2
2
WAKE-UP CALL
I came to with a full awareness of where I was, what had happened, when it happened, and who had done it to me. But my first thoughts weren’t plotting revenge, or wondering if my handsome mug would be permanently disfigured, or even ones of betrayal.
Loss. That’s what I was feeling. And pain. Everywhere, but most acutely in my chest. It felt like there was a ripping hole there, even though I didn’t think that part of my anatomy was even injured.
That fucking weasel ripped off my wife—right out from under me. Did not see that coming. Stupid. Never underestimate an opponent—the first rule of combat.
I slit the one eye I could open. Saw what I expected: a sterile hospital room, a worried-looking Mexican nurse with one of those caps you only see hot girls wearing on Halloween in the States. She was conferring with a pale but stoic-looking doctor. I was a VIP.
I wasn’t worried about anything except getting the hell out of here. I needed a phone. I needed a chopper. I needed to get my wife back. STAT.
I sat up. Bloody hell. I laid back down. My head felt like Bruce Lee karate chopped a cinderblock over it. I winced from the air movement alone—my cheek felt fragile as fuck. Motherfucker! I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know when, but I was going to beat Davenport’s face in. He’d never be pretty again.
The couple in white came over to check my vitals. I just realized I was hooked up to IV bags. “Phone,” I croaked.
A Mexican accent, in perfect English, inquired how I was. How the hell do you think I am ? “I’ll live” is what I actually said. Then: “How long have I been out?”
“Approximately twelve hours.”
They were long gone. I rubbed at my chest, using the hand attached to the arm I could still move. My right arm was bandaged and taped down so I couldn’t use it. Screw me. I was right-handed. “I need a phone,” I directed. She might still have her cross on.
“Please, Senor Nealson. I’m you’re attending physician, Dr. Arellano,” he formally introduced. “Please lay back and rest. Allow us to notify your family.”
There was no resting. And half my family was gone. I needed my phone to get her back. “Just give me my cell phone,” I ordered, and watched as they unhelpfully checked my vitals. “Where’s Pedro?”
“Waiting outside and very concerned for your well-being,” Dr. Fernando answered, blinding me with his pen light, presumably to check my pupils for dilation.
“Send him in,” I ordered.
The professionals peered down on me with polite detachment. I grabbed the railing with my good arm and rattled it. “Now!” I yelled in their faces. Wished I hadn’t. Laid the tank attached to my neck back down. Swallowed back nausea. “Get me my phone!”
“Senor Nealson, with all due respect, I am your attending physician. Therefore, I must insist that you lie back and . . .”
“I must insist that you back off and get Pedro in here, pronto!” My little rant did little more than splotch the doctor’s pale face with crimson. He removed his glasses. The nurse looked at me like I was one of those gringos who come over here to take a shit and then leave. I growled. Did not have time for this. “Look,” I said, making a Herculean effort to lower my voice. “I apologize for my tone. My wife was kidnapped. On my honeymoon. I need to see about that. Can you please get me a goddamned phone?”
Sympathy instantly replaced the growing contempt on their faces. “We’re already aware, Senor Nealson,” the good doctor spoke up. “The police have been thoroughly investigating. Please. Try to relax. Everything that can be done is being done.”
“No. It’s. Not!” I blasted at his face, causing him to remove his glasses and start wiping again. I swear to Holy Jesus I was gonna bust a vein. “I need Pedro. I need my phone!” I begged, feeling my own face suffuse with color.
“Senor Nealson,” Dr. Fernando spoke in a practiced, calming manner, “you have suffered some serious head trauma. Lost a great deal of blood. Please try to relax and let the experts deal with your wife’s abduction. You are in very good hands, I assure you.”
I growled. I was two seconds from squeezing the earnest look right off his face. My temper. I had to calm down. Keep my wits about me. I took a deep breath in through my mouth, leaving my nose out of it. “Could you relax while your wife was missing?”
Dr. Arellano sent the nurse out; she came back in with Pedro, who if he would’ve had a hat, would’ve been holding it in his hands. “Meester Nealson! Dios Mio!” Rapid-fire apologies in Spanish for nothing he did wrong followed.
I held up my hand. “Pedro, mi telefono, por favor.”
