Once Morales got the door open, he snatched the bottle from Cal’s hand.
“I guess you’re good for something, gringo.” He then head-butted Cal. He snarled at Kelly before shaking Jake and screaming to wake him.
Jake awoke again, startled at the sight of his tormentor.
Morales cackled at the fear he wrought on his captives. Then he slammed the door shut, causing a picture to fall off the far wall.
“Are you sure getting him more drunk is a good idea, Cal?” Kelly asked, tucking Jake back underneath his blanket.
“Just give it some time. And be ready when I give you the word.”
An hour passed and Morales’ motor skills continued to diminish. He stumbled around the shop, slamming into things. He punched car doors and slurred threats at no one in particular. He even missed his mouth a couple of times while trying to take another drink. He was almost done with the bottle of tequila when he started staring at it like he did the previous one.
Cal shook Kelly, who had been resting.
“It’s almost time,” he said. “Get ready.”
Kelly scooped up Jake in her arms. He didn’t resist, content to remain asleep. Cal marveled at Kelly’s natural ability to nurture. Though Cal was protective of her, he didn’t consider her as fragile. Kelly suspected everyone thought she was fragile when they did things for her, but Cal simply tried to act like a gentleman. Sometimes that meant protecting her. And if she felt that meant he thought she was fragile, Cal didn’t care. But he thought of her more as a rugged, do-it-yourself kind of woman. He had never seen her treat someone so tenderly.
Cal turned his attention back toward the shop where Morales was stumbling around. It was time.
Cal tapped the glass and waved yet another bottle of tequila. This time, Morales lumbered toward him, banging into large objects scattered about the room. Two cars and a large toolbox took the brunt of Morales’ wrecking ball approach to walking. He finally arrived at the door and unlocked it.
Morales stood in the doorway and stuck out his hand for the bottle.
“Gracias, señor,” he said, slurring his words.
Instead of handing Morales the bottle, Cal swung it with all his might, knocking Morales in the head. Morales staggered back and fell onto the ground. Kelly scooped Jake up and headed toward the office door.
“Go! Go! Go!” Cal yelled, putting himself between Kelly and Morales.
Once Kelly cleared the doorway and headed toward the shop exit, Cal began to run after her. Before he could take a second step, he felt a huge hand wrap around his ankle with a death grip.
“Run, Kelly, run!” Cal yelled as he struggled to get free.
Cal’s efforts to escape failed. Morales’ grip was too strong, sending Cal tumbling to the ground. Morales dragged Cal’s body toward him before pinning him down with his knee.
Morales began berating Cal in Spanish while punching him repeatedly in the face. He was so disheveled that he seemed resigned to let Kelly and Jake escape. Instead, he was going to take out his anger on Cal.
* * *
SOLTERBECK’S CELL PHONE BUZZED. It was the FBI answering service.
“Agent Solterbeck, I have a call coming through from Kelly Mendoza. She said it’s urgent and that she needs to speak to you.”
“Yes, let me talk to her.”
The line clicked in.
“Kelly? Are you OK?” Solterbeck asked.
“Yes, I am. I’ve got Jake and he’s fine. But Cal didn’t get away,” she said. Solterbeck could tell she was out of breath.
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I’m in Juarez somewhere near our hotel.”
“OK, just get me the cross streets and we’ll have one of our agents come pick you up in 10 minutes. Just sit tight and stay out of sight.”
Kelly gave Solterbeck the cross street names and awaited the extraction team.
CHAPTER 37
NOAH LARSON TWISTED AND TURNED in his bed. He would’ve been this nervous if it was just the Super Bowl. But this was the Super Bowl—and he was going to make sure the Seahawks lost. His restless sleep kept Ellen up as well.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Noah announced. “I just can’t do this any more. I can’t keep lying to everyone and pretending like it’s all OK because it isn’t. Our son could die because I’m the quarterback of a football team and some greedy bastards are trying to get rich quick.”
Ellen allowed her emotions to follow Noah’s. As long as he was calm, she was calm. But when he became unhinged, it was a toxic combination. She started sobbing.
