Reasonable Sin E-Book

Craig Rainey

• Herausgeber: Craig Rainey Creative, LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

A federal agent with amnesia must avoid an international assassination team and save the lives of an innocent family, with no memory of his training or who is after him.
A young woman loses her job at a software company when she overhears a conversation of an international plot to overthrow the American government. She meets a handsome stranger with Amnesia.
After her brother is killed by a rogue assassination team, she must trust the questionable stranger with her life despite not knowing which side he is on.
Find out why lovers of crime thrillers are adding the Carson Brand series to their reading lists.
Carson Brand wakes up in a stranger's bed with no memory of who he is or where he has been. The beautiful stranger, Dehra, and her brother Leon, stumble upon an international plot to control the American people and the government.
With no memory of his past and the enemies who hunt him, Brand must protect his new friends from mercenaries dispatched to silence the two before they tell what they know about the plot, while avoiding his own enemies' efforts to exact revenge for actions he can't remember.
Reasonable Sin follows DEA contractor Carson Brand's flight from Cartel Sicarios into a tangled web of international corporate espionage funded by the nameless Oligarchs who stand to make billions from their global conspiracy. When the forces of the federal government turn against him to protect their part in the political coverup, Brand finds himself separated from his federal agency protection, alone and exposed.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2022 by Craig Rainey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Craig Rainey/Craig Rainey Creative, LLC

Austin, TX 78660

https://craigrainey.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Reasonable Sin/ Craig Rainey -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-7371820-1-6

OTHER CARSON BRAND NOVELS

STOLEN VALOR

DARK MOTIVE

SOVEREIGN RULE

NATIONS LAW

ALSO BY CRAIG RAINEY

MASSACRE AT AGUA CALIENTE

THE ART OF PROFESSIONAL SALES

HOODOO WAR

For David, A True Reader and Friend

When you can no longer believe what you see, look away.

- CRAIG RAINEY

Contents

PROLOGUE

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3

4

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53

Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY ON THE PASEO DE LA REFORMA. Mexico City glowed silver and alabaster as the thin air filtered the rising Sun, cool breezes flowing in thin streams like an unpredictable thermocline in tropical waters.

Dr. Carlos Ricardo Cantu, PHD of Anthropology sat behind the wheel of his small sedan, tapping his fingers nervously to the barely audible tune on the radio. He brought the car to an awkward halt at a busy intersection near the crowded Avenue Juarez. He surveyed with an eager eye an American coffee shop teeming with patrons.

The previous night’s end-of-semester celebration had stretched until early morning, leaving its mark on him in a throbbing head and weakened body chemistry. He would happily trade his overworked liver for a strong double shot latte right now. He had much to do. A late start and his weakened constitution caused him to doubt that he would catch up.

If it hadn’t been for that morning’s urgent phone call demanding he attend an unscheduled meeting in the crowded heart of Mexico City, he might have called in anyway.

Traffic moved with a languid apathy as the signal light changed. He kept a measured following interval from the dirty pink taxi ahead of him.

In the distance, over the slow moving, heavy traffic, he could see red and blue spinning lights, and the dark blue uniforms of the Policia Federal, as they directed impatient drivers around the damaged road where a giant sink hole had swallowed several autos the night before.

Gradually, he reached the cordoned off disaster site where he presented his identification and a copy of the emailed credentials, he was instructed to present to the authorities to gain access to the disaster area.

A stern-faced police officer scrutinized his paperwork before directing him to park his car behind a white portable building near the large, gaping maw which used to be the lined pavement of the Paseo de laReforma.

He left his car, glancing at the large crowd of curious onlookers pressed against the temporary fencing surrounding the sink hole. Cantu fastened his aching eyes on the ground before him as he approached the front door of the corrugated metal container which served as the command post.

His shoes rang with a metal hollowness as he climbed the narrow steel stairs and entered the noisy interior of a clammy air-conditioned office.

The narrow room was filled with serious men and women engrossed in equally serious hushed conversations. He scanned the room until he recognized Dr. Ibanez, one of his colleagues from the UniversidadIberoamericana.

Dr. Ibanez was among a tightly packed group consisting of two city politicians in expensive suits, and several police officials in highly decorated uniforms.

Ibanez acknowledged Cantu with a smile and nodded his apologies to the group as he moved towards his colleague.

“You look like the dead warmed in a microwave, Dr. Cantu,” he said in a low but amused tone.

Cantu nodded crossly, making a rolling gesture with his right hand, prompting Ibanez to get to the point.

“You have, of course, heard the reports of the sink hole appearing in one of the oldest roadways in Mexico City, but there is more.”

Cantu nodded impatiently and Ibanez looked about the room as if to root out eavesdroppers.

“The event has unearthed a find of profound significance.”

Dr. Cantu watched Ibanez with a steady gaze. He chose to exhibit a calm which would appear both reserved and considering while causing minimal anguish to his throbbing head.

