Technomancer 9: The Bridge Cartel

*** Trigger: Contains mention of death and violence.***

The familiar rumble of thunder echoed through the hall outside the cell, a welcome break from the groans and weeping of the men in the cells. Beads of sweat formed on Leron’s forehead, drifting down into his brow. He wiped them away with his good arm and used the opportunity to brush the matted dreads from his face. He shifted against the wall, trying to reposition his injured arm so it didn’t hurt so much. The pain reminded him that he was alive, and of his mortality.

The grate at the end of the hallway darkened, causing Arion’s face to disappear beside him. There was no sign of his presence except the knife scraping against the concrete. It was difficult to tell how many days had passed and with the incoming storm, no way to determine if night had come again.

The scraping stopped, and Arion spoke, “Jakob said Manuel isn’t doing so well.”

Leron didn’t respond. The early hope of rescue had long since fizzled out and now he was just tired from the pain. He was ready for it to end. At least he and Manuel wouldn’t suffer as long as the others. And even if he did make it out, it was unlikely he would survive the resulting infection.

Arion elbowed him, “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did.”

“And?” Arion demanded.

“And what? We’re all going to die.”

“Stop it,” Arion yelled and whimpered, “I said stop it.” He dropped the knife and hid his head in his hands. “I told you I wouldn’t kill you,” he sobbed. “I have to get you and the others out of here. The women are relying on us.”

Leron laughed and shook his head.

"Dammit! You speak to the others of how important every life is. What about yours??!" Arion yelled.

"I was wrong."

Another roll of thunder was followed by angry shouts and pleas for rescue. Several of the doors screeched open. Leron’s heart began to race, and his muscles tensed, anticipating the possibility of rescue. Against his wishes, a small piece of him began to hope it was a rescue.

The door swung open, and the unfamiliar faces of men appeared, their hair, greasy and long, teeth rotting and clothes nothing but rags. From the group, a better-dressed man appeared in a suit. “I’m looking for Leron Richards,” he said.

“Don’t say a thing,” Arion hissed.

“I’m Leron.”

“Fetch him,” said the well-dressed man, nodding to those behind him. He stepped aside and they rushed in, dragging Leron to his feet. He cried out, as his arm was yanked and the world spun around him, and he almost blacked out from the pain.

“No!” screamed Arion, rushing toward them. Weakened as he was, they threw him back against the wall and he slid down it, unconscious.

The men carried Leron and a few others, up several flights of steps and outside. The warm air rushed by him, a welcome coolness on his face. He squinted at the rolling clouds in the distance. Lightning lit them, revealing the cones of possible tornados. The rumbling thunder followed and the ground shook as it cracked. They were on the other side of the bridge and the other side of the fence. He glanced back at the building they had come from, thinking of Masa, still stuck in Mexico.

They passed beneath a steel awning and the men carrying Leron dropped him on the concrete pad, knocking the wind from him. Coughing, he clutched his stomach with his good arm and groaned. His vision began to clear, and he could make out the faces of those beside him. Manuel clutched his side, his face pale. Francisco and Gael were there too. They appeared to have escaped the battle in the Walmart parking lot unscathed. All the remaining members of the Monterrey Group Council. That must mean the others are dead, he thought. I wonder what they want with us.

“Get on your knees,” yelled one of the suited men behind him.

Leron struggled onto his knees and from the corner of his eyes watched Francisco help Manuel. He was relieved to see the man who had been like a father to him alive, but worried at the grey pallor of Manuel’s skin. He almost forgot his own pain and had to fight himself against rushing to the older man’s rescue.

He gazed around him, searching for the possibility of escape, but they were surrounded. Men in old military uniforms and suits were everywhere standing guard in long lines or huddled in groups deep in discussion. The man in the suit who had brought him in the others up joined several others who all stood to attention in a long line, appearing like federal agents in suits and sunglasses. The ragtag men left them, disappearing elsewhere. From far down the line, a small procession appeared from a door.

At the front was a short man in a military uniform, a cigar in his mouth. He nodded at each of the men as he passed by them, inspecting them. Behind him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, dressed in black. Her short blonde bob framed her pale face, and her lips painted a deep dark red. She glided down the row, out of place and a work of art amidst the full greens and browns of those around her. He thought how beautiful Masa would have looked in such clothes and smiled.

While he was distracted, he didn’t notice the short man with the stogie until the man’s shadow blocked his gaze, and ash from the stogie fell to the ground before him. “Are you sure you have it right? This one is but a boy. He can’t be more than twenty. He can’t be in the council.”

“It’s correct, sir,” said the man in the suit who had brought them up from the cells.

“How novel,” said the man with the stogie and he chuckled. “They’ll put anyone in charge these days. Is the Monterrey group really so hard off for men? Speak.”

“No, sir,” replied Leron, not meeting the man’s gaze. With all the armed men, this was not a fight anyone could win. At times like this, he wished he knew how to fight, but he had refused. If he made it out of this alive, he swore to himself he would find a better way to defend himself. There would be no sweet talking here or ridiculous luck. He just needed to keep his head down this time.

