by Matt Rogers
He had few.
He quickly realised that an escape attempt in the lobby of Diamanté Resort would have been the smartest move. A public space, with plenty of variables. A lot of room for error by the police. A vicious elbow to the left, a headbutt to the right, a thunderous kick into Tomás’ groin — and he would have bought a few precious seconds to disappear into the crowd. It might have worked. Probably not. But a bullet in the back was preferable to whatever awaited him in El Infierno.
There was nothing to do now but play their sick game.
He turned to Roman, who had drifted into a doze. ‘Hey.’
The man opened his eyes. ‘What?’
‘What happens to you?’
‘They’ll probably let me go in the morning. My business partners will contact the station. Might pay a bribe. Whatever the case, it shouldn’t take long.’
‘Can I pay a bribe?’
‘You got a lot of money?’
King shrugged. ‘I have enough.’
Roman raised an eyebrow. ‘What brings a rich man like yourself to a place like this?’
‘The travel bug, I guess.’
‘Well, to each their own. What business were you in?’
‘I was a soldier.’
‘A rich man and a soldier are mutually exclusive.’
‘Not the case for me.’
‘Ah — you were specialised?’
‘I won’t go into details.’
‘It’s pretty clear from the way you demolished Hector. The guy’s got a bit of a name for himself out in the streets. Would be embarrassing if people found out he got manhandled by a tourist.’
‘What are you saying?’
The cigar flared as Roman touched it to his lips. ‘Retaliation might be in order.’
King sighed. They looked across the cell at the man he’d attacked on the way in.
Hector, apparently.
He sat with his arms wrapped around his legs on the other side of the cell. Blood had caked dry under his nose, covering his lips. He rocked back and forth, muttering under his breath, staring at them from afar. Scrutinising King.
‘If he tries anything, it won’t be pretty,’ King said.
Roman looked across. ‘What are you telling me for? You think I care?’
‘I’m worried the police will care.’
The man laughed. ‘No-one will give a shit. Anything can be bought in this place.’
‘Except my freedom, apparently.’
Roman raised a finger. ‘Fair point. Except your freedom. Can I ask you a question?’
‘Sure.’
‘Were you looking for drugs in Vargas?’
‘What?’
‘Drugs. It might be why you’re in here. If you were too intrusive.’
‘No.’
‘Did you get any requests? To carry out favours for anyone?’
‘No.’
‘A man of your skill-set … might be appealing to some of the criminals in this state.’
‘That’s a wild assumption.’
‘Is it correct?’
King cocked his head, taken aback by the barrage of questions. ‘No, Roman. Stop asking.’
Roman shrugged and settled back against the wall. ‘Fair enough.’
They lapsed into silence once more. The sky outside darkened and the air seemed to grow thicker. It was stifling in the cell. The stench seeped into everything. King’s shirt had long ago been soaked through with sweat. He saw some of the thugs peeling off their clothing in an attempt to cool themselves. He did the same, removing the shirt so he just wore jeans. He draped the wet shirt over the bench.
‘Do we get dinner?’ he said.
‘If you have money,’ Roman said. ‘Do you?’
King nodded. ‘In my pocket. I’m not sure about pulling it out in front of these guys.’
‘Smart move, my friend. Wait for one of the guards to walk past. Then let him know what you want. He’ll get anything for the right price.’
It didn’t take long for a man to stroll down the hallway, throwing a brief glance into each cell. Checking that no bodies needed removing, King presumed. He got up off the bench and powered through the crowd of resting thugs. A few grumbled as he brushed past, but no further action was taken. They’d clearly decided he was too much trouble to bother antagonising.
‘Hey,’ King said.
The guard stopped. Turned. His dishevelled thinning hair had been matted to his forehead by the heat. ‘Huh?’
‘Can you get me some food?’
‘Food?’
His accent was thick. King guessed he spoke barely any English. He made a gesture with both hands, miming eating from a bowl. He nodded at the same time.
‘One hundred bolivares,’ the guy said.
Ten dollars. Not a bad price for a meal, all things considered. King shoved a hand into his pocket and withdrew a cluster of twenty-bolivar notes. He handed five over and shoved the rest back into his jeans. The guard turned on his heel and walked back the way he’d come.
A low hum started in the cell. It began with a pair of men chattering to each other in Spanish, gesticulating at King. Then more joined in, until it seemed every man in the cell was discussing him.
They’d seen the money.
Bad news.
He stared at Hector, who had a newfound glint in his eyes. Now — if the man decided to attack — he would not just be motivated by revenge. He could get rich in the process. A tantalising thought, no doubt.
King leant against the wall. He glared at anyone who dared to make eye contact. They quickly averted their gaze, yet it seemed the atmosphere had once again changed. Tension and nervous energy crackled in the air.
The guard returned five minutes later, carrying a plate heaped high with potato gnocchi. King had seen the same meal in several bazaars since landing in the country a week ago. It seemed to be a popular dish in these parts. He took the plate through a small opening in the cell bars and the guard left once again. No cutlery. No clean dishes. He didn’t care. He was more accustomed to this way of life than Diamanté Resort’s lavish buffet breakfasts.
