"Please stop calling him that. Please come back to bed."
"No!"
With that, he turned and stamped out of our room, slamming the door behind him.
It was no use. I had said Mark's name. I had been thinking about Mark.
What kind of wife was I turning out to be, forsaking my husband for--for my other husband?
It was all too much. I cried myself to sleep that night. Tears for James, tears for Mark, tears for Lisa, and tears for Gladys.
And tears for the sad girl on the pony.
Now I knew who she was.
She was me.
20
Ignacio Velasquez was a fearsome mortal who settled all disputes with a MAC 10. That gun in the hands of that man was madness, but nobody objected in all of Mexico because all of Mexico was terrified of him. But with his own people, he was kind. He called the girl Pollo Loco because she let his prize chickens flee into the jungle. When he came home that day and saw what she had done, he gathered her up in his arms and took her inside the house. He set her down at the kitchen table and ordered the women to feed her anything but chicken. She no longer got to eat chicken. Which suited the girl just fine. She'd seen a chicken killed for food before and she'd sworn she'd never eat another one. And she knew Iggy was right about her: she had purposely let those chickens escape. She loved the chickens, and hated Velasquez no matter how nice to her he was. She hated him because he wouldn't take her to Mommy when she was little and after. All of those years, all of that hatred. It had added up, and now Velasquez was ready to sell the girl to Sheik Omar Ilbrayami and be done with her.
Velasquez traveled with the girl to Riyadh in Saudi Arabia. As his 757 circled the high plateau upon which Riyadh was set, he wished for her sake the girl would open up to her new owner and be what she had been raised to be.
The Sheik put them up in his palatial home and viewed the girl that first evening.
"She is a virgin?" he asked Velasquez from across the dining table.
"Oh, yes. You may have your doctor examine her."
The girl stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth when she heard this. "No one will examine me," she hissed at Velasquez. "I am not some prop for sale."
Her English was good, her metaphor adept. She had been trained in Spanish and English and Arabian for this exact moment. But what her captor hadn't been able to do was break her spirit. His guest had a terrible way of refusing whatever request he made of her and of even going out of her way to thwart him. One time she had taken the .30-06 rifle, she was learning to shoot and suddenly turned around with it pointed at Velasquez's mid-section. The gun was loaded, and she had a look of determination fixed on her face. He spoke to her gently and slowly, at the same time ordering her to put down the gun. She looked around. Her captor's own bodyguards were pointing automatic weapons at her. With a small smile and a nod, the girl turned around and centered five of her next six shots. Then Velasquez came up behind her and said, "Very good for a dead girl." She had looked confused. He continued, "Had you raised that muzzle even one more inch you would now be dead, and we would be burning your body with fuel oil." At that moment she first realized how uneven the odds were of her ever escaping. He owned her, literally.
"I am not some prop for sale by you," the girl repeated to Velasquez at the sheik's table. Velasquez's eyes narrowed. He made no reply, keeping his eyes on his host, Sheik Ilbrayami. He was acting as if she hadn't spoken a word. And it was true, she hadn't, not where the two men were concerned. She was a plaything, and they would do with her as they pleased now and forever.
The sheik clapped his hands three times, and his secretary appeared. "Call for the doctor," he told the man. "We have a girl for him to see."
The secretary bowed low and left the dining room.
"What is her name?"
"We call her Pollo Loco. It's a pet name," Velasquez said with a laugh.
The sheik got up from the table and came around and stood behind the girl.
"Remove your blouse," he told the girl. "Let me see what I'm bidding on."
"Do it," Velasquez ordered. "Let our guest see half of the surprise you are."
The girl continued eating the vegetarian meal she had requested.
"Please," said the sheik, dropping one hand onto her shoulder.
Without warning the girl suddenly sprung from her chair, swirled around to face the host, and pointed the blade of her table knife at his heart. "You'll never sleep again if you bring me here," she hissed. "Don't close your eyes with me in your home, Mr. Ilbrayami. It won't be safe!"
