by Ann Simko
Dakota swiveled his head as someone came to stand beside him. He recognized the sergeant who had taken him on the road.
The General said, "Your brother's name is Montana Lee Thomas. He is an ex-Army Ranger, currently self-employed as a private investigator. He has my man. I want Private Ricco returned to me."
"Ricco doesn't belong to you." Dakota's anger, for the moment, was winning out over the fear he felt curling in his gut.
"On the contrary, he would have been dead decades ago if it were not for this program and my predecessors. I helped make him; I most certainly own him."
He scrolled down the numbers in the phone's memory. "Only one Montana listed—imagine that."
The General nodded, and the sergeant unbuckled the restraint on Dakota's left wrist.
Dakota looked from the soldier holding his arm to the General holding his phone. Fear edged over anger as The General punched in Montana's number.
Apparently, the wait for an answer was not a long one. "You know who this is?" He smiled triumphantly.
Dakota could only imagine Montana's reaction.
The General continued, "I won't waste your time. You have someone I want, and conversely, I believe I have someone you want. Perhaps we can come to an understanding, yes?" The General listened for a moment, and then placed the phone next to Dakota's ear.
"Montana?"
"Dakota, you all right?" His brother's voice was quiet, and Dakota heard anger and overwhelming concern in the words.
"Whatever he wants, don't give it to him," Dakota said, and his eyes were on the General's smiling face.
The General moved the phone back to his own ear. "Mr. Thomas, you have a rather important choice to make, Private Ricco for your brother. If you choose not to commit to this trade, I want you to remember something."
The sergeant lifted Dakota's arm, as the General held the phone out.
"I'm sorry, Doc," the sergeant said, quietly.
Dakota had no idea what was going on.
The sergeant gripped Dakota's arm at the wrist and just below his elbow. Using his knee as a fulcrum, he snapped both bones as if they were twigs.
Dakota screamed. Pain became his entire existence. When he thought it had come to its peak, he found out how wrong he was.
The sergeant gripped the shattered limb and savagely pushed until the sharp, broken ends of the bone penetrated skin.
Hot blood, his blood, splattered Dakota's face and chest. Everything narrowed and he prayed for release. He forgot about Montana, about Ricco, even about The General. All that mattered was the unrelenting pain. His stomach rolled and thought he might vomit on top of everything else, but then the sergeant released him. His arm hung twisted and limp across his chest, a bloody deformed thing that could not belong to him.
He closed his eyes and tried to stop the whimpering he knew came from somewhere deep inside. Through the buzz inside his head, he heard the General speak once more.
"Did you hear, Mr. Thomas? Did you hear the pain your brother is in? If you refuse to give me back my man, this is the life you have subjected him to. You will not find him unless I wish it. His life is mine to do with as I please. Think about that, look at the pictures I've sent you, and I'm certain you'll do the right thing.
"You have forty-eight hours to think about what I am doing to your brother. It has been a while since I've had a new subject and I intend to take advantage of the opportunity. I will contact you with the exchange information. Until then, use your imagination to fill in the gaps."
The General ended the call and threw the phone on the table, sending surgical instruments clattering to the floor. He stepped next to Dakota, grabbed his blood-speckled face with one hand, and turned it towards him. "Do you understand now, Doctor? Can you possibly comprehend the importance of what we do here?"
Dakota blinked, but the words made no sense to him as shock deadened his ears.
The General sighed and looked to the sergeant. "Take him to Ricco's cell. Keep him alive, but give him nothing for pain."
The sergeant unbuckled the remaining restraints. Dakota felt the leather straps slide away as he closed his eyes. He didn't hear any reply the sergeant might have offered, but he did hear heels clicking across the concrete floor to gradually fade into silence. He wanted to fade away with the noise, but was not allowed even that small reprieve.
The sergeant jostled him as he slipped an arm under Dakota's shoulders and another under his knees. As he lifted him, Dakota screamed.
The last thing he remembered, besides the pain that threatened to eat him alive, was the sight of the man who had just brutally shattered his arm, looking down on him with kind, almost sympathetic eyes. He saw the sergeant's mouth move, but no sound made it through the agony. Finally, the blackness surrounded him, giving him the temporary peace and numbness of unconsciousness.
Chapter 11
Montana Lee Thomas was not a patient man, nor was he a tolerant one. Women found him attractive but, he had been told, unreachable. Most men found him intimidating; some found him dangerous. He had taken lives in the past, but killing was not an easy thing for him. It had been done out of duty and at times out of self-preservation. Never had he willfully, wantonly, taken a human life. There had never been the need or the desire.
Until now.
He always felt at odds with the darkness that simmered just beneath the surface. It was a part of him that threatened to devour the heart of who he was. He had learned, not quite to make peace with it, but perhaps to have some measure of control over it. That control was slipping.
He stared at the photo the General had sent him and felt the darkness grow within him. For the first time in his life, he welcomed the presence. He saw his brother's face contorted in pain and knew only one thing: he wanted to kill.
He needed to kill.
