‘I think that is a good idea.’ Santos glanced at Zane, lying at Vargas’s feet… then his face twisted with anger as he drove a savage kick into the Englishman’s side.
Eddie fell, writhing in agony — then another blow hit him in the stomach. Vomit burned the back of his throat and he gasped for breath.
‘Bastardo inglés!’ The Argentinian drew back his foot again — but Miranda darted in front of him, waving his hands and pleading for him to stop. Santos glowered at him, but withdrew. Miranda sighed in relief — only to reel away as the older man punched him hard in the face. ‘No me digas cómo ejecutar mi ciudad!’ Santos growled. He looked around. Some of the town’s inhabitants, Julieta amongst them, had come to investigate the commotion, but they all shrank away under the police chief’s empty stare. Pablo Silva might be the mayor, Eddie realised, but there was no doubt who was really in charge of Lago Amargo.
Even so, Santos apparently still felt the need to show at least a pretence of working by the book. ‘You are both under arrest for attacking an officer, and resisting arrest,’ he told the handcuffed men.
‘Yeah, and possession of an English accent,’ Eddie gasped. ‘This how your Nazi bosses up at the Enklave keep their secret, is it? They pay you to beat the shit out of visitors?’
The police chief stared unreadably down at him — then his boot rushed at Eddie’s face, and everything went black.
22
The sickly metallic taste of blood was the first thing Eddie registered as he clawed his way back to consciousness. It was heavy on his tongue, coating his teeth…
Sharp pain blazed through his nerves, shocking him awake. The tip of his tongue had found a corner missing from one of his upper incisors, exposing the sensitive dentine beneath. ‘Arse-cocking fuck!’ he gasped.
A concerned face appeared before him: Zane. ‘Eddie! Are you okay?’
Eddie tried to come up with an answer. As well as the cracked tooth, his lips were swollen where Santos had kicked him, and a crusty blockage in one nostril suggested that his nose had been bleeding. Dull throbs from his torso were reminders of other impacts from the Argentinian’s boots. ‘Been better,’ he croaked, ‘but my dentist’ll be in a fucking good mood next time he sees me.’ He gave the Israeli a pained smile, the natural gap between his two front teeth now joined by a fresh one. ‘What about you?’
Zane showed him the side of his head. Rivulets of now-dried blood had run down around his left ear from a cut under his curly hair. ‘It hurts,’ he said, ‘but I think I’m okay.’
‘Needs washing, though.’ Eddie took in their surroundings, finding that he was on a bench inside a bare and dirty jail cell. Thick metal bars made up one whole wall. Beyond them was a short corridor with an open door at the end, through which he could see the police station’s main office. He sat up. ‘Oi! We need some water. Agua, por favor!’
A chair scraped, and heavy footsteps clomped towards the door. There was a gurgle of liquid, then Santos filled the frame, holding a plastic cup. ‘You want water?’ he said, moving to the bars. ‘Here!’ He tossed the cup’s contents over the two prisoners.
Zane was quick enough to catch some. ‘Thank you,’ he said politely, wiping the cut.
Eddie rubbed his wet face, then ran his hand back over his short hair. ‘Okay, now how about some shampoo?’ Santos grunted in dark humour.
‘Eduardo?’ called an agitated male voice. Santos responded, and after a moment Pablo Silva came into the corridor. He gave the battered prisoners a nervous look, then spoke to the police chief. Eddie couldn’t pick out much of the muted Spanish discussion, but gathered that the mayor was extremely unhappy about the situation.
Santos was less concerned, chewing on a fresh cigar. He clapped a heavy hand on Silva’s shoulder. ‘Vamos a hablar con Kroll, eh?’ Eddie tried not to display any visible reaction to the Nazi leader’s name. The two Argentinians returned to the office, closing the door.
‘We’re definitely in the right place,’ said Eddie. ‘You heard him mention Kroll, yeah?’
‘I did,’ Zane replied. ‘If I can call in a confirmation, the Mossad will send a full team here.’
‘Yeah, but somehow I don’t think we’ll get our one phone call.’
‘Nor do I.’ Santos and Silva were talking in the office, a third man’s voice echoing from a speakerphone. ‘I think that’s Kroll!’ Zane strained to listen, but the closed door was as much of a barrier to comprehension as the language. ‘What do you think they’re saying?’
Eddie gave him a grim look. ‘Nothing good.’
He was right.
The door opened again ten minutes later. Silva had gone, Santos now accompanied by the two younger officers, Vargas and Miranda. ‘You letting us go?’ said Eddie, knowing full well that was not the case. He and Zane stood, readying themselves for action.
Santos, though, was being cautious. ‘Turn around,’ he ordered, unholstering his gun. ‘Hands against the wall.’
The two captives reluctantly complied. As Vargas also drew his weapon, Miranda unlocked the cell door. ‘You, the tall one,’ said the police chief. ‘Put your right hand behind your back.’ Zane hesitated, then did as he was instructed. Miranda entered the cell and fastened a handcuff bracelet around his wrist. ‘Now your left hand.’
The second cuff clicked shut. Santos pushed Miranda out of the way. He gripped the handcuffs and squeezed until the metal cut into the skin. Zane flinched in pain. Santos stepped back — then struck the base of Zane’s neck a vicious blow with his gun. The Israeli collapsed to his knees.
Eddie whirled, but found Vargas’s pistol pointed at him. He froze, helpless, as Santos hit Zane again, following it with a kick to his abdomen. The Mossad agent curled up in agony.
Santos turned his gun on the other prisoner. ‘Now you, English. Right hand behind your back.’
‘Get fucked,’ Eddie growled.
The automatic did not waver. ‘Do it, or I shoot you.’ Vargas was prepared to fire; his boss was actively looking forward to doing so. Eddie had no choice. More handcuffs clamped painfully hard around his wrists.
Santos examined them, then smiled.
Even knowing the attack was coming, Eddie could do nothing to counter it. Searing pain exploded in his skull as the gun hit him. He crumpled against the wall, trying to dodge the inevitable kick.
He failed. The cop’s boot slammed into his stomach. Eddie doubled up, a sickening dizziness overwhelming him as he gasped for air.
Santos indicated Zane. ‘Put him in my car,’ he told his men. ‘I will take him to the Enklave. The other one…’ A cruel smile. ‘Take him to the cemetery.’
Miranda regarded him first with confusion, then dismay. ‘But — but that is not what we do.’
‘He is not leaving town,’ said Santos. ‘Ever.’
Miranda started to protest, but his words were cut off as Santos slammed him against the bars. ‘That is twice in one day you have challenged me! Do not do it three times, or you will join him!’ His fingers closed around Miranda’s windpipe. ‘Do you understand?’
All the terrified cop could do was nod. Santos blew smoke into his face, then released him. ‘Good. Now, do as I say.’
Vargas and the quivering Miranda dragged Zane from the cell. Santos watched them go, then took a long drag on his cigar. ‘Just you and me now, eh, English?’
‘Fuckin’ wonderful,’ Eddie rasped. ‘So this is how you treat tourists? No wonder that hotel was empty.’
Santos chuckled. ‘We usually run visitors out of town. It is strange, we always find drugs on them, even the respectable ones! But they pay their, ah, “fine” and go, and never come back. You, though…’ His expression turned stony. ‘You came looking for the wrong people, English. When someone does not want to be found, they are willing to pay to make sure nobody does find them.’