Enemy in Blue: The Chase (Book #1) (The Cruz Marquez Thrillers)

by Derek Blass

“Where's Sandra?” Diego said. The pain Diego had failed to notice on Cruz's face became apparent. “What happened Cruz?” Cruz sat on a chair next to Diego, crossed his arms over his chest and bent at the waist.

  “Someone kidnapped her when we were at the hospital,” Cruz stammered.

  “What?!” Diego shrieked. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”

  “There's no point—he said that he was going to contact Martinez.”

  “What the hell does Sandra have to do with calling Martinez? Again let me ask you why we aren't doing something. No, no, no! I'm going to call the police and get them...” Cruz put his hand on Diego's shoulder as Diego went to pick up the phone.

  “Diego, the police want to kill Martinez. Police involvement is the last thing we need.”

  “Why didn't you do anything?!!” Diego yelled.

  “There was nothing to do!” Cruz yelled back. “The guy had Sandra at gunpoint and us by the balls. It's a fucking ransom situation and we've got to wait until they contact us.” As he said that, Cruz heard a phone ring in the guest bedroom. He bolted to the bedroom with Diego close behind him.

  When he got to the bedroom he asked Martinez, “Who is it?” Martinez rolled over and shook his head. “Who is it then?”

  “Doesn't matter to you,” Martinez snapped back.

  Both Cruz and Diego retreated from the room a bit miffed by Martinez's reaction. They went back and sat down in Diego's office. Cruz stared through a picture on Diego's desk as they both sat in silence.

  “You know what I don't quite get?” Cruz began.

  “What's that?”

  “How that guy knew we'd be there. I thought it was lucky enough that we were able to find Martinez—let alone for it to happen to another person.”

  “I don't think it's such a surprise. You think you want this video? Imagine what the people who will lose everything because of this video are willing to do to get it back.”

  “I think I know now,” Cruz said sullenly.

  “So...does Martinez have the video?” Diego asked. Cruz missed the slight flutter of excitement in Diego's voice.

  “He does.” Diego sat quietly rotating his thumbs around each other.

  Alfonso came in during this last exchange and jumped in, “Why don't we watch it then?” Diego was relieved that he hadn't had to display his overriding desire to see the video. It was so close to him—it was all he wanted.

  “I guess we can go ask Martinez,” Cruz said hesitantly. They all got up and went to Martinez's room again. Cruz knocked on the wall outside of the room.

  “What now?” Martinez grunted.

  “Wondering if we could see that video?” Cruz asked.

  “You know what's on it. Don't bother.”

  “We don't know what's on it—that's the point of all this,” Cruz said earnestly.

  “It's an execution, okay? Now you know,” Martinez responded. But the men didn't leave the room. He could feel them all staring into the back of his head. “Okay, you know what? Here, I'm going to give it to you,” Martinez said as he tossed a mini safe with the drive at them. Cruz stayed where he was but Diego and Alfonso jumped forward. They hit shoulders and Alfonso caught the mini safe. Cruz went up to him and took it away, looking at both of them quizzically.

  “Your eagerness is getting a bit disconcerting,” Cruz said looking at both of them. “Martinez, this is password protected.”

  “I know. Figure it out and it's all yours,” he answered.

  “That's ridiculous,” Diego said, “give us the password!”

  “Old man—you're probably the last person I'd give that to right now. Well, there are some exceptions to that but you get my drift. Much blood's been shed over that drive and I'm not about to cough it up to just anyone.”

  Cruz turned the mini safe around in his hands. “Who are you going to give it to then?” he asked.

  “Haven't figured that out yet. Listen guys, my leg is killing me and what I need is rest. Give me that mini safe back and I'll get my sleep,” Martinez said with his hand extended. Cruz walked over and handed it to Martinez.

  “Thank you, Cruz. While I rest let's all think of what the shit we're going to do when we get the call.” He seemed to be asleep when he said, “It shouldn't be long.”

