by Josie Brown
He writhes in pain.
I get to him just as Gunter stumbles to the van. Before he can drive it over to us, I slap Chen in the face and hiss, “Play along, or he’ll kill you. He doesn’t know it, but once you’re on the plane you’ll be taken into Witness Protection. Understand?”
He groans as he nods.
Gunter skids to a stop in front of him. As I help him load Chen into the back of the van, the video of Jack’s kidnapping comes to mind.
The plane and the Chinese pilot waiting for Chen at Scottsdale Airport are Acme assets. After Gunter and I wave goodbye, it’ll land in Los Angeles, not Beijing. Instead, a Gulfstream-sized drone with its Black Box containing a pre-recorded May Day message will fly the route that was to be taken by Chen’s private plane—
Only to lose steam somewhere over the Pacific.
Eric will be in the clear, since the Chinese pilot whose job it was to fly Chen back to Beijing will take the blame for miscalculating their fuel needs. In truth, he’ll be granted asylum here in the United States, and put into Witness Protection.
So will Chen, if he can jog his photographic memory regarding any Chinese state secrets that he may have seen.
So you see, all’s well that end’s well—
If it also accomplishes the goal of bringing Jack home to me.
Chapter 12
Jack’s Diary, Day 6
Dear Donna,
I am finally being treated like a human being. But as I suspected, my upward mobility comes with a very steep price. Let me explain:
Since killing Oscar and Big Boy, apparently, I now have a new role in the palace: that of El Maestro’s official enforcer.
Today, when I was released into the prison yard—always at nine in the morning, sharp—the other prisoners grew silent and backed away.
It wasn’t as if I chose this role for myself, or for that matter, my victims. In fact, they were already chosen for me, by El Maestro: not just one but two prisoners each day.
My first challenger did not seem shocked at all when El Maestro called out his name. In fact, it was as if he’d already prepared himself for his fate: not just in the way he stood by himself while most of the other prisoners clustered in groups with their backs turned to him.
He was a pariah.
As if to counter this reality, he was absorbed in the book he held in his hands. The title was in English: A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.
The man was in his early thirties: tall with a sinewy build, and he wore glasses. Although his prison garb was just as dingy with dirt and sweat as everyone else’s in this godforsaken place, he wore it without disgrace, as if it were a badge of honor.
Is there nobility in taking your last breath in the prison yard of a drug king?
Personally, I didn’t want to find out. When it came down to his life or mine, his alleged crime against one of the most notorious men in Mexico didn’t matter. The only thing I cared about was living yet one more day in the hope of getting home to you.
“You’ve each been given a gun containing a single bullet,” El Maestro declared. “On my count to three, you will shoot to kill, hombres.” He paused to make his point, then added, “The one who does so lives to see another day. However, if your conscience causes you to miss, let me assure you that my guards feel no such burden.”
My opponent met my stare with a smile.
“Uno…Dos…Tres!”
Still, I paused just long enough to let my opponent take the first shot.
He swung his gun up and around: not at me, but in El Maestro’s direction.
Our host’s eyes widened with fear.
My opponent’s shot went off.
He missed.
He dropped his head in resignation of his fate and faced me.
When my single bullet entered his heart, it was my hope that this brave man saw it as a blessing.
His body had already crumpled to the ground by the time the guards’ bullets spewed from their guns.
El Maestro’s fury at this unexpected turn of events was demonstrated in his next death match choice: a narco lieutenant from another gang.
He was the man who had been in the hellhole before me; the one who left behind a steaming pile of shit as a present.
“The hombre’s name is Eduardo Conseco. His boss, El Martillo, is El Maestro’s sworn enemy,” Jaime explained to me. “He has not broken his silence as to the location of his boss’s closest safe house. It is time for him to pay the piper: you.”
This time, the other prisoners formed a circle of humanity—or I should say inhumanity, considering how the bets were flying fast and furiously around us.
We were jostled to opposite sides of the yard. A guard came out with odd weapons: a double-sided hatchet was put halfway between us on my left, and a bow and arrow, an equal distance away, on my right.
From his balcony perch, El Maestro proclaimed loudly, “When I drop my bandana, you will choose your weapon of choice, and fight to the death.”
I have to think fast. The hatchet would allow me to do a lot of damage, but only if I were up close to my target. The bow and arrow would keep him far away. But I’d have to work fast, and the quiver held only three arrows.
If he’d never used a bow and arrow, his instincts would send him to the hatchet. As you know, Donna, I’ve used both.
Even before the bandana made it to the ground, Eduardo was off and running—
As I suspected, toward the hatchet.
I took off in the opposite direction. I had no time to lose.
Eduardo knew what he had to do: get up close and personal—and fast.
My goal was to keep him away, which meant delivering a kill shot before he was within striking distance.
At one hundred yards, he dodged my first arrow, if only by an inch. Exhilarated, he came at me even faster, roaring like a bull.
At fifty yards, he ducked just in time so that my second arrow soared over his head.
His pause gave me the time I needed to place my last arrow.
