The Capture: The Son of No One Action Thriller Series Book 2

by M C Rowley

  I clicked a button, and to my surprise the faint LED screen burst into life. The battery still had one bar.

  I slipped the phone into my pocket. It might be useful, I guessed. Then I started the trek back to the village.

  I failed to notice the vibration at first, thinking it was an insect buzzing at me, attracted by the alien material of my clothes or something. But I realized just in time that the cell phone was ringing. I scrambled about in my pocket, pulled out the phone, and clicked the green button.

  “Bueno,” I said.

  Reynolds’ voice came on. I froze and, keeping the phone to my ear, glanced around me. No one. I had passed the bridge, though, and was only a kilometer from the village.

  “Mr. Dyce,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I am not sure how you’ve evaded my surveillance for the last few days, but let’s leave it as good fortune. Yours for finding your son, and mine for you finding this phone.”

  My heart shuddered in my chest.

  “You’ve messed up, Dyce. Badly. But there is still time to fix this. I asked you to carry out a simple task and you failed.”

  “The truck crashed. I was taken.”

  “I know all that,” said Reynolds. “Let’s not waste time. You’ll do well to remember that you work for me now. You will follow my orders to the letter. You have no leg to stand on. Your family are here in the States. You are not.”

  My heartbeats tripled in speed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. Three generations of your blood. All here. And you and your son there.”

  “If you touch—”

  Then he laughed, which came out like a malicious mechanical cackle. “You have no bartering leverage here, Dyce,” he said. “You follow my instructions and no harm will come to them.”

  “You have—”

  “Your granddaughter and her mother? Your wife? My people are everywhere. You don’t understand it fully, but I assure you we control a lot more than you think. The chaos there right now? The whole country burning? That’s me. You understand?”

  “Jesus.”

  I racked my brain for an idea. Nothing came. I was back in the hole.

  “What do I need to do?”

  The rasping sound of Reynolds’ breathing filtered through the voice distorter, fractured. Or maybe the line was bad.

  “Bring Jairo to me,” he said. “As soon as a chance presents itself. If you do, your wife and new family are free. If you don’t, they go to jail first. For a year perhaps. Drain them of their will to live. The child, into fostering in Mexico, of course. She’ll be lost. Undocumented.”

  “Please,” I said.

  “You know what to do,” he said. And the phone went dead.

  I looked around again, the phone glued to my cheek. My heart palpitated, thudding hot blood around my body; even the heat of the jungle was no match. I started running toward the village. I had no plan. No idea. I thought about dumping the phone, but decided against it. I buried it back in my pocket and kept on.

  At the entrance to the village, where the first buildings started and the bigger one was situated, stood Jairo and the young Gustavo. They looked up at me.

  Jairo came forward and said, “What the hell are you doing?” He looked incredulous. “You know how hard it is for Gustavo to keep things secure?”

  I was out of breath. All I could do was slap my hands to my knees and try to breathe.

  “What the hell were you doing? I don’t need to have to protect you, old man,” said Jairo. “Got enough shit on my plate.”

  I vomited and the men jumped back.

  “Que le pasa!?!”

  I apologized and spat. “Jairo, I need you to call your— Eleanor again.”

  “’Fraid not,” he said. “Insecure.”

  “Please,” I said, but he shook his head.

  “Well, I’ll do it myself.”

  And I barged past him and began storming toward our rooms. But I didn’t get far. The first thing I felt was a sharp kick to the back of my right knee and my leg crumpled. I dropped, and a thick, muscular arm wrapped tight around my neck and my arm was drawn back to breaking point. Jairo breathed into my ear.

  “You do as I say, motherfucker. We aren’t friends.”

  People had gathered around us, pointing and gossiping with each other. I could hear their mumbling.

  “Or you don’t get your ride,” he said.

  I nodded, but my head didn’t move under the force of the constraint.

  “Why then?” I managed to gasp out. “Why are you helping me?”

