by Steve Curry
What had Perro known about Maureen? Was he right about the old medicine man moving in on my girl? Of course, that brought up the next thought. What right did I have to call any normal woman mine? Despite my every intention to ignore those thoughts, they seemed to stay waiting for any opening to spring back to mind.
I was made of sterner stuff than that though. I kept telling myself that Maureen and her disposition were trivial compared to staying alive and finishing what I’d promised Freke. It wasn’t as much that he’d promised to “lose” me again after popping up on his radar. It was more apt to say that I could not break that promise I’d given in order for him to give me the deal. To risk become an oathbreaker was about as dire a fate as I could picture. So I would ignore the girl and concentrate on the job at hand.
That seemed to work almost every time. Occasionally I even forgot about her for as long as ten or fifteen minutes at a time. Once more I pushed the girl and the knot of worry in my gut out of mind and back into the recesses of my thoughts. At least as far back as they’d go. Sometimes it seems like the more you want to forget something the harder it is to make it happen.
As I lay there resolutely not thinking, it was tempting to rest and store energy until the morning. That was not going to help me with the rather impressive set of tasks I’d committed myself to though. Instead, I lay on the rough surface of the disreputable mattress and did my best to come up with some winning plans to address both known and unknown obstacles in this Cartel stronghold I had to infiltrate.
I went to sleep with nothing but half-formed plans and fully formed regrets about losing even the limited gear Pedro had gotten me. And a persistent ache of guilt that would not go away no matter how often I adamantly pushed it aside.
That was pretty much my pattern for three whole glorious days that felt like a vacation. No bikers, no beatings, no crazy Indian medicine men showed up to mess with me. The worst I had to deal with was boredom and internal conflict.
The boredom let up a little when they allowed me a brief quarter-hour or so to pick up a few books from the sparse library. Most of their material was in Spanish but I found a few old high school literature books in both Spanish and English. There was a stack of old true crime magazine that appeared older than the walls around us. I grabbed half a dozen of those and some L’Amour westerns before they hustled me back to my cell.
The reading helped pass some of the time. For the rest, I worked on simple healing rituals and exercise whenever I had the energy and inclination. There was rudimentary exercise equipment in the yard. Barring access to that, there were always walls and floors and gravity to help with some calisthenics and mind-numbing, energy-draining exercise.
I was in what one of the last trainers I’d had called “the dying cockroach”. It’s a fairly simple exercise that quickly becomes tedious. Simply lay on your back then extend both arms and legs straight into the air. It sounds easy. And for all of a few seconds it is. Shortly after that, you find out how heavy the muscle, bone, blood, and tissues in your limbs actually are. I held the position for almost three minutes before the walls began to echo footsteps coming towards my ratty little temporary domicile.
Just such footsteps very rarely heralded good news for me. If it had been one of the regular times for a meal or break from the cell I might have been more optimistic. This was well past any hour that they were likely to let me out of my cell though. Maybe that’s why I was at least partially prepared for a bad time again.
My suspicions were further aroused when the rotund little Mexican officer Martinez showed up in what I have to assume was a disguise. Always before he wore a suit or a highly decorated officer’s uniform. This time he was wearing the simple greys of one of the prison guards. I was betting that anything he was going to do that required a disguise would not be for my benefit.
He shut the door behind him and waddled over to me in all but a dash. “Ok senor Yankee. You’re going to have a visitor. You will be polite to him and say nothing except how well you’ve been treated. He can not help you tonight and if you say the wrong things I can assure you, there will be an unfortunate incident before breakfast tomorrow.”
My new “guard” bent over to fasten a chain around my waist to a ring in the floor just as the door opened. The first guard through the door was one of those I had a special place in my heart for. He had been most enthusiastic and jovial about beating on my tenderest bruises and abrasions. I was so fixated on my plans for his face that I barely noticed the person walking in behind him. When he spoke to the fat officer right beside me in rapid-fire Spanish it didn’t seem that strange. His next words, however, gave me pause.
