by Joan Mauch
“We did it.” Jackson said and gave Izzie a look that said you’re more than just my reporter. Much more.
At last Zac found his voice. “You mind telling me what the hell’s going on?” He flinched, expecting to be on the receiving end of yet another blow.
“We’re on the Bessie Rose,” Jackson said and sat down next to him. "Charlie’s taking us to Mexico to get help.”
“Seriously? Charlie? The rat who sold us out is helping us now?” Zac’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “And you believe him? After what he did?” He lunged from the bed, his hands curled into tight fists. “Where's that son of a bitch anyway?” Glancing around he realized they were in what had previously been his stateroom.
“He’s upstairs…uh, you know, piloting the boat.” Jackson stumbled for the correct nautical term.
“And you believed him when he said he’s rescuing us?”
“Yes, he risked his neck to get us out.”
“You sure? He's the whole reason Mo got his clutches on us and Izzie taken back to that whorehouse resort. Those guys beat me up pretty good too.”
“Not that you deserved it.”
When Zac gave him a look, Jackson added, “I’m just sayin’. Charlie said it was all a ruse to get us out of Ambergris without raising suspicions. The men who bought us from Mo think he’s a trafficker and that he’s delivering us to a buyer in Guatemala.”
“And Izzie?”
She’d been uncharacteristically quiet. “Charlie didn’t take me to the resort. He brought me here. We’ve been waiting for you guys. He said we had to get out before they discover I'm gone.”
For probably the first time in his life, Zac was speechless. Finally he said, “Well, I’ll be damned. And to think you nearly broke his nose.”
Jackson laughed. “Yeah, I did that, didn’t I? Thank God he doesn’t hold grudges.”
As the three found their way to the pilothouse, Zac wondered where Charlie was taking them and how they’d ever find their way home.
"There you are," Charlie's voice boomed as they approached. He looked at Zac, "You don't look too much worse for the wear—considering."
"Says you," Zac growled. Jackson poked him in the back. "So I was wrong."
"Wrong?" Charlie gave him a puzzled look. "Wrong about what?"
"About you. I thought you'd sold us to those traffickers."
"I did. In case you didn't notice, Mo had you in chains, or so I've been told." He laughed, then winced and touched his swollen nose. "At least you didn't try to break my nose."
At that, all eyes turned to Jackson. "Oh yeah, sorry about that."
"No, that’s all right. It made things more believable to anyone who happened to have been watching."
"So, I take it you're one of the good guys," Zac said. "And Captain Tom?"
"What about him?"
"He cool with you taking his precious yacht for a spin in the middle of the night?"
Charlie's eyes went back to the wheel. He mumbled, "I borrowed it. He doesn't know."
"Wait, what?" To this point Zac had been feeling, if not good, at least less panicked. Now the adrenalin of fear snaked its way up his spine again. "You stole his boat?"
"Calm down, Zac. He's out doin' some babe and getting loaded. By the time he sobers up, you'll be safe in Chetumal and the yacht'll be back in its slip. He won't be any the wiser."
"Chetumal? What's that?"
"A port on the Yucatin Peninsula." To Zac's unspoken question, he added, "It's about seven hours from here. A friend of mine’ll be waiting and will take you to the American consulate in Cancun."
He sounded so positive everything was going to work out that Zac relaxed in spite of himself. "Okay, then," he said and reaching out, he shook Charlie’s hand. "Dude, thanks. We were in a shitload of trouble. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't even want to think of what might have happened."
"No problem," Charlie said. "Look, why don't you guys fix yourselves something to eat and get some sleep. You have a long night ahead of you even after we get to Mexico."
Heading to the well-stocked galley, the trio didn't have to be told twice.
Chapter 82
Leon leaned over and rested his head on his arms. The cool metal of the table was somehow soothing.
For the past few hours detectives had grilled him nonstop: Who’s running the show? How many are involved? C’mon man, you’re not smart enough to organize something like this on your own. Give it up and it’ll go easier on you.
