Six Feet Over Carlos Cleatsby Bryan D. Catherman |
Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 appear in this issue. |
| part 3 of 4 |
Agent Wilson stepped over to the bean grinder, now finished with its previous task, and unplugged the thick power cord from the wall socket. Using a knife, he cut the wire from the machine and returned to Mick.
“You’re going to shock me?” Mick asked.
“Of course not,” Wilson returned with a chuckle. “I forget you and I are not in the same line of work. Electricity is a terrible tool for information extraction. The subject is typically unable to speak while the electric shock is administered, so the voltage aids in resistance. The only way the integrator can get the subject to speak is to stop the flow of electricity.”
Wilson began stripping the wire down to the multiple, thinner wires within the colored shielding. He continued with the textbook integration lesson. “Feeling relief, the subject is encouraged to hold out and the only motivator is fear of further shock. This fear is not enough to pull information effectively. So no, I have no intention of using this extraction method.”
Mick nodded his head. “Thanks for the torture lesson.”
“Torture? How many times have you or any other field agent benefited from advanced information? Now you choose to call this extraction torture? What a shame.” Wilson pulled two thin copper wires from the bundle. “Agent Gelletie, I am going to tie a tourniquet around one elbow and one around the apposing knee. Are you right or left handed?”
Mick said nothing.
“Okay, it doesn’t matter anyway. This will be painful, but you will know that soon enough. As I tighten down, the wire will crush its way down though the joint by slipping into the soft tissue areas. When the wire is tight enough, the joint will begin to receive permanent damage. Soon, the pain will go away.” Wilson smiled, “But don’t think that’s good. At this point, you will no longer have use of your elbow or knee, ever.”
Wilson coiled the line around Mick’s right elbow, at the joint. He then weaved in a heavy dowel and gave it three clockwise turns. While Mick clenched his teeth, Wilson made another loop with extra wire and tied the stick to Mick’s forearm, holding the tension. “Don’t act surprised. I told you it would hurt.”
Wilson continued the practice on the left knee. “Mickey, have you ever thought about how hard it will be to uses crutches or a cane when the opposite arm is inoperable?”
Mick remained silent.
“Does that still hurt? The pain should dull in a moment,” Wilson said as he took pride in his work. “Let’s get started, is that okay with you?”
Mick said nothing.
Wilson removed his glasses. His eyes met Mick’s. “Is that okay with you?” There was silence for nearly three minutes. “Is that okay with you?” Still no answer. Wilson almost looked as if he took joy in the silence. “We will get started when you agree that we should.” Wilson untied the loop that was holding the stick at the elbow. He turned the stick two more rotations until a soft crack sound came from the joint. Small blood trails began to drip from the broken flesh. The wire was now buried below flaps of stressed skin.
Mick let out a gasp. The pain was screaming up his arm and into his head. Taped to a chair in a coffee bean-grinding room, Mick was loosing the future use of his elbow. He was afraid that soon he would lose more — his family, the money, and maybe his life.
Wilson waited three minutes, staring at his watch the entire time. “Should we get started?”
“Ask away,” Mick finally said with a grin as if he was having the time of his life.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Wilson asked with a smirk.
“Is that part of your integration?” Mick asked already knowing the answer.
“Rule number one, I ask the questions. Do you understand?”
“What if I ask a question?” asked Mick. Wilson untied the dowel at the knee and turned it three times. The wire cut through the skin at the back of the knee. Mick let out a brief scream.
Wilson stood up and looked down on Mick. “Rule number two, you have no control. It would be better for you to understand this, more sooner than later; but I don’t care either way.”
Mick struggled to fight off the effect of the drug and the fire he felt at his knee. His mind was cloudy. “As long as I have the location of the money, I think I am in control.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll be back later.” Wilson left Mick alone in the room. There was no guard, nobody watching him. Minutes turned to hours. Then the lights went black.
Mick sat in the dark of the bean room waiting for a few minutes, hoping the pain would dull. It didn’t. His family crept back into his mind. He couldn’t help but to think about what should have been happening right now. His parents could be in Italy by now, or soon, using the plane tickets and hotel room Mick bought them. He, Julie, and Max were supposed to be alone so they could all celebrate together. Mick was going to share the news that he was leaving the CIA to take over the operation on the vineyard.
Now Tollman was there, and who knew what was happening. He hoped nothing like Cyprus. He might not ever get back to the vineyard again, never tasting Julie’s lips or shadow boxing with his son. Never again. His family was there with him in the darkness, but he longed to be in the sun, working in the grapes. His elbow hurt less than his knee, but both hurt enough to be afraid of the injuries.
Mick jostled his left arm to try to loosen the tape binding him to the wooden chair.
“I admire your determination,” Wilson’s voice said from the darkness.
“You’re in here?” asked Mick.
“That’s too bad. You’ve already forgotten rule number one.” A night-vision goggled Wilson moved closer and twisted the elbow wire deeper into the joint. “I think we will soon be breaking though the bone. Then the wire will tighten down on the blood flow. Hopefully, the bleeding will stop. After a couple of days, the arm will begin to die. A couple of days....
“Are we going to play this game for that long? Tell me, is this worth your limbs? Is the money worth it? How are you going to pick up your son, Max; I mean, if you only have one arm? What a shame.” Wilson moved off into the darkness again. “Really, is the money worth it? I figured it out, you know.”
“Sure you did,” replied a determined Mick Gelletie. He was thinking about his son, Julie’s baked bread, and his captivity.
