by Matt Rogers
Evidently he did have powerful friends, whether he believed so or not.
King stood up, cradling his torn forearm. He was a full head taller than the interrogator. If he wanted to, he could kill the man by throwing him head-first into the wall, but that seemed like a bad idea given the circumstances.
‘Fabio Torres is demanding your release,’ the interrogator said. ‘So you’re getting released. His word is final.’
This time, King hesitated longer. ‘Who?’
51
Fabio Torres, it turned out, was a short, fat, ugly man in an incredibly expensive suit.
King followed the interrogator out through the maze of white brick corridors to a cold reception area with several officials milling around, averting their eyes. The man who could only be Torres stood in the centre of the room. Gunmetal grey stubble covered his double chin and his scalp shone under the lights thanks to male pattern baldness. The ring of hair around the sides and back of his skull was unkempt, but regardless of his physical deficiencies he exuded a commanding presence.
Slater, Alexis, and Violetta stood beside him, blinking hard, like they weren’t sure whether they were dreaming either. They weren’t restrained. If they wanted to, they could turn and sprint out the reception doors into the humid El Salvadoran night.
So could King.
But he stayed put.
The interrogator approached Torres and switched to Spanish. King followed along.
Torres’ voice was gruff as he said, ‘It’s not my call.’
There was a silent apology in his tone.
The interrogator kept his voice low. ‘Whoever’s call it is, you’d better be sure about what you’re doing.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘You know what you’re getting yourself into?’
‘Yes,’ Torres said. ‘I’ll deal with the fallout. When they call, you tell them you had no choice.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay.’
‘And I’ll be the one to pay it. Go back to work. Pretend this never happened.’
King had rarely seen anyone as uncomfortable as the interrogator in that moment. He stooped and breathed out as he walked away.
Under his breath he muttered, ‘Bicho.’
King caught it. He knew it was crude slang in El Salvador for “child,” no doubt directed at Torres.
Slater was silent. Violetta was unreadable. It was obvious Alexis’ head was spinning.
King loomed over Torres. ‘Who are you?’
Torres looked offended that King had opened his mouth. He glanced up for no more than a second.
‘Don’t talk to me, boy,’ he growled in English. ‘All of you follow. Now.’
Torres turned on his heel and strode for the entrance doors.
King gave the others a wordless look, one by one, that said, Whatever this is, roll with it. It’s our only shot.
Torres moved fast, but he was a small man, so King and Slater were on his heels before he made it to the doors. They slid open automatically when they detected his presence, and a wave of humid air hit like a thick damp towel draped over them. King had thought the warmth would be a relief from the too-cold artificial climate of the military building, but this was somehow worse. He hadn’t noticed it was raining outside until he walked out into it.
It was the wet season.
From experience, King knew there was no climate more uncomfortable. It was hot, humid, and stormy: a brutal combination. The temperature must be high-eighties, which wasn’t the end of the world, but combined with ninety-five percent humidity it constricted them like an invisible blanket, drawing sweat from their pores and inching their heart rates upward even as the thick sheets of rain beat down on them.
The four of them made a sorry sight, milling around out front of the sprawling brick building, waiting for Torres to explain what on earth was going on. The squat man had stopped a dozen feet from the entrance, facing away from them, staring at a cracked asphalt road and the unkempt tree line beyond. It was jungle terrain, which meant the building they’d come out of was some military installation past the outskirts of San Salvador.
Above the roar of the downpour, King shouted, ‘Where are we?’
Torres spun, venom in his eyes. The hair on the sides and back of his head was matted to his skull, and streams of water ran down his face, pouring off the bridge of his nose.
‘Did you hear me before?!’ he screamed back. ‘Don’t talk to me. You’ve already ruined everything. Pinche gringo.’
He spat the last insult. Fuckin’ white boy.
He spun back, refusing to look at the four people he’d saved from certain death.
King glanced at Slater, who was just as confused.
Slater muttered in King’s ear, ‘He clearly hates us. He’s being forced to do this. You got old friends in El Salvador or something?’
‘That’s what the guy in there asked me. No, I don’t. Do you?’
But he already knew the answer from the look on Slater’s face.
Also no.
A janky old car rumbled into sight, its headlights shining in the gloom of the storm. It was a Nissan Frontier, probably from the early 2000s, dark green in colour. The windows weren’t tinted, but it was hard to see through them in the lowlight. There seemed to be a driver and no other passengers. The old pickup choked and spluttered off the connecting road and into the small inlet in front of the military building. It pulled up alongside Torres, spraying him with rainwater kicked up from the tyres. He didn’t react. Just threw the passenger door open and ducked his head inside.
King and Slater strode up behind him, and Violetta and Alexis followed.
They couldn’t see the driver past Torres’ squat frame, but the voice was female. They overhead the conversation. They spoke almost too fast for King to translate but he got the gist.
Torres said to the driver, ‘That’s it. No more.’
The driver said, ‘You don’t get a say.’
‘I swear—’
‘That’s it,’ she agreed, conceding. ‘For now.’