The Sheik took a step backward. "Out! Out of my house!" The battle was over, at that moment. He had cowered, and she had overcome the two men in an instant.
Velasquez couldn't apologize enough.
"Take her from my home!" the host cried. "This instant!"
The girl smiled. "Here's a man who wants to wake up tomorrow. A smart man."
Velasquez raised his hand at the girl but then stopped. If she were marked or her delicate, thin nose broken it would reduce her value by ninety percent. While he was an angry man, he was also a smarter one, and he lowered his hand.
"We will talk later," he said to her under his breath. "Mr. Ilbrayami," Velasquez said, "I have others. This one is only one of many. This one I have been saving for you and she has never been used."
The sheik waved off Velasquez.
"Take her away. Send me pictures. Go, now!"
Velasquez gathered up his bodyguards and the girl, and they left the sheik's country estate.
Rumbling back into Riyadh in the Land Rover, Velasquez watched the girl beside him in the back seat.
"Tonight I make you mine."
"You don't dare," she said. "It will be a million-dollar orgasm, and you can't afford that. Not even you."
He smiled wanly at her.
"Who said anything about an orgasm, child? And who said anything about how I will break you. There are many entrances into your soul that you don't even know yet."
She smiled in the dark, and he saw in the light of the dashboard the glint in her eye.
"Who said you would be the first? You would have been very disappointed tonight at the doctor's report."
With that, she burst out laughing and slammed her elbow into Velasquez' chest. He caught her arm and squeezed.
"Then taking you by force costs me nothing. Thank you for the invitation."
He threw her arm forward and pushed her hard on the back. She flew into the side of her door and slumped crazily in her seat.
Was she marked and ruined?
For the first time in her short life, the Mexican no longer cared.
She was no longer for sale.
21
Mark moved into a long-term Exec-U-Stay, and together we located the Colonel. It turned out he had moved from Chicago to warmer parts and settled in Scottsdale, where his daughter was living. Mark called him and introduced himself. I could tell from the phone call that as soon as Mark told the Colonel that he was Army, they were old friends. Could we come and meet with him? Tomorrow would be perfect, said the Colonel. Just call when you touch down.
So we did. On the flight to Sky Harbor in Phoenix, Mark and I had seats six rows apart. He hadn't thought it a good idea for us to be sitting that close together for three hours. I had to hand it to him, he was making every effort to keep his distance from me. And I was distancing myself from him, too. After that last night with James when I stupidly muttered Mark's name, I had become resolute that there would be no more slip-ups like that again. My husband and daughter meant too much to me to jeopardize even in unintended ways. So I read my Kindle on the flight, keeping myself busy and away from nagging thoughts of first James and then Mark and how it would be with them when the search for Lisa was all over. I was sick of the same thing playing over and over in my head. It was then I realized just how much I was missing Lisa. The two men were secondary to her and my need to have her back home. I vowed from then on to keep my focus on t
he Lisa plan and to give up the nonsense about Mark and James. I was married to James, and that was the end of that. Mark was going to bring Lisa home, and that was that.
We landed and drove into Scottsdale along Scottsdale Road. How the city had changed since five years ago when I came here to set up an interview with Charles Barkley. It was much larger, the traffic heavier, and many of the old-West indigenous stores were gone, replaced by expensive chain stores and high-end shops.
The Colonel's house was actually a condo that overlooked a man-made lake. It was on the second floor. Neither Mark nor I said a word as we made our way from the parking lot into the elevator and then upstairs. My guess was that he was going to spend the rest of our mission avoiding being alone with me and avoiding all small talk. Which was all right with me.
It was the Colonel himself who answered the door and took us inside. Refreshments followed--sun tea brewed in a gallon jug on his porch in the bright, hot Arizona sun. He was a widower and lived alone. He said he served on the Scottsdale Rodeo Committee and that kept him busy. With a wink at Mark, he added it also kept him in the company of a flock of beautiful women. I ignored this part. I was anxious to get down to our mission.
