by Linda Ladd
Novak couldn’t tell if the guy believed him or not. Wouldn’t bet on it. “I managed to pull loose and surprise him when we were out on the water just east of here, near Long Cay. I got the better of him, managed to disarm him. I got his gun, that Ruger you found up at the helm, and turned it on him. He ran and jumped overboard when I fired at him. It was last night after dark, so I just left him out there and headed back to Mexico to report what happened, because his boat is registered in Cancun. I’m glad I ran into you out here. Saved me the trouble of trying to find you.”
“And you left this man stranded out in the ocean?”
“It was dark. He was trying to kill me. Last I saw, he was swimming back toward Long Cay. We weren’t far offshore. He probably made it there just fine. Put out word to the authorities over there if you don’t believe me, and have them pick him up. You need to find him. He’s your guy. Not me. He was hired to assassinate me. I’m lucky to be alive.”
“What’s your name?”
Novak decided it was in his best interest to tell the truth. Or some of it. “My name is Will Novak. Triple citizenship. I was born in America and grew up in Australia with my father. My mother was French. Now I live near New Orleans in the state of Louisiana. I was sailing by myself, not far from here, and he found me and sank my boat. He might’ve been planning to extort money from my family, for all I know. But I got the better of him, thank God.”
“You got the better of the most deadly assassin in Mexican history?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I can take care of myself. I served in the U.S. military. Now I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a gun permit, but my own weapon went down with my boat. I’m investigating a bank heist in Belize City. Go ahead, check me out. I’m legit. I can give you a number in Washington D.C. to call, or you can call my private investigation partner.”
The captain was considering his story. The military part might impress him. It usually impressed his counterparts in allied countries. But it was obvious from the guy’s frown that he wasn’t taking anything Novak said into serious consideration. A moment later, he turned to his adjutant and ordered Novak taken aboard the gunboat and locked up in the brig.
Novak didn’t fight or try to escape; he knew better. He was in trouble again, big-time, and he wasn’t sure he could get out of it. He couldn’t win for losing on this trip. His fate depended on where he was taken now and who made the decision whether he should be given the benefit of the doubt. Novak cursed himself again for ever pulling that damn Ruiz girl out of the ocean. He would be on his way home right now if it weren’t for Marisol Ruiz. Now his boat was underwater and he was no doubt headed to an overcrowded, filthy Mexican prison to stand trial for brutal murders he didn’t commit.
On the bright side, which was fading to black at warp speed, he did have some powerful contacts, both in the American embassy in Mexico City and in D.C., and was owed favors by important people. He could probably worm his way out of this mess sooner or later, but he better come up with a better and more cohesive story and do it before he met a real police interrogator in some underground torture chamber.
The Mexican captain wasted no more time. Novak was prodded at gunpoint onto the military boat and then locked below in a cabin with nothing but a narrow cot and a toilet. No porthole. No way out. Novak lay down on the bunk and tried to rest. He had a feeling he was going to need it. He could sleep anywhere, and that held true this time, too. When he awoke again, it was when a gun barrel jabbed into his side.
Novak was escorted up top by a pair of guards and then into a motor launch that took him to shore at a pier in what looked like a small coastal military base. There, a green government helicopter waited in an open, grassy field to fly him to the capital city. Which was something Novak could live with. He’d take his chances with the diplomats over the Mexican military brass any day of the week. He cooperated fully with each new order, and the guards seemed happy to prod him along, mainly because he had to obey them and had no chance in hell to escape a full Mexican contingent. If they took him to their capital city and contacted the American ambassador, he would be able to talk himself out of trouble. That would not be a problem. So he wasn’t too worried. He was more concerned about Jenn and Marisol. If the Mayan had put the gunboat onto Novak, he would now be hot on Jenn’s trail.
