Chapter 9
The judge took the passports and then laid down the law about the treatment of her prisoners, giving a rousing speech on human rights and dignity. She then turned on her heels and took Jelly with her, leaving The Flea in charge.
The medicinal smell of eucalyptus from the tangle of trees overhanging the small brick cottage infused the humid air, mixing with the pungent odor of cattle and horses munching hay in the pens outside. La Pulga allowed the prisoners to drink from the water spigot off the windmill, no doubt to remind them that he was in charge and could give or take away whatever he wished. Bo whispered for the others to dunk their heads in the round metal trough as they took their turns at the tap. The sticky heat was oppressive in their armored riding gear, and the cool water helped bring relief and much-needed focus.
Dripping wet, they were ushered inside.
The interior of the house was dark, with the only light streaming in through small windows and the open door. Thick walls and a tile floor kept it relatively cool. Soot from many fires in the large fireplace stained the red bricks below a rough-hewn timber mantel. The smell of wood smoke and saddle blankets hung in the still air. A number of photographs adorned the stucco walls. Most of them were of polo ponies, but a few showed the judge and the man in the gaucho hat during happier times. Bo nodded to himself. The imperious judge and her milquetoast husband made an unlikely pair of criminal masterminds. The photographs of the couple were what Jericho would have called good intel. But the fact that such evidence had been left around for the prisoners to observe gnawed at Bo’s gut.
The remaining decorations were sparse, things normally used around a cattle ranch—an Argentine saddle with a sheepskin cover just inside the heavy front door, a hooked bull goad and several rawhide quirts on the wall, and a braided lariat hanging over the saddle. The place had the feel of a cabin, and should have been cozy, but, considering their captivity, the leather gaucho equipment took on a sinister air.
The room was relatively small, maybe twelve by fifteen, forcing the prisoners to bunch together as they came through the door. With no direction, they milled in place, waiting to be told where to go.
They didn’t have long to wait.
The Flea gave a sharp clap of his hands and a gap-toothed man called Tigre grabbed Eva by the hair and hauled her back to the front door.
Steven yelled in protest, starting after her, but got knocked to the floor for his trouble. The two remaining guards pulled pistols and pointed them at the prisoners.
Tigre stopped in the threshold of the door, shoving Eva to her knees. Backlit, she slumped there, hands behind her back, while Tigre held a gun to her head.
Steven cursed. Matt cringed and looked away. Alma offered a whispered prayer in Spanish. Bo stood where he was and glared at La Pulga.
“It occurs to me,” The Flea said, his voice breathy and hoarse, “that none of you have been properly searched. Your handcuffs will be removed one at a time and you will take off your clothing so that we may check you for weapons. Cooperate fully, and Eva will remain unharmed.”
Bo had known this was coming. He’d been worried they might separate the women, and was actually relieved when La Pulga ordered them all searched as a group. He’d already decided that he would go down fighting rather than submit to watching either of the girls being violated. Alma must have read his mind, because she looked at him and shook her head.
“Just stay alive,” she said. “No matter what happens.”
“Good advice,” La Pulga said. “Now get on with it. Tigre grows tired of not shooting your friend.”
Tigre chuckled and cuffed Eva in the head with his free hand. She looked up and tried to spit, but her mouth was too dry, leaving her to sputter impotently and earning a round of derisive laughter from the men.
Bo shrugged off his riding jacket as soon as the cuffs were removed, taking a short moment to massage the circulation back into his hands. The men seemed transfixed by the tattoo of a black octopus on his forearm. The Flea let out a low whistle when he pulled the t-shirt over his head, revealing the scars that mapped his chest and torso. He didn’t have near as many as Jericho, but there were enough to know he’d survived some serious contact with people that wanted to kill him. Alma and the others in the group had seen them before, swimming or at the hotel hot tub. It was a good thing, he’d thought, for the man charged with security to have plenty of battle scars.
His arms were yanked behind his back and the handcuffs replaced as soon as he’d removed his boxers.
“Interesting, don’t you think?” The Flea observed. “How stripping away a thin layer of cloth can shatter the idea of security.”
Bo thought of a dozen threatening comebacks. The image of what he wanted to do to this guy shone bright in his mind’s eye. But he willed himself to keep his mouth shut, for Eva’s sake.
Alma’s cuffs came off next.
“Makes me wish I’d skipped that ice cream yesterday,” she whispered a moment later, as she slipped off her own t-shirt, drawing leering murmurs from the men.
Matt fumed, staring daggers. It had not gone unnoticed that Alma had decided to stand beside Bo.