When we were gathered around the table, the Colonel asked what kind of mission we had in mind.
"We believe our daughter is being held in Tijuana by the cartel."
"Hmm. That's Ignacio Velasquez country. Very dangerous place. What are you planning?"
"We are going to locate his home and overwhelm him with armed gunmen we bring in by helicopter."
"Who are these men?"
"I've been contacting some old friends from my Afghanistan unit. Many of them are retired or moved on. But all of them volunteered to go in with me."
The Colonel turned to me. "What about you, young lady? What is your role?"
"I'll be going through the front door. I'm the only one with a fairly good chance of identifying Lisa."
"How old was she when taken?"
"Four, going on five."
"So your task is to visualize how she has changed over the past dozen years and be sure you kidnap the right person?"
"I wouldn't say 'kidnap.' More like recovery."
"Recovery, that fits better. All right, these men live in armed camps. They are surrounded by dozens and dozens of armed guards. How does your small force deal with all those men?"
"Well," said Mark, "that's where you come in, Colonel. I am projecting those armed forces will be living apart from the Velasquez finca. We will identify that location, and you will infiltrate and blow them all to hell. Weren't you with the Corps of Engineers?"
"I was. And I know explosives forward and backward thanks to one of my Army schools and much experience. We blasted out the airfield at Bagram Air Base, for example."
"I flew in and out of Bagram."
"Everybody does."
"So, Colonel, let me ask the sixty-four-dollar question. Are you in or out?"
He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. He sat in that position, rocking up and back for a long minute. Finally, he returned to our meeting and said, "In. But we take out the exterior troops as I say."
"Done!" cried Mark.
"Great and thank you," I said, leaning over and kissing his cheek. "God bless you, Colonel."
"It's a mission I believe in. I was horrified by the kidnapping years ago in Chicago when we went looking for your daughter. It has plagued me ever since, to be real honest. Just the thought of the little blond-headed girl in the clutches of those bastards--excuse me, Mrs. Sellars."
I smiled. "Just wait until you hear me talk about these sons-of-bitches when I get wound up, Colonel."
"Good, good. So. When do we leave?"
"We're going to assemble everyone in San Ysidro, California, just north of the border with Tijuana. From there we'll begin our intelligence gathering."
"What sort of air surveillance do you have?"
"Not much. Probably a light plane."
The Colonel waved Mark off. "That won't do. Let me make some calls. I'll put together a set of satellite views of Velasquez's compound. I know the Army and Border Patrol have computer hard drives filled with the stuff. But first we need to locate his finca. How does that happen?"
"We're going to need to go into Tijuana and ask the right people the right questions. I'll be posing as a drug dealer from Los Angeles. Melissa will accompany me, so we look like tourists."
"I've never heard of tourism in Tijuana. Isn't that an oxymoron?" the wizened old man said.
"It is. But actually, Tijuana is becoming more and more a bedroom community for San Diego. Property prices have soared in San Diego, yet there are hundreds of thousands of people working there who need good, affordable housing. Tijuana has seen a housing boom the last five years. In the mornings at the borders inbound to the U.S., the wait is three hours long. It's grown into a huge mess that no one on our side is doing anything about."
"That all makes sense," the Colonel replied. He turned to me. "What about you, Melissa? How do you feel about going undercover in Tijuana with your husband?"
Mark and I traded a look. "Actually we're no longer husband and wife."
"Oh. Sorry."
"No, I was reported KIA and Melissa remarried. Can't blame her one bit. It's lonely raising a kid by yourself, and the child misses out by not having a father, too. We're getting it worked out."
"Of course you'll be holed up in Tijuana in a hotel room for part of the time you're there. But you're adults. I'm sure you'll handle it, Chief. The Army always finds a way."
"Hoorah, sir," said Mark. "Hoorah."
