by Ethan Cross
Black tried to maintain his stony composure, but Almeida could see a quick flash of fear and doubt in the big man’s eyes, indicating the discussion between the members of their group had gone extremely close to the way he had described. Almeida imagined that Munroe and Black also suspected that he planned to kill them all once he had the drive. But he wasn’t worried. The cards he held trumped any scheme or counterattack that they could have cooked up.
“Where are the kids?” Black said.
“They’re safe. Once I have what I need, I’ll share their exact location.”
Black stepped forward. His body shook, and his fists clenched into tight balls. A barely contained rage burned behind his eyes.
The mercenaries raised their guns and sighted in on Black, but Almeida held up a hand and said, “Let’s not be reckless. If you do as I say, Mr. Black, you will see your nephew again.”
“And what about my sister-in-law? She’s in the hospital in critical condition from a gunshot wound.”
“War has casualties. How much collateral damage is sustained is up to you. Make no mistake, I am in complete control. You and your friends can attempt all the theatrics you wish. Change the location. Threaten me. Try to outsmart me. None of it matters. The end result will be the same.”
Almeida raised a hand to the surrounding forest and gestured the mercenaries hidden among the trees to come forward. Two men, who had blended perfectly with the environment like a pair of chameleons, melted out of the trees and approached the clearing. Each had a long sniper rifle slung over a shoulder. They unloaded their gear and climbed into the GL550 with the other four mercenaries.
His gaze met Black’s. The hatred and rage burned so brightly within the former soldier’s eyes that they seemed to glow. Almeida gestured toward the SUVs, and with a smile, he said, “Shall we take a ride?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Black’s blood boiled and his skin crawled as he directed Almeida and his mercenaries to the new rendezvous point. He and Munroe selected the new location in order to do exactly as Almeida had said and control the circumstances of the meeting as much as possible. For this purpose, they chose an abandoned ready mix plant located down a dead end road. A place with no innocent bystanders.
He knew that once Almeida had the drive and Corrigan, the Colombian would not allow them or their families to live, not after all the grief they had caused the Castillo Cartel.
“Turn left here,” Black said.
The GL550 pulled down a long lane. Gravel had once covered the roadway, but the weeds had overtaken it now. An ineffective chain link fence surrounded the property but sagged over in several spots. A faded white sign read Scottdale Ready Mix - Over 300 Years Combined Experience. Apparently, all that experience hadn’t help keep the lights on. The massive gray silos and bins that had once held sand and gravel to mix into the cement stood out against the horizon. Rusty catwalks, metal ladders, and all manner of conveyors clung to the sides of the cement silos and storage tanks. Empty dumping areas for ornamental rock sectioned off by giant white blocks sat to the left, while the office and control room had fallen into disrepair on the right. In the center of the space between the dumping areas and the control room with the storage bins at their backs, Black’s three companions—Munroe, Katherine, and Annabelle—stood beside the Yukon, awaiting their arrival.
The GL550 came to a stop fifty feet from the Yukon. As the mercenaries piled from the vehicles, Almeida said, “You may join your friends.”
Black traversed the gap between the two groups, half expecting Almeida to shoot him in the back. The wind blew loose dirt and sand in his face and eyes, but he kept moving. Once he reached them, Katherine asked, “Are you okay?”
“Ask me in an hour,” he replied.
Almeida stepped into the gap and said, “I like the scenery. Very dramatic. I understand why you wanted to change the location, and honestly, it makes no difference to me. I’m sorry that it’s come to this, but you must admit that you really haven’t given me much choice. I truly hated to involve your families.”
Munroe said, “Where are they?”
“The drive first.”
“How do we even know that they’re still alive?”
Almeida held out an open palm to his side, and the wiry white man beside him placed a small device in the upturned hand. Almeida reared back and tossed the device across the gap. Black snatched it from the air. Almeida said, “Push play.”
Black held the large touchscreen cell phone up for all of them to see the video and for Munroe to hear it, and then he pushed the icon marked with a green triangle.
The camera pointed down into a large hole in the earth. A track hoe was visible in the background of the scene. A storage container rested within the massive hole. The container had been buried with only the front opening still exposed. Black couldn’t see anything else in the background. The camera was likely angled in such a way to obscure the rest of the area. Two men pulled open the doors of the shipping container.
Then the camera panned to show the three kids. Black hadn’t seen Will in years, but he recognized him immediately. The boy looked like Michael—dark hair, intense eyes, tan complexion—only with a stockier more muscular build. Munroe’s daughter Chloe looked scared beyond reason, and Black was glad that Munroe didn’t have to see the look on her face. The older girl, Makayla, maintained a hateful look of defiance.
Black knew what was coming next before it happened. Almeida’s men shoved the kids into the hole, forced them to enter the darkness of the shipping container, and then swung the doors shut. He heard the teenagers banging on the doors and screaming for help. The sound of the track hoe starting up masked the screams as the massive yellow piece of heavy machinery pushed dirt into the hole and smoothed out the mound.
