29

I felt wild ponies galloping in my head. Trying not to vomit, I opened my eyes. Total darkness. From the bumping, I could tell we were in some kind of vehicle. The space was so cramped, I was folded up on myself. They had thrown me into the back of a vehicle—with someone else. The other person was leaning against me. He let out a little muffled cry.

“Mike? Hold on there, man. I’ll get us out of here.”

I got no response. I was drenched in a hot, sticky substance draining from his body. I twisted in an attempt to find a latch to open the rear door, but my hands were tied behind me—with what I assumed was a zip tie. I had used them all the time when I was a cop. The plastic was digging into my wrists, and I was unable to free myself or even reach my cell phone, which was in my pocket. I fought anyway, groaning in powerless rage.

I tried to ignore the Ukrainian, who was agonizing next to me. I should have felt relief at the prospect of bringing my shitty life to a close. Loneliness had been eating away at my soul for so long. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I no longer wanted to die. Not like this, at the hands of that piece of trash Rafael. I wanted to live and choose my own death.

“Motherfucker!” I roared, rupturing my vocal chords and eardrums.

I heard laughter from the front seats.

And now I could feel it building inside me—the fury. It swelled, and when it peaked, an even stronger wave followed. I surrendered. I had no more fear, no more pain. I was a raging mass. Drissa, my wife, my kid, and all the other victims who littered my life. These sons of bitches were going to pay. They were going to pay for even the deaths they knew nothing about.

The vehicle stopped. I heard doors slam and footsteps come my way. Someone opened the back. I saw the prominent silhouettes of Rodrigo and the Malian backlit by streetlights.

“All right, come on,” Rodrigo said. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can call it a night.”

The Malian nodded. He started pulling me out of the back like a sack of cement. I pounced on the chance to send a solid kick to his chest. He stumbled backward and wound up on his ass, his eyes bulging from his skull. I had put every ounce of my rage and frustration into that blow. With legs like springs, I leaped out and rammed Rodrigo. I knocked him over too, and we rolled on the ground. My opponent tried desperately to find his weapon as I stayed with his massive body. With my hands still tied, I sought his throat with my teeth. I bit as hard as hell and tore off a piece of flesh, or rather fat, which ran uneasily down my throat—I almost chucked it back up. Rodrigo wailed like a pig and struck me in the face with the butt of his automatic, which he had finally found. My cheekbone and the top of my eye socket were smashed, but that only fueled my hatred. I pursued one of his ears, which I sank my teeth into with a roar. I crunched the cartilage and chewed the lobe as he tried to push me off. I could feel a warm dampness on his pants and realized he had pissed himself. Unfortunately, someone was tearing me away from my feast. I spit out a piece of flesh and growled like a wild animal. Now I was getting pummeled so hard, I thought I would pass out again. I ended up flat on my stomach, my blood running into the dirt, making a sticky mud. Close by, I could hear Rodrigo whining like a child.

“Get up.”

It was Rafael’s voice. I didn’t move, and I heard the characteristic sound of a gun being cocked.

“Have it your way, Camara. We’ll just have to drag your body inside. That’s all.”

I managed to get on my feet. My head was ringing, and blood was spouting from my face. Rafael was standing in front of me, holding my Glock and staring at me as though I were some rabid beast. He looked disgusted—but also fascinated.

“You’re a real whacko,” he said. I picked up a tinge of admiration in his voice.

Aided by the Malian, who had regained his breath and his energy, Rodrigo straightened up. Blood was gushing from the side of his face where there had once been an ear. He was also missing a good chunk of meat from his throat. I had come damned close to killing him.

He aimed his gun at me.

“I’m going to fucking kill this son of a bitch. Get out of the way, Rafael.”

“Not outside, dammit!” Rafael thundered.

“What the fuck! Do you see what he did to me?”

“Shut up! You should’ve been more careful.”

I glanced around. We were in a dirt courtyard outside a large decrepit building. Nearby, there were warehouses and other buildings that looked like factories. This was Sotuba, Bamako’s industrial neighborhood. My Land Cruiser was parked in the courtyard and the back was still open—it was the vehicle my captors had used to drive the Ukranian and me here. The Malian pulled Mike out and threw him over his shoulder. With satisfaction, I saw that he was giving me wide berth.

“Fuck!” Rodrigo moaned. “I need to see a doctor. Human bites are the worst. I could get an infection.” Had I been in a better mood I would have told him that I was the one more likely to get sick from the chunks of him that I had eaten.

Rafael sighed and pushed me toward the building. Inside, the huge space, tiled from wall to ceiling, was empty, with the exception of a few workmen’s benches and abandoned tools. Rails with hooks ran along the ceiling.

It was an old slaughterhouse.

The Malian dropped Mike on one of the tables used to butcher meat. He was still alive. His chest was moving in sync with his erratic breathing. Rafael handed my Glock to Rodrigo.

“If he moves, put a bullet in his leg,” he said as he fixed his eyes on me. “I want him to see what happens next.”

“You can count on me, Jefe.”

Rafael rummaged under a bench and pulled out a mask and an apron covered with brownish splatterings. I closed my eyes when I understood what he was planning. He put everything on and walked over to some shelves where there was an old chainsaw—the kind used to take apart the carcasses of slaughtered animals. I realized I would have been better off letting the Spanish guy do away with me in the courtyard.