With a primitive sounding yell, he jumped up and lunged at Suarez.
Suarez, taken by surprise, fell back and Craig came down with all his weight on top of him, his hands clenched around the comandante’s throat.
A small crowd of workers scrambled around to watch the fight and cheer Craig on. A few more guards ran over to pry Craig loose from his victim, but his grip was locked tight as a vise around the comandante’s neck. Craig felt the blows of rifle butts begin to rain down on him, but the pain didn’t register. He knew he was probably signing his own death warrant, but he wanted to get the comandante so much that nothing else mattered to him. He was risking all for the pleasure of putting his hands around Suarez’s throat and literally choking the life out of him, of striking back at Robert Cabrera and his whole network of derelicts.
Suarez’s eyes were beginning to bulge, and his face was reddening, but still Craig kept a frozen, iron-like grip around the comandante’s neck.
“Phillips!” Craig distantly heard Walden’s voice, getting louder as Walden ran through the stalks to the disturbance. But still, Craig kept on. Just a little longer, Craig thought giddily, and the bastard will be dead. History! He didn’t even hear Walden breaking through the melee. He finally pulled Craig to his feet, breaking his grip on Suarez.
He held him tight as Craig struggled in his arms.
“Phillips!” he yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”
Suarez struggled to his feet. He came at Craig like a crazed madman, but was pulled back by another guard, who spoke to him in stern, clipped Spanish. Although Craig didn’t speak their language, he understood a few words by now, and from what he gathered from their angry exchange of words and gestures toward the sky, the guard was evidently reminding Suarez about getting the work done before sunset. Suarez, still clutching his throat and gasping for air, screamed and swore at Craig in a barrage of hoarse cursing in both English and Spanish, and the confrontation finally broke up. The rest of the day was uneventful, but Craig could feel Suarez’s angry, vengeful eyes upon him every minute.
All through the remaining hours after they returned, Craig felt a tension in the bunker house. It was an uneasiness that he could not put his finger on. Although he was revered for his attack on the comandante, the others looked at him in a strange way, as if they were afraid for him. Even Walden’s behavior puzzled him. He didn’t scold Craig again for his actions earlier, but now seemed quiet and withdrawn.
Well, I don’t give a damn, Craig thought smugly. Let Suarez bring his goon squad in, he didn’t care. They could destroy the boy in him a thousand times over, but they would never destroy the will and determination that made him a man and kept him going in such subhuman conditions. They could scream at him and beat him senseless, but they would never even come close to touching the immense hatred he had for every one of them.
He didn’t realize how much he would need to remember those thoughts until two hours later.
He was sitting quietly in his bunk when the door suddenly flew open, slamming against the wall behind it. Six guards piled into the room, led by Suarez.
He pointed at Craig and shouted in English, “Get him!”
A blanket of deep, cold terror rushed through Craig as the guards waded through the room of men toward him.
Craig cried out for help while he struggled in their grasp, but the other prisoners simply watched in fear—all except Rodriguez, who watched the action with an eager, hungry grin.
Walden came forward and said something sharp to Suarez in Spanish. Suarez’s response was to angrily raise his rifle and bring it down squarely on Walden’s head. Walden fell back into his bunk, a trickle of blood beginning to appear in his dark, graying hair. Suarez gave him a quick Spanish retort, then said in English, “Stay where you are, yanqui, or you will be next!”
They dragged Craig, still struggling, from the room and into another bunker house nearby, which was luxurious compared to what Craig and the other inmates were forced to exist in. It was the guards’ quarters. The area was white, roomy, and immaculate, with a small kitchen and even hot showers. An elaborate radio transmitter sat on the counter, and Spanish smut magazines and daily newspapers lay strewn about on the comfortable, clean bunks. A few guards lay dozing, while others played poker, sharing a bottle of tequila between them. They stopped what they were doing to watch Suarez and his men descend on Craig like vultures to a carcass.
