Chapter 7
The smell of chicken shit and sour apples oozed from the Cessna Caravan’s cloth seats. The pilot, an ancient man with squinty eyes and skin as dark as a roasted coffee bean, likely made his living flying whatever anyone paid him to fly, be it livestock or live human beings. He’d surely seen many things over his long life, leaving Bo to wonder if that was the reason his eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint.
Bo’s hands were still cuffed behind his back so he couldn’t get a look at his watch. He estimated they’d been in the air for nearly two hours. Counting the drive to the remote airfield out of Buenos Aires—north, judging from the sun—and the time they’d spent on the ground waiting for the aircraft to show up, something like five hours had elapsed from the time they’d been grabbed.
Steven was holding up okay, though it was clear from the pained expression on his face that he blamed himself for all this. Eva had started off in tears, but had become more and more defiant the longer they were in captivity. Defiance had a place, but not until they knew a little more about their captors. For now, her angry outbursts only incited the men. Those that were scared reacted with more brutality to hide their fear. La Pulga, the little flea with the Ivy League sweater, just looked at her and smiled as if taking notes about what he planned to do.
Not counting the grizzled old pilot, there were twelve passengers on the plane, taking up all the seats in the back and leaving the wounded Toro lying in the aisle with his head on a duffel in the rear cargo area. He’d cut a walking stick from the green limb of a jacaranda tree and used it to threaten the prisoners when they got in his way or came near his broken leg.
Jelly, the apparent leader, sat up front. He was young, like most of the rest, well dressed in a blue and white rugby shirt of Argentina’s national team. Larger than Toro, Jelly’s bulk was gained from his time in the gym rather than a diet of empanadas and sweets.
Bo felt his ears pop as the pilot began to descend. Bo recognized the confluence of the Iguazú and Paraná rivers that formed the borders of Argentina, Paraguay, and Brazil. He watched the brown rivers and patchwork of green fields and seemingly impassable jungle as they passed beneath the plane. The deep canyon called Garganta del Diablo, or Devil’s Throat, and the frothy white Iguazú Falls came into view as the pilot banked back to the south, staying in Argentina. The sprawling city of Paraguay’s Ciudad del Este lay to the left, across the Paraná.
It made sense that Jelly would bring them here. The Triple Frontier had a reputation as a haven for smuggling everything from counterfeit goods to humans. Bo and his group had come down the Pan-American Highway, riding through Quito, Lima, and Antofagasta, before turning east in Valparaíso, Chile to reach Buenos Aires. The original plan was to spend a couple of days poking around BA before riding down to Ushuaia at the southern tip of South America before eventually heading back up to see Iguazú Falls.
Now that they were here, Bo couldn’t help but wonder if this aerial view might be the only one he’d ever get. They knew who Steven was, that was obvious from the way they kept him apart from the others and treated him like a golden egg—not exactly good, but valuable. The would be demanding ransom soon, for Steven at least. So far, they didn’t seem to know the significance of who else they had. Matt wouldn’t shut up about how his dad would be happy to buy his freedom, but for some reason, none of that seemed to impress them, least of all The Flea, who seemed to be in this for something other than money. The captors had made zero attempt at hiding their identities. Maybe that was due to inexperience, but they’d come around to the realization soon that it had been an error. It was difficult to foresee a set of circumstances where the ransom got paid and everyone was released with a handshake.
And now they’d been moved hundreds of miles to the north. Even if Jericho had gotten the SOS, it would take him a full twenty-four hours to get to Argentina—and then he’d be looking in the wrong place.
Ten minutes later, the caravan bounced to a stop on a grass field. The pilot made everyone stay in place while he got out and waddled around to put a support under the tail so the plane didn’t squat when everyone moved to the rear door. As soon as this was done, the pilot walked away, disappearing into a small metal building without looking back. Bo imagined that seeing too much in his line of work was a quick way to end up being thrown out of your own plane.
