by M C Rowley
Rose started asking Jairo about whether he had seen Reynolds before, but Jairo grunted and evaded him. Rose got worked up and pressed him harder. I scanned each photo one by one, and then froze.
The sixth photo was a side shot of the passenger window, like the second had been. But the passenger had turned and was looking right at the camera.
I knew the face.
Pastor Robert.
I stepped back. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t breathe.
Eleanor turned and grabbed my shoulder. “Scott?”
Then Rose and Jean and Jairo turned to me.
“What is it?”
“I know one of those men,” I said.
Rose stood back from the table. “What?”
“The sixth photo. I met that man. He drove me to New York from where the plane crashed. He’s a pastor. He’s a good man.”
I felt woozy, like the room was spinning around me.
“Sit down,” said Eleanor, grabbing a chair. “Tell us everything.”
I did. I recounted the story, starting with X03 at the motel and then meeting the pastor, Robert, and then the drive. Everyone stood listening in a semi-circle around me, except for Jairo, who leaned on the wall to the side, looking straight forward.
“Could be another helper. Reynolds is using people against their will,” said Rose. “I’m pretty sure that’s how he picked up the girlfriend and daughter.”
We hung our heads.
“But the guy means something. We’ll get on it.”
And Rose left the room with Jean. Jairo, Eleanor, and I sat in silence. Our family reunion, not at all as any of us had imagined it would be.
Over the next three days, we were debriefed by Jean and Rose.
Eleanor and I stayed at a small hotel near Langley, guarded by agents twenty-four/seven. Jairo was kept at Langley, in a cell by all accounts. During the day, Eleanor and I imparted everything we knew about Reynolds. Eleanor when she was shipped up to the U.S. and me, regarding the pastor I thought was called Robert.
Rose confirmed that a pastor from Deming, New Mexico, had been reported missing days earlier, although no body had been found. They confirmed little else. Both Mr. Reynolds and Luciana were ghosts. Phantoms here on their home turf, causing rampage in the south. Rose sent agents to collect the body of the leader of the cartel Código X, but there was no sign of X03 at all.
On the fourth day, I asked Jean if we’d be freed. She looked at me like a dissatisfied boss being asked for a pay rise.
“No, Dyce,” she said. “We’re your only chance of finding your granddaughter now.”
And she was right.
Eleanor and I talked only of finding her, that little girl. Our family, whether Jairo liked it or not. Eleanor had that same fire in her eyes she’d had for all those years our son was missing, even when the authorities made us declare him dead and place that damned plaque. She was intent on finding Estrella. Even though she was locked up by the CIA, her will knew no obstacles.
And for the first time in a long time I had her to give me strength again. I held her at night like she might escape with the wind. But every morning I opened my eyes and there she was.
We would find Estrella, I told her again and again.
And I meant it with all my heart.
Epilogue
The house had served him well. It had been grand enough for the Founders to believe he actually lived there, and hidden enough to run the entire operation from there without stirring even a hint of suspicion.
But Reynolds knew the plan had not gone as ordained and that frustrated him. Sure, the return on investment into Código X was pouring into the coffers, and the Founders were ready for the next stage. But things niggled him. And he hated that.
The man they called X03 had died in the wrong way.
Luciana had had to leave the country while the CIA became tangled in evidence.
And he had to return the house a little earlier than he’d hoped.
Nonetheless, he was ready for the final part. Shedding skin was what he did best.
He sat down on the leather chair and waited for the phone to ring.
It did so at the exact hour the estate agent had said she would call.
Reynolds picked up the phone and activated the voice distorter.
“Well?” he said.
A nervous voice came on. “It’s done. Please. I beg you.”
Reynolds smiled. The sound of a person begging, willing to do anything he asked, was beginning to grow on him.
“No loose ends?”
The voice quivered; the woman was holding back tears. “No, it’s all done. The owners believe it was empty the whole time. I assure you.”
“Good,” said Reynolds.
“Tell me where my family is,” said the woman, now breaking into tears. “I did what you asked.”
Reynolds held the thought for a second more than was necessary, assessing his motivation for turning the screw more. No, he decided in silence. He had bigger problems and targets.
He gave the woman the address where she would find her husband and two children being kept against their will: in a basement two hours outside of Chicago.
He hung up.
Then he opened his laptop computer and, via a secure VPN connection, accessed the CCTV camera he had set up back at his base.
The screen flickered to life and showed a small cell containing five middle-aged Mexican men, the same five he had liberated from prison only a few weeks ago.
He observed them, walking to and fro, confused, angry, and lost, and he savored it.
The time had come to finish this.
Reynolds closed the laptop, got up, and cleaned off the last of his prints. Then he picked up the red jerrycan and began dousing the room with gasoline.
He waited for it to soak into the beautiful oak furniture and high-end fixtures, then sparked the Zippo and threw it to the ground. A curtain of purple flames fanned out sideways and blanketed the room.
He smiled.
Shedding skin was what he did best.
And no one would find him, unless he wanted them to.
The time for his final retribution had come.
