Black Point

by Sam Cade

  The leather roared down and ripped skin from Bill’s ass.

  “Where’s Dude?” She whispered in his ear.

  Bill shook his head. “He’s dead. I told you, he’s dead.” A rank smell of fear-sweat emanated off of him.

  Maribel went into a rage. “You liar!” The tails ripped across his ass, then his thighs, then his back, then his shoulders. Bill screamed nonstop. The bed rattled. She stepped towards Bill’s head. The tails dripped with skin and blood.

  She drew back and slung the leather across Bill’s shoulder in anger. “Where is he?” Back to Bill’s ass and legs. Lashes nonstop. Again. And again. And again. “Where is he, where is he, where is he!” Maribel’s underarms were sweating. Rage covered her face.

  Bill cried, moaned. Blood soaked onto the sheets. His skin was shredded from his shoulders to his thighs.

  Maribel huffed out breaths from the intensity of her anger.

  “Here, baby,” said Javy, “take it by the handle. Picano time. Let’s have some fun.”

  Bill watched Javy plug the orange industrial cord into the wall receptacle, place the wooden handle in Maribel’s hand. “I saw this on YouTube, baby. Works better when wet.”

  Javy opened three plastic containers of rubbing alcohol. He flooded the wounds with the liquid. The alcohol felt like a blow torch on Bill’s wounds.

  “NO NO NO NO.....noooooooooooo...AHHHHHHHHHHH....I can pay you...” His voice was deepening, guttural, like a wounded animal.

  “Ready here, baby. Here, take it by the handle.”

  “Showtime, you fat white fuck,” she said.

  127

  “DON’T EVEN TWITCH MONTOYA,” SAID LUCKY. “Don’t say one thing or I will kill you. I’ll blow three holes in your face for your mother to see. And you fuckin’ know I will.”

  Jake believed him. Lucky’s voice sounded as calm as a mother cooing to her newborn. Jake had never been near a more dangerous man. His eyes focused on the gun. He recognized it. A Sig P365. A nine with a ten-round magazine and one in the pipe. The Holy Grail of conceal pieces.

  Pointed straight at his face, Jake eyed the barrel opening. This close it looked like the size of a cannon. Lucky’s cantilevered arm was stone still. Not a hint of tremor at the muzzle end. Lucky’s finger caressed the trigger. A light squeeze and Jake’s head explodes.

  And you know I will. Those words reverberated through Jake’s mind.

  Lucky stood. Twisted the lock on the door. “Stand up.”

  Jake stood, eyes on the gun.

  “Take off the jacket. Slowly.” Jake’s gun was exposed on his left hip.

  “Two fingers only on the bottom of the grip. Place it on the table.” Lucky brought his left hand up to stabilize his right. Jake knew Lucky could blow a hole through any part of his body he wanted.”

  “Now the cuffs.”

  “No cuffs. Got nothing else on me.”

  Lucky took a step back from the table. “Go to the end of the table. Push it down to the wall. Then I want you to lie on the floor on your belly.”

  The table was moved. Jake went to his knees. “Here, take this.” Lucky pulled a double loop flex cuff from his pocket, tossed it in front of Jake. “With your hands behind you, slide them in the loop. You know the drill.”

  The loop was loose on Jake’s wrists. “Lie down. Totally flat.” Lucky stepped towards Jake and placed the gun barrel against his back. “A single twitch and you’ll catch three rounds. I’m not a single shot guy.” Lucas snugged the tail of the loop tight. Heavy teeth dug into the high-tensile nylon.

  “Let’s get the feet and I’m gone. Don’t fucking move. Lift your left foot off the floor.”

  Jake raised it six inches. Lucky bent at his waist at the bottom of Jake’s feet. Tried to lasso the foot. Took three tries to get it around Jake’s ankle. “Raise the right foot, put your ankles together.” Jake did. “Ah, hell,” said Lucky. The loop wasn’t big enough to lasso. He’d have to force the right foot through. Lucky kneeled. He placed the gun on the floor.

  Jake perceived Lucky kneeling at his left side. He twisted his head, lowered his chin towards his left shoulder. Looking. He spotted the gun on the carpet.

  “Turn around,” said Lucky. Jake straightened his head. He saw what he needed.

  Speed and balance, that’s what Woo preached. Speed and balance.

