by Joe Gazzam
“No jodas! You are even younger than she is,” he said, shaking his head. “My name is Nefasto Oliva, Officer in Charge.”
Mitch reached out to shake his hand. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, I believe so. Normally the one that bails out the other is more reasonable, so please listen carefully. I’m prepared to offer your sister a courtesy and release her into your custody.” Nefasto pulled at the end of his nose and scratched the mustache portion of his goatee. “She has brought to light a...situation that I’d like to handle internally. Off the record.”
“That’s great, thank you.”
“I will release her under one condition. You both leave the country. Immediately.” Nefasto dropped his cigarette on the floor and put it out with his foot, then picked it up and put it in his pocket. “I don’t know why the two of you are here and, frankly, I don’t care. I just want the problem gone. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes sir.”
Nefasto motioned to the bald officer standing behind me to fully remove my cuffs and then turned back to Mitch. “Then we have an agreement? You and your sister disappear. Tonight.”
Mitch gave a quick nod. “Yes.”
Nefasto turned and leaned in close to me as he passed through the metal door. “Adiós, Ms. Kafee,” he whispered, a disturbing smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.
The bald officer shoved me forward. “You’re free to go.”
Mitch’s worried eyes darkened with anger. He shot me a look and stormed outside.
I followed him through the precinct door and a gust of cool air chilled my bare skin. The clouds above seemed dark and impossibly full. They raced above me, as if they’d seen something horrifying coming. I picked up my pace and headed toward Mitch who was nearly jogging. This was going to suck.
As Mitch sped through the parking lot, I finally caught up to him.
“Mitch, I’m sorry, okay?” I said, grabbing his shoulder.
Mitch whipped around. “Arrested? Are you kidding me? Screwing up is like a reflex with you.”
“Can we just skip this whole dramatic scene? We don’t have time for this right now.”
And at that very moment, the dark clouds burst. There was no warning drizzle, just immediate downpour. The rain fell like gunfire, sheets of it pounded against my face. The parched ground seemed to open and suck up the water in gulps. A peal of thunder rocked the sky as Mitch looked at me.
“We don’t have time?” he yelled, stunned. “I’m not the one who was just in jail. It’s bad enough when it’s just your emotional shrapnel we all get hit with. But this is different. We’re talking about Dad’s life.”
“You know, you’ve been doing this for years now. Acting like you’re so put upon, that it’s up to you to take care of poor old Dad.”
Mitch rubbed a hand across his face to clear his eyes of rainwater. “Well, someone has to. You’re supposed to be some trained expert, and you’ve done nothing but waste time.”
“We wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me,” I barked.
“What does it matter if we can’t save him? What if he’s already dead, Tara?”
My clothes were soaked and I could feel strips of my hair sticking to my cheeks. “You don’t think I’ve thought of that—” I stopped myself, biting off the rest of my sentence.
Mitch stared at me and his face fell completely. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”
Before I could answer, a van skidded to a halt behind us. The sliding door was thrown open. Jorge and a tall man with pale skin both aimed guns at our heads.
Jorge cocked his gun. “Get in.”
Mitch glanced at me. I gave him a subtle nod, and we got inside. Jorge slipped behind us and kicked us both to the floor as his partner grinned like a leering jack-o-lantern.
“Make a peep and Rico and I will take turns shooting you,” Jorge said, jumping into the back and closing the door behind him.
Rico slid his tall gangly frame behind the wheel of the car. He rubbed his forearm across a large, hooked nose and reached for the gearshift. He threw it in drive, but then, oddly, put it back in park. He repeated this twice more before finally driving away. As we turned onto the main road, legions of raindrops pelted the metal hood in a constant, rhythmic beat.
Jorge sat with bent knees, leaning against the back of the passenger seat. He kept a firm grip on his gun, which remained pointed at us.
I turned to Mitch, and terror dawned in his eyes, like twin moons coming over the horizon. And I understood it. This was bad, really bad. But I had trained for this. We just had to wait for our moment.