Black’s heart broke. He thought of the kids out there buried alive, alone and afraid. Almeida had been right; he held all the cards.
When the video was over, Almeida spoke first. “I’ll take the phone back now.” Black angrily pitched it into the dirt and gravel in front of the Colombian. Almeida picked up the device, dusted it off, and continued. “That video was sent to me just a few moments ago. It displays a technique that we’ve often used in Mexico to help encourage cooperation. My colleagues have disposed of bodies at the location in the video many times. None of them have been found. Your family has somewhere between fifteen and twenty hours before they suffocate, if they stay calm. And so I’ll ask you again…where is the flash drive?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The darkness felt heavy around her. It pressed down and in like a living thing with substance and weight, choking the air from her lungs. But Makayla Munroe knew that was all in her head, just common claustrophobia. Still, all the rational thoughts in the world couldn’t hold back the rising tide of fear. The darkness was crushing her. She wondered if this was the way that her dad felt all the time.
After banging on the doors hysterically for a few seconds, they had all dropped to the floor of the container and sat in silence as they tried to come to grips with the impossible situation. Chloe sobbed in one corner. The cries sounded metallic and tinny as they bounced around the interior of the sealed metal box.
“You need to stop crying,” the boy said.
Makayla quickly jumped to her sister’s defense. “Leave her alone.”
“I’m not trying to be a jerk here. They’ve buried us. We only have so much oxygen. Crying is just going to use it up faster.”
Chloe screamed, “Why does it matter! We’re going to die in here!”
“Chloe!” Makayla said. “He’s right. You need to calm down. Think about it. If they wanted us dead, they could have just killed us.”
“So what do they want?”
“I don’t know, but I bet they’re the same people that attacked Dad. He has something that they want. They’re probably holding us for ransom.”
“What do we do?”
The boy said, “We need to lie down on the floor and stay calm and quiet, that way our bodies will use less oxygen.”
“How do you know that?” Makayla asked.
“I saw it on TV. One of those, what would you do? shows. I remember thinking that I would try to hold my breath. You know, the less breaths you take, the less oxygen you would use. But the show said that was wrong, that you actually die faster that way.”
Chloe started sobbing again.
“Let’s not talk about dying anymore. We’re not going to die,” Makayla said.
She groped her way blindly across the metal floor, using her sister’s cries as a guide. She found Chloe and wrapped her arms around her sister’s small frame. She cradled her and stroked Chloe’s hair as she said, “It’s going to be okay. Dad will get us out of this.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
They had little choice but to give in to Almeida’s demands, but Black knew that they still had a few tricks up their sleeves that could save their lives. After receiving the call from Joey, they had formulated a plan and collected some choice hardware from their local arms dealer, Tobi Savoy. Black reached into the Yukon and retrieved the remote control for one of the gadgets that Tobi had provided. As he worked the controls, a tiny motor came to life in the weeds, and a small helicopter drone lifted off. Military or law enforcement personnel could use the small drone, which was little more than a toy with a souped up engine and camera system, in order to survey a battlefield or other area from above without the need for expensive aerial surveillance.
Black piloted the drone to land directly in front of Almeida. When it touched the ground, he said, “The drive is taped to the bottom.”
Almeida’s eyes narrowed, but then he smiled and picked up the drone. “Very cute.” Almeida’s face didn’t change as he turned over the drone and saw the drive attached along with a block of C4 plastic explosive.
Black said, “Tell us where they’re buried, or I’ll detonate the bomb.”
“You wouldn’t risk killing me and losing your only chance to save your families. You would never find them in time, unless I tell you where to look. And none of my associates here know where they are. It was an entirely different group of men that buried the children. I’m the only one who knows.”
Almeida pulled the drive from the bottom of the drone and tossed the little helicopter and the explosive toward Black. It landed in the dirt a few feet away.
The Colombian handed the flash drive to one of his men, who plugged it into a laptop. Almeida rattled off a sixteen character string of letters and numbers that Black assumed to be the password. The man read the password back, and then hit another key on the keyboard. Then the other man smiled and gave Almeida a quick nod.
Munroe said, “We still have Corrigan, and we won’t turn him over until we know where you buried the kids.”
Almeida shrugged his shoulders and replied, “Keep him. It makes no difference to me.”
A white man in an expensive suit who Black recognized as Brendan Lennix stepped forward and said, “What are you saying? We need Corrigan!”
“Please be quiet, Mr. Lennix.”
Lennix stepped closer to Almeida, and his features curled into a snarl. “How dare you talk to me like that, you—”
“Brendan, you are a Catholic, is that correct?” Almeida didn’t seem to lose his composure for even a second. “When was your last confession?”
“What does that have to do with anything?“
“I’m sorry, but Vaquero informed me that once we had the flash drive in our possession, we would no longer be in need of your services. As a stock holder of Lennix Phamaceuticals, he’s lost faith in your leadership.” Almeida aimed his Glock pistol at Lennix’s chest. “Consider this a hostile takeover. You may have a moment to prepare your soul.”
