T. Parker - The Jaguar

— May I step into the bathroom, capitan ? I have some things to show you.

The captain motioned to the first soldier, who then followed Bradley into the bath. He rummaged in the side of his duffel and pulled out the silencer and an extended fifty-shot clip, holding one up in each hand for the man to see. He nodded gravely.

Back near the bed he handed them to the captain, who screwed the silencer onto the barrel threads. He popped out the nine-shot magazine and snapped home the gracefully curving extended clip. Guns and ammo, thought Bradley: the universal language of cops and bad guys.

— It will fire all fifty rounds in five seconds. Or you can leave it set on semi. It’s real accurate. Take it. It is a gift from me to you.

— It must be confiscated.

— I understand. Confiscate the one on the desk, too. Please.

One of the soldiers strode to the desk and unveiled the machine pistol waiting under the Merida newspaper.

— Of course the cash is for the Mexican Army also. It will buy lots of good equipment and hire some more good men. Please leave me the smaller sidearms, captain. It’s not good to be in Mexico without defense. As you know.

The captain looked at the money, then up at Bradley.

— All of this will be kept as evidence.

— Of our friendship?

— Of your crime.

— What crime?

— The murder of sixteen.

— They were Zetas. We did you a favor.

The captain looked at the lead soldier, who pulled a pair of old-fashioned metal handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Bradley’s hands behind his back.

— Capitan? What’s wrong with you? I offer you my friendship and gifts of respect for you and your men. And you do this? I ask you now, man to man, to let me be free in Mexico. I’m not here to fish. I do not like fish or fishing. I’m here to find my wife. She was kidnapped by the Gulf Cartel at gunpoint. From my home in California. Armenta has threatened to skin her the day after tomorrow. I love her as you love your wife. Please, allow me to save her from rape and death. If you can find it in your heart.

The capitan listened in intent silence. The hairless patch in his right eyebrow gave him a vulnerable look but his eyes were dark and very alert. The scar continued up his forehead and into his hairline. Bradley could almost see the wheels turning inside the man’s brain.

— Where is she?

— Here in Quintana Roo.

— Quintana Roo is very large.

— North of Kohunlich and east of Bacalar.

— This is only jungle. You must have coordinates if you are looking for her. Or a map.

— I have neither. I’m waiting for the information.

— You can continue your story on the way to our base.

— I’m a friend. I’m a cop. We are distant brothers. Let me go take care of my wife. You have my gifts.

— I don’t need your gifts. No gringo comes to Mexico and murders sixteen men.

— Zetas.

— So you say. But why is a Zeta not a man?

— The Zetas are killers and torturers. And who made you God?

— We go now.

“Fuck!”

The captain nodded at the first soldier. A moment later he came from the bedroom with Bradley’s satellite phone clipped to his belt and the bricks of cash in both hands.

Handcuffed or not Bradley held a third-degree black belt in Hapkido, a pain-based Korean attack system designed to break bones, blind, maim, and kill. When the soldier tried to walk past him Bradley kicked him hard on the chin and put him down. The captain swung his AR-15 too slowly and Bradley cracked the outside of his foot against his head and the stout man rocked to his left. Bradley jumped into the air and launched the same foot the other way, the hard top of the arch catching the captain flush on the cheekbone. The man crashed butt first to the floor with a dazed look on his face.

Bradley was outside in a flash. He sprinted around the casita and into the jungle and he could hear the bullets flying past him hitting the trees and branches. But the AR-15s threw so much lead at him that he knew he had to hit the ground or take a bullet so he plunged headfirst to the root-knotted jungle floor and lay there with his heart pounding as the bullets cut through the foliage above him and his hope fled.

Soon they were upon him. He tried to rise and run again but one of the men tackled him and the two others were soon above him, their fists and boots finding their marks. His cheek was smashed into the earth and he felt the grind of mud in his ear then the wallop of a boot to his mouth, then another. But mostly he felt his heart breaking because he knew he had no chance now and Erin would wait at the cenote alone tomorrow. And then what? What would she do? The blows rained down and each one of them felt deserved, a reminder of his spectacular incompetence. Somehow he found his footing and struggled up, but quickly they knocked him back down.

The gringos were taken not to a Mexican Army base but to a decrepit warehouse somewhere near the village of Ramonal. It was a long low building with a colonnade along the street and a veranda that sagged between each column. The window openings were boarded over with plywood and there were no lights outside or in and Bradley could see no entrance as they drove past.

The driver pulled around the south side and parked deep in shadowed darkness. Two of the Army vehicles were already there, Bradley saw, and the others were behind them and he could see a faint rectangle of light from the door that stood open above the loading dock.

— The party house?

Bradley’s voice sounded roughly unfamiliar, and with his swollen tongue he felt the dangling tooth and the sharp edge of its broken neighbor. His lips burned and felt twice their usual size. His shirt front had a red swath down the button line.

— Yes. Big parties here, said the captain.

— Why aren’t guns and money enough to buy mercy in this wretched country? What is wrong with you people?

— Get out.

They pushed and pulled him out of the Durango and walked him up the loading ramp. Inside bare bulbs hung on a cord from the high ceiling and there were old conveyor belts and rollers scattered, and packing tables and shipping stations long defunct. Near the middle of the large open warehouse Bradley saw three ropes hung from pulleys high in the rafters. Each rope ended in a hook heavy enough to straighten the rope without a load and fitted with a clip to keep its cargo fast. The opposite ends were wrapped around the spools of manual crank winches bolted to the floor.

There were commercial grade floodlights fixed to the rafters and, when these blasted on, Bradley saw the blood-stained floorboards and the bolted rings and shackles and chains and the chainsaws and the red gas cans arranged in a loose row to one side like an audience. There was a car battery with jumper cables and assorted hand tools thick with rust, lengths of rope and garden hose, pry bars, gloves and folding chairs, all frosted and surreal in the white light.

His heart dropped. The sum of all fears in Mexico, right here in this building. Wrong call. Not the good guys I was hoping for. Armenta’s goons. And now we slowly die.

— All this is for your interviews?

— The interviews are long.

— What do you want to know, capitan?

— It’s very simple what I want to know.

Two of the men wrestled Caroline Vega forward and two more brought an unresisting Jack Cleary into the bright wash of the torture lights. Both were handcuffed and Cleary still bled from the nose. The soldiers shackled each of them to the floor by one ankle, then they clipped a ceiling hook through the chain of Bradley’s handcuffs. When one of the men cranked the hand winch, the pulley whinnied far overhead and his arms jerked up behind him and his head dropped forward. Soon there was only an inch of play before the joints of Bradley’s shoulders would give way. He stared at the floor. The pain was sharp but bearable though he could feel that it would grow exponentially with even a twitch of the winch.