From across the compound, Marcella screamed.
Egan dropped the hammer and ran to the gate.
In her hand, Marcella held Hernando’s necklace. She stared at the dangling crucifix.
Marcella looked at Egan. “They have him,” she cried.
Egan took the necklace from her hand, concentrated, saw the meat-processing facility, the freezer. Marcella watched his hand glow. The crucifix reflected the unnatural energy, glimmered rose-red. Unaware of the extent of his strange and miraculous powers, she asked, “What do you see?”
“He’s hurt.”
“Oh, God.”
“There are many people around him,” Egan said. “It appears to be a manufacturing facility of some kind. Does that mean anything to you?”
“It could be Le Carvery.”
“What’s that?”
“One of Diego Mendoza’s businesses. It supplies meat to most of the food stores and restaurants in the country.”
“How far is it from here?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
Egan handed her the necklace. He looked down the road. They were not being watched. He turned to Marcella. “Get the children ready to leave.”
“Why?”
“They’re what Mendoza really wants,” Egan said. “Them, and the orphanage. He doesn’t care about Hernando.”
Marcella covered her mouth in horror. The words came hard. “He’s going to kill him, isn’t he?” she asked.
“I won’t give him that chance,” Egan replied.
“What are you going to do?”
“Find Diego.”
“And then?”
“Give him the proper incentive to release Hernando.”
“You won’t get close to him,” Marcella warned. “He has an army of men to protect him.”
“He’ll need one,” Egan said. “How soon can you have the kids ready to go?”
“Half an hour,” Marcella said.
“Good,” Egan said. “I’ll need wheels.”
“Take mine,” Marcella said. She pointed to a Hyundai Accent parked outside the entrance to the office. “It’s not much to look at but it runs.”
“Works for me,” Egan replied. “Where do I find Le Carvery?”
Marcella handed him her keys. “My car has a GPS,” she said. “I’ll enter the address. Follow the route. It’ll take you there.”
Egan nodded. “Thanks.”
Marcella took his hand. “Before you leave, there’s something I need to ask you, Ben.”
Egan paused, waited for the question.
“Why are you doing this?” Marcella asked. “You don’t know us. You have no cause in this fight. You could just turn and walk away. No one would blame you if you did. Yet here you are.”
“I have a very low tolerance for men like Diego Mendoza who prey on the weak,” Egan replied. “I can’t stand by and watch this happen. It’s not in my nature. Besides, these children need you and Hernando. I won’t let him destroy their future or yours.”
Marcella smiled. “First you save Teresa’s life, now we might owe you ours,” she said.
Egan patted her hand. “I know I’m asking you to put a lot of trust in me, Marcella. Believe me when I say everything will be all right. But there’s something you need to prepare yourself for.”
“What’s that?”
“Things are going to get worse before they get better. Maybe a lot worse.”
“I figured as much,” Marcella said.
“You mentioned there was a church that was willing to take the children,” Egan said.
“Yes,” Marcella replied. “In San Jose. St. Jude’s.”
“Take the van and get the children as far away from here as you can,” Egan said. “Go to the church. I’ll get word to you when this is over. You and the children can return then, but not before.”
“I’m scared, Ben,” Marcella said. “What if something happens to you and Hernando?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” Egan answered.
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You just take care of the children,” Egan insisted. “Leave the rest to me.”
CHAPTER 15
FOUR HOURS AFTER LEAVING Arlington the DARPA pilot made an announcement. “We’re entering Costa Rican airspace, Colonel,” he said. “Five minutes to exit point.”
“Copy that,” Hallier replied. To his men he said, “Gear up. Check your three’s.”
The soldiers donned their parachutes and jumpsuits, checked their harness attachments and operational handle positions. Secure.
Hallier handed Jordan and Chris their jumpsuits and parachutes.
Jordan slipped into the garment and put on the chute.
Chris held the items in his hand. “What exactly am I supposed to do with these?” he asked.
“I’d suggest you put them on,” Jordan replied.
“No one said anything about jumping out of an airplane!” Chris exclaimed.
“Life is full of surprises.”
“I’ve never parachuted in my life,” Chris said. “Shouldn’t we have taken lessons first?”
“What’s to learn?” Jordan replied. “You jump, wait a few seconds, hit minimum altitude, then float to the ground.”
Chris stared at her. “Minimum altitude?” he said. “I’d prefer maximum altitude. Actually, I’d prefer no altitude at all!”
“Don’t be a baby,” Jordan replied.
“What if my chute doesn’t open?” Chris asked.
“Don’t worry, it will,” Jordan said. “It has a fail-safe device that will ensure it opens.”
“But what if it doesn’t?”
Jordan smiled. “Then I’ll be sure to feed J. Edgar.”
“Nice of you to bring my goldfish into it,” Chris replied.
“Really, Chris,” Jordan said. “Parachuting is no big deal.”
“Let me guess. You’ve done this before?”
“Many times.”
“Is there a trick to it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now would be a good time to share.”
Jordan smiled. “Don’t look down.”
“Excuse me?” Chris said. He reluctantly slipped into the jumpsuit, donned the parachute.
