Devil in a Black Suit

by Colleen Helme

  This time, he ran down the hall. As he rounded the corner, three guards stood waiting for him with their guns drawn. He slid to a stop and quickly lifted his arms in surrender. The leader shouted at him to lie down face-first on the floor. He did as he was told and soon found his arms cuffed behind him.

  As they dragged him to his feet, the other guards he’d left behind staggered into the hall. They told the officer in charge what Ramos had done to them, and in which room they’d been left. The officer pulled Ramos’s ID badge from around his neck and began questioning him, but Ramos kept his mouth shut.

  In growing frustration, the head guard commanded that they take Ramos away. As they marched him up the stairs, he picked up that they planned to take him to the Villa Marista for further questioning. His heart began to pound, and his breath caught.

  Just a couple of hours ago he had driven by that place, and now they were taking him back there? This just got a whole lot worse. His heart sank. How was he going to get out of this one?

  As the guards escorted him outside to their Russian-made car, he glanced up and down the street, hoping for a glimpse of Noah or Sloan, so they’d know he’d been taken. He didn’t spot either of them, and his breath caught with despair. What could they do anyway? He wasn’t one of them. They couldn’t help him. He was on his own.

  Shoving him into the back seat, the two guards got in the front and began the drive through Havana to the outskirts of town. Sinister foreboding washed over him, and Ramos kept his gaze on the blue sky and puffy white clouds, taking in what he worried could be his last sight of freedom.

  All too soon, the car pulled into the drive of the square, block-shaped building, and stopped in front of the guardhouse. After exchanging a few words, the guard pulled the gate open to allow the car to enter.

  After parking, the driver opened Ramos’s door and prodded him out. Flanked by both guards holding his arms with a firm grip, they took Ramos inside a set of double-doors, through a security checkpoint, and marched him down an ugly, green-painted corridor to a room with an old vinyl couch and buzzing fluorescent lights. They pushed Ramos down on a rough, wooden bench that was hammered into the wall, and moved toward a high desk at the other end of the room.

  Behind the desk, a dirty glass window opened up into a control room. An old man with a pot belly, who was smoking a cigar, stepped out of the room. The guards joined him, but they didn’t speak loudly enough for Ramos to hear what they said.

  A moment later, the guards came back to Ramos and pulled him up. They marched him down another hall into a small room. The old man followed, carrying a wooden club. He slapped it against his palm like he couldn’t wait to use it, and Ramos tensed.

  Inside the room, a desk sat in the center with chairs on both sides. While one guard held Ramos’s arm, the other guard unlocked his handcuffs. As they brought his arms together in front of him, the old man stood ready for any excuse to use the club, keeping Ramos in check.

  The handcuffs clicked into place on his wrists, and they pushed him into the chair, locking the cuffs into a chain bolted on the table. Finished, all three of them left the room, and Ramos had a moment to catch his breath.

  How had this happened? He could hardly believe where he was. The irony would have made him laugh if it wasn’t so dire. The officer who’d caught him in the building entered the room with a sneer. Ramos sat up straight and sent him a pointed look of his own. “This is a mistake,” he said in Spanish.

  “We know you are not Ramon Pérez like it says on your ID badge,” the man answered in Spanish. “You know what goes on here, so I will make it easy for you. If you want to survive, there are two things you must do. Tell us your name, and tell us what you were doing in that room.”

  Ramos weighed his options before he spoke, this time in English. “My name is Rafael Ramirez. And I’ll be happy to speak with the person responsible for the sonic device you’ve been using to attack the United States.”

  The officer’s eyes widened with surprise, and Ramos caught a sliver of alarm that bolstered his courage. The officer covered his alarm by blustering that Ramos didn’t know what he was talking about. Ramos refused to be baited and kept his mouth shut.

  The officer scowled and shook his head. “We’ll see how silent you are when General Zarco gets here.” He abruptly stood and hurried out of the room.

