Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  "Bring the other one." Although the voice was unfamiliar, Jim was fairly certain it was Tony. The sound of stomping feet approached once more. He heard another person fall to the planks beside him. With the unyielding hand still holding him on the ground, Jim's hood and gag were removed.

  The first thing he saw was Tony, hands on his hips, regarding him with an icy stare. They stood on a dock, which reached out into a small lake. A johnboat bumped gently against the pier a few feet away. Reeds grew in abundance, partially obscuring the shoreline. He looked to his right to see who the other prisoner was. A short, stocky man in a gray sweatshirt removed the hood, and Matt's battered face lifted slowly from his chest. His eyes were unfocussed. Rivulets of dried blood caked the sides of his head. Jim managed to keep his façade of indifference.

  Tony took a step closer. "It looks like Matt must have put up a better fight than you did. No matter. I need some information from you. It seems you have been meddling where you are not wanted. Now, I need you to tell me what you know."

  "About what?"

  Tony nodded to the man beside Jim. He drove his fist into the side of Jim's head, knocking him to the dock. Someone grabbed Jim by the collar and pulled him upright.

  "My, my, aren't we defiant. Just tell me what I want to know. It'll all go much easier for you, in the long run."

  "This is a really short pier, Tony. Why don't you go for a long walk?"

  This time, Tony didn't wait for his thug to strike a blow. He stepped forward and kicked Jim solidly in the ribs. The air rushed from his lungs, and he lay gasping for breath. Two of Tony's men stepped in. One held him up while the other struck him again and again. The repeated blows drew blood. By the time they finished, Jim's left eye had swollen shut. The cessation of blows brought no relief from the pain, but Jim forced himself to look Tony in the eye. He spat blood on Tony's shoes.

  He had hoped to throw Tony off balance, but he was not prepared for the reaction. Tony turned his back and stood silently for several moments as he stared across the lake. He clasped his hands behind his back and took a few hesitant steps away. Suddenly, he turned about and stood directly in front of Matt.

  Tony’s lip curled into a sneer. "Your friend here thinks he is a tough guy. How about this for an idea? I ask him the questions. If I don't like the answers, you will suffer. Maybe that will loosen his tongue."

  Tony backed away from Matt and slowly turned to face Jim once more. "How about it, Detective? Tell me what you know about my shipment."

  "Or what? You'll kill Matt? You'll kill me? You're going to kill us anyway, whether I say anything to you or not."

  For a moment, Tony said nothing, then he snapped his fingers and held out his hand. Another of his henchmen approached and handed him a photo, which Tony held out in front of Jim's good eye.

  "That's a nice family you have over in Morton. This is their house, isn't it? Are these your parents? And your younger sister, too? She's a cute one. Maybe we'll kill her last."

  Jim lunged for his tormentor. His sudden assault caught his guard unaware and he momentarily broke free. But his escape attempt was short-lived. With his hands still secured behind his back, he could not defend himself. His tormentors beat him into submission.

  Tony shook his head. "I just can't get through to you, can I? I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal. You agree to talk to me, and I promise you'll both live. Once you start talking, Matt will be free to go. When I'm satisfied you have told me everything, and I have your word you'll back off, I'll have my men drive you back to town." He drew a pistol from his waistband, and moved over to Matt's side. "Or, you can refuse to answer me." He placed the pistol to the side of Matt's head and cocked the hammer. Matt stared straight ahead, his eyes wide. Tony slowly turned his head to face Jim.

  Jim shook his head. "You expect me to believe you'll let us go? And you'll take me at my word? You would have to assume I was just trying to save myself."

  "If I find out you lied to me, your family dies, too. What's it going to be, Detective? It's getting late."

  Jim's gaze fixed on the pistol pointed against his friend's temple. He could do nothing but watch the hammer slowly rear back, then hover. Tony's finger kept just enough pressure on the trigger to hold the hammer steady. Finally, he lowered the pistol, shaking his head. He gave a cold smile, drew a long knife from his boot and knelt by Matt's side.