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘There’s four of them. And only four seats.’
‘I’ll jump in the tray.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Fuck you, puta.’
‘I’m sorry, papi. Sort out your own ride home.’
Torres slammed the door and stormed away from the car, cursing to no one in particular. He didn’t give the quartet a second look. His arms swung by his body as he powered back to the military building, clearly uncomfortable about having to confront the interrogator a second time.
King threw the passenger door open again, finally laying eyes on the driver. She was maybe thirty, with caramel skin and silky black hair tied back in a tight bun. She wore jeans and a black windbreaker despite the choking humidity. The clothing hugged her body, tight around her hips and bosom. She stared out at him without blinking. She didn’t wear makeup but her features were sharp, with the jawline of a model.
He said, ‘Antônia?’
She smiled. ‘Get in.’
52
Every footwell besides the driver’s was soaked with rainwater in seconds.
Rivulets ran down off their sodden clothes.
King took the passenger seat and Slater, Violetta, and Alexis squashed themselves into the back. As soon as the doors were closed Antônia accelerated away from the building. The old Nissan croaked its way back onto the road and trundled away until it was surrounded by thickets of jungle trees on both sides.
The din of rain on the roof was colossal.
Before he spoke, King took stock. His arm was a pulsating mess of damaged muscle, and he kept it folded in his lap, intent on leaving it stationary for the next few days. His nose was still grossly swollen, but it didn’t hurt in comparison to his head. It felt like someone was gripping the back of his brain and squeezing. It was a relentless headache, created by moving his head around over the last twenty-four hours with no regard
for his mangled septum. Then there was the bullet wound in his shoulder, but that wasn’t so bad, mostly superficial. He could barely feel it under the bandaging. Apart from that, he ached everywhere. He was bone tired, depleted of calories and hydration, overworked and undernourished. With a few days rest, he’d be back in high spirits, but he had no idea when rest would come.
No noise came from the back. Slater was clearly hurt, Alexis was reserved, and Violetta’s silence meant she wanted him to do the talking.
They were all reeling from what had transpired.
King let the sound of drumming rain envelop the car for a full minute, then looked across. ‘You don’t have any questions?’
Antônia was straight-backed, a vein in her forehead protruding as she focused on the road ahead. The wipers zipped left and right in overdrive, trying and failing to clear the pouring rain. Vision was limited to a few dozen feet ahead.
She took a breath and said, ‘I figured you have more questions than I do.’
‘Who was he?’
‘The guy back there?’
‘Who else?’
‘He’s the reason I’m in-country. Fabio Torres is one of the wealthiest men in El Salvador. A commercial property magnate. We had him in our pocket, then Cártel de Texis got to him, and he changed sides. I was in Santa Ana to make him see the light. He lives up there, in a gated community away from the slums and the poorer barrios. His influence is priceless, and we couldn’t let the drug-runners sink their hooks into him.’
‘Because you’re morally pure?’ King said, which drew a sly smile out of her.
‘I know about you. You come from my world. You know how it works. We need him on our side so we have influence over this little country. There’s nothing moral about what I do.’
King knew. It’s why he’d gotten out of the game in the first place. Same as Slater.
If life experience had taught him anything, it’s that there’s little difference between organised crime and politics.
King said, ‘He’ll tell your employers what just happened.’
‘He certainly won’t.’
‘They’ll come for him,’ King said. ‘They’ll ask him why he released four rogue terrorists they desperately wanted their hands on.’
‘And he’ll tell them Cártel de Texis made him do it.’
King hesitated. ‘You’ll make him say that?’
A slow nod. ‘The government and the military are corrupt to their core. Word spread that four high-value targets were in military custody, and two of those targets were legendary killers from U.S. black operations. The cartel needs enforcers on their payroll. They put pressure on Torres to get you four released, and now you’re in their hands.’
‘You sure Torres will stick to that? Even if they threaten to kill him?’
‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll beg and plead for his life. He’ll promise it won’t happen again, that it was simply a final request from Cártel de Texis before they left him alone for good. I told him if he so much as breathes my name, he’ll end up dead in his sleep. I made that clear.’
‘But I thought you already brought him back to your side. Will the government buy his explanation?’
‘Maybe. That’s on him to persuade them. Whatever the case, he won’t betray me. I made sure of that.’
‘What did you do to him?’
She hesitated. The rain beat down harder.
‘Nothing you want to hear,’ she said. ‘But I had to terrify him worse than the cartel did. That took some effort.’
King shivered, and it wasn’t cold.
After ruminating, he said, ‘Thank you for helping us.’
‘I’m helping Alonzo. I don’t know you.’
‘Are you and Alonzo—?’
She glanced sideways and laughed. ‘Married? Dating?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Maybe one day. If I have a soul when I get out…’
He didn’t respond.
She took a hand off the wheel and wiped her forehead with a dirty palm. It came away wet with perspiration. The humidity in the car was stifling.
She said, ‘Did you?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Keep your soul.’
