They stood in what seemed like an antechamber, six feet by six. There was another metal door in front of them. He opened this door and led her through to a larger chamber, thirty feet by fourteen. He threw a switch and the light blinded her. Caches of supplies. Walls stacked with canned goods, military meals ready to eat, paper towels, medical kits, water purifiers, mess kits, and ammunition to last out a nuclear winter. This was a bunker. There was an enormous metal “X” bolted to the concrete wall with handcuffs at the end of each limb of the apparatus. There was a hangman’s noose screwed into the ceiling, and video lighting and sound equipment focused on a bed. Bloodstains spattered on the walls and floor. Now Rachel understood what was done here. He pulled aside a folding screen.
Sonia and Olivia were tied to a U-bolt in the concrete wall.
etective McKenna rode with Sergeant Nils Swenson and his SWAT team.
“The sheet on this guy is ugly,” said McKenna. “Hector Brazos. Assassin for the Mexican cartels―a Zeta. Trained by us no less, but the cartels paid better. The narco bigs wanted the victims tortured and videotaped, not just killed. Real Latin macho shit. They custom-ordered executions of entire families and this guy filled the order.”
“Nice.”
They had gotten a sheet on Brazos from Mexican authorities. McKenna had seen sadism in his time, but nothing that approached Brazos. Serial killers were nice guys compared to him. A U.N. Peacekeeper in Congo and Bosnia. You’ve got to be kidding. Accused of rape and killing of three Serbian girls. Never proved. Then he was hired as an independent contractor in Iraq. Uncle Sam was looking for a few good men.
In Mexico, he was put on trial for seventeen counts of mass murder. That is seventeen separate mass murders of families killed at the request of the cartel. Someone had shortchanged a Don, so the guy’s two little girls were kidnapped and massacred on tape, then the video was left in the mailbox of the father. The same for the wife, and finally his turn came. There were DVDs of home invasions with masked men raping wives and daughters in front of their fathers, forcing the father to have sex with the kid, then executing them one by one. Never convicted. No wonder the jurors acquitted.
The outer perimeter had already been set up by local police. They would contain the suspect and keep out traffic until the assault team arrived. A hospital had already been put on alert and listening devices had detected sounds from the target location. It started to rain and this would impact visibility.
“We have a sniper position yet?” asked McKenna.
“Two,” replied Swenson.
McKenna had no hope that the suspect would surrender, given that he’d already killed multiple people. At most, he would avoid the death penalty. That didn’t give the negotiator many bargaining chips.
The two teams closed in from the front and back. Rain came down hard now. One sniper laid across the roof of a parked garbage truck across the street. The other was on the closest flat roof about fifty yards diagonal from the target.
It was an ordinary looking house on Pennsylvania Street. A Cape Cod that no one would look at twice. Reminded him of Adolph Eichmann’s house from The House on Garibaldi Street. It disguised its resident well.
The signal was given.
They broke down the door and stormed the building. It was vacant. But not unguarded. McKenna looked up at one of the many security cameras and could sense Brazos looking straight at him.
he girls screamed in recognition.
“I’m sorry, Rachel. I’m so sorry,” said Sonia.
Olivia was barely recognizable. Her lips were swollen from beatings. She was naked with dried blood on her face and along the inside of her thighs.
In her peripheral vision, Rachel saw him glance back and forth, looking for a reaction that she wasn’t about to give him. Breaking bonds was at least as pleasurable to him as breaking bones.
Rachel felt her will slipping away as she was pushed and pulled into position against the wall. Brazos tied Rachel to the U-bolt.
He exited, leaving the door ajar.
Rachel kissed her sister.
“We’re going to die,” said Olivia.
“Don’t talk. Don’t talk,” said Rachel, looking around.
“This is a dungeon,” said Sonia.
“We’re underground?” whispered Rachel.
Sonia nodded.
Rachel was amazed that they were all alive. Why hadn’t he just killed them at once?
