's opinion. "Nobody moves out that fast unless they have a reason to hustle."

"So what was their reason?" Don wanted to know.

They looked at each other, not wanting to voice what each was thinking.

"Maybe," David said reluctantly.

"But who?" Colby asked. "If Rivera's got an informant, then who is it?" His gaze automatically surveyed the room, the FBI agents mingling with LAPD and the Border Patrol. "Could be anyone of them."

"Or even one of us," David admitted. "It would explain how Rivera's been able to avoid capture for so long. He has an inside source."

"But we've only been on the case for a couple of days," Don argued. His gaze automatically sought out the LAPD personnel present, lingering on the Border Patrol trio beside them. "Where does the system break down?"

"Don?"

"Where does the system break down?" Don repeated, almost to himself. "Rivera's gotten away with a lot of crap. Where do we lose him?"

"Crossing the border," David replied, seeing where Don was going. "You think—?

"I'm thinking that a little checking into certain financial histories may be in order." Don carefully didn't indicate the trio. He kept his voice low. "I'm thinking that I want to see the cell phone records for the Border Patrol people most closely associated with the routes that we believe Senor Rivera uses to get his cargo across the border. And I'm thinking we want to see those records now." He glanced around. "Anything here that will help us figure out where they were headed with these people that they've just kidnapped? Because if Rivera's being true to form, the people here are being hauled off to the auction block to be sold to some very unpleasant people." He looked around once more, raising his voice with finality. "Let's pack it in, people. Rivera beat us out—"

"Don?" Megan appeared at the top of the staircase. "Don, I think you need to see this."

"Megan?" Don leaped for the stairs. "What have you got?"

Megan led him into the master bedroom, a room large and airy with windows placed to take advantage of the ocean breezes passing through. It was not the windows that Megan brought him to see but a crack in the wall, a sliding door that looked designed to blend in with the rest of the wood paneling. There was a lot of dust with a lot of footprints. Footprints, Don noted unhappily, that would fit the size of a certain mathematician.

"This room looks as though it was built a long time ago," Megan said, "and that it hadn't been used for years. It would be a perfect place to hide. I missed it myself the first time I walked through this room. It was sheer luck that the flashlight caught the edge of the door, open just a crack."

"And inside the room?"

"Evidence that someone had been in the secret room for a while: footprints, disturbed cobwebs, things like that. But that's not all, Don." Megan seemed especially unhappy. She handed him a wallet. "I found them on the floor inside the secret room. The money and credit cards are missing."

But the driver's license wasn't. A wide-eyed gaze surrounded by a tousled mop of dark hair stared back at him, a face that he'd seen almost every day of his childhood for as far back as Don could remember. The ice cubes in his belly that he'd almost managed to forget during the adrenaline rush of the operation reappeared with a vengeance.

Charlie had been here.

And, forgetful as his little brother was, leaving his wallet behind wasn't something that he was likely to do.

He coughed savagely, trying to cover his fear. "Any blood?"

"Maybe a smear on the chair, but nothing significant." Nothing that meant someone special had been shot, or knifed, or killed. "Could belong to anyone."

"Right. Get Forensics down here ASAP. David?" he called.

David appeared at the door, Colby on his heels. Don motioned them over, and lowered his voice. "LAPD and Border Patrol leave yet?"

"Not yet."

"Hah. Tell 'em the party's over, and they still won't go home." Don frowned. "Colby, push 'em out the door. Dismiss 'em, whatever. Just don't arouse any suspicions. This raid was a bust, as far as we're concerned. We found evidence of wrong-doing, we're calling in Forensics to see what clues we can come up with, but we're still floundering. That's the official word on this raid."

"What about tonight's gig for the auction?"

"What gig?" Don stared the younger agent in the face. "Got it?"

"Got it." Colby was off to perform his assignment.

Next: David. "You've got your tracking equipment in the van?"

"Just say the word," David assured him. "I'll tap into Senora Colon's whereabouts, and we'll have the location of Rivera's soiree and auction site."

"I'm saying the word," Don said. "Go." He turned to Megan. Time to be the professional. Forget that your little brother is probably in the hands of a gang that wants to kill him just for knowing that they exist. Forget that just moments before you got to this location, you had to tell your father to leave the area before he blew the whole operation and got killed in the crossfire. Forget that—

"There's no evidence that he's dead, Don." Megan put into words what he wanted to believe. "If they'd wanted him dead, we'd have found the body here in this room. Or downstairs in front of the captives, so that they could frighten them into submission. A place like this, there's no reason to carry a body around. Charlie's still alive, Don."

"You think?"

"I want to believe that he's alive as much as you do, Don, and I'm just as willing to admit that I'd like to fool myself. But the circumstances say that he's alive. He's not a liability to them yet, Don."

"Then let's not give them a reason to kill him." But a nasty thought struck Don. "If they don't want him dead, what do they want him for?"

Megan wouldn't look him in the eye. "Don't make me say it, Don."


All right, so there was one major advantage to being wet, cold, and shivering: he and the rest of his fellow captives no longer stank of sweat and grime. That had been washed away with a thorough spraying with a garden hose.

