boom! crash!
—I heard a gunshot then glass breaking in the front. I wanted to come out to check on things, but my pants were around my ankles, and that slowed me down a bit.”
“I bet it did,” Jones muttered.
“By the time I got my pants up, I heard a number of shots. Glass was breaking, walls were shattering, chaos! At that point, I assumed you guys were dead. I mean, come on! How was I supposed to know that you were commandos in a former life? Anyway, I figured I needed to get out of the place without going out the front door, right? I remembered from when I walked into the shop that there was a historical landmark plaque on the front wall, and it said the building used to be a part of the Underground Railroad.”
“Seriously?” Jones asked.
Greene nodded. “Like I told you guys, I’ve been doing a lot of research on my hometown, and one of the things that fascinates me was New Orleans’ role in the slave trade. A number of ports on the Gulf of Mexico were notorious for bringing slaves into this country, but at the same time, a number of ports were used to smuggle slaves out. Shit, there was so much diversity in this city during the eighteen hundreds that people often confused slaves with their masters. In fact, there was one period, in 1803, when ownership of New Orleans passed from Spain to France to the United States in less than a month’s time. If a city doesn’t even know what country it belongs to, how’s it gonna keep track of the people?”
Jones tried to absorb all of the information. Historical facts and local folklore normally fascinated him, but in this case, he wanted to get to the important stuff. He wanted to know how Greene got out of the damn shop without being seen. “Levon, not to be rude, but—”
“I know, I know. You want to know how I did it. Fine, I’ll tell you. The landmark plaque clicked in my mind, and I remembered going on a tour or two where there was a trapdoor or a hidden set of steps that allowed fugitives to slip out of the place undetected. And guess what?”
Payne answered. “You found something.”
“Exactly! The rear wall of the closet was actually a door. A well-concealed door.”
“Once you got outside, did you try to get the shooter?”
“To be honest with you, no. My nickname is the Buffalo Soldier, but I don’t have much experience with killing people. And the truth is, I thought you guys were already dead.”
“We probably should’ve been,” Jones admitted. “A well-trained gunman would’ve picked us off clean.
If
that was his goal.”
Greene frowned. “What does that mean? You don’t think he was aiming for you?”
“At this point, we don’t know. What would be the purpose of killing Jon if he hasn’t paid a ransom yet? If the kidnappers want his millions, they better not kill him. Right?”
The comment took Greene by surprise. “You’ve got millions? I thought you were some kind of unemployed street baller. You really got that many bucks in the bank?”
“I have a nice nest egg, yeah.”
“I’ll be damned! A rich Rambo! What the hell did you do? Auction your soldiering skills to the highest bidder? Or did you just sell a stolen warhead?”
“Nothing that dramatic. When my grandfather died, he left the family business to me.”
“Like a family restaurant or something?”
Payne shrugged, trying not to brag. “Something like that.”
Greene nodded his approval. “As I was saying, I didn’t have the expertise to take out the shooter, so I did the next best thing. I called the cops.”
“So, that was you!” Jones said, happy that Greene had come through for them. “The police said someone had reported the crime to 911, but they weren’t willing to give a name.”
“I told you, I don’t like dealing with the cops. Plus, I don’t want to read tomorrow’s newspaper and see my name linked to a bad part of town. That wouldn’t be good for my image.”
“Amen!” said Payne as he thought about the irony of Greene’s statement. “Now let’s go inside this strip club and bitch to the owner about the defective guns that you bought for us.”
DESPITE
the approach of daylight, the Fishing Hole was still crawling with semiaroused men and naked women, a sight that surprised Payne and Jones. Neither man was a huge fan of the skin club scene, so they weren’t aware that most dancers usually did their best business just before closing time—due to the horniness and intoxication of their fans.
“Let me see if Terrell’s still here,” Greene stated. “It’s nearly four A.M., so there’s a good chance he’s already gone home for the night.”
“Should we go with you?” Jones wondered.