But this time, I waited until he was only twenty feet away before drawing the bowstring and releasing the arrow—
It pierced his heart.
He had enough momentum to keep moving even after the light left his eyes.
He fell face down at my feet with such a force that the hatchet’s blade creased the ground.
El Maestro clapped to show his pleasure at the outcome. The murmurs from the prisoners rose to a fevered buzz.
Jaime was still trying to pull it out when I walked off.
El Maestro called to one of his bodyguards. The man listened to his instructions, then hurried off the balcony.
A moment later he was in the prison yard, giving instructions to Jaime.
This time, my escort prodded me across the plaza through a side door on a different side of El Maestro’s palace.
“The first man,” I mutter to Jaime, “Who was he?”
“Just another narco,” he assures me. “I pray that someday they will all kill each other and leave the rest of my countrymen in peace.”
We went down a long hallway, passing several people in lab coats.
A strange smell hit me straight on: vinegar.
One-Eyed Juan was right. There is a meth lab on the premises.
The odor seeped out of a room on the right. The room had a glass window to the hall, allowing someone—El Maestro, I presume—to keep an eye on the action taking place inside.
Instinctively, I turned my head toward it. The drapes on the window were drawn.
Jaime tapped me with his rifle. “Eyes straight ahead, Gringo.”
The hallway ended at a door with a window covered in bars, but it opened into a much larger room, with a real bed, not just a cot. It also had a couple of straight back chairs, and a padded table that was hip high. On the wall across from the table was a large mirror. I’d no doubt it had two-way capabilities, so that my guards could monitor my movements.
The room also had a window to the p
risoners’ yard, but it was high on the wall, narrow in its height, and had bars.
When I entered, I found I was not alone. A woman in her mid-twenties stood before me. She had on a flowing white cotton shift. In the narrow shaft of light coming in through the window, it was obvious that she wore nothing under it.
I’d be lying if I told you she wasn’t pretty: long dark hair, high cheekbones, and ample breasts despite slim hips.
In other words, the kind of beauty that can stop men in their tracks.
But there was much sadness in her cat-like eyes.
Is that what I’m supposed to do too? I wondered. Are they using her as bait? As a reward?
Too bad, it ain’t happening.
There was a crate on a nearby bench. It held several jars. Each was filled with a lotion, each lotion a different color. “What is that?” I asked in English.
“Salves, to heal you.” She pointed to the padded bench.
“Is that why you’re here, to make me feel better?” Even if her English wasn’t that good, she heard the taunting tone in my voice.
“Y—yes,” she stuttered. She bowed her head. “My name is Lola. I am…I am yours to do with, as you please.”
Not very convincing. Then again, she had nothing to prove to me. But obviously, someone was waiting for my answer. My guess was El Maestro.
I knew what he wanted. I also knew I wasn’t going to fall for it.
“Sit, por favor,” she begged me.
I stood for the longest time. Finally, I shrugged and did as she asked.
She waited until I was seated, then opened the smallest of the jars. It was filled with a thick green cream. She stood before me, scanning my body. The worst of my many cuts caught her attention: a deep one, on my left side.
She nodded at it.
Grudgingly, I nodded back.
Slowly, she moved toward me. Her touch was gentle, but the cream was anything but. At first it felt cold, but then it burned as it worked its way into the wound.
Then, as if by magic, it seemed to heal.
She moved around my body, eyeing each injury, dabbing the deepest with the salve, or patting the bruises with a fragrant dark lotion.
Relieved from the pain, I relaxed. I closed my eyes.
“You can lie down if you wish.” Her fingers pressed on a bruise in the center of my back.
I obliged her.
I felt her hands massage the spot with her thumbs, then her knuckles. I let loose with an involuntary groan as pleasure took the place of the pain.
She hesitated a mere second.
Just then, I opened my eyes. I saw her in the mirror. A slim knife was cupped in the palm of her hand.
She was here to kill me.
Just as her hand raised the knife to stab me in my back, I turned around and grabbed her arm by the wrist and slammed her arm down onto the table beside me. In another second, I’d twisted her arm back behind her.
Lola grunted as she struggled, but I yanked her toward me, so close that we were face to face.
She shook so hard that I felt I would break her. Her eyes opened wide with terror.
“Why did El Maestro choose you?” I asked.
The truth came out in a spitting hiss. “Your first victim today—Miguel Ramírez—was my…cómo se dice…how do you say?” She closes her eyes, as if doing so will help her see the word in her mind’s eye. “My fiancé. He was un profesor! He defied El Maestro! He rallied his estudiantes to do so as well!”
“But a guard told me he was a drug peddler.” Shit.
“And you believed him?” She smirked at my naiveté. “Only two of the men you’ve killed so far were El Maestro’s competitors. The others defied him! They wanted him to die, so that we could break free of the drugs that tear our country apart.” She wiped away a tear. “But, unlike Miguel, they are afraid to speak out, let alone overtake his army. And now Miguel is dead because of you.”
“I’m sorry. Had I known…” My voice trailed off.