  Jake rolled left for leverage. His muscular right leg flashed back in a donkey kick. His heel slammed into the center of Lucky’s face, tossing him onto his back. Jake swept the pistol across the floor to the wall with his left leg. He rolled on his back, hands flush against the floor, knees flexed, both feet pulled to his ass. One groaning thrust.

  Jake was up.

  Lucky was at the door tasting blood, hand on the doorknob when Jake’s right leg slammed into his right thigh. The kick brought Lucky to his knees. He saw the next blow. Jake’s left knee racing for his head. He ducked it. Lucky stood up roaring, rammed into Jake’s midsection, spitting blood in Jake’s eyes at the same time. Both arms cinched around Jake’s waist. Lucky pumped his legs thrusting Jake backwards.

  Both men growling, huffing. Blood pounded in their ears. Off balance, they flipped backwards over a chair, crashing to the floor. Lucky forced Jake onto his belly.

  Lucky’s brain analyzed. He faced death row. No other choice.

  Time to kill.

  He pulled his karambit knife from a belt sheath. It was deadly evil. Cold steel curved like a raptor claw. Rip it fast. Rip it deep. Shred everything in Montoya’s anterior neck. Dead in minutes.

  Couldn’t do it. Lucky decided to buy time.

  Riding Jake’s back, Lucky slid his right arm around Jake’s neck. Snugged it. Jake bucked, moaned. He forced a twist with everything he had. Rolled onto his back with Lucky under him. It worsened the situation. Lucky wrapped his legs around Jake’s waist. He was locked on like a jungle gorilla. Then he squeezed.

  Lucky’s pressure tightened down the carotids, both sides.

  Jake was done. He knew it. Caught in a classic deadly martial art move. Hands cuffed. No chance to break free. Thought of his mother, Bonnie. Ed. Rowdy. Ms. Sarah. Kimbo. Hope.

  Then his world went dark.

  Lucky bounced up as Jake went unconscious. The precision choke-out. Not dead. Lucky bought himself a few minutes head start.

  But he wasn’t finished. He rolled Jake on his back. Grabbed his knife. Clawed an “L” in Jake’s right cheek, an “H” in his left. You’ll remember who won.

  Lucky holstered his pistol at his back. Needed to wash his face, scrub the knife.

  Get back to the plane. Quick.

  Lucky walked into the hall. Froze. A big man stood six feet away.

  Agent Switek.

  128

  7:10 P.M. JAVY HELD THE RHEOSTAT. Maribel, the picana. “Get after it, baby.”

  She pushed the bronze electrodes into Bill’s blubbery side. “Now, Javy.” The juice jumped through the electrodes. Bill’s scream was shrill, horrifying. His fat shook like a bowl of jello. Maribel zapped him again in the neck. Then his buttocks. Then his face.

  “Open your mouth. Suck this, you fat fuck.” Bill’s head jerked backwards from the voltage as she put the electrodes on his lips.

  Maribel laughed. “Where’s Dude? WHERE IS HE?”

  Bill tried to talk between his blubbering. Drenched in blood and sweat.

  “He’s alive. Dude’s alive. But I don’t know where he is.”

  Javy pointed between Bill’s legs. “Carajo.” Cock. He nodded, smiled.

  Maribel knelt on one knee on the bed, getting Bill’s dick in her sights. It was shriveled to nothing. She reached through his legs with her gloved hand groping it. She pulled it backwards. It looked like the size of a sewing thimble. She snickered. “Puny.” She guided the bronze to the dangling tip.

  “Noooooooooooooo...noooooooooooo.”

  Maribel winked at her husband. Javy jacked up the rheostat. Bill's ass popped straight into the air. Only the straps held him in place w
hen the juice roared. She brought the prongs to his testicles, held it there. Bill’s blubber shook like a paint mixer.

  “Up his ass, baby. He’ll talk,” said Javy.

  Marible pushed the prod at Bill's bottom, spreading his cheeks, incising the rectal tissue. No juice yet. She forced it in three inches. She looked at Javy, nodded.”

  Javy jacked it.

  Bucking. Screaming. Bleeding.

  Javy cut the juice. Then he jacked it higher. Bill’s flabby body did everything it could to rip through the ropes. Javy vacillated the power. On and off, on and off, on and off. Bill felt like his intestines would come out his mouth. Sweat poured into the slits of his eyes from his forehead.

  Bill wanted to die. He begged his heart to stop beating.