“Mom and Dad?” asked Olivia, softly. Rachel just nodded. She purged herself of sentiment, trying to think of a way out of here.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“A subway station. Abandoned,” said her sister.
There was a metal door ten feet away with a sliding bolt and padlock. At the far end of the chamber, another metal door had three sliding bolts and no lock.
There was a power generator with an exhaust tube going through the top of a door. Gas masks, a bio-hazard suit, bottled water, water purifiers, cans of food. Everything needed to survive, but there were no survivors in this place. The floor and walls were stained with blood. Death was prolonged here, not life.
The concrete was cool and now she felt a soft rumbling. A train. She had to find out what was behind those doors. It only made sense that there would be two points of access to this tunnel. Even rodents made sure of that. Joules would think of a way of escaping. He always found a solution. She had to find it too.
She leaned forward and pulled at the bonds with all her strength. It was no use. Footsteps.
Brazos returned and tested the light intensity where the scene would take place. Not good enough. He got another spotlight and fired it up. Better. He thought of all the possibilities with three girls. The cattle prod, the bedsprings, and the whip would play their roles. They could torment each other. At some point, a noose goes around the neck of one girl and another kicks the stool out from under her. But he would leave that privilege to the highest bidder. He liked that hanging idea. It usually took about five minutes to die that way, but it could be extended. The Nazis had a way of prolonging it for seventeen minutes or so, and they made exquisite films of their hangings.
Brazos had made some good movies too. He had studied film at the Universidad de Guadalajara. Admiring the work of Francis Ford Coppola, he dreamed of making a Mexican version of the Godfather. After graduating, he discovered that film degrees didn’t bring much income, and Hector Brazos loved money. He joined the military and, after two years, transferred to GAFE, Grupo Aeromovil de Fuerzas Especiales―the Mexican Special Forces.
Shortly after that, he attended the School of the Americas to become a Zeta. There, he was instructed by American, French, and Israeli Special Forces. The training covered rapid deployment, aerial assaults, marksmanship, ambushes, intel collection, counter-surveillance techniques, prisoner rescues, sophisticated communications, and computer training.
But this didn’t pay well either, and Brazos knew what he really wanted. He loved watching the young turks in the drug cartels tooling around in their hundred-thousand dollar Mercedes Benzes. And those girls.
He offered his services to a middling jefe in the Sinaloa Cartel. His new boss soon had a problem. A competitor had stolen his girl. This was problematic enough in Latin society, but it was emasculating in cartel circles. It had to be addressed―and swiftly.
“I can take care of this,” he told his boss.
“How will you do it?” asked Rico.
“You tell me.”
“Tiene que sufrir.”
“He will suffer. Tell me how you want it done.”
“She also must pay.”
“Done.”
Rico then described in detail how the victims were to die.
“I want absolute proof that it was done this way. You bring me a video tape and you’ll have my gratitude.”
This was going to be much harder than just taking aim at someone in a parking lot and pulling the trigger. Brazos hoped he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew, or he
would end up on a meat hook.
His targets were Geronimo Cartagena and Rico’s ex-girlfriend, Pascualita de Bris.
As a still-rising star in the cartel hierarchy, Cartagena didn’t always have a security detail with him. Brazos observed him for a week. He knew his target liked big game fishing. He had originally nailed Pascualita on a fishing boat, according to Rico. Twice a month, on Saturdays, he went out for marlin on a chartered boat. The Santa Clara had been chartered for this weekend. Brazos went ahead and chartered the Juaquín a few slips away. On Friday night, Brazos paid a kid to mangle the Santa Clara’s engine. Saturday morning, bright and early, Brazos was on the Juaquín, ready to shove off.
When Cartagena and his girlfriend arrived, the captain told them the bad news. Vandalism. Would take two days to get the spare parts.
“Hijo de puta!” screamed Cartagena, holding a cooler full of beer.
