James Grippando - A King's ransom

His hands were cuffed behind his back, his ankles tied, and his mouth gagged. It was a bit of ironic luck that Joaquin had removed the blindfold to torture his eye. The left one had blistered and swollen shut from the cigarette burn, but the right one gave him the precious advantage of sight.

He lay perfectly still, almost afraid to breathe. The slightest movement could reveal his whereabouts, which would be deadly. He knew that Joaquin had brought him here to avenge the death of Cerdo , to execute the prisoner right before his son’s eyes. Matthew was ready for that. For weeks he’d been preparing himself for the possibility of his own death. One thing, however, he hadn’t prepared for: the death of his son in a botched rescue effort.

He burrowed into hiding at the base of a huge stone marker, pleading with his Maker to take him and not Nick.

Nothing moved, not anywhere. I was peering out over the top of my marker, some dead stranger’s resting place. Somewhere across the grounds, hiding behind one of those countless slabs of stone, were Joaquin and his well-armed buddy. I’d been waiting for one of them to break toward my father, or at least in the direction I’d last seen my father go. Maybe they were being patient. Or maybe they’d already made their move, and I’d missed them. I couldn’t risk it. I had to take the offensive. But to where?

Had I been my father, I would have crawled toward the cluster of old monuments beneath the two sprawling oak trees. Compared to the rest of the cemetery, it was like midtown Manhattan, towering granite everywhere, lots of little places to get lost. On hands and knees, keeping low to the ground, I headed in that direction, one monument at a time.

Matthew’s heart nearly stopped. He hadn’t budged from his hiding spot, hadn’t made a sound. Lying in the darkness with hands and feet bound, he felt invisible and vulnerable at the same time. He knew it was only a matter of moments before Joaquin would spot him.

He knew, because he could see Joaquin.

Joaquin was kneeling behind the dirt pile, the lower half of his body hidden in the half-dug grave. His pistol at the ready, he raised his head just high enough to see over the tops of the gravestones, searching for the enemy.

It would have been an easy shot for Matthew, a steady target at just fifteen meters. The kill shot would have been to the side of Joaquin’s head, as Matthew was perpendicular to him on the same row of graves. If only his hands were free, if only he’d had a gun, a knife-anything. So many times he’d thought of giving Joaquin exactly what he’d deserved for the murder of his friends on the boat in Cartagena, for the gang rape of Nisho up in the mountains, for countless other atrocities that he and his buddies had bragged about. Matthew had no regrets for having killed Cerdo ; it sickened him to think that Joaquin might walk free, a wealthy man.

Joaquin looked in his direction, looked away, and then did a double take. Their eyes met in the darkness. Matthew had been spotted.

Neither man blinked, neither looked away. Matthew refused to cower to his executioner.

Joaquin smiled slightly, then raised his pistol and aimed between the eyes.

I was just a few meters from the forest of monuments when I heard Alex shout from somewhere in the darkness.

“Joaquin, take it!”

The knapsack sailed through the air and landed with a thud. A volley of gunshots erupted, both Joaquin and his accomplice reacting with pointless fire at the sack full of money. It was exactly what Alex had intended, I presumed, and she’d startled Joaquin into revealing his position. Alex and I fired repeatedly in the direction of the half-dug grave, me from my position at the forest of monuments and Alex from farther away, near the statue of the Blessed Virgin.

Return fire ripped through the night, mostly in my direction, as I was the closer threat, just a few meters away from them. I scampered into the maze of taller monuments for better cover, a trail of bullets rattling off the stones with the beat of a jackhammer. I rolled several times to avoid the spray of gunfire, collided with a large stone pedestal, then froze at the sight of the body two graves away.

Dad!

I crawled as fast as I could to his side. He was facedown in the dirt but raised his head at my touch.

“It’s me!” I said in an excited whisper. I yanked the gag from his mouth. “Are you hit?”

“No, no. They’re so coked up, they shoot worse than you do.”

I hoped that someday we’d laugh at that. “Thanks a lot.”

“Untie me.”

I unknotted the ropes at his feet, but his hands were in cuffs, which would have to wait.

“There’s two of them,” he said. “Who’s with you?”

“Just the priest and Alex.”

“Who’s this Alex?”

I thought for a second about all the things she’d just said. “Damned if I know.”

We ducked at the explosion of gunfire, but it wasn’t coming our way. They were shooting in the opposite direction at Alex.

“She must be making a move,” I said. “If I attack from this flank, we might take them. Stay here.”

He nearly tripped me in his zeal to keep me down. “What do you think you’re doing?”

I looked him in the eye, hoping that he wouldn’t take it the wrong way. But it was something that I’d wanted to say for fifteen years, since that day on the fishing boat that had driven us apart.

“Acting like my father’s son,” I said.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“If I don’t, neither one of us is getting out alive.”

He didn’t argue, and there wasn’t time for it anyway. Another burst of gunfire erupted on the far side. I glanced up and saw Alex running from the statue of the Blessed Virgin to another monument. She was definitely on the offensive, and she was definitely outgunned.

“This is it,” I said, then sprinted forward, zigzagging from monument to monument.

I moved in short bursts to avoid getting hit, but I didn’t fire a shot, as the exchange was all in Alex’s direction. The noise was deafening, one shot after another without interruption. Alex had come on so strong that both kidnappers had turned their weapons on her. I was just ten meters away, approaching from the side, when Joaquin’s sidekick took a bullet from Alex to the forehead. His head snapped back as he tumbled to the ground, his gun silenced.

Joaquin kept firing his pistol, stopping only briefly to reach for his slain friend’s AK-47.

“Freeze!” I shouted. I had him from behind.

“ ?Manos arriba! ” shouted Alex. She had him from the side.

He raised his arms, still on his knees behind the pile of earth from the half-dug grave.

“Stand up!” I shouted.

He rose as commanded. The pistol was still in his hand.

“Turn around slowly and drop the gun.”

He turned to face me but kept his weapon.

“Drop the gun!”

It was pointed in the air, but he wouldn’t let go.

“Drop it right now, or I’ll shoot!”

“How many men have you killed before, yanqui ?” He was clearly mocking me, reminding me that the dead guerrilla at his feet was Alex’s work, not mine.

“You’d be a good start,” I said.

His hand moved in a blur as he fired off what seemed to be a wild shot. I squeezed the trigger again and again, firing off as many shots as possible. His body jerked with each hit as he fell, landing in a heap in the open grave.

I took a half step forward, close enough to confirm that he looked very dead. The body was twisted, the limbs angled in every direction, like a mangled spider. I’d hit him at least three times, twice in the chest and once in the face. I moved closer and checked for a pulse.

“He’s gone,” I said, loud enough for my father to hear.