by Rob Sinclair
Yet he knew this was likely only the beginning...
‘So this will be your punishment. It may take you a while to recover, but you’ll be back. And I’m not going anywhere. We’ll see each other again. The next time, when we ask you our questions, you will answer. Yes?’
Ryker didn’t say anything. He was just bracing himself, taking his mind away to shield himself from the pain.
‘Do you understand!’ Benito shouted.
Ryker never got the chance to answer. Above the incessant pattering of the water beating down onto skin and tile, there was a loud clattering sound. At first, Ryker thought it was a gunshot, but it could equally have been a hard object – a baton or a metal bar – smashing against something – a wall? Ryker felt the pressure on him release just slightly.
Then a voice.
‘Get off him! All of you.’
The words were spoken in Spanish, but there was a familiarity to the husky tone. Ryker placed it immediately.
It was Powell.
25
Ryker couldn’t see Powell, or whoever else was with him, but his presence was enough for Benito and his men to abruptly halt Ryker’s punishment.
Benito straightened up and suddenly all Ryker could see of him were his feet and legs. A second later, the baton was removed and the weight was taken from Ryker’s back and from his neck. Then his limbs were released. Benito might not have seen through the full punishment he’d intended, but, following Ryker’s initial crushing relief at Powell’s timely rescue, he was still filled with anger and a thirst for blood over what they’d tried to do to him.
Ryker grimaced and moved onto his side. He spotted Powell at the entrance to the room. He was flanked by at least half a dozen prison guards, most armed with batons, but three aiming weapons into the showers that looked similar to grenade launchers, with short and unusually wide barrels. Ryker could only assume the weapons were loaded with rubber bullets to incapacitate rather than kill.
Not everyone in this country, in this jail, is corrupt.
Those had been Ryker’s words to Powell. It looked like he was right. Thankfully it seemed Powell had somehow found the good guards. Or maybe just the least worst ones.
Benito and his men were standing tall, glaring at Powell and his small army with hands at the ready, as though they still believed this was a fight they could win. For now it was a stand off, but Ryker didn’t want it to stay that way, and he certainly wasn’t looking for a peaceful resolution. He was brimming with rage.
Ryker willed Benito to give an order. His men wouldn’t fight if he didn’t. But Benito – staring at Powell – was still mulling over his options, it seemed, not sure whether he would risk sacrificing his men, or himself, for the sake of continuing Ryker’s torture.
The stalemate had gone on too long, Ryker decided, and he would take matters into his own hands. Ryker leaped to his feet and lurched toward Benito. He never got as far as the boss though. One of the inmates was quick to react to the threat. Quick enough to save his boss, that is, but not quick enough to save himself. Ryker took him down barely breaking stride. A knee, an elbow, and a fist later, the guy was crumpling to the floor, blood streaming from his face.
After that, chaos erupted. Two of the other prisoners descended on Ryker, the rest onto Powell and the armed guards. Nearly a dozen men were brawling inside the showers as water splashed and blood sprayed. Weapons were fired. Batons crashed down. Bones were broken, tiles and fixtures too as bodies were slammed into walls and to the floor.
Ryker was right in the thick of it, fending off the prisoners who came his way. His eyes though never fully left Benito who had stepped back from the fight, a look somewhere between anger and shock on his weathered face.
Ryker despatched of the men that came his way until there was just one more inmate left. Benito. Only at that point though did Ryker realise that Benito was armed; his right fist squeezed around the handle of a switchblade.
No problem. Ryker smiled. Benito didn’t. Then Ryker burst forward...
Not long after that, the noise of shooting and grunting and thumping and shouting and pained cries died down. The only sound that remained was the constant rush of water.
Benito was on his knees, Ryker holding him steady, the tip of the knife against the side of Benito’s neck. The blade was too dull to easily cut his throat, but the point was plenty sharp enough to stab through and pierce the carotid artery.
