Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (17 page)

“I’m sick,” she said, the vomit spewing from her cheeks. All the men stood back, Winston said, “Where’s the goddamn bathroom?” And then she was being yanked across the floor, thrown into a stall, and told to clean herself up.

She looked around. Saw a toilet. A sink.

A window.

Unlike the window in her room, this had no bars. She grasped the edges of the sink, pulling herself off the floor, getting a knee up next to the faucet.

I can get away.

I can get away!

I can be free!

I’ll be safe!

MY BABY WILL BE SAFE!

It was more clarity than she’d had in years, and then she was up on the sink, pushing the window open, wiggling through face first and dropping into an alley.

A snow drift caught her, saving her from a broken neck. She scrambled to get up, shoveling snow out of the way in big handfuls, making it to all fours, and then onto her feet, sinking up to her knees.

The mouth of the alley was only a few meters away. Beyond it, the street…

Freedom. Cars driving past, with headlights shining like giant diamonds.

“The little bitch got through the window!”

Ben, from above her. She looked, saw him forcing himself through the opening.

She managed to take another step. And another. Then—

I can’t move.

The snow sucked at her feet like hungry mouths. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to get free, but the suction was too strong.

Ben had his head and shoulder out the window, and was trying to push his other arm through.

She reached down, the snow so cold on her bare fingers that it burned, and managed to unzip her boot. Winston had bought the boots for her—boots with pointy toes and spikey heels that were too small and hurt her feet—demanding that she take care of them or he’d beat her with the car antenna again.

Her foot slipped out and she left the boot stuck in the snow. Chancing a look behind her, she saw Ben had his whole upper body hanging out the window.

They locked eyes, and he pointed with all the ferocity of him hitting her. “You stay right there!”

“I want to keep my baby!”

“If you move, I’m going to rip that baby right out of your body and make you eat it.”

She turned, gazing at the street once again—

—and kept moving forward.

Her other boot became stuck, and she unzipped it just as Ben fell into the alley just a few feet behind her. Diving forward, she clawed through the snow, arms and legs pumping, swimming more than crawling as the cold enveloped her.

The street got closer…

And closer…

And—

Ben grabbed her ankle, squeezing so tightly she cried out in pain, yanking her toward him.

She flipped onto her back, bringing up her free leg, snapping it straight and driving her bare heel into his snarling face once, twice, three times before he let go.

Then she continued to claw her way through the blizzard, her face and hands pink with snow burn, her breath coming in rapid puffs that intermingled with the falling flakes.

Almost there…

Almost—

“Where are you going, sugar?”

Donaldson stood between her and the street, reaching down. Large hands encircling her wrists and lifting her out of the snow.

She kicked wildly, catching him between his legs, and then she was free—FREE—sprinting as fast as she could, into traffic, determined to run until she—

The car struck her hip, sending her twirling through the snowfall and landing on her side.

She heard honking.

Yelling.

Then someone was kneeling next to her.

She lashed out, her arms not working correctly, the scream in her throat no more than a whimper.

“Don’t… hurt… my baby…”

As she fluttered out of consciousness, the last thing she saw was a hat. A dark blue hat with a short black brim and a silver police medal.

H
e awoke in pain, dehydrated, and with an overwhelming urge to piss. Around him were the six empty beer cans, which he’d finished in rapid succession in order to get a quick buzz and dull the pain. Phin did get somewhat drunk, but it was a depressed, self-loathing inebriation that made him ache for Jack and Sam even more.

He pissed in his bucket, then spent twenty minutes tearing up a beer can to try and make a pick for his handcuffs. Unfortunately, rusty as they were, the padlocks were new and heavy duty. Thin aluminum, even when it was folded over and compressed using his teeth, wasn’t strong enough to open the lock. It didn’t work on his cell door, either.

Perhaps he could make some sort of knife or shiv, then stab the guard who wore his Tony Lama boots, giving him enough time to put together his DoubleTap 9mm. It only held two rounds, but if he took a machinegun from a guard he could…

Could escape two mounted M60s and several dozen guards, plus everyone in the arena seats who was armed? And then get out of the arena?

And go where?

Phin had no idea where he was. He could be a hundred miles from anyplace. Even if he managed to steal a car, how quickly would he be caught?

Phin put that out of his mind, continuing to twist and bend the can into something thin and pointy. The torch burn on his chest ached, probably infected. His head hurt, not just from the hangover, but from the machete blow he’d received. His stomach was also a big knot of pain. Though he’d been fed twice—and the food was actually delicious—the chili peppers had aggravated the sourness he’d been feeling since being captured. Phin’s insides felt like a clenched fist.

“Put down the can, puto.”

Phin looked up. It was a new guard, swarthy, stocky, his cattle prod drawn. He stood next to Phin’s cell.

“I said put it down. You cannot get away. There are forty guards with automatic rifles. Beyond the arena are hundreds of land mines. And if you manage to escape, with no one in pursuit, there are kilometers of desert without any roads or shelters. You will die here, cabron. Make peace with that.”

Phin decided he’d make peace in a different way, and launched himself at the guard with the bent can, aiming for the man’s neck.

The cattle prod hit Phin in the stomach, the pain not unlike being shot. He fell onto his ass, and got another shock in the thigh that made him cry out, the prod juicing him until he managed to crabwalk out of range, retreating back into his cell and knocking over his piss bucket.

“Drop the can, estupido.”

Phin dropped the can. His scream had awoken Kiler, who was watching while stroking himself inside his pants, a sweaty grimace on his face.

Phin’s door opened. Again, he was led down the corridor, limping as he passed another armed guard.

