Connor’s face flushed scarlet.
The Aryan glowered at Connor, then pointed his gaze and machete at Mark. “You’re lucky we didn’t sell you by the pound, you fat fuck.” The Aryan returned to his post near the exit.
The man they called The Reaper entered the room. He stood front and center, surveying the prisoners, his face and shaved head a mass of tattoos. “You are the scum of the fuckin’ earth. I’ve seen some weak motherfuckers come through here, but you sicken me.”
A few Aryan guards snickered.
The Reaper’s glare swept over the prisoners, causing many of them to look down in shame. “In five days, each of you faggots will fight to the death in this stadium. If you attempt to escape, we’ll slice you up like a fuckin’ pig and eat you for supper. You refuse to fight, you’ll be sacrificed at halftime, sliced into a million pieces and fed to the niggers.”
The prisoners were slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“A few of you faggots will make it out alive. To do that, you’ll have to fight and win. When it’s over, the winners will join the Aryan Nation, or, if a nigger wins, they’ll be given to their tribe. Your trainin’ begins right now.” The Reaper surveyed the prisoners once more, one side of his mouth raised in contempt. “Your first lesson is, whites go with whites and niggers go with niggers. I see most of the whites are already over here.” He gestured to the right side of the room. “Except for you nigger bitches.” The Reaper pointed to the black and Latino women grouped together with the white women. “Go on. Find a seat over there with your kind.” He gestured to the left side of the room, where groups of nonwhites clustered.
Then he narrowed his eyes at Derek and approached. “What the fuck are you? A sand nigger?”
Derek didn’t respond, not sure what to say.
“Get the fuck over there with the rest of the niggers.”
70
Jacob and Project Freedom
After talking with Eric about Project Freedom and Derek’s chance of survival, Jacob and Rebecca then had a long discussion about whether or not to hire them or to even contact them. Even though Jacob confirmed with Eric that Project Freedom was a front for drug smugglers and likely con artists, Rebecca still wanted to contact them and to exhaust their options.
Jacob had contacted Eric’s guy in Venezuela, who contacted Project Freedom, then provided Jacob with the contact information for Cesar, no last name given. Allegedly, Cesar was a partner in the business. Jacob then called Cesar, with Rebecca in the room and the phone on speaker. This was a demand that Rebecca would not relinquish.
“Yes, Matias told me who you are,” Cesar said in near perfect English, referring to Eric’s man in Venezuela. “He says you have a family member in San Juan.”
“Yes,” Jacob replied, holding his phone near his mouth.
“He also said that you were interested in retaining our recovery service.”
“Have you recovered other island inmates?”
“We’ve come close, but I will not lie. We have not rescued anyone. I’m assuming you already know that.”
Jacob was stunned, figuring Cesar would lie, and Rebecca would realize that Project Freedom is truly a con.
Rebecca leaned toward the phone. “Hi, this is Rebecca Roth.”
“Hello, Mrs. Roth,” Cesar replied.
Rebecca took the phone from Jacob’s hand.
Jacob let go of his phone and his control with gritted teeth.
“Do you think it’s possible to rescue someone from the island?” Rebecca asked.
“With enough money, anything’s possible.”
Jacob cringed, thinking about his bank account.
Rebecca said, “We’d like to come to the Virgin Islands to help—”
Jacob grabbed his phone from Rebecca, flashing her a scowl. “Nothing’s been decided.”
“If you decide to retain our services, you would be welcome to stay at our base in the Virgin Islands,” Cesar said. “It is, how you say, rustic, but we have off-grid power and a bunker safe from hurricanes. You will, of course, have to arrange for private transit. No commercial ships or airlines come to the Virgin Islands. Private ships will make the trip for a price. I can put you in contact with a ship captain.”
“That’s not necessary. We have access to transportation,” Jacob said. “If we come to an agreement, we would bring our own security team.”
“My husband has access to well-trained men who could help,” Rebecca said, leaning in to the phone.
“This work is very dangerous,” Cesar said. “If we have men to share in the danger, we have a better chance to find your family member.”
“If money were no object, how would you do it?”
Jacob clenched his jaw in response to Rebecca talking about his money as if it were hers to spend.
Cesar said, “Well, that would require quite a bit of planning, but, off the top of my head, I’d wait for a hurricane to force the US Navy to vacate the area. Then I’d send in our submarine. Multiple men would surface and would fly drones with facial recognition cameras to find your family member. What is his name?”
“Derek.”
“The drones and cameras would help us search and find Derek. From there, we’d have to devise an extraction plan based on his location, and we’d have to wait for another hurricane to make it back through the blockade, unless we got lucky and found him quickly. Now this is a very rough idea. We’d also need to set up an encrypted communication network between the submarine and our base camp. Lots of moving pieces and very dangerous but entirely possible for the right price.”
“Are you in the Virgin Islands now?” Rebecca asked.
“If I was, we wouldn’t be talking right now. There’s no cell service or internet there. It is very primitive.”
“Would you be meeting us there?”
“When you pay the deposit, I will meet you and your husband at our base in the Virgin Islands, and I will personally oversee the operation.”
71
Summer and El Morro
At the first glimpse of sunrise, Summer and Gavin and Javier launched the canoe back into the bay. Summer’s hip and back hurt from sleeping in the sea container. Javier’s confession had angered Summer but not at Javier, at those who had perpetrated the injustice.
The men paddled, and the sun rose and reflected off the bright blue sea. It was eerily quiet, the gangs still asleep after a night of initiating their new members. Summer thought about her fate, had she been purchased by one of the gangs. She shuddered at the thought. Summer thought about Byron and his fresh baby smell and the way he clenched his little fist. She cried quietly, the splash of the oars masking her emotion.
They paddled for about a mile, toward the ocean. At the end of the bay, they paddled to the point, the small waves pushing them onto the rocky beach and its rocky promontory. In front of them sat an old stone fort or a castle. Men patrolled the high walls with rifles. One of them waved. Gavin and Javier waved back, then carried the canoe from the water toward the fort. Summer followed with the paddles.
“What is this place?” Summer asked.
“It’s an old Spanish fort built in the sixteenth century,” Gavin said. “It’s one of the few structures that survived the hurricanes almost totally intact.”
“Almost?”
Gavin pointed to the top of the stone fort. “Used to be a lighthouse on top.”
They climbed stone steps over a sea wall and approached the fort. Summer looked up at the structure, the massive walls extending fifty feet up to a second level, with another set of walls even higher. They entered at the base of the wall, guarded by two men, one with a rifle and one with a handgun.
Inside the fort, Gavin and Javier parked the canoe next to one other, the smell of paint in the air. There was an open area, dimly lit by the sun through the gun ports. A middle-aged man, resembling a balding leprechaun, painted what looked like a small spacecraft. Two black wings with black pontoons attached to the ends were propped against the wall, the paint drying.