The Long Run, page 14
He strode past her to the staircase and flipped on the wall switch. The basement flooded with dim light. The wooden rungs creaked with every step. He rounded the corner and unlatched the brace on the cell door. He opened it and reached for the light switch.
The prisoner launched himself like a missile when the door opened. His shoulder caught Chucho in his chest, knocking him backward and slamming him onto the floor. Israel rolled across his chest and stumbled to his feet. He was young and bald and tattooed, with his hands tied behind his back. He glanced around the basement to gather his bearings. Chucho snatched Israel’s pant leg as he stepped towards the staircase and yanked hard.
Israel pitched forward, unable to control his fall, and crashed against the staircase steps. He grunted in pain and struggled to stand. But Chucho had regained his own bearings and was on his feet. He slid his machete from its sheath and dropped one knee on the small of the man’s back. He grabbed the back of Israel’s shirt and slid the blade under his soft throat.
“You stop fighting now, gringo, if you want to keep your head. Eh?” The man’s thrashing quieted. “Good.” Chucho clapped his shoulder in approval.
“Need help?” La Doña said from the top of the stairs. Chucho glared at her. One hand gripped her ubiquitous phone. The other hand propped on her hip. A disingenuous offer of help. At most, she would call her guards and gloat over his inability to control a single bound prisoner. Chucho didn’t need that hanging over his head.
“No. It’s no problem.”
“Good,” she said, and walked towards the front door.
Chucho stood and cupped one hand under Israel’s armpit and pulled him up. He pressed the blade against the prisoner’s neck with the other hand.
“Give me a hard time and get the blade. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Chucho led the prisoner up the steps to the first floor. Israel squinted against the harsh sun pouring through the giant bay windows facing the beach. A thin line of ominous clouds darkened the distant horizon. Chucho held the man’s bound arms and pushed him forward. La Doña stood outside smoking and talking on the phone when they passed. She glanced at him and smirked. Chucho restrained an urge to slug her and continued outside.
Mario opened the back of the van. Chucho turned his prisoner to face him. Fresh blood leaked from a cut on Israel’s lip. His eyes scanned Chucho from head to toe and his brow lifted in surprise. Was it a look of recognition? Had they met before? Chucho studied the man but didn’t recognize him. There was no time to ponder that. He pressed both hands against the prisoner’s chest and pushed hard. He tumbled over the rear bumper and landed on his back. Chucho pushed Israel’s legs inside also and slammed the door shut and locked it. He didn’t appreciate this last-minute addition to his custody. Not with the added strain of preparing for the storm. But he would manage it. Soon they’d be back at the compound, and he would toss the newcomer inside the men’s prison cell.
He climbed into the passenger seat and swiveled to check the cargo hold. The American laid flat and wedged between crates of water and the side wall. The locked rear door was impossible to open from inside. Chucho saw to that. And Israel’s hands were bound behind his back. Chucho settled into his seat and closed his eyes as the van drove away.
Someday, he would rise from his station and become the commander of the entire cartel. Then he would be the one riding out hurricanes in luxurious suites. But that day was not today. He cleared his thoughts and soon fell asleep.
CHAPTER 20
Israel
“Everybody hits the mat,” Bang told Israel once. It was during his first sparring session when another trainee knocked Israel on his ass from a surprise right hook. “Real fighters get up and keep fighting. What are you?” Bang’s words bubbled to mind as Israel stared at the roof of the van. His plan had fallen apart. But perhaps for the best. The man who pushed him inside had long black hair and a hooded calavera tattoo covering his chest. The man who took Sofia. His driver called him Chucho. Had he pushed Sofia into this van as well?
Israel searched the van’s interior. A plexiglass panel—drilled through with breathing holes—separated the front seats from the rear of the van. Chucho sat in the passenger seat. He swiveled and glared at Israel. Though he said nothing, his menacing glare delivered a message no words could. Be still. Don’t cause problems. Or get the knife. Israel got the message. Not that he had much choice. Water bottles, gas cans, and cartons of batteries and canned food filled the van’s interior. The aroma of gasoline filled Israel’s nostrils, despite the rolled down driver and passenger windows. Which should worry him more? Death by stabbing or by asphyxiation? Soon the van was moving and rushing wind filtered out most of the gasoline smell. Now his only worry was being gutted by a machete. A slight improvement.
