by Clay Farrow
Obviously, Guerra had learned of Monica's whereabouts from the radio message he received aboard the chopper. But why grab her and Amanda? Was it always his intention to snatch her? And why the murderous rampage at Altun Ha? But whatever possessed him to slaughter those people made one thing abundantly clear – even in Belize, Guerra thought himself untouchable, above the law.
It also raised a question that would torment him until it was answered. Were Monica and Amanda still alive, and if so, where were they? He silently vowed that if Guerra harmed either, he would pay dearly.
The sun reflecting off something on the far side of the site snatched Hilton from his reverie. He hunkered down, concentrating on the patch of forest. As the minutes dragged by, his impatience mounted. He was about to chalk the flicker up to an overactive imagination when he saw it again. He had company. Fading back into the jungle, he retraced the trail he had taken to the dig.
* * * *
Alberto removed his sunglasses and mopped his brow with a sweaty handkerchief. He hadn't been in a tropical rain forest for some time, long enough to have forgotten what it was like in a clammy inferno. He looked at his watch, then at Liz who was crouched beside him with beads of perspiration dripping from her forehead. Strung out on either side of them were ten regular army soldiers.
"So, where's the next place you're one hundred percent positive Hastings will look?" Alberto asked in a tone laced with sarcasm. "It's almost nine and he still hasn't shown. He knows the doc is dead."
He smiled when Liz fixed him with a stony look and retorted, "Monica was planning to visit JJ tomorrow. And she had absolutely no idea he was dead. If she didn't know, then we can assume Hastings wouldn't have known either."
Alberto felt a tap on the shoulder. He jumped, then spun around to confront a special forces soldier, who appeared out of nowhere wearing a camouflage uniform and face paint.
"You scared the hell out of me!"
The soldier whispered a few short words into his ear, then stepped back.
"What did he say?" Liz asked.
"Nothing. Let's go. There's no point waiting any longer."
Alberto and the camouflaged tracker marched away from the archaeological dig. Liz and the soldiers scrambled after the pair as they navigated the fifty yards through the jungle to a clearing where two vehicles were parked - a black Lincoln Navigator with an electric winch and cable attached to the front bumper, and an M35 troop transport, probably dating from the early 80s. A second commando was perched on the side rail at the front of the open truck bed, an Uzi submachine gun resting on his lap.
Alberto panicked and ran to the rear of the troop transport, his heart racing. He whipped the hooks out of the tailgate and stepped to one side as it fell open with a bang, then looked inside and relaxed.
"Liz, I hate to say you were right. I guess I owe you an apology," he grumbled.
"Why is that, Senator?" Liz asked as she walked to the rear of the transport and gazed in.
The special forces soldier had his Uzi trained on a disheveled individual squatting on the floor. The shackled prisoner raised his head and the chilling look he gave them made Liz shiver. Propped up against the cab, bruised and bloodied, was Hilton Hastings.
22:
Santa Elena Prison Farm – Wednesday
Alberto Guerra sat forward in the rear seat as the Lincoln Navigator approached the prison. He saw his cousin, Colonel Miguel Rodriguez, and Ken Byers in front of the main gate, standing next to Miguel's Mercedes sedan. With them was Liz's assistant, whatshisname. Beside the sedan was a seven-passenger Chevy Tahoe with deeply tinted windows.
He glanced over at Liz Dennison. "You're in luck. We caught them before they left for the ranch."
The Navigator drew abreast of the Mercedes and stopped. The troop transport, which was following the Lincoln, lurched past the passenger vehicles.
Alberto opened the door and climbed out, followed by Liz.
"You didn't get him?" Miguel asked, looking at the rear of the transport as it rumbled toward the prison entrance.
Alberto walked up to Miguel, wearing a smile. "Not to worry, life is unfolding as I planned."
"All I see are the soldiers."
"He's on the floor."
"Ah yes, I see him now. Well done."
The transport passed through the open gate and into the prison laneway before grinding to a stop. The regular troops jumped to the ground. Two commandos yanked Hilton to his feet and propelled him toward the rear of the truck.
