Read Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller) Online

Authors: Ty Hutchinson

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BOOK: Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller)
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Cabrera looked away from me and chewed on his bottom lip. “I was afraid you would ask about that.”

“Why?”

“Because that one was found in the jungle. He was a member of an indigenous tribe.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not. We’ll need a guide who can speak the language of the tribe. And then there’s the equipment and supplies we’ll have to stock up on.”

“Supplies? Equipment?”

“We’ll be hiking into the jungle. There are no roads.”

My jaw unhinged and swayed in the wind. My reaction must have made me look like a newbie agent.

“Still interested in pursuing the other victim?”

“Of course,” I blurted out. I wasn’t about to be seen as the weaker half of the team. I honestly didn’t know what a hike in the jungle would entail, but I wasn’t afraid. How hard could it be?

 

 

Chapter 16

 

The following day, we touched down at Mitú Airport a little before noon. Even though I slept most of the plane ride, I still felt a bit groggy when Cabrera woke me. What struck me first as I exited the plane was the noticeable moisture in the air. I quickly retrieved my sunglasses from my purse to shield my eyes from the bright light reflecting off the ground, the plane, and the buildings at the small airport. I had purposely hydrated before going to sleep last night to avoid any headaches. No need for the sun to foil any of my plans.

The black tarmac was unforgiving in the heat. It didn’t take long for perspiration to bubble up on my forehead during the seventy-yard walk to the terminal building. My steps were slow and sticky. I kept my head down and wondered how a few brave weeds could dare to make their home in this manmade desert. As I walked along the empty airfield, only one thought came to mind:
Couldn’t the captain have parked the plane closer?
I retrieved a napkin from my purse and dabbed gently.

“It’s the jungle.”

“Huh?”

“The jungle,” Cabrera motioned with his head toward the distant tree line. “It’s what makes it much more humid here than Bogotá.”

“What else can the jungle do?”

“It kills people who aren’t careful.”

A little dramatic, aren’t we?

As my time in Colombia continued to grow and the trip I had envisioned grew less and less recognizable, I briefly rethought investigating the second body.

When we reached our hotel forty minutes later, I was beat. The heat had sapped my energy, making me want to do nothing but sit still in icy, air-conditioned bliss. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to pack a pair of shorts. I couldn’t imagine walking around in jeans. I changed into a tank top and slipped a thin cotton buttondown over that to hide my holster on my hip. A pair of hiking boots finished off my outfit.

I met up with Cabrera in the lobby where he handed me water. “It’s important we stay hydrated.”

I thanked him and took the bottle.

“The local officer who is handling Riggs’s case is scheduled to meet us here any minute. He’ll drive us out to the location where they found the body.”

Just as Cabrera finished giving me the heads up, a dark-skinned man dressed in a khaki uniform approached us. “Dom,” he said, extending his arm, “it’s good to see you again.”

Cabrera shook the man’s hand. “It’s been too long, my friend.”

I watched the two men hug it out like they were old college buddies. I hadn’t been aware that Cabrera knew the officer so well.

He then turned to me with his arm out. “David, I’d like you to meet Agent Abby Kane. She’s with the FBI and is here to help with the investigation of Agent Riggs’s death.”

The man with a smile larger than Cabrera’s took my hand and gave it an enthusiastic shake. “I’m Captain David Gómez, but you may call me David. I’m sorry to hear about the attack at the office.”

Oh, I hadn’t realized my situation had become news.

“I mentioned it to David when I spoke with him yesterday,” Cabrera offered, sensing my surprise. “He had his men reach out to some informants. Maybe some information about this guy will show up.”

“Nothing so far,” Gómez said.

“Same thing on our end,” Cabrera added. “The fingerprints came up empty.”

Seriously? You didn’t think to mention that to me?
“They did?”

“Sorry, Abby. I got a text earlier from my contact. I should have told you sooner.”

I hoped this wasn’t his way of protecting me from bad news. Maybe he’d forgotten that I was an FBI agent who also shot her attacker dead. That’s not a detail that’s easily overlooked, right? I appreciated the concern, but I certainly didn’t need any coddling.

