Tampa Star (Blackfox Chronicles Book 1) (16 page)

“He’s awake.” The driver shook his head slowly, indicating he understood.

“See if he’s hungry,” the driver ordered the man in a voice that indicated he was used to commanding the actions of others.

So ordered, the man retreated to the back of the 2002 Forest River Georgetown VE Series Recreational Vehicle.  It was thirty three feet in length with a rear king bed slide out section that allowed the bedroom space to be maximized.

Jimmy had awoken from the sedative, dehydrated and confused. He was unsure of where he was at, but could feel movement of the vehicle along the highway under his feet. He looked around and saw the oak paneling of the bedroom suite and figured he must be in one of them fancy homes on wheels he had seen drive by from time to time when he was being shuttled to and from court in the prison bus.

His hands and feet where zipped tied together, but otherwise he was unbound. He began to lift the window shade when the man came into the room.

“Freeze,” he ordered and Jimmy immediately did as he was told; after half a lifetime of conditioned response, he could hardly help but obey.

“Good boy, you hungry?” The man asked and Jimmy nodded, not knowing how long he had been knocked out, but feeling the strong empty growl of an unfed stomach, indicating that it had been more than a few hours. “Alright, I got some frozen dinners; chicken or meatloaf?”

“Both,” said Jimmy, no sense being conservative as he wasn’t sure how long it would be before he would eat again.  The man cut his feet loose, helped him up, pushed him into the hallway and guided him to the dinette near the front of the RV. 

Jimmy sat down and held up his bound wrists to the man, hoping he would be cut loose. “You crazy, Jimmy?” the man asked him. “You can eat just fine like that, trust me I know.”  The man slid two Swanson Hungry Man dinners into the large stainless steel microwave, punched in the time, went to the refrigerator retrieved a tall can, popped the top and set it down before Jimmy. He looked at it curiously, picked it up with both hands and sipped.

Jimmy began eating the fried chicken in slow methodical motions, pensively contemplating his current situation.  He figured they wanted what everyone else wanted; the location of the gold.   The man had a pistol stuck in a semi-concealed holster on his right beltline.  He looked to be in his forties, with a trim, but muscular physique, that indicated a serious commitment to the gym, and possibly something more, as he moved with the coordinated precision of a boxer or martial artist.  They were no doubt headed south; he couldn’t see much out the windshield as it was full dark, indicating that he had been unconscious for at least 10 hours, which would probably place them somewhere on the Interstate in Florida, no doubt headed for the Tampa Bay area. 

But who were these guys? He originally thought they might be some of Sally Boot’s guys, but they looked too clean to be associated with him—Sally hired scumbags. The guy guarding him was either a cop or more likely, ex-military.

Maybe Char got sick of waiting for him to get himself free.  In either case, he figured they would eventually ask him that pointed question that he had long kept a secret—where did you hide the gold, Jimmy?  He figured, they would amp up the violence until he spilled the beans, then
find the gold and give him a bullet to the back of the head as a thank you.  He could stay alive for as long as he resisted, but eventually, if they were ruthless enough, he would talk.

The meatloaf sat on the table in front of him, still smoldering from the microwave.  Jimmy slowly chewed the last piece of fried chicken and slid the tray to one side, picked up the meatloaf with mashed potatoes with the palms of both bound hands and flipped it at the man’s head. The steaming meatloaf struck the man in the face and startled him. Jimmy launched himself from the dinette with surprising alacrity for a man in his late fifties, slamming into the man with contorted fury and knocked him to the floor. 

The man grabbed at Jimmy’s feet, but he sidestepped the attempt and kicked the man as hard as he could directly in the side of his head. Prison work boots impacted on the man’s face with a horrific thud. The man was momentarily stunned, but not out. He reached for his sidearm, but was again kicked in the face.  Jimmy reached down and pulled the pistol from the holster and pointed it at the man’s face.

“Cut me loose, “he ordered the man.

The driver heard the struggle and had maneuvered the huge vehicle to the side of the highway and stopped hard, causing Jimmy to lose his footing.