  Jairo let me go, but placed his boot on the flat of my back and pushed hard so I stumbled forward and my chin scraped dirt. I heard a few people in the crowd snigger.

  Jairo walked away, back to his discussion with Gustavo Jr.

  That night, we ate a bowl of beans cooked in caldo in silence and I went to sleep early.

  I was on my own again pretty much. Jairo clearly didn’t care about his family. So why would he bother helping me find Eleanor? What was in it for him?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jairo ran through the plan with me mid-morning like I was the work-experience boy in his department, some idiot dumped into his busy schedule against his wishes. I was a goddamned CEO, I thought on various occasions, but I let it slide. He refused to tell me who was helping us. I had to allow him to get on with it. Let him take control. It was simple really. Código X were holding a huge gathering at the military base, and there we’d meet his contact and fly out.

  I asked Jairo who his contact was, but he declined to give me any information apart from the bare bones of his shaky plan. We had the uniforms and guns and a time for take-off. That was it.

  We decided to shave our beards, and heads too. We did it together, like some creepy twist on a father–son cliché, tapping the foam into the little sink as we shared the mirror, guns and belts and stolen cop uniforms laid out to the side.

  We finished up and ate more beans for lunch and then rested as much as we could. Hours passed at a glacial pace, and I felt relieved when the sun began to tilt in the sky and the Gustavos came to the house, along with five more men, all dressed as municipal cops.

  It was time.

  My relief soon swilled into a feeling of dread, though. I began to feel apprehensive, and then up the scale, rising to full-on panicked. We were hiking the first part of the journey to the military base. Gustavo Snr told us buses had been arranged for cops attending the gathering, parked up outside of Miahuatlán. I couldn’t believe I was heading back there.

  We had hiked for three hours when we arrived at a point in the Sierra road where it curved at a 180-degree angle and revealed the town below. It almost looked picturesque in the dim light of dusk, except the quaint yellow lights were fires blazing on the rooftops, and the shouts were not children playing but grown men running around in pandemonium.

  I scanned the town from bottom to top. It was situated on the side of a hill and its main entrance was visible from our viewpoint. Outside it, five large white buses were parked up and swallowing up lines of cops. We started our descent.

  The road became busy as we approached and I was glad for it. Scores of cops dressed exactly as we were walked around us as we marched to our ride. More buses were arriving every five minutes, each one stopping, filling up, and rolling out. It was easy. We kept straight and moved with the current of bodies, until our progress led us up onto one of the buses.

  It was noisy inside, and smelt of sweat and booze. Jairo grabbed a seat by the window and I sat next to him. We didn’t dare talk, just looked forward. My heart was pounding inside my ribcage, every sensory communication in my body screaming at me to get up, get off, and run. But before I could give in to the fear building up in my nerves, the bus began to shudder and hiss and roll out.

  No turning back.

  The ride was short, about half an hour, and even in the dark I could make out the military camp’s large gates. They we
re open. No guards stood at either post, and no one checked IDs. The powers that be had lost control of the base, their soldiers either fled, or joined Codigo X, I supposed.

  The bus drove inside on a long track that ran through what seemed to be a sports field, toward the main buildings of the camp. Jairo prodded me in the side and pointed out of the window. I looked and saw our objective: About half a kilometer away stood the hangar, and in front of it, a runway with planes and choppers parked up.

  The pickup point. I nodded.

  The bus stopped and we disembarked. Outside, the atmosphere was wild. Many of the cops were drinking out of small bottles of mezcal and tequila and shouting and laughing and joshing each other. I looked across at the hangar again, but there was no way we could make it without being questioned. No way. Jairo had given me a cheap Casio watch to track the time. I glanced at it now: 19:45.

  One hour and fifteen to make this work.

  Jairo got close to me and whispered, “We let the crowd go in and follow. Just as it’s starting, we get back out and go for the hangar.”