“Probably not. Terrell’s pretty skittish around new people. If the three of us go charging back there, he’s liable to get pissed. And trust me, you don’t want to see him pissed.”
Payne nodded while receiving a skeptical glance from Jones. Once Greene had entered the club’s back corridor, Jones spoke up. “What’s your gut say about Terrell Murray?”
“It’s undecided. Earlier tonight he seemed pretty hospitable, but it could’ve been an act. I find it pretty suspicious that he sold us defective weapons and recommended our visit to Sam’s shooting gallery within a twenty-four-hour period. That’s a pretty big coincidence, don’t you think?”
“But what would he gain from our deaths? Like you mentioned, if the kidnappers want your money, they need to keep you alive.”
“I know. That’s why my gut is undecided. I don’t know why he’d want to eliminate us. Shoot, maybe all of this was just a fluke.”
Jones pondered Murray’s role as he watched the Fishing Hole’s crowd. “You know, maybe he doesn’t want to kill us. Maybe he has to.”
“How so?”
“In a perfect world, the people who took Ariane would want to take your money, but maybe our presence in New Orleans has everyone spooked. Maybe the kidnappers figure it’s better to cut their losses before they get caught. You know, live to play another day.”
“Possibly,” Payne admitted. It was a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind. “But to be honest with you, I didn’t get the sense that Murray was surprised by our visit. If he is, in fact, the ringleader of this crime, you’d think that our appearance would’ve flustered him.”
“You’re right, but if Levon had mentioned our names when he purchased the guns earlier in the day, Murray would’ve had plenty of time to gather his senses. Right?”
“Right.”
“And get faulty weapons for us.”
“Yep.”
“And arrange our death.”
“I see what you’re saying. But for some reason that last part just doesn’t seem to click. If Murray wanted us dead and he knew that we had broken guns, then why didn’t he have someone walk into Sam’s shop and shoot us at close range?”
“That’s a good point. So where does that leave us?”
Payne shrugged. “Confused and very tired. I’m sure there’s something staring us in the face, but I can’t think of it.”
“Then let’s get out of here,” Greene said from behind. His approach had been so silent he startled both Payne and Jones. “Terrell’s not here, so I think our refund is going to have to wait.”
“That’s okay,” Jones muttered. “I think all of us could use some sleep before we face our next round of confrontations.”
Payne nodded. “Trust me, my gut tells me that there are some big ones headed our way.”
CHAPTER 26
WITH
the help of several guards, Hakeem Ndjai ordered the captives out of their cabins at the first sign of daylight. He led the bruised and battered group across the dew-covered grass to the far end of the field. The walk was a brisk one, forcing the prisoners to maintain a pace that they were barely able to keep, but at no point were they tempted to complain since their journey was far better than the backbreaking labor that Ndjai usually put them through. Furthermore, a complaint would have resulted in a swift and vicious beating at the hands of the guards.
Not exactly the way the prisoners wanted to start their day.
When they neared the tree-lined edge of the field, Ndjai ordered the group to stop, then waited for everyone to gather around him. After clearing his throat, the African native spoke to the prisoners, lecturing in his thick accent on the torture device that they were about to see, an invention that he had constructed himself.
“What I am about to show you is a contraption that I was never allowed to use on the cacao plantations of Cameroon because the landowners felt it was too destructive to the morale of the workers. Thankfully, Master Holmes views things differently and has given me permission to use some of my toys on the people that need to be disciplined the most.” Ndjai paused, staring into the scared eyes of his prisoners. “I like to call it the Devil’s Box.”
Ndjai started walking again, leading the group along the edge of the forest, taking them even further from the cabins where they spent their terror-filled nights.
