No Cry For Help (14 page)

CHAPTER 37

The moment he cleared the border, Mr. Black exhaled a rare sigh of delight. He was back in America. The land of the free, the strong, overcrowded, arrogant and proud.

To an outsider, the people to the north might resemble their mighty southern neighbors. In fact, everything about them — their food, clothing, entertainment, media — screamed U.S.A, except for the single most important aspect: they didn’t
want
to be American.

Brazen socialists, they celebrated pacifism without acknowledging the only reason peace was even possible was because their umbilically-attached ally was the most powerful war machine on Earth.

Huddled in isolated pockets scattered across a resource rich land ripe for pillage, Canadians were still locked in a delusional belief that politeness and fair play would keep the rapists from the door.

Their naiveté was laughable.

They could never understand what it was to build a monument that pierced the sky, only to watch it burn to the ground out of petty rage and jealousy. Where they might cower beneath such aggression, America would do what it had always done: raise its middle finger and build one bigger, taller, more impressive.

One day.

And yet . . .

Mr. Black shook the thought away. His target had been lucky. That was all. And now his luck was running out.

His cellphone chirped from its dash-mounted cradle.

Mr. Black scowled and tapped the appropriate icon. A short message appeared onscreen. The message contained no inflection of fury or even disappointment, but he felt its presence just the same.

He tapped a short reply before pulling off the interstate on a slip road that led into the drive-thru lane of the first Jack in the Box hamburger stand he saw. He had been thinking of an Oreo milkshake for days.

As he waited for the car in front of him to order, Mr. Black studied the customers who had chosen to eat inside the restaurant. From the license plates in the parking lot at least half the patrons were Canadian tourists. He found it disturbing that without hearing them speak, that subtle difference in phonetics, he couldn’t immediately tell which were which.

It had been like that in the sand, too. Enemies and allies too much alike to know who was on your side. And even when you thought you knew . . . things could change.

He ordered a milkshake and was just about to take that first, cheek-hollowing sip when his cellphone chirped again. He placed the drink in a holder, wiped his hands on a napkin and touched the message icon.

He frowned as he read the short message before tapping the GPS co-ordinates contained within. His phone instantly switched to its mapping program and displayed the fastest route.

With milkshake in hand, he returned to the interstate and headed south.

CHAPTER 38

Wallace clutched the Defender shotgun by his side and nervously peered through the peephole set in the middle of the door. The wide-angle lens distorted the woman’s face, but even in exaggerated detail her beauty was unmistakable.

With her dark hair pulled back in a fiercely tight ponytail, Laurel’s face appeared more sculpted than ever. Sharp lines accented where her jaw met her chin and where prominent cheekbones curved in toward a strong, perfectly symmetrical nose.

Her mouth wasn’t smiling this time and the creases on her lips were tight with concern.

Wallace unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

“Men and guns,” she sighed. “Show me your wound.”

Wallace closed the door and led the way upstairs.

As Laurel reached the main-floor landing and moved into the living room, she glanced over at the man tied to the chair in the adjoining room. Wallace watched her eyes skim the bloodied and broken mess of the guard’s face, but her demeanor didn’t change. She was a woman who had seen worse.

“Did you do that?” she asked.

“The bastard took my family. Besides . . .” Wallace lifted his wounded arm to show the amount of blood soaked into his shirt. “. . . he’s already paid me back.”

Laurel turned to face him. “He’s the border guard you were telling me about? The one who sent the photo.”

Wallace nodded. “I still need to talk to him. Find out who else he’s working with.”

Laurel frowned. “You mean you haven’t started?”

Wallace couldn’t hide his embarrassment. “As you can see, it was more difficult to get him alone than I hoped.”

Wallace quickly filled her in on what had happened at the detective’s house.

When he was done, Laurel asked, “Why did you call the emergency operator?”

Wallace shrugged. “I couldn’t bring him along and I didn’t want the bastard to die. If things don’t work out here, I might still need him. These two are the only leads I have.”

Laurel frowned again. “The cops might come here.”

“I don’t plan to stay long.”

“We better hurry then.”

Laurel placed a hand on Wallace’s arm and led him to the couch. When he was settled, she sat beside him and lifted his wrist to take his pulse.