Ibanez paused a moment as he measured Dr. Cantu’s reaction to his intentionally vague preface to his exciting news. His posture sagged slightly at Cantu’s stoic demeanor. He leaned in closer as he continued in a low and singularly urgent tone.

“This find is historic in its apparent age and what it says about the indigenous people who lived here more than twenty-thousand years ago.”

Dr. Cantu rubbed his temples tenderly.

“I presume I am here to see and evaluate the find. Can we take a look now?” he asked wearily.

“Dr. Cantu,” Ibanez barked in frustration. “The find is deteriorating as we speak.”

Cantu fixed the other with a confused look.

“I don’t understand,” Cantu stammered slowly. “Why are we talking about this? I am needed elsewhere today.”

“Put on those overgarments and we will make our way to the site.”

Ibanez pointed at four yellow plastic bins containing clothes and heavy boots.

Dressed in the heavy boots and protective gear, Dr. Cantu, Dr. Ibanez, and two unimpressed guides, left the portable building, making their way towards the ragged edge of the sink hole.

With practiced efficiency the guides fitted Cantu and Ibanez with Swiss Seats and rigged them with self-belaying rappelling rigs. After a brief explanation of the equipment’s workings the four men stepped to the rim of the sink hole. Turning their backs to the dark chasm, they leaned over the edge, descending into the abyss.

Awkwardly, Cantu struggled to remember the guides’ instructions as he struggled to manipulate the self-belay mechanism, descending slowly into the deep hole. As his descent into the darkness smoothed, he looked fearfully below him. The chasm was deep enough that unfathomable shadows obscured his view of the bottom of the hole. The stoutness and seemingly ample strength of the self-belaying lowering mechanism provided him scant comfort from his fear as he descended steadily into what he perceived to be a dark bottomless pit.

He recalled from radio reports broadcast during his drive to the site that at least a dozen cars and trucks had fallen into the sinkhole during the collapse. Although he searched with dread at what he might see, he saw no vehicles nor debris. He guessed that the autos and maybe the victims remained at the bottom, within the impenetrable darkness.

As they dropped beyond the reach of the climbing Sun, Cantu’s helmet light clicked on automatically. He guessed that the light was rigged with a photoelectric sensor.

As they continued their slow journey the LED light revealed the compacted dirt and jagged stones of a roughly formed wall which gradually curved away, leaving him dangling above a dark sea of emptiness.

Cantu realized they dropped into the large chamber of an expansive cavern. With a glance above, he estimated the streets and buildings sat atop a cavern roof no more than 15 to 20 meters thick. He grew worried that the sinkhole might have further weakened the strata above to the point that he might fall in danger of being buried in a larger collapse.

His heart pounded in his chest as the group descended for several more minutes until Cantu’s feet finally rested on the floor of the cavern. He looked high above him to the surface, allowing a moment for his heart to slow its trip hammer tempo. They were easily 100 meters below street level, maybe more.

With deep calming breaths Cantu looked around him. Visible in the narrow beam of his helmet lamp, he counted 20 cars and trucks piled atop, and partially buried within the loose earth and stone that had collapsed beneath them. He saw no human remains. He saw only discarded plastic bags and other debris left behind by the rescue team who had apparently removed the bodies before their arrival.

The guides disengaged his harness and released the self-belay mechanism from the heavy rappelling rope. With only a glance confirming they were moving, the guides led the way from the center of the cavern towards the dark perimeter edge of the cavern chamber.

As the small group approached the edge of the broad cavern, darkness engulfed them, pierced only by the narrow beams from their helmet lights and the broader reach of the high-powered flashlights the guides wielded. Without the aid of their LED lights and the guides’ handheld Q beams, they would have been blind in the pitch.

Travelling some thirty meters further, Cantu felt the cavern floor change from hard packed soil to a soft and sticky slime. His heavy boots squished and sucked at his feet as the floor grew increasingly more saturated. His nose was assailed by a combination of ancient sodden soil and the dankness of pungent mildew.

Their lights reflected off standing water before them. The guides altered their course slightly left then through a smooth entryway which fed into a smaller chamber. Cantu observed the arched entryway with interest. It was unquestionably man made as was the low room in which they moved.

The water was ankle deep in the narrow chamber. Cantu’s waterproof boots protected his feet as he sloshed forward. He spotted four low openings ahead in the moist, glistening wall which he guessed led to other chambers within the cavern complex.

The guides handed Cantu one of their Q beams and gestured towards the nearest opening.

Cantu’s glance moved from the guides to the dark entrances before him. Without a word, he trained the light on the nearest opening and moved towards the passageway.

Ibanez followed closely.

The dirt ceiling of the passage beyond the narrow opening was lower than the entry chamber, forcing Cantu to stoop as he followed the narrow corridor beyond the entrance into a tight narrow room, hardly large enough for he and Ibanez to occupy together.

