Bastards.
He gave a curt nod to Jake, and hoping the FBI hadn’t given orders to shoot him on sight, stepped outside with his hands raised.
At least twenty gun barrels zeroed in on him and a trickle of sweat slipped down his spine.
Jesus.
Please don’t let them shoot me in front of my wife.
“I’m not armed,” he said in English, then again in Spanish, and let years of training take control.
Jake followed, arms high, and stood next to him. They both stayed silent and still as a swarm of cops closed around them, boots pounding heavily onto the porch. With his hands now behind his head and legs spread wide, Dillon waited patiently while two of the cops searched him. He gave an almost imperceptible nod to Sara, hoping she’d get the message that she’d done a good job. That he was proud of her.
And with that thought spreading in his chest, a cop yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed him. The big, dark-skinned bulldog looking guy with the bullhorn gave orders to search the house, and ten or so cops moved inside. After several endless minutes, they emerged and one of the cops shook his head.
Relief washed through him. He knew the two drives were safe but there was no telling what might have happened if they’d found the duffel with all those weapons inside.
A bullet to the head, no doubt. A good old-fashioned beating at the least.
Bulldog dude approached with a swagger and a smug gleam. “Your names,” he ordered in heavily accented English, inspecting first Dillon then Jake.
“Caldwell, Dillon.” Caution told him not to make eye contact. He still wasn’t sure what this guy’s orders were, or what he was likely to do with Sara, so pissing him off by staring him down probably wasn’t a good idea.
“Kincaid, Jake.” Jake gave Dillon a quick questioning glance.
Subtly, Dillon shook his head no. He did not want Jake doing the name, rank, and serial number bit. Not until they knew more.
Both men stared straight ahead and Bulldog guy stuck a toothpick in his mouth, then smiled, obviously pleased with his new found bounty. “Put them in the vehicles,” he ordered, then turned to the men keeping guard on Sara and gestured for them to put her into a car as well.
Now that the big, bad criminals were caught and danger averted, all but a handful of cops left to go to their separate pueblos. Sara got shoved into the back of one car, and he and Jake into another.
Both cars drove toward the city, but somewhere still on the fringes of town they slowed and made a sharp left turn onto a narrow side road. After about a mile, they stopped. That put them less than three miles from the safe house.
Good thing too, because just after nightfall, they were going to have to hoof it back there and get those drives.
<><><>
The building they pulled up to looked like some archaic adobe Mexican jailhouse out of an old Clint Eastwood movie. The place had to have been well over a hundred years old and surely, Sara thought as she was firmly escorted inside, in a city of well over a million people, there had to be more modern jails. This whole scenario felt eerily wrong.
The building was deserted and her footsteps echoed on the cement floor. The main receiving area, if you could call it that, smelled like stale cigars and body odor.
Off to the right sat a scarred wooden desk strewn with papers, a modern looking computer, and a telephone. To her left was a narrow hallway. As casually as possible, she walked over for a better look, but all she saw were two grungy jail cells with worn cots inside.
When the door opened, she turned back to see a burly looking cop shove Dillon and Jake inside. The looks on their faces were grim, but when Dillon caught her eye, he gave her a reassuring smile.
The smile didn’t help. This was not a real jail, those did not look like regular police, and she was pretty sure real Mexican cops didn’t carry Uzis.
The Captain, leader, or whatever he was, one of the few men in a real looking uniform, walked in behind Dillon. “Lock them up.”
A short, beefy cop gripped her forcefully by the arm and led her down the hallway to one of the cells. At the door, she balked. “Hey, wait a minute! What about phone calls and lawyers, or...or the American Consulate?” The cop slammed his hand into her shoulder, sent her skidding onto her knees inside the cell, and because she couldn’t retaliate, she wanted to kick him in the balls so hard they’d pop out his ears.
The lock clicked and there she was inside some Mexican jail which really wasn’t a jail at all, with explosives stuffed down her pants, and she was glad,
glad
they were going to blow something up. She didn’t know what yet, but if it involved the creep with the right hook, she’d be fine with it.
