Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  Jak took another long look at the pot of food before speaking. “I think I know who took your girl.”

  “Celine. Her name is Celine Chavez,” said Clay. He stared at the old man with impatient eyes. “So, what do you know?”

  “There is a place, a camp. The men who live there are bad news. They are like the coyote; they prey on the weak. They don’t take too many, not enough to get themselves noticed, not enough to cause any big news.”

  “They took my Celine and her friends. Believe me, they’ve gotten themselves noticed.” Clay’s voice was like gravel on a tin roof.

  Jak looked at Danny. “You’re right. He is a little scary.”

  “So where is this camp?” asked Clay.

  Jak nodded in the direction of the setting sun. “It’s about ten miles that way. You can get there by road, but not this way. You would need to go all the way back to the main road south of Chacchoben and keep following it south, go all the way around on the 307. Then take the 186, then the road to El Progresso back north and look for the road from there. I’m not sure which road leads in, so you would need to work through each one in turn.”

  “And end up on some back road just like this one?” said Clay, his voice tinged heavily with impatience. “Mexico sucks.”

  “Maybe.” Jak offered a noncommittal shrug. “It’ll be an unmarked road like most around here. If you took the wrong one you would be no further forward.”

  “Have you seen the camp yourself, with your own two eyes?” asked Clay. “I’d be really pissed if we spend a day going round in circles looking for a camp that turns out to be a rumour.”

  Jak pulled his attention from the pot of food that had begun to simmer gently over the small campfire. “It’s real. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes.”

  “And you know how to get there on foot from here?” asked Danny as he gently stirred the food.

  “I know the way,” said Jak.

  “Can you lead us there in the morning? Will you help us find Celine?” asked Clay.

  Jak studied the brothers for long seconds, his eyes roving in silent appraisal. “I will help you.”

  Danny spooned a generous helping of the canned chilli and beans onto a tin plate. He passed it to Jak, who accepted it with outstretched hands. “Eat up. You look like you could stand to put on a few pounds.”

  Jak nodded in agreement. “I love my food. I’ll try anything, but it doesn’t seem to stick to my ribs.”

  “For an old guy who lives out in the middle of the big green, you talk a bit like a Brit. Not your accent, but some of the phrases that you use are things we used to say back home in Scotland. Like food sticking to your ribs.”

  “I’m a man of many layers,” replied Jak. “I had a friend from Britain, an entomologist. He came to study the butterflies and bugs of the Yucatán. We were friends for many years. I learned most of my English from him.”

  Clay topped up the fire with another couple of branches before beginning his own meal. He sat with his legs outstretched. “Tell us some more about the compound. Who runs it? How many men?”

  Jak blinked slowly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about them, no names or numbers. They keep to themselves. They do have a steady stream of visitors to the camp.”

  “Do the men at the camp look like soldiers or cartel?” asked Clay. “Do they carry a lot of guns?”

  Jak frowned in recollection. “I’ve only seen them a few times but no, they just look like ordinary people. They don’t wave guns around like the street gangs. But I know they are bad men. The looks on their faces tell all. They all look like cats watching fish in a bowl.”

  “What about the camp itself? What does that look like?” asked Danny. “Take your time, try to remember as much as you can.”

  “I happened across it by accident. I was out looking for wood to carve—I make walking sticks and things to sell— when I came across the camp.” Jak traced a circle in the air with his right hand. “It’s surrounded by a fence. There’s a big double gate at the front, chain-link like the fence. There’s a big house at the centre with smaller buildings out the back, a horseshoe shape.”

  “Are there any watchtowers or sentries posted at the fence or gates?” asked Clay.

  Jak shook his head. “No. Last time I was there I only saw a couple of men. They were carrying a young woman on a stretcher from the back of a van into one of the buildings behind the house.”

  “What about cameras? Did you notice if they had any CCTV?” asked Danny as he finished his food.

  “I can’t remember seeing any, but I wasn’t looking for them, so I can’t say either way.”