Novak’s peace of mind did not last long. He was flown to Mexico City, all right, low and fast, but not to be interviewed by the diplomatic corps. Instead, he was thrown into a cell in the basement of a building that had nothing to do with the military or government. He’d heard horror stories about the Mexican secret police and their methods of interrogation. He didn’t know if any of it was true. But then it got worse. He was secured with nylon cords, hands behind his back, and tied to a chair in the middle of an empty concrete room. His feet were left free, which was their first mistake. Feet were weapons and should always be secured. Apparently, nobody in Mexico knew that. He had no illusions about what was coming next. They were preparing to torture him; probably thought he was an American spy. He had better steel himself and be ready to face whatever they threw at him. He could hold his own, but not forever. He had to make his move soon.
So he sat there and waited, working the cords loose, mentally preparing himself. An hour passed and stretched into two, and he was cold, uncomfortable, and angry that he’d allowed himself to get caught on that boat. He tried to remain calm, patiently working the cords and making slow but steady progress. It was only a matter of time before he got himself out of the restraints.
In time, a new guy showed up. Just one man, but Novak suspected that was because the guy didn’t want witnesses to see what he was about to do. Maybe that was because the man carried a cattle prod in his hand. He was dressed in civilian clothes—tan polo shirt and khakis, nice leather loafers. Looked like a damn tax accountant. Short and compact, with a Y-shaped scar down the cheek of one well-used face that looked about fifty and was road-mapped with deep lines and pockmarks. His expression was not pleasant, set in hard, brutal, cruel lines. He had a nice corporate haircut, and there was a tattoo of a knife dripping blood on the side of his neck. Great. Maybe one of the Mayan’s buddies.
On the far side of the room, there was a long rectangular table pushed against the wall with several sets of light switches and electrical outlets above it. The guy began laying out various instruments of torture in a precise and ritualistic order: knives, pliers, hatchet, all kinds of psychopathic goodies. A black telephone was attached to the wall beside the light switches. The little torturer busied himself for a time at the implement table, getting his jollies, whistling some Mexican ditty and trying to make Novak think long and hard about what was coming next. Then he turned around and gazed straight at Novak for a couple of seconds. Novak didn’t blink and didn’t worry, because he was now out of the ropes. They’d given him way too much time to free himself. His captor walked over and stood right in front of him. He squatted down and smiled. His teeth were pristine and white. Probably dentures.
“Hello, Mr. Novak. Or should I call you the Mayan?”
Novak said nothing. Just stared back. He flexed his fingers and then doubled both fists behind his back. Ready to go.
“You were caught with a lot of evidence that points to your being a multiple murderer. A hired assassin, in fact. They have counted a dozen scalps found aboard your boat. That tells me, and more importantly, tells my superiors, that you are a killer of innocent people. Are you ready to admit your crimes and suffer the appropriate punishment?”
Novak remained calm and waited. “You got the wrong guy. The Mayan took me captive. He was planning to kill me or hold me for ransom. I got away and he went into the water. Then I took off in his boat and headed to shore to alert you guys. That’s the truth. That’s what I told the authorities who picked me up. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Your lies are not believable. Your story is false. The officers who picked you up did not believe a word of it, nor do their superior officer
s, nor my superiors, one of whom is headed here to meet you as we speak.”
That means I’ve got to move now, Novak thought. “I’m telling you the truth. I’ll answer all your questions. I’ve got no problem with that. But I want you to contact the American embassy and let them know I’m here and what you’re charging me with.”
The guy showed Novak his teeth some more. Real proud of those dentures. His eyes weren’t smiling. They were bulging and restless. He was waiting for Novak to show the first signs of terror, like all practiced torturers did. “We’ve been looking for you for years, you know, but our task forces failed to find you, and all that was long before I joined up. You’ve outsmarted us again and again, but this time? This time you are not getting away with your crimes.”
“I didn’t kill anybody. I’m not the Mayan—”
Novak’s words were cut off as the guy thrust the cattle prod into his chest. Novak yelled and jerked spasmodically as the jolt went through him, like a current of lighting up his spinal column. When it was removed, he shook with reaction, gasping for breath.
“Now, señor,” the little guy was saying, “if you please, tell me the truth. You are the Mayan, are you not?”
