Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  She doesn’t look amused.

  “Take the pill.”

  I shake my head.

  “Yeah, no thanks.”

  Her jaw tightens.

  “I will not ask you again.”

  I close my eyes, issue a heavy breath.

  “How about we work out a deal?”

  “What deal?”

  “You answer a question, and I’ll take your stupid pill.”

  She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at me, so I take her silence as consent.

  “Who is the cartel’s choice for president?”

  The question catches her off guard.

  “It does not matter. You do not know the man.”

  I nod, like, Duh, of course.

  “Yeah, you’re right. But maybe he does.”

  That’s when the door opens again, and President Cortez steps into the room. His dark eyes burn into Imna. He doesn’t speak.

  Imna moves at once—she is about the swallow the tiny white pill, but I spring up from the chair before the pill gets close to her mouth, the loose zip-ties around my wrists falling away, and I pluck the pill from her fingers and toss it in the corner of the room as I grab her arm with my other hand and shove her down into the chair.

  Two FBI agents enter, and they quickly secure Imna Rodriguez. Not just her wrists, but her ankles as well, before they step back out into the hallway.

  She glares up at President Cortez.

  “You are a disgrace to our country.”

  I step between the two of them.

  “Well, ain’t you a peach?”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, staring through me.

  I smile down at her.

  “Did you really think the FBI was going to let you see the person who just supposedly assassinated your president, let alone talk to her privately?”

  She says nothing.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t kill President Cortez. And my family? I know they’re alive because people I trust helped to keep them alive. The sicario you mentioned? He’s dead. And you, well, I imagine you’ll be returning to your country to spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  I glance back at President Cortez.

  “Is that a safe assumption?”

  He doesn’t answer, staring through me at his aide.

  I turn back to Imna.

  “Now, I do have one more question for you, and I’d very much appreciate if you answered it. Where is Oliver Hayward’s operation located?”

  Her gaze refocuses back on me.

  “I will tell you nothing.”

  I nod, slowly, holding her gaze.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Imna. I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m exhausted. This is the last place I want to be right now. So we can either do this the easy way or the hard way. My choice? We do it the easy way. Much less stressful, and nobody gets hurt.”

  She keeps glaring back at me, so I continue.

  “President Cortez is certainly disappointed in you, but he knows you’ve had a hard life. I asked him about it while we were sitting out on the airfield. He told me about how your husband has cancer, and about your two children. About how the medical bills have been piling up. If the cartel is pressuring you in any way—such as threatening your kids—we can fix that. You’re still going to have to answer for what you did, but we can make sure your husband and children are safe. If need be, we’ll even get them out of the country. You may never see them again, but at least you’ll know they’re safe.

  I pause a beat, letting that sink in.

  “The hard way, on the other hand, is a bit different.”

  Imna Rodriguez says nothing.

  I turn to President Cortez.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. President, I’d like a couple minutes alone with your aide.”

  President Cortez stares down at Imna. The anger has faded from his eyes, replaced with disappointment. This is a woman he has known for several years, who he believed was a close confidant, somebody he could trust. I feel for the guy, because I’ve been betrayed by people close to me as well. One of them was my father.

  “Mr. President.”

  He blinks, looks at me, nods quickly, and leaves the room.

  Both of the FBI agents are still stationed out in the hallway. I step to the door and give them my brightest smile.

  “You guys are probably wondering what’s going on, right?”

  Neither of them answers.

  “There’s no reason you should trust me other than the fact your superior probably received a call from his superior who probably received a call from his superior telling him to give me a lot of latitude with this prisoner. And so I guess what this all leads to is a simple request. Can one of you retrieve me a paperclip? Preferably a large one.”

  The guys aren’t stupid—they know exactly the reason I’m asking for a paperclip—and it’s clear from their faces they don’t like the idea. The truth is, I don’t like the idea either. But I stand there, staring back at them as I wait, and finally one of the agents walks away and soon returns with a shiny paperclip.

  “Thanks, boys. Now hold tight. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  I step back into the room to find Imna Rodriguez still glaring at me. I hold up the paperclip.

  “Last chance.”

  She keeps glaring.

  With a sigh, I close the door.

  Part Three

  The Lost Boy

  Fifty-Two

  Oliver Hayward cracked open another beer—his fifth or sixth or maybe it was his seventh, he’d lost track a couple of beers ago—and stared out at the darkness.

  It was just past midnight. Hayward was typically in bed by now, but he couldn’t sleep. How could he, after the major fuck-up that was today? Any sensible person would have packed his things and disappeared, but he couldn’t do that, not with his whole operation and the kids and the women. He provided a valuable service to the cartels, and believed that despite today’s failing, they still had a use for him.

  “Do you know why I named this place Neverland?”

  Hayward didn’t wait for a reply, taking a long swallow from his bottle as he stared out into the darkness. He sat on a chair on the back porch overlooking the field; one of the guards could be seen, rifle slung over his shoulder, walking the perimeter.

