The Covert Element (30 page)

Okay. I had heard enough. I’d stalled as long as possible,
hoping to give potential rescuers a chance to find me. I wasn’t going
to have Miguel stab me in the leg.

I groaned and rolled onto my back, squinting up into the single
lightbulb as I opened my eyes.

"So he lives after all. Bind his feet with the tape while I hold my
gun at his head."

Miguel did as he was told. The barrel of the black Colt 45
automatic pointing at my right eye persuaded me to cooperate.

"Now bind him to the pole."

The second man waved his gun for me to slide over to the
support pole at the center of the concrete floor. As I did so, I noted
the horizontal 2 x 6 boards supporting the wooden floor above me
and the 12 x 12 beam whose weight the metal support pole was
designed to bear.

Once I had backed up to the pole, Miguel made my arms and
torso fast to the pole with quantities of duct tape. Apparently, the
reputation of the useful gray material had made its way south of the
border. By the time Miguel had finished, I couldn’t move. I could
barely breathe.

I hadn’t been spending my binding time idly, though. Looking
around this barren, aboveground basement, I guessed that this
house was a small fisherman’s cabin. Most likely built in the 1940s
or 50s. We were probably on one of the many small islands that
dotted this part of the Mississippi valley, isolated from all access but
air and water.

I also listened. The sounds of boat traffic on the nearby
Mississippi were intermittent, but frequent. The cabin likely fronted
on the river’s main channel. Whether boaters could actually
see
the
cabin was another matter. The builders of such hideaways often
sought out solitude. They would rather walk to the water than
endure the prying eyes of the pleasure boaters and the Sheriff’s
Water Patrol.

All of that didn’t really matter to me, as long as there was a
satellite somewhere above me to receive the GPS beacon . . . and as
long as someone was searching for me on the right frequency and
with the appropriate receiver. One might think that every boater
around would be able to receive my signal. That is not even
remotely close to true.

The transmitter in my belt beamed my location using a P-Code
encryption, normally used only by military facilities. P-Code
assured a clear channel for transmission, but required a special
receiver to decode the signal and locate the transmitting device. The
only person I could think of who would look for me on this
frequency was Beth. All my hopes of escape counted on her clear
thinking, creativity, and diligence. Oh yeah . . . speed mattered, too.

My transmitter had been active for close to half an hour by this
time. Rescue was possible. But only if Beth moved swiftly . . . and if
she had not fallen prey to a similar attack. God. I didn’t even want
to think about
that
possibility . . . that Beth would die because of my
stupidity.

"Señor Becker. You are prisoner, yes? You do good and answer
. . . we let you go. If no . . ."

His English was poor. Perhaps I could use the language
difficulties to delay matters further.

"I answer good. My mother always told me that if I was in a
challenging physical situation, the state of the mind and the
memory is most crucial to make friends." It wasn’t poetry, but I had
spoken rapidly and hoped it would befuddle the man.

He looked at Miguel. Miguel spoke to him in Spanish.

"He is speaking nonsense to confuse you."

Dammit. Good old Miguel
would
have to understand English
perfectly!

I spoke in Spanish now, with an east central Mexican accent.

"Lo siento, Señor. If you wish, we may speak your language."

We now spoke in Spanish.

"Do not play with me, Señor Becker. I am normally a
reasonable man. But if you disrespect me, my anger can be swift. Do
you understand?"

"I certainly mean no disrespect, to you or your large gun,
Señor. Please, ask your questions. I will answer the best I am able."

The man wasn’t sure if he was being disrespected yet again. He
chose to ignore the gun comment and proceeded ahead.

"You have been asking questions about drug activities near
Bellechester, Minnesota. Why?"

"I’m sort of a community volunteer for the Ottawa County
Sheriff’s Department. A professional busy-body, you might say.
Anyway, one of the things I do is pay attention when people
mention drugs. Then I tell the police what I have heard.

"Do you understand what I am saying?"

I knew he understood just fine. My Spanish is excellent. I was
stalling.

"Si, Señor. Tell me what you have heard." Even his "good cop"
tone was menacing. He needed to work on that.

"Two days ago, I was in the Bellechester bar . . . you know,
Coonie’s?"

"Si."

"While I sipped my beer at the bar, two farm kids were at a
table behind me. I couldn’t hear everything – but they used the
words ‘tweak’ and ‘crank.’ I reported this to the Sheriff’s office. That
is all I know, Señor. I swear it!"

My interrogator’s face turned red. His voice found a new level
of aggravation. He leaned forward, examining my expression. I
resisted the urge to smile.

"You are lying. Why would you and the Sheriff speak with
Señor Marsden about this thing?"

I had turned my head to avoid his breath. I now looked back.
He stepped away.

"Oh, that . . . ."

He blew a speck of dust off his gun barrel, pointing it at me as
he pretended to inspect it further.