“Get him! Kill him!” Suarez whooped triumphantly, like a general sending his troops into battle. He was already stoned, like the rest of them. Dangerous, drugged insanity danced in his eyes.
Two guards held Craig tight while Suarez and his companions began their attack.
“So, you think you can jump me, eh?” Suarez sneered. Craig’s head reeled as Suarez backhanded him again and again, sending warm, sticky rivulets of blood trailing down the side of his face. More blood began to fill his mouth, giving him a sickly taste that turned his stomach. Then Craig felt himself being thrown against the concrete wall, where he fell, dazed, on the cold stone floor. He was pulled back up again and the guards surrounded him, assailing him until he could no longer stand. He sagged lower and lower along the wall until he cowered on the concrete floor in a sea of leather jackboots.
Suarez loomed above him, his temper in full throttle.
“You think you can make trouble around here for me, no? I wait for you to fuck me one time so I could really get you!” he snarled, adding savage kicks to drive his point home as Craig lay helplessly at his feet.
The beating went on. Craig had never felt such terrorizing panic before. He tried to shield himself from their assault, but Suarez went on with his attack. Something hard came down with brutal force on his head. A blinding white flash of light flared behind his closed eyelids. Then there was nothing.
Vaguely, he felt himself moving. It was cold. He was being carried somewhere outside. At one point, he was dropped on the cold, hard ground.
He felt his feet quickly chill. In his half-conscious state, he realized that someone had taken his boots. He faded in and out while the procession continued, until he finally came to a stop. He was thrown into a bunk. His mind registered it to be his own. The last thing he remembered hearing before slipping back into blissful unconsciousness was Suarez’s sneering voice:
“You will never leave here alive, ratero!”
It was late the next afternoon when the deep mists of darkness began to fade. The barracks were silent. Craig was alone.
Craig’s eyes flickered. He moved slightly, then shuddered and groaned. Deep, bruising pain screamed from every corner of his body. His ribs felt as though they were on fire. His breath was labored.
He tried to open his eyes completely, but they wouldn’t budge. Slowly he brought his fingers to his face and wiped the crusty pieces from his lashes. Still, only one eye would open slightly. The other was swollen shut. His finger touched the closed eye, and it exploded in a bright shower of white sparks like a Fourth of July fireworks display.
Through the limited vision of his one eye, he looked at what he peeled from his eyelids. It was dried blood. With a hand that felt as heavy as lead, he reached up and touched his face. Dried cuts and bruises came alive under his fingertips.
His limited gaze then wandered down. He saw a pitifully thin body. His clothes were torn and covered with bloodstains. He could feel his shirt stuck to his back like a second skin; probably scabbed over the cuts, Craig thought fuzzily. His feet were bare and freezing. Someone got his socks, too, he realized miserably. The rest of his body was covered with deep, swollen bruises and welts in an assortment of greens, dark blues, and browns. He tried to raise himself up, but a jolt of pain shot through his back like a searing electric current. He fell back in his bunk, gasping in agony—helpless.
Though his mind was in a daze, the events of the previous night’s terror
came flooding back into his brain, and a pall of hopelessness began to settle over him like a stifling blanket. Suddenly the full weight of his situation began to hit him full force. Overcome with despair, he realized that Walden was right. He would never get himself out of his predicament and out of Cabrera’s control. He would never be free. He would never see his old friends or home again. Most of all, he would never see Taylor again.
It was a ludicrous idea to think that he could just walk out on the Organization, and he was tired of the whole mess he’d gotten himself into. In the beginning, when they first brought him here, he was scared. Then he was angry. Now he, like the others, had fallen into a funk where nothing else mattered anymore except staying alive.
He could no longer fight them. He couldn’t stand the confinement, the physical and mental abuse, and the deplorable conditions he had to exist under as Cabrera’s penalty for his desertion. In those quiet hours alone, his wants became very basic. He wasn’t longing for his wealth or even his happiness anymore. He only wanted to leave this place alive, to be delivered from these surroundings, the burning sun, the imprisonment.
