Brad Taylor - The Polaris Protocol

She kept the pedal jammed to the floor, but the SUV began to gain, its horsepower much greater than that of her rental. She desperately tried to recall her training.

Negate his advantage. Make him drive.

She flew through another intersection, taking a right at a high rate of speed and forcing the SUV to slow or roll over. She worked the car through turn after turn, steam now coming out of the hood of the rental, but gaining distance from the SUV with each one.

Finally, she completed a turn out of view of the SUV. She took an immediate right, completely lost. She kept her speed and continued turning, striving to maintain an easterly heading by watching the GPS. A light came on in the dash and she saw the temperature gauge buried to the right.

Jesus. It’s going to quit on me.

She considered the dilemma of driving on blindly. There were at least three cars chasing her, and she could run into any one of them at any time. If that happened, she wasn’t sure if her rental would hold up for another race. She wasn’t even sure if it would hold up just to get to the bridge—if she could even find it. Given enough time, they would locate her again, of that she was positive. It was their terrain, and they were probably calling in reinforcements right now. The longer she drove, the greater the odds of discovery. When they spotted her they would drive her like cattle until the car died, and she would be caught.

But you might be a block away from the bridge right now. A block away from US border agents.

She pushed the car forward, debating, knowing the decision would determine her fate. She saw a concrete wall adjacent to an open field littered with cans and slid in behind it. She shoved her tablet and Jack’s video recorder into her purse and opened the door, her hand trembling at the decision, her conscious mind screaming at her to remain in the vehicle. To make a run at getting to the bridge. She paused for a moment, then committed, leaping out and racing in a crouch down the wall. She reached the street and peeked around the concrete, seeing it deserted. She ran across and disappeared between two houses.

She sat with her back against the rough brick and stared at her Google Maps display, trying to locate where she was. She glanced back the way she had come and studied the building shadows, determining which way was east. She found her brother’s phone trace on the map and estimated where she had driven since the attack. Worst case, she figured she had about a mile as the crow flies.

A mile on foot in hostile terrain.

15

The lights blazed on and Jack scurried to his corner, as he’d been instructed to do. He placed his hands over a steel eyebolt in the floor and waited to get shackled, his body shaking as if he were in a meat locker. Not because of any drop in temperature. Because he’d seen what these animals were capable of and knew sooner or later it would be his turn.

After his “rescue” in El Paso, he’d been unceremoniously thrown into the trunk of a car, his legs, arms, and mouth bound with heavy duct tape. He was allowed to keep his watch, and he’d had the sense to check it. They’d driven for about nine hours, whereupon Jack had been taken from the trunk and placed onto the floor of a light airplane, his head covered in burlap. He had no idea how long they’d flown but would have guessed no more than an hour before they landed and he was transferred to the trunk of yet another vehicle. They’d driven for maybe two more hours and stopped. He’d heard the car doors slam, then he’d sat in the trunk forever, the claustrophobia and darkness starting to eat into him.

Finally, his hood had been removed, and the bald man who had captured him in El Paso had pulled him out, his face showing no emotion whatsoever. He’d simply said, “Disobey and you will die. Do you understand?”

Jack nodded, having no illusions about the man’s sincerity, his disfigured forehead leaving an impression that the emotion did not. Another man cut off the tape on his legs, hooded him again, and led him into a building. He walked down a flight of stairs until he found himself in what he called the “dungeon”: a room forty feet square with fourteen eyebolts along the walls and a small half bath consisting of a sink and toilet. Nothing else.

When they’d pulled his hood off he saw two other men crouching down, handcuffed to an eyebolt. After they stripped the remaining tape from his arms and mouth, they unshackled the two men and left them alone. Gathering his courage, he asked them who they were, but they didn’t speak English. He debated giving up his Spanish card and decided it was worth it.

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

The men said nothing, staring at him. One was older, about fifty, and the other looked to be cresting over his twenties.

He tried again. “Where are we?”

The older man finally spoke. “It doesn’t matter where. It matters who.”

Jack said, “Who? What do you mean?”

“Los Zetas.”

The words caused Jack to momentarily lose his senses. His ears refused to believe their meaning. Thirty hours ago he’d been an intrepid reporter in Dallas, Texas. Now he’d been captured by not one but two Mexican drug cartels and had ended up with the worst. Los Zetas were beyond cruel. Beyond barbaric. Through his research he’d seen the videos. Seen the men getting decapitated with chain saws. Seen the pictures of the mass graves. He began gulping air.

The man said, “You must be very important. I’ve never heard of them taking a gringo.”

Jack said, “Why are you here? What is this place?”

Jack learned that he’d been transferred to a kidnapping safe house. Both men with him were Mexicans in the upper echelons of the corporate executive ladder, members of the tiny minority in Mexico that tasted the good life, and were now desperately trying to get their companies or families to pay a small fortune for their release.

Jack knew all about the kidnapping industry in Mexico. Knew the fates of those unlucky enough to be taken. Los Zetas had little sympathy for people who didn’t pay and routinely killed their captives whether a ransom was met or not. But they had released people in the past. A small hope. All the two men had.

Twelve hours into his captivity, he saw how minuscule that hope was in two separate instances. Without fanfare, the lights had blazed on. A man came down the stairs carrying a suppressed pistol. He walked over to the younger captive, now cowering on the floor, holding his hands up, begging. The man said not a word, placed the bulbous suppressor against the captive’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. Then walked away.

Fifteen minutes later, a crew dragged the body out, still not saying a single word. Jack sat in his corner in shock, literally unable to assimilate the loss of control or the violence being perpetrated. He’d begun rocking back and forth, trying to find something to anchor against, when the room blazed into light again.

Another man had been led down, duct-taped and cowed. They’d released him and explained the rules, then left. This man, younger still than the one killed, maybe twenty-one or -two, scooted to a wall and warily looked at both Jack and the older man. Before they could even begin to talk, the overhead lights blazed on again, signaling someone coming.

A narco with a full beard marched down the stairs, carrying a fillet knife and a machete. He stomped over to the young kid and said, “Which arm?”

The kid collapsed, crying and wailing in Spanish.

The man said, “Tell me which arm, and I’ll use the knife. Say nothing, and I’ll use the machete.”

The boy wailed again, then held out his right arm. The narco handcuffed his left wrist to the eyebolt, then clamped the right under his own arm. He took the fillet knife, traced the bicep, and began digging.