It was night, but the klieg lights were so bright they hurt his eyes, and combined with the desert heat Phin felt his sweat bake off of him. The stands contained a few dozen people, some of them reading…

Programs? Had these assholes printed up brochures with matches and stats?

Phin squinted against the glare at a man in the front row. A man wearing a Hugo Boss suit.

“Got a grand on you, gringo!” Hugo yelled. “Don’t let me down!”

Phin gave him the finger.

As a guard unlocked his shackles, Phin stared at the odds board.

1:1

They were giving him a 50/50 chance of surviving.

Phin looked at the unlucky bastard he had to fight, and saw a black guy glaring at him. Tall, lean, young. He was wearing his cotton pants low on his hips, gangbanger style. Rival dealer? Someone who wronged the cartel? Unlucky tourist? The kid had a height and reach advantage, along with the speed and endurance of youth.

Phin searched the man’s face for compassion, humanity, and saw none. His opponent’s eyes had that dead look, a prison stare devoid of compassion.

This wasn’t some kid on vacation. This was a man who had killed before.

The loudspeaker crackled.

“Last call for bets, last call for bets. Number 16, with three wins, against Number 17, with one win. Even odds. The weapons for this match… spears.”

An armed guard staked two spears into the ground, between Phin and his opponent. Apparently they would have to run for them. That was problematic; Phin’s leg still ached from getting zapped with the cattle prod. He rubbed his upper thigh, and looked up at the balcony. Luther and Lucy had switched from purple capes to green, and Luther was shirtless beneath his. Even at a distance, Phin could see the gnarled scar tissue crisscrossing the lunatic’s torso. Luther raised up his golden scepter, the skull on the end rubbing against the gong lightly, as one might caress a lover.

For a microsecond, Phin bathed in the hate he felt for those two psychopaths. He’d come to Mexico with no personal animus, no direct association, just a desire to preemptively protect his family. But Lucy and Luther had quickly risen to the top of his
people who must die
list.

Ranked just below the man he was about to fight to the death.

Phin focused on the spear, and when the gong rang he sprinted—

—and his leg gave out.

He fell to the ground, watching as #16 grabbed a spear in each hand and ran at him.

Things seemed to slow down, and Phin’s entire world condensed to a tunnel-vision fixation on the spear tips as they drew closer. He turned onto his back, his arms extending as the weapons thrust downward, aimed at his face and chest.

His opponent was fast, and strong. Phin lashed out with his right hand, pushing away the spear as it sliced across his belly. His left hand caught the other and deflected it into the sandy ground next to Phin’s ear. At the same time, Phin’s right foot came up, kicking hard at #16’s kidneys, his toe digging in.

As the black man staggered sideways, Phin held the spears and used his enemy’s momentum to pull himself to his feet. He twisted his body, getting in close, and chopped #16 across the throat, putting all he had into the blow, hoping to break cartilage.

His adversary lowered his jaw just in time, Phin’s hand bouncing off, and then he shoved Phin several feet backward. Phin regained his balance, his feet digging in, and attacked again.

Number 16 did something unexpected. Rather than jab with the spears, he swung them overhead, as if they were clubs. Phin managed to get his hands up, grabbing one, the other smacking down between his ring finger and pinky, snapping the pinky back.

As the pain from that and the slash on his chest began to register, Phin continued to drive himself forward, still gripping the one spear, tearing it from this opponent’s hand. He continued to run past, taking the weapon with, then twisting around and stabbing.

The spear pierced #16’s stomach, deep. Perhaps not a fatal wound in an urban area, with a hospital nearby. But in this hell hole, if the man didn’t eventually bleed out, the infection would kill him.

Phin backed away as his opponent fell to his knees, clutching his belly wound. He stared at Phin with an expression of disbelief that slowly gave way to realization.

The man dropped his spear.

Phin kept his.

The crowd offered up some scattered boos.

“I…” the dying man said. “I don’t wanna go out like this, man.”

Phin looked up to the balcony, to Lucy and Luther.

“Goddammit… hurts.” Number 16 stretched his hands out ahead of him. “Lookit all that blood. That’s my blood.”

Luther raised up his hand, and turned his thumb down.

The dying man let out a sob. “I done some shit. Bad shit. Unforgivable shit.” He looked up at Phin. “You believe in hell, man?”

“No.”

“No God? No heaven? No nothing?”

“This is it,” Phin said. “Nothing comes after.”

The man coughed, his lips scarlet. “Used to go to church, back in the day. Keep seeing all that fire and brimstone and shit waiting for me. Mama said ain’t gonna amount to no good. Gonna go to hell.”

“You’re not going to hell,” Phin told him. “You’re getting out of hell.”

Number 16 smiled. “Heh. Killed by a goddamn comedian. What’s your name, funny man?”

“Phin.”

The crowd began to chant. “Matarlo! Matarlo!”

“Name is Darnell. What they yelling?”

“They want me to finish you off.”

“You gonna?”

Phin dropped his spear. “No.” He pressed his hand to his own belly, which was bleeding heavily, then sank to his knees.

The gong rang, and three guards began to walk toward them. Their machineguns were raised.

Darnell spat blood into the sand, then laughed. “Stabbed a dude in the stomach, once. Knew it hurt this bad, woulda shot homeboy instead.”

Two guards pointed their weapons at Phin, one placed the barrel of his against Darnell’s temple.

“What a waste of a life,” Darnell said. “I hope you’re right, funny man, and there’s no hell. If there is, be seeing you.”

Phin made himself watch as the guard pulled the trigger. Darnell slumped over, eyes still open.

The gun was then turned on Phin.

In the balcony, Lucy whispered something to Luther.

Luther lifted a hand—

—extending a thumbs up.

Phin was yanked to his feet, to fight another day.