  Clay looked at Jak, the scars on his face crinkling. “Did you report the thing with the woman on the stretcher to the cops?”

  “You come from America; things are different there. Here, most of the police are only interested if it serves their own agenda. They are all after their mordidas, their ‘little bites’.”

  “Bribes,” said Danny. “They want paid extra to do their own jobs, or to look the other way. We call them ‘bent coppers’ in the UK.”

  “We call them normal cops in Mexico,” replied Jak.

  24

  Celine’s heart sank as a second man appeared behind the white-haired thug. He was a foot shorter than his companion and much wider. His arms and shoulders, both in bulk and definition, told of many dedicated hours spent in the gym. The man’s tanned skin was decorated profusely with intricate tattoos. Tribal art blended with strange esoteric symbols, visible on his arms, shoulders and upper chest. Celine fought a shiver. Were either of these men responsible for the pain between her legs? What had they done to her while she was unconscious? She forced back the bile that rose again in the back of her throat.

  The white-haired freak strode forward and pressed two fingers to the side of the dead woman’s throat.

  “She gone?” asked the man with the tattoos.

  He received a single nod by way of an answer.

  “Hogs are eatin’ white meat tonight.” Tattoo smiled. His accent was distinctive—he was from the States. “What about her?” he asked. He tilted his head at the recumbent woman.

  The blond man moved to the side of her bed and checked her pulse. Using his thumb, he peeled back her eyelid. The woman stirred briefly but remained unresponsive. “She’s alive but still well under.”

  “Who the hell are you?” demanded Gillian, her chin thrust forward. Celine reached for her friend’s arm.

  Tattoo looked her up and down before answering. “We’re your new best friends.”

  “Come on, it’s time for you to move. Time to meet the boss.”

  Gillian pointed a finger at the white-haired man. “You better let us go right fucking now. We’re from the States! My father works for the state attorney in Texas. If you let us go right now, maybe you won’t spend the rest of your lives in a cell.”

  Tattoo stood silent for a moment, legs apart, hands on his hips. Then he emitted a short barking laugh. “Where the hell do you think you are? Beverly Hills? You shut your mouth and do exactly as you’re told, or you’ll end up with the pigs like that one.”

  Gillian flinched as if she’d been slapped. The venom in the man’s voice suggested this was no idle threat.

  The white-haired man glared at the two friends. “Enough of this shit. Time to move. The boss wants to look at you. Oh, and if you try any crap like trying to run, I’ll break your legs. You’ll spend the rest of your days chained naked to that bed.”

  Celine and Gillian exchanged a subtle look. Both knew each would be on the lookout for any opportunity of escape.

  Celine held up a placatory hand. “Okay, we’re coming. Will we be able to see our friends?”

  Tattoo frowned momentarily. “Friends?”

  “Marco and Laura,” said Celine. “Are they here? They were with us… before.”

  “Enough. I ask the questions. Get moving.” The white-haired man stepped into the hallway.

  Celine and Gillian were jo
stled into motion by Tattoo. “Follow him.”

  There was no chance of fighting the two brutes. Celine hung her head and stepped through the door into a narrow, windowless hallway that smelled of disinfectant. There were several doors, all securely closed. The hallway terminated at a steel door.

  The white-haired man glanced up at another dome set into the low ceiling. After a few seconds of waiting, the lock disengaged with a metallic snick. As the door opened another stretch of enclosed hallway was visible. The corridor again ran straight, with no visible windows. Another single door lay at the far end of the walkway.

  “Where you taking us? Who is your boss?” asked Celine as she was ushered through by her captors. When nobody answered, she began again, “Where you taking—?”

  Tattoo reached forward and clamped his fingers tight onto the muscle at the side of her neck. An involuntary squeal of pain escaped her lips.

  “Quiet!” Tattoo released the hold and shoved her forward.

  The door, steel-plated like the previous one, was equipped with a simple intercom unit. White-Hair pressed the red button at the base of the console. “Open up.”

  With an identical metallic snick to the previous door, it swung open.