“Oh, I did. You have been bringing your wine into Mexico and bribing customs agents. Help me complete my report. So far my outline reads: ‘Agent Gelletie and Plow moved cocaine into the US. Plow returned to Mexico. Plow, who was to pay the cartel, took the money for himself. The cartel found and killed Plow.’ That’s it so far. What happened to you? What should I report? This can go so many ways.”
Mick, trying to figure out Wilson’s location from the sound of his voice, said nothing.
“I know of course, that you and Plow planned to steal the drugs and the money,” Wilson continued. “We have eyes on the cemetery. They’ve been there for weeks. The cartel has not yet moved in to dig up the money. Not one sign of them yet. How long do we have?”
“I don’t make decisions for the cartel,” Mick replied.
“I want to make you a promise. If the cartel picks up that money before I get it, Tollman will receive the green light. You know what he’ll do, don’t you?”
“You wouldn’t! That man is a monster,” uttered Mick.
“I will.”
Mick boiled at the idea of Agent Tollman on his property, near his wife and son. He remained silent. The pain in both his knee and elbow began to dull. “Fine. The name on the grave is Carlos Cleats.” How many times had he said that name to Julie? Had she memorized it only to have it extracted from her? What had Mick done, asking her to remember it? How could he have done that to her?
Wilson thought about the name for a moment. “That’s a lie.” Wilson was furious. The information should not have been this easy to extract, especially from Agent Mick Gelletie.
“I tell you the truth;” Mick said, “just don’t let Tollman do anything.”
The sound of a secure satellite phone keying up filled the room. Glowing light from the screen illuminated Wilson’s face and cast a glow on the room. It was coming from somewhere behind Mick.
Then Wilson’s frustrated voice. “Tollman. Yes, I know, I don’t care. Negative. The kid, too? Let them go. If that’s what you feel is necessary. Fine. Tollman, go ahead with the plan. You have the green light. Affirmative. Please do. Out here.”
The ghostly green light from the phone flickered and went dark. “Mickey, I’ve decided I don’t really have the time to deal with you anymore. Tollman is active. You know what I want. Give me the real name on the grave and this is over.”
Mick swallowed hard. He remembered the last time he saw Tollman in action. Cyprus. “Even if I give you the name, what’s to say you won’t kill me here and run me through the bean machine? I know, that’s a question; tighten the wire. Go ahead. I gave you a name and you don’t believe me. You have no guarantee I won’t give you a fake name. You won’t believe any name. I could be telling the truth or not be telling the truth. You wouldn’t know. So how are we going to handle this?”
Wilson knew Mick was right. He had no guarantee. He also knew Mick well enough to know that he was willing to die just to spite his enemies. Wilson thought about the situation. He didn’t have the better hand. Not this time. He would have to restack the deck; but for now, he’d fold. He didn’t lose, ever.
Wilson had underestimated Mick. It stung, but he would deal with ego issues later; this was about the money. “You Mickey, you will get the money for us. That’s right. You will enter that graveyard, dig up the money, and give it to us. That will stop Tollman; nothing else. You have my word. But don’t think I’m stupid. No games.”
Mick looked out into the darkness, “Fine, let’s get to it, then. We don’t have much time. And one more thing; when this is done, I’m going to kill Tollman.”
“I believe you will; but not today.”
* * *
Agent Mike Tollman picked at his muffin. After the last customer left the coffee shop, he stood, walked to each window, and closed the blinds. Before heading back to the kitchen where Julie was working at the large mixer, he flipped the open sign to closed.
* * *
Mick stood over the dead bodies of two Mexican guards who had just untaped him from the chair. He scanned the entrance to the grinding room. Wilson either overestimated the armed guards or underestimated Mick Gelletie. Either way, he forgot what Mick does for the Family. Even with the drug flowing through his head and the wires at his right elbow and left knee, killing the two poorly trained guards was less than a challenge.
Now Mick had weapons, ammo, and freedom. He would need to kill Wilson before leaving the coffee plant, but he couldn’t afford to waste too much time. Tollman was loose on his vineyard. Julie and Max; what would Tollman do to them?
Mick dragged the skinny bodies behind bags of stacked drying beans, stopping only once to shake away the lofty thoughts of a drug induced confusion. He couldn’t place his full weight on his left leg and his arm hung lifeless at his side. He knew he needed a first aid kit and a trip to a good doctor, but not now.
* * *
“Why are you doing this?” Julie screamed in terror. Tollman forced a wet dishtowel into her mouth. He stepped back and looked at the tied up woman, heaped on the floor of the kitchen, the mixer still kneading dough behind him. Lifting up his pant leg, he pulled a small revolver from its holster, opened it to check the ammo, and placed it on the cutting-board counter. From a holster on his other ankle, Tollman drew a seven-inch steel blade. Julie’s eyes fixated on the shine of the knife. Snot bubbled from her nose.
Tollman brought the knife tip near Julie’s cheek. Her scream was more like a high-pitched hum through the towel. Tollman cocked his head, staring at her through sideways eyes. His pupils dropped to look at the rest of her tied up body. He moved the knife slowly down her neck, then to the strap on her apron. With no work at all, the strap no longer held the apron, finely severed in two. He cut a button off her blouse before moving lower. Pulling aside the apron, he cut through a belt loop on her jeans. Then he moved to her sneakers, cutting through the laces. He pulled both shoes off and tossed them into the mixer.
* * *
Copyright © 2007 by Bryan D. Catherman
