by Matt Rogers
Definitely more than four men. It sounded like there was an army headed his way. Perhaps it was useless even attempting a fight. But it wasn’t in his nature to accept death, not even in the face of massive odds. He would go down swinging.
The footsteps outside reached the end of the hallway and someone rapped on the door. They waited a beat. Then they pounded against the wooden frame, knocking hard enough to draw the attention of anyone in the nearby vicinity. King hesitated, crouched on the other side, listening to the knocking.
Would the thugs knock?
He doubted it. So who was this?
The door crashed off its hinges, struck by some kind of battering ram, either makeshift or the real thing. Whatever the case, it did the job. The entire door struck King and he felt men on the other side, pushing against it, threatening to throw him off-balance. He shouldered the door aside and it crashed to the penthouse floor. He gripped the paperweight in his right hand and primed himself to throw a devastating right hook.
Then he stopped.
Half a dozen men in police uniform bustled into the room, guns drawn. They surrounded him on all sides. King saw emblems labelled ‘CICPC’, embroidered into the breast pockets of their khakis. They weren’t ordinary police. These men wore Kevlar vests and brandished formidable-looking weaponry. They’d been expecting a firefight.
No-one spoke. King let the paperweight fall to the ground. He glanced around at the wide-eyed expressions. They thought he was some kind of monster.
‘What the hell is this?’ he said to the room.
CHAPTER 4
Again, no-one responded.
King’s gut twisted into a knot. Perhaps the thugs’ reach extended further than he thought. He’d heard tales of the corruption rife within Venezuela’s law enforcement. He’d never expected to find himself on the other end of it.
Or maybe…
‘What is this?’ he said again, looking at each man in turn.
One stepped forward. He possessed an air of seniority, as if he were the one in charge. Age lines creased his cheeks. He looked at King with unbridled contempt.
‘You’re under arrest,’ he said. He spoke good English. Barely any trace of an accent.
‘I figured,’ King said. ‘What for?’
‘Murder.’
So it had nothing to do with the thugs’ injuries. He would not be charged with assault, or anything of the sort. This was a clearly false allegation.
‘Murder of who?’
‘That is not my business to discuss.’
The penthouse descended into silence once more. King stared at the five barrels pointed his way. He didn’t dare move a muscle. It only took one trigger-happy bastard to overreact and put him away forever.
‘Will you co-operate with us?’ the leader said. His name badge read Tomás.
‘Will you explain what this is about?’
‘I told you.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘That is not for me to determine,’ Tomás said.
It seemed the argument had become circular. Tomás and his men refused to budge on their position. King looked around and came to the inevitable conclusion that he had little choice in the matter. In his peripheral vision he saw the cabinet against the far wall containing his passport and wallet. Would they find it? If the police seized it, he could forget about fleeing the country in the event that he managed to slip away at some point in the near future.
Backup plans are always beneficial.
He raised his hands above his head, pulse beating fast.
‘Will I get a trial?’
Tomás said nothing. He tugged a pair of battered old handcuffs from his belt and pulled King’s arms behind his back. He locked the cuffs tight. Too tight.
‘Easy there,’ King said.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ the man spat.
They marched him out of the penthouse and down the decadent corridor. Tomás kept one hand in the small of his back the entire time, pushing him forwards no matter how fast he walked. A policeman rested a hand on each of his shoulders, creating a triangle that would be impossible to escape from. His hands were pinned behind his back anyway. He would not run. That would cause far more problems than it solved.
They manhandled him into the elevator and began a tension-filled descent to the ground floor.
‘I didn’t kill anybody,’ King said again.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
The elevator ground to a halt and the doors swung open. The congregation headed through the marble lobby, attracting surprised looks from all the tourists. King kept his head down and focused on walking. He had too much on his mind to worry about what everyone else thought of him. He could be heading straight for a gulag.
Thrown to the wolves.
A police van waited outside the hotel, its engine idling. Were it not for the Spanish logo on the side indicating it was an official government vehicle, King would have thought he was being kidnapped. It seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Black paint flaked off all sides. He guessed the budget for the police force was considerably low. It was certainly reflected in their vehicles.
Probably why there was so much corruption.
They put him in the back. He sat on one of the rusting metal benches and hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. Three policemen piled in next to him. The doors slammed shut. There was a brief period of silence, then the tyres spun and they peeled away from Diamanté Resort. King guessed it was the last time he would lay eyes on the hotel.
There were no windows to try and deduce the van’s destination. A small interior light with a weak bulb was built into the roof overhead. It flickered every time they turned a corner. Which was often, and fast. The driver took the van recklessly around various bends, trying to disturb the suspect in the back. King planted both feet on the floor and stabilised himself as the cabin lurched from side to side.
He kept his mouth shut. All the necessary talking had already taken place. He knew that he had not killed anyone, and that the police refused to believe otherwise. There was nothing to do but wait to arrive at their destination. Wherever that was.