  "I don't think I'll shoot him just yet, Hunter. That's much too quick. I have a better idea. I would much rather use this knife. Maybe listening to your best friend scream for the next ten minutes will make you more talkative."

  Jim shook his head emphatically. He wondered what this son of a mob boss was capable of doing. Tony had issued multiple threats, but other than the beatings, he was unable or unwilling to follow through on something more serious. Maybe he could talk his way out, yet. "Forget it, Tony. I'm not telling you shit."

  Tony let out a sharp breath and looked back along the shadowy dirt road, lip curled as his face reddened. "I knew this wouldn't work. I told you."

  The knife descended behind Matt's back, and with a sudden jerk, ripped upward. Jim gasped. He thought for a moment he had misjudged Tony, that he would murder Matt even before Jim had answered any questions. To his surprise, Matt's bonds fell away and he rose to his feet. He alternately rubbed his wrists and massaged his jaw.

  "You didn’t need to be so rough about it. I told you he didn't know anything, didn't I?"

  Jim's battered jaw went slack. "Matt, what . . . ?"

  "Sorry, Jimbo. I didn't want it to come to this. I tried several times to guide you away, because I didn't want you getting hurt. But you had to play the hero, didn't you? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone? Perkins was an old man. He probably wouldn't have lived but a few more years anyway. If you had taken my advice, you and I would be out chasing girls right now, and our apartment wouldn't be a charred mess."

  Jim was too stunned to speak. How could Matt be working with Tony? It was impossible! He found his voice. "Trying to talk me out of this? You were encouraging me to bend the law to expedite the investigation."

  "I had to play the role, Jim. I knew you would never break the rules. If I tried to talk you out of it from the beginning, I wouldn't have had the same credibility when I tried to talk you down. The plan was to get you to back off, once you realized who you were up against. If it had worked, Tony's men wouldn't have brought you here. Neither of us would have been beaten." Matt licked his swollen lips and glanced up at the night sky. "And I wouldn't have to do this."

  His hand dipped into his pocket and came out holding the small revolver Jim had seen him with in the apartment.

  "I thought you were using that for work."

  "And I thought you were smarter than this."

  Matt stepped around behind him and placed the muzzle to the back of Jim's head. Jim refused to beg for his life. He knew his fate was sealed anyway.

  "You coward. You don't even have the guts to look me in the eye while you do it."

  There were a few moments of silence, the still of the night broken only by the sound of the crickets. Then the gun sounded. A blow like a hammer struck the back of Jim's head, and everything disappeared in a haze of fire.

  CHAPTER 7

  The speaker over Grigory's head crackled to life. In a groggy voice punctuated by a long yawn, the Russian pilot explained that while they had arrived in Mexico City early, their gate was not yet clear. They would have to wait on the tarmac for a few minutes. When he announced that the temperature was a balmy eighty-five degrees, a small cheer went up from the passengers. Grigory paid no attention. He was focused on the next leg of his journey.

  Eventually, the plane lurched forward, rolling to a stop at the gate. He rose to his feet, opened the hatch overhead, and pulled out his two briefcases. He glanced out the window into the darkness of a Mexican summer night. Lights danced around the airfield as the baggage handlers rolled their carts to the plane.

  The crew waved as he disembarked an
d followed the human mass before him into the bowels of the airport. The next impediment to his plan was Customs. What he carried would never be allowed to pass through their security checkpoint, or at least, not in the normal fashion. But arrangements for bypassing Customs had already been made. Leaving the tunnel, he passed into the terminal and followed the signs to where the Federales waited.

  They descended along a winding, twisting ramp. The gray paint was peeling from the walls in places. The damp smell of mildew reached his nose despite the jostle of people in the hall. The other passengers stepped around the janitor pushing a large wheeled garbage can. Grigory slowed, edged over to one side, and stopped. He set his briefcases down beneath the railing along the wall. He passed to the other side of the hallway and bent low over the water fountain as the garbage can rumbled past. When he stood once more, the briefcases were gone.