For the first time, ideas of his death began to haunt him. Fighting Cabrera’s operation was a senseless, uphill battle. He’ll do Cabrera’s job, or any other job asked of him, from now on, if only he would get himself out of this torture—this hell on earth.
Craig spent the rest of the day in a sort of suspended animation. In his cold, weakened condition, his mind saw dreamlike visions and images that danced in and out of his subconscious. His mind whirled with fragments of thought—images of old friends, the band, his life with Taylor. He would drift off into a twilight world of dreams, letting go of the horrifying, painful present. Then he would snap back to cold reality. In one moment, his teeth would chatter from the chills that racked his bones. In the next, his body would tingle with breakouts of sweat. Then webbed fingers of exhaustion would engulf him completely, succumbing him back to the peaceful world of nonsensical thought.
Later that night, or maybe it was the next night, he distantly heard activity around him. Fluttering open his good eye, Jim Walden’s concerned face came into focus.
“You coming around, Phillips?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Craig answered softly. “Yeah, I’m okay.” The strange, hoarse whisper he heard was his own voice, so completely different from his normal voice.
“Like hell you are,” Walden snorted. “You should see yourself. You look like a butcher put you through a meat grinder. Why did you have to go and do a stupid thing like jump Suarez for, anyway?”
Craig swallowed painfully. “I hate him,” he whispered through swollen lips. “I hate that slimy bastard.”
“Yeah, well, you just better hope you didn’t buy more trouble than you bargained for,” Walden warned. “If Cabrera gets wind of what happened, he might just stick you up here in this hell hole forever. Maybe you’ll get lucky and Suarez will just be happy with kicking your ass.”
He carefully put his arm under Craig’s neck.
“Well, what’s done is done,” he said. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”
Slowly, painstakingly, he helped Craig to his feet for the trip to the bathroom. The filthy little cubicle, now a welcome sight, seemed miles away. Each step Craig took was agonizing, shooting white, searing pain straight up his back and exploding into his head.
After what seemed like an eternity, they made it through the narrow wooden door. Once inside, Craig looked at his reflection in the rusty, cracked mirror. Walden was right. He looked like walking death.
Walden took a bundle from under his arm. He held it up for Craig to see. It was a well-worn, but nonetheless useful, long-sleeved shirt.
“I won it off one of those sorry bastards out there last night in a bet,” Walden said proudly. “I saved it for you but,” he pointed to Craig’s tattered shirt, “we have to get that thing off you first.”
He wet Craig’s back with the cold mountain water that trickled from the dirty, crusted sink tap. The water soothed the pain in his hot, sore back and soaked the scabs until they softened. Then, when Craig least expected it, Walden pulled the shirt down hard, ripping off both the shirt and the scabs. Craig screamed, but Walden merely shrugged.
“Got the damned thing off you, didn’t I?” he rationalized while Craig’s back throbbed.
Once back in his bunk, Walden pulled some pieces of stale bread from his pocket and a tin plate of Spanish rice from under his bunk.
“Here, eat this,” he instructed Craig. “I saved it for you.”
Craig looked at him curiously. “You can’t go without eating, mate.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Walden said. “You have to get something in you or you’ll croak. Now eat it!”
He helped Craig down the meager meal, and later that evening, Chico came to Craig. He handed Walden a pair of old sneakers and explained to Craig, through Walden’s translation, that he had gotten the shoes from a guard some weeks ago. Craig could have them if he wanted them, Walden continued for the boy, for he would need them when he returned to work. Craig reached out a weak hand and squeezed Chico’s. He was speechless, not having the words to thank his friends for their generosity.
Never would he forget them.