“I can’t believe I went along with this and didn’t tell anyone. I feel like such a fraud.”
Just then, Noah’s phone buzzed. It was Solterbeck.
“What?!” Noah said excitedly. “Are you serious?”
Ellen waited breathlessly for Noah to get off the phone and tell him the good news that she wanted to hear.
“What is it, Noah?”
“They’ve got Jake! He’s safe and will be here in the morning!”
Noah and Ellen hugged each other tightly, crying tears of joy together. Jake was coming home.
* * *
BY ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, Cal began to wonder how he would function the next day. The drunken beast had beaten him long and hard. A nice shiner and some nasty body bruises resulted from Morales’ tequila rage. He even suspected he had a broken pinky finger on his left. But Cal couldn’t be too upset. It was his idea to get Morales drunk enough to escape. Cal just couldn’t finish the escape part. This was the price for not completing the plan. But he was still alive.
Morales kicked Cal around for forty-five minutes before calling in reinforcements. He wanted to make sure dawn didn’t break without having at least one hostage. If he were empty handed, Hernandez would surely kill him. But with Cal alive, death was not quite as certain.
Cal lay face down on the concrete floor, right where Morales had left him. Without the strength to attempt an escape, Cal didn’t move. Hernandez had some sort of plan for him. Why not just stay alive and live to see another day? Cal knew when it was time to retreat—and this was it. He eventually fell asleep.
CHAPTER 38
CAL AWOKE TO THE SOUND of a garage door rolling up and the shouting of men’s voices. His neck was stiff and his back sore from sleeping on the concrete floor. He moved slowly but quickened the pace when one of Hernandez’s men shoved the point of an assault rifle into his back.
“Move, amigo!” the man barked.
Cal got up and shuffled in the direction the man with the gun was prodding him. Another man blindfolded Cal before shoving him into the waiting van. Cal couldn’t be sure what time it was, but what did it matter? He was on someone else’s schedule right now, doing whatever they told him to do. Maybe he would get out of this alive, maybe he wouldn’t. And while something like time was irrelevant in his situation, just knowing it brought back some sense of normalcy.
“What time is it?” Cal asked, hoping someone in the van would answer him.
Silence.
“Does anyone know what time it is?” he asked again.
Nothing.
Maybe it’s the language barrier. He tried it in Spanish. “Que hora es?”
“Es hora de que te calles,” came the response. It was followed by a whack to his head with the butt of a rifle. Not exactly the answer Cal was hoping for, but it didn’t hurt too much to ask.
Cal couldn’t see through the blindfold, but he felt like he was seated in the back of the van. It was the same one Hernandez’s men had brought him here in. Hernandez customized the van, making it perfect for operations such as these. Long seats ran around the inside perimeter, replacing the bench seats. The floorboard didn’t feel slick; the metal had been covered by a spongey substance. Probably to absorb all the blood, Cal thought.
After a few more minutes of men shouting and screaming instructions in Spanish, Cal heard the garage door crash down before the van door slammed shut. The
van lurched forward, speeding off in an unknown direction.
Cal had no idea what to expect, but he hoped they wouldn’t dump his body off a cliff. This was not the way he wanted to end it all, a footnote on the inside page of a newspaper or buried on a website somewhere. He wanted his life to matter.
* * *
SOLTERBECK STEPPED OUT OF the helicopter at the site Hernandez gave him. He nursed his scalding cup of coffee. The morning light peeked over the horizon for the first time that day. Instead of being here, Solterbeck would have preferred to be asleep in his own bed. But this situation dictated he have a second plan and a third plan. The location was remote without multiple ways in or out—for most people. However, with access to plenty of FBI resources on this case, he made sure numerous options existed. Solterbeck needed Cal out of there alive. It would be good for his career and good press for the agency, a win-win situation that everyone could feel good about.