Steven’s eyes stayed locked on Eva, rattling the chain on his handcuffs as soon as Alma was undressed. “Let’s hurry and get this over with,” he said.
Matt snapped at him. “Easy for you to say. Your dad is the reason we’re all in this mess.”
“Come on,” Alma said, visibly shivering, even in the warm air. “We’re all scared here.”
“Phht,” Matt said. “You sure don’t look scared.”
The Flea clapped his hands again, eyeing Matt. “I seem to remember you saying your father was wealthy as well. You said he would be happy to purchase your freedom. Perhaps you are the reason for all this, and Mr. Grey is just a fortunate coincidence. I wonder,” he said, scratching his hairless chin. “Would your wealthy father be willing to pay for the release of your friends as well?”
“My father would,” Steven said without pause. “He’d pay for all of them. No doubt.”
“That may be true,” The Flea said. “But the question is for Matthew.”
Matt shrugged “Would he pay for all of them?” He nodded, a little too slowly. “Sure. I guess so.”
“We will know soon enough,” The Flea said. He smiled, the smile of a child who pulls the legs off live baby birds. “Now, you all behaved very well . . .”
Tigre forced Eva to strip, then stood her naked in front of the fireplace with the rest of the group. Steven looked as though he might cry, but Eva stood beside him, chin up, defiant.
The men went through everyone’s clothing piece by piece. La Pulga searched Steven’s clothing, and Bo saw him stuff the expensive engagement ring into his pocket. Bo said nothing, thinking this little bit of information might come in handy in the long run. After they’d searched the clothes, the guards led their prisoners individually to the far corner of the room for a more thorough search, in full view of their friends. Quinn wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d been to jail before, but the event did give him experience being strip searched. There was a method to it. These guys had no idea what they were doing. Or if they did, their reason behind the search was to intimidate and titillate, not to find contraband. Searching Bo, Steven, and Matt went quickly, each earning a few half-hearted boots and fists to maintain compliance. The process took much longer for the women, with Flea and his men stifling giggles, turning their captives around and around and studying them like inquisitive schoolboys poring over an anatomy textbook.
Bo shuddered to think how bad it would be had the men not feared repercussions from the judge.
At length, The Flea licked his lips and gave a shuddering sigh. He tore his eyes away from Alma long enough to look at his watch. He croaked something in Spanish. Bo recognized the word for judge.
“What are you afraid of?” Bo asked, unable to contain himself. “Are you worried your boss is going to come back and catch you in the middle your fun and games?”
Tigre grabbed Eva and started to drag her toward the doorway. Her defiant attitude vanished and she began to sob, pedaling against the tile with her bare feet, begging not to be taken away from her friends. She surely thought they were taking her away to rape her, but Bo knew men like this would want an audience.
Steven rushed forward, but Tigre kicked him in the chest. Unable to catch himself, he fell across the saddle just inside the door, dragging it and the wooden rack to the floor on top of him.
Bo took a half step. “How about you use a different hostage this time?”
Flea shook his head. “Do you volunteer?”
Bo took another step. “I do.”
Flea gave a flick of his hand and one of the men drove a brutal fist into Bo’s kidney.
Bo staggered sideways, overwhelmed with nausea and explosive pain. Alma used her body to keep him upright.
“Just stay alive,” she whispered again.
“You would not make such good insurance,” Flea said. “Apart from Miss Cortez, I am not certain anyone cares enough about you to keep you from getting killed. I would prefer to have a hostage everyone does not want to see shot in the head.”
Eva calmed when Tigre placed the muzzle of his gun to her temple.
“Hey,” Matt said. “What if I had some information that could make you a lot of money?”
Alma’s face fell. “Shut up, Matt.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Matt said.
“Information?” The Flea said.
Matt gulped. “It’s good shit,” he said. “Something you won’t be able to find out unless I tell you.”
“Is that so?” The Flea mused.
“Come on, Matt,” Bo said. “You can’t bargain with these guys.”
“Of course he can,” The Flea said. “But first, we should take care of a few things.”
“I’m telling you it’s good—”
Tigre turned his pistol toward Matt, shutting him up.
The Flea held up an open palm. “Oh, we’ll talk. I promise you that. But later, my friend.”
One of the men led Bo to the center of the room, while the others were moved to the fireplace and forced to kneel on the hard tile. Bo raised his hands away from the small of his back, but instead of removing the cuffs, one of the men grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head backward, arching his neck and pulling him to the floor. He landed on his back, hands trapped beneath him, the wind driven from his lungs.
