by Rick Potter
Emily and Jake headed toward the companionway door to the cabin. "Can I sleep with you, Em?"
"Sure, just stay on your side of the bed."
"I'm going to make sure they don't kill each other," Maddie said, rising from her seat.
She motioned Sam to join her. "I better go with her." He shrugged. "We'll be right back."
Maddie faced Sam in the cabin. "Don't you think all this is kind of strange?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw Captain Kent giving her a piece of paper when we were in the restaurant."
"Are you sure it was her?"
"Yes, I'm sure. She's wearing the same windbreaker."
"Wow, that is strange. She's wearing the only windbreaker ever made."
"I'm not kidding, Sam. Something doesn't seem right.
He couldn't believe what a big deal she was making. "She lied to us, too. She said Jake and Em invited her on the boat, but Jake said she asked to come in."
"Semantics. Now you're reaching."
"What about running into Carlos at the store, and being her brother?"
"Coincidence. It's a small world," he said. "Come on, stop being so suspicious, they'll leave soon anyway. Let's get back out there."
"Okay, but not for long, I'm getting tired, too."
###
Sam and Maddie returned to their guests. "Here's a nightcap," Captain Kent offered, handing them refilled pineapples. "After this, I gotta get going, I have a busy day tomorrow."
They continued talking and telling them of their plans, and how this was more of a, "Therapy cruise than anything else."
Originally, they were to set sail just after daybreak, but the way the evening was going, it would be a bit later. They would sail along the coastline and head for Dry Tortugas National Park. They would explore Fort Jefferson, then sail around nearby islands before heading back. The whole trip would last less than a week. They'd be back in time for Jake's baseball season opening game, and Maddie and Emily would resume their kickboxing classes.
"That sounds like a good plan," Andrea said.
Sam and Maddie slurped the last drop of their drinks, both feeling the effects. "I think I've have too much. We better get some sleep," Maddie said, with a slur. "Besides, I'm beginning to see two of everything."
"That goes double for me," Sam said, chuckling by himself, then massaging his temples.
"Yeah, I feel the shame," then chuckled. "I mean same," then chuckled again.
"You were right the first time," Maddie said.
Captain Kent glanced at his watch, "It's about that time. I should be getting back now." He stood and congratulated them on their new boat, again. Sam and Maddie tried to stand, but wobbled back to their seats. "It's okay, you don't have to get up." Captain Kent said, then headed across the gangway.
Andrea examined the two lab experiments. "How about we leave, tonight?" she suggested, then added, "There won't be any boats to dodge."
"Right," Maddie giggled. "Isn't there a law about driving a boat under the influence?" Then after a moment of silence, she whispered in Sam's ear, "Did she say, we?"
Sam laughed, "I don't know. Who cares?"
Carlos and Andrea remained seated. Sam stood and stretched his arms, but again, teetered back to his seat and clutched Maddie for balance.
Maddie wavered against the weight of Sam. "Those last drinks must have been really strong." Placing her hand on the table, she staggered to her feet. "I'm going to bed," then stumbled back next to Sam.
"Are you all right?" Sam asked.
"I don't think so."
Their slurs were becoming worse.
Sam rose, then faltered into Carlos's lap. Carlos became confused, and slammed Sam back next to Maddie, smacking his head against the edge of the boat. "What's going on?" Maddie asked, in an angry tone. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"Sorry, he doesn't know his own strength," Andrea answered. "He gets angry when he's touched too much," then commanded him like a faithful dog, "Tell him, you're sorry."
"I'm s-sorry," he said, fidgeting.
The apology from Carlos didn't satisfy Maddie. "I think you both need to leave now," she said, in a tone that sounded more like an order than a suggestion.
Andrea remained seated. Maddie wobbled to her feet, leaning against the table to help her balance. "Did you hear what I said?"
