Age of Blood

15

Walker crouched on the roof. He had his SR-25 close by, already mounted on a tripod and the scope calibrated, but he’d also stashed an HK416 at either end of the roof under ventilation hoods. He wanted to be able to move when needed, and when moving, he wanted access to a weapon. He’d also placed motion detectors synced to his MBITR on the rooftops, so that anyone attempting to climb in the dark would be detected by a blistering alarm sent through his earpiece. He was as ready as he ever would be. He just had to wonder if what they had planned below was about to get real loud.

Holmes and Laws had disassembled the wood from the cabana. They ran the center pole so it crossed above the pool and joined the roofs on either side of it. Hanging from the pole in three places were Jaime Gonzales, now out of his dress and in his underwear, Juan Carlos, in his underwear and seventeen shades of pissed off, and Mike Sanchez, member of the Knights Templar, former U.S. Army Special Forces turned banger for the mafia. The ropes were affixed to their ankles. Their hands were tied together behind them, then also tied to their ankles, making their backs arch painfully.

Jaime and Juan Carlos hung like dead fish, while Mike Sanchez was having a fit.

“—you fuckwads think you’re doing? I’m an American. You can’t treat me like this!” Sanchez had a tanned bald head with a tattoo of the U.S. Army Special Forces symbol on the top. He had tattoos all over his chest and arms, but his back was a clean canvas. He wore UFC board shorts and had silver nipple rings.

“Now, Mike,” Laws said, in a style Walker had come to recognize. As their intelligence specialist, Laws often took the lead on interrogations. Walker remembered how he’d interrogated the Chinese mafia member in San Francisco on Walker’s very first mission and how he’d gently coerced the guy into talking without ever making an overt threat. Laws was good at what he did. “How do we know you’re an American when you’re over here representing the concerns of a Mexican narcotrafficking mafia?”

“I am no Mexican narco mafia man.”

Laws walked over to a table where he had a bottle of tequila, a bowl of limes, and some ice. He combined these in a blender, pulsed it for a few moments, then poured the contents into two large margarita glasses. He handed one to Holmes, who was sitting in a chair watching the events, then sipped his own.

“Mmm. This is good,” Laws said, smacking his lips together. “Wish I had an umbrella, though.”

The Templar wormed furiously on the ropes. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

Laws sipped again, turning to Holmes. “What do you think? More ice next time?”

Holmes sipped regally and nodded.

“I said hey!” As the Templar moved on the rope, the cinch around his ankles and hands became tighter. “Ow, fucking hurts.” His entire demeanor changed as he asked, “Can you loosen this?”

Laws looked happily at the other two.

Juan Carlos shook his head. “Fucking cabron motherfucker won’t shut up.”

Laws turned to Ramon. “Was he this difficult when you found him?”

“This kind was born difficult. But no, it was an easy thing to do.”

Laws shook his head. “So disappointing.”

“What?” Mike asked, afraid to move any more than he had to now that he’d discovered what the movement would do.

“Michael James Sanchez, formerly of Seventh Group. Last seen speeding down the All American Expressway out of Fort Bragg and suspected to be carrying five kilos of uncut Colombian. Graduate of the Q Course, 2005, combat diver, military free-fall parachutist course, blah, blah, blah. Graduated as an 18B, Weapons Specialist. Tours to Panama, Bolivia, and Colombia.” Laws turned to Holmes. “Now we know how he got the coke. When an Army CID investigation pinned you as the center of a new drug network in Fayetteville, you were gone.” Laws sipped at his drink. “And lookie, lookie, we got a cookie. Here you are.”

Sanchez’s face was beet red. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Really? Seriously?” Laws appeared confused.

“No. Not at all. Please, don’t make me go back.”

“Like I said—disappointing. Is this what they taught you at SERE school? To beg for your life?”

“Dude, seriously. Who are you guys?”

Now it was Holmes’s turn to answer. “Sorry, chum. Need to know.”

Sanchez glowered for a moment, then seemed to realize something. “It’s the shorts. I should have known. You’re fucking SEALs.”

Laws turned to Yank, who held his HK416 loose in his arms. “Did you know that you’re a fucking SEAL?”

“I’d know it if I was fucking, sir.”

“I thought so.” Back to Mike. “You I don’t like.” He snapped his fingers to J.J. “Lower him please.”

J.J. let the rope loose until Mike’s head was below the water, then pulled him back up so only his hair touched the surface. Sanchez shook his head and gasped.

“You other two. I know you speak English so let’s not play the game where I say something and you pretend you don’t understand. Here’s the deal. We have three people and only one free pass out of here. We need an answer. The first person to answer correctly gets the pass.”

“What happens to the others?” Juan Carlos asked, his eyes narrow.

Laws sighed. “It’s like when you go to buy a luxury car. If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”

“Then what do you want to know?” Juan Carlos asked.

Laws sat down in a chair beside Holmes and sipped his drink. No one said anything for a time. Finally, it was Mike who broke the silence.

“Dude, would you just fucking tell us what you want to know?”

Laws shook his head. “You have to tell me.”

Mike made an unintelligible sound. “How can we tell you what you don’t know?”

Laws shrugged. “It’s going to be pretty fucking sad if you don’t know. Here we thought you did. If you truly have no idea why people like us would be stringing up people like you, then I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay for our mistake.”

Mike bitched and moaned and tried to weasel for the next ten minutes. Jaime and Juan Carlos looked at each other but said nothing. Laws calmly made more virgin margaritas for him and Holmes. J.J., Yank, and Ramon sat back and watched the situation carefully.