The driver spun around in the white leather Captain’s Chair and pointed a pistol directly at Jimmy. “Drop the weapon,” he ordered.

Jimmy noticed the cellular phone on the other man’s hip, fired the pistol in the general direction of the driver, grabbed the phone, and ran towards the back of the vehicle and into the bathroom.  The driver was right on his heels and tried to shoulder his way into the room.

Jimmy slammed the whole weight of his body into the door and forced it closed. He quickly locked the door and frantically looked for something to cut the zip cuffed wrists. Finding nothing, he smashed his fists into the mirror and shattered it. The door lock exploded and flew off the back of the door, no doubt from the impact of rounds being fired.  Jimmy slammed the door shut with his back, hoping that they would value his life enough not to shoot through it.

Shit, there wasn’t time
, he thought grasping the cell phone.  He had used one once before; he borrowed his attorney’s phone to call Char.  It took him a while to figure it out, but Char always conveyed his cellphone number on every postcard he sent Jimmy. He would disguise it in the bogus return address; the street number would serve as the area code and the zip and additional digits corresponded to the actual number.   Jimmy had managed to see a sign for State Route 52 when he grabbed the cellphone and convey that to Char.  He figured they were headed south on the Interstate, but were still north of Tampa.

It was an important number to remember, so he repeated it often and even considered tattooing it to his forearm if his memory began to fade.  He dialed the number and waited while the driver tried to force his way into the room. 

Jimmy considered slicing the man’s throat with a piece of broken mirror, but decided against it. He waited for the full weight of the man to be on the door and pulled it open-the first man fell into the room and Jimmy thought he might still get away when he was hit across the top of his head with something heavy being wielded by the guy he had hit with the meatloaf.       

After getting pistol wiped with a very heavy pistol, Jimmy passed out. This time when he awoke, he was tied tightly to a table or a board reclined at an angle so that his head was lower than his feet.  A black muslin cloth was wrapped around his eyes. Jimmy immediately sensed the seriousness of the situation had increased exponentially.

His heart raced as felt the men enter the room. “Jimmy, you can make this as hard or as easy as you want to make it.” The voice had a slight accent that Jimmy couldn’t quite place; slightly Slavic perhaps, but he was unsure.

The voice continued, “Step One,” the man recited: “Restrain the interrogation subject on a board. Incline the board about
twenty-five degrees so that the feet are above the head.  Step two; either put a damp cloth over the face to keep the water clinging to the face, which is the Khmer Rouge technique, or alternately, put plastic wrap over the mouth to prevent water from escaping the throat and sinuses, which is the method preferred by the CIA. Guess which step I prefer?”

Jimmy said nothing and the man continued.
“Now, the most important step,” the unseen man continued, “pour water onto the inclined face so that the water runs into the upturned mouth and nose.  The water stays in the head, filling the throat, mouth, and sinuses with water.  The lungs don't fill up with water so your prisoner doesn't asphyxiate, but they do feel their entire upper respiratory system from sinuses to trachea filled with water, simulating drowning.”  

Jimmy felt a man grab his face, force his mouth open and he managed to bite the man’s finger, but felt him wedge something between his teeth to keep Jimmy’s  mouth open.  He felt a deluge of cold water hit his face and flow into his mouth and nose.  Plastic wrap was then wrapped tightly around his nose and mouth until he couldn’t breathe.

Jimmy began coughing and choking. He panicked, shaking his head back and forth, his eyes bulging from their sockets.  The man continued speaking as if instructing a class, you’re drowning the subject from the inside, filling the head larynx and trachea with water. The lungs stay out of the water, keeping oxygen in the blood and prolonging the experience. His sufferings must be that of a man who is drowning, but cannot drown. Does that seem about right Jimmy?”

Jimmy tried to scream, but could not. He felt himself dying and yet, he was still conscious, unable to will the suffering to stop.