THE END
Book 3: Blood For Blood
Prologue
Mr. Reynolds stood looking at his family again. He spoke to them but they never spoke back. He couldn’t blame them. He had trusted the wrong people, and he had told his family they could trust him. But he’d been wrong. He had learned in the hardest possible way that you should never trust any other person. Everyone in his life had betrayed him and now retribution was here.
The wind blew through the trees and over his face. He blew kisses at the floor and walked away.
He got in the rental car and drove across town to the warehouse, where he pulled into the deserted car park and then entered the empty space on foot. He had bought this entire abandoned building and had had the “bodegas” emptied, all so he could occupy one on its own.
He pulled the chain across the car park and walked around the office to the rows of storage units, taking the keys from his pocket. He walked to Unit 13 and put the key in the heavy-duty padlock at the bottom, and with some wriggling and fidgeting got the sliding door up and open.
He looked at his pathetic former captors.
They turned their drug-addled heads toward him and dribble came out of their mouths. The black market doctor had done an excellent job, thought Reynolds. No blood. No evidence. And the five men looked hideous.
He smiled.
He pulled out his burner phone and looked up the number he had gotten for Agent David Rose of the CIA. It was time to give him a call.
Chapter One
I was sat around a board meeting room table with Agents David Rose and Jean Santos, my wife Eleanor and our son, Jairo. The agents wore white shirts tucked into smart black pants. My wife, Jairo and I wore jogging pants and tee shirts, supplied to us by the CIA.
We had been at Langley, CIA’s headqua
rters in Washington DC, for three days since we had found Jairo’s girlfriend Vanessa’s body at the cemetery in New York State, murdered by Mr Reynolds. We had nothing. No lead, no idea where Mr Reynolds was or who he was. Only a photo of the man I had met claiming to be Pastor Robert driving away in one of Reynolds’ cars. We had questioned whether Pastor Robert had been Reynolds, or just another person Reynolds had used to get what he needed.
Agent Rose had decided it was the latter.
Which left us with nothing to go on.
Rose was a large man, six foot and with a thick neck like an ex-American football player. His features seemed to be permanently downturned and today they were turned all the way down to straight-up-pissed-off.
He had been explaining that the bosses upstairs had told him the operation to catch Reynolds had a time limit and that his boss, Agent Finchley, had informed him that they were to vacate Langley and work in a satellite office in DC central.
Rose said, “So we’re out of here. It’s not good. We have two weeks to resolve this or it goes to the FBI, who will bury it under their myriad of open cases and Reynolds will get away.”
I exchanged glances with Eleanor.
“That can’t happen,” I said. “He has our granddaughter.”
Rose shook his head, exasperated, “Dyce, I’m sorry for your granddaughter, but this isn’t the missing persons department at your local cop shop. This is the CIA. We aren’t even allowed to operate inside USA borders. Two weeks is all we have.”
Jean stood, “Agent Rose can’t do anything about it. We’re moving to the satellite office now. We’ll set up and continue to work from there.”
Eleanor put her head in her hands. Jairo just stared into space as he always did, unless he was putting a bullet into someone’s head.
“Let’s go,” said Jean.
We shipped out of Langley in a black SUV with a driver and headed into Washington DC’s downtown. As we rolled past buildings that got bigger and bigger, Rose’s cell phone started to ring. I ignored it at first, but saw his expression as he looked at Jean.
He answered, “Yes?”
His face went pale as he listened to the caller. He put a finger to his mouth to hush us and placed the phone on his lap and tapped a button to activate the loud speaker.
A tinny, distorted voice came from the device, “I wish to make an exchange. Jairo Morales for evidence you can use.”
Rose answered, “Evidence?”
“Trust me,” said Reynolds. “It will be worth your time.”
“Where?”
“There is a disused warehouse near Car Creek Marina Office on the coast.”
Jean had her notebook out and scribbled down the details.
Reynolds continued, “Be there today at 5pm. I want Morales tied to a chair in the middle of the old warehouse, blindfolded. I want him alone.”
Rose ran back over the details. “For real? Today?”
“I am in control here,” said Reynolds. “You have nothing. This is your only chance. Give me Jairo and I guarantee something worth your while in return.”
And the call went dead.
“We can’t leave Jairo there alone,” said Eleanor.
Rose ignored her and looked at Jairo, “Morales, we’ll be there too. It’s 3pm now. We have go there straight away. Reynolds is right. We have nothing. Quite frankly, you’re a worthy sacrifice to get a lead.”
Jairo sneered at him, “Do I have a choice?”
“No you don’t.”
Eleanor pleaded for a bit but I told her we would all be there. Jairo would be safe. But secretly I agreed with Rose. We had no choice. And I trusted the agents. I had nothing else to go on.
Chapter Two
Rose told the driver to redirect to the coast and he took the next available exit. We drove for an hour after Jean found the warehouse on Google Maps. We pulled up and found a deserted and dilapidated building, around two stories tall, with weeds and trees growing out of cracks in the cement. There was no sign of anyone.
“Right,” said Rose, signaling the driver to drive away but stay close. “Let’s get Morales tied up, blindfolded and find a place to watch. Scott, Eleanor? You don’t make a move, understood?”