Andrea shoved her foot into Maddie, forcing her back with Sam, then unzipped her windbreaker and grasped the butt of a pistol tucked in her waist. "Keep your voice down," she warned. "I was hoping this would have to wait."
Sam glanced down, trying to focus on Jake's baseball bat laying next to Carlos. HIs arm wavered to it in slow motion. Carlos gripped the bat at the same time as Sam. "Hit him," his sister ordered him like a faithful hound.
Carlos snatched the bat from Sam's grasp, and slammed it across his knee. When Sam doubled over, Carlos swung the bat and connected flush with the side of Sam's head. Sam crashed into the table and fell to the cockpit floor. Carlos stood, ready to attack more. "That's enough," Andrea commanded.
"It doesn't have to be this way," she said, in a calm voice.
Andrea noticed Maddie scanning the marina. "I'd think twice if you're thinking of yelling," then brandished the pistol and pointed it at her. "Don't be stupid."
"What's this all about? What do you people want?"
This exotic beauty released the appalling demon within. "Shut up! I swear, I'll kill your children."
"If it's the boat you want, take the damn thing. We're not worth anything to you," Maddie pleaded. Her speech was still slurred but coherent.
"Don't underestimate yourself," Andrea replied, rising and stepping behind the helm.
"You drugged us," Maddie said, as she slumped against Sam on the floor.
Her eyelids closed, but she heard Andrea's distant voice, "They'll be out for a long time, let's get things prepared. Get them in their rooms and throw the cell phones in the water."
"D-did you m-make sure to b-bring enough d-drug this t-time?"
Andrea reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the zip lock baggie of capsules. "Yes, we've got enough to last the entire four days if we need them."
Part Two
Chapter Six
Rain capped the heavily treed rural village of Limones, Mexico, well-known for its orchards of lemons and limes. Travelers would have easily sped through the town on Highway 307, one of the only paved roads in Limones, if it weren't for the scented mist that permeated the air. The aura of fresh squeezed peels tempted senses, luring the travelers to pull over at roadside tailgates or grass huts to make purchases. But that was years ago.
A retired military transport truck turned off the highway, onto a muddied narrow road under a dripping umbrella of broad-leafed trees. It meandered to the rear of three abandoned aluminum structures between the once flourishing citrus orchards with Keep out signs posted. Each structure was the size of a basketball court, and had been a thriving location for packaging and distribution of fruit to local peddlers and nearby towns. Now displaying rust covered graffiti under neglected overgrowth of foliage, only one building was occupied.
The truck bumped to the rear of the middle warehouse where slovenly dressed Spanish guards stood in wait. Dressed in military uniforms and clasping semiautomatic rifles, they guided the tailgate of the truck against the loading dock. "Everyone out," a man yelled, spreading the canvas tarp with the barrel of his rifle.
A small group of tourists shuffled onto the dock with cameras hung from their necks, and crinkled maps hanging from their pockets. The last man out, a nervous feeble man with thick spectacles, floundered to his knees as he surveyed the unplanned destination.
A vacation to Mexico was the honeymoon he had promised his wife sixty-years earlier, but had never found the time. Recently losing her to Alzheimer's, and realizing his own ailing condition, he insisted to accompany his granddaughter for her Spring Break before she moved away to study at the university.
"Ge
t up," a mustached man shouted, while grasping a whip.
A young girl rushed to the old man. "Grandpa, are you all right?"
When she got as far to helping him to his hands and knees, the leather tip tore across the back of his shirt. "Stop it!" the girl screamed, watching her grandfather's chest hit the cement.
Blood seeped from the rooted gash. Unable for him to withstand the sting of the leather strap, he remained face down. "Get up old man!" ordered the guard, with another penetrating crack.
The man's spectacles flew from his face, sliding near the boot of another guard. "What are you doing? He hasn't done anything wrong," the girl sobbed, watching her grandfather tremble.
"I said, get up," the guard demanded a second time, smashing the old man's spectacles.