He gripped the phone tight and fought to keep the emotions hidden. He slipped the illusion of control back in place and handed Ito the phone. "They have Dakota." He knew his friend had seen the quick play of emotions across his face before he had a chance to conceal them, but Ricco wouldn't know the turmoil Montana hid.
Ricco looked up quickly, his eyes betraying the fear that lay just beneath the surface.
Ito examined the photo. "What do they want?"
"A trade." Montana looked at Ricco.
Ricco shook his head. "I won't go back there." His face was a picture of terror, the freckles standing out in relief against skin gone pale. He looked very young.
Montana leaned forward and brought his face level with the boy's. "I told you once that was not going to happen. I meant it at the time. I mean it now. You will never go back there."
"What about Dakota?"
"We'll find another way."
"You don't know the General."
"I think you've got that backwards, boy," Ito told him, and glanced at Montana. "The General does not know what he has brought to life."
Montana stared out the window at the empty place where his Jeep had been. "How did Dakota know the police were looking for us?" He had found out late last night as everyone slept. His good connections and friends in high places thought Montana might be interested in the manhunt on for him and Dakota. He had shared the information with Ito, and planned on telling Dakota this morning.
"Someone told him," Ito said.
Montana nodded, still looking out the window. "Someone did and he left, thinking he could protect me." He turned around to face Ito. "He is the only person I know who can find trouble trying to stay out of it. Damn it, he should have stayed put. He should have talked to me." Control slipped. He was dangerously close to coming undone.
Ito gave him a moment to get it together. "But he didn't. Dakota was just being Dakota. Somehow they found him. They took him, and now we will go and get him back."
Montana took the offered moment and reined the anger back. He needed a clear head, and he needed to think rationally. Later he would drop the leash and set the monster free.
"I
want him back, Ito," he said. "I want him back alive."
Ito turned the phone off and gently laid it on the table. "Consider it done, sir. Consider it done."
Montana gave a single nod and walked outside into the desert heat. He had nowhere to go; he just stood there silent and still.
Ricco finished dressing in the clothes Ito had given him, and then walked to the window to watch Montana. He felt stronger this morning than he had just a few hours ago. He'd known he would. He was a quick healer. The General always told him so.
"What's he doing?" Ricco asked Ito as he pulled the short-sleeve t-shirt over his head. His shoulder was still stiff, but he could move it again.
"Thinking," Ito said. "He's thinking, Private Ricco."
Ricco turned away from the window. "He scares me."
Ito laughed, but his expression was a little sad. "You have nothing to worry about. You're not the one he wants to hurt."
Ricco nodded and flexed his shoulder, working out a little of the stiffness. "I know, but that's not what I meant."
"Let it alone, boy." Ito pulled out his cell phone. "Montana will work it out. He always does." He walked away.
Ricco heard him make a call, but couldn't understand what he said. Turning back to the window, he stared at Montana's back. The man hadn't moved. Ricco had seen men like him before, men who cared too much. The General had made short work of them. That was what scared Ricco about Montana. He had no doubts that this ex-Ranger could handle himself in a firefight or hand-to-hand, but the General had taken something from him that was irreplaceable. It would tear at Montana until he made a mistake. That was what the General did best, emotional warfare.
He remembered, in the beginning, how they had controlled him with threats of harm to his family. They'd told him they would do horrible things to his mother and sister if he didn't cooperate. The first time he tried to escape, they told him they had killed Emma. His Emma. He'd believed them, and that had been the last time he fought them.
Even when he realized that his family must certainly be dead, he forgot how to hope. He gave up and prayed to a God he no longer believed in, asking for death. When that never happened, he decided to take matters into his own hands. That was when he found out he was a very hard man to kill, even by his own hand. When the power went out that last time, something took over and he just ran, hoping against all hope they would shoot.
Ricco's hand went to his injured shoulder. They did shoot him, and he'd still managed to survive. But the man responsible for saving his life had somehow ended up in the exact place he had run from. Ricco knew he couldn't stand by and let someone else pay the price for this. His daddy had taught him better. He had to make this right, but he didn't know how. Fear still held a firm grip over him. He had accomplished the impossible and made it out of that bunker alive. The thought of going back made it hard to think. He didn't want to do the right thing, he wanted to run. He knew he couldn't do that. He had been raised better.
Ricco walked to the door and opened it. The morning heat surprised him. He had spent most of his life underground in a climate-controlled environment, and the feel of the wind and sun on his face was something he needed to get used to. He shielded his eyes from the fierce rays of light, walked down the rickety porch steps, and stopped a few feet behind Montana. Although he didn't acknowledge his presence, Ricco was certain Montana heard his approach. "He won't kill him, sir."
Montana gave no indication that he had heard.
"He'll use him to get to me."
"I know," Montana said.
"But once he has me, he won't give Dakota back."
Montana turned to face him. "I know that too."
The dark glasses Montana favored were in place. Ricco realized he used them to hide his emotions from the rest of the world. "He'll kill you if he has to, but he would rather take you instead. I know this man. He has no good in him."
Montana studied Ricco for a long moment.
All Ricco could see was his own reflection looking back at him.
"Neither do I, Private."