Jordan adjusted his harness and handles. “There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” she said. “When you reach altitude, your chute will automatically deploy.”
“I have a better idea,” Chris offered. “What do you say we put this baby on the ground, with me in it, all safe and sound. I’ll grab a bus and catch up with you later.”
Jordan motioned to the armed DARPA commandos standing in line, waiting for the Hercules’ rear cargo door to open. “The Costa Rican government prefers visitors not bring fully automatic weapons and other restricted ordinance onto their buses. It tends to make people nervous,” she said.
“To be fair,” Chris said, “they also don’t expect visitors to enter their country by jumping out of an airplane.”
“This is an off-the-books operation, remember?” Jordan replied.
“The least they could do is have a free rum punch waiting for us when we land,” Chris said.
“One minute to DZ,” the pilot announced. The rear door of the cargo plane began to open.
“Put these on,” Jordan said. She handed Chris a pair of goggles. “And keep your mouth closed. Breathe through your nose.”
“Of course,” Chris replied. “Because when I’m falling through the air at a million miles an hour my only concern will be the wind ripping my face off.”
“Actually, we probably won’t be falling any faster than one-hundred-and-thirty miles per hour.”
“One-hundred-and-thirty,” Chris repeated. “How comforting.”
“Remember,” Jordan said. “Close your mouth. I’d hate to see you ruin that perfect smile of yours.”
The pilot spoke. “Thirty seconds to drop zone.”
The cargo door locked open. The outside wind rushed into the aircraft.
The soldiers readied themselves for the jump. Jordan and Chris took their place at the back of the cue.
“We’ll jump together,” Jordan said. “Keep your eyes on me.” The agents shuffle-stepped to the rear of the plane. “Do what I do and you’ll be fine.”
“And if I don’t?” Chris replied.
“I have a dog,” Jordan said. “I really don’t need a goldfish too.”
“Very funny.”
“Ten seconds,” the pilot announced.
Jordan provided last-minute instructions. “When you jump, dive headlong out of the plane. When you do, you’re probably going to feel a bump.”
“A bump?” Chris asked.
“A severe upward push of air caused by turbulence from the planes backwash.”
“I have absolutely no clue what you just said. I’m still processing bump.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jordan said. “Just hope you don’t hit an air pocket. If you do, you’ll lose altitude in seconds and drop like a rock.”
“That’s it,” Chris said. “I am not doing this.”
“Ready?” Jordan asked.
Chris yelled above the wind. “Hell, no!”
“Five… four…”
“On my mark,” Jordan said.
“Three… two…”
“Mark? Chris yelled. “What mark?”
“Go! Go! Go!” the pilot called out.
Jordan grabbed Chris by his harness and threw herself, and him, out of the Hercules. Together they fell through the sky... down… down… down.
Jordan watched as Chris’ parachute deployed and carried the agent back up into the air. Slowly, he began to descend. Jordan maneuvered her parachute steering lines and floated towards Chris. Chris watched, followed her directions. As they approached the ground, Jordan pulled down hard on her steering lines, as did Chris, and braked her landing. The agents touched down featherlight onto the ground. Around them, already landed, the team of DARPA commandos were busy storing their chutes.
Jordan walked over to Chris. “You okay?” she asked.
Chris’ face was white. He raised his hand. “Never ask me to do that again,” he replied.
Jordan smiled. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.”
Chris shook his head disapprovingly. “Not for you, maybe. Personally, I think I peed a little.”
Hallier walked across the drop zone, joined the agents. “Nice jump,” he said. “You both looked pretty comfortable up there.”
“Piece of cake, Colonel,” Chris replied nonchalantly. He gave Hallier the thumbs up. “We should do it again sometime.”
Jordan shot him a furtive glance. Chris winked.
A large panel truck rolled up to the edge of the drop zone and flashed its lights. Hallier waved.
Jordan pointed to the truck. “Looks like our ride is here,” she said.
In the sky above, the drone of the Hercules’ engines faded as it continued onward toward its final destination.
On the ground, the search for Ben Egan had begun.
CHAPTER 16
HERNANDO TRACED THE FROST-COVERED walk-in freezer walls with his fingertips, searched for the light switch located beside the door, found it, flipped it on. Overhead, the lighting fixture flickered, flashed to life, and bathed the room in harsh white light. Dozens of boxes of processed meat products surrounded him, stacked high on wooden pallets, ready for shipment to El Carvery’s customers. He located the cold rooms emergency door release, installed to provide a means of escape should the door accidentally close and lock behind an inattentive worker, pushed hard against the plunger knob, then tried to turn the lever. The device wouldn’t budge. On closer inspection Hernando saw that the mechanism had been tampered with, rendering it useless. He was trapped in the bitter cold room. Red numbers glared at him from an LED display integrated into the wall beside the door handle: -40 degrees. Though he had been in the freezer for less than ten minutes, he knew his chances for survival under such conditions was slim. In the sub-zero temperature his body was already losing heat at an alarming rate. Hernando rubbed his arms and legs vigorously, trying to promote the circulation of blood within his limbs and keep himself warm. It wouldn’t be long before hypothermia would set in, followed by the functional breakdown of his brain, heart and internal organs. Already his skin had begun to tighten. He had lost sensation in his fingertips, ears and toes. He was having difficulty breathing now, and the numbness and tingling he was experiencing throughout the rest of his body, coupled with an odd burning sensation, warned that death from continued exposure to the extreme cold was imminent. His clothing –jeans, a light jacket, cotton golf shirt, socks and running shoes- though appropriate for the tropical Costa Rican climate, offered no protection against the arctic cold temperature of the freezer.
