by Glen Robins
“How much time do you need?” asked Collin as he pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He was trying to imagine what he could do, but his mind was blank.
“An hour, at least. More if possible.”
“I don’t have any idea what I’m going to face. I don’t even know where I’m going.”
“Don’t worry about that. When you get there, you need to insist on seeing Rob. Do anything you can think of to stall.”
An idea popped into Collin’s head. “Got it. I’ll do the best I can.”
****
Seventy-Fifth Floor, Unfinished Office Building, Mexico City
June 18, 8:24 p.m. Local Time
She circled. Although the heat of her anger had begun to dissipate, there was a seething in her breath and a subtle fury in her gait that let him know she was still upset. For the past several minutes, Rob had replayed the scene in his head a hundred times, toying with an alternate ending each time. Endings that didn’t include a slap in the face and losing fingers via a sharp gardening tool. Instead of something painful, he imagined her sidling up next to him, cooing, and tracing her fingers across his face again or pressing her lips against his or whisking him off to safety while the powerful men in the other room were busy. The last scene played well in his mind, so he repeated it with slightly altered variations each time.
But now that she stood in front of him, gripping and squeezing the handheld shears, he decided on the desperate, but sometimes effective, stratagem of flattery and charm. “I forgot to tell you how beautiful you look.”
She glowered at him. If laser beams could shoot out of her eyes, she would have burned a big wide hole in his head.
“I mean it. I haven’t seen someone look so good in a very long time. I just wish you hadn’t said that part about cutting off my fingers.”
She continued to stare at him, but her eyes softened slightly, growing wider.
“If I’m going to be tortured here, and likely die in some cruel fashion tonight, I’m really glad I got to see you looking so . . . so, can I say it? Hot. You look sexy and beautiful, like the kind of girl I wish I could take to dinner at a fine restaurant.”
She cocked her head.
Maybe that was too far.
The faintest trace of movement crossed her lips.
Maybe not.
“I know just the place I’d take you. You like French cuisine? There’s a place in New York City. You ever been there?”
A slight shake of her head, the lips still battling to remain motionless.
“Fabulous town, New York. Full of sophistication, glamour, romance. If you know your way around, New York is the best.”
Her lips lost the battle and turned up slightly. She shifted her weight. A little bit more of the thigh shone through the slit in her dress.
Rob smiled as he let his eyes wander. “After dinner, a Broadway play. You ever been to a Broadway play? Talk about classy and sophisticated. An elegant gal like you deserves to be treated to classic French dining and a night on Broadway. That’s what I wish I could do with you. Not just stare at your form-hugging outfit and your perfect face. I’d like to have you with me when I go to fabulous places.”
The jaw muscles were flexing, trying to keep the face rigid. The calves tightened, too. She watched his eyes as they moved up and down her body.
“A beautiful woman like you deserves that kind of treatment. That’s why it’s hard for me to look at you. I don’t want this to be the last time I see something so perfect.”
That did it. To hide the tremors taking over, she balled her fists and marched out of the room again. But Rob saw it in her face. He knew he’d penetrated her armor. She wasn’t the hardened lackey she wanted him to think she was.
But it was a meaningless victory. The wheels were turning and chances were good she could not stop them from rolling forward and sealing his doom. Collin still stood a chance, but not him. The hourglass of his life had only a few more grains in it. He was convinced of this.
His chin returned to his chest and he replayed the previous scene one last time. A clatter erupted from somewhere in the distance. A bucket was kicked and metal pieces tinged on the cold cement. More bumping and banging and dragging. An armload of stuff dropped to the floor with a dull thud ten feet behind him. Rob tried to turn around, but couldn’t crane his neck that far.
The wiry guy emerged from the echoing darkness behind Rob, talking in his high-pitched foreign tongue. He had changed out of his suit and into jeans, a thick hoodie sweatshirt, and work boots. As he talked, he tied a knot in a rope, forming a loop. The loop was opened wide, then draped over Rob’s head until the strand was centered around his stomach. Sounds continued to emanate from behind him as the wiry guy shuffled around and talked and tied. Metal clanked now and then and things banged together and the rope tightened. Then there was more fussing around the back of his wheelchair. Next thing he knew, the rope was jerked tight around his torso and he was yanked into the air, facing the ground three feet below him. He was swinging left to right, a foot or more each side of center. The weight of the wheelchair rested against his back until his squirming caused a shift. Now he was at an angle and the chair felt like it was pulling him downward to his right, the tape holding him to the chair ripping at the hairs and skin on his arms and ankles.
The Asian guy clucked his tongue a couple of times and lowered Rob until the front wheels were barely touching the ground. Rob heard him strain, and then he came forward and positioned the chair with the wheels down. He kept a foot against the armrest to maintain the attitude he wanted. A little more straining and the chair dropped to the ground. The jolt jarred Rob’s back, shooting long pulses up his spine and down his legs. Rob’s eyes clenched shut until the pain rolled through. When he opened them, the Asian guy stood before him with his chin in his hand, as if assessing his handiwork.