Cabrera broke the awkward silence by slapping his friend on the back. “David is with JUNGLA. It stands for anti-narcotics jungle company. His unit is integral in conducting raids on the drug factories located deep in the jungle.”

“A special unit for the jungle, huh? I never would have thought, but it makes perfect sense.”

“Everyone is surprised when they hear about it.” Gómez pointed to the lobby exit. “My truck is right outside. Let’s get moving.”

When he said his truck, I expected an SUV. What we got instead was an old Toyota pick-up truck. That meant one thing: an Abby sandwich.

There I was, forced to sit on the middle hump because of my tiny frame. To make matters worse, the ride was bumpy, and the two slabs of muscle on either side of me created an oven-like effect that later had me peeling my leg off of Cabrera’s.

Later, we pulled over onto the side of the road. “This is where we found the body,” Gómez said, pointing to an irrigation ditch alongside the highway. I spun around, surveying the area. There were a few fields with crops, but most of it looked like ranch land as far as the eye could see.

“What on earth would bring Agent Riggs out here?” I asked as we exited the vehicle.

“Gómez turned his head toward me. “What brought him out here is what you can’t see.”

What?
I shook my head and raised my shoulders at him.

He pointed down the highway toward a hill that obscured the view into the distance. “There’s a rest stop not too far away. It has a gas station, a couple of shops and places to eat, a tiny bar, and a place to rent rooms by the hour or day. It’s the last sign of the civilized world before the road takes you into the jungle.”

Cabrera chimed in. “We think someone asked him to meet them there because of its location.”

“So the thought is premeditation?” I asked.

“Look, a big part of how we get our information is through informants. Some are normal citizens who saw something strange, but most are either current or ex-employees of the drug lords who have grudges against their bosses. Sometimes the drug lords’ enemies come to us with information. Any one of them could have a reason for killing Riggs.”

I let my eyes sweep across the area where Gómez said the body had lain. Nothing popped out. I walked the area, knelt, and scanned the ground but saw nothing. “I take it no irrigation has run through here since Riggs’s death.”

Gómez shook his head. “This is an abandoned farm, but any evidence of him being here has probably been washed away by recent rains. Come on. We’ll head to the rest stop. Maybe it will help.”

I assumed my snug-as-a-bug position as we drove for another ten minutes. Seconds after we crested the tiny hill, the rest stop came into sight. It really was the last stop of civilization. Behind it, I could see the rain forest. It stood tall like a green wall separating two worlds.

We spent another hour walking around the area and talking to employees at the various businesses. Not much came of it. They told us what we already knew: Agent Riggs was here. He’d had dinner at the small restaurant and then headed over to the bar where he was seen having drinks, shooting pool—essentially, relaxing. We exited the bar and stood under an awning and out of the sun’s grasp.

I turned to Cabrera. “In the report, it stated that Riggs had a room reservation at the hotel in Mitú. Why?”

“It was his first trip. I told Riggs to spend the night, get to know the town,” Cabrera said.

Gómez also confirmed that he had met with Riggs a little before three but wasn’t sure about his plans. “After I finished with Riggs, I went about my way and he his.”

I shifted my weight and rested my hands on my hips. “Captain Gómez—”

“Please, call me David.”

“Okay, David. You said his body was found at eight the next morning.”

“That is correct.”

“No car?”

“We don’t rent cars. It’s easier to hire a taxi,” Cabrera answered.

“Was he attempting to walk back to Mitú?”

Gómez shrugged. “An employee from the bar said he was drunk when he left.”

What I had heard so far all seemed plausible, but it made no sense for a DEA agent to operate this way. Why go to the rest stop for dinner and some drinks? Why not stay in Mitú? It’s easier. A drunk man walking home doesn’t seem strange if the walk isn’t far. The rest stop was a thirty-minute drive from town. That’s not walking distance.

“Well, if Riggs came out here to meet with an informant, then we have a problem.”

“Why’s that?” Cabrera asked.

“No one in town saw him meet with anyone.”

 

 

Chapter 17

 

Outside of Mitú, the silver sedan sped along the two-lane highway, barely missing a crossing rabbit. The rear lights burned bright as the vehicle slowed abruptly and made a left turn onto a dirt road. It rapidly gained speed and left a brown plume in its wake as it headed straight toward a large, windowless building.