High-pitched screams from inside the Tahoe were abruptly choked off. Hastings jerked his head up and stared at the Chevy as he hobbled to the edge of the truck bed, the handcuffs and leg irons hampering his movement. One of the soldiers behind him used the butt of his rifle to knock him off the rear of the truck. Hastings toppled head first into the dirt. Struggling to his feet, he stumbled toward the SUV. Three members of the platoon closed ranks and herded him down the lane toward the prison yard.
Alberto regarded Liz and Ken. "I think now would be a good time to leave."
Ken agreed with a slight incline of his head. He shook hands with Alberto and then with Miguel. "Thank you for everything, colonel. And remember six tomorrow morning at the Flores airport. Sam, my pilot, has filed a flight plan to Georgetown in the Caymans. She'll have you home before lunch."
"I can't thank you enough," Miguel replied. "Your generosity is an unexpected surprise."
Ken and Liz slid into the rear seat of the Mercedes, while whatshisname jumped into the front seat. Alberto watched the sedan, followed by the Tahoe, swing out in a wide circle and speed toward the highway.
"Shall we?" Miguel asked, with a courtly sweep of an arm in the direction of the prison yard. "I assume you would like to see the accommodation I've arranged for Señor Hastings."
"Indeed," Alberto said, walking down the dusty lane with his cousin.
During the melee, curious prisoners had clustered at the gate to watch the goings-on. Now they parted like the Red Sea as a sergeant and two guards hustled Hilton toward the far end of the concrete-hard dirt yard with Miguel and Alberto following in their wake.
Alberto reached into his shirt pocket and took out a silver cigar case. He offered Miguel a Montecristo, which he accepted, then removed one for himself. The two men huddled together while Alberto lit their cigars.
Alberto looked at the cells. "I hope you don't intend to let Hastings live in such luxurious conditions?"
Miguel pointed. "No, not at all. At the far end of the yard, hidden in the shadows of the upper walkway are our isolation cells. Six windowless dungeons with solid iron doors."
Alberto nodded, then shifted his gaze back to Hastings and shook his head in disbelief. That bastard was covertly surveying the prison grounds. Unbelievable, not in the place five minutes and he's already planning his escape. The senator looked around the yard. Ten heavily armed guards patrolled the catwalk above the second story cells.
"Miguel, how many inmates have escaped under your command?" Alberto loudly asked, although he knew the answer.
"None."
"You hear that, Hastings? None," Alberto shouted. He noticed a pair of old men dump a soiled cotton sack in front of a cell and asked, “Trash?”
"In a manner of speaking. It'll be collected tonight.”
"How many prisoners have attempted to escape?"
"In the last eight months, five."
“Listen up, Hastings. What happened to them?"
"We staked them out in the yard for three days with no food or water. The sun cooked them during the day and at night the insects fed on them. Most were lucky to last two days before going insane."
"He's a tough nut."
"Until he has to deal with the heat, food, and rats in solitary. Then there's Fidel," the colonel said as he waved over a barefoot convict trailing the entourage.
The inmate hobbled up to the colonel.
Miguel slapped the large man on the arm. "Fidel solves any inmate problems I have. Faithful and
dumb and follows commands like a well-trained pet."
Alberto eyed the giant from head to foot and felt a tremor run through him. He estimated the man was six-five and weighed at least 350 pounds. With his shaved head and hulking shuffle, this was somebody you didn't want to mess with. His clubfoot didn’t seem to hamper him too much. If anything, his awkward limp made him even more menacing. Alberto smiled inwardly – his cousin had exceeded his wildest expectations.
"Solitary is full, so I'll have to make room for our new guest," Miguel said as the group arrived at the isolation cells.
The sergeant unlocked a crudely cut iron door and pushed it, careful to avoid the tiny dagger-like spurs on the inside edge of the door. As the door creaked open, a shaft of sunlight slowly washed across the cell, exposing the floor and walls encrusted with years of blood and human waste.