Cantu froze at what he saw, drawing a long breath once again to calm himself. On the walls around them were intricate cave paintings. These drawings, however, were unlike any Cantu had studied in his career. The hieroglyphs and images were foreign to those he had beheld and written about over the years. What he saw at first glance convinced him that much of the hypothesis written and accepted as fact about the peoples - and the accepted theories of the sociology of those peoples - were at risk of, and likely would be completely disproven.

Cantu leaned closer to the wall to examine the intricacies of the cave drawings. The detail was incredible. Most cave paintings he had studied were simplistic and organic to the landscape and nature of the artist’s surroundings.

These were more technically detailed – more intellectually advanced.

He turned to his companion, blinding him with the Q beam.

“Are there more?” he asked Ibanez.

The junior professor shielded his eyes from the bright beam as he squinted at Cantu.

“I have seen only grainy photos taken by the rescue team who found them. They told me that each chamber here contains similar cave drawings.”

Cantu grasped Ibanez’s shoulders drawing him nearer.

“Each is as detailed and advanced as this one?” he asked with renewed excitement.

Ibanez nodded mutely.

Cantu looked at Ibanez only briefly as his interest faded in favor of this new find. The possibilities and importance of the find crowded out any other consideration.

He looked once more at the ancient drawings on the wall.

“What are these images here?” he asked of Ibanez, pointing to geometric shapes and unfamiliar winged creatures.

Ibanez made no reply. He knew of Cantu’s knowledge and experience in the area. The question was rhetorical.

Cantu moved the Q beam from image to image methodically, slowly, and deliberately. Finally, he turned to Ibanez. Cantu considered his companion absently as his mind whirled with the mysteries of the find.

You mentioned that the find was deteriorating as we speak,” Cantu asked almost as an aside. “What did you mean?”

Ibanez smiled with genuine sorrow as he looked around him in a manner that conveyed to his colleague that the answer was self-evident.

“The water all around us is rising measurably. The collapse destroyed a containment barrier to a branch of the Mexico City Aquifer. The aquifer is flooding the cavern slowly although the flow is increasing steadily. It is believed that this breach may completely reconfigure the aquifer, placing our water supply and the city’s population at serious risk.”

“My god,” Cantu muttered. He reached out a protective hand towards the cave drawings, the realization that he and Ibanez would likely be the only people ever to see these unique drawings in person heavy on his mind.

The wall was soft and moist. He quickly withdrew his hand as if stung by a bee. His palm came away with a small part of the cave drawings.

“No!” he cried.

He rotated his wrist as he looked at his hand in the light of the helmet LED. The ancient earthen tones used to create the colors of the drawing covered his hand. He had never seen the Sienna’s and Ochres used by those ancients in a wet state. It was as if he was one of the ancient artists leaving his own message on the cave walls, the organic paints wet on his hands.

He rubbed his fingers together, the muddy yellows and oranges slick and cool to the touch. He detected the faint smell of a familiar earthy sweetness.

It may have been his hangover, but he submitted to a crazy whim. He touched his tongue to the mixture on his skin.

Ibanez watched in dismay.

What was the professor doing?

He watched as Cantu lifted his head, lowering his hand in a strange gesture of helpless supplication.

Cantu stared at Ibanez with a curiously blank stare. Suddenly a grin split Cantu’s lips and his eyes widened in pleasure.

“I have never felt so happy,” Dr. Cantu announced with a laugh. His voice was free of the hushed tones of awe and mystery they had held since their entering the sacred caves.

Ibanez smiled uncertainly. His companion was acting strangely. He was unsure how to react.

“It is a tremendous find, Dr. Cantu,” Ibanez agreed, trying to raise his tone slightly to match his companion’s new energy level. “We have very little time to record this find.”

“I feel like I am floating in the air,” Cantu announced, lifting his muddied hand above him with a flourish of glee. “Like a fantastical sprite or fairy.”

“Are you still drunk?” Ibanez asked of his colleague, his words heavy with condescension.

“No,” Dr. Cantu said brightly. “My headache is gone. I feel great.”

Cantu touched his tongue once more to the paint and mud on his palm. He ignored Ibanez as he examined the free spinning of his rising good feelings. A bright euphoria lifted him, lightening his heart and freeing his mind.

He faced his frowning colleague once more.

“There is something in the paint,” he said tenderly. “There is something in the earth here. Try it.”

With an eloquent gesture, Cantu smeared mud on Ibanez’s face.

Ibanez shrunk from the gentle swipe, but not before he smelled and tasted the smeared mess. He immediately felt a giddy lightness behind his eyes.

When the guides finally entered the small chamber, impatient at their charges’ long absence, they discovered the Doctors hugging, murmuring their mutual love and respect for one another.

By the time the guides managed to bring the helplessly distracted professors back to the surface, both exhibited alarming signs of giddiness, intoxication, and most puzzling, memory loss. Neither seemed to remember his name.

Once returned to the collapse site headquarters office, impatient officials put questions to the professors. The professors found no urgency in sharing their findings with the officials. Contrarily, neither of them seemed to remember where he had been nor how he had returned from the site.

