Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (4 page)

Now to prove the theory.

As a betting man, I call Memphis International Airport.

“I need to book a seat on your earliest flight to Jack Brooks Regional Airport in Port Arthur, TX.”

My Jaguar F-Type rental is waiting for me when I touch down. I had the sleek black cat delivered down from Houston. Renting luxury cars is a perk in my line of business, at least for those of us who make a name for ourselves.

I set my carry-on bags in the back seat and stretch in the morning air. Since my flight left Memphis at seven a.m., it gave me the perfect amount of time to catch a few Z’s at the airport after getting through the gate and another few during the flight.

After grabbing a Mountain Dew—wishing it were coffee—and an Egg McMuffin, I take the scenic route around the city. Port Arthur is a busy hub. The waters of Sabine Lake are crowded with deep water shipping vessels either entering or being readied for their exodus to the Gulf. Traffic is congested, so I’m moving at a crawl and have plenty of time to take in the city sights. Banners all over town announce “Midsummer Mardi Gras,” a city wide festival that’s coming up. It also seems that, as a matter of geographical pride, people in Port Arthur are obsessed with everything gator.

Back in ’08 Chief and I did a job in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. There were statues of cows all around the downtown shops and businesses. The heifers were constructed by area artisans—one was covered with thousands of gleaming copper pennies, another was painted with a rural Pennsylvania farm scene, etc.

Here in Port Arthur, the locals have done the same with alligators. They’re everywhere. There’s a gator in Billabong swimwear on a surfboard, another chomping down on a box of Devereaux’s Famous Donuts, a local eatery—then, what could be my favorite, a group of gators playing poker. They remind me of my adopted brothers.

Nice fixation, but honestly the things scare the living shit out of me. Snakes are nasty enough. Gators or Komodo dragons—razor-sharp toothed reptiles that can poison or shred a man and resemble a T-Rex or raptor? No frigging thanks. The locals can keep ’em.

My brothers back home like to exploit this fear—the one tiny chink in my armor—whenever possible. Liam even threatened to get me drunk and give me a croc tat on my ass, but I reminded him that turnaround is fair play, and he wouldn’t like to see how I got him back for that little stunt. I also told him I’d have to show his handiwork off to his girl, Quinn, and while he might be secure in their relationship (hell, they’ve been pining for each other for more than a decade), he still didn’t relish the idea of her checking out my ass. Go figure.

After shopping in some nearby pawn shops for “supplies”
I wasn’t able to take on my flight, I check into the local hotel. About a half hour later, I head up Route 73, cranking the AC in the triple digit summer heat.

It’s noon by the time I pass Big Daddy’s Crawfish Shack, a bustling Stuff-Mart and the local dry cleaners and follow the GPS directions to Beaumont Manor—the sprawling, five acre estate “Mason” purchased just last year.

I park the Jag a couple miles away and unfold the local area street map I bought for ten bucks at a nearby fill-up station. I invest the same amount of money each year in cartographer companies as I do bullet and duct tape manufacturers. A handy street map gives you a complete layout of the neighborhood you’re staking: entrance and exit points, nearest highway on-ramps and places you most definitely need to avoid like schools and places of worship. They can also give you an idea of places perps are most likely to hang out closest to their own homes, basically making a detailed local map an invaluable tool.

And according to the map, Mason’s/Miguel’s property is situated on a peninsula that reaches into the Lower Neches Wildlife Management Area.

Nice.
That means the fucker is surrounded on three sides by gator and snake infested bayou habitat. Smart.

I slide out of the driver’s seat and make my way around back to the trunk, where I strip out of my jeans and button-up shirt before stepping into running gear. Concealing my Glock and KA-BAR against my back under my t-shirt, I load my backpack with surveillance equipment and go for a run.

When I get to the vantage point I’m seeking—a small knoll in an abandoned lot about a mile out with the perfect view of the estate—I lie low, employ a set of binoculars and take account.

The estate is fast becoming a fortress—twelve foot chain link fencing with a barbed wire topper and gate surrounds the property. A much more aesthetically pleasing six-foot stone wall is the next layer of security and wraps around the grounds seventy-five feet from the mansion itself, where armed guards patrol with automatics strapped to their sides. Tall and stately palm trees, dense banana palms and other lush tropical greenery and flowers thrive, affirming the wealth of the owner and exuding luxury.