“You’ve made a mess of this beautiful couch,” she said.

Wallace looked at her through sunken eyes and grinned to mask the pain. He changed the subject.

“How many soldiers got themselves shot just to be treated by you, I wonder?”

“Only one,” said Laurel. “But I believe he was more relieved to be sent home to his mother than to have me digging a bullet out of his thigh.” She flashed the tiniest of smiles. “We were low on anesthetic and he was allergic to morphine. His screams scared the other boys shitless.”

Laurel released Wallace’s wrist and moved to kneel in front of his left side. She produced a small pair of stainless steel scissors from her medic’s bag.

“Lift your arm,” she instructed. “Put it behind your head and keep it there.”

She cut a large panel out of the shirt, removing the sleeve in the process but keeping the collar. Blood bubbled and oozed from a smooth puncture just below Wallace’s armpit in the fleshy part of his side.

Laurel pinned back the flap of shirt, exposing a larger and more ragged exit wound. It was as though the bullet had punched its way in, but then chewed its way out. The exit wound was the size of a Bluenose dime.

Laurel made a clicking noise with her tongue before digging in her bag and returning with a pair of thin translucent surgical gloves.

Wallace winced and groaned as Laurel probed and palpitated his wound with her gloved fingers.

“It’s clean,” she said. “The bullet went straight through. No arteries nicked that I can see. No muscle damage. You’re lucky. A few inches to the right and it would have pierced your heart. It just needs cleaning and stitches.”

“What about blood loss?” asked Wallace.

“Have some liver for dinner.” She winked. “You’re only down a pint or so.”

Wallace made a disgusted face. Liver, fried in onion and bacon with a baked potato on the side, was one of Alicia’s favorite meals. But whenever she took the notion for it, Wallace managed to convince her that only the local family restaurant could do it any justice. That way he and the boys could treat themselves to something less revolting.

“I’ll need hot water and towels,” said Laurel. “Have you taken any painkillers?”

“No. I was going to look, but
—”

“Good,” she interrupted. “Most people think all pain medication is the same. It’s not. In your condition, you need to avoid acetylsalicylic acid.”

“Avoid what?” asked Wallace.

“Aspirin,” said Laurel. “It’s an anti-coagulant. Not good when you’re bleeding.”

“Oh. I was hoping you might have something better anyway? A pill that takes the edge off but won’t make me drowsy.”

Laurel smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When Laurel returned from the kitchen with a basin of hot water and a small stack of fresh white towels that she found in a hall cupboard, she quickly and efficiently cleaned Wallace’s wound. When she was done, she dabbed it with a splash of peroxide from a small brown bottle.

Next, she held up a length of black thread and removed a curved needle from a sterilized pouch.

“I don’t have any anesthetic,” she said. “So this is going to hurt.”

Wallace gritted his teeth together in dreaded anticipation.

“Suddenly,” he moaned, “you don’t seem so attractive anymore.”

Laurel laughed delightedly. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”

She plunged the needle into his skin and began to sew.

CHAPTER
39

The guard opened his eyes and groaned as Laurel was tying the final knot on Wallace’s exit wound and clipping off the stray ends of thread with her tiny scissors.

His first word was unrecognizable behind the ball gag, but its intent was clear enough. He followed the expletive with a vigorous testing of his bonds.

The rope and cuffs held strong. The heavy iron chair barely wobbled.

Wallace swallowed two orange pills that Laurel said would help block the pain, and picked up the custom baseball bat.

“Thanks for your help,” he said to Laurel. “But you might want to leave now.”

Laurel blinked. She didn’t appear disturbed.

“I know what he’s done,” she said. “I’ll stay. See what he has to say.”

Wallace met her gaze, preparing to argue, but knowing he didn’t have the strength for it.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Just don’t try to stop me.”

THE GUARD
watched Wallace approach with steely disdain.

There was no fear.

Not yet.

His forehead had swollen into a puffy ridge like a battered Neanderthal. The skin was yellow and tender with underlying ripples of green, purple and dark indigo. Both eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them blackened to resemble a raccoon. His nose didn’t look broken, but Wallace suspected the shotgun’s blunt impact had cracked bone beneath the heavy eyebrow ridge.

Concussion or brain swelling was likely, but Wallace didn’t care.