He shimmied towards the side wall of the van and propped himself up. His hands ached from the binding around his wrists. He flexed them into fists and back again, trying to restore blood flow. How long was he locked up? When was his last meal? His growling hunger had quieted hours earlier. He licked parched lips and stared out the windshield. Colorful high-rises with porches open to the ocean flew past. Tanned vacationers stood and admired the view. They were still in Cancun.
Israel studied the van’s rear door. The door handle slot was empty. He could jimmy the locking mechanism inside if his hands were free. And if he had his tools. He cursed as he tugged at his bindings. There was no escape from this rolling prison cell. He exhaled. Better to prepare for what was coming. Anyway, he might be headed towards Sofia’s location. Why would he want to escape?
The trip was bumpy and silent, with everyone immersed in their own worlds. The view out of the windshield changed from resort high rises to local storefronts to endless treetops. They stopped and Israel steeled himself. Whatever waited for him outside, he would show no fear. The rear doors swung open, revealing Chucho standing on a green field with his hands on his hips. Two guards, one of them the driver, flanked either side of him and pointed AK-47’s at Israel. There would be no more escape attempts. Israel scooted to the doors, swung his legs over the bumper, and stood.
“Even gringos learn,” Chucho said. “Put him with the others.”
Israel thrilled at the statement. Was Sofia among the others? He scanned the property. A square cement building with a tin roof sat in a clearing about twenty yards away. Another building—it’s sister in appearance—sat twenty yards past that. A wooden barn and a ranch style home added to the compound. A stout iron fence topped with razor wire ringed the perimeter. Jungle reined beyond.
“Move, tonto!” one guard barked. He pushed Israel forward with the butt of his rifle. Israel complied without complaint. He wanted to see Sofia. They arrived at the first cement building. One guard opened the door and told Israel to enter. He swallowed hard and stepped inside.
An assortment of bedraggled men filled a makeshift jail cell. More kidnapping victims. Bearded men with droopy eyes sat on the cement floor. Some glanced at him. Others ignored him and stared into space. The musky stink of their combined body odor was pungent. Israel was crestfallen. If she wasn’t here, then where? A guard unlocked the cell door and pushed Israel in. Israel wheeled and glared at him. The guard gripped his rifle. Any chance of escape was long past. The iron door clanged shut, locking him inside.
“Give me your hands,” the guard said. Israel pressed his shoulders against the vertical iron bars. A cold blade slid between his hands. A quick jerk up, and the bindings around his hands fell away. Israel massaged his sore hands. Mottled red skin, still indented by the binding’s pressure, covered his wrists. As blood flow returned to his hands, he faced his new cellmates. A familiar anxiety, long forgotten, returned.
His time in juvie taught him there was a pecking order inside a jail cell. A community in miniature, composed of hardened men. Establishing dominance was a priority. Those at top received all the benefits. Those at bottom received only beatings. Nobody wanted to be at the bottom.
He gritted his teeth and swaggered into the cell as if he were approaching the boxing ring. “You gotta look tough,” Bang had said. “Don’t walk with your head down like some weak-ass pussy.” Israel lifted his jaw in defiance and eyed the inmates, awaiting a challenge. Unlike the teens from juvie, these were older men, late twenties through mid-fifties, he guessed. They had rough, calloused hands and weather-beaten faces.
He swept past them, eyeing each man along the way. Most shrank from his glare, wanting to avoid any trouble. He approached the cell’s lone window. It provided their only view outside. And it was prime real estate for the breeze that passed through. If Israel were to be top dog, he should claim the spot beneath the window. But the man resting there didn’t even acknowledge Israel’s presence.
