“Sorry,” she said to Alex. “I jinxed us, didn’t I?”

20

Castillo del Chapulínes Resort

Near Oaxaca, Mexico

Tuesday, May 20, 4:32 P.M.

The man who called himself Majors jerked awake when the cold water came rushing down on the back of his head. This sudden movement produced sharp pain in his wrists and ankles. He could see only water and bright whiteness. He was dazed, but the pain brought the beginnings of a rough focus with it. His scalp hurt, too-he was being pulled up by the hair. As his face was brought up into the gurgling flow of water, he panicked, thinking he would drown, but the pulling continued, so that he was bent like a bow, back from the stream of water still rushing from the bathtub spout.

He could not open his mouth to let out the scream that was caught in it-a wide band of duct tape had been wound over it, wrapped around his head. He could hardly breathe. Then the water was turned off and the grip on his hair released. He fell forward, twisting his face just in time to avoid smashing his nose on the porcelain bathtub. He took a nasty crack on the chin, though. He wondered, vaguely, if it broke his jaw.

Disoriented, he lay unmoving for some minutes before he realized that he was hog-tied, naked, facedown in a bathtub. A glaringly bright light shone on him, making him squint. His shoulders, thighs, and back ached with the strain placed on them, and it seemed impossible to relieve the pressure on the points where the wire bit into his flesh. He was bound as the young man with the scars must have been at one time, with strong wire around the wrists and ankles.

As these things became clearer to him, his nostrils flared with his labored breaths.

“Don’t hyperventilate,” he heard a mocking voice say. There wasn’t a trace of the German accent now.

He struggled, felt the renewed bite of the wire, then held himself as still as he could.

One of them was laughing.

He tried to move his head, to see their faces, although he knew who they were. Or who they had said they were. He had just managed to angle his neck so that he could peer over the edge of the tub when he saw it.

A video camera. The red light that indicated it was recording was on.

He began to tremble.

“Oh, yes. We know who you are,” said the one who had called himself Emil. The golden angel. How stupid he had been to lower his guard around them.

No use thinking like that now. He had to get himself out of here.

For a moment, despair nearly overwhelmed him. Then he thought of Slick. Sooner or later, Slick would be back. And so would the others. Or a maid or someone would come in.

As if reading his thoughts, Emil said, “We won’t be disturbed. I’m quite sure of that.”

They walked away.

He started to weep and managed to stop himself only when he realized he would not be able to breathe if his nose became congested from the tears.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed before they came back, or even how long they had been in the room before he became aware of them. By then, the pain was so intense, his mind wholly belonged to it.

They were doing something with the camera. The bright lights went out.

Majors felt gloved hands taking hold of him, grasping hard and lifting him. The pull on his wrists and ankles was excruciating. The young men were strong, much stronger than he had believed them to be. He was not light, but they easily lifted him out of the tub. They carried him to a four-poster bed that had nothing on it but a fitted sheet. There was a plastic drop cloth beneath it. Seeing that, he felt bile rise in his throat and for some seconds was afraid that he might choke on his own vomit.

They made a change in the way he was bound. Weakened by the time spent pulled like a bow, he could not struggle against them as they released his arms and legs. The relief of the strain on his muscles nearly made him start crying again. He was moved to the bed and laid on his back, then tied spread-eagle-the wire, again, only this time each band was attached to hooks that were already in place at each bed corner. He glanced down at his naked torso and saw that his body had been shaved-there was no hair between his neck and his genitals.

He heard a knock on the door. He waited until he saw Emil open it, then screamed as loud as he could. Gagged as he was, it was a sound much softer than he wanted it to be, but loud enough to be heard by anyone at the door. Of that much, he was sure.

To his relief, it seemed he was heard, for who should come in but the helicopter pilot, Alberto.

Alberto’s brows drew together.

Emil said, “Justino saw nothing of it. He helped us without knowing what happened next. Your brother made sure he was well away before we began.”

“Thank you,” said Alberto. He moved closer, staring down at Majors with utter contempt. “And I see you have exercised great self-control. I tell you, it has been difficult for me.”

Majors felt all hope slipping from him. Fear made his mouth dry.

“I understand, Alberto,” Emil said sympathetically. “As does Conrad.” He turned to his partner, the dark-haired one. “Don’t you, my friend?”

“Yes. But we won’t have to delay much longer.”

Again, a knock at the door. The Brazilian and the Canadian entered. If they were, Majors thought bitterly, really from those places. The Brazilian was carrying a black case.

“Ah, Paulo, you’re here!” said Emil, and asked him something in Portuguese. He received an answer, and then said to the others, “Paulo tells me he would prefer to do his work now, to give Mr. Knox-or, as he calls himself now, Mr. Majors-time to think about what is to come. Do any of you object?”

There were no objections.

Emil turned back to look at him. “I think I’ll keep calling you Majors, if you don’t mind. I think I like the name better than your real one. And after all, you aren’t going to hear our own real names, so it’s only fair.”

Conrad moved closer to Majors’s head, then looked back at Emil.

“Yes, you’re right,” Emil said, as if he had heard a question asked.

Conrad reached down and grabbed an edge of the duct tape. In a swift move, he ripped a piece of it away. He did this again and again, mercilessly pulling hair and skin with the tape as he unwound it. When he finished, he stepped away.

Majors’s cries of pain eventually faded to whimpers.

“That’s better,” Emil said. He turned to the others. “We will be happy to gag him again if he says anything to offend you, or if his screams bother you.”

“I’ll pay you!” Majors said. “Get me away from here alive, and I’ll pay you. I’m a rich man.”

“Oh dear,” the Canadian said. “I think he already offends me.”

Emil sighed. “Mr. Majors, you are not a rich man. Paulo is rich, Alberto is rich, and Pierre-this gentleman you think of as a Canadian-is rich. They have the money that used to belong to you. This surprises you, I can see. I can also see that you believe the funds in your Swiss and Cayman Island and other accounts couldn’t be in their hands. But that’s exactly the case.”

Majors’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“You may be hoping someone nearby will hear you. They won’t. You may be expecting rescue from your friend Slick. Alberto?”

“I’m happy to report that his friend was careless in the helicopter. He has had a very long fall from a very high place.”

Majors swallowed hard, then said, “He’s not the only one who knows I came here.”

“He’s not,” Conrad said, “the only one who is dead.”

The coldness of that voice left Majors without his own.

He heard noises and turned his head to see that Paulo was removing an instrument of some sort from his case.

“A tattoo needle,” Emil said. “Paulo is a tattoo artist. Do you remember the last time you were near a tattoo parlor?”