He moved behind the guard and unbuckled the strap that held the gag. He reached around to
—

“Don’t go near his mouth,” said Laurel. “He could easily take your fingers off. I’ve seen it happen.”

The guard shot Laurel a foul look as if that had been exactly his intent.

Wallace nodded his thanks and held the leather strap off to the side of the guard’s head. He tugged until the rubber ball reluctantly popped out of the guard’s mouth.

The guard immediately spat a thick wad of blood and saliva onto the floor, then moved his jaw from side to side, working out the kinks.

“Should’ve left it in.” His voice was hoarse. “I ain’t telling you a goddamn thing.”

Wallace didn’t hesitate. He didn’t have time nor patience for meaningless bravado. He gripped the bat in both hands and swung, letting his uninjured right arm carry most of the weight.

The weighted bat skimmed the surface of the guard’s left knee, just catching the knob of bone in what a ballplayer would call a foul tip. There was a nasty crunch and pop as the knee cap seemed to separate from the rest of the leg before cartilage and tendons snapped it back in place. It was quickly followed by the guard’s snarling bellow of pain.

“Fucking coward,” screamed the guard. “Can’t take me man to man so you gotta do it like this?”

“Where’s my family?” said Wallace.

“Fuck you.”

“Why did you take them?”

“Fuck you twice.”

Wallace swung the bat again to the same knee. The crunch was louder this time, more contact, more pain, and the guard’s face turned the color of his towels. He growled more than screamed and his breath quickened like an angry bull about to be unleashed from its cage. His face flushed red and streams of pink snot flowed from his nostrils.

“Where’s my family?” said Wallace.

“You’ll never find them.”

“Who has them?”

The guard snorted to clear his nasal passages, but he didn’t answer.

“Why did you . . . take them?” Wallace tried to be fierce, impervious, but his voice broke on the question.

The guard slid his lips open to expose bright red teeth. He had bit his tongue or the inside of his mouth while containing his pain.

“For a murdering bastard, you’re kind of a pussy.”

Wallace stared at the man in horror. “Murder? What do you mean?”

The guard grinned wider and shook his head.

Wallace hefted the bat in his hand. He snarled, “I’ll fucking break you open.”

The guard practically laughed. “You think I ain’t had worse?”

Wallace swung the bat for a third time, harder. There was no crunch. This time it was a sharp, brutal
Snap!

The guard screamed so loud that Wallace felt it reverberate deep in his bones.

“Too noisy,” yelled Laurel. She tossed Wallace one of the bloody towels she had used to clean his wound.

Wallace snatched the towel out of the air and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth, muffling him.

The guard’s eyes were wide now, his nostrils flared. His swollen forehead was beaded in cold, clammy sweat. But despite everything, he still didn’t look remotely afraid.

Wallace turned his back on the prisoner and threw the bat angrily to one side. It skidded across the floor and crashed into a wall. He went to rub his face and saw the dried blood that covered his hands.

His own blood.

But still . . .

How far was he willing to go?

He wiped his hands on his pants. He felt sick.

Yesterday at this time he had been sitting in a food court, eating cinnamon buns and looking forward to a pleasant supper and some alone time with his wife while the boys played in the hotel pool.

And today. Today he was . . .

“Torture won’t work on him,” said Laurel. “You don’t have the stomach for it and, unfortunately, it appears he does.”

Wallace stared into Laurel’s eyes, sensing her inner strength, and wishing it was something he possessed.

“With time,” she continued, “you could break him. Anybody can be broken, but you wouldn’t be able to trust the information he gave you. Most tortured prisoners will confess to anything just to stop the pain.”

Wallace looked at Laurel helplessly, not wanting to believe but knowing that what she said was true.

Who was he kidding? He was about as tough as an old banana — and the guard fucking knew it.

He rubbed his face. Blunt, chewed-up fingernails clawing pathetically at tired skin.

“What do we do?” His voice cracked under the strain. “How do I find out what he’s done with my family? I don’t even care why anymore. I just want them back.”

Laurel stood and walked over. She touched Wallace’s arm
— a brief, gentle caress — and moved on to the guard. She ignored the man’s loathsome glare and walked behind him. Through the oval gap in the chair’s iron back, she studied his inked flesh.