In front of Ryker, the other seven inmates were out of action on the wet, blood-filled floor. So too were five guards. Powell stood at the front of those who remained on their feet, his clothes soaked through and dripping.
‘Don’t do it,’ he said to Ryker.
Ryker’s chest heaved in and out from the exertion of the fight. His teeth were clenched. His head was on fire. No longer the JIA's robotic operative, the one thing Ryker truly had a problem with now was controlling himself when the red mist descended. He could feel the rage now, its power consuming him. He wanted to kill Benito. He wanted to punish him, teach him a lesson for what he’d done to Ryker – and for what he’d intended to do.
‘There’s no going back if you kill him,’ Powell said, his voice calm. ‘Don’t cross that line.’
Ryker could only guess that he’d already stepped well over whatever line existed between being on the Santos cartel’s kill list and not. Three times now he’d taken on what had been thrown his way. Now he had the cartel’s boss at his mercy. He wasn’t exactly winning friends.
Deep down, he knew Powell was right. If Ryker killed Benito, it would almost certainly make a bad situation much worse.
‘I’ll still help you,’ Powell said. ‘But not if you do that.’
Aided by Powell’s warning, and the onset of rational thoughts sweeping through Ryker’s brain as adrenaline made way for good sense, he finally found the strength to stop himself. Whatever his true intentions, Powell was the one man who could help Ryker now.
Ryker dropped the knife and kicked Benito down into the bloody water. Then he put his hands up behind his head and sunk down to his knees as the guards rushed forward.
26
Mandeville, Louisiana
Ashford arrived back at his office in Mandeville only to be greeted by a plethora of emails and voice messages and other correspondence to attend to. By eight p.m. he’d sent Carter home for the evening but Ashford knew he had at least another couple of hours of firefighting just to stay on top of his to-do pile. Home for supper? As long as Nicole hadn’t thrown it out by then.
Just a few minutes after Carter left, Ashford finally got the chance to check in on the one issue that had been on his mind all day. Not oyster farming and not even the illicit activities taking place over at Camp Joseph, but the identity of the woman who’d accosted Ashford on his run through his estate some five days earlier.
Mitchell had been doing what he could to track her down but Ashford hadn’t heard from his right hand man in over twenty-four hours, and he was getting antsy. Ashford took out the pay-as-you-go phone he’d purchased two days earlier and typed in Mitchell’s number. He regularly bought burner phones like this one, in cash, from stores nowhere near where he lived that he could see didn’t have CCTV.
After running down the initial pre-paid amount, he’d dispose of the phone and buy another. He couldn’t afford the risk that some of his conversations were being recorded. Nor did he want to leave any trace of those conversations, so he always destroyed both the handsets and the SIM cards before throwing them out.
Not that he needed to worry this time. He groaned as he listened to the call ring out, just like the last half dozen calls. Ashford didn’t like this at all. He wondered if Mitchell was already lying dead in a ditch somewhere – one too many questions asked about the Mexican woman. Or – potentially worse, from Ashford’s point of view – he’d been strung up somewhere and was being tortured for the name of the man who had him asking those questions in the first place.
Beads of sweat were forming o
n Ashford’s forehead as gory thoughts cascaded through his mind. He put the phone down on the table, got to his feet, and went to the bookcase where the bottom cupboard contained a collection of Bourbon and Scotch. Ashford pulled out the first bottle he saw – a twelve-year-old Highland single malt – and poured a large measure into a tumbler. The thick caramel coloured liquid slipped down his throat in one easy gulp. Ashford closed his eyes as the alcohol sent his heart pulsing and a wave of endorphins rushing through his brain.
Ashford enjoyed the moment as long as his mind would let him, then he got back to his day job. He spent a sluggish three hours clearing through as much of the crap as he could. After that he tried Mitchell once more. Still no answer.