He was three days in hospital before Ibanez was able to recall any of that day’s events. When he was finally released from medical observation, he left the hospital on foot and found a phone two blocks away in a small grocery store. He placed a hurried call to his cousin Adrian.

That evening Dr. Damian Ibanez sat with his cousin Adrian Salado at a hotel bar near the sink hole site.

Ibanez downed a Tequila shot then looked around him impatiently. His cousin was frustrating him. How many times would he have to tell the story? He was afraid of someone overhearing and having him confined to a mental ward.

“He licked his hand,” Ibanez repeated to his cousin. “And he suddenly became euphoric and giddy. I thought it was a hangover. He smeared it on my face, and I lost three days to whatever it was.”

“All of this from licking his hand?” his cousin repeated for the third time.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

Ibanez pointed at his empty shot glass. The bartender moved forward to refill the glass.

Adrian Salado sat silently as he watched the bartender work. He took a long moment, thinking about what he had heard. He knew the dangers of acting without thinking first. He valued his life and that made him cautious.

A glimmer of an idea flickered then grew from the general array of an idea into the more detailed shape of a distinct plan. As his understanding grew, his thoughts arranged themselves in precise order as he carefully constructed the presentation he could give to his boss, Don Fabian Aleman Castillo, head of the Pavoroso Cartel.

Adrian had to be certain he was accurate when he presented his idea to the powerful Cartel Don. He decided he would first act with caution. He would speak with his uncle, an older, wiser man of experience and intellect. He had ties deep within the Cartel. He also owned the largest excavation and earth moving company in Mexico.

1

CARSON BRAND LOOKED AROUND HIM FOR the hundredth time. The despair he felt was magnified by the hopelessness of escaping his prison cell. His first days there had seemed insupportable within the choking stench of death and human waste that permeated the stone walls and dirt floor of his prison cell. After generations of bearing silent witness to the suffering and hopelessness of those who had borne their final days there, the ancient cellar had become the embodiment of the hell housed within. Since those first days the wretched stink of the cell had long since faded into the background of his increased misery and pain.

For the first time in his life Brand felt a helplessness to affect the circumstances of his life’s path. Even now, no more than a small spark of hope accompanied the daily hell that was his life. He despaired as every prisoner before him who had lived and died there.

Hours and days in thought-filled solitude had provided no insight towards finding the pattern that could be key to his escape. The longer he stayed, the more deranged his troubled imagination, the more remote his chances of finding the weakness in his prison that might yield his escape.

With the stolidness of the walls of this dungeon, his only chance of survival was hidden within the routine followed by his captors. To his retreating sensibilities that pattern combination seemed beyond his ability to solve.

Despite the irrational spark of hope that refused to leave him in peace, he knew he was beyond rescue or escape. His captors would kill him. It was a certainty.

He cursed as that small hopeful spark fired now. His chances were unimaginably poor. If he was to perish, better now than to abide in an insensate world of hellish torture and sickeningly torrid living conditions between those agonizing torture sessions. A clean death was preferable to being torn apart piece by piece until there was nothing left of him but those base elements that scarcely define a living creature.

He heard the guards shuffling around outside the thick plank wooden door of his cell. He looked blankly at the scratches in the rough wood where pervious occupants had clawed until their nails pulled free from their fingers.

As had been their habit every morning at this time, the guards left his cell unguarded to sneak off to the kitchen behind the main house where they loaded plates with breakfast food.

They chided him often knowing that the fragrance tortured him horribly. The irresistibly beckoning aromas incited an Amazonian-level rain forest deluge in his mouth, and a gnawing, grinding pain in his gut. Hunger even now knotted his stomach cruelly.

He pushed the grumblings of his stomach and the irresistible desire for food to the back of his troubled mind. The ever-present pain and soreness resulting from weeks of torture helped to distract him from his incessant hunger, but not much.

He groaned as he writhed to adjust his prone position on the cold floor. There was no bed, no chair, no bucket or pan for his waste. Tears burned his eyes as the memory of that day returned. Regret at trusting her was a palpable thing, flooding his mind in a wave of self-loathing. What was left of his manhood berated him for his ill-placed belief in her – or anyone who could hurt him as she did. He had risked his life for her. He had lost everything dear to him for her. He had mourned and plotted revenge for her when he presumed her dead. He had felt shame that at some level he had been

relieved that she was gone from his life. That night had changed all of that.

Unwelcome, the events leading to his capture in the Rod Dog Saloon parking lot filled his world as it had so many times since the day, she handed him over to the Cartel.

He frowned as the compounding pain of the memory rankled him. He had always trusted in his ability to react and overcome. An unaccustomed helplessness had consumed him that night. None of his training had helped.

2

(3 weeks earlier)

CHRISTINA WALKED WITH BRAND ARM IN arm as they left Rod Dog Saloon, leaning into him. Brand felt elated. Her curves pressed against him, reminding him of their nights together. The cool night air and having Christina with him gave him the most acute sense of satisfaction. He had believed her dead, placed back into the human trafficking hell from which she had narrowly escaped as a girl.

