ESCAPE FROM AMBERGRIS CAYE (23 page)

Zac yanked the shackles binding his
hands and feet, causing the chain to scrape the cement floor.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Give it a rest, will you?” Jackson
said. “You’re not going to accomplish anything that way.”

“Oh no? Well it’s better than just
sitting here. At least I’m making an effort to get us
outta
here. That’s more than you’re doing.”

“And what’ll your so-called
‘efforts’ get us? Huh? Another beating, that’s what. You forget I’ve been
through this before.”

“So you’re giving up, that it?”

“Hell no, but I’d prefer to pick my
battles than go off half-cocked. You swearing and rattling those chains will
get us exactly nowhere, and possibly annoy Mo to the point he’ll put a bullet
through our brains.”

Zac was exasperated not only with
his brother’s apparent admission of defeat, but by his own failure to save
them. He’d managed to rescue Izzie and Jackson only to put his trust in the
wrong person and they’d landed right back where they started from. Only now it
was worse. At least before, Jackson and Izzie had someone on the outside
fighting to save them. Now there was no one. A paralyzing despair overtook him.

“I’m so sorry, I …”

Jackson interrupted him. “Sorry?
For what? You risked everything to rescue me and Izzie—a woman you don’t even
know. And if it hadn’t been for Charlie, you would have succeeded too. Damn,
what a
dickhead
he turned out to be. Who
woulda
thought a guy that appeared so decent would turn out to be no better than those
traffickers? You just never know...”

“Man, you got that right. I thought
Charlie was a stand-up guy. I mean, he was cool on the yacht, always helping me
avoid problems with Captain Tom. God, how could I have been so stupid to trust
him like that?” Zac pounded his fist, banging his shackles on the floor.

“Stop. They’ll hear you. Zac, I
don’t want another beating.”

“Okay, Okay. I’ll be quiet. Let’s
see if we can grab some shuteye before they decide what to do with us. If you
get any bright ideas, let me know.”

“You do the same,” Jackson said.

The two men twisted and turned
trying to find the least uncomfortable position they could and get some badly needed
rest. Before long, Jackson began to snore while Zac remained wide awake, trying
to plan his next move.

A few hours later, Zac had finally
dozed off, his head resting at an odd angle against the concrete-block wall. At
the sound of heavy footsteps, he awoke with a start. Forgetting his chained-up
condition, he wrenched his shoulder as he jerked awake.

“Jackson, wake up, someone’s
coming,” he said in a loud whisper.

As his brother began to stir, the
light came on and Mo entered, trailed by a man Zac had never seen. At about six
feet tall, the guy had a boxer’s build: thick neck, bald head, and muscles that
bulged under his T-shirt. His eyes were reminiscent of a pit bull’s—cold,
calculating and lifeless.

“Here they are, like I told you—two
worthless pieces of shit. The faster someone can take them off my hands, the
better.”

The man stood eyeing Zac and
Jackson as if they were slabs of meat.

Pointing to Jackson, he said,
“Stand up.”

Zac realized it was a good thing he
was in chains. He would have decked the guy but the man’s physique told him
he’d get the losing end of a fight. Still, Jackson standing there, his head
bowed in submission while the guy looked him up and down made his blood run
cold.

“I’ll take him,” the man said.

“What about the other one? I’ll let
him go real cheap. In fact you can have two for the price of one. Think of it
as a fire sale.”

The man scratched his head. “I
don’t know, you seem awful anxious to be rid of him. What’d he do, kill
somebody?”

“
Naw
,
nothing like that. He’s just a little wild. I’m sure you can break him after a
few bouts in the ring with some of your boys. Once you get him trained, he’ll
work for you real good. I just don’t have the time or patience to mess with it,
that’s all.”

“Stand up so I can have a look.”

In spite of himself and realizing
there’d be a price to pay, Zac stayed put.

“Boy. You hear me? Get on your
feet. Do as I say.”

Zac raised his chin. “I’m not a
boy. I’ll get up when I damned well feel like it.”