What should he do? On the one hand, Seymour had been good to him—well, in his own way he had—except for the threats and occasional punches to the gut when something went wrong. But for the most part, he’d let Leon run the show on his own.
On the other hand, the man’s head was swollen to the point it resembled one of them oversized balloons. He acted as if he was too good for Leon. Sure he’d managed to rise to the top of the outfit and had more money than God had dirt, but still. Leon remembered when they were both gangbangers scraping and bowing to whoever was in power at the moment.
Look at it this way, if Seymour was in his place, would he protect Leon? Hell no. He’d give Leon up in a moment’s notice. So why should Leon spend more time in the slammer to protect him? Then there was retaliation. Seymour had driven home the point that if Leon ever gave him up to the cops, his life wouldn’t be worth shit.
Leon started at the sound of the door opening. It was decision time. They weren’t going to dick around with him much longer. What’s it going to be? Protect Seymour and do more time or give him up and look over his shoulder the rest of his life?
“Okay, dirtbag, I’ve had just about enough. Start talking.”
Leon could see by the expression on the detective’s face that he meant business. At that moment, he made what may have been the smartest decision of his life. He said, “I want a lawyer.”
Chapter 83
After several glasses of cheap wine Zac drifted off to sleep. For the past twenty-four hours he’d been running on pure adrenalin, so when it came to grabbing forty winks he’d found it impossible to slow down. The hum of the boat’s engine and a slight rocking motion along with the alcohol finally did the trick.
He dreamt he was back home in Iowa running wild with some buddies. His dad was alive and raising holy hell as his mother, with a pained expression, looked on. For the first time, he was about to stand up to his father and take the consequences, when he was awakened by a jolt which tossed him off the bed and onto the floor.
“What was that?” he said and snapped on the lights.
“We hit something?” Jackson said, sitting up.
Zac shrugged, dragging himself from the floor. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe old Charlie fell asleep at the wheel. You guys go back to sleep while I check. If anything’s wrong, I’ll let you know.” Despite his companions’ doubtful expressions, they settled down as Zac turned out the light and left the room.
What he found topside was something from a bad movie. Two men had boarded the yacht and were having a heated exchange with Charlie. Zac stayed as far back in the shadows as he could, while still managing to hear snatches of the conversation.
“No, he didn’t,” the first man said. “He’s the one who reported the Bessie Rose stolen.”
“We’re taking you back to Belize to get this sorted out. Who else is onboard?”
Alarmed, Zac turned to alert his friends—maybe they could hide and somehow go undetected while Charlie got out of this mess. If they towed the yacht back to Ambergris, it was possible they could sneak off the boat and find another way off the island. That was the plan, but like most everything else it fell short when a light came on, and he was discovered on his way back to the stateroom.
“Stop where you are.” The man had some kind of nautical uniform on and pointed a gun at him. Zac knew better than to ignore him.
“Yes? Who are you? What’re you doing onboard Captain Tom’s yacht?” Zac said, figuring a strong offense might do the trick. He was
wrong.
“I’ll ask the questions. Sit down.” The man inclined his gun toward the galley table and chairs. “Who else is onboard?”
Zac started to say no one, when his stupid-ass brother stuck his head out of the stateroom and said, “What’s going on?”
That did it. The officer ordered Jackson from the room and pulled the door back to find Izzie sitting up in bed with a puzzled look.
“Get out here and sit next to your friend over there.”
Izzie did as she was told, asking Zac with her eyes what in the name of all that was good and holy was going on.
“This yacht was reported stolen by the owner, despite the fact your buddy claims he ‘borrowed’ it and was taking a few friends for a joy ride. Know anything about that?”
Zac spoke up. “Yes, that’s exactly what happened. Charlie’s a friend of ours and wanted to take the two lovers here on a romantic moonlight ride before we return to the states.”
“Seriously?” The officer gave the bedraggled group a long, hard look. “You don’t look much like tourists to me—or lovers for that matter.” When no one said anything, he added, “This is what we’re going to do.”