Hernando kicked at the heavy freezer door. Strangely, he could not feel the impact. His foot was numb. He swung the useless extremity at the door a second time… thump… then a third. Exhausted after the weak attempt to be heard, he leaned against a pallet of boxed, frozen meat. His mind began to wander to Marcella and the children. He worried about their safety. Had Diego Mendoza already sent his men to take over the orphanage in his absence? Had they already put the children to work packaging his drugs? He couldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let that happen.
Hernando summoned what strength remained in his shaking, cold-beaten body and screamed as loud and long as he could.
A moment of silence followed, then the sound of movement outside the freezer door.
Whoosh.
Hernando felt the incoming rush of warm air as the door opened. Diego Mendoza stood in the doorway. The drug lord addressed him. “Have you come to your senses, Mr. Diaz?” he said.
Hernando simply stared at his captor. He shook uncontrollably. He tried to reply but the words wouldn’t come, his ability to speak rendered impossible from prolonged exposure to the bitter cold of the freezer.
Mendoza instructed his men. “Take him to the storeroom. Give him a blanket and a cup of hot coffee. When he has warmed up enough to talk, call me. And don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Yes, sir,” the men replied.
Hernando had lost all sensation in his legs and feet. He struggled to stand as the men extricated him from the freezer. Walking had become impossible. He fell into their arms.
In the storeroom, wrapped in a heavy shipping blanket, Hernando tried to raise the cup of steaming hot coffee to his lips but couldn’t. His hands were shaking so violently that he dropped the mug. It shattered on the concrete floor. His only option was to wait until the heat returned to his body.
“Hurry and heat up, old man,” one enforcer said as he picked up the broken pieces of the coffee mug off the floor. “Mr. Mendoza won’t wait forever.”
Hernando struggled to reply. “He’ll… w-wait… f-for me.”
The men laughed. “You think so?”
Hernando’s head quivered as he nodded. He forced a smile. “Know… s-so.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself,” one of the thugs answered.
“I am,” Hernando said. He massaged his arms and legs. He could feel the heat returning to his body.
One of the enforcers took Hernando by the arm, helped him up from the chair. “Get up,” he said. “You’re fine now.”
“Still c-cold,” Hernando replied. He fell back into the chair.
“You’ll survive,” the man said.
Hernando spied a heavy parka used by Le Carvery’s freezer workers hanging from a hook on the wall of the storeroom. He pointed to it. “P-please,” he said.
“You want the coat?” the man asked.
Hernando nodded. “W-warmer,” he said.
The thug checked with his partner and shrugged. “What could it hurt?” he asked.
The enforcer agreed, nodded. “Give him the damn coat.”
Hernando dropped the shipping blanket to the floor and slipped into the heavy jacket. He shivered. “B-better,” he said. “Thank you.”
; “Whatever gets your ass out of here the fastest,” the enforcer replied.
Hernando shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of the jacket, pulled it tight around him, felt an object in the right pocket, and immediately recognized it by its shape and feel. His stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to do.
The pot of coffee sat on the burner in the storeroom. Hernando pointed to it. “Can I h-have another c-cup?” he asked.
“You gonna drop this one too?” the enforcer asked.
“No,” Hernando answered. “Please?”
The man looked at his partner. “This is like taking care of a fucking child,” he complained. To Hernando he said, “All right. Have your coffee. Then we see the boss. And you better be ready to tell him exactly what he wants to hear.”
Hernando nodded.
The enforcer turned to pour the coffee.
In an instant, Hernando pulled the box cutter out of the pocket of the parka, opened the blade and struck out. He grabbed the enforcer from behind, pulled his head back and slit his throat. Dumbfounded at the speed of Hernando’s instantaneous attack, the man’s partner attempted to draw his gun from his waistband. Too late, Hernando slashed the thug’s face with the blade. The man dropped the weapon as he tried to stop the flow of blood pouring from the laceration. Hernando picked up the gun, forced the man back against the storeroom wall, drove the barrel deep into his belly, then fired twice. The dense material of the heavy winter parka muffled the sound of the gunshots. Hernando watched the dead man’s hand fall away from his face as he lowered the body to the floor.
It was over.
Hernando removed the heavy parka, tossed it on the chair, and slipped the box cutter into his pocket. He shoved the gun into his waistband and covered it with his shirt.
Slowly, he cracked open the door to the storeroom and peered outside. All quiet. No one had heard the shots. He could hear no voices in the vicinity.
Hernando stepped out of the room, closed the door behind him, walked to the corner and inspected the area. The storeroom was located in a dark and quiet section of the warehouse, far away from the factory workers and the meat production floor. He wondered how many others before him had been held in that room and tortured or killed at Diego Mendoza’s command.
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