King closed his eyes to give his headache a moment’s reprieve. It seemed egotistical to answer.
Violetta chimed in from the back, her voice soft. ‘He did.’
Antônia seemed to acknowledge the three occupants in the rear for the first time. She looked over her shoulder. ‘Antônia. It’s a pleasure.’
‘The pleasure’s ours,’ Slater said, drawing her attention.
She looked him up and down. ‘You’re all in bad shape.’ Her eyes wandered to Violetta. ‘You look okay.’
‘She has to be,’ King said. ‘She’s pregnant.’
Antônia faced the road again, squinting through the downpour. ‘Congratulations.’
It felt hollow. It was hollow. King knew what she was thinking.
This is no life for a child.
He felt the impulse to fill the silence. ‘This isn’t what our life usually looks like.’
‘You’re not fooling anyone,’ Antônia said, leaving stunned silence in her wake.
King didn’t answer.
Finally she said, ‘Once you’re in, there’s no getting out. Normal life is … lesser.’
‘Not for us,’ King said. ‘Not anymore.’
When he looked over, she met his gaze, and winked. ‘You keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day you might even convince yourself. But you’ll never convince me.’
They barrelled northwest toward Santa Ana.
53
The first noise to break the quiet after twenty long minutes was Alexis exhaling a full breath, releasing pent-up emotions.
Antônia glanced in the rear view mirror. ‘You okay?’
‘As okay as can be,’ Alexis said.
King said, ‘We all thought we were dead half an hour ago.’
‘Glad I could help.’
‘Where are we headed?’
‘Santa Ana. I have a safe house there, a small walk-up apartment. It’s where I laid out my web to trap Torres.’
King thought about what had happened, finally able to digest the whirlwind. ‘How did he do that?’
‘Get you out?’
‘We must have been some of the highest-value prisoners the Armed Forces have ever seen. And he waltzed in there and had us released like it was nothing.’
Antônia said, ‘This is the Northern Triangle, Jason. Things are different here.’
King said, ‘I know. Sorry. I’m still wrapping my head around everything.’
She didn’t elaborate out of respect for his experience. She must have heard the stories about King and Slater. Where they’d been, what they’d done. They’d started their careers in solo black ops in their early twenties. That was an unfathomable survival streak, given the odds. They’d seen a side of the world that most who live in first world countries are never exposed to, a side that’s not even touched on by the bravest of investigative journalists.
King said, ‘I take it he does what he wants, when he wants.’
‘Which is exactly why we need him,’ Antônia said. ‘There’s been controversial reports coming out of El Salvador recently about the president returning the country to authoritarianism. Apparently he’s “politicising the military,” but that’s a joke, because it’s always been that way. There was never a “return.” In the past it happened behind closed doors. Money makes the world go round. Torres owns a staggering amount of El Salvador’s real estate. Critical infrastructure — all the malls, all the tourism, a decent chunk of administrative buildings that the government rent from him. He can turn it all off with the snap of his fingers. If he wants something done, it’s done.’
‘And you got him back in America’s pocket?’
Antônia nodded slowly. ‘I made him see the light.’
‘It’s completely done?’
Another nod.
King said, ‘So how are you justifying staying here?’
‘With the excuse I’m sure you wanted to use back when you were working.’
King thought about it. ‘That you’re crippled by stress, fatigued and exhausted beyond comprehension, and you need some personal time to put your feet up and forget about what it is you do?’
Antônia smiled. ‘Spoken like a man who knows what that feels like.’
‘And it’s true, I’m sure.’
‘Of course it’s true. That’s how it feels after every op. But what do we usually do?’
From the back seat, Slater said, ‘Suck it up.’
‘There you go,’ Antônia said. ‘It’s in the job description. That’s what it feels like twenty-four hours a day. But every now and then we can pull that card. I’m at my limits. I’m broken. Use someone else for a couple of weeks. I’ll be back soon.’ She turned to King. ‘Did you ever try that?’
‘I thought about it. I didn’t think they’d let me. And I was young and dumb.’
‘How so?’
‘I thought “broken” was something to aspire to.’
She dwelled on that. ‘So did I.’
For a long time no-one spoke. They’d been travelling northwest from San Salvador for half an hour. The journey was smooth, but the weather was something to behold. The tropical storm never seemed to end, the rain battering down no matter how fast they raced up the highway. They couldn’t outrun it, and it made for a wholly unimpressive look at El Salvador’s beautiful countryside.
Nothing was visible aside from a thick wall of grey, swirling with cloud and mist and falling rain. All they could see was the road ahead and the headlights of the cars behind them.
Especially one set of headlights.
Which drew closer and closer until King locked onto them, recognising a threat.
Antônia noticed. ‘What is it?’
‘That jeep,’ King said, squinting in the side mirror. ‘It’s been on us for a while.’
‘Hold on.’
Antônia slowed until they were several miles per hour under the speed limit. Barely noticeable to other highway-goers, but if the jeep was a tail it’d have to overcompensate unnaturally to stay behind them.
