It seemed crazy, but plausible, in this bizarre, violent, unpredictable world.
“I can't lie, Francisco. Yes, these theories are possible, but what's more possible is you leaking this information to a local gang, who then hunted us down and stole our money. The only way we could secure Trudy's release has vanished,” Arthur said bluntly, his voice rising with a mixture of anger and anguish.
Francisco wiped his face.
The pendulum of doubt had swung back toward not trusting Francisco. On one hand, I was almost ashamed of the thought, given the conviction I'd seen from him. Yet, part of me wondered if all of his heroic actions were a ruse. Can anyone ever be considered “retired” from the drug business? Or does the greed flow through your veins, ready to re-emerge like an infection, preying on the weak when the opportunity presents itself?
Tension loomed in the cabin of the truck like stagnant pollution hanging over a large city. A lack of trust, along with the series of insufferable events, had demoralized Arthur and me. It appeared we had little control over our situation and even less confidence that we could rely on our former-drug-runner pilot. For all we knew, Francisco could be leading us deeper into a trap that threatened our very lives.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“Who da fuck are you?” A short, balding man emerged from just inside the darkened garage on Mission Street in San Antonio and took three steps toward the white van, then shot a quick glance back over his shoulder, as if he was hiding something or someone.
Stunned to find anyone home at their target destination, Keith felt a sudden chill permeate through his shoulders and neck. The six foot two inch man wearing a Spurs cap stopped dead in his tracks just outside the driver's side, the door still ajar. His body remained still, his face void of emotion, but his insides were doing back flips. Any sign of another person, especially one with such a threatening tone and posture, at their selected stash house was a sure red flag. The beams from two garage spotlights crossed in the exact spot the van had stopped, giving their opponent a notable sight advantage. Mistake number one.
“I said, who da fuck are you and what you doin' here?” The shorter man with the thick Northeastern accent asked less politely than the first time. He took one more step and raised his right arm, exposing a revolver. It appeared to be a Smith & Wesson. “Do you speak English?”
Keith wanted to ask, Do you speak English, you shit-head Italian New Yorker?
Instead, he said, “Yes, we speak English.” Keith turned his head a few degrees to the right, his eyes making the rest of the turn, and saw Russ, his old high school buddy, still sitting in the passenger seat, the door slightly open and one hand on the door handle, one hand at his waist.
“Good, you can either tell me what you're doin' here, or we're going to drag your asses into this garage and start yankin' your fingers off your hand one by one. Am I clear now?” The man with the fireplug physique turned the gun forty-five degrees and cocked his head to the left.
Keith noted that he'd said “we.” Twenty seconds must have passed without another word. Just a lot of staring and steely looks.
Keith tried to control his soaring pulse rate, likely north of a hundred fifty. Russ had convinced him this was going to be easy money. Nothing dangerous or seedy. Russ would owe him big for this heart pounding interaction. Really big.
Keith exhaled and pursed his lips.
Hadn't this numbnut ever hear the phrase, Don't kill the messenger? Well, Keith and Russ were essentially messengers...or something like that.
“I'm sorry, I don't know your name, sir.” Layering on too much respect for his own liking, Keith said the first thing that came to mind. Maybe this asshole would chill out, and they could share drug-running stories.
“I'm the big dick that's going to stuff this gun down your throat if you don't start talkin'.” The man took one more step, and Keith could actually see a blue vein pulsating on his sloped forehead.
“Okay, okay.” Keith held up his arms. “We were sent here by people we hardly know to deliver a special package.”
The man with the gun used his free hand to touch his face. Was that a signal or some sort of nervous tick? Keith spotted a long scar snaking down the guy's jawline. This dude must have been in a bunch of violent scrapes. “It appears there has been a mix-up in the address. I apologize for any confusion or alarm it might have caused.” Keith lowered his arms.
“What's in the package?” said the man with the scar.