Ten minutes later, the van stopped and the driver’s door slammed and harsh light flooded into the cabin as the rear doors were pulled open. Tomás looked up at him with a gleeful smile.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
‘Where?’ King said.
‘Your home for the next few days. While we get you processed.’
The policeman on either side gripped his arms and forced him out of the car. He stepped down into a deserted street filled with cheap, indiscriminate residential buildings. No houses around here. Just tiny offices and dilapidated apartment blocks and the sounds of babies crying and men shouting.
A relatively nice part of town, King figured.
They’d pulled up in front of what could only be a police precinct. The entire cluster of buildings was painted a stark, unforgiving blue. A collection of military and police vehicles were parked at the entrance, resting idly in their lots. The sun had come out again in the late afternoon. It beat down mercilessly, cooking the asphalt. The humidity drew sweat for the millionth time that day. He ducked his head and wiped his brow against his shirt as they led him inside the station.
There was no air conditioning in the building whatsoever. He was marched through disgusting hallways with dim lighting and through to a small processing room. On the other side of the room sat a large steel door. Even while shut, King could hear feral screams behind it. The shouting and cackling seemed to echo, meaning whatever lay beyond was a large place.
‘The hell is this?’ he said, turning to Tomás, angered by the lack of answers.
Tomás slapped him hard. A stinging blow that cracked against his cheek and sent him veering to the side. The officer laughed, a short sharp burst of cackling.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that,’ he said. ‘You’re scum.’
‘Please explain what’s going
on.’
‘You’re going through there,’ Tomás said, pointing to the steel door.
‘And what’s through there?’
‘Holding cells. We keep everyone there while we process them.’
‘Process them? You don’t even know my name. Aren’t you going to question me?’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘To get answers.’
‘We don’t want answers.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We want you behind bars.’
‘Where’s my trial, you corrupt fuck?’ King said, his blood boiling.
Tomás crossed the distance between them and squared up to him. King considered head-butting the man, but figured the temporary satisfaction would be outweighed by the severe consequences.
‘You get a trial if I say you get a trial,’ he said, saliva bubbling in the corners of his lips. ‘I’m God in this place. You understand?’
King didn’t respond.
‘I said — do you understand?’
King still said nothing. He simply stared at the man in disgust. Tomás scoffed.
‘The silent treatment, eh?’ he said. ‘Very well. Let’s see how you like it in here when I tell them you’re a wealthy American.’
‘I think I can handle myself.’
The officer bowed his head and grinned wryly. ‘We’ll certainly find out.’
Two policemen patted him down, removing the sparse possessions he had in his pockets. The hotel key card and a thick roll of bolivares, equivalent to a few thousand U.S. Dollars.
‘No phone?’ Tomás said.
‘Don’t own one.’
‘Shame. No chance for you to call home and beg for help.’
‘You can’t honestly expect to get away with this?’
Tomás laughed cruelly in his face. ‘We can get away with whatever we want. You think you’re the first tourist to disappear? If anyone comes poking around, we’ll bury you. Pretend you never existed.’
King stared straight ahead. Silently fuming, yet at the same time uncomfortable. Because Tomás was right. No-one would ever know if they decided to kill him.
To his surprise, the officer tucked all of the Venezuelan currency back into his jeans.
‘Thought you’d take that,’ King said.
‘I don’t want you to die too quickly. You’ll need it to stay alive. Plus, we have plenty.’
A harsh digital buzz erupted from the loudspeaker in the corner of the room. The steel door clicked a second later, unlocking. Tomás wrapped his fingers around its sturdy handle and wrenched it open.
A hand shoved King forward and he stepped into the madhouse.
CHAPTER 5
The holding cells were situated on either side of a long, high-ceilinged hallway, roughly the size of a church. It paralleled such a building in dimensions only. The whole place was filthy. The unmistakable smell of old faeces and urine emanated throughout the corridor, triggering King’s gag reflex. He fought the urge to cough. It would look weak. Tomás would revel in his discomfort. He swallowed hard and pressed on.
The cells were separated from one another by dirty brick walls. Their fronts were made of steel bars, thick and narrowly interspersed, preventing escape. They ranged from rooms the size of small houses to tiny individual cells. The men in the single cells had mattresses and pillows. Their living conditions were a little cleaner. It was the large cells clustered with local thugs that worried him. The men were rabid and drug-crazed. Their eyes locked onto him like he was fresh meat ready to be torn apart.
‘This isn’t the prison?’ he said to Tomás.
The man laughed cruelly. ‘Far from it. If you think this place is bad, you don’t know what you’re in for if we throw you in El Infierno.’
King knew enough rudimentary Spanish to translate the name of said prison.
Hell.
He certainly hoped he didn’t make it there.
The officers frog-marched him to the largest cell and stopped outside its door. Tomás roared a command at the screaming men within. They withdrew from the doorway, shrinking away. Completely insane, yet obedient to authority.
