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“I reckon that’s right. The way I’m thinking, that roughing up they gave you out there ain’t going to be a pimple on a fat man’s ass compared to what they’re going to do to us next. It ain’t going to be pretty for us.”
“Or them.”
Beau laughed bitterly. “Jesus, man. has anyone ever told you you’re full of it? Look around, will you? We’re cuffed, in a locked room, waiting for a psychopathic motherfucker to come and do whatever the fuck he wants to us. This ain’t the time for bravado.”
“It’s not bravado, Beau. They should have killed me when they had the chance. They won’t get another.”
Beau was quiet for a minute. Milton assessed himself again: save his face and some bruising down his arms and trunk, there were no major breaks or internal injuries. He flexed his muscles against the cuffs. The sharp edges bit into the skin on his wrists.
“You think the girl’s still alive?” Beau asked him.
“I don’t know.”
“If she is, she probably don’t want to be.”
* * *
They didn’t have to wait long. The door was unlocked and Adolfo and another man stepped inside. He was older and bore a passing resemblance to Adolfo. His skin was u
“Hey, Adolfo,” Beau said.
“Hola, Beau.”
“I’m guessing this is your old man?”
“I am Felipe,” the man said calmly. “You are Señor Baxter, and you are Señor Smith?”
“That’s right. I don’t suppose you want to get these cuffs off me?”
The man smiled broadly. “I don’t think so.”
“I was saying to Adolfo earlier, things don’t have to be unfriendly between us.”
“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it? You came here to murder my son.”
“Come on, man. Who said I was go
Another indulgent smile. “We both know that would have been the same thing.”
Milton tensed against the FlexiCuffs again. The two men were close enough to him — if he could free his hands, he knew he could take them both — but the plastic was too strong. He tried again. There was no give at all. Dammit.
Felipe noticed him. “Señor Smith. Unlike Señor Baxter, I know very little about you.”
“Not much to know.”
“I doubt that. You are mysterious — hiding something, I think. You will tell me what it is.”
“You think?”
“They always do.”
“They’re not like me.”
“You talk a good game.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“She’s here.”
Milton sat forwards and then got onto his knees. “I’m going to give you one chance. Give her to me, give us a car and let us leave.”
“And if I don’t?” Felipe asked.
“Then it won’t go well for you.”
Adolfo stepped over and backhanded him across the face. Fragments of broken bone in his nose ground against each other and his nerve-endings.
Milton looked up at Adolfo and smiled. “Or you.”
Adolfo drew back his foot and kicked him in the ribs. Pain flared and Milton gasped out.
Felipe put a restraining hand on his son’s shoulders. “Enough. You will both stay here for now. We have business to attend to. We’ll send for you when we are ready.”
They stepped outside. The door was locked behind them.
“Come on, man,” Beau said. “What was that about? You got a deathwish?”
“Something like that.”
50
“Let me do the talking,” Pope told her. “Alright?”
“Alright.”
“If there’s anything I need to know, I’ll ask you.”
“Fine.”
A
They had been busy. The second van had peeled off for the restaurant but their first stop was to the headquarters of the municipal police for details on Lieutenant Jesus Plato. After being made to wait for an hour they had finally been directed to a block station in the west of the city. It was a small, boxy building, cut off from the rest of the neighbourhood by a tall wire mesh fence. There was a second line of concertina wire, the windows had bars and they had to wait for the door to be unlocked.
“Pleasant neighbourhood,” Pope said.
He led the way inside.
The receptionist regarded them with wary eyes.
“Teniente Plato, please.”
“Take a seat.”
A
The officer who came out to see them was old. A
“I’m Teniente Plato. Who are you?”
“Pope. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“I’m just going to smoke a cigarette. We can talk outside.”
They went back out into the humid morning.
“We’re here on behalf of the British government,” Pope began.
“That right?”
Pope took out a passport.
Plato glanced at it. “Captain?”
“That’s right.”
“Army?”
He nodded.
“That’s a coincidence.”
“How’s that?”
“Had an Englishman in here three days ago.”
“The man you arrested?”
“Didn’t arrest him.”
“But you fingerprinted him?”
“Standard procedure.”
“Name of John Smith?”
“That’s right. How’d you know all that?”
“We need to see him.”
“I need some reciprocation here, okay, Señor?”
“What did Mr. Smith tell you — about himself?”
“Next to nothing.”
“That’s not surprising.
“But there’s more to him than he’s letting on — right?”
“We’re here to help him. We work together.”
“Doing what?”
Pope made a show of reluctance. “Let’s call it intelligence and leave it at that.”
“You know he said he was a cook? What’s he done?”
“Lieutenant, please — we need to speak to him. Please.”
“You’re going to have to move fast. He’s in a whole heap of trouble.” Plato dragged down on his cigarette. “Someone he’s been helping out has got herself mixed up with the cartels. A journalist, writes about them, not a good idea. They abducted her yesterday night. This morning, your friend went out to the desert to try and negotiate with them to get her back. Didn’t go so well — the cartels, they’re not big on negotiating. Him and another man who went with him were taken away.”
“How do you know that?”
“I was watching,” he said. The answer seemed to embarrass him.
“Where?”
“Place out of town.”
“Got any idea where they’d take him?”
“Better than that — I know. I followed. Place not too far from here.”
“You’ll take us?”
Plato shook his head. “That’s not a place for a policeman like me.” Again, A
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