A Touch of Malice (3 page)

Sanchez may have been influenced by the small amounts of cocaine he ingested each day, but he was not nearly as psychotic as Santoro. The man twitched like a horsefly, never once remaining on task for any length of time. His neurotic tendencies always getting in the way of governing the country the way it should be run. The way Sanchez would run it if he were in charge.

Then, Santoro’s expression changed. His bald head bobbed from side to side and that stupid childlike grin came over him, as if a new person was emerging from the inside of his skin. He bent over and opened the bottom drawer from his desk and came up with a small doll.

Sanchez rolled his eyes, then looked away. He could never get over this fetish of Santoro’s.

“My pretty girl,” Santoro whispered.

Sanchez knew to stay quiet during these episodes. The little man would go on for five or ten minutes pampering the blond-haired piece of plastic as if he were in a trance.

The doll was dressed in nothing but lace underwear and Santoro’s eyes glowed as he held out his index finger and reached for the doll’s lower stomach. Slowly, and with a trembling hand, he touched the doll’s tiny abdomen and shut his eyes. A soft moan escaped from his slackened jaw.

Sanchez watched the mentally disturbed leader with disgust. He sucked on the lollipop and swallowed, allowing the cocaine to numb his sense of pride. The power Santoro yielded prevented Sanchez from interrupting the sordid fantasy. Colombia’s landscape was littered with the shallow graves of tortured souls who even came close to embarrassing their president.

“Now,” Santoro said, rubbing his tiny hands together, “how about some new girls?”

Oh boy, Sanchez thought. The girls he was requesting now were all virgins, not more than fifteen. All of them handpicked by Santoro’s guards and held prisoner until he called for them. The things he would do to them made Sanchez cringe. He was tired of pampering the man’s fetishes, but he didn’t yearn for a death sentence either.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sanchez said. He yanked the lollipop from his mouth and dropped it in a nearby trashcan as he opened the massive oak door. Two armed guards on either side of the doorway came to attention. He regretted the anguish he was about to facilitate, but he was in no position to oppose the request.

“He wants the girls,” Sanchez said. The guards both had the identical reaction. Their faces couldn’t hide the revulsion gathering in the pit of their stomachs. They were the ones who had to clean up the mess once the sadistic little man was through with the young women.

One of the guards acknowledged the command with a terse nod, then left to retrieve the bait. The other guard simply stared at Sanchez with sadness.

* * *

Julie Bracco was startled awake when she heard the buzzing noise coming from inside her bedroom. She looked at the clock. Only ten thirty. She must’ve been asleep less than an hour. The buzzing persisted. The Braccos’ cabin in Payson, Arizona, was wired with a sophisticated alarm system and Julie knew every cautionary sound. This was not one of them, however. Her husband, Nick, headed the FBI’s top anti-terrorist team and they’d been targets of some revengeful terrorists in the past, so Nick had the place secured and tricked out for any intruders around their home.

A slight glow came from the top of the dresser. She’d found the culprit. Nick’s cell phone. It was set on vibrate and danced slightly with each silent ring. Julie glanced to the other side of the bed and realized she was alone. She sighed. Nick was going through another battle of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and she figured he was reading downstairs in the den. He was finding it harder and harder to sleep and reading usually kept his mind from wandering down the wrong paths.

They’d left Baltimore in hopes of finding a peaceful mountainside community where they could escape the grind of the DC politics and the speedy city lifestyle. But terrorists don’t have nine-to-five hours and they don’t care where you live. They will come find you and go for your weakest link. Your friends. Your family. Anything they can do to exact revenge.

Julie slid from bed and pulled down her oversized T-shirt to cover her knees. She thought of looking at the display on Nick’s phone, but was more concerned about his whereabouts than his incoming call. As she crept down the empty hallway, she decided to look in on her son, Thomas. His bedroom door was open slightly. She softly nudged it, then moved aside to let the dim hallway light fall across her son’s crib. She could barely make out shapes in the dark room. The oversized stuffed lion in the corner; the airplane mobile dangling from the ceiling. She eased over the carpeted floor to the side of her son’s crib. At first it looked normal until she reached inside to pull on a fluffed-up baby blanket and found it empty. She frantically reached around in the dark, groping for her child. Her heart rate increased while her scalp felt like it was crawling with ants.