Lennix stood frozen in fear for a second and then ran toward a nearby patch of trees surrounded by tall grass. Almeida shot him twice in the back. Lennix looked down at the blood spreading outward from his wounds like he couldn’t believe this was really happening, and then he fell into the weeds, staining them with red.
With a nod toward Black and his friends, the Colombian said to his men, “You may kill them now.”
Upon the order of their commander, the six mercenaries raised their Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and took aim.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
John Corrigan’s head pounded like his skull was about to burst, and the parts of his body that didn’t hurt were fewer than those that did. Despite all that, he was still a soldier. Years of intense training had taught him to fight through the pain.
He thought of the countless hours he spent trapped in a cell analyzing what had happened to his loved ones and wishing that he could have exacted revenge for them, avenged their deaths in some small way. He just needed someone to line up in his crosshairs like any other enemy, but the only person to blame was himself.
Now, as he looked through the scope of the Sig Sauer SSG 3000 sniper rifle from his perch atop the plant’s tallest storage silo, he finally had an enemy that he could see and fight. It felt good to be back on the offensive, to be a soldier again. When he saw the mercenaries raise their weapons, Corrigan didn’t hesitate.
He dropped two of the men before the others could even register the danger and dive for cover.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Black tackled Munroe to the ground, dragging him toward the cover of their black SUV. Sharp tendrils of pain penetrated his side where he had been hit, but thankfully, his body armor had blocked the 9mm bullet from piercing the flesh. He would take a stinging pain over a gaping hole any day. The sound of squealing tires and churning gravel rang out from beyond the front of the Yukon, and he popped from cover to see Almeida’s Mercedes escaping up the rock lane. He cursed and slammed a fist against the Yukon’s rear panel. The one man who could save their loved ones was getting away.
Bullets tore into the black SUV, and shards of glass rained down over their heads. He could smell gas, but he also knew that, unlike in the movies, a person could shoot a car all day and it wouldn’t explode unless they were using some kind of tracer or incendiary round.
Equal parts rage and fear pushing him forward, he handed the detonator for the C4 to Katherine and said, “You’ll know when to blow it.” Then he cupped a hand over the flesh-colored earbud, which he had slipped in when he grabbed the remote control for the drone, and said to Corrigan, “Do you read me?”
“I’m here.”
“Cover me and keep them pinned. I’m going to try something.”
When he heard the distinctive report of the sniper rifle, he sprinted around the vehicle, heading for the helicopter drone. The mercenaries fired blindly from cover, and the bullets exploded into surfaces all around him.
In one clean motion, he slid to the ground beside the drone, scooped it up, popped onto his knees, and hurled it and the C4 into the air. The gadget flipped end over end as it shot forward and finally bounced off the front windshield of the Mercedes GL550.
One of the mercenaries realized the danger and stood to run, but Corrigan dropped him with a .308 round to the back.
The C4 detonated, and the Mercedes blew apart in a brilliant fireball. A searing wave of heat and flame blew Black flat against the ground. He rolled into a ball and covered his face with his arms. Charred and flaming debris pelted him and showered the ground around them all. The smell of burning flesh and gasoline along with a thousand other metallic sounds and smells assaulted his senses. A high-pitched ringing filled his brain, and he couldn’t think straight.
He felt hands grabbing him and looked up to see Annabelle and Katherine dragging him toward the Yukon. He pushed them away, screamed something that even he couldn’t understand, and stumbled toward the driver’s door of the SUV.
One word kept repea
ting through his disoriented thoughts. Almeida. Almeida.
Throwing the SUV into drive, he spun away without another word and tore up the lane after his quarry. At the end of the gravel track, he took a right onto a blacktop road, heading in the direction of DC. He couldn’t see any other cars ahead or behind. His skin burned, and the ache set in all over his body. The Yukon smelled of gasoline. Bullets must have punctured a fuel line during the firefight, but at least the big vehicle was still running.
Finally, after a few more moments of driving and no sign of Almeida, Black turned the Yukon around and headed back, defeated.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Deacon Munroe had learned long ago to focus on the things that you could change and ignore the rest. Right now, he didn’t have the ability to chase after Almeida, but he could damn sure analyze the clues and find out where Almeida was heading.
“Katherine?” Munroe said.
In the darkness to his right, she said, “I’m here.”
“What happened to Brendan Lennix? Is he still alive?”
“I don’t know. He fell into the weeds over there.”
“Guide me,” he said, holding out his arm.
She led him over to the weeds and said, “Here he is. He’s still alive. Barely.” Katherine left Munroe and checked Lennix’s wounds. “It’s not good.”
Munroe knelt down and groped his way to the man’s side. “Lennix, I know that you didn’t want any of this. You’re a business man, not some kind of terrorist. Tell me, do you know what Almeida did with the kids?”
Lennix coughed and tried to speak, but the words came out as weak puffs of air. But Lennix didn’t give up. He grabbed Munroe’s hand, and with a tight squeeze, he managed to say, “Sorry.”
“I know you are. Help make it right. Tell me about the kids. Anything that can help us find them.”