  The heaves started. Torrential abdominal spasms precipitated by the pain. Vomit ejected from his mouth. It was on the sheet, his face in it. What couldn’t make it out of his mouth was swallowed into his lungs. He began coughing. Tried to talk. Couldn’t.

  Javy and Maribel watched, laughing.

  “WHAT’S THE FUCKIN’ADDRESS!” Maribel screamed. Her hand directed the picana to Bill’s left eye. She nodded at Javy.

  “He’ll talk now.”

  129

  Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

  9:10 P.M. ATLANTIC STANDARD TIME. Daviel Rodriguez was covered with a sheen of sweat as he held the young woman’s arms over her head and pumped into her deliriously. Her name was Agostina, which meant “worshipped.” She was twenty-one, tall, slim, and an erotically beautiful Dominican woman.

  She and Daviel had an intimate dinner of steaks and cocktails at the expensive Pearl Urban Lounge on Av. George Washington before the taxi returned them to Daviel’s luxury condominium.

  The condo was a three-bedroom penthouse unit that was elegantly appointed. Both the living room and the master bedroom had expansive glass, opening to decks with extraordinary views of the Caribbean.

  Over the last year, Daviel’s olive skin had baked into a darker brown from his extensive time in the sun. His soft dark hair fit in with the native population. Strenuous exercise regimens with a trainer had added fifteen pounds of muscle on his lithe frame.

  The double French exterior doors of the master bedroom were open with a soft night sea breeze filtering in. The lights of the boats in the Caribbean night provided a romantic backdrop for this intimate encounter.

  As Daviel nuzzled Agostina’s breasts he thought life could not have turned out better. Then he flipped her from her back to her tummy. He slid two pillows under her, bumping her bottom in the air. He kissed up her back until he reached her neck. In Spanish, he whispered into her ear. “I’ve got what you want, baby. Make you a real woman.”

  Agostina felt something wet drip between her cheeks. Daviel’s fingers swirled the slippery sex lube around his target.

  Something pushed at the entrance of her bottom. “No.” Daviel didn’t stop.

  “No, no,... NO! NO!”

  Then came the scream.

  Dude Codger smiled. And plowed on.

  130

  Downtown Black Point

  7:13 P.M. “SWITEK, REPORT.” It was Bigelow, SWAT Commander. He was at the end of the street by the clock with Grissom and Garrison. Anxious. Watching. Waiting.

  Switek dressed for the art party by wearing a long-sleeve aquamarine colored fishing shirt made by Columbia. Frat-boy khakis covered his legs.

  He brought his left wrist mike to his mouth. “Montoya went into the office. Hendrickson went in right after him, carrying two cups of wine. Neither have come out. That was thirty minutes ago.”

  “It’s been too long,” said Bigelow. “I need you to get a looksee. Grab a glass of wine, anything. You look like a local, now act like a partier. If anybody asks, tell ‘em you need to take a piss.”

  “Roger.”

  “Got a bad feeling,” said Bigelow to his colleagues, “let’s ease that way.” Burnham’s office was forty yards down the street.

  Switek stood from his table, eyed the crowd. He didn’t expect this many people on the street. Instinctively, he ran his hand over his right waist. Felt the .40 caliber. He was eighteen feet from the open front door of Burnham’s office.

  Cups of red and white wine rested on the table by the door. He grabbed a cup of red with his left hand. Stepped into the waiting room. Didn’t see anyone. Didn’t hear anyone. Stairs to the left. The hallway to the right led deep into the building. He chose the hall.

  He walked by a pod of candles. Lavender and vanilla. Calming. He needed it. His muscle fibers began to tighten. He walked through the waiting room. He inched forward, listening. The hall was unlit. But he spotted a ruler-straight line of light coming from under a door twelve feet away. He stopped, let his eyes dilate. Fuck the wine. He placed the cup on the floor next to the wall. He was six feet into the hall. The words to “Fire and Rain” drifted in the front door from across the street, following him.

  He took one more step. Slow. Very slow. Listening. No voices in the building. No vibration in the floor. No movement. Were they here? Place felt empty. Upstairs. Had to be.

  He lifted his shirt covering the gun. Placed his right hand on the grip. Ready.

  A bright light flashed across the hall. The conference room door opened. Switek froze. Lucas stepped out heading four feet straight across the hall to the restroom.

  His eyes locked on Switek. Years of close quarters training prepared Lucky.

  ANALYZE. ACT.