  Then disaster struck. A door to his front opened. A young Mexican police officer stepped into the hallway, casting a scrutinizing gaze about the hallway. He looked past Grigory to the rapidly retreating janitor, apparently aware of the fact that the man was where he should not be. He reached for his radio.

  With a cry of anguish, Grigory dropped to his knees, grasping his chest and thrashing as he fell to the carpeted floor. He exhaled sharply and held his breath, making strangling noises as if unable to draw any air into his lungs. The officer raced to his side, the security violation forgotten. Grigory rolled to his back. The discoloration of his face drew a grimace from the young man hovering over him.

  Foolish police officer.

  Now it was just a matter of time. The martyrs of the jihad would finally strike a crippling blow at the heart of Islam's enemy.

  #

  An almost unbearable throbbing sensation in the back of Jim's head brought him out of the cloud of darkness. He was lying in bed, covered by blankets. He tried to open his eyes. The left one was still swollen painfully shut, and the right was not much better. A white blur slowly swam into near-focus. He groaned through his pain and disorientation. He tried unsuccessfully to pull himself up to a sitting position. His bonds had been removed, but his hands still tingled and responded poorly. He gave up and lay back on the soft mattress.

  "He's coming around."

  It was a soft, feminine voice, followed by the sound of footsteps. Two faces entered his narrow field of view. One was an attractive young woman – or at least, through his limited eyesight, he imagined she was attractive – with shoulder-length brown hair and a petite frame, wearing a white sweater. The other was an older man with gray hair. The man pumped a blood pressure cuff and held a stethoscope to Jim's arm while the woman took his temperature. Jim allowed his semi-functional eye to close. He was safe for the moment.

  The last thing he remembered was Matt with a gun to his head. Had he been shot? How could he still be alive after a contact wound to the head? He felt a sharp pricking sensation in his left arm. He opened his eyes to see the woman holding a syringe. She dabbed a washcloth against his head and bathed his wounds. Jim opened his mouth, but no sound would issue forth.

  "Don't try to speak," she told him. "We saved you, but it was close. You've been asleep for three days. You're lucky to be alive."

  He lifted a trembling hand to his face and tapped a finger against his parched lips. She held out a glass of water for him and gave him small sips.

  "Not too much. Drink slowly. You don't want to make yourself sick."

  "What . . . happened?" he asked in a raspy voice.

  "Do you remember where you were?" Jim gave a slow nod. "You probably don't know who I am. My name is Krista Marcel. Tony is my brother."

  Jim took a few moments for the information to sink through his consciousness. One Marcel wanted to kill him, one offered him advice, and now another one had saved his life?

  "I overheard my father talk about Tony trying to kill a cop who was investigating him. I talked to Richard about it, and he agreed to help me. When we heard Tony had something major planned for the evening, we followed him. He drove out to the lake, where he was met by the others. There were too many of them for us to do anything but watch. Do you remember who shot you?"

  His voice was husky but felt a little better this time. "My friend." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

  "Yeah. He played along while they tried to get you to answer some questions. After he shot you in the back of the head, they left you on the dock and tossed the gun into the lake. But there are some things you might not know. One of them drove your car out there. They stashed some drugs inside and pushed it into the lake. They probably wanted the police to think you were a crooked cop. They would've assumed you were executed in a drug deal gone bad."

  "Where . . . am I?"

  "You're at my apartment in Utica. My friend George, here, is a doctor. He's been taking care of you. I used to be a nurse, so I've been able to pitch in, too. We didn't want to take you to a hospital, because if Tony didn't find a way to kill you, the police would probably arrest you. This is the safest place, at least for the time being."

  George pulled him into a seated position. While Krista helped balance him, George changed the bandage on the back of his head. "You're lucky to be alive, son. You must have a hard head."

  He picked up a small plastic dish and held it for Jim to see. A single bullet, flattened by the impact with his skull, lay in the center of the tray.