Alberto puffed on his cigar as he edged closer to the cell for a better look. Miguel remained where he was, well back from the open door.
A convict lay curled up on the floor next to a waste bucket. He had his back to the senator and was wearing only a pair of soiled cotton pants.
Alberto suddenly scrambled back. "How the hell can you stand it? Even my cigar can't kill the stench."
"You're in a prison not a five star hotel," Miguel replied before turning his attention to the prisoner. "Pedro, wakeup, you're free."
The inmate didn't move. Miguel nodded his head in the direction of the cell. The sergeant pointed at the cell and said to the soldier standing beside him, "Go."
The young private held his nose as he stumbled into the dungeon. He tentatively approached the prisoner and poked the inert body with the toe of his boot several times. Not a twitch in response.
"Is he sick?" Miguel demanded.
The guard crouched down and gingerly examined the convict, then retreated from the cell still holding his nose. He came to attention in front of Miguel and saluted.
"He's dead and rats have been chewing on him."
The colonel shrugged and turned to the guard beside Hilton. "Throw him in."
Hilton's chains were removed and he was tossed into the cell.
Looking at Fidel, Miguel said, "Pack up Pedro for the evening pickup, then make our guest welcome. Do whatever you want, but he is to be breathing when you're finished. He is not to die."
Fidel eagerly bobbed his head then limped for the cell.
Miguel laid a hand on his arm. "Not yet, I'll tell you when." Facing Alberto, he continued, "Cousin, we need to speak privately."
* * * *
Hilton rolled onto his back as the steel door slammed shut with an echoing clang. The dungeon was pitch black except for a sliver of light leaking in between the door and the doorjamb. He crawled into a sitting position and rested his back against a damp wall.
It had come as a shock to hear Dennison refer to Guerra as a Senator. He'd never heard any mention of him in the media. The weasel hadn't changed; he remained nameless and faceless even as a member of such a select body as the United States Senate. But Hilton had no doubt the malignant cockroach wielded a lot of power from the shadows.
This was the second occasion in which Guerra had a hand in his imprisonment. And although he sensed this situation was more dire than the first; age and experience allowed him to view his present circumstances from a calmer perspective.
His introduction to prison life as a twenty-two-year-old had been far different - as a callow youth entering the terrifying realm of gangs and killers seemed akin to falling off the edge of the world. Memories flooded his mind as he traced the scar on his forehead. During his first week inside, he had managed to remain invisible in the large prison population. Nonetheless, he had been so scared that he must have changed his underwear a dozen times a day. Then early in the second week, his good fortune ran out and he received his only prison memento.
The cell block’s shower room was a thirty-by-fifteen tiled rectangle with nozzle and tap combinations evenly spaced along each wall. Alone in the shower, Hilton turned off the tap and shook the excess water out of his long hair. As he reached for his towel, the soap slipped out of his hand and he bent over to retrieve it.
"Keep that position, sweet cheeks," said a deep voice behind him.
Hilton straightened. A bone crusher and his two flunkies were standing at the shower entrance. The leader held a five-foot broom handle. Hilton wrapped the towel around his waist.
"You won't be needing that," Broomstick said, holding the wooden pole as if it were a cattle prod. He slapped one of his flunkies on the shoulder. "Watch the door."
Covered in jailhouse tattoos, Broomstick was an inch taller than Hilton's six-two and had a heavier build with broader shoulders. Hilton figured he was in his late thirties or early forties, an old hand in the ways of prison life. Broomstick was the alpha male while the other two were parasites, feeding on his scraps.
Hilton made an effort to fight the fear that was paralyzing him. He wondered if he should submit to them? It would be over in an hour. The consequences? He would have difficulty walking for a few days and what would he do when they came back tomorrow for seconds? Could he live with himself? Close to panicking, he wondered what his chances were if he fought back? He needed an edge and let the towel flutter to the tiled floor. Somewhere, he had heard that a person felt vulnerable when standing naked in front of other fully-clothed individuals. He hoped these goons thought he was defenseless, that he was surrendering.
