The Ninth Day

by Jamie Freveletti

  The Ninth Day

  Jamie Freveletti

  Dedication

  For my husband, Klaus,

  who taught me that life is an adventure not to be missed

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Preview of the Next Installment

  About the Author

  Resounding Praise for Jamie Freveletti

  By Jamie Freveletti

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Emma Caldridge sat in the tunnel and watched the rats gather around her. Their eyes glowed when they bisected the small beam of moonlight pinpointing through the jagged seam in the ceiling. Sacks of marijuana lined the walls, and metal rails ran along the floor. Emma heard the voices of her pursuers whispering to each other in Spanish outside the tunnel’s entrance.

  She’d been tracking their progress through the dry, dusty Arizona night. She couldn’t believe her luck, coming upon an actual shipment as she did, but her good fortune changed when a straggler among them appeared at her back. She’d run through the night, chased by the coyote who was as fleet as the animal itself. The man was whipcord thin and feral and he’d stalked her with the intensity of one who knew his continued livelihood depended on catching her before she went to the police. She’d outpaced him on the flats, but he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. He’d caught up with her on the twisting path, when she found herself stumbling off it at the turns. She’d fought down the fear she felt, doing her best to focus on the trail and her pace. As an ultra marathoner she’d learned how to discipline her mind to halt any thoughts of defeat, and now she’d used that training to keep the terror at bay. She’d kept one ear tuned to the noise behind her in order to gauge his approach, and when he neared she increased her speed. She knew she could outrun him with ease as long as the trail remained visible and clear. What she didn’t know was what obstacles loomed in front of her.

  A second had joined him right before she fell. The tunnel’s entrance was well hidden, and she’d tumbled straight down into it, legs first. She’d managed to sit up as the rats converged, but she could feel bone-deep pain in the soles of her feet where they had hammered into the packed earth floor on her descent.

  She rose with a grimace, her feet throbbing at the extra weight. A whiff of air fanned her face and she dodged the dark body of a bat swooping toward her. Two more flew past and she hunched over, lowering her face to her chest. The fear fought its way upward, causing her breath to hitch. The fall into the tunnel had changed the dynamic from one where she had the whole world in which to flee to one where her flight was controlled. Now her pursuers had an edge. With one hand on the side wall and one foot along the rail, she started forward. The air smelled of dirt and grass overlaid with the distinctive odor of marijuana. At least here the shipment was inanimate. What she’d seen above was the transportation of human slaves, most of them men, being moved to locations where they would work without rest until they died.

  She heard the coyote land in the passage behind her. She stepped up the pace, shuffling along, keeping her feet in contact with the rail and her hand on the wall. She’d left that evening with a camelback filled with water and a fanny pack filled with packets of running gel composed of amino acids and electrolytes to provide her with any immediate energy boost she might need. Her cell phone remained on and she’d sent a text to the main office at the first sight of the shipment. She doubted the phone would get a signal now and didn’t waste any time pulling it out.

  The cavern curved left, the darkness broken here and there by shafts of light from above. The men behind her had gained ground—that much was obvious by the sounds of their approach, growing louder. She stepped up to a jog, her anxiety spiking and her eyes watering with the effort of trying to pierce the gloom. Her panting echoed in the space and she sucked on the camelback spout, pulling the tepid water into her dry mouth. She came upon a handcart stacked high with sacks and for a brief moment she considered jumping on it and using the pump bar to propel the device. She discarded the idea. It would be too noisy, and she wasn’t sure if the trolley required two people to move the seesaw handle.

  Her hand hit some wooden supports and she felt a splinter gouge deep into her index finger at the first knuckle. She grit her teeth on the pain, doing her best not to make a sound. She kept moving, even picking up speed. The tunnel curved right and she felt the floor sloping upward. A creaking, squealing noise echoed through the enclosed space followed by the sound of the trolley wheels sliding over the rails. She ran faster, holding her right hand out in front of her and stumbling as her foot hit a small pothole in the dirt floor. She stubbed her toe on the rail when it curved once again.

  Her hand knocked into a plywood wall. She ran her fingers over it, looking for a doorknob and finding none. She rubbed her palms along the walls a few feet before the door and on either side, hoping for an opening that might send her in an alternate direction, but she met with solid, packed earth. She’d reached the end.

  The trolley moved toward her, the screeching metal sound filling the tunnel. Her fear choked her and all thoughts of stealth flew out of her head. She pounded on the wooden panel with both fists, no longer caring about the noise she made. The door flew open and she plummeted through the entrance, landing face-first on a linoleum floor. Bright light blinded her. She rolled over and looked up into the eyes of a man and down the barrel of a pistol.

  “Welcome to Mexico, señorita,” he said.