The coordinates Solterbeck received were at the top of a bluff. A winding dirt road led to a precise location as the only manageable way in or out by car. The surrounding area was extra sandy with large boulders. Navigating a vehicle through that area would present a challenge to even the best of drivers. However, it was the bluff’s unique shape that formed almost a peninsula, making it perfect for a swap. Hernandez’s men would take the position closest to the exit while Solterbeck would have to wait. It was a type of extra insurance. The nearby ridge overlooking the bluff also gave Hernandez the opportunity to position long-range snipers to make sure everything went smoothly. This concerned Solterbeck, but he knew the location would be far from ideal from his perspective.
Solterbeck jumped onto the helicopter and left after 20 minutes of scouting the area. He would be back in less than three hours for the swap. He had a few phone calls to make.
* * *
THE VAN CARRYING CAL bumped along toward its destination. He still had no idea when he would arrive or what would happen after he got there. He just knew they weren’t getting there soon enough. While Cal wouldn’t consider himself fluent in Spanish, he knew enough so he could pass the time by listening to the conversation buzzing around the van. The men guarding Cal didn’t seem to think he could understand much of what they were saying. Their tongues wagged loose and free.
Cal gathered a few important details. First, Hernandez wasn’t there nor would he be coming. Secondly, Hernandez needed some type of insurance. Cal wasn’t sure what that meant or what it was referring to, but he had a good idea that they weren’t talking about the kind you can buy to protect your home, life or vehicle.
Suddenly, the terrain switched from pavement to dirt. The potholes, however, jolted the van with the same frequency. But wherever they were, it wasn’t near Juarez any more—or on well-traveled stretch of the highway.
The van turned sharply left, flinging Cal to the right. One of the men shoved Cal back to his original seat. More potholes and sand. A minute later, the van skidded to a stop. Hernandez’s men hustled Cal to the opening of the van before removing his blindfold. The door slid open and Cal squinted at the morning sun beaming down.
Cal needed a few moments for his eyes to fully adjust. The men forced Cal out of the van. Cal staggered forward. He was standing on the edge of a cliff.
CHAPTER 39
A LIGHT RAIN THRUMED against the bay window overlooking the tarmac at George Bush International airport. Noah fidgeted with his hands, rapidly bouncing his knee. Ellen adjusted her oversized sunglasses. The thick clouds blanketing the Houston sky didn’t warrant shades, but they did serve to hide the mascara streaking down her face.
This wasn’t the week Noah expected six days ago. He wished he could have it all back, enjoying a crowning achievement in his career with his teammates and family. The Super Bowl. Noah had worked his whole life to get to this point, the penultimate goal for every football player. Yet here he was, less than 10 hours before kickoff and all he could think about was his family.
The airport granted the Larsons use of a private room that connected to the tarmac. It would be the quickest way to see Jake once he arrived. The minutes dripped by. Would he ever arrive?
Finally, Jake walked through the door. He sprinted straight for Noah, who met him halfway. Noah scooped up his son and spun him around. Jake didn’t say a word. He just buried his head into his dad’s shoulder and sobbed.
Noah never thought the Super Bowl could seem so small and insignificant. Today, it did. Now, he would play his final game with integrity, with his chin up. He wasn’t prepared, but he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Not today. The game itself didn’t really matter.
What mattered to Noah was the four-foot nothing, 55-pound boy who clung to his neck, feet interlocked behind his back. And his wife who sandwiched Jake with him. Nothing stopped the tears. Fear roared and hope roared back. The Larsons were all together. One last game and that was it. They would get on with the business of being a family.
Noah walked over to one of the FBI agents to inquire about Cal’s status.
“I need to thank Cal,” Noah said.
“Well, that won’t be possible.”
“He’s not dead, is he?”
“No. Not yet anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t really divulge that information Mr. Larson, but let’s just say this operation did not go as planned.”
“But he’s still alive?”
“For the time being. We’ll let you know something if and when we can.”
“Fair enough,” Noah said. He wasn’t used to being told he couldn’t know something. But it would have to do. Cal had to make it back alive.
CHAPTER 40
DIAZ STEPPED IN FRONT OF CAL. He was the only thing between Cal and a long fall to the bottom of a ravine.
“Hey, let’s not be so hasty,” Cal said. “Maybe I could be of some benefit to you and your boss.”