  Ramos let out his breath and closed his eyes. It was a big gamble to mention the sonic device, but it was the only leverage he had, and he wasn’t going down without a fight. Using his father’s name had been an impulse, but since he was in the place where his father had most likely been held, it seemed appropriate.

  There wasn’t a two-way mirror in this room, but he spotted a camera in the corner directed his way and figured they were watching him. At least they hadn’t taken his clothes and his phone. That was to his advantage, since he still had the lock-pick in his jacket pocket. But, with his hands secured to the table, there wasn’t a way he could reach them. Still, it gave him hope that he had something to use to escape.

  Time passed slowly, and Ramos grew uncomfortable in the hard chair. He glanced up at the camera and noticed that there wasn’t a red light, indicating that the camera had power. Did that mean it wasn’t working?

  Deciding to take a chance, he shifted his weight to see if he could lean far enough over his hands to reach the lock pick in his jacket. That didn’t work, so he tried to use his arm to push his jacket closer to his mouth. If he could get his mouth close enough to the pocket, he might be able to grab the lock pick between his lips.

  After several failures, he almost had it when footsteps sounded in the hall. Just as he straightened, the door flew open, and an older man wearing a general’s uniform entered the room. This had to be Zarco. He was average height and older than Ramos had imagined, but he stood tall with authority. Zarco took one look at Ramos and jerked to a stop. His eyes widened with surprise and a touch of fear. “You? It’s not possible.”

  A guard had followed him into the room, but Zarco turned toward the guard and told him to get out and close the door. The guard hesitated, but did as he was commanded, shutting the door and sending the lock home.

  It wasn’t much, but it had given Zarco enough time to compose himself, and his gaze held more reserve than before. He stepped to the chair across from Ramos and sat down, studying Ramos carefully before shaking his head.

  “You look just like him,” he began. “But I know it can’t be true because Rafael is dead. I made sure of that.”

  Ramos’s breath caught with surprise. This was the man who had killed his father? He’d thought it was Vincente. Of course, Zarco could have ordered Rafael’s death, and Vincente could have been the one who’d killed him.

  Ramos did his best to hold his emotions in check, not wanting this man to know how his confession affected him. He also knew that Zarco was probably baiting him with his boast, and Ramos wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Then Ramos decided a different course of action was warranted. He narrowed his gaze and shook his head. “I always suspected it was you.” He paused, wanting to throw him off. “Does your government know you’re plotting with the Russians?” Zarco’s gaze flicked with unease, giving Ramos a small hope, that if he was acting alone, Ramos could use this against him.

  “Rafael was a traitor,” Zarco said, changing the subject. “He had no honor. Who are you to him?”

  Ramos wasn’t about to answer that question. “A terrorist attack against the United States is an act of war. Is that what you want?”

  “We have done no such thing.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and the general let out a sigh before standing. At the door, the guard spoke quietly to him. Zarco cursed and glanced at Ramos before rushing to the table. This time he loomed over Ramos with fire in his eyes.

  “Where is it? What have you done with it?”

  Ramos kept his mouth shut, but didn’t lower his gaze. He stared Zarco down while Zarco ope
ned and closed his mouth. Then, slapping his hands against the table, Zarco roared in rage that Ramos was an idiot, calling him names and venting his anger.

  Finally out of breath, he stopped shouting, and inhaled several times to pull himself together. “You won’t talk now. But you will soon enough. You are not the first American spy we have captured. With the right motivation, you will give up your secrets just like all the rest.” Zarco straightened and leveled an intimidating stare at Ramos.

  It had just the opposite effect. Ramos let out a chuckle and shook his head. “That’s the irony of this whole thing. I’m not a spy.”

  Zarco sneered. “Then it won’t matter if I kill you.” He left the room, shutting the door loudly behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Ramos didn’t have long to wait before the guards returned, along with the old man and his club. They cuffed his hands behind him and led him down another corridor, then into the dark recesses of the building. The dirty gray walls smelled of mold and sweat. Every so often, Ramos could hear the sounds of inmates talking, but even that soon disappeared.

