They'd stuck him inside and delivered him to his own apartment.
It wasn't like coming out of anesthesia in a hospital. Fear and adrenaline had already woken him up. He tried to focus on what being in his apartment meant.
After they found out where the recordings were, he was either going to commit suicide or get killed during a burglary. It could be the only reason he was there, and still alive.
The drapes were closed, and his belongings littered the floor. They'd made a search to pass the time. The only thing he could see in his favor was that they couldn't mark him up too badly if they wanted it to look like an accident.
"He's awake," a voice behind him said in Spanish.
Welsh kept his eyes closed. Then someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. Something metal hit him on the side of the face. Welsh opened his eyes and looked at the small man standing before him.
"I told you to be careful," Lieutenant Colonel Armando Gutierrez said reproachfully. "You see what happens?" He was speaking English for Welsh's benefit. Nelson's .45 was stuck in his belt.
Despite the example of the movies, engaging in witty banter with a stone killer who had his merit badge in torture wasn't prudent. Especially when stripped naked and tied to a chair.
Gutierrez held up a thick metal tube for Welsh to see. It had a smaller straight handle on one end, like a billy club. "We been waiting a long time for you to show up. We want to talk, so we use this. You know what it is?"
Welsh knew. It was a stun-bag projector. Compressed air cartridges fired a heavy cloth bag filled with metal shot. When it came out of the tube, the bag expanded and hit like the proverbial ton of bricks, but non-lethal and quiet.
"We couldn't take chances," Gutierrez said in an ingratiating tone. "You showed us in Santa Elena. Very smart, very tough. Kill two men with their own guns, you with just bare hands. Through the jungle with nothing, even the Indians can't find you. Very good. Now, you could be dead, but you still got a chance to make a deal. You tell me what I need to know, give me what I need to have, we let you go. No hard feelings. What do you say?"
Welsh didn't say anything.
"Okay," said Gutierrez. "Just one question, you tell me the truth. Where are the recordings?"
If Scanlan had told Gutierrez that a copy of the recordings had been mailed to the FBI, Welsh knew he wouldn't be alive. He felt both fury and pride. Somehow she'd managed to outwit them. He stared at Gutierrez, and didn't say anything.
"Booker is dead," Gutierrez said. "You don't owe him nothing."
Welsh looked at him as if he didn't understand.
"You worried about your woman?" Gutierrez inquired. "She's okay. I knew. A real man never tell a woman his business."
So that was it. She knew these macho sons of bitches cold, and had used their own prejudices against them. Though he knew he'd soon be dead, it gave Welsh heart.
"You don't want to tell me?" Gutierrez sounded hurt. Receiving no response, he said, "Tino."
Another man filled Welsh's peripheral vision. Welsh had to turn his head to take it all in. Tino was definitely over six feet, considerably more than 250 pounds, and didn't look like he'd gone to college.
Gutierrez held out his hand, and Tino put something into it. Gutierrez flicked the switchblade open and whipped it down into Welsh's lap. It struck the wood chair seat, uncomfortably close to Welsh's genitals. Welsh flinched, but knowing Gutierrez wanted him to, he didn't look down.
Gutierrez pulled the knife from the wood and laid the blade across Welsh's penis. "Where is it?" he asked, tapping the blade.
Welsh just stared at him.
Gutierrez sighed. "Okay," he said. "You're tough." He left Welsh's field of view, and Welsh's stereo came on, loud. Welsh held out some hope that the neighbors would complain. No, they'd think it was the usual shit from Tom and Lois, the assholes who lived upstairs.
Welsh readied himself as best he could. Everyone talked eventually; that was a given. He was trying, but couldn't think.
Gutierrez came back in front of him. "You're tough, so I have to be tough with you," he said. He nodded, and a clear plastic bag came down over Welsh's head. From behind Tino twisted it tight at Welsh's neck to make a seal.
Welsh's breath steamed up the bag. Soon the air was replaced by carbon dioxide, and his lungs began working faster and faster to try and get oxygen. It was a terrible sensation of breathing hard but yet not breathing. His brain felt itself dying, and to preserve itself began hurting the body to make it take in air. The pain came in the lungs, the head, the eyes. Welsh was thrashing wildly in his bonds, trying to escape it.