Chapter 18
Taylor walked slowly down the busy Culiacan street, not heading anywhere in particular. It was almost 10:00 a.m., and the brilliant sun overhead was already heating up the weather-beaten streets. She had dressed in a pair of jeans with a catchy matching shirt, but there was no one there to notice. The pedestrians going about their business bustled past her down the sidewalk as if she didn’t exist. For them, it was just another day. For Taylor, she felt as empty as the faces that passed her. She was depressed and discouraged.
She had been in Mexico for several days, following Steve’s sketchy clues and coming to this capital of Sinaloa. After registering in one of the hotels in town, she began her search for Craig. She did check in at home a few days after she arrived. Her father had been leaving her voice mail messages nonstop since her plane touched down.
She picked up her cell phone and called the office, bracing herself for the firestorm.
“Hi dad,” she said after he picked up the phone.
Bruce’s response was exactly as she expected. He got right to the point.
“Taylor! Just where the hell are you?” he demanded angrily.
“I’m sure you know where I am.” She knew Susan couldn’t stand up to her father’s third-degree for long and probably folded like a cheap lawn chair, spilling every sordid detail the minute he started peppering her with questions.
“And just what do you think are doing, taking off to Mexico by yourself?” Bruce spat. “Taylor, we went over this already. Didn’t you hear a word I said? Craig left specific instructions to let him go on his own. He is a big boy. He’ll take care of his business and come home when he’s finished. He didn’t want anyone coming after him, and I certainly don’t need you getting in the middle of whatever is happening down there and getting yourself hurt, or worse. I want you to come home. Now!”
“No, dad,” Taylor said. “I’m staying. I have to. I have to try to find out what happened to him.”
“Like hell you are,” Bruce warned. “Do you realize the danger you’ve put yourself in, wandering around a strange city by yourself? You are going to forget this crazy idea of yours and come home, even if I have to come down there and get you myself!”
“No! I’m all right, honestly,” Taylor said, becoming exasperated. “I’m staying in a nice hotel, I have my own car, and I’m safe. I just need a little more time, please!”
“To do what, Taylor?” Bruce shot back angrily. “You shouldn’t even be there in the first place. You should be right here, taking care of business.”
“Dad, I’m sorry but I had to do
this on my own.”
“Taylor, I want you to listen to me very carefully,” Bruce said, his tone becoming even more urgent. “I haven’t been sitting on my hands doing nothing while Craig was gone. I did some quiet checking around, and I know who this drug dealer is. He’s Roberto Perez, my old law partner for God’s sake! Remember I told you about him? I don’t know how he got to where he is, but I’m telling you, honey, he is dangerous!”
Taylor paused, taking in this new information.
Her father continued. “I don’t want you anywhere near him, do you hear me? He has no moral compass and you could get yourself killed if you run up against him. You need to get out of there right now. Come home and we’ll call the authorities and let them handle it. I agree we should have done it before, but come home and we’ll handle it together, all right?”
“Dad, I’m not going anywhere near him. I’m simply asking people if they’ve seen Craig so I can hopefully go to where he is and find him myself. If not, I can provide the authorities with the information I’ve gathered. I won’t have any contact with Roberto Perez. I just need a little time. I’ll be careful, trust me. Meanwhile call the federal authorities, and I’ll be home in a few more days.”
“No, you will be home tomorrow,” Bruce said, his anger rising again. “I’m not going to bury my daughter because she got tangled up with Roberto Perez! You are going to take the first flight out of Mexico City in the morning, which is being booked for you as we speak. Be on it!”
Taylor sighed. This was becoming hopeless. “Sure, okay, dad. I understand. Gotta go. Talk soon!” She disconnected the call with the sound of her father’s ranting continuing.
Of course, she wasn’t on the flight, and she felt terrible having to openly defy her father who loved her so much, but she had no intention of looking up Roberto Perez, and if he were the criminal her father insisted he was, he wouldn’t be out in public, anyway. Besides, she had to complete the task she came to do.
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