We talked on then, late into the night, drawing up lists of weapons and military skills we were going to need. Through it all, I was nagged by the thought that Lisa might not even be there. After we'd spent a busload of money and risked a dozen lives, there was no guarantee that we would be any closer to Lisa than before. We finally settled on the alternative plan of grabbing anyone who looked gringo when we were leaving. Especially if they had indicated they wanted to come with us.
And there was another, even worse, path the op could take. The Colonel verbalized it, saying, "What if you go bursting in the front door, clear the house, and find your daughter dead of a gunshot wound. Would you go looking for Velasquez to take him out? Or would you just abandon the operation and exfiltrate?"
Mark took that one. "I, for one, will stay behind if necessary to find this rat bastard and kill him. I have a feeling I might do that in either case anyway, alive or dead."
"No," I said in a loud voice, "you won't be staying behind. Lisa and I are going to both need you more than ever once we're repatriated. That's final and non-negotiable, Mark."
He slowly looked over at me. There was a glint of anger in his eyes, but he let go of that and began nodding. "You're right. Revenge isn't the mission, Lisa is. I can get carried away."
"So here' s where we are, Chief," said the Colonel. "I've printed out our arms and ordnance and HE."
"HE?"
"High explosives," the Colonel said to me. "Most of this stuff can be purchased right here in Arizona with the right contractors' card and ID. I'll tell you what. The HE is on me. I'm buying, and I'll transport it to San Ysidro myself. We in agreement, all?"
"Sure," I said. "As long as I don't have to touch it, it's great."
"Appreciate it, Colonel," Mark said. "Will you be making up satchel charges?"
"That's exactly what I'll be doing."
"Well, Colonel, I'm going to take my ex-wife and head back to our hotel."
"Well, good night, you two. Thanks for letting me in on the action."
"Our thanks to you."
We called a taxi and headed for our hotel. Tomorrow we'd be renting two four-by-fours and heading for San Ysidro by way of San Diego. We undressed--I showered--and we fell into our separate queen beds in the same room. That's the last thing I knew until morning when Mark was shaking my shoulder.
"Melissa," h
e said, his face grim, "wake up! We've got serious problems."
"What is it?"
"It's Tijuana, all over the news. They've just found a dozen gringo school children murdered outside Tijuana. NBC and CNN are reporting it was the Tijuana Cartel."
I sat straight up in bed.
"How soon before we leave?"
"I'm loading out suitcases right now. We're going to fly instead of drive."
"Agreed."
The terror had seized me again as I went back over Mark's words. Then my thoughts were interrupted by the CNN reporters on the scene. It sounded gruesome. It looked like the last place on earth anyone should be.
The school children were mostly girls.
And mostly teenagers.
Just like my daughter.
22
Mark and I were waiting for our flight to be called when my phone chimed. I fished it out of my shirt pocket and checked the ID. It was Isaac, my sister's son, the one who'd been living with us the night Lisa disappeared. I pressed TALK.
"Aunt Melissa, Isaac. It's all over the news. Mom called me and told me where you are and what you're doing. I'm leaving Chicago in thirty minutes, and I'll arrive in San Diego in about four hours. I'm going into Mexico to the scene, and I'm going to learn what I can about the victims. You guys can come with me, just remember I speak Spanish fluently."
My heart was bursting with thanksgiving. "Oh, Isaac," I said, "it is so wonderful to hear your voice. Yes, we could really use your help now. Please come, give me your flight info, and we'll meet you. Your Uncle Mark is going to be so relieved you've jumped in to help. Text me the details."
"Will do."
We hung up, and I turned to Mark.
"You're not going to like this, but this is the way it's going to go in TJ. Isaac is on his way to help. He speaks the language like a native. He and I are going to the scene of the murders. You will remain on the U.S. side because I do not want you showing your face in Mexico and later being remembered by someone not as a drug dealer but as a concerned father. That wouldn't work and would probably get you killed."
The Empty Place at the Table Page 12