He led the way to his truck, parked in front of the strip center bar.

She pulled on his arm.

“I’m parked on the other side,” she purred with what he could only feel was the promise of a wonderful night.

“I’ll walk you to your car and you can follow me,” he offered.

She nodded her agreement.

Brand looked into her eyes for a moment, unsure of the look she gave him. The cloud that had darkened her already dusky eyes passed as quickly as it had appeared.

He followed her to the opposite side of the building where several cars were parked in the alley between the bar and a large vacant lot.

“Here I am,” she said, pointing to a black Mercedes coupe.

“Nice car,” he observed as four large men appeared from out of the darkness.

Christina stepped away from Brand.

“Sorry, Brand,” she said with real regret. “I had no choice.”

Brand stared at her in disbelief.

As one, the men converged upon him, grabbing his arms. He struggled briefly. His resistance ceased when they pressed a gun into his back, leading him to a black SUV. Slip-tying his hands and rolling him into the back of the vehicle, they took him away.

Brand tried to trace their route, tracking their turns and stops with his knowledge of the city’s streets and freeways. He was successful only for a few minutes before he lost track of right and left turns, stops at signal lights, and stop signs. From his bound position in the back of the dark SUV he saw only streetlights and the dim silhouettes of trees through the darkened windows.

He guessed that they headed south. He knew they were on a highway because of their increased speed and the grinding of the tires on grooved pavement. They travelled several hours until the SUV slowed, turning onto a rough dirt road.

As they drove, he listened to his captors as they spoke to one another in Spanish. He did not understand what they said. He picked up on single words and small phrases but was unable to follow their quiet conversations. He got the impression that he and his fate did not factor into their interests. He suspected that these grim men were accustomed to hellish deeds and gave the matter no more regard than a waiter did a meal delivered to a table in a restaurant.

Despite his predicament, Brand smiled without humor at the comparison. Who was he being delivered to? Was he the main course?

The SUV finally came to a halt. The driver killed the engine, leaving a strained moment filled only with the sounds of his captors exiting the truck with four slammed doors. The rear lift gate swung open. Brand remained in darkness because the dome lights had been disabled. They pulled him unceremoniously from the vehicle and placed him roughly on his feet. The pull ties were cut from his ankles, and he was dragged along into the gloom beyond the vehicle.

Brand ground his teeth. So, this was the end. He would die in the acrid dust, shot between the eyes. He felt no bravery, nor did he suffer regret. He felt only numbness and loss. His efforts against the cartel, even with the noblest of intentions, had been inconsequential. The idea that he had once believed his life had a purpose and that purpose was greater than himself seemed as ludicrous as it seemed vain. He decided to meet death as well as he could. These men demonstrated a disconnection learned from experience. To them he was just another task. Whether he died bravely or died as a crying blubbering coward, he knew they wouldn’t care. Why would they judge the rat caught in a trap?

He was wrong. He was not killed that night. Two of the men donned night vision goggles, dragging him through a narrow tunnel entrance made of welded fifty-five-gallon drums. The narrow steel tunnel fed below ground into a larger subterranean chamber.

They moved easily through the absolute pitch of the tunnel, dragging Brand stumbling and bumping into unseen obstacles. He was certain they enjoyed his blind journey, watching him blunder along through their NVG’s.

The descending angle of the dirt floor indicated they moved deeper into the earth. Brand knew they would soon reach a level plane before the tunnel rose once more to ground level. He had crossed into Mexico by a similar tunnel some time before. That tunnel had been flooded, and Christina had clung to him, terrified by the cold dark water. This tunnel was dry other than a thin sticky film of mud at the bottom.

Brand knew they were crossing beneath the Rio Grande River. His captors were taking him back to Mexico.

At the other end of the tunnel, they shoved him through another steel tube of barrels. He welcomed the light fresh breeze and a comparative clear vision after his blind journey through the tunnel.

They continued moving on for a few rods until they came to a caliche road where a car awaited them. They locked him in the trunk. The space was cramped, and the bumpy roads tossed him around roughly as they travelled for several more hours.

When the car finally slowed, ending its torturous motion, Brand believed they were deep within the Mexican interior. The trunk was opened, and he was dragged out and dropped onto a gravel roadbed. He looked around him, squinting in the mid-morning light. He was in the driveway of a large ‘dobe hacienda.

Shiny expensive sports cars were parked in front of the huge house. Verdant grounds with rich landscaping surrounded the house on all sides. Brand was lifted to his feet and led/dragged away from the car. Armed guards watched the prisoner escort with professional disinterest.

His captors led him around the side of the house and into the cellar of a small outbuilding beside the large hacienda. Stone stairs led to a basement door below the building. He was shoved through the door. At the end of a short hallway, he saw a rough-hewn wooden door with a large rusty padlock securing it by a rusty metal clasp.

