Jan, ignoring the joy that Lewis and the rest got from peeing on tires, began to walk across the road to see who the strangers were. The man seated in the passenger seat, as well as the one in the rear, had already gotten out, but remained on the far side of their vehicle. They too, Jan thought, were getting ready to pee. Just as she was beginning to wonder if she was the only one who could control her bladder, she heard the front passenger in the four-by-four identify himself as Paul Perrault. Jan froze.
Looking at the man in the growing darkness, she knew that whoever he was, he wasn’t Paul Perrault. Jan and Paul had been lovers when Jan had worked in Paris years before. When Jan heard him continue, stating that he was a correspondent for the French National News Network, she knew they were in trouble. While there was a possibility of there being two Paul Perraults, the odds of both of them being correspondents and working for the same agency were just too great. Without waiting to hear more, Jan turned and began to walk back-to the van as quickly as she could without raising any suspicions.
The Canadian, however, who had been watching her, noted her strange behavior, and alerted Lefleur that they had been read. After a quick glance to assess the situation, Lefleur raised the submachine gun he had been concealing and shot the lieutenant standing on the other side of the four-by-four.
The sudden rip of machine-gun fire caught everyone in Lewis’s party off guard. Even Jan, her back to the four-by-four, jumped before she dove for the open cargo door of the van. The Canadian, who had been watching Jan’s van as well as her, lifted his submachine gun and raked the van, from front to rear, with a long burst. He missed Jan by inches and didn’t hit Joe Bob or Ted, who were standing on the other side. Still, the bursf had the desired effect, causing all the men who had been on the other side of the Humvee and van to flatten on the ground, seeking cover behind the tires they had just urinated on.
Before anyone could recover from their shock and react, the Canadian and Lefleur’s driver were across the road, training their weapons on Lewis and his party. With a crisp, clear shout, Lefleur ordered everyone up and into the middle of the road. Slowly, Lewis and Jackson, as well as The emotion and fear displayed by each
man differed. Jackson, Lewis’s driver, was shaking as he looked at Lefleur’s driver, then back to his Humvee where his rifle was still sitting in the rack. Lewis tried hard to suppress his fear, eyeing Lefleur’s driver as he rose from the ground.
Behind the Humvee, at Jan’s van, the Canadian gathered Joe Bob and Ted. Joe Bob, more embarrassed than shocked, eyed the Canadian, assessing what his chances were of rushing and overpowering the mercenary.
Ted, totally shaken by the incident, was slow to get up. When he did, he trembled like a leaf.
As Jan lay stretched across the front seat of the van, half in and half out, she saw the handle of Joe Bob’s pistol sticking out from under the driver’s seat. For an instant, she considered reaching over and pulling it out. The voice of the mercenary, the one who claimed to be Paul Perrault, stopped her. “Mademoiselle, if you would be so good as to join us?”
He was standing right behind her. Jan took one last look at the pistol, then gave up the idea. Lightning reactions had never been her strong suit.
Slowly, she eased herself out of the van.
Once Lefleur, escorting Jan, reached the others, who were already gathered in the center of the road, Lewis tried to assert himself. “Who’s in charge here?”
Lefleur, without so much as a word, walked around Jan, over to where Jackson and Lewis were standing side by side. Lefleur jammed the muzzle of his submachine gun under Jackson’s chin and fired a burst, showering Lewis with blood, bone fragments, and brain tissue before he could react.
Jan lost it. She was hardly conscious of the urine running down her leg as she screamed.
Ignoring Jan’s screams, Lefleur smiled at Lewis. “Does that, my friend, answer your question?”
Lewis, eyes wild, also lost his self-control. “What in the hell did you do that for? Are you mad?”
Lefleur shrugged. “Why, Congressman, did you not ask who was in charge?”
“You didn’t need to kill a man to prove that to me, did you?”
Lefleur looked down at Jackson’s body, then at Lewis. “True, but he had to go anyway. Excess baggage. Now, talking about going, if you would all please move over to the van, we can leave.”
Jan, finally able to control her voice, asked what the rest of them were thinking. “What are you going to do to us?”
Lefleur, turning away from Lewis, walked over to Jan. For a moment, he looked her up and down, a grin on his face. Joe Bob, unable to restrain himself, stepped forward, muttering as he did so, “Don’t even think of it, you fucking shit.”