When her grandfather didn't move, another guard booted him in the ribs. "Stop it!" his granddaughter screamed again, enveloping her arms around him for protection. "Grandpa! Say something." Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he forced a breath.
Guards jerked her to her feet. "Let him go. Can't you see he's old?" she said, twisting to escape their grips.
"Silence!" the mustached guard ordered. "Get rid of him." He had for this useless old fool.
"No!" she screamed. "Leave him alone. Someone, do something. Help him." She watched her helpless grandfather being dragged through the canvas flaps of the military truck.
Others in the group only glanced away, fearing the same punishment.
"Grandpa!" she screamed again, still trying to escape the hold of the guards.
The group was nudged through the doors by rifle tips into the cold and dreary warehouse. Stacked rows of pallets and wooden crates on the chipped concrete floor, separated five numbered doors along one side of the warehouse. Light fixtures with flickering bulbs swayed from metal rafters. It was a dreary ambiance, a destination not on their itinerary.
"Line up. Toes to the line," he ordered.
Then, a single gun shot was heard from inside the truck.
The granddaughter fell to her knees, cupping her face and weeping.
"Standup!" a guard demanded. "Or you'll be next."
"Tell the boss the new shipment's arrived," the mustached guard ordered.
Squeezed into his large leather armchair, Chavez perched his feet on his executive sized desk in his private quarters. Nursing a cigar clinched between his teeth and a half empty bottle resting on his lap, he gazed past his bed into emptiness, thinking of the past.
After a serving in the Mexican military where he learned to speak English, Chavez rented a cheap one room loft above a seedy bar he had often frequented before enlisting. It provided his cravings of cheap tequila and cigars, and raunchy prostitutes. It was there he ran into an ex-military partner who persuaded him to enter the local drug trade with him. Running low on his nominal severance pay, he agreed.
Warned away from the more profitable tourist districts by long established competitors, Chavez entered the world of pimping. It proved to be a high dollar business with repeat clientele, but like his drug business, he received threats of violence and forced to relocate.
He moved his business far outside the city limits to an abandoned warehouse located in a small village. It was difficult to locate, and lacked the glamour of other established venues, but it provided his clients who paid top-dollar a discreet environment with sought after privacy. His clients consisted of businessmen, government officials, and doctors.
Business was profitable, but clients demanded more diversity in choices. Women were difficult to come by, preferring action of the city, rather than being in the sticks, so Chavez expanded his business to another level.
He amassed groups of men, typically poor farmers in the area, to work as his guards in the warehouse. He then chose despondent men who were hired as kidnappers and transporters, to which he assigned the name of Enforcers. Their job was to assure the safety of captives, and provide unharmed delivery to the warehouse. Each group of enforcers worked under a person he called, Captains. These men worked in people-oriented industries, positions that enabled them to come into contact with new people everyday. Tourism was the preference, taking days, sometimes weeks before they were missed. This allowed time for their passage, sale, and transport to their final destination, usually to other countries. He insisted his guards at the warehouse speak basic English, so he found women who could help teach them.
Failure from his enforcers was intolerable, but killing people himself was below him. He believed someone else's blood on his hands evidenced weakness and obedience, two character traits he refused to succumb to. Rather than hear their excuses, and place his operation at risk, he'd order one of his faithful guards to, "Deal with them."
His guards knew how he preferred to dispose of people, either cutting them from navel to sternum, or putting a bullet through the back of their head.
The sound of his cell phone ringing jarred him back to the moment. "Talk to me," he grumbled in his deep hoarse tone.
"Another cargo is on the way, a family of four."
"Good." He slapped his phone closed and took another swig from the bottle when there came a knock from his door. "Enter," he bellowed.
The guard peeked in. "The new cargo's here, ready for your inspection, boss."
Chavez waved the guard out, then choose one of the plastic draped officer's shirts hanging in his closet. He emptied the tequila bottle, wiped his mouth, then entered the warehouse.