Before he knew what was happening, a rawhide quirt was shoved between his back teeth, making it impossible to close his mouth. Tigre held his pistol on the rest of the group, while the other two tied Bo to one of the heavy timber chairs in the main room. The quirt was lashed in place like a bit and bridle, and then tied to the back of the chair, rendering his head virtually immobile—and the nerves of his broken tooth exposed to the air.
Only after Bo was restrained did The Flea step forward. He held a small plastic cooler in one hand and a pair of channel-lock pliers in the other.
Bo was vaguely aware of Steven shouting, of Eva crying again, and Alma cursing in Spanish. La Pulga, The Flea, ignored them all, focused entirely on Bo.
He dipped into the plastic cooler with the pliers.
“When I was in school,” he said, “my rugby coach told that cold is recommended to treat a variety of injuries.”
He leaned in, pressing a small piece of ice against the jagged tooth.
Bo jerked and thrashed but he could barely move his head, let alone escape. Saliva and blood drooled from the corners of his open mouth as he cursed and spat around the rawhide quirt.
The Flea touched the ice to the tooth again and again, lighting up the exposed nerve. Bo arched his back as if he were being shocked.
The Flea loomed above, pliers and ice poised just inches from Bo’s cracked lips.
“I should mention,” The Flea said. “The judge is busy seeing who is and who is not worth our trouble. She will not return for some time. So, as you can see, I can go about my studies for hours without interruption.” He touched the ice to the throbbing nerve again.
“What was it you were saying about fun and games?”
* * *
Bo regained consciousness a short time later, his head resting against the warmth of Alma’s thigh. The pain in his tooth pulsed through his skull like a flashing white light. His own breath passing over the nerve nearly brought him to tears. Alma brushed the hair out of his eyes and he looked up to see she’d been left with her hands cuffed in the front. Like him, she was dressed in nothing but underwear.
“He told me to give you this,” she said, holding up a small bottle of clove oil with both hands.
Bo nodded, turning his head like a baby bird.
She put a couple of drops directly on the tooth.
“More,” he said, moving his jaw back and forth.
Alma grimaced, tipping the glass bottle to give him a few more drops. “Swish it around, but don’t swallow,” she said. “This stuff can make you sick.”
Bo nodded, feeling immediate relief. The tooth still throbbed, but the pain was now bearable. He wanted to stay where he was, but couldn’t very well spit on Alma’s leg, so he wallowed himself into a seated position along the wall with everyone else. Steven and Eva sat together, leaning on each other for physical and emotional support. Matt was halfway across the room by himself, sulking.
All the men were outside enjoying an asado, or Argentine barbecue, around a hardwood fire.
Bo spat the clove oil out on the tile, on the side opposite Alma. “You okay?” she whispered.
“I’m fine,” Bo lied. Apart from his tooth, his head was on fire and it was a good bet that his jaw and a few ribs were shattered. Still, he had a job to do, and it helped to focus on that. He motioned at Matt by lifting his chin.
“Come on, bud,” he said. “We’re all in this together.”
Matt sneered. “Some of us are deeper in it than others.”
“Seriously,” Bo said. “There’s abetter chance of survival as a group. It’s dangerous to separate yourself.”
“Dangerous to you,” Matt said.
Bo gave up for the time being. Talking hurt his teeth—and he’d never been much of a pleader anyway. He scooted around so he could looked at Alma without turning his neck, and tried to give her a reassuring smile. With the broken tooth and the blood smeared on his face, he was pretty sure he just came off as insane.
“You’re probably wondering what I ever saw in him,” she whispered.
“Crossed my mind,” Bo admitted.
“Honestly,” Alma said. “I have no idea. He’s handsome, and not so much of an asshole when he’s not scared out of his wits.”
Bo raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Okay,” Alma conceded. “He’s always a little bit of an asshole. Guess I’m just a sucker for a pretty face.” She leaned her head against the wall, exposing the curve of her neck. “How do you think this is going to work?”
Bo shrugged. “They will have contacted Steven’s father by now.”
Steven looked up. “I’m sure he’ll pay as soon as they tell him where to send the money. Then maybe this will be over.”
“We can hope,” Bo said. “The judge is probably building files on each of us this evening.”
Matt sneered again, staring directly at Eva. “I wonder how long it’s going to be until she figures out who you are.”
“Matt!” Steven said through clenched teeth, shooting a glance toward the door and the laughing men outside.
“What?” Matt said. “You know as well as I do that she’s our ticket out of here.”