  T W E N T Y-T H R E E

  __________________________________________________

  Sandra felt the car stop and the engine turn off. She was light headed, sweating through her clothes and prepared for that trunk to be her tomb. Footsteps headed her direction, scuttling through loose gravel. The trunk opened and cool, fresh air rushed into Sandra's lungs. She opened her eyes but was immediately blinded by a flashlight.

  “Come here darling,” Tyler said. Sandra was beyond resisting and hung limp while Tyler tied something around her eyes. He picked her up around her waist and pulled her out of the trunk. She felt Tyler throw her on his shoulder and slam the trunk lid shut. As he moved, she bounced on his shoulder. “My, my little one. You are quite the catch.” He walked with Sandra on his back for a good distance before stopping and ringing a door bell. She heard the door open.

  “Is it okay to come in?” Tyler asked.

  “Yes,” answered a relatively squeamish voice. Sandra felt Tyler take a few more steps and then she was set down, immobilized with her hands tied behind her back and feet bound. She felt a mix of terror and tears well up in her again as feet shuffled around her. She was powerless against the will of these men. The darkness was no friend and only magnified her terror. Instinctively, she curled into a ball in a hopeless attempt to stave off harm.

  “Who is this little gem?”

  “She was with Martinez and another man. Remember when I told you I saw two people leaving his home the other night?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was one of them.”

  “Hmmmm...let's see what you've got here,” the high-pitched voice man said as his hands thrust along the top and inside of her legs, rummaging with disregard in her pockets. She clammed up as much more as she could. His hand stopped in her jacket pocket and pulled its contents out. “Sandra Gutierrez...is that your name? 9 News credentials. A reporter, huh Sandy?” All of a sudden she felt tugging at the cloth covering her eyes and light flooded her vision. She could barely make out the man standing over her. He had a thick mustache on a small, round face. His glasses hung low on his nose.

  “You're snooping around in the wrong neighborhood today Sandy!! We're gonna kill youuuuuu!” Sandy was shut off in darkness again. “Load her back up, let's take her to the doctor.”

  * * * *

  It came upon him rather quickly—Shaver didn’t trust the feel of the doctor’s office. He took a good look around and noted that the room must be underground. The walls were smooth and appeared freshly painted. Some dark spots still managed to bleed through the new paint. Call it a cop's instincts, but it suddenly felt wrong. Where was the doc anyway?

  “What the fuck is this?” Shaver whispered to himself. He was still getting used to seeing the world with one eye. Not much changed, except that depth perception was off and he had to turn his head more. The eeriness of the room was something he really didn’t need sight to pick up on. He tried to roll over but a surge of pain halted him.

  There was nothing in the room except for the hospital-style bed and the support stand for his IV bag. An overhead light hummed relentlessly, flickered, and then went back to humming. Shaver pulled the stand over to him and tested its weight. Not too heavy to pick up. Shaver heard the whoosh of a door pulled open down the hall. Then the slow rattle of wheels on a cart being pushed. Whistling, step step, rattle, whistle. Shaver set his head down on his pillow and pretended to be asleep.

  “Sergeant?” the doctor asked as he came around the corner. Shaver didn’t answer. “Hmmm, fast asleep, you brute. Sleep like the cow you are.” Shaver heard the doctor rattle his cart over toward the bed and stop. “So many fun toys!” Objects clinked and clanked on the cart. Something wisped and then Shaver
heard two taps of fingernail on glass. He stirred and opened his eyes.

  “Well, well, Shaver! Thought you were fast asleep. Let’s see if we can’t take care of that.” The doctor raised a needle and went for Shaver’s arm. Shaver grabbed onto the stand he had pulled next to the bed and flung it at the doctor. The doctor dropped the needle and looked up stunned at Shaver. The drip line on the IV bag reached it maximum length and pulled out of Shaver’s arm.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Shaver screamed, but he reached out and just caught the end of the line. He pulled the stand back and grabbed it with both hands. The doctor, sensing what was about to happen, tried to move away but Shaver was already swinging the heavy metal stand. The circular base of the stand connected with the doctor’s temple and he dropped to the ground like a stone. He moaned on the ground, barely conscious.