As he started to turn away, Ricco grabbed his arm and pulled Montana around to face him. "Yes, you do, Montana." It was the first time Ricco had addressed him as anything but sir. "That's what scares me. The General will know that, and he'll use it to get to you. It's what he does best, twisting and bending what you care about until it is not even recognizable. He'll take your soul if you let him, and then he'll own you. I can't let that happen." Ricco released Montana's arm.
"Is that what happened to you, Michael? Did he take your soul? Does he own you?"
Ricco fought against the tears, and for the moment, won. He met the hidden eyes and nodded. "Yes," he said in answer to both questions.
"Then I suggest we go and get it back. I will not trade your soul for another life, not even my brother's."
Ricco believed him. "I want to help."
They both turned as Ito stepped onto the porch. He caught Montana's eye and gave him a nod. Montana turned to Ricco and showed his teeth. "Good, because we are going to need all the help we can get." Then he said to Ito. "How long?"
"Bobby and Ray should be here in a few hours. Patrick's flying in from the East coast, maybe tonight."
Ricco's gaze went from one to the other. "What are you talking about? Who are these people?"
They exchanged glances before Ito broke out in quiet laughter. "They're the best of the best, boy, and an unexpected complication for your friend, the General."
Montana put an arm around Ricco's shoulders. "Let's get back inside before you fry. We have a lot of work to do before the team shows up."
Ito touched Ricco's face as he walked by and chuckled as the boy flinched. Ricco's face was already sun burnt. "You know, you are quite possibly the whitest white boy I have ever seen."
Ricco rubbed the tingling area Ito had pinched. He smiled, truly smiled. "You stay out of the sun for over eighty years and see what it does for your complexion, boy."
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Michael Ricco felt something stir deep inside him. He wasn't sure he recognized it, but he thought it might be hope.
Chapter 12
Dakota woke to shaking chills, the stink of dampness, mold, and bitter sweat. Above all else, there was pain. He could not get away from it. The pain owned him completely.
His mangled arm shifted with his slight movement and slipped from where it rested on his stomach. He screamed in agony. His vision grayed. He prayed he would pass out again, but fate was not in a giving mood.
He was dead and this was hell.
With his right hand, he tried to contain the pain by keeping his broken arm tight against his body. Somehow, that only managed to make the pain worse. As he pulled his left wrist near his side, the exposed bones twisted and scraped against one another. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood and waited for the wave to pass. The pain subsided to a level that was tolerable, leaving in its wake a greasy nausea.
After a while, he risked opening his eyes to take stock of his situation.
The room he was in appeared to be little more than a cell, complete with a barred and presumably locked entrance. Dim lighting revealed an ancient, stained mattress thrown on the floor, with his blood adding to the numerous discolorations of the material. He smelled various body fluids left behind by other occupants of the squalid, lumpy thing. He recognized urine, vomit, and feces, and decided he didn't want to know what else may have added to the aroma.
Someone had thrown him there without any thought to his comfort. His body was twisted, with his long legs sprawled sideways, resting on the cold concrete. Cramped muscles made him want to move, but the thought of the agony that would cause kept him still. Finally, the cramps in his back outweighed the pain in his arm, and as gently as he could, he tried to straighten his body. His arm immediately reminded him of its condition.
Dakota tried not to scream as pain swept through him. He succeeded, but nausea took hold. He rolled onto h
is side and vomited over the only corner of the mattress that had been reasonably clean. The room spun as he spit bile and wiped his face with the back of his hand. The nausea had subsided for the moment, but he couldn't stop the tremors that racked his body. Each shudder brought a new and exquisite wave of pain that threatened to sweep his consciousness back into the darkness.
The clinical side of him recognized he was in shock, most likely running a high fever. He was thirsty. Dehydration would kill him quicker than shock and infection combined.
He rested his head back on the mattress and tried to gather his strength. He lay in his own filth and didn't care.
A slight noise at the cell door drew his attention. A guard sat at a desk calmly doing paperwork while Dakota writhed in agony. After a while he recognized the man who had so efficiently broken his arm. The guy was huge, and none of it was fat.
Despite Dakota's disorientation, the name Big Bubba came to mind. He couldn't say why, but the man just looked like a Bubba. Oddly Dakota took a small measure of comfort in Bubba's presence. Being alone and suffering seemed so much worse than having a witness to his plight.
He tried to swallow, but he had no spit left. The taste of bile was strong, and he desperately wished for something to drink. He tried to catch his guard's eye by weakly moving his good arm. When that didn't work, he risked further bodily harm. "Hey." The word came out as a croak, but it got the desired effect.
Bubba looked up from his paperwork. The cold glare made Dakota wish he had remained silent. "You say something?"
"Thirsty." Dakota closed his eyes. He didn't expect the guard to do anything about his request, but to his amazement, the sound of metal on metal had him opening his eyes once more.
The guard unlocked the door, squatted down next to him, and held out a bottle of water.
Dakota reached for it, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't grasp it. Bubba put a hand under his head, and lifted the bottle of water to his lips. Dakota ignored the protests of pain coming from his arm and gulped the tepid liquid greedily. The bottle was suddenly removed, much to his disappointment. "More, please."