by Glenn Trust
Reaching in and jerking Andy to his feet, Stimes said, “Don’t know. But we’re sure as hell gonna find out. He was following us.” He pushed Andy towards the shed. “Open up. Let’s get him out of sight.”
Pulling the keys from his pocket, Paco opened the lock on the hasp and swung the door open. He stepped to the side as Stimes pushed the scruffy black man into the shed.
A stack of old wooden crates leaned against the wall inside. Stimes took one and placed it on the dirt in front of a support post. “Sit down.” Giving Andy no time to comply, Stimes swung his beefy fist, plowing it into Andy’s gut, just below the sternum.
Sinking to the ground as the air escaped in a rush from his lungs, Andy turned his head up, his eyes burning into Stimes’. Reaching down and taking hold of his collar, Stimes jerked him up and forced him onto the crate.
“We’re gonna talk.” Stimes smiled. “You’re gonna talk.” His fist crashed into the side of Andy’s face, and the cheekbone that had already been bruised by the jab of the forty-five crunched, fracturing under Stimes’ knuckles.
Having taken a piss in the trailer’s bathroom, Roy Budroe opened the door and stepped out. He moved to neutral territory between the two trailers. He’d be damned if he was going to go knock on the door of the other trailer and ask to see the big boss, Rivera. This was his operation. They could come to him. Besides, they knew he was there, and they were making him wait. He didn’t have to take that kind of shit, wouldn’t take that kind of shit.
He looked around the clearing, noting that Mike’s pickup was gone, and his two men were nowhere to be seen. Those motherfuckers, he thought, if they’re doing what he thought they were doing, he would personally cut their dicks off and hand them to them.
The trailer door opened, and Ramon Guzman stepped out. Descending the two steps, he walked to where Budroe stood, smiled and held his hand out. Budroe looked at it for a second, the pause indicating his displeasure, and then gave it a brief, perfunctory shake.
“Where’s Rivera?” His eyes bored into Guzman, who returned the stare, unruffled and seemingly at ease.
“He is coming. He was trying to make a call.”
“Here? Not much reception here.”
“Mr. Rivera uses a satellite phone. He is able to speak to people in many places even when the cell reception is poor.” Nodding at the small trailer, Guzman added, “Now, he calls to Trinidad to make sure that all is ready. He is pleased with your operation here.”
“Humph.” Budroe pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and clipped the end. Turning it over the lighter flame, he spoke between puffs. “Glad to hear that he is pleased. Wouldn’t want Mr. Rivera not to be pleased.” The tone of sarcasm was not lost on Guzman.
“You are right not to want to displease Mr. Rivera.” Guzman’s voice was quiet and serious. “He is a man of great power, with arms that reach over vast distances.”
“Humph.” Budroe puffed the cigar, hearing the warning and implied threat, absorbing it calmly.
“Besides,” Guzman smiled. “This is business and with Mr. Rivera’s export abilities we will prosper greatly, I think.”
“I’ll give you that.” Budroe nodded.
The trailer door clattered, and Eduardo Rivera stepped down into the clearing. Walking to Budroe, he extended his hand in a greeting similar to Guzman’s, but more formal. Budroe shook it. The grip was firm, solid. Budroe was not impressed. Handshakes did not make good partners. Profits did. Disregarding the handshake, Roy Budroe did recognize the profit potential of working with Rivera. He smiled.
“Welcome to our little operation here, Mr. Rivera.
“Yes, yes. Very impressive and you already have a good supply of inventory.” He nodded appreciatively and then his face turned serious. “We saw as you arrived that your man had another with him in handcuffs, a black man.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Budroe puffed the cigar calmly.
“May we ask who that is and why he is here…in handcuffs?”
“You may, but I don’t have the answer…just yet.” He motioned towards the shed. “My man, Stimes, is in there now working on that.”
“Shall we join him? I would like to see how this is done.”
Nodding, Budroe led the way across the clearing to the shed.