As their journey continued, the sights, sounds, and smells of nature were more prevalent than on the cultivated land near the plantation house. Ducks, geese, and brown pelicans waddled on the marsh’s edge, carefully avoiding the foxes that guarded the land and the alligators that patrolled the water of the swamps. White-tailed deer darted among the fallen timber like a scene from a Disney movie, while nu trias scoured for food on the hard ground. Doves, egrets, and wild turkeys squawked and sang in the dense groves of oak trees to their left, which dripped with thick blankets of Spanish moss. Small pockets of flowers—lilies, orchids, hon eysuckle, jasmine, and azaleas—dotted the terrain, filling the air with a sweet fragrance that overpowered the horrid stench that covered the skin and clothes of the prisoners, temporarily giving the group a reason for hope.
But five more minutes of hiking ended that.
The soft sounds of nature that had calmed them a moment before had been replaced by the distant howl of a man. The echoing scream was muffled at first, but it slowly increased in volume and intensity with every step that the group took.
“A little farther,” Ndjai said as he enjoyed the sound of torture. “Then you will see why my friend is so unhappy.”
With tired legs and shortness of breath, the group mounted a man-made slope that had been built decades earlier to prevent flooding. A few of the prisoners struggled with the climb, stumbling on the loose sand and gravel that covered the mound, but the guards showed them no mercy, flogging the fallen captives across their backs with punishing blows from their braided whips. The loud cracks of cowhide, followed by the sharp shrieks of pain, only added to the horrific sound of terror that came from the crest of the hill. In unison, the combination of cruelty, agony, and torment created a noise that was so sinister, so evil, that some of the guards shielded their ears from the heinous symphony.
When the last captive reached the top of the ridge, Ndjai ordered the prisoners to study his invention. He wanted their full attention when he explained the torture device. But his command wasn’t necessary. Members of the pilgrimage had never been more wide-eyed in their entire lives. The concentration of each person was focused solely on the wooden cube that had been anchored into the hilltop. Trembling, they waited for a detailed explanation of Ndjai’s masterpiece, the Devil’s Box.
Standing four feet tall and four feet wide, the cube did not appear threatening at first glance. Made out of thick slabs of oak, the device was secured in place by a number of sturdy metal cables that had been pounded into the rocky turf. The outside surface of the box had been sanded to a smooth finish, then painted with several coats of black waterproof sealant, giving the device the look of a giant charcoal briquette. The box was solid on all sides but one; the center of the top layer had been carved in an intricate lattice pattern, allowing fresh air into the cube without giving the occupant any view except of the hot sun above.
“I know what you are thinking. The Devil’s Box does not appear dangerous, but do not let its simplicity fool you. It can be nasty in so many ways. And if you do not believe me, you can always ask Nathan.” Ndjai put his face above the box and laughed. “Isn’t that right, Nathan? You thought you were tough when you were out here, but now that you have been in there for a while, you do not feel very tough, do you?”
The prisoner answered with a torture-filled grunt, but his words were indecipherable.
“You will have to excuse Nathan. He has been in my box since long before your arrival on the Plantation, and it seems dehydration has swollen his tongue to twice its normal size. Unfortunately, that makes words very difficult to pronounce.” Ndjai turned his attention back to Nathan. “Isn’t that right? You are a little bit thirsty, aren’t you? Well, you should have thought of that before you hurt one of my bosses, you stupid man!”
The guards laughed in amusement as they watched the taunting continue.
“But do not worry. I will not let you die of thirst. I will keep you like this for as long as I possibly can, teetering on the edge of life and death.”
Once again the captive screamed in agony, but this time with a far greater intensity. It caused each prisoner to shiver with fear and hatred for the man who had put him there.
“Before you get the wrong idea,” Ndjai continued, “and start to think that this device is simply used to bake the bad attitude out of a troubled inmate, let me point out your error. The Devil’s Box is not used for dehydration, even though I must admit the severe loss of fluids is a pleasant side effect to my invention. In fact, that is why I painted it black to begin with, to draw in the intense heat of the sun. You would be surprised at how uncomfortable a person can get when they run out of liquid.”
He moved closer to the group so they could see the emotion on his face.