“¡Oye!” Israel said, trying to get the man’s attention. But he stayed still, with his eyes closed and his arms crossed over his chest. Israel kicked one of the man’s shoes. He didn’t enjoy doing it, but he had a part to play. “Move!”
The man glanced up. His long salt and pepper hair touched his shoulders. A full, matching beard covered his jaw. To Israel, he resembled the transients that begged for money on street corners. But his eyes were a sharp, startling blue. They locked on Israel and blazed with anger. Then they closed, and the man remained seated. Israel stepped closer until the tips of their shoes touched.
“I said move, pendejo.”
The man sniffed the air and rubbed one side of his nose. He gave Israel an amiable grin and extended one arm. “Help me up,” he said.
The request surprised Israel. But the man seemed sincere. Besides, he was old, and Israel assumed he couldn’t move very well. Israel would play the magnanimous victor and help the old man stand. He reached down and took his offered hand. Despite his age, the man had a large, powerful hand that gripped Israel’s hand tight. When Israel tried pulling the man up, he realized the man was pulling back. Drawing Israel towards down towards him. The uncertain motion wobbled Israel. He tilted forward and tried to shift one foot to steady his position. But the man’s left foot shot out and pressed down against Israel’s lower right leg, blocking his foot from moving. The man’s blue eyes remained fixed on Israel. Instead of meek acceptance, he saw glowering determination. His thick, grizzled jaw set in defiance.
“Hey,” was all Israel could say before he tumbled forward. His forehead smacked the cement wall, eliciting a yelp of pain. The man’s opposite hand grabbed Israel’s shirt. He swiveled his body as Israel fell so that once Israel hit the ground, the older man was on top of him. Then he cocked one arm and delivered a single shot that, for the second time in as many days, turned out Israel’s lights.
CHAPTER 21
Bang
“Move!” Manny said. He stood beside Bang’s desk, gripping a broom handle in his gnarled brown hands, and glared at his boss. Bang paid Manny’s wages, but Manny called the shots when cleaning the gym. The behavior would anger Bang if Manny didn’t do such a good job. Manny outworked men half his age.
“Yeah, yeah,” Bang said as he stood. He stepped aside and waited for Manny to push a thin trail of dust from under the desk. As he watched, a rapping knock sounded on the door behind him. A statuesque Latina in a blue business suit was standing outside his office. She gave a perfunctory smile, tight and thin like a pencil line. She looked to be in her early thirties and athletic. An attractive combination. Though the married Bang didn’t notice those things. “Hello. You need help?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m looking for Bautista Lopez.”
“That’s me. You looking to sign up for a free class?” he said. Though he detested the salesman side of his business, Bang couldn’t let a business suit walk by without making his pitch. That was stable income.
“No, thank you. I was hoping we could talk for a moment. My name is Agent Alana Dominguez.” She plucked her wallet from her jacket and displayed her FBI credentials. The action pushed aside her jacket enough to reveal a holstered pistol.
“Uh, yeah, yeah. Of course. Come inside,” he said, standing straight. He’d never seen an FBI badge and wasn’t naïve enough to believe they were beyond counterfeiting. But he’d give her the benefit of the doubt. “Manny, give us some privacy.”
“I still gotta get the trash,” Manny said, his sour face puckering in disapproval.
“Come back later.” Manny stood rod straight and glared at Bang. “Please,” Bang added to mollify the older man.
Manny grumbled something unheard as he collected his broom and dustpan. He gave the trash can a forlorn look before stepping outside.
“Employee problems?” Agent Dominguez asked, her brow lifted in curiosity.
“Nah nah. It’s cool. Manny’s family.” Like the grouchy old uncle nobody wanted visiting the house. “How can I help you?”
“I’m investigating the Sofia Martinez kidnapping. Are you familiar with it?”
“Uh, that name kinda sounds familiar.”
“She’s a local student who was kidnapped by gunmen in Cancun a few days ago. The Club Bombom attack.”
“Oh, right right. Yeah, I saw that on TV. That’s awful.”