Diaz laughed. “You think Hernandez is the boss?” he asked.
Cal said nothing. That’s what he had been led to believe. Was someone else really in charge? Could it be Diaz?
“Hernandez is a hired man, a pawn doing the dirty work of someone else. He’s foolish. He only does things for money. But sometimes, he gets lucky. While he’s off making sure we get paid, I do the dirty work.”
“Look, I can just walk away and we can forget this all happened,” Cal protested.
“No, we can’t,” Diaz said.
He then grabbed Cal’s shoulder and marched him around the corner of the van so he could see what was really happening.
Three black SUVs faced Cal’s direction. He noticed that his van wasn’t the only one in the entourage. There were four others. It looked as if the whole Hernandez clan had joined them, expecting some sort of shootout. Cal noticed a man near the other SUVs was wearing a bullet proof vest and an FBI hat.
Before Cal could figure out what was happening, Diaz explained.
“We already have a plan for you, Mr. Murphy. We are trading you for Hector Gonzalez, Hernandez’s best, how do you say it, ‘fix-it’ man.”
Diaz then picked up his phone and began dialing Hernandez. He didn’t exchange any pleasantries—strictly business.
* * *
SOLTERBECK ANSWERED HIS PHONE. It was Hernandez.
“The terms have changed,” Hernandez announced. “We will trade Cal Murphy for Hector Gonzalez. No one else.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t keep your men sober enough to guard a woman and a six-year-old boy?” Solterbeck asked.
“We can always rescind our offer, perhaps establish different terms.”
“Well, we got what we came for. If you decide to keep Cal hostage, we’re not going to spend many resources fighting it. He’s pretty much worthless to us—and worthless to you if we aren’t willing to give you anything for him. So talk tough with me. Show me your machismo. I don’t care. You either take it or leave it. This deal is going away forever if you don’t take it.”
Hernandez was quiet.
>
“We still on?” Solterbeck asked.
“Yes. Show us the prisoner.”
Solterbeck motioned to his men to show Hector Gonzalez to Hernadez’s men. They removed a sack over his head and waited. Solterbeck could see a trio of men using binoculars to confirm that it was indeed Hector. After a few moments of silence, Solterbeck heard a voice speak.
“OK, we’ll show you Mr. Murphy.”
In a similar fashion, Solterbeck’s personnel were positioned around the area. They attempted to confirm Cal’s identity. Once they agreed it was him, they nodded affirmingly at Solterbeck.
“Let’s make the switch,” Solterbeck said. “Let’s send them out at the same time.”
* * *
WHEN HERNANDEZ WASN’T AROUND, Diaz took charge. He carried out his boss’s wishes with effortless efficiency. Boss wanted a man dead? Diaz took care of it. Boss wanted someone tortured for information? Diaz leapt at the opportunity. Hernandez’s level of trust with Diaz approached blood-relative level. And this morning, Hernandez needed his top soldier to be more loyal than ever.
Diaz grabbed a fistful of Cal’s shirt and shoved him toward the federal agents waiting for the exchange to occur.
“Just keep walking, gringo,” Diaz said.
Diaz watched Cal walk toward the FBI agents positioned about 75 yards away. Diaz also watched Hector begin walking toward him. The swap was going as planned.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The rifle shots echoed in the canyon below before Diaz realized what happened. Hector collapsed to the ground.
A gunfight erupted between Hernandez’s men and the FBI.
Diaz yelled at Cal. “Stay down or I’ll take you out myself!”
Then Diaz crawled army style side-by-side with his prized hostage until they reached the van.
* * *
CAL WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED to such chaos. Action in the newsroom on election night or after covering a marquee sporting event created a hive of activity. But it was forgettable compared to this. Whizzing bullets. Double-crossing criminals. Dying people. Cal watched deadly ammunition bore into the dusty ground all around him. He wanted to burrow in after them and hide until this blood bath ended. Sooner or later one of those bullets was going to find him—and then what? Cal tried not to think about what it would feel like to get shot, but he knew it couldn’t be a pleasant experience. I don’t want to die!
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