Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (14 page)

I nodded. “But Nietzsche only got part of it. The abyss doesn’t just gaze into you. It also focuses on those you love. The more you have, the more you have to lose. And monsters, like Hess, and Kite, and so many others, know this. If you’re born without empathy, if you get your kicks causing pain… well, there are more ways to cause it than physical torture. Such as targeting your family.”

“I haven’t had a family in a long time,” Katie said, turning and staring out the window.

I’d never been alone, and couldn’t imagine what it was like. My mother had always been there for me, and now I had a child of my own.

A child, and a husband, who put himself in danger to protect us.

Maybe Phin was okay. Maybe he would be there, waiting, when I got home.

Or maybe the abyss had him.

A
fter Lucy had her fun with the blowtorch, causing enough pain for Phin to pass out, he awoke in a cell. Iron bars on four sides, dirt floor, the size of a large closet. It was one of many cells, lining a hallway. It smelled of piss and shit and sweat.

And blood.

The overhead lighting came from bare 60 watt bulbs, hanging at intervals from extension cords, tacked to a ceiling supported by wooden pillars, like a mine shaft. He was underground. And he wasn’t alone. In adjacent cells, for as far as the dim light allowed, Phin saw other prisoners, at least thirty or forty. Men, mostly Mexican, a few Caucasians mixed in. Some were sleeping. Others sobbing.

Phin wore a peasant outfit; a dirty, itchy cotton top with a split in the collar, and matching pants secured with a length of twine. The top had #17 spray painted on the front. His wrists and ankles were bound with rusty shackles. He checked his chest, which hurt as bad as anything he’d felt before, and found it to be bandaged.

Phin sat up. His cell consisted of a bucket, a plastic cup, a plastic plate, and nothing else. As he was orienting himself, a Mexican walked down the aisle with a large, tin watering can. He stopped at each cell, sticking the spout inside and pouring water as prisoners held out their cups. Phin held out his, and his twenty ounce convenience store cup was filled to the brim. He gulped down half, then set the rest aside.

Two cells away another prisoner took off his pants and squatted over a bucket, leaving no doubt what it was for. White guy, twenties, fit, a #12 on his shirt.

“What are you staring at, asshole?” he said. “You want a closer look, I’ll throw the bucket at you when I’m done.”

So much for making friends with another gringo. Phin turned away.

“That’s right. Keep your eyes to yourself, dickpants.”

Dickpants? Seriously?

Phin avoided making eye contact with anyone else and spent the next twenty minutes carefully checking his bonds. They were old, but solid. No worn links. The locks were heavy. Maybe, with a paperclip or something similar, he could pick them.

Another ten minutes were spent checking the bars on his cell. They looked makeshift, but the iron and the welds were solid. As he was conducting his examination, a hulk of a man, swathed in prison tattoos, entered the corridor with a mustachioed guard behind him.

The guard wore Phin’s Tony Lama cowboy boots.

He locked the scary-looking musclehead in the cell across from Phin’s, then handed him a six pack of Tecate beer. Phin noted that his ink was mostly white supremacist nonsense. He didn’t know his name, but written across the man’s abs were the words
JEW KILER
. Missing an L.

Kiler. It rhymed with Tyler.

Then the guard faced Phin. “You. Come with.” Phin noted the cattle prod hanging from his belt. He also saw another guard at the end of the aisle, who was armed with a Tec-9.

“If you win, new blood,” Kiler said, “you give me the beer. You hear me? Give me the beer and I’ll kill you quick.”

Phin stayed docile as the guard opened his cell with a key from his ring, and allowed himself to be ushered past the rows of cells. Walking in chains wasn’t easy, and he had to take small, awkward steps. After twenty meters he came to a metal door. The Tec-9 guy kicked it twice, and an eye-level slot in it slammed opened. After a visual check, a third guard unlocked the door, and Phin was led up an incline paved with cement. A waft of fresh air, hot and dry, caught him as he walked to the surface and into—

What the hell?

Phin found himself standing inside some kind of open arena, completely surrounded by a circular wooden wall. Beyond the wall, bleachers stretched out in a bowl-shape, stadium style, twenty rows high. An audience of maybe a hundred people looked on, some cheering, some booing, Phin was forced into the center of the ring.

Already standing, wearing chains identical to Phin’s, was a man who looked to be in his late fifties. Mexican, short and stout, his expression somewhere between terror and disbelief.

Phin saw a scoreboard. Someone had scrawled in large numbers:

Opposite the scoreboard, in a balcony, were Luther and Lucy, dressed in purple and gold Halloween costumes, capes and crowns and robes. They looked like Mardi Gras versions of royalty.

It was night, but Phin couldn’t see the stars because of the bright lights illuminating the area. He spotted several more guards, including two with mounted 7.62mm machine guns. And at the far end of the arena…

A man bound to a large, wooden cross. His head was down, and Phin couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. If not, it wouldn’t be long.

The loudspeaker crackled.

“Last call for bets, last call for bets. Number 17, new blood, against Number 8, with one win. Weight and age advantage to Number 17. Bets on Number 8 pays two to one. The weapons for this match… machetes.”

A guard approached and dropped two machetes into the dirt at their feet, then unlocked their chains. Phin rubbed his wrists and watched as his older opponent quickly reached for his weapon, wielding it with two hands.

“A la muerte?” Phin asked.

The man nodded, already sweating and obviously terrified.