“That's not for us to divulge. We're just the messenger, if you know what I mean.” His throat rejected the rising bile, but Keith was still cool on the outside...or at least he hoped. “It's obvious you're not the intended recipient. We'll leave you to attend to your own business.”
“Quit moving, asshole. You want me to blow your fuckin' head off?” The gun bobbed up and down. “You interrupted us, so I'll say when you leave. What's in the package?”
Keith took another look at Russ, who'd extracted his gun from his waistband without showing any movement in his torso. Unsure if Russ had ever fired the weapon, Keith saw the former first chair trumpet player unlock the safety and point it straight ahead, still out of sight.
Keith could see his hope for a peaceful ending had been naïve, bordering on ridiculous. A rousing symphony of chirping crickets filled the dead air, but he still felt like they were alone on an island with this thug and his invisible partner...or partners. And only one group would walk away unscathed. Would Russ take a shot now or wait until fired upon?
“You, in the van, what are you doing? Put your hands where I can see ya. Now!”
Keith had held back his rising tide of emotions for too damn long. “Shoot that asshole!” he shouted to his partner.
Making a split-second decision, Russ swung his heavy revolver up to the crack of the open door and fired toward the garage. A bullet penetrated the scarred man's left shoulder, and blood squirted onto his shirt, face, and the stamped concrete. Less than two seconds later, Keith saw a crackling flash from the garage, and Russ' head shot back, then his body went limp. Slowly he leaned right until he fell to the ground. His head bounced off the solid surface like a ping pong ball.
At that moment, Keith leaped into the van and threw it into reverse, smoking the tires while screaming out of the driveway. Both of his adversaries fired shots, three of which cracked the windshield, causing slices of glass to fly into his face. He turned away from the flying debris, and the speeding vehicle swerved across the perfectly manicured lawn, spraying dirt and sod. The tires kept churning, and the vehicle crashed through the wrought iron fence, throwing the van up on two tires for a split second. Keith popped the gearshift into drive and the passenger door slammed shut. Parts of the fence stuck to the undercarriage until Keith violently whipped the wheel back and forth, dislodging the iron, and then he disappeared down the dark, tree-lined road.
Shaken but still in control, he frantically peeled a few of the larger pieces of glass out of his face. He was disgusted at losing his longtime friend...on their first job with this new startup group. What had Russ said? “This will be a piece of cake. Easy money. Get in and get out.”
Wind swirled within the front cab of the van, and Keith slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Where the hell had these bastards come from? Someone had double-crossed them. He believed his new boss couldn't—wouldn't—let this incident go unanswered. An eye for an eye.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Rolling her head to the left, Trudy felt something rigid at the back of her head, possibly hard plastic or metal under the crunchy, large leaves from the dozens of mango trees surrounding her. Her eyes opened, and she saw daylight through the narrow opening in the canopy of branches. She leaned on one elbow in her makeshift bed next to overgrown bushes, just twenty feet from a dirt road. Carefully, she felt behind her for the object. Got it. She brought it around. Disgusting! It was a needle, the plastic end cracked and the metal needle snapped off. She realized she was damn lucky not to have stuck herself.
>
Sitting upright, she brushed off the leaves from her body and the potato sack she'd found to cover her torso. She almost smiled, wondering what her lady friends back home might think about her fashion sense. Who cares, given the hell she'd experienced. At least it covered her breasts from exposure, allowing her to feel a tad more at ease while she searched for a safe haven.
She rose to her feet, gained her balance, and exhaled, knowing her journey to long-term safety was still a work in progress. Pausing, she heard voices and the turning of a squeaky wheel or some type of chain. She lowered her body back to her knees, trying to peer through a small opening of the bushes. Oh my God, she thought. It's that prick, Luis.
“Amigo, did you have any luck?” Luis asked a man, who Trudy knew to be his partner Benicio.
“Don't call me your friend. You go to rape that lady again, and then what happens? Estúpida escoria,” said Benicio, his eyes sticking daggers into his roommate.