“Your money will be returned of course. Please step into my office.”
Brazos was lighting a cigar nearby.
“Señor, con permiso,” said Brazos, approaching the couple. “I just happened to overhear that your vessel is disabled. You’re both welcome to go out on my boat with me, if you don’t mind the blue water. I’ll be going for marlin.”
Cartagena’s face was caught between anger and fishing.
Pascualita stroked Cartegena’s back. “You see, Geronimo, we can go after all,” she said. “That’s very gracious, señor.”
“The pleasure is mine, señorita. Please take care of your business. We’ll shove off in twenty minutes.”
“Gracias, caballero.” Cartagena extended his hand.
Once on the boat, Cartagena said, “No mate?”
“No, he called in sick today and I couldn’t give up a day’s fishing. I’ll cut the bait, no problem.”
“What kind of bait do you use?”
“I have mullet today. I usually go out earlier and catch bonito―nothing beats live bait. But I knew I wouldn’t have as much time today, so I bought it frozen from Cicero’s.”
Cartagena inspected the upright poles and reels like a head of state reviewing a color guard. Alutecnos reels, Shimano rods.
“Nice gear. How many pounds test?”
“Today I have hundred-pound test with five-hundred yards. Sometimes I use eighty test with seven-hundred yards. But I’m not feeling very sportsmanlike today,” said the assassin.
“How far out do you go?”
“Usually about twenty miles. A friend radioed the coordinates of a school he saw this morning. We’ll head out there. It’s a clear day; the schools should be near the surface.”
It would be a two-hour ride to the fish, so Pascualita took off her dress and sunned herself on the stern wearing a green Brazilian bikini which left nothing to the imagination. She had a body to die for, and that’s exactly what Cartagena was going to do today. Cartagena seemed to enjoy seeing his girlfriend exposing herself in front of a stranger. Brazos pretended to ignore all this.
As they approached the site, Brazos said, “I’ll check the fish finder,” and went inside the cabin. “There’s a school just north,” he said, emerging. “I’ll maneuver, so the sun’s behind them, otherwise they won’t see the bait.”
Once in position, he said, “Let’s set up here. I’m ready for some lunch.”
After the poles were baited, they retired to the cabin for a meal.
“After lunch, we’ll troll about eight knots up and down this corridor. They should be biting.”
Brazos had all the camera equipment set up under a tarp and after a couple of beers and a few lame laughs, he walked over, switched on the camera, and pulled a shotgun from behind the canvas, sticking it in Cartagena’s face.
“Drop the gun,” he ordered.
Cartagena’s jaw dropped, revealing a mouth full of salchicha.
“With two fingers of your left hand. Take it out and drop it. Now kick it over here.”
Brazos tossed the gun overboard. “Both of you, on your knees.”
He bound the man’s hands behind his back.
“Whoever you are, you’re going to die a miserable death for this,” said Cartagena. “Everyone knows where I am today. They’ll wipe out your family. They’ll fuck your mother.”
“I don’t have a family.” He kicked Cartagena in the face. “Now you watch your girlfriend and me enjoy ourselves.”
Brazos mounted the camera to capture not only his own performance, but the expressions on Cartagena’s face. A face that twisted and contorted at the acts it witnessed.
When Brazos was done with Pascualita, he turned his attention to Cartagena. With a bait knife, he cut off his clothes, then took one of those fine marlin rods that he had so admired and shoved it up his ass, no lubrication. The rod bent like he had a two-hundred-pound tuna at the end. Then he pulled it out abruptly, letting the steel guides do their work. Then he relieved himself on the victim’s face.
“You, over here,” he ordered the girl.
He handed her the bait knife.
“Cut off his cock.”
“NO.”
He put the shotgun to her head. “Yes.”
