Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Suddenly, the leader finished his call and nodded to his men. They immediately raised their guns and started shouting at Guzman and Marcos, telling them to kneel down, hands behind their backs. Guzman did it, and they zip tied his hands together, then hustled him towards one of the pickups. This was a kidnapping, and it was happening right before my eyes.
But Marcos wouldn’t kneel down. He had his hands up, trying to placate the men. I’ll come with you, he was saying, I just need to do something first, okay? And he started talking to one of the locals, telling them that the keys to the Landcruiser were in the ignition, telling them to drive it to the hospital—
He was worried about the patients. Men were pointing guns at him and he just wanted to make sure someone got his patients to hospital.
The gunmen didn’t understand, though. They tried to grab him, and when he backed away, one of them raised his gun and—
A shot rang out. I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. Marcos fell to the ground, bleeding from his arm. They grabbed him and zip tied his hands, ignoring his screams of pain. Then they hustled him towards the pickups.
Marcos would need treatment. He might die without it, especially if they were taking them to some camp out in the jungle. Guzman could treat him, but he’d need dressings…and they were in the bag I was carrying.
The gunmen started to climb into the pickups. They have no idea I’m here. If I just stayed where I was, in another few minutes, they’d be gone.
But Marcos could die from that gunshot wound.
I picked up the bag of supplies and ran outside. “Wait!” I yelled. “Espere!”
One of the gunmen spun around and raised his gun, then paused and frowned.
“I’m a doctor, like them,” I told him. I held up the blue medical bag. “Let me treat him.”
The leader came over and looked me up and down. “American?” he asked at last.
I nodded. Maybe he’d let me treat Marcos here and then let me go: Marcos had said they never bothered foreigners.
But the leader seemed to grin beneath the bandana and nodded for his men to take me, too. I was pushed onto the back seat, along with Guzman and Marcos.
And we sped off into the unknown.
9
GABRIEL
I strolled through the canteen, stopping every few moments at someone’s table to do a deal, collect payment or just say hi. Since the riot, the mood in the prison had changed. The warden had been suspended and a temporary replacement had been found who seemed to be harsh but fair. Packard had been transferred to another prison and the drugs trade had dropped away to almost nothing. It would be back, of course, but for now, things were better. The heatwave had ended, too. Life was good. So why wasn’t I happy?
I knew why, even if I wouldn’t admit it to myself. It was her. Knowing I’d never see her again. Knowing it was because I was stuck in here for the next seven years. Knowing it was my own fault and torturing myself with childish what-if fantasies where I met her as a Marine, not a criminal.
A TV high on the wall was showing the news, something about drug cartel violence in South America, but no one was really paying attention. Someone in a group down at the far end of the room had the remote: I saw an arm lift out of the throng of people and a finger push the button. I looked up at the TV just as the channel changed—
I froze. Blinked.
The new channel was showing a game show but just before it changed, for a fraction of a second, I’d seen…had I seen it? Was I going crazy?
“Change it back,” I yelled. But the canteen was noisy and either he didn’t hear me or didn’t care. “Hey!” Nothing.
Panic grabbed my heart and crushed it tight because if I was right, I might only have seconds before the news story ended. I sprinted towards the group who had the TV remote and when a table got in my way, I jumped up and ran across it, scattering trays and spilling drinks. “Change it back!” I yelled.
I jumped off the end of the table and landed right behind the guy with the remote. “Change it back,” I panted. “Please. Just for a second.”
He turned around. Aw crap. It was Lawrence Treymoor, a three hundred pound, almost seven-foot mountain of a man. He wasn’t part of any gang but everyone knew to stay away from him. He’d flatten you if you so much as looked at him wrong. And now he was glaring at me.
“I just need to see the news, Lawrence, just for a few seconds,” I pleaded. “Please?”