“Had you known, then what? Would you have let him live? Would you have sacrificed yourself for him?”
No. We both knew it.
She read it in my sigh. “Like you, I wish he’d been a better shot,” I muttered.
Limp and defeated, she crumpled into my arms. “Todo está perdido,” she whispered.
All is lost.
“Nunca,” I vowed. Never.
This one word calmed her. Tears ran down her face as she awakened to the harsh reality of her true dilemma. “I have failed to seduce you, and I have failed to kill you. When I leave this room, El Maestro will do both to me.”
I wiped the dampness from her face. “And you believe him? Perhaps he wanted you to kill me.”
“No!” She shook her head adamantly. “Had he known I would even try, he would not have sent me as your prize. But now…” she blushed. “He will take my virginity. He will make me his puta—his whore.”
“Why would he feel the need to reward me with the…honor? My God, he must know I paused just long enough for Miguel to make that shot.”
“His ego would never let him believe it. He told me that if I’m to stay alive, I must please you. I am your prize—to encourage you to stay strong because you are his new ‘verdugo.’” Noting my confused look, she tried again: “His new executioner.”
I almost laughed out loud. “Is that what I am?”
“Sí! You are now a legend! No one has fought so many for so long! The longer you are victorious, the more money he makes.” Her frown was so quick and so slight that I doubted my room’s hidden camera had time to pick up on it. “The other narcos are now sending their strongest prisoners to fight El Santo. They call them los gladiadores.”
“Gladiators, eh?” My laugh made her shudder. She thought I was a mad man. Hell, maybe I was. Why else would I have muttered, “Help me escape.”
“Si…but you must take me with you.” It wasn’t a plea or a question. It was a declaration.
“Deal.” I needed her to survive.
And she needed me.
I whispered in her ear, “Play along with what I say.” Then, loudly, for anyone else listening in, I declared, “Lola, I will fight with all my might, as long as you are here to visit me every day. It is not just your potions that make me stronger, but your beauty and your kindness.”
I released her, but she held on for dear life. “El Santo,” she stated, loudly and proudly.
“I am anything but a saint I assure you. Otherwise, Miguel would be here with you,” I muttered.
Lola shook her head sadly. “Miguel would not have survived prison,” she murmured softly. “And it would have broken his heart to see what El Maestro will do to me if we fail.”
Donna, should I fall, I pray you never know the truth of what happened to me.
Chapter 13
Communication Issues
Hubbies, it’s almost as if your wives speak a different language, isn’t it? Let me translate for you:
When she says: “Sure, go ahead. You certainly don’t need my permission…”
What she really means is: “If you do, I’ll cold-shoulder you until you’re blue in the face from begging my forgiveness.”
When she says: “Someone called here looking for you, but she didn’t leave her name.”
What she really means is: “If you’re whoring around on me, my lawyer will take you for every dollar you have and half of what you will earn for the rest of your life. Time to tell your tart to take a walk.”
And, finally, when she makes the request: “Please don’t do that anymore.”
What she really means is: “If you do that again, this cleaver will go flying toward your head.”
The language of love is the easiest of all to understand. Ain’t it grand?
As pleased as Eric was with the outcome of my last trial, I presume he’ll grant me the favor of allowing me to call home and check on my children.
I walk over to the door of his study, only to find it closed. I’m just about
to knock when I hear his voice. It is raised in anger. He’s having a fight with someone, but the door is so thick that all I can make out is, “That wasn’t our agreement, señor! I told you to keep him in solitary—not to throw him in with your den of killers in some sort of—of blood sport! …Unacceptable! I’m not one of your kingpin pinheads with no true appreciation for life, let alone an asset’s unique skills! El Maestro…El Maestro, silencio! You’ll do as I say, or I’ll—”
“It’s not polite to snoop,” Varick’s singsong taunt sends his hot breath into my ear, giving me the shivers.
Faking innocence, I flutter my lashes even as I pout. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”
He rolls his eyes in contemplation. “Depends. What was he saying?”
“Oh, I dunno. These doors and walls are pretty thick.”
“Ya think? Let’s test one.” He slams me up against the wall by putting an arm across my chest. The next thing I know, his tongue is darting down my throat.
Yuck.
I bite down hard.
Hearing his yelp, Eric opens the door. He scowls when he sees us standing there, and covers the phone receiver with his hand. Ignoring me, he jerks the thumb of his other hand at Varick.
I stick my foot in the door before he can close it on my face. “I want to call my children. They need to hear from me.”
Eric’s growl is loud enough to hear in the other room. “Hugo! Escort Mrs. Craig to her room. She’s allowed one phone call, to her children. Dial it for her, and wait until you hear a child’s voice.”
They close the door behind them.
The good news: it’ll be a while before Varick can talk, let alone squeal on me.
The bad news: once he does, Eric will want to know what I heard.
Obviously, it wasn’t enough because it doesn’t make any sense to me.
Hugo is Johnny-on-the-spot. Eric’s little toady strong-arms me back to my room and locks me in it while he goes off to parts unknown to retrieve my cellphone.