“I apologize Senor Andrews my guard does not speak Engles.” The surprise was multifold. First, Martinez was no more this guy’s guard than Kara was my backseat bitch. Secondly, Martinez spoke English better than anyone I’d met in the prison. And thirdly, Senor Andrews was not an Andrews. He was an ANDREW, but the proper name would have been Senor Dixon. I knew this because he’d carefully told me his name and given me some vague but convincing identification when he interrogated me about a murder back in Austin. He was also a member in good standing of one of the American “alphabet agencies” that employs spooky people like him.
“That’s quite alright Sergeant Nunes. I’m here to talk to the prisoner and not the guards anyway. If you don’t mind I’d like to interview him alone.
I made a special note of the name“sergeant Nunes” to go with the face I intended to pummel into various irregular shapes. That did not keep me from hearing his response though.
“Prison rules require one officer in the room or at the door when there is a visitor Senor Andrews.” The poor guard was obviously ill at ease and had to visibly restrain himself from looking over to his “guard” for approval between words.
I saw Senor Andrews pause and take an exaggeratedly casual glance at Martinez as he agreed. “Of course Sergeant Nunes. If your man would wait at the door I would appreciate it.”
Agent Andrew Dixon of the unknown spook agency sat down in the chair another officer hurried into the room as everyone else made their way out. Finally, the retreating footsteps told us everyone was gone except for Dixon, Martinez, and of course the unfortunate prisoner, me.
“Well, now Mr. Gustaveson. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you. You’ve led me a merry chase sir. I was very disappointed to miss you at your home. There are some more questions about the missing police officer from the last little incident you were involved in.”
There was no reason to tip off the Mexican police, but the officer in question was Dixon’s own uncle. That he did not mention that fact made me even more wary of the entire situation. There were too many people keeping too many secrets in whatever I was now part of. For once I managed to wisely remain silent.
“No comment sir? That’s fine. I’m sure we can persuade you to be more communicative after I extradite you tomorrow. I would do it tonight but the Embassy seems to have gone native somewhat. They apparently are as fond of the word “manana” as the locals.” Dixon neatly crossed his legs with one ankle atop the opposite knee.
In a pose of complete confidence, he continued. “I would almost be more content to leave you down here in this cell if I knew you would get the most benefit the locals could provide. Unfortunately, that would not get me the answers I want. I will, however, get those answers, sir. Now that I have absolutely identified that the prisoner in question is exactly who I have been tracking, the process to get you into my custody should not take too long. You might recall the level of pressure I can apply. That pressure is only slightly diminished across the border. I assure you that the people I will talk to can have you transferred faster than you would likely believe. Still nothing to say?”
Dixon nodded once to himself then rose with a satisfied or perhaps it was just a smug smile. “Rest well Mr. Gustaveson. We have a long trip and a great deal to talk about tomorrow.”
His knock on the door got a mumbled r
eply in Spanish then the door opened and both sets of footsteps retreated to leave me alone once again. I took a minute to guess the purpose of his visit. Was it really a trip to ID me? If so then I had to assume that Dixon had gotten tired of waiting for answers about his uncle’s disappearance. Alternately he had already jumped to his own conclusions about why the older man had abruptly disappeared just a year or two before his retirement.
I could probably answer some of those questions. But how do you tell a high-level intelligence official that their family member had helped kill an ancient animated tree creature and then been killed in turn by that creature’s puppet master? Dixon was pretty open-minded as far as his type goes. I’m not sure he was going to believe the whole story behind that Brujah witch and the two creatures she had commanded in a short but brutal crime spree in the heart of Texas’ Capital. No, if I were guessing, he had a different and very broad set of shoulders to pin that disappearance on. The sad part is, I would have almost traded places with old Officer Joseph Jackson to bring the old man back.