A sick feeling began in Phin’s stomach, quickly growing to the point where he had the need to vomit.

“Vamos!” a guard ordered.

Phin watched as both machine gunners swung their long barrels in his direction. He bent down and picked up the machete. The handle was sticky with blood, the blade nicked with dozens of indents. But the tip was sharp, the weapon lethal.

However, the last thing Phin wanted to do was kill the poor, old bastard standing in front of him.

There was a crashing clang, and Phin saw Luther had hit a large Chinese gong with his scepter.

Letting out a strangled war cry, the old man raised the machete and ran at Phin. Phin used his own weapon to parry the blow, then dropped a shoulder and knocked his opponent to the ground.

A lackadaisical cheer rippled through the crowd.

Phin had a chance to land a killing blow, but he lowered the machete. He had no inclination to kill the poor son of a bitch. Especially for the amusement of Luther and his twisted brood.

“Debes luchar, o va ser crucificado!” the guard yelled.

Fight, or be crucified.

The man got up off the ground and began to attack Phin, slashing back and forth as if he was cutting through a cornfield, leaving himself open again and again. Phin backed up, countering the swings, not wanting to hurt him.

Boos from the onlookers. Phin wondered how much each of them paid to gain admission, how many pesos to witness this sick spectacle. He noticed the crowd was mostly men, mostly well dressed, roughly half Caucasian and half Hispanic. Rich perverts, each of them no doubt involved with some illegal enterprise. Phin couldn’t see any of them up close, but he was able to spot a few bodyguards among the crime lords. So along with the guards, there were armed protectors as well.

Escape was looking less and less likely.

Countering his adversary’s swinging machete was growing tiring. Phin ducked a strike, and then punched his opponent in the nose, staggering him backward. He caught his breath, and found he’d gotten close to the crucified man. Phin glanced up at him, saw the unlucky son of a bitch’s chest was still rising and falling, though in an intermittent, labored way. On the crosspiece several crows had assembled, waiting for their chance to feast.

There were a lot of ways to die in this hellhole, none of them good.

Phin again had to back up as his attacker advanced. One swipe was so close it caught Phin’s shirt, cutting a swath across the front, bisecting the painted number on his chest.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Phin said. “No lucha.”

“Tengo familia,” he sputtered, eyes wide.

“Yo también. A child.”

“Lo siento.” As the man apologized, he lunged again, but had switched to an overhead attack. Phin blocked, but the back of his own machete hit him in the scalp, hard.

There was a bright flash, followed by dizziness, followed by blood streaming down into Phin’s eyes, blocking his vision.

The crowd applauded.

The old man advanced.

On blind impulse, Phin lashed out, catching his fellow contestant across the throat.

The man immediately dropped the machete, both hands clasping his neck, trying to staunch the flow. But the cut was deep, a vein or artery. Within ten seconds he dropped to his knees, the sand around him turning to crimson mud as the blood spurted in time with his heartbeat.

Phin’s first impulse was to help the man. But how? This guy needed an ER and a surgeon with a full medical team. Unable to save him, Phin squatted, put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and forced himself to hold his gaze. The doomed man’s eyes went from panic, to something softer.

Acceptance?

Forgiveness?

One last human connection before the mortal coil shuffled off?

After a minute, his eyelids fluttered, and he slumped onto his side.

The gong rang.

Phin stood. Armed guards ordered him to drop the machete. He did, and was put back in chains and led back to his cell. A Mexican in a dirty white lab coat was waiting for him. He motioned for Phin to bend down, and repaired the gash in his scalp with superglue. Then he gave Phin some blisterpacks of pills.

“Antibiotics. Tylenol.”

“Hippocratic oath,” Phin said.

The man smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “I’m not a doctor, gringo.”

“Got anything stronger than Tylenol?”

“That’s coming up right now.”

The guard wearing his Tony Lama boots locked Phin in his cell and gave him a lukewarm six pack of beer.

“Nice work, new blood,” Kiler said. “Now hand over the brew.”

Phin was sick to his stomach, and his head thrummed steadily in the key of C. He closed his eyes, and saw the face of the man he’d just killed.

“You hear me, asshole? Give me the beer. Do that, and I’ll kill you quick when we face each other. If not, I’ll make it real bad for you.”

Phin turned his back to Kiler, and popped the tab on a tepid Tecate.

“I’m talking to you, you little punk!”

The first beer went down in three sips.

The second one just as fast.

By the third, Kiler had stopped yelling, and Phin was able to keep himself from crying by thinking about Jack and Sam. Hopefully they were still in Florida with Grandma.

Hopefully.

T
here was something off about that new guy, Hanover.

While it wasn’t beyond reason that Hanover could be related to someone they’d killed, he’d remained too cool when they’d had him in the playroom. Revenge was a hot-blooded thing. And being tortured tended to break people’s minds. But Hanover didn’t seem to have that vengeance streak, and he weathered the blowtorch like a man who’d been at the mercy of sadists before.

Then, in the arena, Hanover had carried himself like a seasoned fighter. Someone with experience.

Someone with secrets.

K should have spotted that something was wrong.

But, then again, K had something off about him, too.

The Luther Kite that Lucy had met so many years ago was as savvy as he was deadly. The word that came to mind was
meticulous
. He had a cunning, deliberate way about him, like a dancer whose every step was calculated. Not a single, wasted move.