With a rattle, one of the guards produced a ring of keys and struggled with the lock for a moment until it opened with a reluctant groan. The door swung open, and he was thrown to the dirt floor.

He twisted in the filth and dirt until he was able to balance upright on his knees. The cellar smelled of death, urine, feces, and dank earth.

He was uncertain how much of the human waste smell was the room and how much was in his pants. He had been trapped in the two vehicles for many hours.

3

FABIAN ALEMAN CASTILLO SMILED CONFIDENTLY as Michael Cervantes, his longtime lieutenant, informed him that Carson Brand was confined to the cellar below his guest house.

Castillo smiled at his private triumph. He took a moment to bask in his accomplishment. He looked away from Cervantes, unwilling to reveal the true joy that this news brought him.

Castillo’s predecessor, Pablo Rojas, had prided himself on his attention to detail. He was a man who continually preached the superiority of the leader who attended to those details. He was often critical of Castillo’s tendency to visit retribution upon those who failed him. The former boss had believed that if you want something done you should do it yourself. When it came to the men who served the Cartel, Rojas was the Edward Deming of the crime world. He rarely took a life for a lackluster performance.

When Rojas’ subordinates failed, he had seen personally to the capture of Carson Brand, the American spy. His carefully detailed plans, however, failed to save him. Even the large force of handpicked men he had taken with him had failed to save him. And now Castillo was in charge. If Rojas had properly motivated his men and left the dirty work to those who feared failure, maybe Castillo would not be running the organization today.

In addition to assuming the role of head of the Pavoroso Cartel, he had successfully united all three major Cartels, creating the most powerful crime syndicate in the world. Rojas had told him personally that the idea of uniting the Cartels was nothing more than “Blue Sky.” Rojas was given to using Corporate American Terms. Rojas had considered himself more a CEO than a crime boss.

Castillo believed the vanity of Rojas did more to kill him than Carson Brand ever could. The Cartel was a criminal enterprise. Castillo was wise in that he never allowed himself to forget that. There is no C suite architecture in his deadly organization. There was no golden parachute for outgoing heads of the organization. This was a life of contrition. The ultimate survival of the fittest scenario.

Castillo took his seat behind his large desk. Despite his resolve to remain soberly composed, a smile brightened his cruel face. With a gesture he had summoned Brand before him. During his reign Rojas had access to the same people and resources as Castillo. Rojas had wielded the same authority as Castillo. Rojas, however, lacked the intellect and control of his organization that Castillo possessed.

“Does he stink of piss and shit,” Castillo asked of Cervantes with a sneer of displeasure. This was not his first prisoner delivery.

“Si.”

“Clean up the dog before you bring him into my house.”

“Si, Patron.”

Cervantes withdrew from the large room where Castillo controlled the operations of his organization. Castillo pointed at one of the large windows in his office. An armed sentry watched the boss intently.

Castillo beckoned him silently.

The man moved quickly to 10-foot-tall double doors leading to the wide covered porch beyond. The sentry entered, silently taking his place before Castillo’s ornate wooden desk.

“Bring three guards to me. A prisoner is to be brought here and I want you and those men to secure him.”

The sentry nodded, leaving with a rapid step once more by the large double doors. Closing them silently, he was immediately gone from view.

Within half an hour Brand stood wearily before the Cartel boss flanked by four armed guards. His newly provided damp, ill-fitting clothes, and disheveled wet hair hinted at the brutal cleansing he had received from the thugs with a high-pressure hose.

Cervantes stood to the side of the group, watching intently. He knew of this prisoner’s killing of his old boss and the miraculous escape he had achieved afterwards. Cervantes’ hatred for the man was obvious to all including the prisoner.

Cervantes relived a private fantasy he had nurtured since the day he had learned of the killing of his boss. It included, among many things, a slow and excruciating death for the American. He had loved Rojas like a brother. To the thug, the American’s murdering him was a personal thing.

Cervantes glanced at his gloating boss. He was certain Castillo would not last as long as his predecessor. The man was too arrogant. He mistreated the men, punishing failure with openly displayed cruelty, making each an example for the others.

Cervantes doubted Castillo’s inevitable death would elicit as strong an emotion within the cartel as the loss of the Don who had preceded him. He tolerated Castillo because his life depended upon it. That being said, no one retired from the job. All were removed feet first. Unless he missed his guess, Castillo would fade away more quickly than most.

“Mr. Brand.”

Castillo addressed the prisoner from behind his desk.

“Your days of being a pain in the ass have come to an end. Although you are a nuisance, I want to thank you for helping me ascend to my current station.”

Brand eyed the cartel boss critically but made no reply.

“You have nothing to say for yourself?”

“Thanks for the shower.”

Castillo nodded to the guard.

The sentry Castillo had initially summoned to his office struck Brand in the midsection with an AR style weapon.

Brand doubled over but was held upright by the guards.

“It would be wise,” Castillo spat angrily. “If you watch your mouth, asshole.”