A few minutes later, the vehicle slid to a stop, and a thin man wearing wire-framed glasses jumped out of the driver’s seat. He swiftly approached the concrete building. There were no commercial markings on the building’s façade, and there appeared to be only one entrance: a steel door. Two men dressed in fatigues and brandishing AK-47s manned the entrance while on the rooftop in a crow’s nest were a couple of snipers with three-hundred-sixty-degree views.

The building sat back about a hundred fifty feet from the main road, surrounded by trees and brush. One could easily drive past without noticing it. The locals had learned to stay away from buildings like that.

The man waved to the guards at ground level and quickly punched a security code into a keypad. Three beeps later, the door opened, and he disappeared inside.

The interior fit that of a typical warehouse facility—plenty of empty space. Along one wall, large, wooden crates were stacked three high and marked with stenciling that read
Coffee
. Another side of the building had floor-to-ceiling shelving filled with various machinery but mostly bags of fertilizer. Up above was a crisscross of catwalks.

The visitor crossed the width of the building to the side where the large crates were stacked. He stood in front of one and looked up toward the ceiling. With closer inspection, one could see armed men patrolling the catwalks that led to a small office at the far end of the building. He waved at the office.

Suddenly, the crate in front of him swung open, revealing a hidden chamber with an opening in the floor. The man entered and climbed down a metal ladder, roughly twenty-five feet, until he stood in a brightly lit corridor. He walked to the end of the hall and opened the door leading to a large laboratory. As he reached for a lab coat near the entrance, a voice called out to him.

“Julio, over here.”

Julio Ortega turned toward the sound and saw his younger brother bent over a microscope. He quickly made his way over while he slipped on the coat. “Is it true?” he asked.

Elan looked up from the scope. “I believe so. We still need to conduct live trials, but I think we’ve stabilized the growth of the cells. Come, take a look.” He motioned with his hand.

Julio and Elan Ortega specialized in human genome research. More specifically, they loved messing around with human DNA. They studied what others in the scientific community called “fringe science.” As they became more involved with this sort of research, they pulled further away from the establishment. They were now experimenting with no governing boards or peers, in a realm of questionable morals and very little allegiance to any type of Hippocratic Oath of responsibility toward mankind.

Julio looked into the microscope. “This is amazing. The cells are no longer congealing. We must test this right away.”

Only a few weeks earlier, the Ortegas were in the jungle, working in a small makeshift lab. Free from interruptions and surrounded by a bounty of flora to experiment with, they had spent close to a year developing and testing a variety of mixtures.

Over four thousand combinations later, they finally had the positive reaction they were looking for—a huge break for the brothers. It was then that the Ortegas pulled up stakes and relocated to a modified warehouse in Mitú to begin the next phase of testing. However, their celebration was short lived. Somehow, they had documented the formula incorrectly and were unable to replicate the results seen earlier in the jungle. With thirty-six different ingredients and virtually limitless possible combinations, that mistake was a serious setback. From then on, they had worked night and day, mixing and matching, attempting to replicate every single combination of the ingredients they had tried in the past in the hope of finding that magical mix again. They had.

Julio readied the drug while Elan walked into the holding room next door. Inside, a chimpanzee lay on a bed.

“Hello, Malcolm.”

Malcolm was the name they gave all their test subjects. This particular animal was Malcolm #69. The other sixty-eight were dead.

A few days before, he had been a lively ball of fur. The drug had improved his physical and mental abilities. He had grasped almost all of the sign commands they had taught him. They joked that, in a week, he would speak and be capable of debating politics. His improvement had continued for two days, but then Malcolm became sick like the others. The brothers were confident that they were getting closer to stabilizing and controlling the side effects of the drug.

Malcolm didn’t respond to Elan’s greeting. He was lethargic—an unusual condition for a fully grown male chimp. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He hadn’t touched his last meal. It was unfortunate, but his health was diminishing. However, because he wasn’t dead yet, it was a huge improvement for the brothers’ track record.

BOOK: Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller)
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