Resurrecting Midnight (18 page)

Señor Rodríguez said, “Sir, my car battery died about ten minutes ago, sir.”

Medianoche asked, “Where did you get a car battery?”

“Sir, took it off one of the hackers’ cars, sir.”

The Beast said, “There is a spare inside the trunk.”

Medianoche handed a pair of booties to The Beast. Same for the gloves.

Señor Rodríguez came to the trunk and took out the spare car battery.

When they had pulled booties over their handmade Italian shoes, they stepped inside the warehouse, pulling on the surgical gloves. What Medianoche inhaled at first reeked like a spoiled slumgullion. Faint screams came from above, one level up. Two hours of pain had lessened the volume. The walls of the warehouse were blackened from a fire that had happened a long time ago, its disgusting odor still in the concrete. Bodies were in the debris and on the stairs. Young men and young women. There were only two left. The ones who ran this operation.

Medianoche had already pulled out his gun, so had The Beast. They followed Señor Rodríguez. Puddles of water were at the bottom of the stairs; that puddle of stench grew as a stream of water ran down the stairs, stairs that were as broken as the North American dream.

The temperature was right above freezing. The brick walls kept in cold and refused heat.

Medianoche heard coughing, gurgling. Heard muffled screams.

Medianoche led the way and The Beast followed. They made their way up the shattered stairs. Walked into a concrete room that, relative to that trash and stench they had seen when they entered, was surprisingly clean. Señorita Raven was covered in plastic; garbage bags cut apart and pulled over her head, another around her waist, like a plastic dress that hung to the ground. She held a filthy water hose in one hand. In front of Señorita Raven, tied to a chair that had been turned on its back, was a middle-aged man, his head covered in a dirty towel. That towel was as dirty as the river, had been taped to the man’s head with only small holes cut in the ratty material, holes for his mouth and nose. Very small holes.

The man’s clothing had been cut away.

Señorita Raven let short bursts of water run onto that towel. The subject was struggling, panicking, unable to scream or too much water would get inside his mouth and nose. When the water wasn’t running, the dampness from the towel continued, and with every inhalation he sucked in more water. The power of water was amazing. Damage to the lungs. Extreme pain. Brain damage. Eventually death. It had been going on for the past two hours. Water torture. Like in the Spanish Inquisition. Like under the Bush administration.

Other side of the room, there was a woman. About thirty years old. Overweight. Short. Spanish. Naked in a cold and damp room. Her breasts sagged. Her vagina was bushy.

She was positioned where she could see Señorita Raven’s rendition.

The woman saw Señor Rodríguez walk in with the car battery and tried to scream, the gag inside her mouth muffling her hysteria as she fought in vain and struggled against her bindings. That woman was tied to a rusty, dented metal door. Clamps were on her nipples and inner thighs. Those clamps were hooked up to a dead battery. She had been left alone for ten minutes. That was how long ago the first battery had died. Ten minutes to feel relief from close to two hours of living in the basement of Hell. Now there was a brand-new battery.

Señor Rodríguez said, “What were you saying, Señorita Raven?”

“I was talking about wanting to get out later.”

“Okay.”

“I need to get out. Want to head down to Puerto Madero and lease a bike and ride on the dirt trail. Or take the train to Anochorena. Everybody is down there playing volleyball and Frisbee and flying kites. Soccer fields. Tennis courts. But it might rain. So I might run my daily 10K, do PTs, shower, grab a bite at Monaco, then spend all night on Facebook. With the rest of the bottom-feeders and losers. Like I do almost every night.”

“You spend a lot of time on Facebook.”

Two people experienced torture, set free muffled screams as she rambled.

Medianoche grimaced and said nothing. Wasn’t his show. Not yet.

They wanted the prisoners to see them, wonder who they were before they spoke.

The Beast said, “Soldiers. What you’re doing is cruel. That is absolutely cruel.”

Señorita Raven stopped talking. Then she put the water hose down and moved away.

The Beast said, “Have you no empathy? These are human beings. My God.”

Señor Raven disconnected the battery cables but didn’t move the battery.

Medianoche stood in front of the terrified woman. He removed one of the clips and saw desperate hope in the woman’s eye. Saw the diminution of her pain. Her bruised flesh held a magnificent rich and brilliant incarnadine color. He made an apologetic face. Then smiled at her.

He said, “I will make these evil people stop. Just tell me everything you know.”

He thought of his voice as romantic, but not seductive. Charming. All he needed was sappy music to partner with his melodramatic acting, something to hoke up the dark moment.

Behind him, The Beast stood over the drowning man, and in a kind voice said the same. He pulled the towel away from the man, let him breathe. The man hadn’t had fresh air in almost two hours. The Beast moved the towel but didn’t turn off the running water. That simple sound of trickling water kept terror in the prisoner’s eyes, held the desperation in his voice.

The Beast gave instructions, told Señor Rodríguez and Señorita Raven to leave the room, to collect all of the hardware on site and begin loading the equipment inside his car.

The Beast asked questions. Medianoche asked the same questions, as if an echo.

Both hostages told of the same thing. DMAs. Dead Money Accounts. Offshore accounts. Accounts in Zurich, others that spread from Andorra to Singapore. Money tucked away in the Caribbean. Hidden in Liechtenstein. Money that thrived under the veil of bank secrecy. Tax evasion money. Drug money. Stolen money.

Both mentioned the name Hopkins.

The Beast asked who was in charge of this operation.

Medianoche asked the same.

Both prisoners said the same name. Scamz. Both trembled when they mentioned that name.

He was one person. But he was in charge of many. In the UK. In North America. Now in South America. One of the satellite phones they had found inside the warehouse was a direct link to wherever he was on the planet.