“Yes, it is. Anyway, I was told you knew Israel Cortinas. I was hoping you could tell me his whereabouts.”
“Izzy?” The sudden shift in focus caught Bang flat-footed. What did Israel have to do with Sofia Martinez’s disappearance? “Why?”
“I just need to ask him a few questions,” she smiled.
“Sorry. I don’t know either.”
“How well do you know Israel?”
“Uh, pretty good.” Perhaps not as good as he thought. Israel mentioned nobody named Sofia. “He trains here.”
“He’s learning to box, I hear. Are you his trainer?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I saw the banner. You made the Olympic team. Very impressive.”
“As an alternate,” Bang said, though he noticed she avoided his question as well as he avoided punches. “Agent Dominguez, is Israel involved with this case?”
She studied him for a moment before speaking. “You’re protective of him, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Bang shrugged. “He’s a good kid. Got a bad break in life. I’m trying to help.”
Agent Dominguez scanned Bang’s office. Her gaze roamed over his boxing trophies and landed on the photos of him coaching his son’s Little League team. He named them the Bangz Bombers, and they finished second that year. The photo showed him holding his son aloft as he gripped the trophy. Big smiles covered their faces.
“I believe you. I’m trying to help him out, too.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Sofia and Israel are cousins. He never told you that?”
“No. Never had no reason to. I never told him about my dipshit cousin Bennie who fights pit bulls. So what?”
“Maybe nothing. Has he been here today?”
“Nope,” Bang said, crossing his arms. He was getting a vibe from Agent Dominguez he didn’t like. Like she was trying to blame Israel for Sofia’s disappearance somehow. “But I’m guessing you knew that.”
“I didn’t know. Not for sure.” She brushed some lint from her slacks. “When did you last see him?”
Bang froze. Israel ran out two days ago. The same day the news about Club Bombom broke. Was that the cause of Israel’s hasty departure? That might explain his worried expression. Bang would be worried too if someone had kidnapped a family member. He considered lying to the Agent. Tell her Israel came by yesterday to throw her off his trail. He abandoned that notion just as fast. This lady was a blood hound.
“A couple of days ago.”
“Two days ago?” she suggested.
“Maybe.” Bang wouldn’t lie for Israel, but he wouldn’t hand feed him to the FBI either. “I can’t remember. Lots of people train here.”
“You’re his personal trainer. I would think you’d notice him not showing up for an appointment. Even his father knew how long ago Israel disappeared. And he didn’t seem like a guy who noticed much beyond a bottle of beer.”
“Wait… Disappeared? I just know he hasn’t come to the gym in a couple days. You saying he’s missing? Like AMBER Alert missing?”
“AMBER Alert are for minors. But yes, possibly. His father said Israel told him he was leaving town for a few days. He packed a bag and left the day after Sofia’s kidnapping.”
“You saying he was involved with that?”
“I’m stating a fact. Whether he’s involved is unknown. Until I speak with him, I don’t know. Which is why I’m trying to find him.”
Bang drew a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the desk. He didn’t want to hand feed Israel to the feds. But he didn’t want Israel to be implicated, either. Because Israel wouldn't kidnap anybody. Period.
“Yeah, it’s been two days. He came in at three o’clock. We worked the mitts for half an hour and then I had him train on the speed bag.”
“Did he say anything unusual? Anything that caught you off guard?”
“Nah nah.” Bang waved off the suggestion. “Nothing like that. Just normal talk.”
“OK. So, what happened when he finished training?”
“That’s the weird thing.”
“Weird how?” she said, leaning in with her note pad out.
“He usually trains about two hours. He burned out of here forty-five minutes after arriving. He ran out of the locker room still wearing his gym clothes.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Yeah. He always showers and changes before leaving.”
Agent Dominguez eased into her seat; her gaze fixed on the far wall as she considered Bang’s reply. “There’s televisions on the wall outside,” she said, motioning to the gym.
“Yeah, for the regulars.”
“Are the channels set to the news?”