  He was speaking in Spanish again. Fast, rapid, precise.

  “Yes,” I said, hoping Jairo didn’t detect my gulp.

  As he said it, the crowd began to move toward the door. One guy had a megaphone and barked into it that the meeting was ready to begin. “Go in. Take a seat,” he said.

  Very quickly, the crowd became dense around us, and although I tried to plant my feet and let the ocean of bodies go around me, it was impossible. The force of the pushing propelled us forward too. I kept my eyes on Jairo’s bald head, every second a meter further away from me. The cops were rowdy and began pushing harder than before, like a zombie movie, with us stuck in the middle of the pack. The tide of bodies moved forward, and that was it, too late. We would be attending this thing whether we liked it or not.

  The throng flowed up the steps and we walked through the door of the army barracks. Inside, the noise reverberated up to the steel and Perspex ceiling and all around. I lost track of Jairo’s bobbing head and stuck mine down, accepting the current, letting it take me. Saving my strength.

  If I had wanted to admire the stark and austere interior of the base, I would not have had the chance. The only thing I could see were the shoulders and arms pushing against mine; despite my being taller than most of the men here, their raised arms as they jostled and barged obstructed any view.

  Soon we came to another entrance, and just beyond the doorway I could see a hall with thousands of seats lined up ready for the event. It was like my old secondary school hall back in England. Tall ceiling and windows all around. In front, a stage, empty but for a single chair.

  I turned and swiveled as best I could to find Jairo or the Gustavos, but it was no use, the sea still urged me along. And then the pressure dropped as we flooded into the hall fully and the bodies broke away a little. I made for the side and turned back to the entrance, but it was blocked by the sheer number of people streaming into the space.

  A touch on my elbow and I turned, heart in my throat. It was Jairo.

  “No choice now. We gotta stay.”

  “But the time,” I said.

  But Jairo wasn’t listening. “Come,” he said.

  We grabbed seats about twenty rows back from the stage, to the side.

  Around us thousands of cops began seating themselves. The din of chatter and hooting and laughing filled the space. I looked behind and saw it was no use. The entrance was full of spectators too late to get a chair.

  There was no way out.

  After around twenty minutes, the megaphone from outside let off a few honks of the familiar Mexican police horn, usually utilized for pulling over hapless van drivers with builders sitting in the hold.

  The megaphone blasted three, four, and five honks before the rabble began to subside and a strange silence came over the room. I reckoned there were at least two thousand people in here. And us right in the middle, undetected.

  The megaphone burst into voice.

  “Listo, señores, señoras, señoritas. Gracias por respetar el silencio.”

  Ready. Sirs, madams. Thank you for your silence.

  Then our heads turned to the stage. From behind the back curtain, like some twisted take on a school play, two hefty male cops dragged out a female police officer. Her face, although covered by a gag and blindfold, was contorted with pure fear and panic. Her arms were tied tightly and then strapped to her lap. Her legs were also bound.

  The two men put her in the chair and in turn strapped her to that. She wriggled and fought like a cat being made to take a bath. I looked closer. I recognized her. The cop who put me to sleep. My cruel nurse—but her face had none of the arrogance and control of before. Now, she pleaded silently through the gag, to the crowd, and then upwards to her God.

  I shuddered. The scene drew a few whoops from the crowd, but I detected mainly mirrored sentiment to mine. Terror.

  From behind her came a woman, dressed in combat gear. Long black hair and a stern but attractive face.

  Luciana.

  “Shit,” I whispered under my breath.

  Jairo nudged me. I put my head down and prayed she wouldn’t be able to make me out here in the sea of faces.

  Luciana took a seat to the side of the stage. Front-row seat. Observing.

  And the room went fully silent. Not like before. You could have cut this silence with a knife.

  And after all the noise and chaos, we heard a solitary pair of footsteps, deliberate and slow. Keeping my head lowered, I peered upward at the figure taking the stage, big and tall with a rotund gut, dressed in a black silk shirt, unbuttoned, and with a sneering round face. Holding a machete.