  George gave a reassuring smile. "It's the caliber of the bullet that saved you. A .22 will do crazy things. This one lodged in your skull and stopped, but it was just as likely to have penetrated, then ricocheted around through your brain. As I said, you got lucky. He must have used old ammunition."

  Jim nodded his agreement. He drank more water before they lowered him back to the bed.

  "You still had your badge and your police I.D. on you when we picked you up," Krista told him. "Your holster, too, but it was empty. Matt or Tony probably took your gun. But they left your money and credit cards, which is something, I guess. I wouldn't advise using your cards, though. They can be tracked too easily. If you need more cash, I can get whatever you need."

  The doctor left the room. He closed the door softly behind him. Krista dipped her washcloth in a pan of water and dabbed his face. She opened her mouth to speak but stopped and turned away. After a few moments, she slammed a fist on the table.

  "I'm so sorry this happened to you," she said. "I hate what my family does! I've never been a part of the business, but I'm still labeled with the stigma of being a member of a mob family. I feel like everywhere I go, I'm followed. Every phone call I make is overheard. And now, this. I've had it!"

  "Krista." It hurt to speak, but there were things he had to say. "I hope you realize your brother has to go down. I can't let him get away with this."

  She nodded. "I know. He's up to something else, too. Even my father is worried about what Tony's shipment might be."

  "That's why Tony tried to kill me. I've been looking into it."

  "But what is it?"

  Jim hesitated. Could this all be a setup? Another ploy by Tony Marcel, in an attempt to find out what Jim knew? No, there was no way Tony could have known Jim would live through the shot to his head. Krista had saved his life. He had to give her his trust.

  "I really don't know. I thought it was a major drug shipment, possibly heroin. But your father believes it's something more."

  "What are we going to do about it?"

  Jim closed his good eye as he ran his tongue over his cracked and swollen lips. "We?"

  "Sorry, but I've involved myself in this now. I've crossed Tony. I have to see this through to the end."

  "It's too dangerous."

  "Exactly. You would have died already, if not for me. Besides, I have resources. Through the Family, I can get us anything we need. Let me help you, James. Please." She squeezed the damp washcloth, dribbling water onto the floor.

  Jim took another sip of water. "You can call me 'Jim.' Partner."

  "I prefer 'James.' Part
ner."

  #

  For a full week, Jim mostly stayed in bed as he recovered his strength. After he explained to Krista about his claustrophobia, she made a point of keeping a fan running in his room. He had suffered as much from the beating as from the bullet wound. The doctor explained that it amounted to little more than a serious blow to the head. In that respect it was not so much a bullet wound as it was a concussion. His vision cleared and the bouts of nausea passed. He still had occasional headaches, but he preferred to think of them as an aftereffect of the beating, rather than his chronic condition. He was able to get out of bed and get dressed on his own. His impatience grew. He was anxious to get back on the case.

  On the morning of the eighth day of his ordeal, Krista led him to the main floor of the old farmhouse. She motioned to a recliner in the living room, then turned on the television.

  "It seems my brother and your friend figured out rather quickly that you lived through the ordeal. When your body didn't turn up at the lake, your friend started a P.R. campaign against you. I taped several of the news broadcasts. I thought you might like to see them, now that you're stronger."

  The television flickered to life, and a reported appeared on the screen. Behind her, there was a bustle of police activity around the lake where Matt and Tony had brought him.

  "Police say the car recovered from this lake belongs to Bloomington Police Detective James Hunter. It was discovered this morning by fishermen who came to use their boat. When officers at the scene searched the car, they made a startling discovery."

  The picture flashed, and in her place was Captain Bates, with Donald Scott standing behind him, still wearing his wetsuit. "When we recovered Detective Hunter's car from the lake, we found a body in the trunk. Although we are not yet releasing his identity, we believe he was a local drug dealer. The victim had been shot in the back of the head, execution-style. We're waiting on the results of an autopsy before we give any further details."