I adjusted myself, but kept quiet, focusing on the tearing rasp of Mitch’s breath and the rising pulse of the storm. Jorge was going to die.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WE DROVE FOR LESS THAN ten minutes before the van climbed a steep hill. I looked out through a small, begrimed window in the back. We were in a barrio. A thousand homes punctured the side of this large hill. Most were made of wood; some were patched with cardboard and waste material. Each and every one of them had supporting wooden stilts to lift the homes up and level the floors off of the sloping hillside.
After a series of twists and turns, we finally lurched to a stop. I looked out the windshield and noticed the rain had stopped, though my heart continued to beat in a hurried rhythm. My eyes subtly scanned the van, but always came back to Jorge’s gun, still aimed at my head.
Seconds slipped by, then minutes, as Rico bounced out of the car, ripped open the side door and dragged us into an abandoned, single-dwelling house. Each passing moment was an opportunity lost. The narrow margin for escape was closing in on me faster than I could think.
As Jorge threw us down, I gave a quick and desperate look around. The place was rancid, with dirty floors and crumbling plaster. It smelled like old milk. The roof leaked and black mold drew a drippy wavering line down each corner. A makeshift wooden bar sat in the back with empty beer bottles fanned around it. It looked like something out of a slasher movie where campers were slowly killed off.
Rico forced us both into a kneeling, hunched position, then secured us by metal wrist cuffs with chains bolted to the wooden floor. Around us, the rotting planks were stained crimson. Remnants of other unfortunate souls who were once in the same spot.
Think, Tara. Think.
Once secure, Rico joined Jorge in the next room, a small kitchen, to converse in private. They mumbled to themselves and periodically glanced our way. A peal of thunder rocked the sky. The house reverberated with it. After a few seconds, lightning flashed and the lone window outside briefly transformed into a mirror. For a split second, I saw my own crestfallen face.
Mitch turned to me with terror in his eyes. “They’re going to kill us, aren’t they?” he whispered. “I’m scared, Tara.”
I felt like someone was squeezing all the blood from my heart. He was right. I wanted to reach out and hug him, but I didn’t dare move. Instead, I sank with him, blaming myself for getting us here. All of my training, the years in service, what good were they? That wild, impulsive, uncontrollable side of me had sabotaged it all. Every bad decision, every selfish move I’d ever made played through my head like a movie. For a moment, I let it all bury me.
Because of me, we were going to die.
I set my jaw. “No,” I answered him. “I won’t let them kill us.”
From beneath the shrapnel of my defeat, the stubbornness in me crawled out of the deep, like some kind of tormented monster. I refused to lose the only two people I’d ever cared about. Not without a fight.
“Yes...” Mitch answered as he slumped forward. “We’re going to die in this shithole.” The rain that pasted his hair to his skull drizzled down the nape of his neck.
I stiffened; there wasn’t time for this. I couldn’t let emotion muddle my plan of action. I needed to look for any possible way out. In Iraq I’d never actually been captured, but the possibility of it was always there, and I’d gone over wha
t to do a thousand times.
The first step was to take in every inch of your surroundings and use any possible tools at your disposal. I glared at Mitch. He was the smartest person I knew. I needed to use him.
I leaned closer. “Stop sulking and be part of the solution. Look around. Look for anything that could help us.”
“It’s over...”
“Don’t do it because I asked you to, do it for Dad.”
Mitch relented as if I’d injected him with a tiny Vitamin B shot of hope. He looked around the room.
I did likewise, checking the exits, checking for weak parts of the floor and the metal chain I was secured to. I turned and spotted a rack of guns near the entrance. No way to get to it, but it could come in handy later. I looked behind me at the wooden bar against the far wall. It could be used as cover. I glanced outside. To the right and left, the ground was level. Through the window behind me, the ground dropped off dramatically. The entire back portion of the house must have been held on stilt beams like the others on the block.