He nodded and the good man withdrew my cell from his pocket. His tip just went up by a thousand percent. I swiped the pad and punched in the requisite code and link, and the corresponding quadrant map appeared on my screen. I waited with baited breath. Fuck! The chip was moving southwest from the mouth of Banderas Bay into the more expansive waters of the Pacific Ocean. I zoomed in on an oceanic map and saw some spots called Revillagigedo Islands due west of Puerto Vallarta. I hoped that’s where they were headed. It would be really easy to trap them on one of those tiny islands.
I punched in a call to Davies, and after a short convo with the man who always had the right plan and connections, I had a longer one with Pedro to help me put the missing pieces together. Meanwhile, the secretary of state told the bustling Mexican police chief to stand down. It was a U.S. military matter now. Twelve fucking hours. Pete, the former elite, was no longer in his jurisdiction. My guess was he removed the chip here and then set sail for some tropical islands for his happy reunion. With my wife. Hopefully, the surprise waiting for him would be just as unwelcome as the one he had waiting for me.
A new nurse bustled in with two pills and a big smile. I gave her the stiff arm and herded calls from Weston and Slater. Two more excruciating (in more ways than one) hours later, the coastguard called Davies to inform him a gold cross necklace was found aboard the private yacht belonging to ex-pats Mr. and Mrs. Miles Carlson. But no wifey. The fucker removed her tracker, tossed it onto a yacht, and bought some more time. So, she’d informed him about the necklace. Was she in on it? I rubbed at my chest.
Here’s what I pieced together from my fragmented memory, Pedro, and the PVPD: Pete had tagged the two security dudes “guarding” the premises. One was found with an old-fashioned smut magazine in his hands lying next to a bougainvillea bush, the other sacked out on the beach next to the stairs with his cell phone shattered. Both walkie talkies were missing. I tried to snort . Ow. Would not make that mistake again. It was currently in a splint and felt more like splinters than cartilage was holding it together.
Okay, so Davenport bypassed the alarm, a skill that took remarkably little doing. Pair of pliers, a wire cutter, some rubber gloves. Then came up the stairs to pirate his booty. He found us in the shower. And apparently went apeshit. Beat the crap out of me—my worst beating ever times a hundred. Caught with my pants down. I couldn’t even force a wry smile.
I relied on my disjointed memory and conjecture for this next part. It seemed like she . . . stepped aside? My eyes closed against this mental picture. I felt the burn of betrayal pollute the oxygen in my chest. Did she know he was coming for her? I had to admit, it made sense. All that weird, cold behavior right before the wedding. I recalled, with perfect clarity, Andrew cuddled up with her in that chair in our honeymoon suite, whispering in her ear. Of course.
I clenched my left fist. How could she do this to me? After all I’ve done for her? “Oye!” I shouted. Dr. Arellano scurried in himself. “Los medicanos, ahora mismo .” I was ready to get out of this pain. “P or favor,” I added because I wanted him to hurry, not to be polite.
He nodded before directing my request to an underling. He squeezed my shoulder. “It’s okay, Senor Nealson. You’ll get your wife back.”
A few minutes later I dozed off wondering if I wanted her back. I was afraid of what I’d do to her when I got her.
I woke up an immeasurable amount of time later with Slater’s army-fatigue eyes taking in the collateral damage. He let out a short, low whistle. “Brother, your face is jacked up!”
I opened up my palm automatically, and a slap and a snap followed. I forced a grin. Didn’t feel like it; I felt like crying. “Still better lookin’ than you on your best day, motherfucker,” I replied.
He matched my grin. “Glad to see you retained your inflated ego . . . matches the swelling on your face.”
I grimaced-smiled and gripped the rail, struggling to sit up. Slater looked like he was going to help and thought better of it. I managed an upright position. “Did you find them?”
He shook his head and tossed a mint toothpick into his mouth, in the manner he did when he was in think-tank mode. “I heard about the second tracker.” He looked askance at me.
“Well, you have to admit, she does seem to have a penchant for being kidnapped.”
Slater hooted at that one. “Word.”
“So, what did you do while I was out cold?” I switched the subject.
“What do you remember?”
I sighed. AIP—Academy Interrogation Practice. “Getting yanked out the shower, then getting the crap beat outta me by Davenport. Swear to Christ, the guy’s been pumping juice for the past couple of years.”
In business mode, Slater ignored my excuse. He studied me carefully. “And what was wifey doing while you were getting your ass handed to you?”
My face fell apart before I could put it back together again. I couldn’t talk for about ten seconds. Slater held on to his neutral expression, but his eyes softened. I cleared my throat. Took a sip of bottled water that tasted like filtered tap. “I . . . remember at one point she started screaming like a murder was going on. Guess it was mine.” Was I taking up for her? Wanting to convince myself?