Brand inhaled painfully and straightened once more.

“Understood,” he said in a faint voice.

“I have many questions for you,” Castillo continued, his tone mild as he mastered his rage. “You will tell me who you work for and what your federal government has learned about our operation from you.”

Brand nodded.

During his capture by Rojas, Brand had learned that the Cartel believed him an American government operative trying to infiltrate their organization. At the time, he had been a construction worker protecting a girl. Later he had been enlisted by the DEA as a private contractor. He had completed some training with the organization, but it had been made clear to him that he was not an agent nor even officially affiliated with any federal agency.

Castillo construed the nod as agreement with his description of the man’s role within the American Federal Government.

“Good,” he said with a triumphant smile. “The more easily you answer my questions, the less painfully you will die.”

Brand looked at the rich hardwood flooring. He saw no way out of this. He saw no point in subterfuge. He knew his death would come no matter what he said or did from this moment forward.

“Answer the question and let’s end this quickly.”

Brand looked at the floor.

Castillo shook his head sadly. His appearance of regret belied the gratitude he felt at Brand’s reticence. He wanted the man to suffer. He wanted him to linger in a region of anguish as long as he could be kept alive. His suffering would soothe the ache of humiliation he had caused him as the leader of a once feared and dreaded cartel. His remains would be hung in the public square so to speak. More accurately, he would be hung from under a bridge somewhere public. The agent would be a grisly warning against any other American interference in his operation.

He spoke with an almost tender regard to the damned captive.

“Your accommodations are significant in the history and the esteemed occupants they hosted before you arrived here. This dungeon was built by the Spanish for chieftains of the indigenous tribes who flourished here before the arrival of the Conquistadors. It is said that Atahualpa himself suffered under the ministering of Spanish inquisitors before he acquiesced to Spanish rule.

“More recently, rebellious Mexican politicians and, of course, rival cartel leaders have languished in our historic prison. Not all died, but many have. As you writhe in the remains of those before you, appreciate those others as they surely appreciated those who came before them.

“This is your last chance to speak willingly.”

Brand looked only to the floor, his mind working at a way to get at the cartel boss, a last strike before his death. He saw no opportunity.

To Castillo it was clear that the prisoner would not talk immediately. The thought of what was to become of the stubborn prisoner pleased him, but Castillo cut the air with an impatient gesture and spoke to the guards as if he were annoyed.

“Take him back to the cellar,” Castillo ordered in Spanish.

4

THAT INITIAL MEETING WITH CASTILLO SEEMED like it had been weeks before. It may have been more. It might be less. Brand had since lost track of time. His receding sensibilities told him that he could not survive much longer under the conditions to which he had been subjected.

He was still alive, and mostly lucid, so he deduced within the haze of his misery, that he had probably been imprisoned for less than a month.

During his confinement, he had been beaten and starved. The bright lights in the cellar had burned 24/7 for many days since his arrival. He could not sleep except in short moments when exhaustion dragged him into unconsciousness.

The beatings had started with his face and head. With the first beating his eyes had swollen shut, rendering him nearly blind. That had been a mixed blessing in that the lights no longer plagued him.

When the physical beatings failed to drag any information from him, his captors resorted to feeding him stale food tainted with some type of hidden filth or debilitating chemical that caused him to wretch and pass bloody diarrhea.

He had stopped eating after that. Following a week of self-imposed starvation, the guards had brought him a large meal free of whatever had been added to make him sick. Even with assurances from the guards that the food was untainted, he resisted until he finally gave in to irresistible hunger and the beckoning aroma from the filled plate.

Caution ignored for the moment, he had eaten the plate clean despite his misgivings. He was surprised when uncontrollable diarrhea and vomiting did not follow the meal.

Afterwards, he was as comfortable as he had been since his arrival. At least he was until the cellar door opened, and a large sweaty Mexican entered. He looked Brand over with open interest. He approached the prisoner with a boyish smile.

Brand relaxed reluctantly, wary of the unaccustomed friendly intent of the newcomer. This new man was the first of his captors to show any level of warm regard or pleasantness. He invested a few moments to getting acquainted with the prisoner, even sympathizing with his plight. He asked what he could do to help Brand to be more comfortable. He regretted with believable emotion that he could do nothing more for him.

In a flash, the stranger’s face transformed into a mask of maniacal fury. He kicked Brand in the ribs as hard as he could. Brand suspected that he felt a rib break under the blow. He rolled away the short distance where the filthy wall stopped him. He covered his head and pulled his legs up to protect his midsection from the continuing kicks delivered by this new tormentor.

The new man spoke as he kicked Brand in the back and sides.

“I am Rabino,” the sweaty man announced, his breath coming in gasps. “You will not leave here alive, but you will stay alive for a long time until I decide to allow you the relief of death.”

With one last kick Rabino stepped back to survey his handiwork.

“Sleep well, Volio. We will begin your new journey of self-realization tomorrow morning.”