As Tomás unlocked the door, King sized up the situation. At least twenty men inside the cell. All twitching and shivering. Most hopped up on some kind of narcotic. They would all want a piece of him. They’d want to prove themselves to their fellow miscreants.
He knew what needed to be done. It would mean lashing out in an unprovoked attack, but it was necessary to preserve his own wellbeing. At the end of the day, he had to put his own safety first.
They pushed him in and slammed the door shut behind him. None of the men inside moved. They stared at the congregation of officers outside with vacant glassy eyes and twitching lips. When the policemen turned their backs and made for the processing room they’d come from, King knew that it would be seconds before one of his cellmates attacked.
They were itching for a fight.
He watched Tomás lead the three other policemen back down the hallway. Then he spun and shot out both hands, seizing the nearest man by the collar. This guy had the look of a meth addict. He was skinny and gaunt and aggressive as all hell. King activated his muscles and lifted the guy off his feet before he could mount any kind of offence. He kept him elevated with a single arm, and with the other wound up and crashed a fist into his nose. Blood spurted from both nostrils. The guy let out a cry of pain.
King let go and he fell to the ground in a heap.
The animalistic grunts and screams ceased. Everyone stared at the aftermath in awe.
‘You see that?!’ King roared, loud enough for every cell to hear. He pointed a finger at the curled-up addict. ‘The next person to fuck with me gets exactly that! Do not fuck with me!’
The speech had its intended effect. Instantly the atmosphere inside the cell shifted. The undercurrent of aggression faded away. He assumed none of the men spoke English, yet they had received the general tone of his message well enough. They dispersed, breaking the formation of the group, turning their attention back to whatever it was they’d been doing before he arrived. Some sat on the rusting steel benches lining the cell walls. Others sat on the ground, lighting cigarettes. They’d seen enough. They knew he meant business.
Not an easy target — which was all they seemed to be interested in.
When the crowd cleared, King saw a man sitting on a bench in the far corner. He had his legs up on its surface. His head rested against the concrete wall. He was European, dressed differently to all the other thugs. They wore tattered clothing, covered in stains and full of holes. He wore an expensive polo shirt and a pair of designer jeans. The clothing had started to turn filthy from his time in the cell. But it was still a considerable step above the other men.
King crossed the room and sat down next to the guy.
‘I’m Jason King,’ he said. ‘You speak English?’
The man turned his head and made eye contact for the first time. He had tanned skin and defined cheekbones. His long black hair was tied back. He stared vacantly at King.
‘I guess not,’ King said.
‘You guess wrong,’ the guy said, affected by only a slight trace of a Spanish accent. ‘Name’s Roman.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Roman.’
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Taking a vacation.’ Silence. Roman’s expression remained dead-faced. Then he laughed. ‘What the fuck do you think I’m doing in here, buddy?’
‘I meant — what are you in for?’
Roman didn’t respond. He withdrew a long cigar from the pocket of his polo; a fat Cuban. He placed the head between his pearly white teeth. Pulled out a silver lighter. Lit the foot. Took a long puff. Exhaled a cloud of smoke and rested his head against the wall once again. A nearby cellmate noticed the scent and looked up from his position on the floor, eyes wide. Roman shook his head and the thug bowed back down.
Defeated by a single gestur
e.
‘They do what you tell them?’ King said.
‘Of course.’
‘Who are you?’
Roman took another long draw on the cigar. ‘I think the real question is — who are you? They know me around here. I know them. None of us know you.’
‘I’m new in town.’
‘I know. You’re either new, or not important.’
‘You know everyone important?’
Roman nodded. ‘Almost.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m in the import-export business.’
King nodded his understanding. ‘So what are you doing in here?’
‘Got into a fight. They weren’t happy with me. Threw me in for the night.’
‘You can’t pay them off?’
Roman shrugged. ‘Usually I can. Not today, it seems. Caught them on a bad day.’
‘Unlucky.’
‘So who are you?’
‘Nobody,’ King said. ‘I’m retired.’
‘Terrible way to handle retirement. What’d you get arrested for?’
‘Murder.’
‘Did you do it?’
‘No. I’m hoping that will come out soon enough.’
Roman exploded in laughter, a bellowing cackle from somewhere deep in his stomach. He coughed from the cigar smoke and slapped his knee. ‘My friend, nothing comes out in here.’
King stared at him. ‘What?’
‘There doesn’t have to be a reason,’ Roman said. ‘That’s how this place works. “Murder” is bullshit. You’re in here because someone wants you in here. Simple as that.’
‘And when will they let me go?’
‘Impossible to say. From how angry the captain looked — I’d say never.’
‘They can do that?’
Roman smiled. ‘Welcome to Venezuela.’
CHAPTER 6
A long row of dirty glass windows were built high into the opposite wall. They showed nothing more than a sliver of sky, but a quick glance out revealed that it was approaching late-afternoon. King had sat in silence for the best part of an hour, observing the cell. Staying wary for any signs of danger. Mulling over his options.