  Lucky saw a big man. Maybe six-five. Built. Crouched in a defensive posture. Right hand high at his hip. GUN! A wire swirled upwards from under his collar to an earpiece. Lucky’s brain screamed HOSTILE.

  Switek had no chance.

  Lucky’s thumb was locked in the steel loop at the handle end of the karambit claw. Four fingers tightened around the grip. Blade back parallel to his wrist. Military style.

  Lucky was aggressive. Decisive. It was immediate. Two quick steps. Lucky’s knife took a ferocious sweep deep into Switek’s neck, right to left. The claw ripped through the carotids, jugulars, and windpipe. Lucky’s arm reversed course across the neck. Deeper.

  Both of Switek’s hands went to his neck.

  Lucky bent. The karambit blade was at the level of Switek’s knees. He savagely ripped the blade upwards through Switek’s left inner thigh. The mighty femoral was sliced in two. Blood soaked the khakis.

  Switek went to the floor. Gurgling. Done. TANGO DOWN.

  Lucky bolted to the office front door. Stopped. Ripped off his panama shirt, wiped his face best he could, threw it to the ground. Stepped outside. Nonchalant. Looked to his right. Thirty feet away he spotted three serious men with their eyes locked on the entrance to the law office.

  Lucky bolted left knocking over an outdoor table at the restaurant, and broke into a full run. He bumped people. Dodged people. Moved fast.

  Grissom and Garrison broke into a run. Bigelow spoke into his mike. “Target’s running west on Black Point towards Church Street.”

  It hit Lucky hard. Man’s warrior response. Adrenaline. His heart pounded. Blood pressure spiked. Pupils blew open letting light in.

  STAY ALIVE!

  He spotted two men running towards him from the intersection. One straight on, dodging people. Another slicing at an angle across the street. Three men chasing from behind. Twenty-five feet away he spotted the sign. Alley Bistro. A gorgeous California mission-style structure that had a by-god pedestrian alleyway that cut through to the next block.

  Lucky ran wide open at the man approaching, ripped left into the alley. He picked up steam running hard past candle-lit tables and happy diners.

  Reached De La Mare Avenue. A large throng of people were listening to Latin music from Roman Street in front of an ice cream shop. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow. He shot across the street past them. Didn’t look. Didn’t listen. Blazed deep into a one-car-width Bernhardt Lane.

  Speed was all that mattered.

  Lucas heard his breath. Po
werful huffing. He felt his heart jolting. His legs tapped the pavement like a racehorse.

  Lucky got the jump on them. Shorts. Running shoes. Ran forty miles a week. Swam eight in the open Pacific. Superior stamina.

  The agents were in long pants with Kevlar vests. No chance.

  Lucky ran through a city parking lot jammed with cars. Past the kiddie park. Past the old elementary school. He made it to the jungle, the dark quiet neighborhoods.

  There was only one way out of town.

  The long way.

  131

  LUCKY RAN HARD FOR 2.5 MILES, mostly south and west, hitting shadows, avoiding street lamps. He cut through backyards. Jumped fences. He left downtown, racing closer towards the water. He stopped in the shadows at Orange Street and Great Bay Road. Stood behind a thick live oak. The bay was across the street. He spotted the skyline lights of Mobile, Alabama, fifteen miles northwest.

  He watched. Listened. A lone SUV was headed south on Great Bay Road, moving slow. Black Point police. They drove by. Didn’t see him in the shadows.

  No traffic. No strolling couples on the sidewalk. He dashed across the road and across the sidewalk of the waterfront park. Lucky scrambled down a six-foot tangle of brush to the sand. Saltwater brine filled the air. Mobile bay. It was comfortable. He was a SEAL.

  He waded in. Ducked under.

  Gone.

  Mobile, Alabama

  8:15 P.M. JAVY QUINTANO HAD HIS FOOT HARD ON THE GAS as he exited off I-10 West to I-65 North. Five more miles and Broyles’s F-250 and the landscaping truck following them would exit at Airport Blvd., turn right, and immediately turn right again to get to P.F. Chang’s. Maribel was next to him in the front passenger seat. “I’m starving, baby.”

  “Me, too,” said her dad Luis, from the back seat.

  Broyle William had his face into his iPad since they left Black Point thirty minutes ago. First, he looked at street views and satellite views of an eight-story condominium situated directly on the Caribbean in Santo Domingo.