Most importantly, the foliage gives me the advantage of camouflage.

Miguel has ten guards outside—not to mention dogs—German Shepherds and Rottweilers scouting the outside perimeter. After scoping out their pattern for a few hours, I’m happy to note they’re much sloppier than I’m sure Miguel would wish.

Oftentimes with hired muscle, that’s all it is—
muscle
—deterring thieves and criminals, along with rival gangs, with the sheer
look
of power, and frightening the average civilian. Truth is, even with legit security companies there are no state licensing requirements, and usually no proper training. It’s just a matter of shoving hard bodies into tight black t-shirts and arming them with automatics. They’re guns for hire and nothing more.

Scoping out this platoon, I can already tell they have no formal education. They’re simply here for looks and to point and shoot. That means they have one or two main men in charge who are usually ex-military guys. They’re the ones who know what they’re doing and that you have to watch out for.

Parked swamp-side are several pontoon boats and air gliders.

After staking the place for hours and observing a clumsily lazy guard change, I notice some activity out at the guard shack by the main entrance. The gate slides open slowly as a black stretch limo approaches and enters without hassle. It stops along the bowing stone driveway next to the archway leading to the front door of the mansion. Two guards step out to flank the walkway while another exits the passenger side of the limo to open the rear door.

A sharply-dressed, confident looking man with short blond hair, a thick mustache, an overgrowth of blond beard, large blue-tinted glasses and a gray raincoat emerges with a gorgeous Latino actress who goes by the name Valentina Alvarez. The only reason I recognize her is because I just learned she’s one of Miguel’s mistresses.

It really is a terrible disguise.

“Like a rat coming back to the nest,” I mutter. “I love a challenge.”

I
sit at the counter in Big Daddy’s Crawfish Shack. A pretty woman in her thirties comes over from behind the counter wearing a tight black tank top and even tighter jeans.

“Can I get you some coffee?” she asks with a tilt of her head.

I wish. “Just some water.” I can think of a few other things she can get me.

She comes back with a pitcher. As she pours, she stares at the tattoos sheathing my arms.

“Like what you see?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. You’re definitely not from around here.” She leans over the counter, closer to me, her breasts pressing against the confines of the fabric that holds them. “Are you here on business? Or pleasure?” she purrs.

“Maybe both.” I keep my eyes on hers.

“What kind of business? Shipping? Oil?”

“Investments.” I watch her and add, “With Mason Enterprises.”

“Oh.” Her friendly demeanor fades fast and she slaps the menu carelessly on the empty counter space in front of me. “Good luck with that.”

“You look like it’s personal. Did you work for him once?”

She comes in closer. “Look, Mason moved in less than three years ago and now he pretty much owns this shithole city. People he doesn’t like have a tendency to wind up dead. So you may want to watch your back.”

Her eyes flash with equal amounts of fear and defiance before she disappears through the kitchen doors. Five minutes later, a teenage waitress comes to take my order.

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to cause a problem for the other waitress.” I peer through the kitchen window.

“It’s okay. Her shift was ending anyway,” she says brightly. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take your big breakfast special.”

She giggles lightly as she scribbles on her notepad how I’d like my eggs, bacon, pancakes and home fries cooked. “It’s eight o’clock at night.”

“No better time for breakfast.” I smile and pass her the menu.

By the time I get to the hotel and shower, my mind and body are spent. As I dry off, I get a message out to Briggs, asking for any sensational or downplayed news reports from Bridge City to the Port Arthur area in the past three years.

Hanging up, I lay naked on top of the bed—my Glock on the nightstand beside me.

Chapter Three

Rachel

I’m blindfolded and can’t see any light, but based on the food they’ve fed me and how many times I’ve slept out of sheer exhaustion, I can deduce that I’ve been here three or four days.

The man who brings me meals has shown unexpected kindness. He holds my hand gently right before he places the bowl into my palm. He’s been scolded several times by whoever’s in charge for speaking to me. They call him Pedro. And sometimes—I think when no one else is around—he tells me Mexican folk stories, the sort that children would enjoy. The way his tongue shapes the words he speaks, I can tell he has some sort of speech or mental deficiency, and I believe he’s mentally disabled.