The pain went on a long time before he started to black out. As his straggling decreased, the bag came off. Welsh drank in the cool air with huge shuddering gasps, unable to get it fast enough. Then the bag went back on.
Sounding anxious to leave, Tino asked in Spanish, "Why don't you ask him the question?"
"He's not ready yet," Gutierrez replied softly.
The second time the bag came off, Gutierrez asked, "Where is it?"
Welsh didn't have to fake it; his mouth was dry as wood. He rasped, "Can't talk, water."
Gutierrez snapped his fingers, and Tino went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Welsh took advantage of the respite to breathe. Then in the midst of everything it hit him, how to save his life. But an incredible long shot.
Gutierrez held the glass up to his mouth, and Welsh drank it down. "Now," Gutierrez said.
Welsh shrugged.
"Stupid."
The bag came back down, and it all happened again. "The capucha," Gutierrez said, making conversation. "They say it is like drowning. They say to drown is easy, but this is not easy. Every time you die, and every time we bring you back. If you want, we do this all night."
It was worse each time, and each time Gutierrez spoke to Welsh in the tender, empathetic voice of the professional torturer. If Welsh would only cooperate he would stop doing what was paining them both, what Welsh in his obstinacy was making him do. Giving Welsh in his pain and disorientation something to latch onto.
And Gutierrez was having a wonderful time. Tino was just a big piece of meat who did what he was told.
When the bag came off again, Welsh knew he couldn't take any more and still function. After he got enough air to speak, he managed to croak out, "The safe."
Gutierrez leaned forward. "Is it in the safe?" he asked eagerly.
Welsh nodded.
"Where is the safe?"
Welsh was groggy. "Bedroom."
"The bedroom here?" Gutierrez demanded.
"Hidden. Show you."
They dragged Welsh into the bedroom, still bound to the chair. He told them about his safe, slowly enough to get them frustrated, but not so much they'd take it out on him.
In their zeal they threw everything out of the closet and nearly broke down the wall.
Gutierrez came out of the closet. He yanked on Welsh's hair again. "Tell me the combination."
"Right 24, left 14, right 5."
Gutierrez sprang back into the closet. A minute later he came out and slapped Welsh's face. "Give me the right fucking combination." For emphasis he held up the bag.
"It is the right one," Welsh insisted desperately. "Why would I tell you about the safe and give you the wrong combination? It's just sticking."
"It better be." Gutierrez went to try again. When he came back he had Tino put the bag on again. When it came off he said, "Tell me the combination."
"It is the right combination," Welsh gasped. "You just have to play with it."
Gutierrez made him repeat the number over and over again. He tried one more time, then, at the end of his patience, said, "You do it." He gagged Welsh with tape, and used the switchblade to slit the tape holding his legs. Tino unlocked one of the handcuff rings, brought Welsh's hands around to the front, and relocked the cuffs.
"Don't fuck with me," Gutierrez warned. "I show you how stupid it would be."
Welsh heard a crackli
ng sound, and then a lightning bolt struck him on the shoulder. Every muscle in his body contracted; his jaw slammed shut hard enough to chip teeth. He fell to the floor, curled up in a ball like a worm exposed to a flame. He was wracked with convulsions, and it felt as though the flesh was coming off his bones.
After the agony finally passed, Gutierrez ripped off the tape gag and showed him the plastic box with the two metal poles on one end. A line of blue electricity crackled between the poles. A stun gun gave off around 100,000 volts, but the very low amperage wouldn't kill or cause permanent injury. "Now you know what it feels like," said Gutierrez. "Go open the safe."
Supporting himself with his handcuffed hands in front of him, Welsh crawled on his knees toward the closet. Gutierrez poked the toe of his shoe in Welsh's ass to urge him on. Welsh could hear Tino laughing.