The man looked at Mo and said,
“You’re not kidding, this one’s gonna take some working over.” With that he
leaned over and yanked Zac to his feet. “You’ll do what you’re told, if you
know what‘s good for you.”

Zac was about to let the man know
exactly what he thought of him, but not wanting a blow to the head, he bit his
tongue and let his eyes stare holes through the bastard.

The man got in Zac’s face. “Better
lose the attitude if you know what’s good for you. Keep that up and you won’t
live long enough to have your spirit broken.”

Turning to Mo, he said, “Oh all
right, I’ll take them both.

Tiny's
barking woke Leon from a pleasurable dream, the first he'd had in a long time.
He usually had nightmares populated with Seymour's thugs taking him on a
one-way trip across the Sunshine Bridge. This one featured Izzie and had
something to do with a trip to the beach, the foggy details dredging up
feelings he thought he'd finally overcome.

Dragging
himself from the soft cocoon of a bed, he glanced at the clock and headed for
the door. It was four in the morning
. Damned dog.
  He'd let the
mutt out when they went to bed a few hours ago. Maybe Tiny was riled because
the product ended up spending the night. He tried handing the girls off within
a few hours of their arrival, preferred it that way—less risk. Tonight had been
different. Client couldn't make it, so he'd had to adjust. That's what this
business was all about
—
adjusting.

Tiny
barked again, more frantically.
Dog'd
better
adjust
or he'd do it for him.

As he
went down the hall, his bare feet made slapping sounds on the hardwood floor.
Tiny's continuous barking morphed into the menacing growls he made when
strangers approached.
Odd.
Leon was nearly to the bottom of the stairs
and prepared to give the dog what-for, when there was a series of knocks on the
door followed by what sounded like a voice on a bullhorn.

"Leon
Donatello. Police. Open up."

Before he
could move, the door flew back compliments of a battering ram. Leaping down the
remaining steps, Leon turned to run out the back, but was stopped by police
wielding guns and nightsticks.

Tiny,
beside himself with fury, threw his substantial body at the cops—barking,
snapping and baring his teeth. Before he could sink his teeth into the fatty
part of the closest man’s thigh, he was felled by a single shot from a Taser
gun.

In the
meantime, Leon was ordered to: "Get on the floor. Now. Hands above your
head. Spread your legs. Move and we’ll shoot."

There
were so many orders, so many voices, and so many cops. Tiny, who had begun to
recover was put on a leash.

“Where’re
the girls?” The policeman was hefty; muscles bulged beneath the short sleeves
of his uniform. His scalp was visible under what little hair he had, making his
stern expression even more threatening.

“Uh, what
girls?” Leon lay on his stomach, the man’s foot was planted firmly on his back,
making speech difficult.

Digging
in his heel, the cop said, “This can go down easy or hard, doesn’t matter to
me. Either way I’ll get what I’m after. What’s it gonna be?”

“I can’t
breathe,” Leon gasped.

The
policeman removed his foot. “Roll over and sit up. Try anything funny, you’ll
regret it.”

As he
struggled to get upright, Leon could hear police tramp their way through the
house, opening and slamming doors. His hands and feet were bound; there was
nothing he could do but wait.
Those
fools’ll
never
find the bunker.
Good thing he’d put the product down there for the night.
Yeah, they’d have to get up mighty early to outsmart him.

“Okay,
start talking, I ain’t got all night.” The cop pulled Leon to his feet and
slammed him onto a dining room chair.

“I don’t
know what you’re talking about.
Me
and the dog are the
only ones here. You don’t believe me, go search with the rest. I’ll be surprised
if you find something, believe me.” Leon gave the man his most innocent
look—the one he’d spent hours practicing.

The cop
put his face inches from Leon’s. Wearing an exasperated expression he growled,
“Where’re those women who came in the back way a few hours ago? Don’t say they
left because we’ve been watching the house—front and back. Unless you got a
tunnel under …” He stopped and watched Leon’s eyes flick from the bookcase to
the floor and back. “That’s it. You hide them under the house. That’s why we
can never find them. I’ll be damned.