“He’s definitely ex-military,” she said. Her finger stroked the man’s bare skin, just beneath his muscular neck. The man flinched as though her touch burned. “See this large tattoo?”

Wallace had noticed the curving shape of a snake slithering over the man’s shoulder and around his neck to flick its forked tongue toward his left ear.

He moved to stand beside Laurel. She radiated calmness and he sucked it in like a vampire, every drop making him feel less likely to fall apart and crumble into a pile of broken jigsaw pieces. She reminded him of Alicia, and how much he depended on her.

It was Alicia’s strength, wisdom and serenity that kept him going when he worried about unpaid bills or when the rehab on his leg had seemed too much to bear. She was his rock, the foundation upon which everything else was built, and yet he now felt that he had never told her just how much that meant.

He studied the tattoo on the guard’s back and fought back an urge to rip it from his skin with fingernails and teeth.

The snake’s scaly body curled around the guard’s spine in a clever display of optical illusion. And although most of the snake was simply a black outline, dozens of the petal-shaped scales had been colored in. Strangely, considering the intricate design, the hodgepodge of colors looked to have been selected at random; a mosaic created by a blind man.

“Those are kills,” said Laurel, pointing to the colored scales. “The different tones represent different types and rank of enemy combatants. He’s obviously seen action in both Afghanistan and Iraq.”

She pointed to a series of numbers mixed in with the pattern of the snakeskin. The writing was so small that without a magnifying glass, the numbers were almost impossible to see. “Those are likely GPS co-ordinates of his more memorable missions.”

Wallace pointed to the colored scales. “Why are there Xs in the middle of some, but not others?”

“Eye for an eye,” said Laurel. “On those engagements he killed an enemy in retaliation for losing a member of his unit. I saw them on quite a few of my patients. The markings were different, crosses mostly, even a series of dots, but the meaning is the same.”

The guard shook his head violently until he worked the towel free.

He spat it out with a hoarse scream. “Shut up, bitch! Do you know what this cowardly bastard did?”

Wallace darted in front of the guard and grabbed hold of both his ears. He twisted them fiercely, feeling cartilage crackle and skin stretch as he thrust his face to within an inch of the guard’s.

“What have I done?” Hot, angry spittle flew from Wallace’s lips. “Tell me what I’m supposed to have done?”

“Semper Fi, bitch.”

The guard launched his head forward, his teeth snapping like a crocodile, aiming to grab and tear cheek, nose or lips. Wallace lurched back just in time, feeling the guard’s teeth skim the stubble beneath his lower lip.

Roaring in frustration, Wallace snatched the ball gag off the table and forced it into the guard’s mouth before he had time to clench. He pulled the strap tight behind the guard’s head, locking it uncomfortably in place.

“Sorry,” he said to Laurel before realizing how lame that sounded. It was something one would say if their conversation had been interrupted by a phone call.

He tried to shake away the panic, control his too-rapid breathing and concentrate on what the guard had said.

“Semper Fi,” he repeated. It was a phrase he had heard in war movies, but never really understood. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It’s Latin,” said Laurel. “Short for Semper Fidelis. Among other things, it’s the motto of the United States Marine Corps. It means ‘always faithful’.”

“Faithful to who?” asked Wallace.

“Country, naturally,” said Laurel. “But out on the battlefield, it’s being faithful to your unit. When you’re outgunned and under-supplied, it becomes all about watching each other’s backs. Leave no man behind. The bonds formed when patrolling on enemy soil are virtually unbreakable. You would have to live it to know it.”

Wallace pointed to the last grouping of colored scales on the guard’s back. A mass of mustard yellow, comprising close to a dozen scales, surrounded a linked cluster of six Xs. Beyond that cluster, the remainder of the scales were empty, uncolored flesh.

“Likely his final mission,” said Laurel. “He sought revenge for a lot of friends that day.”

“So he was telling the truth,” said Wallace quietly. “He has had worse.”

Laurel nodded. “The question, however, is why isn’t he still doing it? These types of men live for the military. They don’t just love the job, they
are
the job. His unit is his family. Closer than blood. He would never quit to work the border. It’s too much like being a cop rather than a soldier. That last mission must have cost him everything.”

“Semper Fi,” muttered Wallace under his breath.