Deadly Journey

by Declan Conner

  The scene changed to a woman reporter and camera crew on the ground.

  ‘... When I spoke to the captain of the fire crew earlier, he said that after arriving at what they first thought could be an accident, they came to believe that it was the scene of something far more sinister.’

  The camera panned to the burned-out wreck of a car, still distinguishable as a silver-gray Ford.

  Jumping off the bed, I stood close to the television and raised the volume.

  ‘As you can see, the side of the car is riddled with bullet holes in a pattern that would suggest an automatic assault rifle was used. So far, they have discovered the bodies of four men. Three are adults and one is thought to be in his early teens, in what I heard one police officer describe as a gang-related hit, probably in connection with drugs.

  ‘Although forensics at the scene are still carrying out their investigation, again from what the police officers were discussing, it would appear that the three adults died of multiple-gunshot wounds. The teenager, whose wrists were bound with duct tape, bore signs of torture before his throat was cut. From the blood trails, all are believed to have died outside the trailer and then they were dragged inside before it was set on fire.’

  The camera zoomed in on a gas can lying on its side, then to a pile of spent cartridges and back to the woman reporter.

  ‘Hopefully we will be able to get a statement from the officer in charge, but in the meantime we’ve been instructed to stay behind this line of police vehicles. This is Sandra Summerville returning you to the studio.’

  Back at the studio, the subject changed to the economy and I lowered the volume. There was no mention of a tunnel, nor had I seen police searching that area. The whole report felt like some kind of surreal déjà vu. Stumbling, I edged backward to the bed and sat. Had more people involved in my kidnapping turned up murdered on my account?

  It didn’t make sense that Perez would have ordered the hit on them, when it would make discovery of the tunnel possible. Maybe he thought that terminating loose ends was a price worth paying. Doubt surfaced that the tunnel would be his only means of getting drugs across the border. Hell, for all I knew, he could have a dozen tunnels.

  ‘My shoe?’

  I started a nervous snicker at the thought they might have found my shoe in the trunk. But what good would it do? I couldn’t imagine that the El Paso branch of the FBI would have printed out copies from a photograph of the shoe I had left at the scene of the crack house, for distribution at staff meetings. Or worse, that the FBI had posted it on their “Most Wanted” website.

  ‘Have you seen the partner to this shoe?’

  The imaginary headline started me laughing in earnest. I mean, could anyone imagine a police briefing with someone handing out a picture of a shoe to the police officers?

  ‘What the f... Haven’t we got enough with most wanted and missing persons that they have us looking for lost property?’ I imagined an officer asking.

  Rolling over on the mattress, I grabbed the pillow, burying my face to stifle the laughs.

  Sleep must have followed; I awoke to the sound of footsteps on the stairway. When I rolled over, the time on the news channel was approaching midnight. After turning off the television with the remote, I reached out to turn off the bedside lamp, but there was only enough time for a quick glance at Mary and the kids.

  The door crashed open as someone switched on the main light. I shielded my eyes from the light with my hand as a male voice boomed in an American accent.

  ‘You’re going for a walk. Lie still while we put on your shackles.’

  For a fleeting moment, I thought it could be a Special Forces rescue. Then my eyes adjusted, dashing my hopes as I recognized one of the guards aiming a handgun at me.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘You’ll soon find out.’

  I wasn’t sure if this was the time to test my theory of them having orders not to kill me. Not with the Taser and a handgun pointed at my chest.

  Chapter 18

  Question Time

  As if it wasn’t bad enough to have them re-shackle me, one of the guards fastened a cloth as a blindfold around my head. At least it wasn’t as bad as that foul-smelling burlap sack. It was a small mercy they had removed the explosive tracker from my ankle. It gave me one thing less to worry about, wherever we were going. I should have been used to the unexpected by then, but I wasn’t. Fear of where they were taking me and to what end brought on a cold sweat. Hands gripped my arms, guiding me out of the bedroom.

  A door creaked open and Leandra’s voice called out. ‘Where are you taking him? What’s happening?’

  I hadn’t seen Stony Face inside my bedroom, but his voice growled a reply. ‘Get back inside and mind your own business.’

  ‘When will he be back?’ Leandra retorted in an insolent tone.

  ‘That’s up to him. Now close your door.’

  ‘Don’t push me, Pedro,’ she said as if through gritted teeth. ‘Kurt, for your family, tell them whatever they ask.’ Those were her last words, uttered as though she were exerting energy in a scuffle. I heard the door slam.

  ‘Carry him down to the truck or we’ll be here all night,’ Stony Face said. Someone repeated his order in Spanish.

  Goodness knows how many of them manhandled me down the stairway and out to the truck. Though they were small in stature compared to my six foot one, they carried me above their weight with ease. When they dropped me to my feet, someone spun me around. They forced my head down and backed me onto the truck seat. Doors slammed. The engine sparked to life and the tyres spun on the gravel.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  A dig in the ribs with an elbow or rifle butt replied. After that, I kept my mouth shut.

  From what Leandra had said, it looked as though the journey would turn out to be the question and answer time that Perez had talked about – but not of the sixty-four-thousand dollar type. I doubted there would be a prize in it for me at the end of the session.