“All
right, Leon, how do we get down there?” When Leon just stared at the floor, he
bellowed, “Tell me, damn it.”

In spite
of his efforts at
self control
, Leon jumped. He
hadn’t expected the man to shout so loud.

“Down
where? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“My ass
you don’t. You got those girls stashed under the house and you know it. Now you
gonna tell me how to get down there or do I have to beat it
outta
you?” The fury in the man’s face said he meant business.

Leon
shifted in the chair and tried again. “Pardon me, sir, but you know as well as
I do houses in Florida don’t have no basements. What makes you think this one’s
any different?”

The
policeman guffawed, then said. “Guess you don’t read the paper, dude. Couple
years ago a bunker was found over in Drew Park. Guy grew weed down there. Now
if he could do that … You see where I’m
goin
’ with
this?”

Leon
could see clearly where the cop was going and he didn’t like it. How’d he
manage to figure out the house had a fallout shelter? He didn’t appear
that
smart. What should he do now? Come clean and hope for the best? Or keep denying
it? Maybe they wouldn’t find the entrance and give up. It was, after all,
hidden behind that bookcase. Who’d think to look there?

“I’m
sorry, officer, I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have it
your way—and call me ‘sergeant’.” He turned and shouted, “Down here, they’re
under the house. Tear the place down if you have to.”

Heavy
boots tramped down the steps in such a rush Leon thought the old staircase
might collapse. When the men assembled on the first floor, the sergeant said,
“He’s got them hidden under the house in some
kinda
bunker. Question is where’s the entrance? He’s not talking so I guess we’ll have
to knock walls down till we find it. Get going.”

Leon
shuddered. The man meant business. Still doubting he’d be able to find the
secret staircase, he held fast. Approximately twenty minutes and multiple
plaster holes later, one of the men shouted, “It’s behind the bookcase.”

Leon’s
heart sank. Seymour would not be happy.

Neither Jackson nor Zac made a
sound. The men, guns drawn, muscled them into a van conveniently parked outside
the unit. The deserted parking lot dashed any hope of the possibility a
passerby might intervene. Zac’s spirits were lower than they had ever been.
Every avenue of escape was now beyond their reach.

They were looking at a
life—whatever was left of it—of slavery. The words were foreign to Zac’s ears.
After all, he was an American. Things like this didn’t happen to U.S. citizens.
Besides this was the twenty-first century. Slavery?
Him—a slave
? He
couldn’t get his mind around it. Forced to work for nothing—the rest of his
life?

He’d prefer to kill himself than go
on like that day after day, year after year. But what about Jackson? If he
committed suicide, his
brother’d
be left to deal with
the situation alone. He couldn’t do that to him. No, he’d stick it out and
somehow they’d eventually get free.

He glanced at his brother who
stared at the floor. He leaned over and elbowed him, causing Jackson to let out
an involuntary yelp. The gunman, startled at the sudden commotion, pointed his
weapon at Jackson’s head and said, “Go on, try something.”   

Regretting his spontaneous and
potentially dangerous action, Zac’s eyes caught Jackson’s in an apologetic
glance. His stupid behavior could have gotten them both killed.

He settled with his back to the
side of the van, his body bouncing along over endless potholes. His mind went
to Izzie, Jackson’s reporter friend. It was obvious he cared about her. Look
how much he’d risked: his job and now his very life. Was she worth it? 
Zac had no idea. Jackson apparently thought so. But then he always was
softhearted, even as a kid, always sticking up for the underdog and sometimes
getting a good beating for his trouble.

He couldn’t help but wonder what
was happening to Izzie right now. She was, no doubt, being severely punished
for attempting to escape. Even if she survived, the life she faced was a horror
beyond imagining. And she had no one to keep her going. At least he and Jackson
had each other. By the time they escaped—if they managed to—God only knows
where she’d be or if she’d even still be alive.