  “Growing up, my parents were not around much. My father was an important businessman, and when I say he worked all the time, I mean he worked all the time. I barely saw him. I saw my mother more often, but even then we didn’t interact much. I don’t think she ever wanted kids. She was too focused on her charity work to spend too much time with me. And so what was a boy my age supposed to do?”

  Again, Hayward didn’t wait for a reply.

  “I read all types of books, including the entire Hardy Boys series. You ever read any of the Hardy Boys books?”

  For the first time in several minutes, Hayward regarded Jose. The boy stood ramrod straight, his chin tilted up, his eyes closed. One of Hayward’s empty beer bottles was balanced on the top of Jose’s head, Hayward having told Jose that if the bottle fell and shattered then Jose would get a zap like he’d never gotten before.

  Shaking his head, Hayward muttered, “Of course you never read any Hardy Boys books. You’ve probably never read a book. Do you even know how to read? Well, anyway, one of the books I read again and again was Peter and Wendy. Did you ever hear about Peter Pan?”

  Jose didn’t answer. Hayward fingered the fob in his left hand, considered giving the boy a quick zap just for the hell of it, but it felt good to talk like this, the alcohol having soothed his nerves, and he pushed on.

  “Peter Pan was a boy who refused to grow up, and he had all these magical powers—he could fly, Jose!—and he had this fairy named Tinkerbell, and he was in charge of the Lost Boys. These Lost Boys had been taken away from their families when they were babies and brought to Neverland, and these boys, they were tough. And I … I sometimes thought of myself as a Lost Boy.
My parents were extremely wealthy, and I never had to worry about anything, but still I saw myself as an outcast.”

  Hayward shook his head suddenly, as if to clear it, and realized with whom he had been sharing such private matters. He leaned forward and pointed the fob at Jose, his voice dipping into a whisper.

  “I never told anybody about that before—not even my therapists—and if you tell anyone, I am not only going to zap you, I will kill you myself.”

  Jose stood motionless with the empty bottle on his head, his eyes closed.

  Hayward said, “Nod that you understand me.”

  The boy opened his eyes. Glanced at Hayward for a second but then quickly looked away.

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Jose.”

  The boy knew what would happen once he nodded—the bottle would tip off his head, shatter on the ground—and he knew what would happen then. Jose had come to fear being zapped, which was good, Hayward thought. A boy should never be fearless. A fearless boy was a stupid boy. A dangerous boy.

  When Jose didn’t nod—when it became clear that he would refuse—Hayward pressed down on the fob.

  The boy immediately jerked, and the empty bottle fell off his head.

  But the bottle didn’t shatter on the ground. Jose caught it inches before it hit, and he stood motionless, staring up at Hayward, who for an instant thought he saw defiance flicker in the boy’s eyes, though maybe that was only his imagination or the alcohol or a combination of the two. Whatever the reason, Hayward didn’t like it, not one bit, and he intended on zapping Jose until the boy passed out, but before he could press down on the fob again, Carla stepped outside.

  “What are you still doing out here?”

  Hayward looked at her, at first not sure what to say, and then smiled.

  “Enjoying the nice evening.”

  “You should come to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Take a pill.”

  “I don’t want a pill.”

  “Everything will be okay, Oliver.”

  He shot to his feet so suddenly he stumbled, almost fell, and had to hold on to the railing to regain his balance.

  “Everything will not be okay! Cortez is still alive. I failed. I failed the cartel.”

  Carla stared back at him with her typical unnerving calmness.

  “If they wanted to kill you, they would have done it by now.”

  Hayward squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. None of it made sense. He’d watched the TV for hours and listened to the reports about how President Cortez had been abducted and taken to an airport where they sat on the airstrip, police surrounding them, until gunshots were fired. For the first hour or so, the news reported that President Cortez was killed, but then news broke that he had actually survived, as well as that his longtime aide Imna Rodriguez had been taken into custody.

  No word on Holly Lin. No word from Louis or any of his men.

  He looked out at the dark field and the guard walking the perimeter. He put the beer to his lips, was about to take another long swallow, when suddenly the guard fell to the ground.

  Hayward stared for a moment, then blinked, not sure he had seen what he just witnessed.

  “Did you—”

  Carla clamped her hand over his mouth, her eyes suddenly intense, and held a finger to her lips.

  Hayward wasn’t sure what was going on. He tried listening but couldn’t concentrate, and then suddenly he heard gunfire somewhere out front, along with the sound of engines, and—

  Was that the sound of a helicopter?

  Hayward pulled away from her hand, whispered, “Is it the cartel?”

  The intensity in Carla’s eyes flared.

  “No, you idiot. It’s the feds.”

  She glanced down at the Jose, then up at the shed sitting against the hill, and then at the armed dead guard out in the field.

  “Grab the boy. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

  Fifty-Three

  As two teams descend on the two side buildings, Nova and I follow the third team into the main building.

  They breach the door and file inside, shouting out as they clear rooms, and then work their way up to the higher floors. So far word hasn’t come that they’ve found Hayward or Carla yet, so Nova and I start up the steps after the team when the helicopter pilot’s voice speaks in my earpiece.