The man began reciting again: “The main principles of this enhanced interrogation technique are as follows: One: keep the chest elevated above the head and neck to keep the lungs above the waterline. Two: Incline the head, both to keep the throat open and to present the nostrils for easier filling. Three: Force the mouth open so that water can be poured into both the nose and mouth. Saran wrap, damp cloth, or any facial covering is not essential, but sometimes used as a force multiplier. Eventually you end up with collapsed, empty lungs, no ability to inhale more air, a throat, mouth, and nose that's still full of water, and no capacity to get the water out since you're already fully exhaled.”

The man visibly inhaled, perhaps winded from reciting the memorized instructions. “How am I doing so far Jimmy? Are you ready to tell us the information we want to know?”

Jimmy nodded his head up and down vigorously; at this point he felt that he would kill his own mother to stop this intolerable torture from continuing.  Quite suddenly, the plastic wrap was removed from around his face and he was allowed to cough the water from his throat and nose.  They bent him over backwards to further allow the water to escape and he continued coughing with so much force that he felt for sure that he would  tear a hole in his throat. 

“Twenty seconds, not too shabby.” Someone pulled off the blindfold and mopped his face with a towel.  Jimmy simply felt happy to be alive. "CIA officers who subjected themselves to the water boarding technique lasted an average of 14 seconds before caving in
, said the torturer. I know, because I was the one who taught them the technique.”

“That’s enough, go grab a smoke or something,” Jimmy heard the same familiar voice say. Thompson had paid off the other guys involved in the prison break and kidnapping; Red Sawyer and Peters, the guy Jimmy hit with the meatloaf. He made sure they knew as little as possible about the gold, but Boris would be another story.  The Russian was as greedy as he was sadistic and he knew too much. Thompson would probably have to put some lead between his eyes to get rid of him.

“Sorry I had to subject you to that, Jimmy, said Thompson with feigned sincerity. “Hell, some of the guys on our side are worse than guys you probably encounter on the inside.  I met Boris, that’s what we called him anyways, when we were doing snatch and grabs

of
suspected Al Qaida terrorists in Iraq.  He was a contractor with the C.I.A. and was the best in the business—I think he told me he learned it first hand when he was imprisoned by the Khmer Rouge while working for the agency many years ago, before that he worked for the East Germans.  Since then he has proven himself to be one of the few masters of the enhanced interrogations process.”   

Jimmy was too shocked at the maliciousness of the torture and the discovery that his own attorney was behind it to offer much of a verbal response.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why, and I will be happy to tell you,” continued Thompson.  “I didn’t so much as inherit an empire, as inherit a giant sinkhole of debt. My old man was a hell of a lawyer, but lousy with investments and now the old codger is too sick to even pretend to work. So, I decided that in one fell swoop, I could put the firm back in the black, give him some decent medical care for the last years of his life and maybe buy me a yacht, he added as an afterthought. So, Jimmy, why not tell your old attorney where you hid all that gold so many years ago, before I change my mind and see if you can break your own record for water boarding?”

“Yeah, I do that and then I am a dead man, right?” said Jimmy finally. 

“You’re a dead man either way Jimmy, but it’s now down to whether you choose to go quick and painless or long, drawn out and full of suffering. You decide.”

***

I-75 runs north to south and hits Tampa like a giant four way intersection. You can exit into Tampa on 275—turn left towards Orlando on Route 4 or continue south. Char and Michael had taken up residence in a trailer park off Gandy Boulevard in Pinellas Pines with an entrance ramp to I-275, less than a mile away. 

Jimmy had used the few seconds of freedom he had to tell Char what exit they were passing on I-75 south and offered the make of the RV.

Char had guessed correctly and caught an RV with Louisiana plates headed across the bridge that spanned Tampa Bay. It wasn’t exactly dumb luck; everyone knew that the gold had to be hidden somewhere on or near Fort Desoto, and that was in St. Pete.  Michael pulled a U-turn like they had taught him in a high performance driving school recon and they were able to track the RV to an industrial park off Route 19 south of Clearwater.