He browsed the new arrivals, sizing them up for sale. Women between the ages of twenty and thirty were worth at least ten-thousand US dollars. Women over thirty usually brought in around eight-thousand, unless they looked younger. It was the teenaged girls where he made his profits. Girls nineteen or under earned him upwards to twenty-thousand each. They were top dollar.
The men usually brought in seven-thousand per healthy organ. These usually consisted of kidneys, hearts, livers and eyes. If young boys couldn't be sold, they joined the men as organ donors. "Seven pounds of riches," Chavez referred to them as.
He examined each captive as if they were thoroughbreds in a stable. Every mark, scratch, or bruise, was a potential money loss, but his team of women had become experts in concealing flaws and deficiencies, and knew which drugs to give them to make them less combative. The young boys joined the men at the end of the hall until called out to the yellow line for exhibition. If the buyers found them unworthy for paying clients, the boys were taken back to the room of organ donors to await their fate.
After Chavez's inspection of the group, they were assigned rooms with other captives waiting their turns to be presented for sale.
Once sold, they were given new names and fake passports. Often times, minor facial surgery was conducted to prevent them from being recognized. They were then transported overseas, usually to China, Thailand, Philippines, or Malaysia. They were never heard from again. Their new life began immediately, being thrown into the world of sexual compulsion. Chavez's reputation for supplying the most diverse and attractive product had made his operation into a revolving door of international success.
Chapter Seven
Andrea perched on the Captain's chair staring at the warning signs of the approaching storm. Breaking news of her escape had now taken backseat to the weather, and chances of her being apprehended had now put her mind at rest. She was on her way back to Mexico.
Carlos slipped in and out of sleep during the day. Bored at only seeing water, he'd flood her with questions about the same topic. "When d-do we g-get our b-business by th-the sea?"
She'd answer, "Like I said, after we deliver this cargo."
"R-R-Really? D-Do you m-mean it?"
"Have I ever let you down?"
While he slept, she devised several plans for them to leave, every one resulting in possible capture by Chavez's men. His people were everywhere, and she had only met a few from different locations in the United States, Mexico, and the Caribbean. It would be almost impossible for them to go somewhere wi
thout being noticed. Still she had to try.
Carlos awoke. "I-I'm hungry. C-can I m-make a s-sandwich or s-something?"
"That's a good idea, I'll come with you. Let's see what they have to eat."
Maddie awoke from sounds of seas smacking against the hull, unaware of the time, or how long she'd been sleeping. Beside her was Sam, still sleeping. There were no smells of meals being cooked, or sounds of people laughing and conversing in the marina. She peered through the portholes on both walls hoping for an indication of their whereabouts, but the endless mass of blue water and absence of land provided no answer. She had no idea where they were, or how much time had past, or who was sailing their boat.
She examined Sam lying next to her. His swollen face had pain written on it. A large swell had formed below one of his eyes, encompassed by a black and blue bruise, an indication they had been out for at least a full day. The events of the other night shocked her into reality. She brushed her finger across the top of his wound. He flinched and brushed the unknown intrusion away.
"Sam, wake up."
He fidgeted and moaned.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Tired," he answered. "What happened? Where are we?"
"They drugged us and put us in our room. We're somewhere in the middle of the ocean. I don't know what's going on, but they're not the nice people we were thought they were. See if you can get up."
"They drugged us?" he asked, shifting to the edge of the bed. "How do you know?"
"I don't know. Maybe when we put the kids to bed, they put something in our drinks. Maybe it wasn't just aspirin they gave us. I don't know."
"I don't think it was the pills," Sam said. "It was Captain Kent who gave them to us."
"Yeah, maybe you're right. Can you get up?"
He buckled when he tried to sit up. "My knee hurts pretty bad."
"I should have listened to my intuition," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Just like I told you, everything was too coincidental. There were too many signs, and we just ignored them. You just passed them off with the 'small world' excuse. How can you be so naive?"