He wolfed the food down, drawing the attention of every man in the cell. No-one spoke. They just watched him. He finished quickly and tossed the plate out into the hallway, his hunger satisfied.
Roman stared at him as he made his way back to the bench.
‘They won’t like that,’ he said.
‘I don’t care,’ King said.
‘You should. You can’t stay awake forever.’
‘I’ll kill anyone who tries to rob me.’
‘You might need to. I’m not sure if you’ve entirely proven yourself yet.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘If I were you, I’d go rough a few of them up.’
King shook his head and sat down on the bench. ‘I already proved my point. I’m not going to attack anyone else without provocation.’
‘That’ll get you killed.’
‘What will?’
‘Being noble. No room for nobility in a place like this.’
‘It’s not noble. Just fair.’
‘Nothing’s fair in here. Get used to that. You might be here a while.’
With nothing further to be said, the two men settled into somewhat comfortable positions. King sat upright, leaning against the warm concrete. He felt sweat run down his bare chest. His hair was soaked. His face was soaked. The skin of his back stuck to the wall. The conditions were unpleasant, to say the least. Nevertheless, the food began to settle in his stomach and he felt his eyes grow heavy. It had been a rough day. When he’d first risen out of bed this morning, he had never anticipated events would unfold this way.
From the luxuries of life to this hellhole.
He closed his eyes and slept fitfully, interspersed with brief periods of waking up bathed in sweat. He would look around the room, note each cellmate’s position and drift back into unconsciousness.
Sudden movement pulled him awake in the early ho
urs of the morning.
He heard the slight rustling of a body passing through space, brushing their feet against sleeping thugs, heading rapidly in a certain direction. He opened his eyes and saw it.
Hector running across the cell. Headed straight for him. Eyes hard and determined and cruel.
He clasped a homemade knife in his hands, sharpened from some kind of household object.
He would reach King in a couple of seconds.
CHAPTER 7
King darted to his feet as soon as he saw the weapon, instantly awake. The sensation brought back memories of the alley the previous day. It also stirred feelings from years past. All these situations were the same.
Another human being would try everything in their power to end his life in gruesome fashion, and he would try everything in his power to save it.
Hector came in swinging with the knife. Short, sharp, scything. Much more effective than the wild attacks from the amateurs in the alley. King knew he needed every bit of his reflexes to survive what came next.
The blade sliced through the air inches from his neck. It would have connected had he not thrown his head back just in time, slamming the rear of his skull into the concrete wall. It hurt. But a bruise did less damage than a slit throat.
He used the near-miss to power away, juking to the side like a wide receiver dodging a defender. Hector crashed into the wall and spun around, righting himself after the momentum-filled charge. King sensed a few thugs behind him scrambling to their feet, but they would do no harm. They would simply watch the conflict.
He knew he had to end it quickly. The longer Hector drew the confrontation out, the higher the chance he would sink the blade into King’s vital organs.
King burst forward.
He stayed within range of a blade swing for less than a second. Just enough time to land a kick. He placed the blow well, targeting Hector’s knee. The joint was locked in place, meaning it would take less effort to bend in the other direction. He put two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of bodyweight behind the impact, pushing hard for a single moment. Then he back-pedalled violently, darting out of range just as fast as he’d entered it.
Hector’s screams highlighted the damage done.
His leg buckled and he started to collapse to the putrid floor. King assessed the nature of the injury in the blink of an eye and knew ligaments had been torn. The pain would be significant enough to impair his reaction speed for the next few seconds. King rushed in and seized the knife hand. Yet disarming Hector would not end the conflict. An attempt had been made on King’s life, which sent shivers of fury down his spine. He squeezed his massive forearms and used all his strength to send the knife plunging into Hector’s abdomen. He targeted the blow with precision. Aiming for the intestines, not the liver.
Enough to wound him, but not to kill him.
Hector collapsed to the floor in a puddle of his own blood.
‘Keep pressure on it,’ King said to Roman.
The man raised an eyebrow. ‘You just broke his leg and stabbed him and you want me to tell him everything’s going to be alright?’
‘He’s in pain. Which he deserves to be in. But he’ll live. Which he also deserves.’
‘Pretty sure he tried to kill you.’
‘There’s a slight difference in experience here,’ King said.
‘What?’
‘If a young toddler tried to stab you, would you kill them in return?’
‘Probably not.’
‘That’s how I feel right now.’ King crossed the cell and stuck his face in the bars. ‘Hey!’
It didn’t take long. A policeman he’d never seen before heard the cry and came running through the steel door, his face a pale sheet. King took one look at him and presumed that stab wounds were on the lighter side of the injuries he saw. He’d come in expecting the worst. He made it to their cell.
‘He’s hurt,’ King said, pointing at Hector, who was in the process of clutching his stomach and moaning.