By the time Ashford had reached the dark basement car park, he was weary and more than a little tipsy from the further two measures of spirit. Ashford was also a wily operator though, a former army officer – too wily to be surprised because of a bit of tiredness and a few whiskies.
So when Ashford caught sight of an unfamiliar face at the opposite end of the otherwise-deserted parking lot, although he was suddenly anxious, he was also primed for action.
The man, maybe in his early forties, was dressed casually in scruffy jeans and a creased buttoned shirt that sat snug on his large but out of shape frame. He idled up to Ashford as if with intent. Ashford was certain he’d never seen this guy before, but he was without doubt making a beeline for Ashford. Seemingly taking no notice, Ashford carried on moving toward his car, one eye on the man, hoping the guy would just carry on walking past, but fully prepared to spring a counter attack if needed. Ashford wasn’t armed, but he was a decent enough brawler. If this guy got too close, Ashford fancied his chances.
‘Congressman!’ the man shouted when he was a few yards away.
The way the man said it made Ashford relax a little. Everyone knew Ashford. He was a big deal. He had to now expect people to come up to him in public, wanting him to help him with their problems. Even when it was gone eleven p.m. and in an underground car park.
‘Congressman, I’ve been waiting all night to speak to you.’
Ashford stopped walking and the man came right up to him. Ashford didn’t see much threat in this guy – he wasn’t far off Ashford’s age but he was pudgy and his movements sluggish.
‘How did you get in here?’ Ashford asked, trying not to sound overly aggressive or suspicious, not until he’d worked out if this guy was a plain and simple nut job or if he actually had something worthwhile to say.
‘I was at the meeting in Plaquemines earlier today,’ the man said, which didn’t answer the question. ‘I tried to speak to you then but didn’t get a chance. You were in and outta there so quickly.’
Five hours? Hardly quick, Ashford thought.
‘You were very impressive though,’ the man added. ‘The people really like you.’
‘Thank you,’ Ashford said. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘About this Camp Joseph issue.’
Even though Ashford’s alarm bells were suddenly blaring at full blast, his brain was still working through the primal choice of flight or fight when the man made his move. Maybe Ashford was too rusty from his years in civilian life, or maybe the alcohol had taken more of a toll than he initially thought. Whichever it was, Ashford soon realised he’d underestimated the stranger, or perhaps overestimated his own abilities.
Despite Ashford’s best efforts at defending the attack – and hitting back hard himself – within seconds he was pressed up against his car, his face pushed onto the driver’s window, his arm locked behind his back. The barrel of a handgun was stuck into his side.
Without warning, the man crashed Ashford’s face against the glass. Ashford squirmed and squinted from the pain and felt his nose pouring blood down his face.
‘I have a message from Camp Joseph,’ the man whispered as Ashford writhed. ‘The Colonel says he’ll let you off this time. But if you bring your ugly ass around there again, I’ll find you and I’ll slice your damn face off. And then I’ll do the same thing to your wife and kids. Do you get the picture?’
‘Yes!’
‘Good. You have a great evening, Congressman. Take care.’
With that the man lifted his knee and sent it crashing up between Ashford’s legs and into his groin. Ashford grimaced and shouted out as agonising pain swept through him, making his head spin and his vision blur. The man let go of Ashford’s arm and he slid down the surface of the car to his knees. Ashford took a couple of seconds to fight through the searing pain.
When he finally looked up and around him, the car park was deserted.
27
When he found the strength to get back on his feet, Ashford went straight from the car park, up the stairs, and into his office. He held his back as he moved, trying to stop the blood pouring onto his white Oxford cotton shirt. Instead it flowed into his throat, and he was forced to swallow several mouthfuls before he reached the private closet bathroom at the back of his office.
It was just as well the hour was late and the building was near empty – except for the couple of security guards who would be on shift through the night. Fat lot of good they’d been. Still, it was better no one had seen – how on earth would he have explained what had just happened in the basement?