He waited a respectful beat. “Anything else?”
I took a breath and closed my eyes. “The last thing I remember, with clarity, was her dropping the soap and me bending down to pick it up.”
“Deliberate?” he asked.
I drew my lips together and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
He nodded and sat on a piece of the bed. “Take me through it.”
“So, we were in the shower. Everything was going great until . . . I guess she was startled and dropped the soap.”
“Did you hear anything?”
I shook my head. “Nothing but shower and her talking.”
“Was she talking while she dropped the soap?”
I thought about it. Closed my eyes. “No. It’s like something startled her or grabbed her attention, because she cut off. Then dropped it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Was I?
“Okay, so she hears something. Drops the soap. You pick it up. What then?”
“Then it was like Tarzan yanked me out by my hair and next thing I knew, something like a sledge hammer slammed straight into my face. Broke my nose right off the bat. Then I heard nothing but grunts from him while he’s beating my ass, the mirror shattering, and the shower incessantly running.”
“What was the Mrs. doing?”
“I was too busy taking punches to the face to look for her.” I paused and thought long and hard about it. “I think she was still in the shower . . . two big dudes fighting in a small space, on a wet floor. You do the math. No place for her,” I defended her. “I finally got it together enough to fight back but slipped and fell. Hard. That’s when everything gets really fuzzy. I don’t recall getting up again or seeing her anywhere. But I distinctly remember finally hearing her scream.” I felt a pang, remembering that blood curdling sound. “I panicked at first and then felt relieved, yunno, like, at least she’s okay. I mean, obviously, I’d realized that it was Davenport coming at me like some kind of demon.” I paused remembering the brutality. Didn’t think that dude had it in him.
And then I put it together. What must have set him off like that—those sheets.
I was quiet so long, Slater prompted me. “So, Demon Davenport’s having at you. What happened next?
“I-I think at one point she tried to intervene, but . . .” I put three fingers to my temple like I could will the mental pictures I wanted into place.
Slater clasped my shoulder. “Don’t push it, man. You’ve had a concussion.” A sigh. “I think Dr. Mexico is right . . . let’s put a pin in it for now.”
I started to protest when he lightly tossed a PAC in my lap. I caught it to me. Oooph! Ribs were sore. “In the meantime, I think I have something to make you feel better.”
I looked up quizzically at my running buddy. He nodded at me, and I cracked it open. He leaned over, maximized a video on the screen, and pushed play. We watched silently, the silent footage of former Elite Cadet Pete Davenport helping the current Mrs. Ranger Nealson down two sets of stairs and into a getaway car. Moisture blurred my vision. Glad I was a Cyclops at the moment—one watery eye was easier to explain away. I wanted to make a joke about how I didn’t think Davenport was man enough to sprout a full beard, but since he just thoroughly kicked my ass, I swallowed it down.
I wordlessly pushed play again. I already caught what Slater wanted me to see. I wanted to see it again, in slow mo. Coaxing, that’s what was going on. She seemed undecided. Moving pretty slowly for a getaway. A little unsteady on her feet. The camera was angled so that I couldn’t see her face, but I could see his. He was pleading and smiling and beckoning at the same time, like an abductor would who was trying to persuade a girl to get into his car. At one point she shook her head and halfway turned around. He grabbed her arm and began coaxing again. Mesmerized, I watched again as he tugged her down the stairs. She stumbled like her legs couldn’t quite hold her, so he came up and put his arm around her, talking into her ear the rest of the way down.
Drugs. I never thought I’d feel so relieved to have narcotics back in her system so soon.
They managed to make it to the car without her falling down. He opened the back door and set her down on the seat. Seemed she could hardly stay upright now. You could see a glimpse of her loose face while he ran around the other side. He opened that door and reached inside to pull her in, laying her across the backseat. He closed that door, then ran around and closed the other one, after rearranging her to a more comfortable position. (I remembered doing that exact thing almost two years ago—when I drugged and abducted her.)
Davenport bolted back up the stairs for about the span of a minute before coming back down with the luggage I bought and had monogrammed for her with her new initials. He sprung the trunk and threw it carelessly inside. That luggage was worth more than the getaway car. He ran around and cracked open the driver’s door, then paused. He looked directly at the camera . . . and flipped it off.