Through the side window, Bo could see a middle-aged woman follow the progress of the airplane. She was tall, and impeccably dressed in crisp white slacks and a matching sleeveless blouse. A midday sun blazed overhead, adding to the oppressive humidity, but this woman did not have a hair out of place. A stooped man in a floppy gaucho beret stood beside the woman, gazing more at her than the plane. A brown Renault Duster was parked in the grass alongside the strip. Beyond the car lay a small brick house nestled among a copse of fir and eucalyptus trees. A dozen head of whiteface cattle munched grass in the field behind the house. A windmill turned lazily over two black horses drinking from the water tank. It was a bucolic scene and would have been relaxing had Bo not recently been beaten and bound.
Bruno and The Flea climbed out of the Caravan first and then opened a wide cargo door at the back, allowing Toro to work his way out on the broken leg. It made an easier exit for the bound prisoners as well. Jelly came around from the front to meet them as they hopped down to the ground. Three others with names Bo didn’t know came around back. Through it all, Toro—still cringing in pain—leaned against his homemade walking stick. If any of the prisoners so much as looked at him, he reminded them that they no longer existed. He could, he said, do anything he wanted to someone who did not exist.
The woman in the white slacks strode to the back of the Caravan with an air that said she was obviously in charge. The man followed, with an air that said he was not.
She pointed a long finger with perfectly manicured pink nails at Toro, jabbing at the air in front of his chest. He blinked as though looking into a strong wind.
“We will treat the prisoners with respect and dignity so long as they give us no cause to do otherwise.” She turned to the group. “Please excuse my friend. His late father was a general during our former military government. Toro is sorry he missed all the mayhem. I think he would have been quite an enthusiastic interrogator.” She shrugged. “At the very least, he would have enjoyed himself.”
The woman walked down the line of prisoners, stopping one by one to study their faces individually. Even Matt was smart enough not to speak. Once she’d satisfied her curiosity, the woman flicked her fingers, motioning for Jelly to follow her toward the nose of the aircraft.
They spoke in hushed tones, shooting periodic glances at the rest of the group, paying more attention to her own men than the prisoners. Her companion wearing the gaucho hat retreated back to the Renault and stood there, looking like he’d eaten something that didn’t quite agree with him.
At length, the woman turned on her heels and marched directly back to silver haired Bruno. Standing in front of him, she put her hands in the pockets of her slacks, which, Bo had to admit, looked out of place for such a smartly dressed woman. They were nearly the same height, but the woman’s aggressive bearing made her seem taller.
Alma had maneuvered herself to stand next to Bo when they’d climbed out of the plane. All eyes were on the conversation, so no one stopped her when she gave a whispered translation as the woman began to speak in Spanish.
The woman toed at the grass looking down as she spoke. “I understand you took photographs of the prisoners.”
“Si, su señoria,” Bruno said, shuffling in place. He was nervous about something. Not a good sign.
Alma leaned sideways toward Bo, to make sure the others couldn’t hear her. “Weird,” she whispered. “But that guy just called her ‘your honor’ . . . like she’s a judge.”
Bo added the name to his mental list. If a judge was involved, then there was a chance law enforcement was involved as well.
Alma continued with her translation.
“Were you certain that the GPS location services were disabled?” the judge asked.
Bruno nodded, looking relieved. “I did, su señoria.”
The woman cocked her head. “I am curious that you did not send the photos to me. Can you explain yourself?”
Bruno shrugged, gesturing with open hands. “I knew you would meet us here and see the prisoners yourself.”
The woman’s gaze narrowed. “Then why take any photos at all?”
“Proof of life.”
“Very well,” the woman nodding smugly. “That makes sense.” She turned as if to walk away, hands still in her pockets, but then wheeled.
“Did you happen to text these photographs to anyone else?”
The man paused, then shook his head.
“Suppose I were to have a look at your mobile phone?”
“Su señoria . . .”
Two sharp cracks pierced the still morning air. A small silver pistol had suddenly appeared in the judge’s hand.
Bruno’s hand clawed at the center his torso, over his diaphragm. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide. Obscene croaking noises escaped his open mouth.
Jelly stepped in quickly and grabbed a black revolver from Bruno’s waistband as he pitched forward, writhing in the gravel beside the Caravan’s tire.