Novak heaved in a deep breath, got hold of his shaky muscles, and then rocketed out of the chair and rammed his right fist so hard into the guy’s Adam’s apple that he heard it crunch under his knuckles. The guy went over backward, gargling on his own blood, and Novak jerked him back up by the front of his shirt and brought his knee up and smashed it into his face. Blood spurted everywhere, and the guy went down. Novak stood there a moment, panting, still trembling in reaction to the shock, and then he left the guy on the concrete floor, barely breathing.
Novak grabbed a machete off the torture table and headed for the door. He stopped beside it and listened. No noise, no voices. He pulled it open and found two guards stationed outside. They were smoking and watching a soccer game through a window across the hall. He hit the first one so hard in the head that it knocked him completely off his feet. He heard the skull crack. The other guard was bringing up his rifle, but Novak got a good grip on it, jerked it out of his hands, and thrust the butt hard into the man’s face. The guy went down to his knees. Novak kicked him in the face. Neither one of them moved again. Novak looked around and rubbed his sore wrists, and then he moved quickly down the corridor and found the steps leading up to the first floor.
That’s where he met the other six armed guards. All of them raised their weapons and pointed them at him. Novak dropped the rifle and machete and raised his hands and went along with them. He’d never had this much bad luck in his life. Not in his missions with the SEALs, not in Iraq, not in Afghanistan, not anywhere. His chest still ached from the electric current, but these new guys seemed like a nicer bunch. They allowed him to walk between them, unbound and unfettered. Very sweet, but one great big mistake. He could take them out now, no problem. But he wanted to know where they were taking him. If it was upstairs to be interviewed by a top government official, maybe he’d get out of this mess alive after all. He hoped somebody had shown up from the American embassy and demanded to see him. Well, that didn’t happen, either. His luck was not getting any better.
Instead, and to Novak’s concern, they marched him straight out through a side door and shoved him into the backseat of a shiny black Lincoln Town Car. Very plush inside; very quiet and well-maintained. The driver wore green camouflage and didn’t turn around when Novak got in. Too cool a guy to notice the new prisoner. Twin guards crowded in on either side of him and jerked a dark hood down over his head. Not good. Not good at all. All this drama was getting old. Or maybe he was too old for this kind of crap.
They drove for what he estimated to be an hour and a half or so. He listened to the sounds outside the car, dim but identifiable. They were in heavy traffic first, stopping at intersections, and then came lots of honking horns and braking automobiles and more frequent stoplights. A siren wailed now and then. Novak said nothing. The guards said nothing. The driver said nothing. A real lively bunch. So he sat there unmoving and figured that one of three things was going to happen next. One, they had found out his true credentials and would take him somewhere isolated and let him go before his capture got them in trouble with the U.S. government. Two, they would take him somewhere isolated and put a bullet in the back of his head. Or three, he was headed to the American consulate and freedom. He suspected it might be option two, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. He was unshackled and sore as hell from the shock to his body, but it just made him angrier. He could still fight, and he sure as hell could take down these two guards and the cool-joe driver. He planned it out in his head in specific detail, trying to decide if he should make his move inside the car or wait until it stopped and they pulled him out. He decided on the latter. Being inside city environs with lots of witnesses and his captors wearing military garb might do more harm than good.
The drive continued for quite some time. Another hour, maybe. He could see at the bottom of the hood that daylight was fading. More hours passed. Lots of time, just sitting between the guards with nobody saying a word. The drive went on for what seemed like most of the night. Where the hell were they taking him? Argentina? He could also tell they were gradually rising in elevation, going up into the hills. Winding roads, dead silence inside the car, silence outside the car; it was looking more to him like the take him out and execute him scenario. He waited, forcing himself to be calm now. The adrenaline had faded long ago, but he kept himself ready to strike. He had his plan, and handling the two guys in back should be easy. The third guy might be a problem since he was harder to reach, but he had a hunch the driver was the kind of guy who didn’t like to mess up his hair. So he went through the steps inside his head and waited, and calmed his pulse, and tried to be patient. He had better chances here than he’d had in the torture chamber with that cattle prod.