“This may be nothing,” Mitch said suddenly.
I whipped around. “Tell me.”
“The tall guy, Rico. He had to put the car in park and drive three times.”
“I noticed that too. So?” I kept my eyes forward and my voice low.
“I think he has O.C.D.”
“You mean, like, he’s gotta turn the lights on and off before he leaves a room?”
“Exactly. I used to have this thing with the stove.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, the point is that people who suffer from this type of OCD have rituals, normally relating to numbers. Repetitive behaviors they have to do a certain number of times. Rico’s ritual is to repeat things three times. He couldn’t drive, couldn’t get out of the van till he put the car in park three times—”
Jorge suddenly turned, jabbed his gun and shouted from the kitchen. “Shut up. No more talk or I shoot you both right now.”
As Jorge turned back, I waited a moment, then whispered to Mitch. “Anything else?”
“The floor. The wood is old and the blood may have softened it.”
“Good. Yes. See if it has any play.”
With this, both of us tested the wood.
“I’ve got nothing, you?” Mitch asked.
“Maybe,” I nodded, straining. “I think so.”
I almost had one bolt free. The previous pools of blood had weakened the wood. I rocked the bolt back and forth until the wood expanded around it enough to release it.
Before I could try the other bolt, Jorge and Rico came back in with a laptop computer. They set it on the table in front of us. Jorge tapped a few buttons, and after a moment Castillo’s pockmarked face appeared on the video screen.
I stared at him. He leaned back and attempted the patrician look that must have served the male members of his family for generations. Only Castillo couldn’t quite pull it off. It seemed forced, contrived. But there was also something in his eyes that reminded me to not take the man lightly. Something evil. My arms rashed out in goosebumps.
Castillo stared back at us for a bit longer, then adjusted his glasses. “Tara and Mitch Kafee, children of Harry Kafee. Seems like trying to catch me is a family business, yes?”
“We help out when we can,” I quipped, not wanting to show weakness.
“You two kids want to be Extractors, too? Is that it? You want to take me back to America?” he asked, his overly white veneer teeth flashing as he spoke. “But you see, that would be...kidnapping. Which is frowned upon in my country.”
“You should probably call the police.”
“But I already have, my dear.” Castillo motioned and a man sat down beside him—Nefasto.
Anxiety bloomed in my chest. Andy was right. Castillo owned this city. Nefasto knew exactly who I was the moment he ran my prints. He let me go on purpose. Jorge was never the problem he wanted handled off the record. We were.
“Nefasto.” I ignored the rising surge of panic. “I don’t suppose you feel like...doing your job. You know? Arresting the bad guy?”
Nefasto slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
I tried to compose myself, focusing on Castillo. “Look, my brother and I couldn’t care less about you. All we want is our father back.”
“You’re the military dropout, yes?” Castillo asked and nudged Nefasto. “Or no, wait. They kicked you out. All those years of being a juvenile delinquent must have given you problems with authority. Women in the states are so willful. You must be a grave disappointment to your father.”
I glared through the computer, my lips set in a tight, angry line. I opened my mouth to come back at him, but closed it again, too shaken by the truth in his words. Instead, I looked away.
“Oh, Tara, don’t be ashamed. The most important people in society are always artists, criminals, and revolutionaries.” He wagged his finger. “Only by questioning values can you force change.”
I returned my gaze. “That what you’re doing?”
“Me? I am most certainly forcing change. You see, I make weapons. I make them smaller and I make them cheaper. What I do is give power to the people.”
My knees began to ache against the wood floor. I shifted, but kept talking. It was the only thing keeping us alive. “There are probably better ways to help people.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Castillo said, taking off his glasses. “You know...sometimes I wear contact lenses, not often, but sometimes. And these contact lenses have 1 2 3 on the inside, so that I don’t put them in backwards. And I used to ask myself, why 1 2 3, not a b c? Why not symbols of some sort? And then it came to me. Because 1 2 3 is universal. It allows them to ship these contacts all around the world. That’s what my guns are, universal. They mean the same to everyone. They are equalizers. And since the entire world is my market. I can reach everyone. I can help more people this way.”