“Ah good. You know how to show proper respect, boy. I could have a place for you,” the short man laughed, “Though with your arm the way it is, I’m not sure you would be of much use to anyone.” He put out his stogie and passed it to one of the men following him before he cleared his throat and walked down the line, leaving Leron behind. “I am Don Eros. Which one of you is the real leader, then?”

“We don’t have one,” Manuel croaked, his breaths strained and wheezing, “We stand as equals.”

“Like the Americans and their outdated concept of democracy?” asked Don Eros. “The democracy they forced on the rest of the world only served to divide us even further. They divided and conquered us all. They spoke of each person being special, and yet every man got forgotten. They spoke of unity…” he spat. “Unity, my ass. They were the first to panic and set off the bombs.”

The rage boiled within Leron. Even against his pain, he longed to argue for the country he had been born in. National pride was instinctively ingrained in all Americans from birth, and he wanted to fight. He tightened the fist on his bad arm, absorbing the pain, and using it to remind him of the results of the price of carelessness. Yes, if he got out of here, he would make sure he was never in this position again. How many dictators had he been forced to bow before?

“You don’t know that!” argued Gael. “No one does.”

“You’re quite wrong about that,” said Don Eros, “This area remained untouched, and we had power for a time. We don’t know why, but the US fired first. Gah, honestly, we were even happy with their division. If they had been truly united, we wouldn’t have been able to run so many drugs across the border.”

“Would you get on with it?” Manuel croaked, “Why did you bother to bring us up here?”

Don Eros stood before him, raised his leg, and gently pushed Manuel with his foot. The old man collapsed to the ground, and Francisco backed away, afraid to aid him. Don Eros laughed and bent forward, his hands on his hips. “Well, now. I know the location of every group's base in Nuevo Laredo, but yours. I have planted spies in each, but I need to know where yours is so I can wipe the rest of them out. Ms. Brents here is a representative from San Antonio and they like me, want to ensure none of you make it across the border.”

“Exactly,” the beautiful woman said, identifying herself as the one in which Don Eros spoke of. “So where is your location?” she said, taking hold of Manuel's chin.

"I'll never tell you," Manuel croaked, "I will die before I let you touch my wife."

“Don’t bother,” said Gael, “There’s no one left but women and children.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what a woman can do,” said Ms. Brents. "Their little games won't amount to anything."

“I thought you didn’t want them told?” said Don Eros.

“It matters not,” Ms. Brents said haphazardly.

“Bloody women,” Don Eros complained, shaking his head, “You’re always changing your minds and scheming. The women of Nuevo Laredo are the ones who have been planning something, but we have not been able to get a spy in with them. Every time we do, they join sides, or we find them dead, but we do know they are all working together,” He spat again. “I can’t even trust my own wife.”

Unable to stop himself, Leron snorted.

Don Eros filled with rage and marched toward him, pulling his pistol from its harness. “No one speaks to me that way! I will shoot this one personally!”

“No don’t!” screamed Manuel. The pistol went off and Manuel fell to the ground.

Leron screamed and rushed toward his friend. Manuel was bleeding out and he had to get to him. “No….” he screamed as armed men took hold of his arms and held him back. He struggled against them, trying to free himself and ignoring the pain. Manuel’s breathing was labored and slow. His friend looked toward him and reached out before his eyes froze and emptied. “You bastard,” Leron cried out, trying to fight off the men holding him. They gripped his arms and held him still.

A curious smile formed at the corner of Ms. Brents' mouth. She approached Leron with hungry eyes and brushed her long-nailed finger down his cheek. Disgusted, Leron tried to bite her, but she pulled back and laughed. “Don Eros? I am rather fond of the look in this one’s eyes. I would like to take him back to my room to question him personally. I think he will give me what I want.”

Don Eros gave her a look filled with daggers. “No, he laughed at me. He will die.”

“Let a woman deal with this,” she said in her silvery voice, approaching Don Eros and whispering in his ear, “I will get you all the information you want. The youngest ones are the easiest to break. I will break him faster than you can those old men.”

“I do like a good bet,” Don Eros said, “Wager then?”

“Agreed.”

“Follow me,” she ordered to the men holding Leron. He continued to struggle against the men, but the pain from his arm was becoming more than he could handle. The world spun around him again and he lost consciousness.

When he woke, he discovered he was strapped to a bed with thick leather straps running across his chest, waist, and legs, holding him firmly in place. His arm no longer ached the way it had before. He gazed at it. The swelling had gone down, and the feeling of it dying was gone.

“I’ve treated you with antibiotics,” Ms. Brents said in clear American English. “You’re no Mexican.”

“No,” he replied, his own tongue seeming unfamiliar as the words left his mouth.

“I’ve treated the infection,” she said.

“Why?”

“Mr. Richards, you seem the type of person who likes to right wrongs, am I right?” she asked with a wicked smile. Lightning lit up a nearby window, highlighting the madness in her eyes.

Leron didn’t respond. He wouldn't give in to her no matter what she did to him.

Ms. Brents laughed, “You would never break. Your convictions won’t let you. No, the only way to break someone like you, is through kindness.”