The process was repeated twice, until the guy nodded in satisfaction. Rob expected the drop the second and third times, and was able to lean forward enough to keep the impact from being absorbed primarily by his spine. Instead, his rear end and legs took the brunt of the force.
Once satisfied, the wiry Asian guy disappeared. Rob was once again left alone in the dark chill with nothing to look at but the plywood wall and the construction debris scattered around. His mind had a lot of scenarios to play out. The suspense might kill him before Penh did.
****
Onboard the Huey Helicopter over Mexico City, Mexico
June 18, 8:25 p.m. Local Time
Butch’s team, along with the Mexican soldiers aboard the helicopter, were crammed into the tight space inside the Huey UH-1. The chopper had room for thirteen, plus the pilot and copilot, but Butch had insisted on bringing twelve of his men on board to help the three Mexican riflemen. With Collin, that made sixteen men on board. The thin mountain air and the increased weight put a strain on the Huey’s powerplant, but it managed to handle the load after a shaky takeoff.
En route, they divvied up assignments and roles for each man. They expected the helipad to be heavily guarded upon their arrival, but hoped to persuade the security detail that the group on board the helicopter would take the prisoner to the bosses and help with rooftop patrol.
If that didn’t work out, there could be a shoot-out. Butch’s men prepared themselves by checking their weapons, vests, and ammo supplies. Most of them were either former Navy Seals or Army Rangers. Their training and experience had pulled them through many dangerous missions. Butch knew this mission would rank up there on the danger/insanity scale. They had less-than-ideal intel to go on and even less time to formulate a combat plan. With only nine minutes in the air between takeoff and landing, this hastily formed unit had to rely on gut instinct born of intense training if they were going to succeed. Their objective was clear: get inside the building with Cook and keep the camera on his vest rolling for the benefit of the German guy and his team in Washington.
As the helicopter approached the darkened t
ower, standing like a sentinel guarding a village, Butch crossed himself and kissed the crucifix around his neck. He noticed other soldiers doing the same thing.
The pilot circled the glass-and-steel structure that rose higher than anything in sight, allowing Butch and the others to get a birds-eye view of what was going on below. Street lamps and house lights were switching on as twilight descended, but there were no lights coming from inside the towering structure. There were four troop carrier trucks on the ground, parked nearby, and at least a dozen armed men taking up defensive positions around the perimeter.
Lieutenant Salazar provided all the intel he had on the situation, which wasn’t much. Since he was the officer tasked with delivering Cook, he insisted that he do all the talking once they landed. He understood the gravity of the situation and assured Butch that he felt it to be his sacred duty to do everything he could to prevent a coup d’état to right the wrongs he had done. He loved his country too much to see it thrown into upheaval and chaos.
Chapter Thirty
Onboard the Huey Helicopter, Mexico City, Mexico
June 18, 8:32 p.m. Local Time
Collin tried to get his bearings while also listening to the conversations between Butch and Salazar, as well as between Butch and the rest of the team. His Spanish was good, so he understood much of it, but not good enough to catch it all. They spoke so fast and used words—which he assumed were military oriented—he’d never heard. So he sat shivering and stiffening in the cold—confused, hungry, and exhausted.
The chopper was making one last pass around the building. Over the radio, Collin could just piece together the words the pilot was uttering to someone awaiting them at the landing site. He used words like “strong wind” and “safety” and “very dangerous” to explain the reason they had not yet landed. A wind sock at the helipad showed the proof that it was windy out there.
The chill air swirling through the cabin and the adrenaline surging through his system kept Collin shaking and jittery. The unknown lay before him, dark and ominous. How would he react to meeting Penh? What had Penh and his men done to Rob? Was Rob even still alive? Would Collin be able to stall long enough for the reinforcements to arrive and prevent the calamities Penh had planned? These thoughts ping-ponged around his mind, keeping him revved up and on edge.
Butch looked at Collin with a raised eyebrow, seeing his constant, nervous fidgeting. He pounded a fist against Collin’s knee and spoke to him through the headset. “You’re going to do just fine, Mr. Cook. We’ve got your back if something goes wrong in there. Don’t worry. Do the best you can to take as much time as you can. A little more time and we’ll have numbers here, ready to take this place with overwhelming force.”
Collin nodded slowly, trying to absorb the meaning behind the words. The whole message seemed to bounce off him, though. He was on overload. The enormity of the situation was too much to process. But the thought of returning home, no longer having to live life on the run, brought a sense of calm and resolve that quickly took over and emboldened him.
Butch pulled a tiny flesh-colored piece of plastic from his shirt pocket. It had a thin clear tube protruding from it. He motioned for Collin to put it in his ear. When Collin didn’t respond, he removed his headset and placed an identical piece in his own ear canal. Collin nodded and followed suit. Butch handed one to the soldier seated next to him, whom he referred to as Pepé, as well as one to Lieutenant Salazar in the front seat.
