Wrecked (Josie Gray Mysteries #3)(47)

Dillon woke to blinding light from above and the voices of men yelling in Spanish, shouting instructions that he couldn’t understand. Curled into the corner of his cell where he had staked out to avoid the circling bats, he heard the wooden rope ladder tumble to the dirt floor. He shielded his eyes from the light above, squinting up to watch a man climbing down the rungs, an automatic rifle banging off his leg as he descended.

“Vámonos, vámonos!”

Dillon forced his bent legs into an upright position, wincing at the pain in his joints as he stood. He had been out of the cell only once since entering, and that had been what he thought to be earlier that same day, when they had forced him to read from a script that was obviously written for Josie or his parents as they slashed his arm. Dillon had finally stopped asking himself questions. They had still provided no reason for the kidnapping, and no indication of how long he would be held.

The cut came with no warning. He thought at first he had been shot before realizing there had been no sound to indicate a gun had gone off. He had screamed and looked down at the blood dripping down his arm. He assumed his captors had filmed the slashing and that the film was likely being sent to Josie or to his parents. The thought of their fear made him burn with anger. Now, he worried that the stabbing was the first act of violence and that the torture would increase every day. He fought to keep from obsessing over what they would do to him next.

Two meals had been dropped through the hole above since he had been locked away. They’d thrown a sack containing a combination of tortillas and shredded greasy chicken wrapped inside foil, and a pasty glob of rice held in a plastic bag. A small amount of water was also sent down via a used plastic milk jug that was lowered from a rope. Someone would yell, “Untie!” and he had to crawl to the jug and untie the rope, pulling on it to indicate the jug was free. He had quickly drunk every drop and yelled for more, but he heard nothing in return. His thirst had become unbearable; his lips were already cracked and bleeding.

Now, the man pressed the barrel of his rifle to the back of Dillon’s neck, forcing him to look at the ground. The guard shoved the pillowcase into Dillon’s hands, and he knew to slip it down over his head. He was shoved in the direction of the ladder and put his hands out, feeling in the dark for the rope, afraid his cramped muscles and injured arm wouldn’t allow him to make the climb.

Ashamed of his current state, he took the rungs slowly, hunched over, his left arm burning and throbbing from the makeshift stitches. Eventually, reaching the top of the hole, he felt around with one hand at the sand and gravel above him. Two pairs of hands grabbed his upper arms, paying no attention to his injury. He moaned in pain as his feet left the ladder and he was pulled up the final few feet of the hole to solid ground. Through the bottom of the pillowcase, he could tell that it was dark outside. The light he had seen in the hole had come from flashlights. He assumed he had been in captivity somewhere between a few days and a week, but with no light seeping into the hole to signal sunrise and sunset, his sense of time was gone. When he slept, he never knew for how long, and he always woke disoriented, panicked, the sickening new knowledge of his captivity smacking him in the face.

His arms were then pushed into the sleeves of a robe and a belt was cinched around his waist. He heard the rolling track of a van door being opened and then was forced inside, onto what he thought was the same metal floor as before. After what he guessed was about a thirty-minute drive, he was dragged from the van and into a room with concrete floors. Footsteps echoed and voices carried, making him think it was a large room, perhaps a warehouse or commercial garage with an empty open area.

He was stopped and then pushed by the shoulders into a wooden chair. After being told to close his eyes the pillowcase was replaced with a blindfold, presumably so the kidnappers could see his face. Since his captivity his emotions had soared from despair to hope to fury. When the men left the room, he prayed for strength and vowed that his captors would not break him.

After what seemed like hours a door opened and the footsteps of several men echoed off the walls as they approached him. Dillon could feel their eyes on him as they whispered to each other in Spanish.

Finally, a man said, “Dillon Reese, accountant. Ms. Josie Gray’s lover. Correct?”

Dillon said nothing and received a powerful blow to the stomach. He gasped for air as the man continued to talk, his English excellent. “I don’t play games. When I ask, I expect an answer. If you don’t provide what I want you will pay a heavy price.

“So I ask the question again. Are you Josie Gray’s lover?”

Dillon nodded once. He could hear voices at a distance talking quietly and the noises of people moving. There was obviously something else going on in the room, but he couldn’t distinguish the sounds.

“Nine million dollars. That’s your worth to me. She brings me cash in exchange for you.”

Dillon’s head fell back at the absurdity of it. It was the first time he had heard the ransom amount.

“You don’t think your Ms. Gray can handle that?” He laughed with the arrogance of a man accustomed to getting what he wants.

Dillon didn’t speak and received another blow to the stomach. He doubled over, wheezing.

“I thought you understood how this worked, Mr. Accountant. Aren’t you a money man?”

Dillon struggled to understand the amount of money he had just heard. Surely they realized he wasn’t a wealthy man. And why would they ask this of Josie? How could they possibly think that she could provide that kind of ransom?