Chapter 84
Detective Anders was incredulous. He looked from Leon to his lawyer and back again. “You telling me the guy running for mayor of Chicago is the brains behind this whole operation? That he calls the shots?”
“That’s exactly what I’m sayin’. Remember you promised if I gave him up you’d put me in witness protection … that’s what you said.” Leon looked from the detective to the lawyer. An onlooker might think he resembled a child begging his parents to keep a promise. “Isn’t that what he said?” He nudged his lawyer.
“That’s what he said all right,” the lawyer agreed. “We have it in writing.” He waved a sheet of paper like a flag of surrender.
“All right, all right, who’s saying any different?” At first the detective seemed to be at a loss for words then came back to himself. “Okay, tell me the whole story. If it checks out, and I can be sure you’re not lying then we’ll talk about witness protection. Right now all I’ve got is your cockamamie story about how you’re not to blame for all the crimes you committed, that some hotshot in Chicago’s the real perpetrator. We’ve got to have more than your say-so. You understand?”
Leon understood only too well that he was in over his head. Seymour had been careful to cover his tracks, to leave no evidence of his involvement in the operation. He’d limited his contact with Leon, and even then made calls from throw-away cellphones. The few times Leon called him Seymour had pitched a fit, reminding him that he was never, ever to contact him at home. They had a go-between who passed messages back and forth, and even then it was rare.
Leon had enjoyed the limited contact with his boss—thought it showed he was trusted, on his way to the top. Now the full impact of that so-called “trust” came crashing down like a hunk of loose cement from a skyscraper. Seymour had set it up so if the operation was exposed, Leon would bear the full brunt of the blame. And Seymour? He’d gotten rich off the sales of the newly enslaved, but had no real skin in the game.
What a fool he’d been. How could Leon ever prove Seymour Cottingham, the rich white guy from Chicago’s ritzy North Shore was up to his neck in the trafficking of human beings?
For a few minutes there was no sound in the grungy interview room. Leon stared at the wall, noting a place where someone left an imprint of their shoe in the sheetrock. That’s what he felt like doing: letting go with some punches or kicks to relieve the growing panic inside. He was facing hard time.
And Seymour? He’d get off and find another sucker to continue his moneymaking. Wasn’t that always the way it went? Guys like him were the mules who carried the heavy burdens for little or no reward, while the “brainiacs” at the top got off with a slap on the wrist—if that. Well, not this time. He’d find a way to prove to that detective—and his own lawyer—he was telling the truth. He was merely a flunky carrying out orders and deserved to be set free.
And if that happened, Leon would start over. Find a girl like Izzie and settle down. He saw Izzie’s beautiful face in his mind’s eye. They’d had a good thing going. If only he’d walked away from the whole mess right then, maybe he’d be with her enjoying the beach instead of sweating it out in a police station and fighting for his freedom. When would he ever learn?
Chapter 85
Never having been taken into custody before Jackson didn’t know what to expect. The coast guard had turned them over to the police. Now they sat on a bench at the intake room of Belize Central Prison fearing what would happen next. It was well past midnight, and the sergeant at the front desk was none too happy to have his mid-shift lunch interrupted. He listened as the arresting officer explained the situation. Jackson understood only snatches of the mixed English and Kriol.
“They stole a yacht. Coast guard caught’em red-handed. ”
Whatever the officer said in response was garbled. Besides Jackson was too busy worrying about the consequences of Charlie’s misguided efforts. He couldn’t remember exactly who it was, but recalled someone having said to avoid the police at all costs, that they were thoroughly corrupt. Too late for that. To make matters worse, Mo had confiscated their money, so the possibility of a bribe was out of the question.
They were, once again, in the jaws of a dilemma, but this time escape wasn’t a possibility. Their only hope was a sympathetic judge. Perhaps once he heard their story, he’d let them go. Even then, without money, how could they make it back home? The all too familiar emotions of panic and fear surged inside. He swallowed hard, took several deep breaths and uttered a silent prayer.