I try speaking to him in English, and although he doesn’t understand my words, he definitely understands my meaning when I snap my chained wrists crying, “Please!”

“Please, girl, I can't. My cousin will beat me,” he whispers in Spanish with the inflections and fear of a child.

I don’t see Pedro again after that. Maybe they’ve killed him.

I’m left here for hours, and my mind tortures me, thinking about what happened to Drew in the back of that alley.

The way they show gunshots to the head in the movies isn’t the way it really looks. They show fake blood splats. Point blank range, in truth, is nothing short of horrific. His death plays over and over like a film on repeat. 

Once that has sufficiently shoved me to the brink of insanity, I’m forced to face my own mortality.

I wonder if they’ll kill me just as grotesquely. Will it be so bad my family won’t be able to recognize me? Drew was missing almost half his face.

Then I think his death was bizarrely merciful—at least it was quick. Quick pain frightens me, but I think I could get through it. What choice do you have if someone pulls that trigger?

What terrifies me is long-lasting, seemingly never ending pain. Agony that evil men will inflict on others to gain information or to coerce. My mind settles on that line of thought. Tools that inflict misery and make you scream, with no relief. That render the victim bloody and broken and unable to run.

Unable to run.

They don’t want me to run. They can’t allow me to run.

My mind is beginning to play tricks on me. I’m sure I hear a helicopter outside. If I try, I can almost feel the vibration conducting through the floor and walls.

I listen with fists clenched in violent anticipation.

They’ve found me!

I wait for the storm of SWAT team members to pour into wherever the hell I am and mop the floor with these guys, but after a long time my hope crashes hard. No one comes. There are no noises above my head that I can detect.

Every hope I’ve been clinging to deflates.

I wish I had called my sister or my mom the day I was taken. To tell them I love them one last time.

One last time.

Will they ever even know what happened to me? The true but dreadful answer is, probably not.

I thought I’d defied death that night in the alley.

When my mind settles on the actual idea of it—death—not feeling anything, wondering if there really is an afterlife and the what-if-there-isn’t-one question, my belly fills with this sick sensation. We have no control over it. We can’t wipe death from our existence. We can delay it, we can defy it for a time, but it will have its way.

The great equalizer. We are all mortal.

My skin crawls as my soul or brain or whatever pleads for a better answer. There isn’t one. 

It’s the one thing we who are living are guaranteed—to die.

I play games in my mind to stop fixating on my demise—I put together word associations, I focus on a mental chess game, softly sing my favorite songs, and quiz myself on class materials.

I think about friends—Tobi and Veronica, who I was supposed to go dancing with Friday night, and then about my little sister and Mom, who I love so much the mere conjuring of their faces hurts like hell. I thought playing my memories like a movie would be soothing and comforting, but it isn’t. It doesn’t hold the insanity at bay—realizing these days will be my last memories of this life causes my lungs to constrict and my stomach to lurch with anxiety.

I’m ripped out of my thoughts by a couple of men’s voices. They’re coming closer. Adrenaline sets my nerves afire, and my body begins to shake.

“It won’t be long now.” The man with the thick accent speaks in English, and it’s close to my ear, as if he’s knelt on the floor in front of me.

“Until what?”
Until I’m dead!
I hate how my voice shakes! It isn’t right for my body to betray me like this. I want to be stronger.

I want to spit in his face!

“You’re brought home,” he replies.

Home?
“What?”

“You must eat your food.” It’s then that I smell what could only be a fast food burger and fries.

He’s unhappy because I haven’t been eating? It’s almost ludicrous!

“No,” I manage, softly yet defiantly.

“No?” His voice drops to an almost whisper.

Swallowing the terror, I tell him, “I will not eat your food. I was tricked because of whatever drug you put in my drink. I won’t do it again.”

I can’t eat their food. I did at first, but as the time goes by, it feels akin to suicide. Or maybe I don’t want to accept it. Or depend on them for my survival—I’d rather starve first. At least that’s something I can control.

“You will keep your strength up.” His tone turns commanding.

“Take off the cuffs. I’ll find my strength.”

He slaps me hard. His hand is so large it covers half my face. The sting is electric.

Fuck you,
I think, tasting the copper tinge of blood as it covers my tongue. I spit the blood at him.
So, let it begin.