We agreed and went into the empty space. There was nothing but debris and trash in the corners, except for a single metal chair right in the middle.
After ten minutes, Jairo was strapped to the chair in the middle of the space, about 2,000 square meters and empty except for the pillars preventing the fragile ceiling from crashing to the cement floor.
Jean and Rose had chosen a spot on the second floor, lying flat on their stomachs, elbows hunched up to hold the binoculars steady. Eleanor and I were slightly back from them but still had a view of our son below. It was 4:55pm.
We waited.
I whispered to Eleanor, “Reynolds will know we are here.”
Eleanor kept her eyes on the prize, “Doesn’t matter if he shows up.”
The air was salty, blown from across the bay into the old port. Once, this place had been a hive of activity and economy, but now it was nothing more than ruins. One day it would all be gone. Or redeveloped. The East Coast was prime real estate. Heck, I thought, they even sold the rights to air here.
I watched Jairo’s figure from behind. Sitting upright, staring forward. I was worried about him now, truth be known. To Agent Rose, Jairo was mere bait. Bait for the deadfall. I felt afraid that Rose was underestimating Reynolds. I pushed the thought aside, but in my empty guts I knew I was right.
Below them, 200 yards away, Jairo sat in silence, blindfolded as Reynolds had specified. Patient. He was used to waiting for hours at a time—in long grass, in the jungle, in the desert. Wherever.
Although his eyes were covered, he had partial vision of the space. In front of him was the north side of the warehouse space—a mighty gray wall, its mezzanine floor long collapsed, leaving tracks of exposed brick. There were pillars dotted at ten-meter intervals, and in between them in the side walls arched doorways led to other warehouse spaces and what had once been administrative offices. Jairo focused his hearing on those edges, from where a person would come.
He heard nothing beside the slight breeze coming in off the harbor.
Rose had fitted him with a small radio in the form of an earpiece to communicate with them on the second floor. In his ear, Jean’s voice came through loud and clear, “we’ll give it an hour, Jairo.”
“Leave me here if you have to. Tell your boss to go home. I’m waiting this out.”
“An hour is more is enough,” said Jean. “This could be a waste of time.”
Jairo snorted, “He wants us to be here for some reason. So I say wait.”
“Well, we’ll wait another thirty and then reassess, okay?”
Jairo didn’t answer.
“Jairo?”
He said nothing. He had heard a sound.
“Shhh.” Jairo spoke, as quietly as he could, “Be quiet. Someone’s coming.”
Chapter Three
The footsteps Jairo heard were light, not from a child, but like a small adult wearing rubber soles—probably boots, judging by the labored tread. The steps were slow, and sporadic, like a drunk would walk, or someone with a disability in one leg. The sounds came at slightly varying intervals. They came from Jairo’s right. That was all the information he could garner. Whoever, it was getting closer to him.
“Show yourself,” he said.
Jean’s voice crackled in his ear. “Nothing rash, Jairo. Remember.”
“I’m tied to a chair,” said Jairo.
The footsteps drew closer. They thudded randomly toward him and then slightly away from him. Maybe the person was playing with him.
“Come here,” he said, and the footsteps stopped. Then the feet turned, rubber sliding over cement floor.
“Come here.”
The footsteps started again, up a notch, with a little more purpose than before. Jairo stretched his spine and sat up straight, preparing for
a blow. The footsteps were ten feet away, then five. He braced himself.
“Jesus,” said Jean in his ear. “What the hell?”
The person approaching was producing a strange sound, a gargling and a low groaning. The steps were next to Jairo now, and then someone banged into his knees and he felt the figure trip and fall to the floor with a loud thud.
Jairo could hear the person struggling to draw breath on the floor at his feet.
“What’s happening?”
Jean said nothing, and Jairo heard more steps. This time from his left. This time more pairs of feet, all doing the same zombie-like shuffle.
“Jean? What’s going on? Talk to me!”
Jean’s voice came through shaking, either from fear or shock. “There are more of them.”
Jairo heard more footsteps. He listened hard. Four pairs of feet. Plus the fallen figure in front of him. Five people in total. All groaning and gargling.
“More of who?”
“Men,” said Jean. “There are five men. Oh Jesus, it’s horrible.”
Jairo shuffled in his seat. He smelled blood.
“Hold on,” said Jean. “We’re coming down.”
Jean and Rose got up and motioned us to stay but I stood and told Eleanor to follow. We made our way down the back stairwell in silence, speechless at what we had seen. I almost believed the figures might have disappeared by the time we made it to Jairo, like some nightmarish vision. But when we got to the floor, and Rose and Jean drew their guns, and walked into the pillared space, the five men were all there, shuffling and walking around Jairo.
Five men each with one arm missing, covered in blood, blindfolded from the nose to the top of the head, their mouths agape, dribbling bile and blood. They were spaced out, seemingly unaware of their surroundings.
Rose gestured at Jean and then to the left, pointing two fingers at her and gesturing for her to go right. They split up and walked slowly through the pillars towards Jairo and the five mutilated figures, keeping their guns hovering over each one. Eleanor clutched my arm from behind. It was terrifying.