Twenty miles out to sea, no screams are heard. After raping Pascualita two more times, he shot her in the face. Now it was time for Cartagena. Brazos wrapped a strap wrench around the man’s head, then applied torque. It was like taking off an oil filter. Cartagena’s head did a three-sixty, then another. His head dangled like a chalk-filled sock. After perforating the bodies to let the gases escape, Brazos tied diving weights to them and dumped them overboard.
Rico loved the video. His honor had been restored. He circulated it to the other drug lords, who were impressed and soon orders were coming in for Brazos to dispose of this guy and that with proof of death videos. The fees far exceeded those of a regular hit since it required that he capture a man who was usually well protected. But Brazos had been trained well and he made a fortune using his cinema skills acquired at the university.
In the end, the assignments just got too difficult. Brazos had to hire his own squad of assassins to mow down the bodyguards, so he could do his film work with the intended target.
One day while bidding on a rappelling harness on eBay, it occurred to him that if the victims were easy to get to, this would be a great moneymaker. He knew there was a market for snuff films, but how would he contact the clientele and collect the money for anything he sold them? By then, he was making good money running his child porn site with porn from Thailand, the Philippines, and South America. He had over five-hundred subscribers worldwide. Then it came to him.
He created a special site offering his services to an elite clientele. Mega-rich customers in Japan, the Middle East, and Russia who bid hundreds of thousands to see unspeakable depravity. And Hector Brazos was here to provide it for them.
Today’s special was a three-girl package that would command a fortune.
entlemen, the bidding will be extended because we have a unique item for sale. As you can see, there are now three lovely girls. The blonde is called Sonia, just a common street prostitute, but the brunette is the adoptive sister of Olivia. Her name is Rachel. You can read about her in the New York newspapers if you have doubts. You have the pleasure of her company and the chance to bid for her death. I’m offering all three as a package.
“Rachel and Sonia, please remove your clothes. Shoes and socks too. Yes, stand there and turn around. Lovely girls aren’t they? You’ll be able to interview each girl as usual, just send in your questions. You can sit, ladies. We’ll start with questions from Client Number One.
“And the first question is, how old are you, Rachel? Eighteen. Next, are you still a virgin? Answer is yes. What are your pastimes? Reading and exercise. Commendable. That’s how she maintains that firm body. No, don’t get dressed. I said don’t get dressed.” He grabbed Rachel by the hair and said something out of earshot of the clients. “And what do you read? What books do you read?” He slapped her across the face.
Rachel named a few authors. “That sounds familiar. You have the same taste as your sister. Client number Two would like to know if you have a boyfriend. Answer is no. And would you like a boyfriend? Answer is no. Of course we need to know why. She says she just doesn’t. Here, speak into the microphone, Rachel. They’re having trouble hearing you. And you have such a lovely voice.”
They went over the Intel Award and the men were impressed. “We have a budding research scientist here,” said Brazos. “A potential Nobel Prize winner. This is quality. And you are currently in school? And what school do you attend? Columbia University. One of our great institutions here. And what do you study at Columbia? I asked you, what do you study?” He grabbed her by the hair. “Biomedical Engineering. I should tell you a side story, gentlemen. Rachel came to my home with Sonia pretending to be a stripper, but was actually looking for her sister. And now they’ve been reunited.”
After Rachel’s interview, it was Sonia’s turn. Brazos explored the story of her abusive Uncle Lemuel in great depth and the men listening found it endlessly fascinating as they probed with great detail the sessions of abuse and her final revenge. One man clapped. She was praised for her resourcefulness and the brilliance of the retribution. They asked to describe her uncle’s face after the chainsaw ripped it apart. They wanted to know her feelings when she was told she was HIV positive. The ultimate reality show.
“This concludes the interviews, distinguished guests. Now that you’re all well acquainted with our victims, the bidding will start at one-hundred-thousand dollars. Due to time constraints surrounding these girls, we’ll skip the preliminary rounds we’ve had in the past and go directly to execution. Please place your bids.”
The Schwarzschild Radius Page 22