David Baldacci - The Forgotten

They could all sense that something was coming. And that what was coming would not be good for them.

The man slowly came up the metal steps and stopped in front of the line of cages. Peter Lampert’s image was not clear enough for Diego to make out who it was. But he had never seen Lampert before, so an identification would not have been possible in any case.

There were other men behind Lampert. One was James Winthrop. The men were dressed elegantly in blazers, white shirts, and slacks that looked professionally tailored to their bodies. Thousand-dollar shoes were on their feet. They could have been investment bankers going to a meeting.

Winthrop held an electronic tablet and was making notes on it as Lampert inspected his product and made certain decisions. He walked up and down in front of the cages pointing to people inside and giving instructions to Winthrop, who dutifully inputted them on the tablet. They could have been inspecting cattle in slaughterhouses or cars rolling off an assembly line. There was a clear air of business being conducted here, even though the product was human and breathing.

Breathing fast.

Two other men came toward them. They carried packages wrapped in plastic. Lampert snapped his fingers and the men hurried forward.

Lampert examined the packages and slit one open with his finger. He pulled out four blue shirts, looked at the list Winthrop had compiled, and pointed at four people in three different cages. The shirts were taken to these people and they were forced to put them on.

Red shirts came out and were given to all men who were larger and more muscular than the others.

Green shirts were pulled out and placed on the younger, good-looking women and some of the younger, angelic-looking men and boys.

All the shirts were given out, except for two in a separate package.

Lampert slit this package open and pulled out two yellow shirts.

He glanced at Winthrop’s tablet, running his eye down the list.

Then he turned and looked up and down the row of cages until his surveillance finally came to a stop in front of Diego’s cage.

He looked down at the two boys and smiled. He said something to Winthrop that Diego could not completely catch, but it sounded like, “New product line.” Then some more words were spoken he could not hear, and then he caught another snatch.

“Family unit. Lower scrutiny. Fetch a good price on the market.”

He gave the yellow shirts to another man, who went into the cages and forced Diego and Mateo to put them on.

A few moments later, men, hardened evil- looking men, came through the cages and told each of the prisoners what would happen to them if they uttered one word about where they had come from once they reached their final destination.

“Everyone you love, every family member you have-and we know where they all are, indeed we have many of them in cages like this- will be slaughtered. If you speak one word to anyone we will bring you their heads as a reminder of what you have done.”

They had looked down at Diego and Mateo and asked them if they would like to hold the severed head of their abuela.

Mateo had started to cry but had instantly stopped when one of the men struck him in the mouth.

Diego had stood between Mateo and the man, but the man had laughed.

“Do you want your abuela ’s head?” he asked again.

Diego had said nothing but had shaken his head, and the man had moved on.

A similar encounter had happened to all the others, demonstrating that the men had inside information on each of them. Thus there was not one person in any of the cages, even the older, stronger men, who did not believe every word of this. None of them would talk. None of them would even think of trying to tell the truth.

After this was over Lampert came back to Diego’s cage. He slipped something from his pocket and held it through the bars of the cage.

As Diego focused on it he saw that it was a necklace of some sort.

“Take it,” said Lampert.

Diego did not move.

“Take it. Now.”

In Diego’s peripheral vision a man with a gun edged forward, the muzzle of the weapon pointing at Mateo’s head.

Diego reached out and took it. He looked down at the disc of metal attached to the end of the chain.

Lampert said, “It’s a Saint Christopher’s medal. You know who Saint Christopher is, don’t you?”

Diego looked up and slowly shook his head.

Lampert smiled and said, “Saint Christopher is the saint who protects children from harm. Put it on. Do it now.”

Diego slipped the necklace over his head and the medal came to rest on his chest.

“Now nothing can harm you,” said Lampert, still smiling.

Winthrop snorted with laughter.

Lampert turned and walked off, Winthrop behind still chortling.

Diego stared at their elegant clothes hanging on their well-nourished, fit physiques. He lifted off the necklace and let it drop to the floor. Then he stared at the silver ring on his finger, the one with the lion’s head that his papa had given him.

His courage came flooding back as he looked at the lion.

He looked up, slowly raised his hand, made a gun with his finger, aimed, fired twice, and killed both Lampert and Winthrop over and over.

Mecho was on the phone once more.

It was his “friend.”

Details were gone over. The latest encounter with Chrissy Murdoch had convinced Mecho that his schedule had to be sped up.

The “friend” was sympathetic and agreed to be ready. But he reminded Mecho of their deal.

Mecho impatiently answered the man. It would be done.

He clicked off the phone and looked down at the floor of his room at the Sierra.

He stiffened when the paper was slipped under his door. He didn’t move for a few seconds, wondering if something or someone was going to follow the paper in.

He reached under the bed and pulled out the pistol from where he had slid it between the springs. He rose, inched toward the door, touched the paper with his foot, and moved it toward him. Keeping his eyes on the door, he knelt and picked up the paper. He moved away from the door and opened the folded page.

Two words. Two meaningful words.

“They’re coming.”

Mecho folded up the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

He could attempt to follow the person who had given him this warning.

But he chose not to.

They’re coming.

Twenty minutes later he didn’t hear or see anything coming.

He sensed it with something other than his ears and his eyes. Perhaps it was their smell. The smell of death coming. It could be quite potent.

He reached under the bed, snagged two more items, rose, opened the door, and moved to his left with a speed that was belied by his immense frame.

There was too much light here for what he wanted. He entered the stairwell and moved down one flight at a time, pausing at each landing.

Waiting.

Sensing.

He was using faculties that most people would never discover they had.

But when you had lived as Mecho had, those faculties rose to the surface.

At least for those who survived.

He left the building at the ground floor and headed west.

The people were good.

Not because they had found him at the Sierra. That would take no skill at all.

No, they were good because they had followed him from his room down to here. Even now he could sense their approach, one set from the left, one set from the right.

He slipped his gutting knife into his waistband and then spun the suppressor onto the end of his pistol.

He kept walking, zigzagging his route and moving closer and closer to the water.

These back streets were deserted. Not even the duenos were out. He wondered about this. But then he thought perhaps they had been told to stay off the streets tonight.