I was saved from my own recollections by the return of some of those footsteps. Several sets of them in fact. This time I had little doubt that the arrival of more visitors would be anything but soothing and pleasant. I was only wrong in the degree of anxiety I experienced when the door reopened.
“We have more visitors, Mr. Gustaveson. Old friends of yours from here in Mexico rather than the United States.” Martinez was not pretending to be non-English speaking anymore. He hadn’t changed from his nondescript grey uniform but that wasn’t very surprising. What was more of a shock was the identification of my visitor this time. He still had on the fancy clothes and both holstered weapons from the truck stop.
While I digested what that meant, the guy I knew only as Senor Mateo of a fairly nasty and powerful sounding cartel leaned over and gave me a toothy and less than reassuring smile. “Hola Gringo! Been looking forward to seeing ya ever since you shot my compadre and tossed me on my head in the desert.”
9
I hadn’t really thought too hard about my adventures in the desert after Maureen had left. I’d like to say it was a humanitarian response with some guilt and grief about the guy I’d shot. I’d like to say that but I try not to lie to myself anymore than necessary.
The truth is that I was raised in a time where you couldn’t call the police if someone was threatening you. So we got accustomed to dealing with those situations on our own. If someone pulls a weapon on me they have declared their intent. At that point, my only concern is whether I can do unto them before they do unto me. It may not be the Christian version of that old saying, but it works for me.
I hadn’t thought much about the guy I shot or his buddies I’d dealt with less drastically for the simple reason that I didn’t really care about them. I had plenty of other things to occupy my attention if I gave the thoughts room to crowd in. Maureen and our relationship woes were the most persistent pressure for my attention. No matter how often I told myself that we were both better off, the thoughts kept pushing back to gnaw at my feelings.
After her I had some concerns about my incarceration, my bribe assisted release, my reckless promise to do something about a situation without knowing how serious it was. And of course my attempts to come up with someplace to start working on that problem once I got out.
So really it shouldn’t be that surprising that I’d failed to associate the half-seen presence in the desert with some guy I’d met for a few minutes in a truckstop. Maybe at the time, I had half sensed something familiar about the lanky individual I tossed around. Since then though I simply hadn’t thought about that fight.
Maybe it wasn’t in my thoughts, but my foe from that little disagreement had apparently spent some time dwelling on it. He barely took time to shed his fancy jacket and put on gloves. “They want me to ask you some questions tough guy. You so tough though, we just skip to softening up.”
He obviously had as much practice as my previous experts in the art of prisoner tenderizing. That would have been good if he hadn’t also possessed a certain level of passion for the job. He was certainly energetic and invested in my case.
The first couple of shots went to the better side of my ribcage. I’d have tried to answer some questions before he got to the other side but he didn’t give me the opportunity. I couldn't so much as catch my breath before the next fist hit like a tight leather-clad rock. I lost count sometime after the third fist thudded into creaking ribs that were just barely healed. He worked over one side of my head and then did some rearranging of my facial features for a minute or so.
That’s when I figured out that this was supposed to be it for me. Always before, my tormentors had left little visible damage. They pretty much avoided any serious blows to my face. He took things to the opposite extreme. I felt blood sheeting down one side of my face either from the cheek cut down to the bone, or maybe from the tear across that side of my forehead. There was also a nice burn in the eyebrow itself that told me he’d gotten through the skin there as well.
All of that visible and appalling damage could only mean that I wouldn’t be seeing anyone who might notice. Couple that knowledge with my visit from the American spook earlier and you can come to some pretty grim conclusions. I was guessing on either a prison yard confrontation gone bad or the all too often used “attempted escape”. Whatever excuse they came up with, I wouldn’t be around to dispute their story.
It took a few seconds for me to notice that the steady impact of his fists had stopped. When they didn’t resume I opened my eyes to see my current torture specialist in an animated argument with the rotund Mexican Federale. I caught enough of their heated and rapid-fire Spanish to breathe a hopeful sigh of relief.