Having initially felt shaken by the attack, Ashford was fuming by the time he put his head down and looked at his sorry face in the mirror. That was two threats that had been thrown Ashford’s way now in a matter of days. If anything, the threats only made him more determined to carry on what he was doing. Who did they think they were dealing with anyway? He was a Congressman for chrissake! He had the power, he had the authority, he had the connections to do whatever the hell he wanted around here. And God help anyone who thought they could tell him otherwise.
Ashford was at least glad for one thing; the basement was well covered by CCTV. He’d get Mitchell on the case to track down the grunt who’d just attacked him. Ashford would get his own back. Mitchell had his own unique way of dealing with problems like that piece of shit.
As for Colonel Lincoln... he’d get his just desserts too, eventually. He wouldn’t treat Ashford like this and get away with it. But Ashford would have to bide his time there. Lincoln was powerful and connected – much like Ashford was, but in a very different way. Ashford wasn’t afraid to take on Lincoln, but he needed to do so well prepared and with a cool head. Otherwise Ashford would only end up getting burned.
While he was on that train of thought, Ashford took out his phone and called Mitchell again. He stared at himself in the mirror as he listened to the intermittent dialling tone. His swollen red nose was still slowly dripping large globules of blood into the white porcelain bowl below, but he could feel the clot in each nostril building – blocking his airway at the same time.
The call rang out. Voicemail again. Shit. Given what had just happened in the car park, the violent images of Mitchell being strung up that had earlier wormed through Ashford’s mind now seemed to grow more real.
Ashford stashed the phone back in his pocket then washed his face before shoving a twist of toilet paper up each nostril to stem any further flow of blood. He took off his shirt which – despite his best efforts – was covered in blood spatters, and moved back through to his office where he had a full wardrobe of spares already waiting. He’d dump the bloodied shirt somewhere on the way home. No point in taking it for Nicole to wash – he didn’t need her questions and he didn’t want to have to start inventing more lies for her. He had enough on his plate already.
Still feeling bubbling anger, but also increasingly vulnerable, Ashford grabbed his Colt pistol from the drawer in his office and checked it was loaded. Then, with his suit jacket draped over his gun hand, he made his way back down to the basement. He almost hoped the damn guy who’d accosted him made another appearance. Ashford wanted to see if that shit was still so cocksure when he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
But all was quiet. Ashfor
d made it to his Navigator without seeing a single soul. He jumped in and let out a long sigh as he placed the Colt on the passenger seat, then fired up the engine and headed out into the night.
It was gone midnight when Ashford wound the car along the immaculate blacktop roads of the Grasslands estate, which were softly lit by blueish-white LED street lamps. He was hoping to pull onto his driveway to see a dark house, so that he’d be able to slip into bed, no questions asked. No such luck. Most of the downstairs lights were still on, and there was a faint glow upstairs coming through the curtains of Will’s room. Ashford sighed. What was Will doing up at this time? The last thing Ashford wanted was to have to play Dad.
He shut down the engine and crunched as quietly as he could across the gravel to the front of the house. He opened the front door cautiously, took off his shoes and crept through the house, trying not to alert whoever was still up.
All was quiet downstairs, and Ashford wondered if perhaps Nicole had simply left the lights on for him when she’d gone to bed. Ashford noticed his dinner plate was still waiting for him on the kitchen counter, marinated grilled chicken and boiled vegetables. He didn’t feel like eating so left it there. He shut off the lights across the downstairs and then traipsed up the staircase, still being quiet so as not to wake anyone.
As he reached the top, he stopped by Will’s door. He heard faint noises coming from his son’s room. He moved his ear closer. TV? Video games? He could hear voices. Giggling. A girl? But was it just his phone or was there someone in there with him?
Ashford reached out and grabbed the door handle but then paused. No, he didn't need the hassle. His son was at home and in his room. Yes it was late, but he was safe and what was the worst that could happen? Ashford had bigger issues on his mind.