Stimes’ fist crashed into the right side of Andy’s face, shattering that cheekbone as well. “Who are you boy? Speak up.”
“I told you…” Andy’s voice was a gurgling whisper. He spit through his swollen split lips into the dirt and tried to blow away the blood that dripped from his nose into his mouth. “Sam…Sam Martin. That’s who I am.”
“I don’t think so.” Stimes other fist crashed into Andy’s face. “I don’t think so, and you are gonna tell us who you are.”
Staring into the shed from his seat on the crates, Andy tilted his head back so that he could see through his swollen eyelids. Girls sat on two rows of cots. Some had their faces covered, unable to watch the beating. Some looked at him their eyes open wide in terror, hands covering their mouths and wincing at each blow that fell on him. Two seemed to be staring at him as if trying to discover who he was with the same interest as Stimes, if not for the same reason. His head nodded once, before he let it drop to his chest.
“Give him a rest.” Budroe stood contemplating the damage Stimes had done to the black man. “Let him think about what’s coming.” He looked at Andy. “This won’t end until you talk, boy. You understand?”
Raising his head to look into Budroe’s small animal eyes, set deeply into his beefy face, Andy whispered, “Nothin’ to say…I’m Sam Martin…told you.” The labored words came painfully from his broken and bleeding face.
Stimes’ big fist crashed once more into his face, the swollen flesh absorbing the shock, causing Andy’s head to snap backwards, knocking him off the crate. “I’ll be back. You best think about things until then.”
The wooden door swung closed. Inside the shed, the girls and Andy heard the sound of the lock snapping shut in the hasp.
Rivera turned to Budroe. “We will return to our hotel now. Tomorrow we will do business and make our arrangements.” He looked at the shed. “I trust you will have this …situation cleared up by then.”
Budroe nodded. “It’ll be cleared up one way or another.” He looked at Stimes, who added a smile to his nod.
“Good then, until tomorrow.” Rivera put his hand out for another formal shake and turned to the SUV, followed by Guzman. “Francisco,” he called over his shoulder. “A word please.”
Watching Rivera and Guzman have a word with their man, Budroe felt the rage building. As Rivera leaned towards Paco, speaking softly in Spanish, Budroe spoke to Stimes.
“Find those two pieces of shit. I want them here now.” He took a deep breath to calm himself. “When I get my hands on them, they are gonna wish they were dead.” He smiled. “I hope it was the best piece of ass they ever had, ‘cause it just might be their last.”
Boss Stimes nodded, without speaking. Budroe was in a killing rage. His men missing, off fucking whores instead of here at the shed, and then Rivera and Guzman show up. Jesus. He would not want to be those boys for anything in the world. When Budroe got like this, people died.
“You understand what to do?” Rivera spoke softly, looking into Paco’s eyes.
“Completely.”
“The big one, Stimes is not to be harmed. We will need him to control things here, keep things going, make contacts for us. Tell him he will be well compensated. We will make him rich. The other…” he paused. “Budroe…the fat pig, you can do with as you wish. Just make him disappear.
“I understand.” He nodded giving a short bow of respect to Rivera. “He will disappear. You have my word.”
“Good.” Turning Rivera and Guzman climbed into the SUV. “Tonight,” he said softly, leaning his head from the window. “When it is dark, take care of things. We will be back tomorrow.”
Kneeling by Andy’s battered body, Juanita dabbed softly
at the blood caked on his face with one of the towels from the wash trough. Monica dipped water from a small plastic basin and let it drip gently onto his face.
“He’s here for us,” Juanita whispered over the unconscious man.
“You think so?” Monica looked at the battered face doubtfully as she let the water fall cooling over the bruises.
“You saw,” Juanita’s voice was a soft as she could make it. He looked at us…in the eyes…he nodded.” She looked at Monica. “He’s here for us.”
“I hope you’re right.” Looking at the man on the ground, Monica doubted that he would ever be able to do anything for them. She doubted that he would be alive in the morning.
64. Somewhere
“You’re breaking up, George.” Jake pushed the cell phone harder to his ear, as if that would help the signal. “Let’s switch to the radios.”