  We only drove for around ten minutes before the truck stopped. It was far enough for them to have needed to remove the tracker, but still within the grounds of the villa somewhere.

  The door opened and a guard pushed me. As I shuffled on my backside along the seat, hands took hold of me and guided me out of the truck. The terrain was smooth underfoot for around twenty paces, and then we hit a rough track. I thanked God I had stepped into my slippers in the bedroom.

  A hand kept forcing me to duck as if to avoid an obstacle. They missed one and a branch swiped my face. The leaves brushed my lips, leaving the bitter taste of foliage. We had to be on a trail in the woods I had seen from the balcony next to the runway. That’s where Leandra had said they had barracks. I couldn’t help but smile inside at the drama of the blindfold and their playing soldiers, in a sort of half-hearted bravado.

  Brought to a halt, I heard a door open. The smile inside soon turned to cold shudders at the realization this was probably not going to be a game. I was ushered through an entrance, a door closed behind me and someone took off the blindfold. The smell of dampness was overpowering, in contrast to the sweet odour of vegetation on the walk to the barracks.

  The room was small, around ten feet square. To my left, I noticed a desk and two chairs. The walls were fabricated as a wooden structure, with an open ceiling to a pointed roof. A single light illuminated my surroundings, hung by a cord from a wooden beam running the length of the room. There were no windows. Against the wall to my right, I could see a gurney. A flat-screen television was fastened to the beam above with the screen facing the head end of the gurney. It seemed an odd place for someone to relax to watch a program. Wires led from the monitor to an open laptop set on a wooden crate. Next to the crate was a washbasin.

  Stony Face wasn’t one of the guards remaining, so we had lost him somewhere along the line. The guy who had spoken to me in English in the bedroom pulled out a chair and waved his hand.

  ‘Here we are, Kurt. Tak
e a seat.’ There was nothing pleasant in his manner of delivery, but I sat as ordered.

  He walked around the desk and sat, opened the top drawer and took out a notebook and pencil. I wanted to laugh. His chair was higher than mine was, in what I presumed was an attempt to give him the psychological high ground, but he was around five foot six, and our eyes met in equal measure. All it would have taken was a powerful light in my eyes to complete the picture. I wondered if they had missed that trick in their interrogation handbook.

  My interrogator had the features of a weasel. His ears were almost right angles to his head. The light created shadows, accentuating his high cheekbones above sunken cheeks.

  He picked up the pencil and tapped it repeatedly on the desk. ‘A few simple questions and then you can go back to the villa and be safely tucked into bed.’

  He sat back, placed the pencil down, and, clasping his hands and resting them on his stomach, he began twiddling his thumbs. His eyes locked on mine like a guided missile. I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for a response, but I kept silent. He leaned forward and placed his still-clasped hands on the desktop with his thumbs still twirling.

  ‘Name?’ He picked up the pencil and poised it over the notebook page. The game had begun.

  ‘Kurt Rawlings.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-four.’

  ‘Wife’s name?’

  I hesitated before deciding to reply. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, Kurt, Kurt, I thought I explained. A few simple questions and you can go back to the villa. Let’s start again, shall we? Wife’s name?’

  ‘You know my wife’s name. I refuse to discuss my...’

  Like a lizard’s tongue unfurling to strike its prey, the back of his hand swiped my cheek and stung like hell.

  ‘Let me explain. These are simple questions, and yes, we know the answers. Your wife’s name is Mary and your son is Craig and your daughter Claire. You’d do well to remember that. We know many of the answers. That’s the purpose of my opening questions. Lie to me, or fail to answer, my friend, and you will suffer the consequences.’

  I could hardly forget they knew my family’s details. The veiled threat was, I hoped, just that. Making out that they knew details was the same type of ruse I had used on many occasions when questioning a suspect.

  ‘Now that you know the rules, we can start with the serious questions. Who tipped you off about the shipment that you stole from us?’

  How he expected me to answer that defied reason. If the code name he used was a known gang name, I would be handing our informant a death sentence. The truth was, I didn’t know his real name. All the dealings I had had with him had been over the telephone, with failed attempts to trace the calls, other than they came from south of the border.

  He pushed his chair back, stood and walked behind me. The slap of his hand over my ear almost knocked me off the chair. ‘Answer.’

  ‘There was no informant. It was a lucky find. These things happen,’ I lied.

  My ear started ringing. He walked to my side, signalling with the sway of his wrist to the other guard standing at the door. They both walked over behind me and quickly bound me to the chair with a rope. The next thing I knew, they had slipped a damned canvas sack over my head. Now I knew for certain that this wasn’t a game.

  My chair legs grated on the wooden floorboards. They dragged me to a different position in the room and untied the rope. I felt tugging at my leg shackles, followed by a click that I hoped wasn’t one of them racking a round in the chamber of a gun. When I tried to stretch my legs, a tug indicated that they had fastened a restraint from my leg irons to the floorboards.

  There were to be no more questions that needed reply, just two voices screaming insults alternately at each ear. I tried counting in my mind, but their volume, together with prodding fingers on my shoulders and the occasional shove, overcame any attempt to block out the voices.