  “Stop…sto…”

  “Fuck you, sicko. What the hell were you going to do to me?” Shaver leaned his weight onto the side of the bed and used the stand to leverage himself up. Nearly intolerable pain coursed through his body. He couldn’t put an ounce of weight on his left leg, which was still in bad shape from the car crash. The doctor started to convulse on the floor. “Oh man, gotcha good, huh Doc?” He hovered over the doctor, both hands on the stand holding himself up. Blood dripped out of the doctor's nose, running across his upper lip and onto the floor. Shaver put all of his weight onto his right leg and lifted the stand over his head. He slammed the stand down on the doctor’s head, over and over.

  “You were gonna fuck me up good, weren’t you Doc?!” he spit out as he pounded the doctor’s head. The doctor coughed blood out onto the floor and his feet started to quiver. “I’ve had a bad couple of fucking days and I thought I could trust you!!” Shaver set the stand down next to the doctor’s head and rested on it again. He was panting. “Shiiiiiiiiit!!!” he screamed in frustration.

  Even though the door was only a few feet away, it seemed like a chasm to Shaver. He rested on the bed and used the stand for support as he caught his breath and tried to figure out what to do. A glint from the key on a carabiner hanging from the doctor's waist caught his attention. Shaver scooted over and grabbed the keys. There were probably twenty-five different keys on the key ring.

  “You’re just gonna have to manage this pain,” he said out loud to himself. He gripped the stand until his knuckles turned white, trying to keep his left leg as immobile as possible. Even with the cast, the slightest movements or bumps were excruciating. He roared with pain as he got to a full standing position. Moving was the next problem. He tried hopping a few steps but it was too much. He set the stand out in front of him and pulled himself forward, shuffling on his right foot. Pain, but not unbearable.

  In that manner he made a slow path to the door and out into the hall. Left was a dead end. There were three doors to his right. He crept toward them. The first one was sealed shut with an electronic keypad. He moved onto the next door which had a keyhole. Shaver fumbled for the keys while trying to keep his balance. Key after key failed until one slid in all the way. Shaver felt each tumbler give way and he turned the key. The door glided open and the room breathed out a metallic vapor. Shaver covered his mouth and nose. His eyes watered. “Christ,” he muttered.

  The room was pitch black except for the sparse light from the hall. That was enough to reveal a light switch. Shaver flipped the switch and a low, yellow glow lit the room. A stainless steel operating table dominated the room. It sat facing the door, pulsating with evil. The left side of the room was taken up by cabinets above a long, sanitized work table. Shaver could see vials, boxes and medical equipment through the glass doors of the cabinets. He slowly moved over toward two closet doors on his right side, opened one of the doors and recoiled at the sight. Heads, fingers, noses and a mélange of other body parts were neatly organized in formaldehyde-filled jars.

  “I knew it! Damn freak!”

  Shaver opened the other door and to his delight he saw two sets of crutches and a wheelchair folded up against the back wall. He pulled the wheelchair out, and balancing on his right leg alone, opened it. He set the leg rest and sat down, emitting a long, “ahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Immensely more mobile now, he went over to the other side of the room and started rummaging through the drawers under the worktable. He pulled out some bandages, gauze and medical tape. He stretched to reach a cabinet full of vials—ultram, vicodin, oxycontin—those would do. Shaver popped two vicodin.

  The wheelchair squeaked as Shaver rolled back out into the hall, his lap full of medical supplies. There was one more room in the hall he hadn’t investigated. The door was slightly ajar and Shaver gingerly pushed in. He flipped the light switch and a somber office came to life. A metal desk was pushed toward the back wall and covered with neatly organized piles of documents. Shaver wheeled over to the desk and searched through its drawers. They were surprisingly messy, given the state of the rest of the rooms. As Shaver fingered through Post-its and pens and binder clips, a small, wallet-size organizer caught his eye. He grabbed it and flipped through its pages until he came across a page with the words “her head” written on it in ink. “Just weird,” Shaver whispered. He studied the rest of the organizer for any clues as to what the words could mean, although he already had one idea. Seeing no clues, he wheeled into the hall and moved back toward the room with the electronic keypad.