“Right.” Pressing the button to disconnect the call, George picked up the portable radio from the seat. Andy had not been given one, had not wanted one, for fear that being discovered with it would blow his cover.
“Air this is ground, come in.” George used no other identifiers as he spoke.
“Go ahead, ground.” The radio picked up the Cessna’s engine noise more efficiently than the cell phone had, making Jake’s voice sound as if he was talking from the bottom of an electric blender.
“Location and status.” George turned the volume up on the portable so that Sharon cold hear clearly as she drove.
“Ten miles east of the beginning point.” They all knew that the beginning point for this grid search was the Banks’ Store. “Making a turn to the south now. Will proceed ten miles then make a turn to the right, one hundred eighty degrees and head north on a line parallel and two miles west of the original course. That will give us overlapping coverage.” Jake’s voice was calm and confident. Several days in the plane with Rince had given him some experience in air searches. The two had bonded, and remembering Rince’s admonition that high was good, when flying, he had relaxed and become comfortable in the right hand seat, as long as Rince kept them high.
Checking the map, George saw that they were flying over and around one of the target roads that Jerome Banks had marked on the map for them. “Okay. We’re headed to second primary target. Keep us advised.”
“Will do.” Jake put the radio down and scanned the ground below. At three thousand feet, the sun was setting. Down in the woods, it was twilight and would soon be full dark. Even in bright daylight, they could barely see the ground. The tree canopy turned everything into a vast sea of multihued green. Occasionally, there would be a glittering reflection off one of the creeks or streams that seemed to move and circle randomly through the area. Mostly, they just saw green.
“What do you think?” Jake looked at Rince.
Looking out of the window on the pilot’s side, he answered without turning his head. “Andy is down there, alone. That’s all I think right now. We have to find him.”
“Right.” Jake turned back to his window. Right, Andy was down there…somewhere.
Below Sharon turned on the car’s headlights in the gathering dusk and slowed, not wanting to miss anything, any sign of Andy, in the gloom. Gloom, that’s what it was, she thought. Trees towering on both sides of the road made it feel as if they were travelling through a dark green tunnel that wound and turned like a maze, with no way out.
George placed the radio on the console between the seats then reached out and laid his hand gently on her arm. Her face turned towards him, eyes wet and glittering.
“We’ll find him, babe.” Most people never saw Sharon this way. Always the gruff, sometimes brittle, independent woman with a chip sitting loosely on her shoulder, she pushed her feelings deep inside, except with George, when they were alone. They were alone now.
Brushing a hand across her eyes, she nodded. “I know.” She turned her head towards his, peering at him in the dusk. “Babe? Mackey, did you just call me babe?”
“Well. I reckon I did…babe.” George grinned.
Lifting his hand from her arm, she raised it to her lips and kissed it. “You know I don’t say it…I mean it’s hard for me to…I just…” She peered ahead, letting the car slow some more. “I don’t want to lose you, Mackey.”
“I know.” Turning his head back to the window, George looked into the trees, searching for trails, paths, anything they had not marked on their map, anything that might lead them to Andy. He was out there…somewhere.
65. Fighting Back
Her face floated over him, soft and gentle. Smiling, she reached out to him, her touch like a feather. It took the pain away, wherever it touched.
“Deirdre.” Andy reached his hand out to touch her face, his voice a whisper. It was all the voice he had. “I’m sorry,” he said, his hand falling to his side.
Leaning over him, Juanita and Monica placed the cool wet towels on his battered and swollen face. There was nothing more they could do for him.
“Deirdre.”
“Who do you suppose, Deirdre is?” Monica said leaning close to hear his voice through his swollen lips.
“Wife, girlfriend maybe. Someone he cares about.” Juanita laid a fresh cool towel over his head. “Someone he misses.”
Monica nodded. “Someone who will miss him.”
Reaching under the seat of Andy’s pickup, Stimes pulled out the pistol that had been so far away for Andy, too far for him to offer a defense when Stimes had put the forty-five into his face. He had already discovered the cell phone tucked between the seat cushions.