There was only room for one in the closet, so when Welsh crawled in Gutierrez crouched behind him. Welsh was drenched with sweat and sick to his stomach. The electricity had drained away all his strength, and his head still felt like it was clamped in a vise.
Welsh was on his knees and bent over the safe. He could feel Gutierrez's breath against his neck, the warning hand dug into the tendons of his shoulder, the stun gun so near his left ear that all he could hear was its crackling.
Welsh concentrated on the dial, blinking rapidly to focus his eyes. The muscles in his arms were still dancing from the electricity. He spun the dial slowly and carefully, knowing there would be only one chance and afraid it wouldn't open. The combination he'd given Gutierrez was two numbers off at each place, not enough that he'd notice now from behind. Gutierrez was brushing Welsh's ear with the plastic body of the stun gun. Welsh knew he'd be hit with the electricity again as soon as he got the door open.
Inside the safe was the Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver he'd put there for safekeeping the morning he'd left for Guatemala. It seemed like a hundred years ago. The Smith's five-round cylinder was loaded with Glaser Safety Slugs: a light copper case filled with thirty-two pellets of #6 birdshot and tipped with a plastic cap. After the slug penetrated an inch or so of solid flesh, it opened up and the birdshot literally shredded everything in an ever-widening path, producing massive hydrostatic shock. If someone broke in Welsh didn't want any bullets going through the apartment walls.
"Hurry up," Gutierrez said from behind, his voice harsher than before.
"I want to be sure I get it right," Welsh said quickly. "I can't take any more."
"Open it up," Gutierrez said, more soothing this time, "and you won't have to worry."
Welsh knew Gutierrez was leaning forward off balance. He was careful not to tense up and give himself away. He set the dial on the last number, then dropped his hands to the locking lever and twisted it violently. As the door came open he exploded into movement, using every last bit of his strength to drive himself backward into Gutierrez.
The top of Welsh's head caught Gutierrez flush under the chin. The hand holding the stun gun flashed past Welsh's face, and Gutierrez was knocked back onto the floor. Welsh scrambled forward and thrust his hands into the open safe. He touched the revolver, but his hands were clumsy in the handcuffs, and he knocked the pistol from the shelf onto the floor. He fumbled for the weapon, picked it up, and then almost dropped it again when right behind him Gutierrez screamed in Spanish for Tino to help.
Over his back Welsh saw Gutierrez lunging with the stun gun. He pulled the trigger while he was still turning, and the muzzle flash from the short barrel nearly blinded him. Gutierrez screamed. The impact of the slug drove him back down to the floor, giving Tino a clear shot at Welsh from across the bedroom.
Tino's first shot was high. He kept firing and missing, and then, frustrated by his marksmanship, charged, firing wildly as he came on.
Welsh fell back against the safe and braced the pistol against the sides of his upraised knees. He aimed at the huge chest of the screaming man and fired twice.
Tino jerked violently at the impacts, halting in mid-stride. Awed by the effect of the Glasers, Welsh stopped and watched as Tino's hands fell to his sides and he dropped his pistol. He began to sway gendy back and forth, moaning in a dialect Welsh could not understand. Snapping out of it, Welsh fired again. Tino let out a deep animal grunt and collapsed to the floor.
Welsh swung the pistol back to Gutierrez. There was a dark stain at his left collarbone, and the left arm hung limply. Gutierrez was trying to get Nelson's .45 out of his belt with the other hand, but the shock of the Glaser had him moving in slow motion.
It took all of Welsh's willpower to keep from passing out. He placed the fiber optic front sight on Gutierrez's forehead four feet away, and fired. The force of the Glaser opening up in Gutierrez's brain blew both eyeballs out of their sockets, and Welsh was drenched with the bloody brain matter that sprayed from the empty holes. He collapsed onto his side and vomited.
Chapter Forty-One
Only the animal compulsion to survive got Rich Welsh up off that floor. But a few seconds on his feet made him so lightheaded that he had to sit down on the bed. He looked down at the revolver in his clasped hands and swung the cylinder out, ejecting the empty cartridges. Inside the safe were three speed loaders, one filled with five more .357 Magnum Glaser Silvers, the other two with 125-grain jacketed hollow points. Welsh grabbed one and reloaded the pistol. Then he went over to Tino, made sure he was dead, and searched his pockets for the handcuff keys. He found them and got the cuffs off his wrists.