  “We’ve got movement heading toward the shed. Two adults, one carrying a child. One of the adults is armed with a rifle.”

  I pause on the steps, turn around to look at Nova.

  “That has to be Hayward and Carla.”

  He says, “The child?”

  “My money’s on a kid named Jose.”

  I touch the button on my mike.

  “As long as they have the kid, stand down. Nova and I are in pursuit.”

  We hurry back down the steps, then out the back through a screen door onto the porch. Beer bottles are scattered around a chair.

  The helicopter hovers above the field, shining a spotlight on the shed.

  The pilot says, “They just entered through the side door.”

  I roger that, and Nova and I sprint across the field. We slow as we near, pistols drawn. A soft light glows from the thin space under the door.

  I step to the side, aim at the door, and nod at Nova. He kicks it open, and I rush in, finger on the trigger, scanning the inside.

  Besides a riding lawnmower and other landscaping equipment, the place is empty.

  Nova steps up beside me.

  “Looks like that Rodriguez woman was telling you the truth about everything.”

  I nod and start toward the rear of the shed. We find the metal trapdoor in the floor easily enough.

  Without a word, Nova moves to the side of the trapdoor and grabs the metal handle. He looks at me, and whispers.

  “Ready?”

  I whisper, “Not yet. In case anything happens to me, I want to be honest with you about something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard for me to say this. Maybe because we’ve known each other so long, and I consider you a close friend …”

  I let it hang there for a second, and then smile.

  “I’m not feeling the beard.”

  Nova nods, like that’s exactly what he expected me to say.

  “I’ll take it under advisement, thanks. Ready?”

  I nod, and aim my gun at the trapdoor.

  Nova pulls open the door. I lean forward, ready to fire at any movement below.

  Nothing.

  Like the shed, the tunnel has a power source. There’s light down there. Not bright light, but enough for somebody to see as they move underground from one country to the next. The metal ladder has ten rungs to the bottom.

  I glance at Nova, and he lets the trapdoor fall all the way back, then hustles over to retrieve a small bag of fertilizer and drops it down the hatch. It lands with a heavy thud, but nothing happens.

  I say, “Cover me.”

  I start down the ladder, using one hand to hold on to the rungs and the other hand to hold onto my gun, and then after four rungs, I drop to the ground in a crouch, immediately aiming down the tunnel. Still nothing.

  I motion at Nova up top, and he starts to climb down. As he does, I marvel at the tunnel’s craftsmanship. From top to bottom, the tunnel—at least this portion—is almost six feet tall. Strong wooden beams stand every couple of feet, surrounded by chicken wire to keep the earth from falling in. Small light bulbs are strung every five feet. From this angle, the tunnel moves straight for maybe fifty yards before it starts to curve.

  Once Nova’s made it down the ladder, we start moving forward. We move as quietly as we can, listening for footsteps farther ahead. Imna Rodriguez claimed the tunnel was about a half mile long. It’s only after the first quarter mile, as the tunnel curves again, that we spot somebody standing farther ahead.

  Jose.

  He stands there, motionless, his face tilted down. He doesn’t look up when he
hears us approaching.

  It’s a trap—obviously it’s a trap—but I’m unclear what the end game is here. Jose is their only hostage, from what the pilot told us. Without him, we have no reason not to shoot to kill.

  The tunnel past him curves again. Hayward or Carla or maybe both of them are probably hiding right around the corner. Between the two, I imagine Carla is the one who will have the rifle. Hayward is a man who can’t tell the difference between a hollow point and a full metal jacket.

  When we’re only ten feet away, Jose’s body jerks. He cries out, and falls to the ground. He starts shaking, screaming, but neither Nova nor myself advance. Instead, as much as it pains us, we wait.

  We don’t wait long.

  Carla steps around the corner, the rifle in her hands. She starts to raise it, to fire over Jose, but before she can, I quickly put a bead on her head and pull the trigger.

  She falls in a heap.

  Still, Jose continues to scream and writhe on the ground. Nova covers me as I hurry toward him. I pull the key I took from Louis from my pocket, hoping it’ll unlock this collar like it unlocked mine. It does, and I tear the collar off Jose’s neck and fling it aside. Even in the dim light, the bruised skin ringing the boy’s neck is vivid. It looks like a hideous tattoo.

  The boy’s no longer screaming, and he’s no longer writhing, but he is crying. I touch his arm, trying to calm him, but he flinches away on instinct. It’s doubtful he’s ever had any human contact that wasn’t abusive.

  “It’s all right, Jose. You’re safe now.”

  The collar, flung a couple feet away, vibrates with electricity. Then, all at once, the buzzing stops. Which means Hayward—and the fob he’s been pressing all this time—is getting farther and farther away.

  “Take him back.”

  Nova nods, and crouches down beside the boy as he looks up at me.

  “Be careful.”

  “He’s been drinking, Nova. Plus he doesn’t have a gun. I think I’ll be okay.”

  Nova grunts.

  “Famous last words.”

  I frown at him.

  “Still not feeling the beard.”

  He shoots me the bird.