  They passed through another gated security checkpoint, and Ramos despaired of ever getting out of there. This corridor continued further into the bowels of the building. With the fluorescent lights blinking in and out, the smells got worse, and there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere.

  As they walked, their footfalls echoed down the corridor, and it seemed to Ramos that his life was getting snuffed out one step at a time. He’d be left to rot in this hellhole, and no one would ever know what had happened to him.

  Was this what had happened to his father? He should have listened to his Aunt Rosalyn, and Vincente’s wife. Why had he ever come? Because of Sloan. He had lowered his guard and come to care for her. Never again. If he ever got out of this, he swore that the only people he would allow to get close to him was the family he already had with Manetto, Shelby, and only those he trusted.

  At last, the guards stopped in front of a door at the end of the long hall. Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, the guard unlocked the door and turned on the inside light. The musty odor of blood and decay filled Ramos’s nostrils, sending a shiver of dread down his spine.

  A long table rested at the back wall of the room, with several instruments of torture lying on top of it. One side of the room held a single chair with opened locks on the arms and legs. On the other side, chains with cuffs on the ends hung from the ceiling.

  The guards roughly propelled Ramos toward the chair, and panic clawed into his chest. Without thought for the consequences, he struggled against them, but the old man following raised his club.

  A sharp pain exploded across the back of Ramos’s head, and he slumped, dazed from the blow. The guards thrust him into the chair, unbound his cuffs, and quickly snapped the locks around his wrists and ankles. After checking his locks one more time, they left the room.

  Pain radiated down Ramos’s neck, and he took deep breaths to keep from throwing up. Several minutes later, the pain began to lessen, and the nausea passed. He closed his eyes and tried to come up with a plan to get out of there.

  If they thought he was a spy, there might be a chance they’d let him live. Too bad he’d said he wasn’t. He hadn’t seen Sloan on the street, but there was a possibility she’d seen them haul him out. Would she try to get him out of there?

  He huffed out a breath. Probably not, since she went against the agency to have his help in the first place. Unless she tried something on her own, he couldn’t expect help from her or the agency she worked for.

  Was there anyone else who would help him? No. Not a single person. And, by using his father’s name, he may have just put his aunt and cousin in jeopardy. So what should he do? There was still the angle that Zarco was working without the Cuban government’s knowledge. Maybe he could use that and see where it got him.

  The door rattled, and Zarco stepped inside. He came in alone and quickly closed the door behind him. He glanced dispassionately at Ramos, then stepped behind him to the table with the instruments. Hearing the sounds of Zarco sorting through the tools sent cold fear into Ramos’s chest.

  “As you know, one of my sonic weapons is missing. I know you were working with someone. I want to know who it is, and where I can find them.”

  Zarco stepped in front of Ramos and dispassionately unbuttoned Ramos’s shirt, pulling it out of the way to expose his bare chest. Standing this close, Zarco reeked of tobacco. With his lips tightly pressed together, Zarco inhaled through his nostrils. His breath whistled in and out of his nose like a bull getting ready to charge.

  Then he was done, and he moved back to the table, giving Ramos a moment to catch his breath. A sudden urge to pull at the manacles came over him, but he resisted the inclination and concentrated on breathing deeply to stay calm.

  He heard the flip of a switch, and a low, humming sound echoed through the room. His stomach clenched, and the muscles in his shoulders and neck tightened. A moment later, Zarco stepped into Ramos’s view, wearing rubber gloves, and holding an electrical device in each hand.

  He stood in front of Ramos. “Ready to talk?” He waited for Ramos to speak but, when he didn’t, Zarco shook his head. “I’ve heard this is quite painful. I usually start at a low voltage and work my way up, but for you I’m afraid I don’t have time for that. Are you sure you have nothing to say?”

  Ramos swallowed but kept his mouth shut.