Angry footfalls run into the space we occupy. I listen to the physical scuffle and curses in Spanish.

“We’re supposed to be calming her!” a new voice growls out in Spanish. “The boss will cut off your hand for striking her if you caused damage!”

Damage?
I don’t understand what they mean. Is there really some deal going on between my captors and my mom or law enforcement?

“Our boss is a powerful man and has negotiated both your ransom and his freedom. But we must release you unharmed and well,” the new guy tries persuading me softly, now in English.

I hear the crinkle of the fast food bag as he presses it into my hands.

“I’m sick,” I lie.

“You fear poison or drugs?”

“I don’t trust you,” I say truthfully.

He barks at his partner in Spanish, “Now you fucked up! You idiot! Get out, get out and never come back in here.”

They leave me to myself.

Would they really send me home? But why? I saw the murder. I’m the only witness. How does it work in their favor to send me home? But if they really intend on killing me, why the blindfold? I’ve read enough novels and seen enough television dramas to know that a blindfold means I might live long enough to report what I’ve seen.

I curl up in a ball on the musty mattress and scrape my nails against my thumb cuticles.

Even if my mom gave Miguel a million dollars—which I know we don’t have—how would it help his case?

Getaway money?

Could make sense. If someone gave him a million, he could take off to a foreign country where he couldn’t be extradited. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Drip, drip, drip.

Maybe they sent a photograph to my mom and she knows I’m alive. That gives me a sense of relief.

But why didn’t he just go straight to Mexico and not bother with me?

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does.

I’m not eating their shit.

I roll and face the wall and fall into a deep sleep.

Gentle Spanish lullabies wake me.

Pedro.

“Toma.”
He puts a cold can into my hands.
“Toma,”
Pedro repeats.

“I don’t understand,” I say, though I know he’s telling me to drink. It’s one small piece of control I hold—the fact that they think I don’t understand Spanish. I’d like to keep it that way. Except, I’ll admit, the idea has crossed my mind that if I can play on Pedro’s childlike nature he may help me escape. But I haven’t figured out how to pull that off without it backfiring on both of us.

Pedro moves my fingertips to the top surface of the can, where my fingers meet with the can’s tab.

“It’s sealed.” I nod. My captors have found a different way to try and get something into me. “I’ll drink.”

Pedro pops the top and brings it immediately to my mouth. It tastes like chocolate and chalk. The liquid is tell-tale thick too. I’m pretty sure it’s a meal replacement drink—like Carnation or Ensure.

“Sing to me again, Pedro.”

He answers sadly,
“No hablo inglés.”

I hum a melody, and he says, “Ahh . . .” I imagine I detect a smile in his tone.

And his singing begins, but this time his cousin doesn’t stop him.

Ryder

I wake to my cell going off—it’s Briggs.

“You know you’re sitting in the most heated and battled for drug distribution corridor in the US,” he begins as I make my way to the mini fridge for a Red Bull.

He goes on about all the organized crime in the area and shady activity while I put the lousy hotel tap water into the coffee machine and run it over the crappy complimentary coffee grounds.

Briggs goes quiet for a second then accuses, “I can hear the coffee brewing.”

When I don’t deny it he asks, “Drinking or smelling?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, just drink it, for Christ’s sake!” he says with annoyed but humorous frustration.

“How many times do I have to explain? If I smell fresh brewed coffee it’s soothing and makes me feel like everything is right in the world. If I taste it, it makes me
crave
a cigarette, and I’m not smoking again. Can’t have one without the other, Briggs.” 

“Alright, whatever, but about your location—I’m not exaggerating. Every gang and cartel nationality you can imagine is angling for power and control there—Asians, African-Americans, Mexicans, fucking Aryans, for Christ’s sake—you name it.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Sounds like you should get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Local authorities?”

“Either have their hands full or in the till. I’m still trying to sort the good guys from the bad guys.” I can hear the frustration in his voice and his fingers beating furiously at his computer keyboard. “The FBI, DEA, NSA, DOJ and now the YSA are all in on the action.”

“What is the YSA?”

“Your Sorry Ass.”

“Ah.”

“And it appears there have been multiple
accidents
involving Mason Enterprises employees. After each, some business or individual in the city gets a greased palm to quiet the case of the squeaks.”