  Chapter 2

  The coyote stepped through the door and leveled a reddened stare at Emma. He wore jeans and a black tee shirt, and his heavily tattooed arms were ropey and muscular. Behind him came the second, a stocky man with a mustache and greasy hair that hung past his ears. Both gave the man with the gun a nod and moved a bit to the side, as if they were content to let him handle her. The gunman twitched his weapon, indicating she should stand. Emma rose, dusting dirt and twigs off her legs as she did. She noted his jeans, white shirt—the sleeves rolled—expensive belt, and flat black loafers. A Rolex watch glittered on his wrist. A pistol-shaped pendant, encrusted with diamonds, hung from a thick gold chain that encircled his neck. His swarthy skin indicated that he was Hispanic, but his eyes were a bright green, like Emma’s own. She stared back at him. Waiting.

  “Name,” he said in English.

  “Emma Caldridge.”

  “You Border Patrol?”

  Emma hesitated. She was fully prepared to li
e if it meant she’d stay alive, but she wasn’t sure if claiming Border Patrol status would protect her or destroy her.

  “No,” she said.

  The man visibly relaxed. He kept the gun on her, but it was clear to Emma that he no longer saw her as a risk.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Looking for night-blooming plants. I’m a chemist for a lab that makes cosmetic products. We’re always searching for plants we can use.”

  The gunman fired off a sentence in Spanish. The coyote answered.

  “What did you see?”

  “See? I don’t know what you mean.”

  The gunman stepped closer and raised the pistol so that its muzzle was only inches from her face.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Emma kept her breathing shallow, but allowed the panic she was still feeling to show on her face. She knew her only hope of staying alive was to pretend ignorance of the shipment.

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Carlos said you ran.”

  “He scared me and then chased me. He didn’t seem friendly.”

  The gunman chuckled. “He’s not.” The gunman spoke English with only a slight Spanish accent. Not native, but not late acquired either. Emma thought he may have been educated in the States or had a business over the border where he practiced his English often.

  She kept her eyes riveted on the gun, but tried to get a sense of her location. She was in a small room, maybe twelve by twelve, with gray cinder-block walls, no windows, no furniture, and one door on the opposite side. She heard the hum of fluorescent lights above her. One of the tubes buzzed as if it was close to burning out. The gunman snapped out an order in Spanish, and the coyote stepped up.

  “Give him your jewelry and your packs,” the gunman said. Emma handed him her watch and a chain bracelet. She left the stack of three rubber bracelets, the kind used by charitable organizations to indicate a donation, on her other wrist and the gunman didn’t seem to care. She shrugged off the camelback, unclasped the fanny pack, and handed both to the coyote. He squeezed the camelback until liquid squirted out the water tube. He tossed it on the floor. He unzipped the fanny pack. Dumped her running gel, pen, pencil, handed her cell phone to the gunman, who put it in his pocket, and pulled out her GPS tracker. The coyote peered at the handset, a puzzled look on his face.

  “What’s that?” the gunman said.

  “A GPS tracker.”

  The gunman snatched the device out of the coyote’s hand and shoved it at her. “Turn it off. Now!”

  Emma powered it down. When she looked up, the gunman knocked the tracker out of her hand and shoved her backward, following her trajectory and pinning her against the wall with his body. She winced with the pain of the cinder blocks slamming into her spine. He dug the revolver’s muzzle into her cheek. She felt his heat and barely contained anger. He smelled of weed and whiskey.

  “Why do you have a GPS tracker?”

  Emma swallowed once. “I’m an ultra runner. When I train I run sometimes thirty, forty miles. Not too many people can run that distance, so I’m usually alone on the trail. The tracker is in case something happens and a rescue team needs to find me.” Emma held her breath. She prayed that he believed her.

  “Turn around. Face the wall.”

  Emma’s mouth went dry. Every instinct she had rebelled against the idea of turning her back on this man.

  “If you’re going to put a bullet in my brain do it now, while I’m watching.”

  The Gunman gave her a sly look. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

  Emma stayed still.

  “Turn around!”

  Reluctantly, Emma shifted. When she was face to bricks, the Gunman kicked apart her shoes. He frisked her with quick efficiency. He yanked her arms behind her and tied her hands together with plastic ties. Someone covered her face with a cotton cloth. She hissed in pain as he pulled the knot tight, because he’d caught strands of her hair. They dragged her forward. Emma moved with them, doing her best not to trip. She heard the far door squeal open and felt a rush of warm evening air flow over her. She followed along. Gravel crunched under her feet and she heard chirping crickets.

  Another door creaked, and the gunman said, “You’re at the back of a van. Get in and lie down.” An arm steadied her as she moved ahead a step. Her thighs hit the edge of the vehicle, and she turned around to sit in the opening. She scooted backward on the metal floor and laid down, angling onto her side to relieve the pressure on her hands behind her. The doors slammed shut. Within seconds the van started moving.

