above. Two men, Gentry could tell, one wearing heavy boots and the other soft shoes.
Within seconds the two new men arrived in the dungeon. One was a Black Suit. Young and well-groomed, he wore the short hair, goatee, and mustache combo common with the leadership of the criminal organization. An HK UMP submachine gun hung from a sling over his right shoulder.
The man’s fine suit and clean face contrasted with the sick sights and smells of this basement hellhole.
And the man next to him contrasted with the dungeon as well. He was American. White, thin, curly brown hair. He wore a wrinkled short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis.
Court rolled his eyes.
Jerry Pfleger.
Court scowled at him as he stepped into the light. Dryly, Court said, “My fellow American.”
The young American embassy staffer looked around the room, clearly taken aback by where he found himself. He was shocked, out of his league, and frightened. He tried to mask it, but Court saw the horror on his face.
“Why is he still alive?” Jerry asked the men in Spanish as he moved into the room.
Pfleger kept looking around the room; clearly, he could smell the death, see the stains on the walls and floor. He knew what this place was. What went on there. He shook it off and looked at Court. “I’m a businessman, dude. It’s the American way. I insisted on coming here to . . . protect my interests in this enterprise.”
Court said, “They are going to kill the girl; they want to kill her sister-in-law and her unborn baby.”
Jerry nodded. Clearly, he at least suspected this if he did not know it for sure. “Sucks to be them.”
“You did this for money?”
Jerry nodded then shrugged. “It’s more than money, actually. I am making a statement.”
“What statement?”
“The statement is, dude, I hate it here.”
“You hate Mexico?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Gentry did not respond.
“Yeah, well, you’re banging a hot little beaner, so you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”
“You are a trained diplomat? Christ.”
“Have you ever been to Denmark?”
Court lied. “No.”
“Denmark is the shit. I went to college in Denmark; I speak Danish, know the backstreets of Copenhagen like the back of my hand. I get hired by State, and where do those idiots at Foggy Bottom fucking send me? Denmark? Finland? Norway? Fuck no! Mexico! Are you kidding me? Four years punching visas for beaners. Fuck that! As long as I’m stuck down here, I’m going to make a little dough along the way.”
“And you’re making money by handing Laura over to de la Rocha?”
Jerry smiled. “Oh . . . you don’t get it, do you.”
“Get what?”
“I’m handing the girl to DLR, yeah. But that’s a freebie. I’m making my money handing
Gentry shook his head. Slowly, he said, “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry. Think about that for a second. What is Langley going to do when they find out a consular affairs officer is working with the Black Suits? You’ll never get that posting to Copenhagen.”
Jerry smiled again, like he was one thousand times smarter than the naked man in chains.
“Los Trajes Negros do the handoff to the CIA, and then they give me the reward. I get the reward, and I’m outta here. Outta Mexico, outta the State Department.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I have a deal with the man himself. DLR.”
“Deals with the devil usually don’t pay off in the long run, kid.”
“He’s a businessman. I’m a businessman. It’s all good.” Then he looked to the Little Butcher, who’d been standing patiently as the men spoke English. In Spanish Jerry said, “That some sort of electricshock machine?”
El Carnicerito nodded.
“Then juice this
The Little Butcher smiled and grabbed an old leather wallet from the table. “Open your mouth, please. We cannot have you biting your tongue off when we still need you to talk.”
Court did as he was told; he knew what was coming, and he knew the leather in his mouth would help. He moved his tongue away from his teeth, bit down hard, and the Little Butcher turned the dial.
Current ripped through Court’s body, from his toes to his anus to his neck. His back arched, his eyes protruded, and a vibrato cry emitted from deep in his throat behind the wallet.
After a few seconds the dial was rotated back down. Fresh sweat shone on the prisoner’s face and chest.
The torturer stopped for just a moment. Pulled the wallet from his prisoner’s mouth. “Where is Elena Gamboa?”
The wallet was returned to Gentry’s mouth, and he bit down. Electricity pulsed through his body again. His head slammed backwards uncontrollably, slamming his skull into the iron grate behind him.
The torture was stopped. The wallet removed. The question repeated.
“Where is Elena Gamboa?”
“Kiss my—”
The wallet was put back in place. The shocks grew stronger, the pain more intense; the muscle spasms wrenched his body in all directions.
The Black Suit and the two
Jerry Pfleger looked away.
Minutes later a technical glitch in the machinery allowed Court a respite from the agony. The Little Butcher worked on his electroconvulsive device, and the protege returned down the stairs with a bag of groceries.
Gentry’s blurred vision followed the young man’s movements as he stepped to the table and pulled items from the bag.
An empty plastic pitcher, a large bag of salt, a bottle of rotgut tequila, and a large bag of limes.
Court groaned and let the now shredded leather wallet fall from his mouth to the floor. Immediately, he regretted his show of dread. It would only bolster the fat man. The Little Butcher turned his attention from the machine, and he began slicing the limes in half. The protege sliced as well; together they looked like a couple of bartenders in a beachside cabana bar. Helped by his assistant, together the two men squeezed the juice into the pitcher and then tossed the peels in behind the juice.
The assistant poured the alcohol on top, and el Carnicerito opened the bag of salt.
Court even managed a quip. “I’ll take mine with no salt.”
The three other Mexicans in the room watched with curiosity. They laughed and joked amongst themselves, but Court wasn’t in the mood to concentrate on translating their fun so that he could understand it.
When the pitcher was full of tequila, salt, and lime juice, the torturer hefted it and walked forward to the naked prisoner. He held it up in front of Court’s face, slapped him a few times to make sure he had Court’s attention, and then the butcher fiddled with a tiny piece of broken glass stuck just below the American’s right nipple.
“Can you imagine how this will feel inside your swollen open wounds?” The man smiled as he spoke.
Gentry said nothing.
“I will ask you where Senora Gamboa is hiding. But please . . .
The
Court nodded, took in a long breath, and then spit in the face of the cruel little Mexican. The Little Butcher’s assistant ran forward and punched Court in the nose.
The fat man did not wipe the spit away. Instead he smiled and said, “You only make my job more enjoyable. In a couple of hours when I saw your head off of your living, breathing, flailing body, I will feel pity. A pity that the day is done.”
