The Forgotten (42 page)

Diego had gone to the
dueños
to see if they would protect him and his cousins from the three men who had beaten Isabel and Mateo. He had taken Mateo with him because there had been no one at his
abuela
’s home to watch the little boy. And plus Diego did not think they would harm him with Mateo there.

He could not have been more wrong.

What had come next had been frighteningly chaotic.

Men had arrived.

Something had been given to Diego and Mateo to drink. The next thing he knew he was in this place. He didn’t know where this place was, or how he had gotten here.

He cupped Mateo’s ear with his hand and whispered back, “It will be okay.”

It was a lie, and from the look on Mateo’s face he knew it.

The light here was dim, so dim in fact as to make Diego queasy.
Mateo had thrown up once, perhaps as an aftereffect of whatever had been slipped into their drinks.

They were not alone here. There were ten cages like the one they were in. And all of them were full. In Diego’s cage were ten other people. All adults, or close to it. They had segregated men from women.

Diego could make out some of these shapes in the weak light.

In his cage the men and teenage boys sat on their haunches, looking at the gap between their knees.

Hopeless. Beaten.

It was exactly how Diego felt.

He didn’t know for sure why he and Mateo had been taken.

In the back of his mind, however, he had heard the stories on the streets.

Secuestradores de personas.

Takers of people.

Diego never thought he would be taken.

He looked over at Mateo. He was only five. Little more than a baby. Why would they take Mateo? It made no sense.

A guard came by with a slender jug of water and a plate of bread and fruit. He passed them through a slot in the bars.

The biggest men in the cage grabbed at the plate and jug. They drank their fill and ate what they wanted and the leftovers were passed down. By the time the plate and jug got to Diego and Mateo there was barely a sip of water left, a few crumbs of bread, and a wedge of apple. He gave it all to Mateo, trying to ignore the thirst in his throat and the rumble in his belly.

He sat back up against the bars and stared down the line at the other cages. His gaze flitted to one that contained women. None looked older than thirty. Many were teenagers.

Diego could understand why they had been taken.

Putas
, he thought. They would be worth a great deal of money.

His gaze ventured upward to the high ceiling of the place where exposed air ducts and electrical lines were revealed.

This was a warehouse of some kind, Diego had already deduced.

But where it was he had no idea. He had no idea if he was still in Paradise. Or even still in Florida.

He thought of his
abuela
and his eyes grew heavy with tears. He thought of Isabel wondering where they were and his eyes grew heavier still.

Then he thought of the big man who had asked him to find the two men in the car. He seemed interested in Diego. He had helped Isabel and Mateo. He could beat people up. He was big and strong. He had driven a fancy car. Perhaps he was rich. Maybe he would come and find them.

But Diego maintained this hopeful thought for barely a second. That was crazy, he told himself. The man would not come. No one would come.

He looked around at the other cages again.

This was obviously a big business. They were organized and had lots of money behind them. They took people and sold them all over the place; he just knew this to be true.

He looked at Mateo.

Would they sell them together? Or would Mateo go off alone?

Without me?

He knew Mateo would cry and cry. And maybe the
secuestradores de personas
would get angry and kill him to quiet him.

He reached out and gripped Mateo’s arm so tightly that the little boy let out a small gasp.

I will never let you go, Mateo
, Diego promised himself.

The lights grew dimmer still. Diego looked around, fear gripping him.

All the other prisoners in the cages were doing the same thing, looking around, but also trying to shrink themselves so as not to draw attention.

They could all sense that something was coming. And that what was coming would not be good for them.

The man slowly came up the metal steps and stopped in front of the line of cages. Peter Lampert’s image was not clear enough for Diego to make out who it was. But he had never seen Lampert before, so an identification would not have been possible in any case.

There were other men behind Lampert. One was James Winthrop.
The men were dressed elegantly in blazers, white shirts, and slacks that looked professionally tailored to their bodies. Thousand-dollar shoes were on their feet. They could have been investment bankers going to a meeting.

Winthrop held an electronic tablet and was making notes on it as Lampert inspected his product and made certain decisions. He walked up and down in front of the cages pointing to people inside and giving instructions to Winthrop, who dutifully inputted them on the tablet. They could have been inspecting cattle in slaughterhouses or cars rolling off an assembly line. There was a clear air of business being conducted here, even though the product was human and breathing.

Breathing fast.

Two other men came toward them. They carried packages wrapped in plastic. Lampert snapped his fingers and the men hurried forward.

Lampert examined the packages and slit one open with his finger. He pulled out four blue shirts, looked at the list Winthrop had compiled, and pointed at four people in three different cages. The shirts were taken to these people and they were forced to put them on.

Red shirts came out and were given to all men who were larger and more muscular than the others.

Green shirts were pulled out and placed on the younger, good-looking women and some of the younger, angelic-looking men and boys.

All the shirts were given out, except for two in a separate package.

Lampert slit this package open and pulled out two yellow shirts.

He glanced at Winthrop’s tablet, running his eye down the list.

Then he turned and looked up and down the row of cages until his surveillance finally came to a stop in front of Diego’s cage.