They said he had died ten years ago and come back to life. Said Scamz was so evil that the Devil had set him free to keep him from taking over Hell.

Medianoche asked what Scamz was after.

The package was what he needed.

The package that now belonged to The Four Horsemen.

The Beast asked, “How do I find the person that you call Scamz?”

Medianoche asked, “Scamz, tell me how to get in contact with him!”

Both prisoners answered. The same answer. The same screams.

They repeated that along with the computer, there was a phone, a satellite phone.

The Beast asked what information was on the computer.

Medianoche asked the same.

On the computer there was information about Scamz.

And someone named Arizona.

And new files on someone named Gideon.

The Beast said, “Code name: Gideon.”

Medianoche shook his head. Had never heard of Gideon.

The woman begged Medianoche, “Will you let me go? I have a son and a daughter. . . .”

On the filthy and broken concrete ground below her there was a puddle of piss. And shit. The stench of fear. And the woman wanted to get home in time to feed her children.

Medianoche whispered, “I will not kill you. I will not harm you. I will not touch you.”

The Beast told the same to the man he questioned.

Medianoche said, “Just a few more questions.”

The Beast spoke next, knowing they would alternate talking and questioning, and said, “A few more questions, and I will be done.”

Medianoche said, “Scamz.”

The Beast said, “Arizona.”

“Gideon.”

“What other names are you leaving out?”

“Who else is involved?”

“Who else besides the names you have given?”

“Are you sure the one called Scamz is the leader of that group?”

“Are they mercs?”

“Tell me all you know.”

Thirty minutes went by.

The Beast had the satellite phone brought to him. He pushed in the numbers.

A female voice answered.
“¿Sí?”

There was a pause. Then the female voice became tight and asked, “Who in the hell is this?”

“Is this the one they call Arizona?”

There was another pause. “Who are you?”

“Put Scamz on. I have taken control of this operation.”

“Where are the employees?”

“Chatting with Jesus or Beelzebub. Depends on how they lived their lives.”

A moment later. “
Sí
. Someone wants Señor Scamz. This is Señor Scamz.”

“Wonderful to hear your voice.”

“I believe you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I have half of the prize. I have one of the packages.”

“And I guess that makes me the man who has the other half of what you want.”

“You’re British.”

“You’re American.”

“I have your equipment. This operation has been shut down.”

Scamz said, “My people?”

“Unfortunate accidents. All but two. The leaders.”

“I take it you are the gentlemen who met with my associates from Uruguay.”

“We were paid to meet with them. Paid by Hopkins. Now there is no Hopkins.”

Scamz paused. “The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“
Sí
. I’m flattered you have heard of us.”

“Soon you will hear about me.”

The Beast smiled. “Soon.”

“Yes, soon.”

“Guess there is no room for compromise.”

“Too much blood has been spilled.”

The Beast nodded. “Agreed.”

“What you have is no good without what I have.”

“Same goes for you. But I think you’ve invested more. You have more to lose. For me, it’s all gain. I heard Hopkins took you for a lot of money. You need this to make a profit.”

The phones disconnected.

Two important devices were inside the equipment they had confiscated, both tracking devices. Both the size of a small cell phone. One had an amber light. The other red.

The woman who was being held told what the devices did.

The one with the amber light tracked one of the packages, the one The Four Horsemen had. That amber light meant that it was within range, could be pinpointed, given time.

The one with the red light tracked the other package. The one that Scamz and his organization had was out of range. Wasn’t inside Argentina. Not yet.

The drowning man said the same.

The Beast made sure the booties were secure over his shoes, then stood up.

Medianoche did the same, went to the drowning man.

The man to whom he had made no promises.

The Beast went to the woman who had been tormented by electricity.

A broken woman to whom he had made no promises.

Medianoche pulled out his gun. The Beast did the same.

Four gunshots. Two more than necessary.

Then Medianoche followed The Beast down the concrete stairs. Dead bodies all over. No big deal. Lots of squatters in the area. Paseo Colón and Brasil streets had three-story buildings occupied by at least three hundred squatters. Violent evictions where squatters battled with the federal police and the border guard. There had been enough drug raids where the police had seized
paco
cocaine, the low-cost paste cocaine consumed by the low-income sectors. Or the ephedrine trafficking network, this might be seen as an extension of their killing spree. This bloodbath would get added to some list at some point.

The Beast looked around. “Is one of the bodies missing?”

Medianoche looked. “You think one of them got up and walked out of here?”

“There was a body there. On the stairs. I stepped over the body.”

“Knowing Señorita Raven, she kicked it off the landing just to watch it fall.”

Medianoche stood next to The Beast.

The Beast was fixed on that spot where he said a body had been.

Something wasn’t adding up.

He didn’t have to be Edmund Hlawka to see the numbers weren’t adding up.

Medianoche said, “Rodríguez said they had taken out five hostiles. And four were left.”

“Two were still breathing when we got here.”

They walked, counted the dead.

Five and four. Nine. Only eight bodies.

Medianoche pulled out his gun, on full alert.

The Beast had already done the same.

Medianoche pointed. “Blood trail. Hard to see in this darkness.”

“No footprints in the blood. We came that way. One of us would’ve stepped in the trail.”

“They had to have moved after we came.”

“When all of us were up top, one of the dead got up and walked away.”

Medianoche asked, “You see the directional pattern of the blood, right?”

“Elongated. Tail the opposite direction from where we were.”

“The pattern of escape.”

The Beast said, “Drops are close. Some overlapping drops.”

“Somebody staggered out of here. Wounded and barely able to walk.”

“If one of them made it out of here, they won’t make it far.”

“A dying kid staggering out of here, not the ideal situation.”

The Beast nodded, then walked to the others. He put bullets in the remaining bodies. Each shot a kill shot. His frown showing his displeasure.