Dumb bastards.
The Captain, all puffy cheeked and smug, ambled up to the bars. “So sorry, Señorita. No phone calls. I am afraid you will have to be our guest overnight.”
She stood and wiped her scraped palms down the length of her fatigues, wondering just how many ‘overnights’ he was referring to. “Yeah, I get it.”
Some skinny cop with a ponytail and a mismatched uniform took the handcuffs off Dillon then Jake, and locked them together in the cell next to hers. Dillon rubbed his wrists and gave her a warning look to back off.
Fine. She got the message. She didn’t like it, but she figured making the Captain mad wasn’t going to help their cause, so she stalked over to the cot, plopped down, and gave the Captain a nice, ripe, go-to-hell look.
He disappeared down the hall, ugly laughter echoing behind him.
That laugh.
That laugh triggered...
Her gaze fixed on the locked cell door and her vision blurred.
Sanchez stood behind her, touching her, squeezing her breasts, pushing his erection against her back. She flinched away and he laughed. Her hands were tied behind her back and he grabbed her wrists, wrenching her arms up higher, kissing her neck, laughing. Always laughing.
Always hurting.
Her head pounded.
“You are not going to die clean, Señora Caldwell.” With those words, her heart raced with a sudden surge of panic. “I’m going to enjoy making you suffer, but before I mark your beautiful body, I am going to enjoy every last inch of you.”
“You disgust me.” She tried jerking away, but cruel fingers tightened against her neck. Squeezed. He laughed as he told her what he was going to do to her, how he was going to enjoy making her suffer.
Then he threw her, brutally, onto the floor. She rolled onto her knees, crying now, but her hands were bound behind her and he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head back. As he flipped her over, she kicked him hard in the stomach. He slapped her across the face and blood oozed into her mouth.
Again, he laughed.
Cruel, hideous laughter.
She slumped forward and rubbed her temples.
With her pulse roaring in her ears, she bolted to her feet, grabbed the bars and shook them, shook, shook, shook, as hard as she could. She had to get out of here. Sanchez had her child and--
“That’s enough, Sara.”
Dillon’s clipped tone stopped her and she rounded on him. “It’s not enough! It’s not nearly enough!” Her voice had risen and she was practically screaming, “How can you be so calm! Sanchez is going to kill our child! And my brother!”
Dillon must have seen the panic in her eyes because he walked over to the bars separating the two cells, reached through, and gently took her hands in his. “Listen to me. We’ll be out of here soon enough, I promise.”
She jerked her hands away. Paced. “How? When? Why didn’t they take us to a regular jail?”
Dillon raked a hand through his hair. “Probably the FBI requested that we be kept out of the mainstream. Either that, or Sanchez has these goons in his pocket. Either way,” he shrugged, “it’s not a problem.”
Easy for him to say. And then she thought,
it is easy for him to say, he could probably do this in his sleep. Probably has done it in his sleep.
God, what kind of man was she married to?
“At any rate, I’m thinking we should get some rest. Chances are, we’re going to need it.”
With a heavy sigh, feeling both dread and anticipation, she walked back to her cot, sat down and stared at a ceiling fan spinning in lazy in circles in the hallway. Dillon and Jake both laid down and closed their eyes, looking relaxed, as though they didn’t have a care in the world. Like they were having a nice little siesta on a tropical beach somewhere and the biggest problem they might encounter was a shortage of sunscreen.
She didn’t get it. No way was she going to be able to sleep. Not in a million years.
<><><>
Somebody was shaking her, nudging her shoulder, and they weren’t being too gentle about it. She pushed them away. They shook her again. Then yanked her hair and laughed.
Deep, male laughter. Mean.
Sara bolted upright on the small cot, suddenly scared, and pissed as hell.
The first thing she noticed was the darkness beyond the small barred window in her cell, and wondered how many hours they’d wasted in this stinking hole. Wondered how much time they had left to find Sanchez.