"The cop wanted to tell that guy . . . Marsden, did you say? . . .
about some petty stealing in the vicinity. Warn him to keep an eye
out. I guess I was trying to help and warned him about the drug
thing, too. I really shouldn’t even have spoken up."
Boy, was that
true.
"I didn’t have any evidence or anything."

"So this is all you know. Nothing at all, really. And you told no
one else?"

"No one. I swear." I knew time was running out for my would-be rescuers.

"Well,
mi amigo
, if you are lying, you deserve the death I will
now bring upon you. But if by chance you speak the truth, I feel
sorry for you. You still must die."

He and Miguel both moved to my left. Nobody wants to be the
guy with blood splattered all over his Levis.

I turned toward the man with the gun. The size of the hole at
the end of a 45 is truly awe-inspiring at close range. Just as I was
about to close my eyes and meet my fate, a tiny red dot appeared on
the man’s forehead. A second later, a dark-red hole replaced the
dot. My interrogator swayed momentarily, then toppled. His gun
dropped to the floor . . . as did Miguel.

The shot had come from outside the cabin, tearing a tiny round
hole in one of the screens on the river side. Miguel crawled across
the floor toward the screened window. He ignored both me and the
gun lying near my feet. I wished that Miguel’s had been a poor
decision and would allow me to get to the 45. But no matter how I
tried, I remained secured to the post, and it to the floor. The gun
was beyond my reach. I was, nevertheless, thankful that Miguel
hadn’t decided to shoot me before investigating the attacker.

The air hung still in the cabin basement. The only sounds were
the annoying hum of an occasional mosquito and the boat traffic on
the river. The second man’s blood had begun to pool around his
neck and torso.

Having reached the cinder block wall safely, Miguel positioned
himself directly below the screen window. He rose slowly from his
stomach onto his haunches. Perspiration ran freely down the sides
of his face. With his pistol ready, he raised his head just high
enough for him to peer over the window ledge.

As his eyes cleared the sill, the knuckles of a huge fist smashed
through the screen and into his forehead, sending him sprawling
backwards. My eyes followed Miguel. He was out cold. I looked
back to the window. Presently, Bull’s face appeared outside the torn
screen.

"Any more?" he whispered.

"Not that I know."

"I’ll go check. You wait here."

His face disappeared.

I heeded Bull’s recommendation to remain where I was – taped
to the pole. I watched Miguel for signs of consciousness. He didn’t
even twitch. Having been on the receiving end of Bull’s finger flicks,
I could only imagine the impact his fist would deliver. I doubted
Miguel would be waking up soon.

After another minute or so, Bull entered through the screen
door carrying his M4 rifle, complete with sound suppressor and
laser sight.

"You okay?"

He was looking at Miguel’s inert body as he asked the
question."

"You asking him or me?"

"I see you’re okay." Bull kicked Miguel’s pistol across the room.
Apparently satisfied that Miguel was not a threat, Bull pulled out
his Ranger knife and loosed my bonds.

"Yeah, I’m okay. How about Beth? Is she safe?"

"She’s safe. I’ll tell you more later."

Together, Bull and I zip-tied, then taped, the unconscious
Miguel to the pole. I added extra tape, covering his mouth and
circling his head.

There really was not much to be done about the other guy.

"I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, my friend. What
took you so long?"

"You should tell me before you do somethin’ stupid."

It’s hard to argue with Bull. He has a way of finding the truth of
every situation.

When Miguel had been correctly packaged, Bull picked up his
rifle . . . and the two pistols . . . and headed out the door.

"Hold up. I’m coming."

Before binding Miguel, I had snapped a pic of his face with my
phone. I now rolled the other man’s dead body face up and took a
shot of him as well.

I heard the boat’s motors start. I bolted for the door.

"Bull . . . wait for me."

CHAPTER FORTY

After a boat ride downstream from the "cabin from hell," as I
would forever remember it, Bull pulled his Ranger fiberglass bass
boat into its slip in Red Wing’s upper harbor. Bull didn’t fish much .
. . at least as far as I could tell. But when he wanted to go, the twin
Mercury 115 hp outboards would get him to the fishing destination
of his choice darn fast. In fact, had it not been for the speed of Bull’s
boat, he might not have reached the cabin in time to rescue me.

Did I mention I’ve recently become a big fan of fast boats with
big motors?

It appeared that the bad guys had put their boat into the water
at the upper harbor as well, since my Honda was parked in the lot
near the ramp. Bull’s red Jeep Cherokee occupied an adjacent
parking space.

"You drive your car. Meet at my place. Got it?"

"Your place. Got it. Hey, where’s Beth," I called, as the Dakota
driving the Cherokee sped off down Levee Road.

The guy had just saved my life. But he could still tick me off.

* * *

By the time I’d pulled up outside Bull’s cabin, it appeared that
he had already tucked his Jeep into the garage. At least I didn’t see
it, or him, anywhere.