Without exception, every one of his fellow captives were younger than he, most younger than even the majority of his students, and equally divided between girls and boys. There were a dozen of them, all scared with big brown eyes looking to him, the gringo, for direction, even only one or two spoke enough English for him to understand. For the rest, gestures would have made up the difference except for one barrier to success: they were all bound, hand and foot. Their captors were taking no chances that their human cargo would escape.

Where were they? Charlie had no idea. One phone call from their bosses, and the men had hustled Charlie and his fellow band of miserables out to a pair of non-descript white vans. They were shoved onto the floor of the vans, unable to see outside to where they were going, rolling back and forth and collecting bruises each time the vehicle turned a corner.

Some time later—Charlie thought that it was somewhere between one and two hours, but couldn't be certain—the vans rolled to a stop. By now it was dusk, the sun almost disappearing behind the horizon. Charlie got a glimpse of manicured gardens before the stream of cold water hit him in the face. By the sounds and cries, his new friends were treated to the same cleansing cold shower. He stood there, swaying and dripping, wishing for more sunlight to dry his clothes before they hustled him and everyone else inside and downstairs to a single small room.

Someone new entered the small room, accompanied by two larger men: bodyguards. The someone new was clearly in charge; everything about him boasted of it, from the tips of his expensive leather shoes to the top of his lacquered hair. That black came out of a bottle, Charlie was certain of it. He'd seen the same color on Professor Simmons' head when the old man started seeing that engineering freshman. The affair had been quietly hushed up, the boy transferred to another school, and Professor Simmons' hair went back to gray. Mrs. Simmons herself quietly transferred away from her errant husband and, last Charlie'd heard, had re-married and was doing quite well for herself with a plumber who appreciated her and her femininity. Professor Simmons, the word was, was on a fast track to retirement.

Not so this man who stood surveying his haul of human flesh. His hair was black, his clothes well-tailored, his life was good, and this was his business. "This was it?" He spoke with an accent, but clearly understandable. "This is all you could get? We won't get much for most of these." He pulled at the chin of one of the girls, forcing her head up to look at him. "Pretty enough, but no spirit. My buyers want spirit." He looked around. "Where's this scientist you brought me?" His gaze lit on Charlie, and Charlie felt as though a thousand cockroaches had crawled into his still soggy clothing. The businessman frowned. "He's old."

Charlie swallowed. He'd been called many things in his life, usually by bullies while growing up, fellow students during graduate school, and now undergraduates failing to make the grade, but old had never been one of them. 'Young for this' and 'child prodigy' were far more common in his memories.

But, compared to the other captives, Charlie was old, probably almost twice their age. The man stalked over to him, striving to look taller than he was. Charlie himself wasn't exceptionally tall, but next to this man he felt gigantic.

"Who are you?" the man demanded.

Charlie aimed for indignation. "I'm Professor Charles Eppes. And if you know what's good for you, you'll let all of us go immediately. This is illegal."

"You're a scientist?"

"I'm a mathematician," Charlie corrected. "I teach at CalSci."

"You make weapons?"

"Hardly. I teach math," Charlie repeated.

The man turned away. "He's no good to me. Kill him."

A death sentence. But the rich man's sidekick spoke in a voluble flood of Spanish, clearly disagreeing. He held out a card; Charlie recognized it as his employee ID card from CalSci.

More Spanish, more discussion. "Senor Rivera, this one will earn you much money. He is a valuable commodity, not as these children are, but to government leaders who need such expertise."

Rivera nodded slowly, thinking and pulling at his chin. "And I have three such men coming to the auction tonight. But they are not expecting this sort of purchase. They will not be prepared."

"For a treasure such as this, they will pay much," the other assured him.

Rivera's eyes raked Charlie up and down, taking in his slender frame underneath the bedraggled clothing. "He's not hideous."

"With his mind, your buyers might be willing to take a chance on trying purchase him at a good price, then selling him to an even higher market," the other said. "He is worth more to you alive than dead."

Wonderful. Next, they'd be holding a two for one sale on CalSci professors. Charlie morbidly wondered what Larry's reaction would be if the physicist were unlucky enough to be standing beside him, wet and shivering. With luck, Charlie would get to ask him, preferably over lunch with dry clothes.

With luck. With luck, these people wouldn't kill Charlie on the spot as merchandise with an expired shelf life.

How had he gotten into this mess? This wasn't supposed to happen. This wasn't even one of Don's cases. Sure, Charlie had gotten into trouble on a few of those, mostly because he wandered into a spot where Don had told him not to go. But this wasn't one of Don's cases. This was a project of his father's, for heaven's sake! It was supposed to be safe! Charlie had gone to the hacienda in broad daylight, no gangs around, nothing that should have been a problem.

Life is full of little surprises.

"Gag them," Rivera ordered. "Silence them all. They whimper too much. My clients won't want a lot of cries." An evil smile played across his face. "At least, no crying until the whips come out."

Charlie's blood ran cold.