As her eyes began to adjust to the shadows, she noticed a large lump in the bed against the wall. It was her son’s next sleeping quarters once he outgrew his crib. A low-to-the-ground mattress surrounded by a racing car frame. As she approached the bed, she could see the large shape of a man. Julie got down to her knees and saw Nick curled up on his side, facing her, his chest falling and rising in the quiet. Cradled in his arms was Thomas, facing Nick, his tiny head resting in the crook of his father’s elbow.

Julie put a hand to her heart and caught her breath. It took her a moment to calm down and enjoy the scene. Nick, the born protector, watching over his son even in his sleep. She could hear her husband inhale gently, but when he exhaled it came out in short blasts. A beam of moonlight came through the window and glistened off of Nick’s forehead which was spotted with beads of sweat. He was having another nightmare. Julie was as attentive to her son as she could possibly be, but she’d felt completely helpless with Nick. He kept everything inside. The brave warrior not letting anyone know his frailties. Not even his wife.

Nick’s phone buzzed again from their bedroom. Julie cursed under her breath. She slowly got to her feet and before she could turn, Nick jerked up gasping like a raged animal, his eyes wild and confused.

“It’s okay,” Julie whispered. She quickly slipped her hands under Thomas and scooped him up and kissed his cheek. With his eyes still shut, his arms spastically groped for comfort in the night. She kissed his cheek and gently lowered him into his crib. He immediately curled up and stuck a thumb in his mouth.

Nick rubbed his eyes and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, his knees still higher than his waist. He crawled over the side railing and pulled himself to his feet.

“You all right?” Nick asked.

“Of course,” Julie said, wiping the sweat from Nick’s eyebrows with her fingertips. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“My phone. Has it been ringing long?”

“No, this is the second time in the past few minutes.”

Nick took her head into his hands and kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

Before she could return the comment, he was out the door. She smiled. It had taken him almost ten years to get those three words out of his mouth. Now, after months and months of therapy, he could recite them without hesitation. He would say it proudly, in front of company, just to prove to her how healed he was. But she knew PTSD had its claws in him and it wasn’t ready to let go, no matter how many “I love yous” he could blurt out.

Julie covered Thomas with a blanket and checked the volume on his wireless monitor. She quietly left the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Nick came rushing out of their bedroom, his phone to his ear. As he passed her in the hall, he whispered, “The White House.”

Julie watched him hustle down the stairs, two steps at a time. At the base of the stairs, he turned the corner and scrambled into his office. She heard him say, “Yes, sir,” with a wide awake voice.

Then the door to his office closed and Julie knew he was leaving again. This time she knew he wasn’t ready. He needed more time to recover from his last episode. She leaned back against the wall and her legs gave way as she slid down to the floor. She curled her knees to her chest and lowered her head.

The thought which ran through Julie’s mind was the same thought she’d always had when Nick packed a bag to leave.

Would he live long enough for Thomas to remember his father?

Chapter 4

Trent Merrick knew his text message had reached its destination because he was still alive. His leg throbbed. His head was lacerated. But he’d survived the fall and knew his brother was responsible for his current ability to take another breath. That and the soft rainforest floor.

Trent was still semi-conscious when he’d overheard someone from the Cameno Cartel challenge his brother into admitting his identity over Trent’s cell phone. Something his brother wouldn’t do unless he was really pissed, or really drunk. Or both. Nevertheless, now the Camenos knew who they had for a hostage and they were about to negotiate a hefty price for his release.

After a brief stint in a makeshift medic tent, Trent was relocated to his current facility. A dome-shaped building made of thatch and bamboo. The smell told him he was still in the thick of the rainforest. He could feel the humidity and temperature drop that equated to around two thousand feet elevation. He was lying prone on a portable cot in a room with a dirt floor and two candles hanging from the ceiling. A man maneuvered his way through the mosquito net covering the doorway wearing a white lab coat with a Red Cross emblem over the breast pocket. He smiled affably and picked up a round stool from the corner of the room and brought it toward Trent.