  “Try not to bite off your tongue.” Zarco lowered the buzzing cables slowly toward Ramos’s chest. Anticipation glowed in his eyes, and Ramos braced himself.

  Suddenly, the door burst open. Zarco spun toward the intruder with a growl. Ramos’s eyes widened with surprise to find Vincente Garcia standing in the doorway.

  “General. Excuse the intrusion, but I must speak with you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “Perhaps.” Vincente stepped inside and closed the door. “Who is this?”

  Zarco sighed, then took a step back and shook his head. “He said his name is Rafael Ramirez, but we both know that isn’t true.”

  “Sí, we do. What has this man done? Perhaps I can help?”

  Surprise rippled through Ramos. Why was Vincente putting on an act?

  “This is military business,” Zarco said, puffing up his chest with authority. “It doesn’t concern you.”

  Vincente nodded. “I see. Forgive me. The truth is…when I heard you had arrested a man with the name of Rafael Ramirez...well, I was curious.”

  Zarco relaxed his stance and gave Vincente a nod. “Yes. Of course.”

  “And I wanted to see him.” Vincente stepped closer to examine Ramos. “There is a resemblance, isn’t there?” Zarco nodded, and Vincente continued. “I also heard that he was caught in the defense ministry building. Why would he go there?”

  Zarco glanced at Vincente with narrowed eyes. “He managed to get inside an off-limits storage room, and he took something that he shouldn’t have. He didn’t have the item with him, so I know he was working with someone else. I’m trying to persuade him to tell me everything he knows about it.”

  “Do you think he’s an American spy?” Vincente asked, arching his brow.

  “Yes,” Zarco answered, then seemed to realize he had spoken too quickly. “We are wasting time. I need to find out where the item is.”

  Ramos had heard enough. “It’s a sonic weapon that he’s using against the American diplomats. The one everyone’s talking about.”

  Zarco sucked in a breath. “Shut up!” He slapped the cables onto Ramos’s bare chest and pushed the buttons. Pain shot across his body, and he stifled a scream. His back arched upward from the shock, and his muscles clenched. The jolt stopped his breath, rippling through his body in horrific waves of agony. Just as he thought his heart would give out, the excruciating torment stopped, and he fell back against the chair.

  Heaving in labored breaths, Ramos opened his eyes to find Zarco knocked to the ground, with Vincente standing over him. Vincent
e grabbed the dangling cables, shoved them down onto Zarco’s chest, and pushed the buttons. Zarco’s scream pierced the air, and his body jerked with spasms.

  Ramos swallowed down his nausea, and tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Vincente held the cables down on Zarco’s chest for what seemed like hours. He didn’t let up until Zarco’s screaming stopped, and his eyes had rolled back into his head.

  Finally, Vincente pulled the cables away and sat back on his heels. Breathing heavily, he got to his feet and replaced the cables on the table where they belonged. Then he knelt down on one knee and felt Zarco’s neck for a pulse.

  “He’s dead.” Vincente glanced at Ramos, then let out a breath and stood. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his sweating face. Replacing the handkerchief, he moved to the table and found the keys to Ramos’s manacles. At Ramos’s side, he swiftly unlocked the manacles at his wrists and ankles.

  Ramos rubbed his wrists, relieved, but swimming in confusion. “Why did you do that?”

  Vincente shook his head, and a grimace of disgust twisted his lips. “I will explain. But first, I need to get you out of here so that I can take care of this mess.” He motioned to the dead general. “I think I can do it, but I need you to tell me exactly what happened and what you found.”

  Ramos told him about the sonic devices, how many there were, and what they looked like. “The American agents managed to take one. As far as I know, they still have it.”

  Vincente sucked in a breath, then glanced at Ramos. “And they left you behind? Are they coming back for you?”

  Ramos’s lips turned up in a sardonic twist. “I doubt it. Conveniently for them, I’m not part of their group. It’s a long story, but I’m not a spy. I work for a mob-boss, so I’ve crossed paths with them a few times.”