He looked down at the two boys and smiled. He said something to Winthrop that Diego could not completely catch, but it sounded like, “New product line.” Then some more words were spoken he could not hear, and then he caught another snatch.

“Family unit. Lower scrutiny. Fetch a good price on the market.”

He gave the yellow shirts to another man, who went into the cages and forced Diego and Mateo to put them on.

A few moments later, men, hardened evil-looking men, came through the cages and told each of the prisoners what would happen to them if they uttered one word about where they had come from once they reached their final destination.

“Everyone you love, every family member you have—and we know where they all are, indeed we have many of them in cages like this—will be slaughtered. If you speak one word to anyone we will bring you their heads as a reminder of what you have done.”

They had looked down at Diego and Mateo and asked them if they would like to hold the severed head of their
abuela.

Mateo had started to cry but had instantly stopped when one of the men struck him in the mouth.

Diego had stood between Mateo and the man, but the man had laughed.

“Do you want your
abuela
’s head?” he asked again.

Diego had said nothing but had shaken his head, and the man had moved on.

A similar encounter had happened to all the others, demonstrating that the men had inside information on each of them. Thus there was not one person in any of the cages, even the older, stronger men, who did not believe every word of this. None of them would talk. None of them would even think of trying to tell the truth.

After this was over Lampert came back to Diego’s cage. He slipped something from his pocket and held it through the bars of the cage.

As Diego focused on it he saw that it was a necklace of some sort.

“Take it,” said Lampert.

Diego did not move.

“Take it. Now.”

In Diego’s peripheral vision a man with a gun edged forward, the muzzle of the weapon pointing at Mateo’s head.

Diego reached out and took it. He looked down at the disc of metal attached to the end of the chain.

Lampert said, “It’s a Saint Christopher’s medal. You know who Saint Christopher is, don’t you?”

Diego looked up and slowly shook his head.

Lampert smiled and said, “Saint Christopher is the saint who protects children from harm. Put it on. Do it now.”

Diego slipped the necklace over his head and the medal came to rest on his chest.

“Now nothing can harm you,” said Lampert, still smiling.

Winthrop snorted with laughter.

Lampert turned and walked off, Winthrop behind still chortling.

Diego stared at their elegant clothes hanging on their well-nourished, fit physiques. He lifted off the necklace and let it drop to the floor. Then he stared at the silver ring on his finger, the one with the lion’s head that his papa had given him.

His courage came flooding back as he looked at the lion.

He looked up, slowly raised his hand, made a gun with his finger, aimed, fired twice, and killed both Lampert and Winthrop over and over.

M
ECHO WAS
on the phone once more.

It was his “friend.”

Details were gone over. The latest encounter with Chrissy Murdoch had convinced Mecho that his schedule had to be sped up.

The “friend” was sympathetic and agreed to be ready. But he reminded Mecho of their deal.

Mecho impatiently answered the man. It would be done.

He clicked off the phone and looked down at the floor of his room at the Sierra.

He stiffened when the paper was slipped under his door. He didn’t move for a few seconds, wondering if something or someone was going to follow the paper in.

He reached under the bed and pulled out the pistol from where he had slid it between the springs. He rose, inched toward the door, touched the paper with his foot, and moved it toward him. Keeping his eyes on the door, he knelt and picked up the paper. He moved away from the door and opened the folded page.

Two words. Two meaningful words.

“They’re coming.”

Mecho folded up the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

He could attempt to follow the person who had given him this warning.

But he chose not to.

They’re coming.

Twenty minutes later he didn’t hear or see anything coming.

He sensed it with something other than his ears and his eyes.
Perhaps it was their smell. The smell of death coming. It could be quite potent.

He reached under the bed, snagged two more items, rose, opened the door, and moved to his left with a speed that was belied by his immense frame.

There was too much light here for what he wanted. He entered the stairwell and moved down one flight at a time, pausing at each landing.

Waiting.

Sensing.

He was using faculties that most people would never discover they had.

But when you had lived as Mecho had, those faculties rose to the surface.

At least for those who survived.

He left the building at the ground floor and headed west.

The people were good.

Not because they had found him at the Sierra. That would take no skill at all.

No, they were good because they had followed him from his room down to here. Even now he could sense their approach, one set from the left, one set from the right.

He slipped his gutting knife into his waistband and then spun the suppressor onto the end of his pistol.

He kept walking, zigzagging his route and moving closer and closer to the water.

These back streets were deserted. Not even the
dueños
were out. He wondered about this. But then he thought perhaps they had been told to stay off the streets tonight.

The
dueños
considered themselves tough until they ran into those who were truly formidable. Then the street toughs melted away into little balls of dough and found places to hide in the darkness, like the mice they were.

Mecho was not and never would be a mouse.

He walked on, instinctively varying his route but heading inevitably to the water, to the Gulf.

It had carried him here from a position of slavery, though the last part of his journey had been as a free man swimming for his life.

He would go back to the sanctity of the water tonight.

It would either be his final resting place or simply one more bump in a long road of them in his life. Sometimes all a person could do was not good enough. So be it. He had never been one to regret. Not when it came to survival.

He passed some late-night stragglers who were too drunk to see that he was walking along with a pistol. He turned down one more street and the deepness of the ocean stretched ahead of him.