“I don't need your shit. I told you, what I do in my private time is none of your business. Besides, she liked it, I know she did.” Luis released a wicked smile.
“If she liked it so much, then why did she kick you in the balls and run off? I'll tell you why...because she knows you're a bully, a rapist who only preys on the weak. You sick fuck.” Benicio approached Luis aggressively.
Both men grabbed the other by the shirt. Trudy heard grunts, but no fists were thrown. Two locals walked by, and both men shoved the other away, allowing their grips to be broken.
Benicio wiped his mouth with his sleeve and picked at a scab on his arm. His head jerked left.
Still on her knees, Trudy had taken three small movements backward, but now she froze, hoping that he wasn't looking at her through the vegetation. Her breathing was so shallow, her lungs begged for more air. Her arms began to quiver. She needed to shift her weight to avoid falling forward. She looked down to ensure her next step wouldn't land on a noisemaker.
“Hola, Trudy.” Sticking his greasy head through a shrub, Luis' thin smile was six feet in front of her. She peered into his eyes, and her heart exploded. Her mind crashed into instant despair and panic, knowing it was all but over.
“Come to Papa.” Luis took a step...then fell to the ground, apparently tripping over some root or rock. Trudy didn't waste time thinking it through. She whipped around and sprinted into the jungle.
She tried to listen for steps behind her, but she was moving so quickly, she couldn't hear anything other than the branches and vines slapping her head and her torso—her potato sack had long since fallen. Razor-like leaves and branches carved trenches into her skin, but she hardly noticed the battering. She kept moving, determined not to let that sick pervert catch her.
“You'll never get out of this jungle,” she heard Luis scream from behind her. “Come on, Trudy. Don't play hard to get.”
She couldn't help herself. She had to look back to see how close he was. She kept moving but turned her head at the same time. She saw flashes of Luis through the dense jungle bobbing up and down as he dodged trees and vines.
“Trudy, Trudy, Trudy.” He yelled like he was singing her name. He was gaining on her fast.
Fear began to overtake her body, and she was losing her balance. Breathing became labored. She began to hyperventilate from the physical toil of what she'd endured, and the emotional drain of trying to escape the devil himself.
She turned and clipped a small tree, bounced left, tripping over two boulders, and then she tumbled twenty feet into a dark ravine.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The incessant buzz of my cell phone woke me from a deep sleep, albeit one that had lasted just a few hours. But it was on a real mattress, in an actual hotel, in the middle of the tourist section of Puerto Vallarta. As I twisted by body around to grab my phone, I moaned from soreness, recalling the beating we took last evening when Arthur's money was stolen out of the back of the truck by the team of acrobatic thieves.
I had two text messages. I rubbed my eyes to ensure I understood what I was reading. Arthur was already up and dressed, pacing on the other side of the room.
Party @ club last nite; Soc coach dist pot, preying on girls; teens snortin coke; saved Summer; getin' close; more ltr; A
I'd grown accustomed to piecing together the word fragments in Andi's text messages. I thought more about the danger surrounding the intern. She was either fearless or naïve as hell. At age twenty-one, I guessed most of us had fit the bill. I might have been more foolish than fearless. Responding to Andi's note, I clumsily punched the tiny letters on the key pad:
Take notes, but be safe. We dont need a 2nd rescue mission. Michael
I rolled out of bed and walked to the sliding glass door of our seventh-floor hotel room and glanced down at the beach, which was already filling up with spring breakers like ants converging on the home mound. We'd caught a break late last night when a room became available. Apparently, the parents of the kid renting the room canceled his credit card, and he and his buddies had to leave. That's one way to keep kids corralled in the modern era—take away their free ride.
As I expected, and hoped, Marisa had sent me the second message:
Thinkin' of u; miss u, luv u 4 ever! Marisa
It brought a tear to my eye. At least twice in the last day, I thought I'd never see her again. Then I smiled. I was a lucky guy. Trying not to make Arthur any more distraught over Trudy, I went out to the balcony and punched up my home number. It rolled to voice mail. Next, I dialed Marisa's cell phone, and it also went straight to voice mail. Damn it. I responded via text.