With a simple flick of his wrist, Lefleur turned his submachine gun on Joe Bob. Jan screamed again. “No! Joe Bob! The bastard will kill you!”
Pausing, Joe Bob looked down the barrel of Lefleur’s gun before backing off.
Looking back at Jan, Lefleur noticed her pants were wet. “I must apologize to the lady. It seems my melodramatics have caused you to, how can I say, lose control of yourself.” Jan’s face turned red from anger. He was baiting them, just playing with them and goading them to react so that he could shoot someone else.
When he saw that no one else was going to respond, Lefleur looked at the setting sun. “We are wasting time. There is a long and, for you, mademoiselle, uncomfortable journey ahead.” With that, he signaled the Canadian and his driver to begin moving them to the van. Lewis, Jan, Ted, and Joe Bob were bound, gagged, and thrown into the back. Leaving the bodies of the public-affairs lieutenant and his driver, as well as their Humvee, Lefieur headed back to the base camp with his trophies. If this didn’t get a rise out of the Americans, nothing would.
The good fighting man who honestly believes himself to be a pure mercenary in arms, doing it all for the money, may have to guard his convictions as vigilantly as any atheist.
—General Sir John Hackett
4 kilometers southeast of ejido de dolores, mexico 0615 hours, 16 September
Childress stormed into the one-story cinder-block building that had housed the offices of the abandoned mining camp, pushing an Irish mercenary against the wall as he did so. Regaining his balance, the stunned Irishman was about to lunge at Childress, but missed his chance as Childress threw open the door of Delapos’s office and flew into the room, slamming the door behind him.
Stunned by Childress’s sudden and violent appearance just as much as the Irishman, both Delapos and Lefleur ceased their discussion and turned to stare at the tall American standing before them, his nostrils flaring and face contorted in anger. Paying no attention to Lefleur, Childress rushed at Delapos. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Hostages were never part of the plan. And why in the hell wasn’t I notified when they were brought in?”
Delapos’s surprise turned to anger. “What do you mean, coming into my office like that and speaking to me like I was some kind of peon?”
Too enraged to be brushed off with such a comment, Childress raised his right hand, his index finger uncurling from a tight fist. “I asked you a question, Delapos. What in the hell are we doing with those hostages?
Have you lost your mind?”
If it was to be a challenge, then Delapos was ready to meet it. Kicking the chair that he had been sitting on out of his way as he stood, Delapos turned toward Childress and assumed a fighting stance. “I am not going to stand here, in my own office, and be threatened by you, or anyone else, in this manner. When the time comes, I will tell you what I choose to tell you. Until then, your only concern is defense of the two base camps and, while they are here, the guarding of the prisoners.”
Still uncowed by the angry Mexican standing across from him, Childress continued to yell as he began to move closer to Delapos. “Have you lost your fucking mind? This is stupid, fucking stupid. When did you . . .”
Instinctively responding to the threat that Childress presented, Delapos reached down with his right hand and pulled a commando knife from his boot. In a single, smooth motion, he brought it up to waist level, threw his left arm out for balance, and hunched down as he prepared to meet the American.
Without thinking, Childress stopped and prepared to defend himself, reaching down to grab for his pistols There was, however, no pistol to be found. In his haste, Childress had forgotten to strap his ankle holster on.
This sudden discovery flashed across his face, causing him to pause, then step back away from the menace Delapos now presented.
Delapos, alert and ready, had seen Childress’s move and knew what he was doing. He was about to lunge forward in order to strike before the American was able to bring his pistol into play, but stopped when he saw the expression on Childress’s face change. When he glanced down and saw Childress’s right hand was empty, Delapos relaxed slightly and checked his attack.
“Did you forget something this morning, mon ami?”
In his anger, Childress had ignored Lefleur. While keeping an eye on Delapos, Childress slowly cut his eyes to his right. Lefleur, in his indomitable fashion, was seated next to a table, lounging back in a chair with his left elbow resting on the table and his legs crossed while he slowly sipped from a beer. Finished, he held his bottle of beer out in front of him, smacking his lips and belching before turning to Childress. “It seems, my friend, you have come up empty-handed. Would you like to borrow my knife?”
Defenseless and caught off guard by Lefleur, Childress took another step back. Though he dropped his menacing stance and stood upright, he kept his guard up while turning slightly to his right so that he could watch both Delapos and Lefleur. “Was this your idea, you ignorant son of a bitch?”