Walking across the clearing, he pulled open the door to the big trailer. Budroe was seated at the dining booth.
“Thought I told you to go get those two assholes and bring them to me.”
Stimes nodded. “You did. I was.” He placed the phone and pistol on the table. “Thought I would take his pickup, so I checked around inside.”
“Checked around? What do you mean, checked around?”
“It’s a police thing, Roy.” He sat down across from Budroe. “You take someone into custody, you check their vehicle.”
“That what we’re doin’ here? We took him into custody?” Budroe picked up the pistol and pulled the slide back. It was empty.
“Yeah, something like that.” Stimes placed the pistol’s magazine, and the single round that had been chambered on the table. “You know what this means?”
“Tell me.”
“It means he ain’t no fucking floor sweeper and stock boy.” Stimes leaned forward. “I’m betting he’s some kind of law.”
“What kind?”
“Good question.” Stimes stood up. “I think it’s time to have another conversation with our friend.”
“You check the phone?”
“Yeah. No address book or contacts. Just three numbers entered on speed dial. Tried them but no signal from here.”
“Yeah.” Clenching his fists, Budroe fought to control his anger. He looked up at Stimes, “Let the boys from the islands find out the law is involved, and this deal will be over, done. Everything gone.” Budroe could see his millions floating away across the Caribbean.
Boss Stimes turned and walked through the door, leaving it open. Budroe nodded and followed him outside, across the clearing to the shed. They found Paco there, standing guard.
“Open it up.” Stimes watched, impatient to get inside, to continue the questioning.
Pulling the keys out, Paco unlocked the door.
“Where’s your partner? Your amigo?” Budroe asked.
“He is preparing food in the trailer.”
“Go join him.”
“But…it is our job to stand guard…until your men return.”
“We’ll take over. Now go to the trailer.” Paco shrugged and walked across the clearing. Budroe looked at Stimes. “Do it.”
Nodding, Stimes swung the shed door open. Startled, Juanita and Monica looked up and then stood. Stimes strode angrily towards them, and they moved quickly back to the
ir cots.
“Get the fuck away from him. You think you’re some kind of Clara Barton?”
“Who?” Budroe’s eyebrows furrowed, puzzled.
“Clara Barton,” Boss said, kicking over the basin of water and bundle of towels the girls had been using. “Nurse during the Civil War. They called her the Angel of the Battlefield.” He looked over at Juanita and Monica. “You stay the hell away from him. I catch you with him again, and you’ll pay for it.”
Budroe shook his head chuckling. Boss Stimes never ceased to amaze him. “Clara Barton. Angel of the Battlefield. Where the hell did you ever learn that?”
“A book, Roy.” He dragged Andy off the floor. “I been known to read a book, you know.” Boss Stimes was pretty sure that Roy Budroe had not read a book, at least not recently, but he did not add that thought to his comment. He was pissed off, not suicidal.
Shoving Andy onto a crate, he let him lean back against the shed’s wall. It was a better position to absorb the punishment that Stimes intended to give him without falling off the crate after each blow.
“What’s this?” Stimes held the phone in front of Andy’s face.
Andy shook his head slowly, trying to focus. “Cell phone.”
“I know it’s a goddamned cell phone.” Stimes backhanded him. “Who does it call? Whose numbers are in it? What kind of law are you?”
Head moving slowly again, side to side, Andy said, “Don’t know. Can’t remember.”
Lifting Andy from the crate with one hand, Stimes pulled his other back and buried a huge fist in Andy’s abdomen. Spinning him around to face the wall, He planted blow after blow into his back and kidneys. Andy grunted, the air knocked from his lungs with each blow. Twice, he cried out. He did not talk.
Thirty minutes passed. The beating and questions ended when Stimes, fatigued from the workout, could no longer deliver blows that he felt were suitably devastating. Releasing his grip, he allowed Andy to fall to the ground in a battered heap.