As he ran up the stairs and the echoes of his footfalls began to die off, new footsteps clicked down from above. Two men, Gentry could tell, one wearing heavy boots and the other soft shoes.
Within seconds the two new men arrived in the dungeon. One was a Black Suit. Young and well-groomed, he wore the short hair, goatee, and mustache combo common with the leadership of the criminal organization. An HK UMP submachine gun hung from a sling over his right shoulder.
The man’s fine suit and clean face contrasted with the sick sights and smells of this basement hellhole.
And the man next to him contrasted with the dungeon as well. He was American. White, thin, curly brown hair. He wore a wrinkled short-sleeved dress shirt and khakis.
Court rolled his eyes.
Jerry Pfleger.
Court scowled at him as he stepped into the light. Dryly, Court said, “My fellow American.”
The young American embassy staffer looked around the room, clearly taken aback by where he found himself. He was shocked, out of his league, and frightened. He tried to mask it, but Court saw the horror on his face.
“Why is he still alive?” Jerry asked the men in Spanish as he moved into the room.
Pfleger kept looking around the room; clearly, he could smell the death, see the stains on the walls and floor. He knew what this place was. What went on there. He shook it off and looked at Court. “I’m a businessman, dude. It’s the American way. I insisted on coming here to . . . protect my interests in this enterprise.”
Court said, “They are going to kill the girl; they want to kill her sister-in-law and her unborn baby.”
Jerry nodded. Clearly, he at least suspected this if he did not know it for sure. “Sucks to be them.”
“You did this for money?”
Jerry nodded then shrugged. “It’s more than money, actually. I am making a statement.”
“What statement?”
“The statement is, dude, I hate it here.”
“You hate Mexico?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Gentry did not respond.
“Yeah, well, you’re banging a hot little beaner, so you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”
“You are a trained diplomat? Christ.”
“Have you ever been to Denmark?”
Court lied. “No.”
“Denmark is the shit. I went to college in Denmark; I speak Danish, know the backstreets of Copenhagen like the back of my hand. I get hired by State, and where do those idiots at Foggy Bottom fucking send me? Denmark? Finland? Norway? Fuck no! Mexico! Are you kidding me? Four years punching visas for beaners. Fuck that! As long as I’m stuck down here, I’m going to make a little dough along the way.”
“And you’re making money by handing Laura over to de la Rocha?”
Jerry smiled. “Oh . . . you don’t get it, do you.”
“Get what?”
“I’m handing the girl to DLR, yeah. But that’s a freebie. I’m making my money handing you to the CIA.”
Gentry shook his head. Slowly, he said, “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry. Think about that for a second. What is Langley going to do when they find out a consular affairs officer is working with the Black Suits? You’ll never get that posting to Copenhagen.”
Jerry smiled again, like he was one thousand times smarter than the naked man in chains.
“Los Trajes Negros do the handoff to the CIA, and then they give me the reward. I get the reward, and I’m outta here. Outta Mexico, outta the State Department.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“I have a deal with the man himself. DLR.”
“Deals with the devil usually don’t pay off in the long run, kid.”
“He’s a businessman. I’m a businessman. It’s all good.” Then he looked to the Little Butcher, who’d been standing patiently as the men spoke English. In Spanish Jerry said, “That some sort of electricshock machine?”
El Carnicerito nodded.
“Then juice this pendejo once for me, boss.”
The Little Butcher smiled and grabbed an old leather wallet from the table. “Open your mouth, please. We cannot have you biting your tongue off when we still need you to talk.”
Court did as he was told; he knew what was coming, and he knew the leather in his mouth would help. He moved his tongue away from his teeth, bit down hard, and the Little Butcher turned the dial.
Current ripped through Court’s body, from his toes to his anus to his neck. His back arched, his eyes protruded, and a vibrato cry emitted from deep in his throat behind the wallet.
After a few seconds the dial was rotated back down. Fresh sweat shone on the prisoner’s face and chest.
The torturer stopped for just a moment. Pulled the wallet from his prisoner’s mouth. “Where is Elena Gamboa?”