Novak waited as they kept ascending curving roads. He could tell it was still night, but it had to be closing in on dawn soon. All the better. Once he made his escape, he could take the car and make a run for it. If he could find a phone somewhere, he could call Jenn and hole up in her nearest safe house. If not, he could dump the car and steal another one. He needed reinforcements, and he needed to find out what the hell was going on. Whatever it was, he was caught in the middle of it. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like anything that was happening. He was usually patient and methodical and even-tempered in this kind of situation, but enough was enough. He was sick of getting pushed around. Time to take charge and put a few more people down for good.
Chapter Eighteen
When the limo finally slowed to a stop, the driver’s window slid down and somebody outside the car spoke in low, colloquial Spanish. Then the guy on Novak’s right jerked the hood off his head. Novak blinked and squinted as the Lincoln rolled forward again and followed a paved driveway up a long and gradual hill. It looked like a private estate. Tall white stone walls, at least seven or eight feet high, protected inhabitants from intruders. Or perhaps from the police. It looked like the domain of a drug lord to Novak. And that meant Ruiz, which also meant the Mayan.
They drove for about fifty yards, up through a vast field of grass with a multitude of trees crowding the perimeter but very few inside the wall. Novak twisted around and found a panorama of a sprawling city spread out far away in the valley below. Ablaze with lights, Mexico City spread out for miles in the wide basin surrounded by ancient volcanic mountains. The estate was out in the middle of nowhere, where everyone was safe except for Novak. The actual mansion and outbuildings were protected by a second wall, a lower one of about five or six feet, with a wide and ornate metal gate fashioned with a huge stylized sunburst. A button sent it opening slowly inward. Another curved and beautifully landscaped road took them to the front of the Spanish Colonial–style mansion. A massive red double door set with black iron hinges faced a bricked plaza, and beautiful gardens surrounded the circular court, with flowe
ring vines and tinkling fountains.
The house was gigantic, somewhat resembling the façade of the Alamo in Texas, but three times larger and with the studied kind of grandeur that occurs when modern man imitates historical landmarks. Stone Mayan gods stood on either side of the front door, and black iron balconies ran across the upstairs rooms. Twin bell towers on either side, tall and slender, with arched windows at the top, flanked the eight-foot front door. Up in the belfries, armed guards stood in the open arches and pointed automatic rifles down at Novak. Novak made no quick moves as he exited the car. This place was definitely not an army base. This was the home turf of Marisol’s evil papi, and that meant Novak was in big trouble.
Novak was led across the bricked court to the front door. Politely, too. Any other time, he might have disarmed the guards escorting him, shot down as many of the guys on the roof as he could spot, and made a run for it. But the massive gates had closed up tight behind them, and they had to be miles from the nearest village. No wonder Marisol Ruiz felt like a prisoner in the place. Novak had no choice but to go along with whatever they threw at him, but the right moment would present itself. It always did, and until then he would take advantage of their hospitality. The gigantic door dwarfed him and was swung open from the inside by a maid wearing a crisp black uniform with a white apron, an older woman, maybe fifty or so, her gray hair pinned into a bun. Novak entered with his double guard and they all stood together in a quiet central hall. Large red terra-cotta tiles lined the floor, and there was Mayan art all over the place, most of which looked like priceless museum artifacts, as well as a few Spanish conquistador swords and iron helmets that must have been heisted from Mexico’s National Museum of Anthropology. Novak was not interested in the decor. His attention latched onto the man descending the wide tiled staircase.
Okay, the head badman himself was making his appearance: Arturo Ruiz, Father of the Year reject. He turned out to be a big guy, almost as tall as Novak, maybe six feet three or four inches. Close to three hundred pounds, mostly muscle, except for a soft and flabby paunch that hung over the elastic waistband of his sweatpants. That was where Novak would hit him first. He was smoking a narrow Cuban cigar, a cheroot, maybe, one that left a distinct and somewhat pleasant odor hanging in the air. Mr. Mafioso was wearing a bathrobe, red velvet, with a white T-shirt and the stretchy black sweatpants under it. Probably not expecting to entertain any avowed enemies at bedtime. He smiled at Novak when Novak was pulled up in front of him, as if delighted to have a captive to abuse. He motioned with a toss of his head for the guards to escort Novak into the room at the far end of the hall. The guards stood back politely and allowed Novak to precede them.