  “What the hell?” Celine pulled Gillian close. The area beyond provided a sharp contrast to the white utilitarian decor of the holding room and prison-like passageways. The door opened into a wide lobby. Paintings framed in an eclectic mix of gold and chrome decorated the pastel-blue walls. Portraits of unfamiliar historical figures, most with high collars and stern faces, hung next to landscapes, which hung next to abstract cubist works in gaudy splashes of colour. The floor tiles were a mosaic, a spiralling cosmos. Randomly coloured tiles added to the celestial design. In front of a set of double doors at the far side of the room stood a silent sentry.

  “Keep moving.” Tattoo pushed them into the lobby. The door clicked shut behind them.

  The sunburnt sentry scrutinised the party as they approached, his gaze lingering on the two young women. As the party drew close, he opened the nearest of the two doors for them.

  Celine looked into the next room with trepidation. A soft red light illuminated it, providing a sinister aspect. “I don’t want to go in there.”

  Gillian’s face was stark but she remained silent. She clutched Celine’s arm.

  Tattoo thrust his knuckles into Gillian’s back at a point between her shoulders. The blow was little more than a jab, but it served its purpose. Gillian lurched forward into the room, taking Celine with her.

  The walls and floor were coloured red by the light. An intense but unfamiliar aroma filled the air. Wisps of serpentine smoke turned lazily before them.

  At the centre of the room sat a solitary figure, chin resting on his knuckles. One leg was thrown carelessly over the side of his plush throne-like seat. The polished leather of his calf-length boots shone scarlet in the light. His dark brown hair was cut short and his goatee was comprised of carefully sculptured pencil-thin lines of hair. He gave a shark-like grin as the women stumbled into the room.

  Gillian thrust out her chin. “What is this place? It looks like some cheap-ass vampire movie.” She focused on the man at the centre of it. “Who the hell do you think you are? You better let us go right now or you’re in a world of trouble, mister!”

  The man gave a single contemptuous flick with his finger. Tattoo stepped forward and slapped Gillian hard in the face, so that she fell back.

  “Plenty more where that came from if you open your piehole before you’re told to.”

  “Please don’t hurt her!” yelled Celine as she huddled over her injured friend. “We just want to go home.”

  “You want to go home?” The man on the seat flashed another grin. “This is home, now.” He beckoned them. Helping Gillian to her feet, Celine tried to support some of her friend’s weight as they walked towards the chair.

  “Welcome, my pretty little things. Tell me your names.” The man sounded almost paternal. “It’s alright. You may speak. No one wants to hurt you here.”

  “Where are we?” asked Celine. “Who are you people? Why are we here?”

  “My, oh my, three questions. Which should I answer first?”

  Celine pulled Gillian close to support her weight more comfortably. “Why are you keeping us here?”

  “Before I answer your questions, your names…”

  “I’m Celine Chavez. This is Gillian Cole. We were with another two friends, Marco Kenner and Laura Troutman. Are they here as well?”

  The man ignored Celine’s question. “You are safe here. Safe from the evils of the world. Safe from all the corruption and dirt and worry. We are a family here. Everyone plays their part. You must now play yours, my pretty little things.”

  “We don’t want to be here. A woman just died in front of us. We just want to go home and be with our families again,” said Celine. Tattoo moved within arm’s reach with a single stealthy step. Celine gave him a wary glance but continued. “Please! Just let us go home.”

  “But my little Celine, I’ve already told you, we are a family here.”

  “We just want to go home!”

  “If I let you leave, my little Celine, what will become of your dearest Gillian? Personally, I would like to see no harm come to her, but I can’t speak for the rest of the members of our family. Some of the men have been known to lapse into base savagery, not something I condone, but…”

  “What do you want from us?” asked Celine, pulling her friend closer. “We have a little money we can give you.”

  “What money? Show me.”

  Celine’s eyes darted from side to side in realisation. “I don’t know where my purse is, but I can get some money. If we could call home, our families would send some to you.”

