floor.
“No cell phone?” Hayes asked me.
“The police kept it.”
He handed me a pair of work pants and a long-sleeved gray shirt. I pulled them on.
“Hayes,” a woman called from somewhere out of sight.
He walked out of the freezer.
The man who had been sleeping approached the door, yawned, and then gave me a hard stare. He held his rifle ready, his finger just outside the trigger guard. No hoods or masks for him. That was a bad sign. I could identify him, if I lived.
“We’ve got to keep this batch on track. What’s the temperature of the water bath?” I heard Hayes ask.
“Twenty-eight degrees.”
A chlorine smell wafted in and burned my nostrils slightly as I sniffed. I kept my head up but didn’t lock eyes with the guard. In captivity, you need to strike a balance between keeping your pride (any cowering can invite a sadist) and being overly confrontational (which can also set one off). Hayes returned and took the man at the door aside. They spoke too quietly for me to hear the words, but I could tell that the man with the rifle was agitated. Hayes seemed to be reassuring him, talking him down, keeping him from violence. It could have been an act to gain my trust, a strategy to make Hayes more sympathetic, the good cop.
He walked into the freezer, and the movements of the air crinkled the plastic sheeting hanging from the wall behind me.
It was strange to see that much gray hair on a man so fit. It made him look much older than his years.
“How have you been, Hayes?” I asked. I was trying to build rapport, to get him to see me as a person, not an object. It’s harder to kill someone you know, though from everything I had heard, that wouldn’t present Hayes with any problems.
“I’ve been better, Byrne. You?”
“Likewise. Are we in Mexico?”
“More or less.”
The guard watched me through the door, still cradling his rifle. Hayes gave him a nod, then leaned toward me, raising his callused hand to my neck.
I pulled away, seized his wrist. He seemed more amused than annoyed. The guard shouldered his rifle, finger on the trigger, and stepped inside, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight. “Your neck,” Hayes said. “I’ll have that cut stitched up for you if you want.”
I touched the skin. I’d thought it was just a scratch. Only then did I feel the crust of blood.
“I’m good.”
“Suit yourself, shipmate.”
I saw a woman walk past the door with a bottle marked Concrete Etch . Acid. Eats through organic material. I checked out the plastic sheeting again and shifted in my chair as the fear balled up my lower belly. “It’s been a long time, Hayes. What’s going on?”
He leaned against the shelf. “We are here to help you, Byrne. We have been watching Riggs and his men. We saw him take you in. We thought he might be setting you up. Or about to threaten or coerce you.”
“I’m only trying to get home,” I said. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”
“We all want to go home. You spent a while with Riggs.”
“Let me walk away. I won’t talk.”
“You’re free to go. This isn’t a kidnapping.”
I looked around. “You had me fooled.”
He smiled. “I can see how you might interpret it that way. We had to take a few precautions in case he was tracking you. Word to the wise: Don’t play ball with Riggs. Once you’re no longer useful, he’ll throw you out. He was gunning for you, Byrne.”
I remembered the shot that nearly killed me as I ran toward the cliffs on the peninsula.
“What did he tell you about me?” Hayes asked. “Did it square with what you remember?”
It didn’t. But there was another Hayes I’d only glimpsed. I remembered the first time we took contact close up. I had finished bandaging up one of our guys and saw Hayes walking away from an enemy KIA, wiping off his Ka-Bar. He’d driven it through the man’s eye. I had to clean up a bite wound on Hayes’s forearm.
“Let me guess. He took the false-humility route, brought
“No cell phone?” Hayes asked me.
“The police kept it.”
He handed me a pair of work pants and a long-sleeved gray shirt. I pulled them on.
“Hayes,” a woman called from somewhere out of sight.
He walked out of the freezer.
The man who had been sleeping approached the door, yawned, and then gave me a hard stare. He held his rifle ready, his finger just outside the trigger guard. No hoods or masks for him. That was a bad sign. I could identify him, if I lived.
“We’ve got to keep this batch on track. What’s the temperature of the water bath?” I heard Hayes ask.
“Twenty-eight degrees.”
A chlorine smell wafted in and burned my nostrils slightly as I sniffed. I kept my head up but didn’t lock eyes with the guard. In captivity, you need to strike a balance between keeping your pride (any cowering can invite a sadist) and being overly confrontational (which can also set one off). Hayes returned and took the man at the door aside. They spoke too quietly for me to hear the words, but I could tell that the man with the rifle was agitated. Hayes seemed to be reassuring him, talking him down, keeping him from violence. It could have been an act to gain my trust, a strategy to make Hayes more sympathetic, the good cop.
He walked into the freezer, and the movements of the air crinkled the plastic sheeting hanging from the wall behind me.
It was strange to see that much gray hair on a man so fit. It made him look much older than his years.
“How have you been, Hayes?” I asked. I was trying to build rapport, to get him to see me as a person, not an object. It’s harder to kill someone you know, though from everything I had heard, that wouldn’t present Hayes with any problems.
“I’ve been better, Byrne. You?”
“Likewise. Are we in Mexico?”
“More or less.”
The guard watched me through the door, still cradling his rifle. Hayes gave him a nod, then leaned toward me, raising his callused hand to my neck.
I pulled away, seized his wrist. He seemed more amused than annoyed. The guard shouldered his rifle, finger on the trigger, and stepped inside, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight. “Your neck,” Hayes said. “I’ll have that cut stitched up for you if you want.”
I touched the skin. I’d thought it was just a scratch. Only then did I feel the crust of blood.
“I’m good.”
“Suit yourself, shipmate.”
I saw a woman walk past the door with a bottle marked Concrete Etch . Acid. Eats through organic material. I checked out the plastic sheeting again and shifted in my chair as the fear balled up my lower belly. “It’s been a long time, Hayes. What’s going on?”
He leaned against the shelf. “We are here to help you, Byrne. We have been watching Riggs and his men. We saw him take you in. We thought he might be setting you up. Or about to threaten or coerce you.”
“I’m only trying to get home,” I said. “I don’t want anything to do with this.”
“We all want to go home. You spent a while with Riggs.”
“Let me walk away. I won’t talk.”
“You’re free to go. This isn’t a kidnapping.”
I looked around. “You had me fooled.”
He smiled. “I can see how you might interpret it that way. We had to take a few precautions in case he was tracking you. Word to the wise: Don’t play ball with Riggs. Once you’re no longer useful, he’ll throw you out. He was gunning for you, Byrne.”
I remembered the shot that nearly killed me as I ran toward the cliffs on the peninsula.
“What did he tell you about me?” Hayes asked. “Did it square with what you remember?”
It didn’t. But there was another Hayes I’d only glimpsed. I remembered the first time we took contact close up. I had finished bandaging up one of our guys and saw Hayes walking away from an enemy KIA, wiping off his Ka-Bar. He’d driven it through the man’s eye. I had to clean up a bite wound on Hayes’s forearm.
“Let me guess. He took the false-humility route, brought
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