  He punched in numbers corresponding to the words “her,” “head” and the combination of the two. The digital screen on the keypad flashed “DENIED” each time. Shaver shook his head and sat in front of the door contemplating what those words could stand for. He sorted through the rooms he had been in and tried to think of any bits of evidence that fit. And then it came to him. He went back to the first room and opened the closet full of preserved human remains. Jars glistened, unfamiliar to light. One jar stood out. It contained the preserved head of a female whose hair had been removed. Her eyes were locked in a deathly stare and her mouth had pulled back to reveal a permanent grimace.

  Shaver reached for the jar and pulled it down. He set it on the cold operating table and opened it. The fumes from the formaldehyde burned Shaver’s nose and eyes and made him gag. Still, he dipped his hand into the jar and slowly lifted the head out. It dripped on the operating table, making it extremely slippery. Shaver wheeled over to an auxiliary table and set the head down. He turned it around and looked at her neck. He pulled each eyelid down. He grabbed the woman’s lower lip and pulled it down. “Bingo!” A five digit number was tattooed on her lip.

  Shaver spun around and headed back to the door with the electronic keypad. He entered the number and the door clicked open, “ACCESS GRANTED.” The door was vacuum sealed and so took some effort to push open. Shaver wheeled in and lights automatically turned on. He looked around in astonishment at the setup in the room. There were eight monitors arranged in a rectangle on a wall to Shaver’s left. Three of the monitors showed shots in the operating room. The other five seemed to be located in other parts of the home.

  An L-shaped desk framed the other side of the room and Shaver wheeled behind it. He started to pull drawers out until he found a stack of journals tied together with a rubber band. The top journal had “patients” listed on it. Shaver pulled the journal out from the stack and opened it.

  “Oh shit…gotcha,” he said.

  T W E N T Y-F O U R

  __________________________________________________

  Carmen and Alicia sat in the car as a gas station attendant filled their tank. Carmen heard two taps on the trunk and looked back at the attendant who was smiling at her as if he knew something she didn’t. She started the car and made it a few blocks away when she noticed his nasty trick. The gas gauge hardly budged. Oh well, she thought, just a few more miles to her brother’s house.

  They passed through what had been a continuous, rocky and arid landscape. Every twenty miles or so, rundown buildings dotted the bareness—tiendas, farmacias and the like. They cruised along an empty highway until Carmen sla
mmed on the brakes. “Missed it,” she said. She turned the car around and made a right onto a dusty, dirt road. Alicia tensed as Carmen plowed down the road, throwing plumes of dust high into the air around them. They finally arrived at a medium-sized adobe home, nestled into the surrounding environment.

  Someone immediately came out of the home to greet them. “Hermana!! Que paso?!” The person was a man, forty years old. He had a head of thick, brown hair, combed back. He was about average height but possessed lumberjack arms and butcher's hands. A bushy mustache curled over his lips and rounded out the package.

  Raul embraced Carmen almost before she could get out of the car. “Que bueno verte!” he exclaimed. “Y quién es esto?”

  “This is my friend Alicia,” Carmen said as she hugged Raul. Alicia stuck her hand out and Raul promptly engulfed it with his own.

  “So nice to meet you,” he said with a thick accent.

  “Likewise,” Alicia answered with a smile.

  “Welcome to my little home,” Raul said as he swung his arm around. They followed him toward his house along a meandering path lined with stones. Blood-red Spanish tile floors greeted the visitors, and the inside was replete with bright oranges and yellows. Pots, plates and art gave the home a sense of life. Alicia noticed that the art ranged from depictions of Native American scenes to Santa Clara pottery. She stopped in front of a specific painting. It was of a man with a beard and a cigar in his hand.

  “Who's this?” Alicia asked.

  “En serio?” Raul asked. He looked at Alicia in amazement and then playfully rolled his eyes and stuck an imaginary dagger into his heart. “That is Che. Maybe someday I will tell you about him.”

  “So, hermana, what brings you to this border barrio?” He directed them to sit in his sunlit living room.

  “Well,” Carmen said, not knowing quite where to start, “there was recently an incident of police brutality, and Roman happened to be there.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” he asked.