The big man spat on Brand, turning on his heel. He stomped heavily from the cell, slamming the door with a terse word for the sentries outside.

Brand could not stifle the groans. Through his pain he heard Rabino’s receding footsteps outside. Every breath was a knife sharp agony. Every move a white-hot poker.

The next chapter of his torture began the next morning. Brand had never experienced pain like Rabino was capable of ministering. Most of the injuries Rabino inflicted were internal, causing Brand to feel weak and sick all the time. His meals no longer contained foreign toxins but were limited to stale beans and rice and one metal cup of water each day.

Despite his faculties being diminished by the torture and poor food, he maintained a rough awareness of Rabino’s and the sentries’ schedules and habits.

Rabino’s introductory threat of his tortured death convinced Brand that his only chance for survival was to find any gap in procedure or lapse in vigilance on the part of his captors.

Rabino limited his torture sessions to only a few hours in the middle of the day. Brand was certain that Rabino knew that the treatment he administered would kill him if it were plied for longer than a few hours each day. Rabino never lingered to appreciate his handiwork. It was almost as if he punched a time clock and was reluctant to stay one second longer than required.

It took only a few days of Rabino’s torture sessions before there was a lag in the guards’ vigilance towards him. Brand got the impression that they believed his will was being reduced to a sufficiently incapacitated condition where he was unable to resist or attempt to escape his incarceration.

Over the next few days, it required no acting skill to feign acquiescence or helplessness. He raged inside, beneath the agony, but he showed no resistance to the abuse nor to the sentries’ discipline. He appeared a broken and lost vessel.

Whether intentional or not, the gamble worked. Eventually the guards rarely locked the stiff, rusty, padlock on the door to his cell anymore, confident in what they perceived to be a broken man with a broken spirit, crushed by the Sadist, Rabino.

This morning, as usual, the two guards moved away from the prisoner’s door to receive their morning meal. Their voices receded into the distance as they left the outer corridor.

With a groan, Brand rose unsteadily and tested the door. As he hoped, it was unlocked and swung open stiffly on squeaky metal hinges. He peered around the edge of the door. The narrow hallway was empty. He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. He hobbled uncertainly along the short corridor, then up the few stairs to ground level. After his long time on the cold damp floor of the cellar, the effort caused his legs and ankles to cramp. His entire body screamed from his injuries, resisting his efforts to move.

At the top of the stairs, he peered around the grounds. He saw only the lush greenery of well-manicured and landscaped foliage, but no Cartel thugs. The back of the large house shone with large windows, but he saw no one looking through them. He moved his gaze towards the back of the property. A short distance from where he stood, the lush grounds surrendered their greenery for the rough sage and low trees of the semi-arid region beyond.

He felt certain that he would not get far in that rough country before he was recaptured or died from natural dangers.

Frustrated at the forces arrayed against him, including nature, he ruled out the desert as a direction of escape. Stepping carefully, he circled the small building with a limping pace. He kept the small building between himself and the main house.

Pausing at the corner, he surveyed the circular drive where he had arrived so long ago. The parking area was empty save for a shiny conversion van with a gaudy paint job parked at the nearest edge of the driveway.

Desperation guided his decisions. He saw the van as his only hope. If he could steal it, he might take his chances on the road.

Weakly, he pushed himself from the stucco wall and staggered with a lurching stride towards the vehicle. Through swollen eyelids he cast dim glances around him, alert for anyone who might notice his escape.

He arrived at the side of the van without hearing an alarm raised inside the house. He pulled weakly at the slide handle of

the side door. He cast a thankful eye to the heavens when the handle moved in his hand. The side door slid open. Inside the van were stacked boxes with labels indicating they contained electronic equipment. An array of tools was racked on the driver side wall of the van.

Brand stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him. He stifled a painful groan as he crawled towards the front seat of the van. He spotted keys in the ignition. He moved to climb over the boxes between him and the driver’s seat when he heard a voice and footfalls approaching the van. He withdrew among the boxes as the back door opened. He was adequately concealed from whomever opened the back doors and was not discovered.

“Volveré con las piezas lo antes posible,” the voice said to an unseen person.

Brand didn’t speak the language, but he recognized a tone of good-natured humor. With distinct thuds, the man loaded additional boxes into the rear of the van. He closed the rear door with a violent slam. He heard crunching footfalls as the unseen man moved forward towards the driver side door.

Clenching his teeth against the pain, Brand moved as quietly and as rapidly as possible towards the back of the van, carefully moving boxes then replacing them behind him. As he attempted to move the two boxes the man had loaded into the back, he noticed that they were heavier than those up front with none of the colorful labeling.

Brand had hardly concealed himself behind the last box when the driver side door opened and a man with dark hair settled into the driver seat. He started the engine and mashed his foot on the accelerator. The tires spit gravel and the van pitched forward violently. Fighting to regain his balance, Brand strained against the pain raking his screaming nerves as the van swayed crazily, speeding away from the house.

The driver’s cell phone rang, and he answered.