Then Guapo pointed a Glock to his smashed nose and asked him for descriptions of the four gringos who had executed the raid on the house in Puerto del Hiero. All Marion could remember was that they were Navy SEALs from a base in Virginia.
Slipping in and out of consciousness, he repeated that information twice and described the four men as best he could.
“Should we do the guiso?” Osito asked, pointing to some empty oil drums along the wall. The guiso was the practice of putting a victim in a fifty-five-gallon drum, pouring gasoline over him, and setting him on fire.
“Not here,” Guapo said. “Too much smoke.”
Instead, they stripped him naked, shot him in the groin, carved the word “rata” into his stomach, then used rope to string him and Selvina by their ankles from a pipe that ran along the ceiling.
The staff at what was now called the Hospital Santo Tomás needed the room, so Crocker, Sutter, Akil, and Mancini moved to a suite at the nearby Balboa Palace, where Akil and Mancini were staying. Despite its designation, it wasn’t luxurious at all. Two and a half stars on Hotels.com with a slew of negative comments about the rudeness of the staff and the filth.
Crocker was too tired and preoccupied to give a shit about the peeling green brocade wallpaper, the stained pewter carpet, or the smell of mildew. It had beds and running water, which was all he wanted. In the shower, he remembered Mrs. Clark and her distress, which made him think of Holly. So he wrapped himself in a towel, closed the door to the bedroom, and called home.
“Holly. It’s me.”
“Tom?” she asked brightly.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“You here in the States?”
“No. But I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Really? That’s nice. You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m just mad at myself for missing your birthday.”
“At least you remember that you missed it. That’s something.”
“You deserve better. I’m sorry. I was tied up.”
She sighed. “I’m forty-two, Tom. I feel old.”
“You’re more beautiful than ever. I’ll make it up to you.”
“That’s so sweet, Tom. How?”
“I’ll surprise you.”
“I’d like that.”
“When I’m finished here, I’m taking two weeks’ leave. And once Jenny is out of school, which won’t be long, I’m gonna take the two of you to a beach somewhere where we can decompress and relax.”
“Sounds great. She still wants to talk to you about colleges.”
“Colleges, yes. I didn’t forget,” he lied.
“What about that place in the Yucatán, near Tulum?” Holly asked.
“Not Mexico this time. Someplace else.”
Holly said, “I love the idea, Tom, but your timing stinks.”
“Why?”
“I started back at work on Monday.”
Crocker had forgotten that the six-month leave of absence she had taken from her job with State Department security after her ordeal in Libya had ended.
“So you decided to return?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And how did that go?”
“It’s really good to be back among old friends who know me and appreciate what I went through. And it’s nice to feel useful, too.”
He had a lot of things he wanted to tell her but for the time being said, “I’m proud of you, sweetheart. I really am.”
“Thanks. Tomorrow after work, I’m driving Jenny to a soccer tournament in Charlottesville. Her team made the state finals.”
“That’s fantastic. Is she there?” Crocker asked. Between recent missions in Venezuela, Israel, Syria, and Mexico, he’d missed every single game of the spring season.
“No, she’s at her friend Leslie’s working on a biology project, and sleeping over,” Holly answered.
“Say hi to Leslie for me and tell Jenny I’m proud of her. I wish them both good luck.”
“I will. You hear about the rescue of the senator’s wife in Mexico?”
“Not really. No.”
“I know you can’t tell me where you are, but if you’re near a TV, you should turn on CNN.”
“I will.”
They talked for ten more minutes about the new Great Gatsby movie, which she’d liked, and replacing some worn-out screens on the doors to the rear patio, which Crocker promised to take care of as soon as he got back. Feeling as though they were living in different dimensions of the same reality, he told her he loved her and Jenny and hoped to see them soon.
Then he turned on the flat-screen opposite the bed and found CNN International. The banner across the top of the screen read THE RESCUE OF LISA CLARK. As various correspondents spoke excitedly, the TV broadcast helicopter footage of the charred wreckage of the house. Then they interviewed local authorities and various drug cartel experts.
Most of it wasn’t useful, but Crocker paid attention when one of the commentators pointed to a chart of the house that showed where Mexican authorities claimed they had found Olivia Clark’s remains-near the front door. The theory forwarded by a former FBI cartel expert speaking by video feed from Memphis was that Olivia had attempted to escape when the fire broke out and was overwhelmed by smoke.
“Bullshit,” Crocker muttered out loud. “Total crap.”
When the expert conjectured that the rescue team had screwed up, because the first step in any rescue operation was to secure the hostages, Crocker shut the TV off.
He pulled on a shirt and a pair of running shorts he had borrowed from Akil and returned to the main room, where Akil was on the phone ordering a late dinner. “You want a chicken sandwich, a burger, or a chef’s salad?”
“What time is it?” Crocker asked.
“It’s almost ten p.m.”
“I’ll take a chicken sandwich and a Diet Coke.”
“Mayo, pesto, or BBQ sauce?”
“Just a slice of tomato and some fresh lettuce if they have it.”
“At your service.”
“You know if this joint has a pool or a fitness room?”
Akil turned to Mancini, who looked up from the magazine he was reading and said, “Boss, you can’t go into the pool looking like that.”
Crocker had forgotten the bandages that still dotted his torso, arms, and shoulders. “You’re right. I think I’ll go for a run.”
“Now?” Akil asked. “What about your sandwich?”
“Keep your dirty mitts off it. I’ll be back.”
It took great effort, but Ivan Jouma found the energy to squirm out of the wheelchair, grab on to the windowsill, and, using both arms, pull himself to his knees.
As the muscles in his legs shook, he clasped his hands together and prayed:
“La Santísima Muerte, formed by the powers of the Almighty to be the protector of souls born to this earth. Mistress of the Darkness, I kneel before thee, placing my whole being into your hands, seeking your charity and your aid in the dungeon where I am chained.
“I place my faith and trust in you, Holy Mother of the Heavens, to be my protector always, restore me and give me the strength to continue to fulfill my mission, which is to spread your magic on this earth, and to liberate my people from the yoke of oppression.
“I kneel before you, as they did in ancient times, seeking your aid and protection. Lift my spirit up, my mother, and lift it to the heavens. Heal my ravaged body with your magic. While I am weak, never let my enemies see me. Never let them hurt me in any way.
“Fill me with your dark, miraculous energy and make me more powerful and feared than ever, most powerful queen, and I pledge to give you everything that is mine in return. I am your child, your servant in darkness. Amen.”
He took a moment to listen to the wind swirling outside and birds calling from one of the nearby trees. As he started to pull himself up, he heard a knock at the door.