  The leader of Código X.

  X03, my friend from the prison.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Somebody turned the main lights down, leaving only the stage ones on full. I was thankful for the shadows and watched the stage. Luciana sat still, looking at X03 walking up and down like the leader of a herd of lions, chest out and head held high as he eyeballed the front rows of his crooked cops. He was nodding slowly, grimacing at the crowd, letting the silence rack up the apprehension. The atmosphere thick with fear, the drunken banter and laughing from before having dissipated. In its place, a thousand hearts thudded as the new boss scanned his servants.

  He spoke, loud and booming. Even without a mike his voice was audible from where we sat, about twenty rows back, and I reckoned even the latecomers could make out what he said. He spoke in a northern dialect, slang-filled. He was from the ghetto, and that hadn’t changed.

  “How brave you are,” he said in Spanish. “I respect that.”

  He stopped walking and the machete he was holding stopped swinging. I glanced at the lady cop tied up to his right. Her eyebrows were arched above the blindfold and her body was convulsing with fear.

  “I like the fact that you have the balls to come here. Knowing that amongst you, right now no doubt, there are traitors. And usually my people do not wait to find the guilty one. No. Not when it’s easier just to kill you all.”

  Murmurs and trembles of discomfort vibrated through the room. X03 gave an evil and malicious grin.

  “But I guess the law of averages means that the vast majority of you are on our side. And that pleases me.”

  He went back to pacing the stage, glaring at us. I shifted in my seat. Jairo was inert next to me, concentrating.

  “You all work for us now,” said X03. “No exceptions. No excuses. We have the path to power cleared for us. We are doing deals with Jalisco, the Gulf. The Knights. All of them. The government is next.”

  He was listing rival cartels. I’d heard of them all, once sworn enemies, now his friends.

  “Understood?”

  “Sí,” cried the audience in one big shout.

  “Muy bien,” he said. “So, what happens if you decide not to work with us? On our project. For our country. What happens to traitors?”

  He turned and walked to the
tied-up cop and put the machete blade under her chin. Tears streamed from under the blindfold. It was horrific. I knew what was coming. She did too.

  “This piece of filth,” he said, “failed us. Keeping a prisoner safe for a week longer. But no, it was too much.”

  The lady cop started to groan through the gag, a muffled moan came from her.

  “And if you fail us, or inform on us, or betray us,” he said, pulling back his right arm, machete aloft, “this is what happens.”

  And in one swift movement, the blade swung down, hard and smooth and fast. I watched the first part, as the blade entered the front of the woman’s neck, but I couldn’t watch the rest. I dipped my head in disgust. I heard the blade stop. I heard it raise again. The gasps from a hundred people all at once. Then another swing. Her moans ceased. And the thump of her head on the stage.

  My body shook. I suddenly had the urge to vomit. I knew what had happened and it was enough. My mind’s eye filled in the details. My hands shaking with adrenalin. There were a few whoops from around the room. Jairo’s elbow rammed into my arm. Look up, it said. Act normal.

  I did so.

  The female cop’s body sat there like some cheap horror attraction at the town fair. Without a head, the cop’s uniform could have belonged to a man or a woman. Blood oozed from where her neck was severed. I retched. I couldn’t hold it back. Another elbow from Jairo. I swallowed and controlled myself.

  “Jesus,” I whispered under my breath. “God help us.”

  “There are traitors here. Right now,” said X03. “And we must find them.”

  With desperation I tried to control my hyperventilating. I looked at Luciana. She hadn’t moved. Her eyes were scanning the crowd. I felt naked. Exposed. One glance and we were dead.

  I looked at the Casio: 20:48. Too late. We had to get out.

  No chance.

  “So,” said X03, as if he were hosting a recreational work getaway activity to raise morale. “Who was planning on flying tonight?”