  Emma lay there and thought about her situation. She’d been in the area searching for night-blooming plants found in the desert regions of the western states, but she’d been asked to remain alert for any signs of drug or human smuggling, which was endemic in the areas bordering Mexico. Her plant search was funded by Pure Chemistry, the lab where she worked as a chemist, and her trafficking information was requested by Darkview, a contract security company that handled dangerous missions the world over. As she bounced along in the van, she thought that nothing either company paid her was worth the danger in which she now found herself. Still, she lay there and counted her blessings. They’d taken everything but the things she needed the most.

  The thin compass in her cargo pocket and the rubber bracelets around her wrist remained.

  Chapter 3

  Oswald Kroger sat in a bar in Phoenix, Arizona, and wondered why the hell he’d taken on this latest job. He pulled on a longneck while contemplating the stupidity of what he was about to do. He knew it was dumb, but years of drifting had made money scarce. Oz had only the clothes on his back and his motorcycle. And a near genius IQ, but that little fact was usually only discussed by his family, who would call him periodically to try to coax him back to MIT. He’d left with a beautiful girl to follow a rock band across the country. The girl had returned to college in September, but he’d stayed on with the crew, picking up odd jobs and sleeping in parking lots. Now he was twenty-seven years old and the whole drifter thing was getting tired. He’d agreed to transport some pot from Mexico to Phoenix. Four loads, eight thousand dollars. Oz thought the payoff abnormally high, but the guy who’d recruited him claimed that Oz had what the Mexican cartel didn’t: a valid U.S. passport. Oz agreed to run it. Once he had the cash, he would use it to settle somewhere and begin to put his life back on track.

  What bothered Oz about the whole concept was the statistical probability of apprehension. He’d gone to the local library, logged on to the Internet, and surfed until he’d found a Department of Homeland Security report that estimated the number of arrests for the transportation of marijuana compared to the amount of marijuana believed to be imported. As far as he could tell, he had a 73 percent chance of being arrested over the course of twenty shipments. Even though he’d only agreed to four, that didn’t reduce his chances of capture, because capture was random, and his chances were equal that he could be captured at the first, or the last shipment. Or he could beat the odds and never get caught. Oz was betting on the twenty-seven percent freedom quotient. Freedom with eight thousand dollars. Now that particular number he liked. Still, the whole idea was stupid and risky. If he wanted to reduce the risk, he’d have to find a smarter way to transport than the cartel did. Oz figured that a guy with his brains should be able to come up with a plan that would take the transportation to a new level. If he didn’t, he’d fall prey to the seventy-third percentile.

  He finished his beer, plunked it down on the bar, and headed out into the night. Oz felt the heat of the neon “Beer” sign as he passed it, shoulder height and stuck on the outside wall as it was. It glowed an amber yellow that stung his eyes and forced him to wince. His motorcycle sat at the end of a long row of cars parked in the lot of the Red Lion Tavern.

  He walked up to the machine and smiled, as he always did when he saw it. He loved his bike. It was an eight-year-old Triumph Bonneville in blue with black-and-white checkerboard stripes, given to h
im by one of the English rockers who didn’t want to take the trouble to transport it back to Britain. Oz took it in lieu of a bonus due him for crew work on the band’s tour. It sported a couple of scratches from the two falls the rocker had taken while using it, but otherwise it was in excellent condition.

  He lowered a full face helmet over his head and adjusted his leather jacket. His battered Wrangler jeans hung a bit on him, and he noticed a hole forming at the knee. Growing up he’d been the tall, skinny kid, unable to fit in with his peers due to his intellect. Skipping grades in school had only made it worse, because then he was the tall, skinny, little boy among the older, more sophisticated teenagers. At MIT he’d finally met people near his age who could equal, and even surpass, him in brains, but the damage was done and he’d struggled to form friendships, a skill he hadn’t learned. When Karen had asked him to hit the road with her, it was the first time a girl had really paid any attention to him. She laughed with him, teased him, and showed him the way around a woman’s body. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth had she allowed it. When she broke it off to return to MIT he’d been devastated.

  He swung a leg over, started the engine, and rode out of the parking lot. His first stop was Nogales, Mexico, just over the border from Arizona. He’d meet his contact there, get instructions, and he’d be a quarter of the way toward freedom. He settled in for the three-hour ride, letting the wind blow over him and feeling the cycle’s vibration. The recruiter had wanted him to ditch the Triumph, disliking the flashy paint job, but Oz had refused. They compromised and Oz agreed to travel at night, when there were fewer people on the road to notice him. He glanced up. Stars lined the sky and a sliced moon glowed above him.

  He crossed the border into Mexico at four o’clock in the morning. The patrol showed no particular interest in him or his cycle. He rode straight through the shuttered town on empty streets and kept going until he was twenty miles south. He slowed when he saw a dirt road on his left marked with a battered sign nailed to a fence post, the word “Puma” scrawled in black across it. Oz idled a moment, staring at the sign. The concept that he was at a crossroads in his life, actually and figuratively, occurred to him. He shook himself, cranked the throttle on the bike, and turned down the road.