“How are we feeling?” the man said with a slight Spanish accent. He sat on the stool and clasped his hands together, examining Trent’s torso with his eyes.

“Who are you?” Trent asked.

The man removed his black-rimmed glasses and cleaned them with the bottom of his lab coat. “I’m Doctor Paulson.” He pointed to Trent’s leg which was immobilized by a piece of bamboo and lots of white athletic tape. “I am the one who patched up your leg and tended to your head wound.”

Trent was mostly unconscious for his treatment, but he touched his forehead and came back with dark, moist fingers.

“It’s iodine,” Dr. Paulson said. “I had to secure the wound with some strong adhesive strips. They should hold it together as long as you don’t exert yourself.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure. You took quite a fall. I’m surprised you did not break anything.” The doctor had a barrel chest and his arms were so muscular they stretched out the sleeves of his jacket.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in a Cameno camp. They’re keeping an eye on you until they can determine your future.”

“And who do you work for?”

Dr. Paulson pointed to the red cross on his coat. “They sent for me when they realized how badly wounded you were. They didn’t have anyone who could handle your injuries.”

“I see. Exactly what are my injuries?”

“Well, of course there were some lacerations across your forehead. Then there was your leg. It wasn’t broken, but you’ve definitely torn a ligament.”

Trent pulled himself up on his elbows and twisted his left foot to the left, then back to the right. There was no knee pain. “Which ligament?”

“Oh, any number of ligaments could have been torn.”

“I see.” Trent certainly was no doctor, but he knew there were only a couple of ligaments which could’ve caused him that much damage.

Dr. Paulson took a furtive glance over his shoulder at the open doorway and said, “Care to enlighten me on why you were in that tree?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Dr. Paulson shrugged. “I’m curious. They tell me you’re a spy for the United States government. Is that true?”

“Yes, I am.”

Dr. Paulson’s eyes lit up like he’d discovered a pot of gold. “Really?”

“Yes.” Trent leaned closer to Dr. Paulson and lowered his voice. “I’m trying to uncover a brilliant plan by an incompetent cartel stooge who pretends to be a doctor while he interrogates prisoners for information.”

Dr. Paulson’s eyes grew dark as he pulled back and sneered at Trent. “You think you are smart don’t you, Mr. Merrick?”

Trent laid back and rested his head on the folded towel he was using as a pillow and stared up at the thatch ceiling. He listened to the nighttime rhythm of the jungle. There was a certain cacophony of insects and predators which would keep the tourists awake, but to him it was the sweet cadence of biology at work.

“Why don’t you just tell me the truth,” the fake Dr. Paulson said. “This would take the trouble from your mind and free you from your guilt.”

Trent placed a hand over his eyes. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I am an open-minded man,” Dr. Paulson said in a gentle tone.

“No,” Trent said, “I don’t mean it’s complicated. I mean you wouldn’t understand because you only have a third-grade education and I’m likely to use words too big for your vocabulary.”

In the shadows of the candlelit room, Trent felt a hand grasp his left leg. A jolt of pain surged up his thigh forcing his back to arch upward from the shock. His entire body convulsed as he fought to maintain control.

The man’s grip tightened. Trent felt a rush of blood and nerves consume him. He was overwhelmed with a searing anguish and was getting close to unconsciousness when the man finally let go.

Trent gasped in a deep breath of relief while his eyes glossed up.

“I assure you I am no stooge, Mr. Merrick,” the man said with a growl. “My name is Manuel Padilla. Make sure you do not forget who I am.”

Trent desperately wanted to say, “Who?” but decided otherwise.

Padilla stood. He leaned over Trent, getting a good look at his anguished expression.

“Let me know when you are ready to tell the truth,” Padilla said, then lingered as he turned to leave, giving his prisoner the opportunity to speak.

Trent decided the longer he stayed alive the more time he gave his brother to negotiate his release. He needed to let go of his petty issues he’d always had with authority figures and move on to the possibility of going home.