Hey baby, all is well. We're safe in PV. Will let you know when we have Trudy. Luv you, Michael
I thought momentarily about the two women most on my mind right now. One was young, assertive, bold, and based upon what I've read on text messages so far, daring. But that only made me anxious, knowing her youthful energy and drive didn't omit the need for sound decision-making. The other, the love of my life, was my rock, who had put up with me beyond what any person could ask. On top of that, she never suffocated me, only supported me and my causes. She was beautiful and would always be that way to me, regardless of her age. She was frisky, spontaneous, and kind. She was my wife for life.
I didn't want to create undue worry on Marisa's part, which is why I'd toned down my text message a few notches from reality. Maybe more than a few. Still, we were alive and mostly well. And hopefully we'd figure out a way to still bring Trudy back without anyone else sustaining an injury.
As I re-entered the hotel room, Arthur and Francisco were actually sharing a sincere chuckle.
“Anyone want to let me in on the joke?” I said while counting the purple and black bruises on my body.
“We're just letting off some steam,” said Arthur in a relaxed tone.
Good to see some of the tension dialed back. It might actually help us think of a way around our predicament. We needed to trade cash for Trudy, but no longer had the big haul the kidnappers would be seeking.
“I say we go downstairs, have a healthy breakfast, and discuss our next steps,” said Francisco, still assuming he was part of the rescue team. We had never said otherwise, although doubts still lingered. He pointed at Arthur and said, “Last night when you talked to Benicio, he said that you should call back midday today. This gives us some time to put together some type of plan. I have some ideas.”
Francisco seemed to be full of thoughts and opinions, mostly based upon his experiences from his first life, as he called it. At a certain level, we'd witnessed components of that knowledge. But was he holding back? I hadn't said a word to Arthur, but I was questioning whether we'd ride Francisco's coattails, or instead, allow him to believe we're following his plan, but then create a counter-plan without his awareness.
Almost unknowingly, I'd begun to adjust to my environment. If you swim with the sharks, you have to think like them.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
My mind did a double-take. Hordes of teenagers were running a
round the hotel grounds like caged animals. They were grunting like apes, goosin' each other like they'd never seen another human being. It was obvious that their intellectual focus was, for at least a week, driven by an unmatched yearning for sex, drinking, and who knows what else.
I couldn't deny it, though, even to myself. That was me seventeen years ago. I sat in an open-air café behind the hotel with Arthur and Francisco eating fresh melon and pineapple and wondered when the switch was flipped—that point in time when I went from thinking like a juvenile to using the term juvenile delinquency. Lost in my thoughts momentarily, I chuckled at my own expense and was thankful fate hadn't brought Marisa into my life until I was in my thirties.
The three of us could hardly think, let alone delve into a deep discussion on how to approach our call and subsequent interaction with Trudy's kidnappers. Besides, I still wasn't prepared to take Francisco's word at face value.
I asked a waiter if the nonsense would ever end, and he said the flock of sex-crazed kids was likely migrating down the beach to one of the Mr. and Mrs. Stud bathing suit contests—the kind of distasteful event that makes every parent proud, no doubt. Given my lack of nutritional intake the last couple of days, I took the opportunity to head back to the buffet table, dodging kids as I went. I loaded my plate with Marisa-approved food, turned and—
What...who the hell just ran me over? I wondered while staring at the sky.
“Uh, Mr. Doyle, Michael, is that you?” said a familiar voice.
Lying flat on my back with fresh fruit scattered all over me, including one piece of watermelon balanced perfectly on my forehead, I only saw the upper torso of this recognizable voice. My left forearm began to throb. The person had flattened me like I was a catcher protecting home plate. In my two-second observation, I derived a couple of important points: the voice was a girl's, and given the fact that my hands were now touching her bare waist, she was quite fit.
GREED Box Set (Books 1-4) Page 41