“We’ll be able to hear instructions coming from the team leader, your friend from Washington, and from Jorge here, who’s going to keep a lookout on the roof,” explained Butch as he slapped Jorge’s shoulder. “That way, we know what’s going on around us.”
“Testing, testing. We all good?” asked Jorge.
Butch and the others gave a thumbs-up, so Collin did the same.
Out the open door, Collin could see that the newly constructed building stood at one end of a roundabout and plaza at the intersection of two great avenues in the new part of the city. The side of the building faced the street at an angle. Its architectural design gave it a sleek, modern feel and a nonboxy shape. The structure rose into the sky, towering over its neighbors like a teacher in a kindergarten class. Gray stone accents marked the divisions between large smoked glass windows, adding to its high-tech feel. A few lights flooded the area inside a fenced perimeter. The fences looked to be quite high and topped with razor wire. Maybe that was the norm in Mexico. He didn’t know.
Collin spent half a second wondering what the architecture looked like in the daylight. Seeing it at night was eerie. This gargantuan building had a ghostly, menacing quality about it.
There were several other high-rises nearby with a smattering of lights glowing in windows. But none was as tall or as ominous as the building Penh had chosen as their meeting place.
The helicopter slowed and gradually pulled into hover mode. As it began to descend, Collin’s insides continued their churning. The hunger, the fear, and the adrenaline combined to make him feel sick. The urge to fight met with the urge for flight. He wanted to run away and beat the crap out of Penh at the same time. It was the strangest feeling he’d ever experienced and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Two military guards stood post at the edge of the helipad. Two more uniformed men, presumably from the Mexican Army, stood at attention next to a door in close proximity. All four moved in closer as the helicopter landed. Butch knocked the side of Collin’s leg again and gave him an encouraging nod of his head. “We got this,” he said confidently.
Butch jumped out first, as soon as the landing skids touched the pad. Lieutenant Salazar and Pepé followed close behind. Butch turned inside and motioned authoritatively for Collin to exit the helicopter. The two men stationed at the pad looked confused. They had rushed forward to accept the prisoner, but Butch had bluntly ignored them as he and Pepé escorted Collin toward the door. Salazar walked behind with Collin’s laptop tucked under his arm. He stopped in front of the ranking officer stationed at the helipad, leaned in, and conveyed a message over the racket. The man listening seemed confused at first, but Salazar pulled away and continued his march with his men and his prisoner.
The two men at the door looked at each other, then at the other two men who had been waiting for the prisoner’s arrival. Butch saluted and shouted in perfectly accented Mexican Spanish, “Our orders are to take this man to the boss. Show us the way.”
Lieutenant Salazar confirmed this with an authoritative nod.
The man who was presumably in charge of the rooftop welcoming committee took two steps toward the door in front of Butch. Another man opened the door and the three soldiers and Collin pushed through the doorway in formation. The man in charge on the roof went first, followed by Butch, who held Collin’s left elbow, followed by Collin, followed by Pepé, holding Collin’s right elbow. Salazar trailed. Collin had no restraints on his hands or ankles, but this minor detail was overlooked while expediency overruled the need for inspection of the prisoner.
Boots clattered and rumbled against the metal stair treads, reverberating off the bare concrete walls, as the group pounded their way downward. Each step was a painful reminder of the ordeal Collin’s feet and legs had endured over the past eighteen hours. His first movements were stiff and mechanical. Collin gritted his teeth and turned his face upward, trying to ignore the agony each movement caused.
Fluorescent fixtures overhead cast a ghostly light in the tight space as the company descended, turned, and descended some more. Three floors down, they stopped at a locked door with a “76” emblazoned in black paint against the off-white steel veneer. The officer leading the group knocked. Immediately, the door swung inward and another soldier appeared. His rifle was held tightly across his chest and a scowl formed on his face when we saw the large contingent accompanying the American.
Lieutenant Salazar stepped forward and explained the difficulties they had experienced finding and capturing this man, adding that every prec
aution had been taken to guard the prisoner and bring him safely from the mountain to this meeting with General Torres and Mr. Penh.
The grim-faced guard eyed each man in the group warily before commanding them to wait and disappeared behind the door that closed, leaving the group packed tightly on the narrow landing in the stairwell.
****
Seventy-Fifth Floor, Unfinished Office Building, Mexico City
June 18, 8:38 p.m. Central Time
The wiry guy tried to hide the Cheshire cat grin on his face, mumbling in an animated tone as he resumed his work. He had stopped to smoke a cigarette and watch in rapt fascination as his beautiful girlfriend went about her work. She had come gripping the handheld pruning shears tightly and marching in her high heels in a military cadence. Man, that was sexy. Without a word, she went to work, quickly and efficiently fulfilling her assignment from the boss. No expression crossed her face as she snipped off the American guy’s left pinky finger right at the base as if it was an errant twig on a manicured shrub. She had sprayed the wound with some sort of disinfectant and wrapped it in gauze, knowing Mr. Penh preferred to keep things neat and tidy. She had then stood staring at the man strapped to the wheelchair for a long minute before sauntering back out the way she had come. All business, no feeling.