The beefy cop who’d pushed her into the cell shoved a plate of food at her. She glanced up and he waved a bent spoon in her face then said with a leer, “Tengo hambre.”
I’m hungry.
She took the plate, snatched the spoon, and thought,
screw you, asshole.
He hitched up his pants and laughed. When she didn’t move or make eye contact, he finally left and Sara took a deep breath and peered down at her food. It was typical Mexican fare--enchiladas, refried beans, rice and tortillas. And an apple. Well, she thought, more hungry than she realized, at least they had all the food groups covered. Starving, she spooned up some beans, but before she made it to her mouth, Dillon stopped her.
“Sara, wait!” he barked, and looked like he’d wrestle the spoon away from her if he had to, bars or no bars. “Don’t eat anything but the apple.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, more patient now that he had her attention, “I don’t know if the food’s been drugged.”
“Oh.” And there went her appetite.
“Dump it.”
With a hungry sigh she did as he asked, watching the food slide off the plate as she held it outside the barred window. She set the plate and the spoon down at the foot of her bed and bit into her apple. It was okay as apples went, but it wasn’t real food. At least not the kind she was hungry for. She’d pretty much sell her soul for a cheeseburger, but since that wasn’t going to happen, she sank down onto the cot, ate her apple, and waited for some kind of miracle.
She had no idea what Dillon’s plans were for getting them out of here. Half of her had total confidence in him and the other half scoffed at her naiveté because the cops, however many of them were left, had guns.
Real guns with real bullets.
All three sat in silence, and less than ten minutes later the cop returned for their plates, smiling when he saw they were empty. Yep, drugged. So, now what? When the guy came back and saw that they weren’t all drooling and comatose, he was probably going to get a little cranky.
After the cop returned to the front room, Dillon stood by the door of his cell and cocked his head, listening to God only knew what, then called her over and whispered, “Hand over the C-4 and the other stuff I gave you.”
“Now?” There were still cops around and one could walk down the hall any second and see what they were doing.
“Yes, now,” he said, and stuck his hand through the bars, waiting.
“But--”
“There’s only one cop on duty. I don’t know how long that’s gonna last, which means we’re kinda in a hurry here, so if you don’t mind,
now
would be good.”
His eyes were going twitchy so she didn’t argue, not that she was going to anyway, she just wanted to know what was going on, but since Dillon looked like he was on the verge of a small explosion himself, she passed everything over as fast as she could and watched quietly as he handed the detcord and plunger to Jake.
After Jake had it all tucked safely under the cot, Dillon handed him half a block of the plastic explosive.
She glanced down the hallway, mentally crossing everything she had, hoping the one cop who was left was busy playing solitaire on the computer, or something equally as time consuming, and wouldn’t get a sudden urge to see if they were all passed out yet.
Dillon and Jake didn’t say a word, didn’t look over their shoulders, didn’t sweat or mumble. They just unwrapped the plastic explosive and started rolling it between their hands, working fast, until the putty-like explosive was long and rope shaped.
When Dillon apparently had the C-4 exactly how he wanted it, he handed his over to her and her palms began to sweat. If she messed this up--
“Watch me and copy what I do,” he said, as Jake handed his C-4 over to Dillon.
“Ready?” Jake asked, and at Dillon’s nod he retrieved the other stuff from beneath his cot.
Dillon went to the barred window in his cell and with steady hands, stuck the thin, ropy clay around the perimeter of the window. She watched closely and did the same thing except her hands weren’t steady, her nerves were nearly shot, and out of nowhere she realized she’d make a lousy burglar, which was kind of ironic since she was trying to break out of a building and not into one.
Once she finished, Jake handed them both a length of detonating cord--the black wire with a silver tube on the end--and, listening for unwanted footsteps, she copied Dillon as he shoved the silver end into a section of the C-4.
“Hand me your end of the wire.”
She did, and he fastened his end, then hers, to the small metal box.
“I’m going to click this three times, and number three is gonna be loud as hell.
Every cop within earshot is going to come running, so you’ve got to get out as fast as you can.”