The official was arguing that I needed to be healthy enough to answer some questions. The cartel thug seemed to think that any answers were immaterial to his desire for further personalized trauma to various parts of my anatomy. I was rooting for the official.
I guess he won that round at least. The thug turned away in disgust and strode over to lean against a wall. While he lounged I saw him pull out a rag and clean some of the blood from his gloves. Wouldn’t want too much liquid to seep in. Nothing ruins leather-like getting it too wet.
A light slap on the better of my two battered cheeks brought my attention back to the more official leadership amongst my visitors. “Oh senor Gustaveson, things they don’t look good for you. My associate over there wants to enjoy himself beating you slowly to death. On the other hand, I need to know who you are that American spies and embassies are willing to get involved over. Are you by chance Central Intelligence Agency or NSA? Or do you work for one of the American agencies combating drugs?”
When I didn’t respond to any of those suggestions he continued. “If it’s not drugs then what is it? Counterterrorism? Arms trading? What is your interest down here and what have you discovered so far?”
He seemed both incited and frustrated by my silence. “You are protecting no one Yankee. I can save you much pain and trouble though.”
I decided maybe he needed a few words as a reward for making the beatings temporarily cease. “What can you offer me jeffe? We both know my life is forfeit. Not a lot of incentive there for my cooperation is there?”
“Forfeit?” For once his better than average English vocabulary stuttered. “Ah, lost? Yes, your life is over senor Gustaveson. But it can be over quickly and without too much pain. Or it can take much longer and be hell for you. We are men senor Gustaveson. Let there be truth between us. Who do you work for and what have you discovered?”
Maybe it was all of the beatings. Or maybe I was just feeling a tad overwrought about being sent back to Valhalla. If he wanted some truth I’d give him some. “Who do I work for? My day job is as security in a bar back in Austin. My temporary boss though is an immortal freakin wolf. I’ve learned not to trust anybody I’ve run into in the last couple of weeks. I’ve learned that half the people down here are nuttier tha
n aunt sally’s pecan pie. I’ve also learned that your corrections facility is full of sadistic bastards that I suspect are using violence to compensate for small dicks and homosexual insecurities.”
I paused for a breath and how to phrase the final shot. “Oh, and I figured out that your big bad cartel thugs are easy to toss around in a desert or kill even when they have the drop on you.”
That got just about the reaction I was expecting. Mr. Mateo came through the door in a dash. That was one hundred percent in line with my expectations. However, I’d been counting on him coming at me with fists and maybe a little rabid froth around his open maw. Instead, I got the thug in his natural reactions. Out came the hand cannon he kept on his hip.
In retrospect that was probably better than the machine pistol in his shoulder holster. The Skorpion would have sprayed little .32 caliber bullets all over the room and likely ricocheted jagged wounds into each and every one of us. The .454 revolver was just going to knock a large chunk of my anatomy off. Maybe my head or half my rib cage would go or maybe he’d start with a leg or something to prolong it briefly.
I’m not sure what he had in mind, but it became immaterial a second later. First, there was a hellacious bang and then the lights flickered. Everyone not chained in place froze like deer in the headlights. The guy chained to the floor, me, didn’t move much. I did curl up a little bit since I recognized the sound of a shaped charge going off nearby. That first explosion was followed by half a dozen more rippling closer if the sound was any reference.
That initial bang had carried quite a charge. Even though it seemed the furthest away it also seemed the strongest explosion. It kicked hard enough to raise dust in my crappy little cell. None of the others did as much until the one that took out the wall behind me.
I felt the shockwave even before the chunks of masonry began tumbling around the room. One melon-sized rock clipped my shoulder. A slightly smaller piece took out my would-be executioner before he got a shot off. The rock was flat on both sides but had ragged edges where it had broken free of the wall. One of those jagged edges hit him right along his jawline and instantly turned the dust around him pink.