He had no idea who the shots would attract, but felt that if he didn't get the blood and brains and puke off his body that second he was going to start screaming.
It was enough to get him moving. Shuffling about like a zombie, he threw the dead bolt on his apartment door and jammed a chair under the knob. Then he took an ice-cold shower with the pistol on the soap dish and the bathroom door open. Standing up was too hard; Welsh soaped himself leaning against the tile wall, quenching his overpowering thirst right from the shower head. It revived him slightly.
Each new task was a test of will. He didn't want to go back into his bedroom, which now resembled a slaughterhouse, but did long enough to get dressed in a pair of jeans, a sweater, sneakers, a jacket, and a baseball cap. He filled a duffel bag with more clothes, all his spare ammunition, and his other pistol, a Glock 21. Not knowing what other shooting he'd have to do, he'd use Nelson's unregistered .45 and then throw it away.
Welsh couldn't believe that neither the cops nor Gutierrez's compatriots had shown up yet. Or that his neighbors hadn't heard the gunfire.
He wouldn't call the cops. Welsh had a vision of Thomas Kohl as the administrator, calmly assembling the relevant information from all his powerful sources and then calling in the executioners to finish the job. Welsh was sure he'd screwed up somehow. Was it the motel?
The clock read 3:12, and it was light outside. Gutierrez had kept him doped up for quite a while.
As he stopped in the kitchen for his spare set of car keys, Welsh realized that he had to put something in his stomach. He'd gotten rid of all the perishables before leaving for Guatemala. The prospect of canned beans made the bile rise again, so he chugged an unopened two-quart bottle of cranberry juice he found sitting in the cabinet. First it made him sick, then it made him feel better.
He went back out into the living room. As he turned off the stereo, he saw Gutierrez's briefcase lying on the couch. It was big, like a pilot's chart case. There were interesting things inside, but Welsh didn't feel he had time to examine them. He searched Gutierrez and Tino thoroughly, and threw everything in their pockets into the case.
Besides Nelson's .45 and spare magazines, Gutierrez had been carrying a compact .22-caliber Beretta automatic pistol, one of the trademarks of Israeli training. Welsh left it behind. He left the apartment with the duffel bag slung over his back, the revolver in his pocket, and the case in his left hand. He carried the .45 in his right, a raincoat draped over the arm to conceal it.
The hall was deserted
. He stopped on the stairway to peek out the window overlooking the parking lot. There was a van with a rental logo parked there that matched the receipt in Gutierrez's wallet.
Only the chance that Scanlan was inside that van kept him from running in the opposite direction.
Back in the apartment all he'd wanted to do was collapse. Now he felt jittery and alert, though distanced from his senses and dangerously immortal.
He went out the back of the building with the raincoat on and the bill of the baseball cap pulled over his eyes. He walked all the way around to the parking lot. The van was parked in the row closest to the street, and he approached it from the sidewalk outside the lot. The man in the driver's seat had his head back as if he was sleeping. Seeing that, Welsh angled into the lot, walking just behind the front row of cars. That way he could come up from behind but stay out of view of the rear windows.
He set the duffel bag and case down quietly, walked up to the driver's window, and thrust Nelson's .45 inside. He blew the driver's brains out, point-blank, and then the passenger's. Most of the sound was muffled inside the van.
Welsh ripped open the door and aimed over the seat, but the back was empty. He locked the door and threw the case and duffel into his own car. After all the time it had been sitting there, it amazed him by starting on the first try.
There was something he had to do. He had to do it even if it cost him his life, because he knew he couldn't live with himself otherwise.
He drove back to the motel. The room key card had been in Gutierrez's pocket.
A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the doorknob. The .45 was out and ready as Welsh slid the card into the lock The green light blinked and he made a good tactical entry. He was halfway across the room before the door bounced against the wall and slammed shut behind him.
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 26
