release dragged on. Thanks to the squalid living conditions, some of the hostages died long before their relatives managed to scrounge up a ransom payment.
At least in Mexico City, there was a chance that Tyr would track them down and rescue them. Here, Flores harbored no such delusions. It would take an army to free anyone from this camp.
A shove from behind sent him flying. With hands bound, there was no way to catch himself. Flores landed hard in the dirt, his knees bearing the brunt of the impact.
A pair of boots appeared an inch from his nose. Flores followed them up to find the van passenger staring down at him. He’d pegged him as a hard guy, someone you’d never mess with in a bar fight. He looked plenty pissed now.
“Sígame,” he said.
Flores stumbled to his feet and followed him along the dirt road. No point playing hero, he had to survive long enough to figure out an escape plan. For some reason, they were keeping him alive. He couldn’t imagine why, but as long as it worked in his favor he wasn’t about to question it.
People lined up at the pen doors as they passed, hands clutching the chicken wire. They watched his progress, but no one said a w were men, women, children of all ages.
They were in the mountains somewhere, a swath of land reclaimed from the jungle. It was even hotter here than in Mexico City, Flores’s shirt instantly soaked through. His eyes panned from side to side, taking in his surroundings. They passed a guard tower manned by two men, then another soldier on foot patrol. The guy slammed the butt of his rifle against random cages as he passed, causing the inmates to shy back. As Flores walked, he mentally composed a map of the facility.
The passenger finally stopped in front of a pen identical to the others. Six feet high, maybe ten feet long, eight feet wide. He nodded for the guard accompanying them to open the gate, then motioned Flores inside.
Flores took a deep breath and walked in, head bowed. The door swung shut behind him and was rebolted. A double lock, he noted. The chicken wire wasn’t thick, but a hundred feet away stood another guard tower constructed of rough-hewn beams. He watched as a muzzle scanned the pens in a long arc, then swept back. The guards seemed to be on top of things. Still, they couldn’t always be vigilant. He’d suss out their rotations, try to determine possible escape routes. Figure out the pen’s weaknesses and how to exploit them. Then at the first opportunity, he’d slip away. Flores had years’ worth of training, and it was a hell of a lot easier to survive in a jungle than the desert. One way or another, he told himself, he was making it out of here.
“Hatching a plan?” a voice behind him asked in English.
Startled, Flores spun around. A man ducked out of the sheltered rear of the pen. His clothes hung off him in shreds, and a thick beard draped down to his chest. Despite that, Flores recognized him immediately.
“Cesar Calderon,” the man said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Ten
“I’m Jake Riley, CEO of The Longhorn Group.”
Jake caught a flash of recognition in the black man’s eyes. He was tall, nearly six-three, muscles bulging out the sleeves of his camos. He glared down at Jake.
Jake started to lower his arms, but the gun muzzles weren’t coming down. He ended up with them in front of his chest, palms forward.
“You’re clearly lost, Mr. Riley,” the guy said. “Museums are on the other side of town.”
“You’re from Tyr,” Jake said. “Right?”
“Jake—” Kelly called out.
“We’re all on the same team here.” Jake chanced a small step forward.
The man cocked an eyebrow. “Last I checked, I didn’t work for The Longhorn Association.”
“Group,” Jake said. “The Longhorn—”
“Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you’re doing here, you’re in our way.”
From behind him, Syd called out, “Take it down a few notches, Brown.”
Frowning, the man shifted his aim.
At least in Mexico City, there was a chance that Tyr would track them down and rescue them. Here, Flores harbored no such delusions. It would take an army to free anyone from this camp.
A shove from behind sent him flying. With hands bound, there was no way to catch himself. Flores landed hard in the dirt, his knees bearing the brunt of the impact.
A pair of boots appeared an inch from his nose. Flores followed them up to find the van passenger staring down at him. He’d pegged him as a hard guy, someone you’d never mess with in a bar fight. He looked plenty pissed now.
“Sígame,” he said.
Flores stumbled to his feet and followed him along the dirt road. No point playing hero, he had to survive long enough to figure out an escape plan. For some reason, they were keeping him alive. He couldn’t imagine why, but as long as it worked in his favor he wasn’t about to question it.
People lined up at the pen doors as they passed, hands clutching the chicken wire. They watched his progress, but no one said a w were men, women, children of all ages.
They were in the mountains somewhere, a swath of land reclaimed from the jungle. It was even hotter here than in Mexico City, Flores’s shirt instantly soaked through. His eyes panned from side to side, taking in his surroundings. They passed a guard tower manned by two men, then another soldier on foot patrol. The guy slammed the butt of his rifle against random cages as he passed, causing the inmates to shy back. As Flores walked, he mentally composed a map of the facility.
The passenger finally stopped in front of a pen identical to the others. Six feet high, maybe ten feet long, eight feet wide. He nodded for the guard accompanying them to open the gate, then motioned Flores inside.
Flores took a deep breath and walked in, head bowed. The door swung shut behind him and was rebolted. A double lock, he noted. The chicken wire wasn’t thick, but a hundred feet away stood another guard tower constructed of rough-hewn beams. He watched as a muzzle scanned the pens in a long arc, then swept back. The guards seemed to be on top of things. Still, they couldn’t always be vigilant. He’d suss out their rotations, try to determine possible escape routes. Figure out the pen’s weaknesses and how to exploit them. Then at the first opportunity, he’d slip away. Flores had years’ worth of training, and it was a hell of a lot easier to survive in a jungle than the desert. One way or another, he told himself, he was making it out of here.
“Hatching a plan?” a voice behind him asked in English.
Startled, Flores spun around. A man ducked out of the sheltered rear of the pen. His clothes hung off him in shreds, and a thick beard draped down to his chest. Despite that, Flores recognized him immediately.
“Cesar Calderon,” the man said, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Ten
“I’m Jake Riley, CEO of The Longhorn Group.”
Jake caught a flash of recognition in the black man’s eyes. He was tall, nearly six-three, muscles bulging out the sleeves of his camos. He glared down at Jake.
Jake started to lower his arms, but the gun muzzles weren’t coming down. He ended up with them in front of his chest, palms forward.
“You’re clearly lost, Mr. Riley,” the guy said. “Museums are on the other side of town.”
“You’re from Tyr,” Jake said. “Right?”
“Jake—” Kelly called out.
“We’re all on the same team here.” Jake chanced a small step forward.
The man cocked an eyebrow. “Last I checked, I didn’t work for The Longhorn Association.”
“Group,” Jake said. “The Longhorn—”
“Whatever. I don’t give a shit what you’re doing here, you’re in our way.”
From behind him, Syd called out, “Take it down a few notches, Brown.”
Frowning, the man shifted his aim.
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