Lefleur refused to allow Childress to provoke him. Instead, he just played with his beer bottle while he spoke to Childress without looking at him. “When I started, I really didn’t know what I was going to do with the Americans. I suppose we could have killed them where we found them. But that seemed such a waste. Congressmen and star reporters are a rarity in these parts, you know.”
As intolerable as Lefleur’s arrogant mocking was, Childress managed to keep his anger in check. “So why didn’t you kill them? That’s what we’re supposed to do. What in the hell are you going to do with them now?”
Placing the bottle on the table, Lefleur uncrossed his legs, planting both feet on the floor. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he placed his hands on his knees with an audible slap and looked straight at Childress.
“Oh, I suppose, eventually, we will kill them. In fact, Senior Delapos and I were discussing that when you, ah, decided to join us. The only question seems to be how we can do so while achieving the greatest shock value from the act. Since neither of us is as well schooled in the fine arts of terror as Senior Alaman, we decided to send a message to him and ask for his advice in this rather delicate matter.”
“Lefleur, you’re nuts.”
Lefleur laughed. “Yes, that may be true. But at least, mon ami, I am armed.”
“Get out of here,” Delapos snarled. “Get back to your duties and don’t ever try this again. Do you understand?”
Turning his attention back to Delapos, Childress saw that his boss and former friend hadn’t budged an inch or changed expression. He still stood ready, knife in hand, to strike. Without a word, and keeping his eyes on Delapos, Childress reached behind him and felt for the doorknob. When he opened the door, the Irishman he had shoved was in the hall and waiting for him. The Irishman, however, moved away and allowed Childress to back out of the room when he saw Delapos, standing there with a look of hatred in his eyes and his commando knife in hand. Whatever had transpired didn’t concern him and he had no desire to become involved in a dispute between his boss and one of his lieutenants. The pay was too good.
When Childress was gone and Delapos relaxed, Lefleur stood up. “It seems that our American friend is not happy with our decision.”
“He has lost his edge. He cannot be trusted.”
Trying hard to conceal his gloating, Lefleur sighed. “Perhaps, amigo, our American friend has lost his taste for American blood.”
Replacing his knife, Delapos grunted. “Perhaps. Whatever the reason, he cannot be trusted.”
Allowing Delapos’s comment to hang in the air for a moment, Lefleur began to smile. “Well, it is getting late. I must be going. I have not finished my reconnaissance and there is little time. Perhaps, by the time I get back, you will have a response from Senior Alaman. Either way, please do me the favor of saving the Americans for me?”
Taking deep breaths to calm himself as he thought about Childress’s insult and challenge to his authority, Delapos considered Lefleur’s request.
“Yes, I will do that,-under one condition.”
“Why, yes, of course. Whatever you say, mon ami.”
“Before you dispose of the congressman and his party, you get rid of Childress. He cannot be trusted anymore.”
“Ah, I see,” Lefleur mocked. “A little pleasure before business. How nice.”
The heat in the small metal-covered shed where Jan had been thrown the night before was stifling even though the rays of sunlight pouring through the gaps in the walls told her it was still early in the morning. As she lay there, bound and gagged on the dirt floor, looking around, Jan began to regret that she had not gone for Joe Bob’s gun. At least, she thought, had she done so, her problems would be over. It would have been quick, clean, and final. This, she thought, as she looked about the shed that was no bigger than a closet, was hell.
Since their arrival at this base camp, as the Frenchman had called it, no one had come by, no one had spoken to her, no one had bothered to untie her. She had not been given anything to eat, nothing to drink, and she had been unable to relieve herself. They had simply opened the door of the shed, thrown her in, and closed the door, leaving her in the dirt to sweat and lie in her own filth. She doubted that the door of the shed was even locked. Not that it mattered. She was gagged, and bound like a calf at a rodeo, hands and feet together. Though there were cracks and gaps around the door and here and there in the walls through which light entered the small room, they were not big enough to allow a breeze in. The only things that did come into the shed through those cracks were bugs and flies, which were having a field day as they crawled all over her, and dust that settled on her body and turned to a thin layer of mud as it mixed with her sweat. As much as all that bothered her, she knew that it wouldn’t be long before she was past caring. Already she could feel herself alternating between periods of faintness and nausea from lack of water. Eventually, she would either go mad or die. At that moment, she didn’t care which came first.