Izzie, who’d been sitting beside him, periodically sniffed and wiped away tears. Then, as if there was no more fight left inside, she slumped and leaned her head on his shoulder.
Squeezing her hand, Jackson said, “Hang in there, Iz. It’ll be all right. We got this far. It’s only another bump in the road.”
“You. Shut up,” the desk sergeant growled. He turned to a guard standing nearby, “We can’t do anything till morning. Take them to holding.”
Jackson had hoped Captain Tom would realize it was Charlie who’d taken the yacht and had only intended to "borrow" it. Now he could see that wasn’t going to happen. They’d have to spend at least one night in the clutches of the prison system.
"Put everything in your pockets in this here bag and give it back to me." The guard handed them each a sack. "And don't try hiding anything, ’cause you're gonna be searched anyway, so it won't go well with you if we find stuff." The man was dressed in a khaki army-style uniform complete with combat boots and a thick black weapons belt which held a revolver and nightstick. His black hair was clipped so short, Jackson could see his scalp.
"Get in line while I make sure you done what yore told." As he began to frisk each one, Izzie looked increasingly uncomfortable.
Jackson, noticing Izzie’s expression, said, "Sir, is there a female guard who can, you know, search my lady friend?"
The guard gave him a look. "Why shore, we'll get right on it. And is there anything else you'd like? Room service? A pizza or some drinks? How ’bout a private room with a view? You think yore at a damn resort over in San Pedro? If yore lady friend’s too embarrassed to be checked over, maybe she shoulda thought twice afore hangin' out with a bunch a thieves." He'd just finished with Zac and said, "Step right up, Miss."
Izzie moved forward, her eyes glued to the floor. "Hands out to the side." He patted her down, slowing visibly at her breast, butt and crotch. Jackson could scarcely contain himself and was about to intervene when the guard looked over and said, "Next."
The holding cell was a grim affair composed of a cement-block wall at the rear and thick bars on the other three sides. A bunk bed and benches were occupied by bodies so close as to appear almost as one in the gloom. More were sprawled on the bare floor, as occupants tried grabbing a few winks in the overcrowded space. Th
e only amenity, if it can be called such, was a toilet consisting of a plastic milk carton cut in half. The stench provided proof it had been used.
Izzie pinched her nose and put her hand over her mouth as if trying to avoid breathing in the foul odor.
“Holy crap, what the hell is this? You expect us to stay here?” Zac had been in jail for disorderly conduct in the past, and most likely had a notion of what prison should be like: clean cells, bunk beds with thin mattresses, blankets, maybe even a pillow, a sink with running water and a toilet in the corner. Belize Central Prison at Mile Two of Burrel Boom Road had none of these. Compared to the sight before him, the jails he’d been in seemed like five-star hotels. "I'm not joining a bunch of low-life’s on the floor infested with God only knows what," he declared.
The guard thrust a baton in his face. “Oh no?”
When Zac didn’t respond Jackson nudged him forward. The guard gave him a look that seemed to say he was disappointed at being robbed of the chance to demonstrate who was in charge.
Alone in the darkened cell, each of the four carved out a small space on the floor and curled up, intending to get some rest after their ordeal. Snores ricocheting back and forth across the room, the occasional insect bite along with the chill creeping into their bones from the damp cement floor made that nearly impossible. Finally after what seemed like endless hours later, a guard opened the cell door and they were informed breakfast was available—if they were hungry. Morning had arrived at last.
Thinking they’d be offered some kind of cereal, toast and a cup of coffee, Jackson got in line behind his cellmate. Instead of being led to a cafeteria, he was met at the door with a guard handing out sandwiches consisting of two slices of dry bread with a piece of rancid cheese in the middle. And coffee? Their liquid refreshment came from the tap.
As bad as things were, the real horror of their situation came home to roost half an hour later when the men were issued orange jumpsuits, and a guard told Izzie to accompany him to the women's section of the prison.