Broomstick poked him in the stomach with the wooden prod. "Turn around and get on your hands and knees."
Hilton shifted his foot as if he were turning, letting the stick graze his side. He saw Broomstick loosen his grip on the handle. The man was relaxing, confident he had an easy conquest.
In a whirlwind movement, he snatched the broom handle, tearing the weapon from Broomstick's grasp. Wielding the stick as if it were a two-handed Samurai sword, Hilton lunged at the hulking inmate, swinging at his head.
"Grab him, damnit, you tinkerbell," Broomstick cried, raising his arms to protect his head.
The handle crashed against Broomstick's forearm with a sharp crack. The pole snapped and spun end-over-end into the tiled wall, before clattering harmlessly on the floor. Hilton was left holding a jagged six-inch stub. Two quick dance-like steps and he drove the lethal stump into Broomstick's neck. The tattooed rapist gasped and sank to his knees, his face twisted in agony as the life drained out of him. Hilton turned his attention to Tinkerbell. The flunky was trapped in the shower room, with Hilton between him and escape.
Tinkerbell brandished a homemade knife, a toothbrush with the tip of the handle sharpened to a razor-fine point. "Move away from the door and you won't get hurt."
Hilton began to move off to one side when something snapped in his brain. His mind cleared and a serenity flowed through him. He knew what he had to do. In any struggle he faced from now on there would be no compromise.
Stepping back to the center of the room, he shook his head. "One of us is dead, and I don't particularly care who."
There wasn't a hint of bravado in his voice, it was a simple statement of fact. He bent at the waist and charged, driving for Tinkerbell's midsection.
The frightened lackey blindly lashed out.
Hilton saw the crude dagger coming, but too late. The razor sharp tip cut into his forehead. As he averted his head, the shank sliced a straight line through his eyebrow toward his left temple. The two men crashed into the tiled shower wall and slid to the floor, dazed. The force of the impact knocked the weapon out of Tinkerbell's hand. Hilton recovered first and ignoring the blood streaming from his wound, grabbed the shiv.
Two days later he hunted down the lookout. Their strength-in-numbers conceit had cost all three their lives. But he had delivered a message. His handling of the attack and the resulting scar became a prison passport that permitted him to quietly serve the rest of his sentence.
The key turned in the cell door lock with a hollow thud of finality. Hilton stirred, his st
omach rebelling against the stench of human waste and the rotting corpse. He sensed if he didn't escape soon, he too would be reeking like Pedro, but he was far from giving up hope. Risk had always been an essential ingredient to his being. But the shower incident had taught him not to be afraid to draw a line in the sand or to cross over it, even if the cost was a life – another's or his.
* * * *
Alberto sat in a chair and looked over his shoulder at Miguel Rodriguez, who opened the glass door of the display case and added Hilton's PPK to his collection of firearms.
"So, what is it you want to talk about?"
"Señor Byers. He's a very interesting man," Miguel said as he walked around his desk and sat down, facing Alberto.
"Okay, and …"
"For instance, did you know he claims to have paid a total of $5 million for my help with Señorita Dennison and the good doctor?" Miguel rocked back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. A thin grin spread across his lips. “Up to now I’ve received only $1million.”
Alberto realized a strictly choreographed ballet of extortion had just begun. His face flushed beet red and he bolted out of his chair as if on cue. "Are you accusing me of stealing from you?"
Leaning forward, Miguel held up his hands in mock surrender. "Stealing? Never. I would never insult my favorite relative in such a manner. But do you think that's fair?"
Alberto mumbled a few unintelligible words and sat back down. He paused, gathering his thoughts. At last he said, "I don't believe the Guatemalan government should have to shoulder all the expenses for the care and feeding of Hastings. It is much too large a burden to bear. I think I should make a donation for his upkeep."
"The same thought occurred to me. Hosting a gringo is a very costly undertaking."
”I was thinking of raising my contribution to a total of $2 million."