La Pulga walked up and stooped to get a better look at the dying man. Cheeks flushed, The Flea didn’t appear to be interested in his friend, but in the process of death itself.
The man in the gaucho hat leaned against the Renault for support, seeming to grow smaller, fading away by the moment.
The judge began to speak again.
“Sorry,” Alma gasped, coming out of her stupor and catching back up with her translation. “The judge just told Jelly to get Bruno’s phone. She wants him to collect everyone’s phone as well. Looks like that one called Bruno was planning a double cross, working for someone named Richter. The judge doesn’t want anyone to contact—”
Toro’s walking stick whooshed through the air, cracking against Alma’s back. “No talking in line,” he snapped. With her hands cuffed, and no way to catch herself, she pitched face first into the gravel.
Bo roared at the assault. Without thinking, he launched himself sideways, directly into Toro’s broken leg. Toro screamed in pain, hopping sideways and lashing out with the stick, catching Bo across the jaw. Bo rolled onto his stomach, curling into a ball to try and protect his head as Toro continued to batter him with the heavy stick.
Alma threw herself on top of Bo, screaming, pleading for Toro to stop.
The rest of the thugs converged on the prisoners to keep them under control.
“That is enough!” the judge barked.
Toro hunched over Alma, panting, his walking stick in the air, smiling even amid his pain. The judge had been right. He would have enjoyed doling out torture.
The judge pointed a finger at him. “I told you to treat the prisoners with respect.”
“Si, su señoria,” Toro said.
The woman turned to speak to Jelly again.
Bo waited for Alma to roll off him, and then turned gingerly onto his side. He took a couple of deep breaths and willed the world to stop spinning. Coughing, he spit out a front tooth along with a clot of fresh blood.
“How about we don’t do that again,” he said.
Alma moved her neck back and forth. “No promises.”
She was a tough one.
Matt stayed put as if welded in place, looking away.
Bo drew his legs under him, and wallowed to his feet. He was unwilling to stay down any longer than he had to, but it took him a while without the use of his arms. Alma stepped closer so he could lean his shoulder against her thigh. Not just tough, but smart as well. Sickeningly dizzy, he had to use her for support even after he was standing. The earlier blow across his helmet had rattled his brain. Toro’s beating had been icing on the cake.
“Ha!” Toro chuckled. “I gave you a good hit. Soon you will have no teeth at all—”
The judge spun where she stood and shot Toro twice in the face before he knew what was happening.
“Pelotudo!” she spat.
Beside the Renault, the pale man muttered to himself in Spanish. He was obviously not cut out for this much violence.
The rest of the men stared down at their two dead comrades. Even La Pulga had been caught off guard.
Bo couldn’t bring himself to care. He spat out another mouthful of blood and then ran his tongue over the jagged remains of his tooth. An overwhelming dread washed over him at the pain he knew he’d be in once the adrenaline wore off.
The judge walked over and prodded the dying Toro with the toe of her shoe, pistol still in hand. Smoke curled from the end of the barrel.
“I will have someone find clove oil for your tooth,” she said. “It is the best I can offer.”
Bo nodded. He wasn’t about to say thank you to the woman responsible for his kidnapping.
The judge licked her lips, studying Bo. “You are in charge of this group?”
“Yes,” he said, keeping his tongue over the broken tooth to protect it from the air.
“Good,” she said. “With any luck, we will soon put all of this behind us. It will be nothing but an unpleasant memory and a good story.”
“For those left alive at the end,” Bo said.
“You will still be alive if you behave,” she said.
Bo kept his eyes locked on her. “I’m not talking about us.”
A smile spread over the judge’s face. “I am no stranger to threats, Mr. . . .”
“Quinn,” The Flea said. He had the passports.
“Mr. Quinn,” the judge continued. “I meant what I said about treating all of you with respect. So long as you do nothing to deserve otherwise. But do not for an instant take that to mean I lack the needed resolve.” She looked down at Toro’s lifeless body and then back at Bo. “I once had a dog that killed my chickens. I was very fond of this dog, but I still shot him.” She leaned in close to make her point. “Even so, the dog’s death did not save the chickens when it came time for me to make a stew.”