He straightened. “Yolanda!” He fumbled with the doorknob, and it swung open …
A smear of bloody tracks led into the back room. Bruce’s breathing quickened. He entered the store, almost afraid that something was going to jump out at him, or that someone would come in through the back and start yelling, accusing him of—
Three bodies were stacked in the side room. Blood still oozed from wounds on their heads, their shoulders — a fetid smell filled the room. Urine and feces, body waste purged from their colons relaxing.
Bruce yelled: “Yolanda! Are you here? Yolanda?!” He peeked into the front room and he spotted Yolanda’s father tied to a chair.
Bruce didn’t know his name. He untied the man’s gag. “Where’s Yolanda?”
“Arat aka booto!” His face was swollen, bruised. One side of his head oozed blood. Bruce straightened and looked around. The back room. He spotted the tiny bathroom and wet some towels hanging on a towel rack. They were tiny, pink towels with hearts sewn in them — probably Yolanda’s, something she had made for her father. Bruce used the towels to dab the old man’s wound.
“Cervante.…” His eyes widened. “Yolanda?” He coughed. The man made a small motion with his hands near his mouth. “Drink … water.”
Bruce moved one of the wet towels next to the man’s lips. “Here. Don’t take it too fast.” He squeezed water into the old man’s mouth.
The man closed his eyes and asked, “Yolanda. What … what did you do? Where is she?” He opened his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Yolanda.” He sounded firm.
“I don’t know where she is. What happened? Can I get you some help?” Bruce hesitated. “What’s your name?”
The man coughed. “Pompano.” Bruce tried to untie him but Pompano jerked away. “I do not need any help. I must find Yolanda.”
Bruce squatted in front of Pompano. “You’re in no condition to do anything. Especially to find your daughter.” He wet his lips. “Who are those men in the back room?”
“What men?” Pompano coughed. Blood mixed in with the spittle.
“Back there.” Bruce was growing impatient.
“My Yolanda … my little one. If Cervante has taken her, I will hunt him. I will find her!”
Bruce helped Pompano to his feet. The two staggered into the back room. When Pompano saw the three men, he released his hold on Bruce’s shoulder and dropped to a knee. He crossed himself. “Holy Mother Maria.…”
“You know them?”
Pompano simply nodded. His chest started to heave. Bruce held onto the man and moved him away from the bodies. Pompano vomited in a corner.
Bruce wiped spittle from Pompano’s lips. “What’s going on? How is Yolanda wrapped up in this?”
Pompano waved an arm toward a chair propped against the back wall. Bruce helped him to it, easing the old man into the Spartan seat.
Bruce felt his breathing quicken. The world seemed to have gone crazy: dead men in the back room, the old man tied up, and Yolanda taken … where? His temper started ganging up on his fear, causing his glands to rev into high gear.
Bruce started pacing, both nervous and anxious to get to the bottom of it. “Yolanda! Where is she? You know something, but what aren’t you telling?”
Pompano only shook his head.
Bruce moved over to the old man. He drew back a hand, then looked at Pompano. God, help me! thought Bruce. He felt like he was going to pop apart. He grabbed Pompano by the collar. “Where is she?!”
“Cervante. It was him. He must have … succeeded.” Softly, as if he were defeated. “And he took Yolanda.”
“Where is she?!”
“You cannot get there.”
“The hell I can’t!”
Pompano glanced at Bruce, then looked away. “And you will die, along with her.” He paused. “Cervante is clever. He has taken her to the mountains. He has taken … precautions to ensure that no one approaches his place.”
Bruce knelt in front of Pompano. He saw a white-haired man with deep wrinkles and a defeated look in his eyes. “This Cervante. You said he succeeded. In what — taking Yolanda?”
Pompano slowly shook his head. “No. That is only part of it. A very small part of it.” He looked up. “If I am right, then he has your vice president. And if you try to go there, Yolanda and your vice president will die.”
“But you’ve got to help me. Where are they?”
“You do not understand. It does not matter how you try to approach Cervante. He will not reason with you. Cervante has worked hard, for too long, to accomplish this.”
Bruce slammed his hand against the wall.
“Dammit, Pompano. Cervante could not have known about the vice president coming to Clark. I didn’t know until this morning. Don’t tell me that he’s devoted his life to this.”
“It does not matter that this is your vice president, or even my daughter. Cervante has been waiting for an opportunity. Any opportunity. He has trained long and has prepared to grasp at any straw.” Pompano breathed deep. “And I know how fruitless it would be to try and hunt him down, because I have helped the man.”
Bruce turned at this revelation. “You helped?”
“Aih.”
“Then you can help me. You know where he is, how to get to him!”
Pompano merely shook his head.
“You’ve got to!”
“I cannot take the chance. As long as I keep away, Cervante might not harm my little one.”
“Might not? Get real, Pompano! He’s got the vice president of the United States there. Do you think he gives a damn about Yolanda?”
Pompano looked up coolly. “I do not care who else he has, especially if it is an American. My daughter is the only one who matters. I will not risk her life.”
Bruce’s breath quickened. He couldn’t believe the gall of the old man — the stubbornness. It just seemed plain friggin’ crazy that the guy wouldn’t want to jump up and do everything he could to save Yolanda — or the vice president. Bruce couldn’t put himself in the older man’s shoes, show any empathy at all.
With a sudden movement, Bruce reached down and jerked Pompano up out of the chair. He ignored the kicking, even the bite that Pompano tried to take out of his shoulder, and carried the old man out the door and through the rain to General Simone’s black Corvette.
After throwing Pompano in, Bruce held up a finger and growled, “Try to get out and I’ll tie you to the top.” He sloshed to the driver’s side and started the car.
Juan Salazar smoothed his jacket and adjusted his tie. The mirror reflected back a dark blue suit, white shirt, and his red “power” tie. It also showed what appeared to be a freshly scrubbed face. The bags around his eyes had been hidden by makeup, and Visine ensured that his eyes were not bloodshot.
On the outside, Salazar perfectly fit the part, that of a cool, highly competent spokesman for the United States government.
Inside, he was frightened to death that the press would scratch the surface of his coiffured image, and that the ensuing revelations would generate panic.
Two more minutes and he would be stepping before the cameras of the mainstream media, FOX, CNN, BBC, and a myriad of other networks. Another five minutes and he would be done.
Salazar studied the crib sheet in front of him. The announcement would express grave concern about the President’s chances, when in reality all that was keeping the Commander-in-Chief alive was the rhythmic chugging of the life-support system.