The man realised no-one was dead and visibly relaxed. In fact, he seemed bemused at King’s urgency.
What type of shit goes on in here? King thought.
‘So?’ the policeman said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What you want me to do?’ he said in stunted English.
‘Help him out…’ King said, astonished. ‘He’ll die if we just leave him there.’
‘No my problem. One thousand bolivares.’
‘You’re joking.’
The policeman sniggered. ‘Seems like he’s friend of yours. You pay for us to help. Or I make sure you stay here longer.’
King didn’t feel like explaining that Hector had just tried to end his life, or that he had no idea how long he was scheduled to stay in the first place. But at the end of the day if they took Hector away, the man would be permanently removed from the equation. A price King was willing to pay.
He peeled a pair of five-hundred-bolivar notes off the roll in his pocket. Handed them across. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Of course. He trip and fall. Stab himself.’
‘Is that a common occurrence around here?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the man said, nodding vigorously. ‘Happen daily.’
The policeman pulled a two-way radio out of his belt and shouted instructions into it. In an instant the steel door slammed open and a pair of officers came through carrying a white cloth stretcher. King briefly considered making a break for it. Then the door clicked shut behind them. He sighed. Even if he made it out of the cell, he’d be trapped in the hallway.
One of the new arrivals brandished a shiny assault rifle. King recognised its make. A Kalashnikov AK-103. Standard issue for the Venezuelan armed forces. The officer tossed it to the original guard, who caught it and slid the safety off.
‘Anyone moves — they die,’ he said in Spanish.
King believed him. It wouldn’t take much to cover up his death. He imagined he would be buried in the middle of nowhere and forgotten.
The officers with the stretcher unlocked the cell door and entered. They moved tentatively, wary of the many pairs of eyes studying their every movement. A couple of men sucked phlegm into their throats, threatening to spit at them at any moment. The policeman with the rifle saw this and screamed commands, gesticulating wildly.
King stayed frozen by the entrance. The situation was volatile due to its unpredictability. Anywhere else he would have a little more confidence. In here, anything could happen. He knew he was one wrong step away from a bullet in the brain.
They lifted Hector onto the stretcher. He moaned throughout the whole process. Blood pooled onto the white material, soaking it through in an instant. With twin grunts of exertion they rose and exited the cell. King noted their hurried steps. He didn’t imagine they were comfortable in enemy territory. When the cell door slammed shut — separating them from the horde of prisoners — the trio of officers visibly relaxed.
They carted Hector away without another word.
King watched them go with a semblance of relief. The cell shortly returned to normal. He headed back to Roman, noting the lack of tension in the air. It seemed the more serious threats on his life had left with Hector. Danger had stagnated. For now.
Roman’s hands were crimson. He’d done his best to try and stem the bleeding. King sat down next to him and took a deep breath, sucking air into his lungs. The jitters of combat had yet to fade.
‘I have more questions,’ Roman said.
‘You seem full of them.’
‘You’re better trained than I thought. You must have been the best of the best.’
King shrugged. ‘Big assumption.’
‘Which makes me ask you again — what are you doing here?’
‘In prison?’
‘In Venezuela. If you have as much money as you say you do, you could be anywhere in the world.’
He shrugged again. ‘No particular reason.’
‘Who hired you?’
It was
the straw that broke the camel’s back. Before then King had put up with the man’s interrogation, passing him off as simply inquisitive. But this was something else. Roman wanted to know exactly who he was, and which non-existent employers he was working for.
He turned his head when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Roman reached behind his back, slotting a hand into his waistband. He came out with a small compact pistol. His finger rested inside the trigger guard.
Ready to fire.
CHAPTER 8
King exploded into action.
As he saw the weapon he brought his left fist off the bench. A short, sharp jab that covered the distance to Roman’s chest in half a second. It slammed against his musculature with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. With the other hand he seized the pistol out of the man’s hand, using the fact that he was winded to his advantage.
He sprang off the bench and aimed the gun at the man sitting before him.
A wry smile crept across Roman’s features. ‘Thought that might happen.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Not your concern.’
Roman got off the bench, coughing violently. King took the opportunity to study the make of the gun in his hands. It was a double-action semiautomatic with an exposed hammer. It seemed to hold 9mm rounds, although he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t ascertain the exact model. Probably a local firearm, manufactured somewhere in Venezuela.
Therefore exclusive only to those with inside connections.
‘Where’d you get this?’ he said.
‘It’s a Zamorana. Made in-country. We’re supplied by CAVIM factory.’
‘A military factory?’
Roman nodded.
‘So how do you have access to it?’
‘Friends in high places.’
The cell had become eerily quiet. Every man in the room watched with fascination. Roman turned his back and walked away, heading for the door. King let him go. There was nothing else he could do. As if on cue, the same policeman who’d demanded one thousand bolivares reappeared. He unlocked the gate and let Roman through without a second glance.
The pair exchanged a knowing nod and the door clicked shut behind them. Before Roman left, he turned and peered through the bars at King.