  ‘You think the DEA cares about you?’

  ‘You’re just a name and rank.’

  ‘Crap on their shoes.’

  ‘Don’t think for one minute they’ll pay the ransom.’

  ‘You’re already dead to them.’

  ‘Do you think your wife will care?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Give her time and she’ll be screwing someone else.’

  ‘She could be already.’

  ‘Probably is.’

  ‘Your kids will have a new dad and forget you.’

  ‘You’re nothing.’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘History.’

  ‘Do you think your informant will care? No.’

  ‘Do you think your beloved State Department will bend their rules on ransoms?’

  ‘No, because they are ungrateful for all you have done for your country.’

  ‘The U.S. doesn’t care.’

  ‘You’re just a speck of dust, to be swept aside.’

  ‘Nobody cares.’

  And so it went on. Not sure how long it lasted. It seemed like an eternity. Their voices began to grate, melding into a crescendo of garble. Heavy eyelids fluttered and my chin dropped. Visions flashed of me lying on the floor surrounded by a throng of my tormentors at school.

  ‘Cry baby, cry baby,’ they chanted, followed by, ‘coward, coward.’

  A slap on the side of my head brought me back to the here and now, to more abuse from Weasel. Then suddenly, he stopped.

  Confusion ensued. To a scuffle of noises, together with tugging at my shackles, my arms rose above my head until they were at full stretch and my body followed until the heels of my feet were just off the floor. Footsteps walked away from me. What little light had been seeping through the bag over my head extinguished to darkness.

  The door to the room opened and closed.

  Straining my hearing, I listened for a sign of breathing, anything to determine that I was alone. Heightened senses detected nothing save for a drip from the washbasin tap. Drip, drip, freaking drip.

  My leg muscles tightened from the elevation of my heels. My weight tugged at my armpits and tightened my chest, restricting my breathing. My thoughts failed to distract my senses to dull the aches and pains. Squat was right. I was on a journey to hell, but I knew I hadn’t quite reached the destination they had in mind. Moving my weight first to the toes of my left foot and then to my right gave only brief respite. It was the same if I grasped the chain fastening my arms to the beam above. In the end, the laws of physics and biology came together and denied me any comfort.

  And still the drip, drip, freakin’ drip, like a damned metronome that wouldn’t switch off.

  My eyelids were heavy. Tiredness added to the torture of pained limbs, stretched to the maximum of their endurance. My thoughts turned to visions and hallucinations that centred around my torturers’ words.

  ‘Kurt?’

  Leandra’s whispering voice haunted me amongst the nightmares. A shake of the head did little to clear her voice from my mind.

  ‘Kurt, it’s Leandra. I have to be quick.’

  I tried to answer, but with a swollen tongue, it came out as a groan.

  The bag over my head lifted. Fingers held my chin and the taste of plastic teased my lips open. Water spread inside my mouth and I gulped down as much as possible. I could see nothing, but imagined her warm smile.

  ‘Kurt, they’re drinking the last of their cans of beer. I have to go. Stay strong. Please, tell them all they need to know. I’ll try to steal a key for your tracker to help you escape.’

  The blindfold dropped. I heard no footsteps. For all I knew it could have been a dream, an apparition. I detected a slight chill from a breeze and a faint click in the direction of the door. Wiping my moist lips with my tongue, I dared hope it was anything other than an illusion.

  Someone did care. They were wrong. All I had to do was tell them what they wanted and get out of there. I began to wonder what the hell I was thinking about when the juxtaposition to her visit hit like a thorn sinking into my flesh. Th
e good cop, bad cop routine. Only in her case – good woman. It was the oldest trick in the book to get me to talk.

  The door burst open on its hinges.

  Voices screamed in my ears and re-commenced their insults from where they had left off. This time the smell of alcohol drifted through the bag covering my face. A surge of determination not to tell them anything overcame the pain. Nevertheless, deep down I knew my resolve along with my body would surrender. I just hoped my sanity would remain intact so I could provide them with misinformation.

  ‘Just tell us the location of the depot where they transport confiscated drugs!’

  This time, there was no mistaking the sound of someone racking a slide to place a round in the chamber of a gun. The barrel dug into my temple.

  I flinched, screwed my eyes shut, and gritted my teeth.

  Chapter 19

  Physically Broken

  Giving them an answer to the secret location where we took confiscated evidence wasn’t an option, but then neither was a bullet in my head.

  ‘Lower him,’ one of them ordered.

  The leg rest was welcome as was the respite from having to answer the question, giving me time to think. My backside hit a chair, but with my arms still at full stretch, my head slung forward.

  ‘Answer me, or I swear I’ll decorate the room with your brains.’ Each syllable had brought with it a dig from the gun barrel on my skull.

  I convinced myself that under Perez’s orders, he wouldn’t shoot and answered the question with the contempt it deserved.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Searing pain from a crack to my temple threw my head to one side. The blow brought on flashes of strobe-light stars. Then the barrel dug at my skull, followed by... click. At the sound, my body jolted in spasm and my bladder lost control, warmth trickling down my legs.

  They bound me to the chair again and then lowered my arms.