  “Your families, they are super-rich, yes?” The man raised his chin in mock expectation. “Is Papa Chavez a CEO with deep pockets? Does Mr Cole have mega-shares in Microsoft?”

  Celine struggled to swallow, her words like pebbles in her mouth. “My father is a gardener, my mother a housekeeper.”

  The man laughed out loud. “Ah, of course they are, modern Mexicans living the American dream right there. How the Chavez family has flourished. Cut the grass, clean the pool, cook the dinner. You must be very proud.”

  “Just let me call them. Please.”

  “And what about you, Missy Cole? What delights do the Cole family bank accounts hold? What do your parents do to earn their way in the world?”

  Celine squeezed her friend’s arm, knowing that Tattoo was in easy striking range. Gillian said, “Dad works at a car dealership.”

  “So not a power player for the state attorney after all. And Mommy dearest?”

  “Mom’s a homemaker.”

  “Homemaker? Ha!”

  “Don’t you laugh at my mom, you son of a bitch!” Gillian clenched her fists. Celine exerted a steady pressure on her arm.

  “Save your energy, pretty thing. You may just find you like it here.” The man uncoiled himself from the seat. “Come, walk with me. I’m sure you are curious to see the house?”

  “I don’t want to see the house. I want to go home.” Celine took an involuntary step backwards as her tormentor moved close enough to kiss her.

  “Please come with me. That’s the last time I ask nicely.” Despite showing his perfect white teeth in a grin more befitting a television evangelist, the menace in his voice was unmistakable.

  They were ushered into yet another contrasting room. The lighting was provided by a series of utilitarian standing lamps. A young woman with short red hair sat behind a wooden office desk. A collection of debit and credit cards was arranged to one side of the laptop at which she worked. A single folding chair was on the other side of the desk.

  The woman looked up, a smile forming instantly as she looked at the leader. After a second or two she turned her gaze to the two women. Using one finger, she moved the closest of the credit cards to the edge of the desk. “Gillian Cole?”
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  The silence hung in the room like cigarette smoke.

  The redhead seemed to be enjoying the moment. “Gillian, sit down and take a breath.”

  Tattoo shoved Gillian into the seat.

  “You need to give me your PIN numbers and your online banking details and passwords. You too, Celine.”

  Gillian shook her head in disbelief. “You’re from the States?”

  “You look surprised.” The redhead smiled again. “Michelle Getty. Detroit born and bred. Now… PIN numbers and online usernames and passwords.”

  “You’re robbing us?”

  Michelle tapped the edge of the credit card against the table. “No, you’re helping fund our sanctuary. Think of it as a charitable contribution to a very worthy cause. Please don’t make me ask again. PIN numbers and online usernames and passwords.”

  White-Hair gave a low growl by way of a warning. Celine and Gillian flinched like scolded children. Gillian gave the required details with a tremor in her voice.

  Michelle flicked a finger at Celine. “Now you. Same again.”

  Celine gave up the information without a fight. Michelle tapped at the keyboard with practised ease. After a few meagre seconds, she looked up to the leader and gave a satisfied nod. “I can access both bank accounts.”

  Running his thumb and forefinger over the neat lines of his goatee, the leader returned the redhead’s smile. “Efficient as always, Michelle.”

  “Thank you, Master Ezeret.”

  Gillian leaned close to Celine. “So the asshole has a name.”

  Master Ezeret looked past the two captives and raised his chin in a subtle motion. “Take Celine back to her room.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Celine, her arms snaking around Gillian’s waist.

  Ezeret smiled. “Nothing to worry about, my pretty little thing. I merely want to introduce Gillian to some of the more established members of our group.”

  “Why can’t we meet them together?”

  “I can tell by the fear and suspicion in your voice that you are worried, but why would I attempt to deceive you? If I wished you harm, I would do you harm, right here and now.” Ezeret spread his hands and evinced another smile. “It’s late and the moon is high. Time for you to rest. She’ll be back with you in your quarters in no time.”