“All I got from that little speech was that you get to sell more guns.” I couldn’t help myself. “Which means, it’s about money. Which makes you a whore.”
Castillo’s upper lip lifted unconsciously, like a dog’s when it’s angry. And then a pregnant moment of silence ensued. He quickly calmed himself and continued.
“I understand why this frightens your country. Why they want to put me away. You want everything for yourselves. You want to be number one. Always. The problem is, Americans are the status quo, about to become status epilepticus. You know what this means?”
Mitch immediately answered. “A condition where the brain is in a state of persistent seizure. Is that supposed to mean our empire is about to crumble?”
“Very good. You must be the smart one.” Castillo cupped his chin and squinted. “But I bet you’ve always felt inferior to your sister. Yes? She probably seemed so cool and mysterious. And with your head always in a book, I’m guessing you felt...less than. I was the same way.”
“Really?” Mitch asked sardonically.
“Yes, I was ashamed of my IQ. Ashamed to know all the right answers in class. Envious of the bigger, stronger boys around me. Until I realized one thing...the strong may take from the weak...but the smart always take from the strong.”
Mitch stared at him, stone faced, though the tips of his fingers shook and his lips were drained of color. “Are you done?”
“Right. Enough chitchat. Where are my manners? You’ve come all this way to see your father, yes? You should say hello.”
My breath caught as Castillo leaned forward, tapped a button with his claw-like, deformed hand and the screen split into two windows. Was he alive? The main window minimized, allowing the rest of the screen to show a view of a dank cement prison cell. And chained to the wall sat Dad. Bloody and bruised.
On screen, a guard grabbed him, and I gave an involuntary lurch forward. He was forced closer to the camera. A pink line of drool fell from his cracked, swollen lips. He tried to blink and finally looked up.
“Dad,” the whispered word slipped from my mouth.
>
When he saw us he lost it. His head dropped and he jerked forward. Using all his force to pull against the chains, his face turning red with rage, and he let out a guttural cry. After a moment, he looked back up at the screen.
“No...” Harry said, his voice cracking. “Let them go. They’re just kids—”
A fist came into frame and crushed Dad’s jaw, sending him to the ground. I averted my eyes, unable to watch.
“Dad!” Mitch called out. He reflexively moved forward, but the chains on his wrists snapped and held him back.
When I turned back, Dad struggled to look up. “Leave them alone. If you hurt either of my kids, I—”
Then with a flicker, the section of screen with Dad went blank, and the entire computer filled with Castillo’s smug face.
“Get him back, put him back on screen!” I pleaded.
“I don’t think so, it’s better this way. Well, for me anyway. Imagination is always more powerful than reality,” Castillo said slowly. “Your father, who has been tight lipped up until now, will wonder what we will do to his children if he doesn’t show a little more cooperation.”
“You piece of shit,” I said, grinding my teeth.
Castillo clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Such a mouth on such a pretty young girl. You know...I would have liked to spend a little alone time with you if things were different.”
“Trust me. There’s nothing more I’d like to do than get you alone.”
Castillo’s lips split into a devious smile. “We might be talking about two different things.”
“Were you talking about me crushing your windpipe with my heel?”
Castillo’s smiled evaporated. “Right, well, unfortunately, this is all the use I have for you two. So, you may now go with God.”
With this, the screen went completely blank. A surge of adrenaline flushed through my veins. Time was running out. Whatever Jorge and Rico had planned, it was about to happen.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I WORKED MY WRIST-CHAINS slowly and quietly but with maximum pressure. One bolt was free and the second was close. I subtly rocked it back and forth, the metal cuffs digging into my skin like dull knives. The wood was giving, but not fast enough.
