Elliot Salem stirred from his fragile, sleep like state when jangling keys and unbolting locks sounded from behind the rusted, steel door. He flinched, the anxiety of what was to come hastening his heartbeat, and sending his panicky body into a trembling fit.
It had been eight weeks since he was pulled from the burning wreckage of his truck by Bautista's men. For eight weeks he had been in this prison, his own personal hell. It had been days since his last humble meal of a stale tortilla and bowl of lumpy, moist slop. Until recently, it hadn't occurred to him that it was dog food. He found it sadly appropriate. He felt like an animal. The room seemed more to him like a cage, or kennel than a cell.
There were no windows, the only source of light being the pale beams that slipped through the bars at the top of the steel door from which he watched thick dust particles dance languidly in the air. The room lacked a bathroom as well. The cartel proposed a bucket in the corner would suffice. That along with the fact he had been forced to wear the same clothing for eight weeks filled the prison with a vile stench, which he had gradually grown adjusted to. Visitors did not, however. The sickening smell only made the cartel members more vicious and sardonic toward him, earning him more beatings. The beatings. That's what struck his heart with terror every time that door was unlocked.
The most frequent, as well as sadistic visitor was Esteban Bautista. His seemingly unpredictable, erratic behavior sent Salem on edge. With the exception of the last few weeks, his stay at the compound had been a constant battle for survival. The consistent suffering and abuse probably would have been cut short if he had just given up the hope that Rios would rescue him. Until last week, he held onto that faith in his friend as if it were a thread holding him over a waterfall. But over time, that thread had frayed until it finally snapped. He had fallen. He was drowning.
Since becoming more compliant, there was a random mix of what Salem simply referred to in his head as good days and bad days. The good days ranged from feeding, to being completely left alone, to receiving his dose of morphine, which he was in desperate need of again. The bad days, well, he just hoped today wasn't a bad day.
As the locks continued to rattle, Salem eased himself up from his left side, the right being too badly burned to lay on. Though it was excruciating to move without the use of painkillers, he learned the hard way that Bautista preferred he sit up when in his presence. Salem leaned back against the concrete wall, stretched his bare feet out straight in front of him, and folded his hands in his lap. After the last bolt was unlocked, the steel door creaked open.
The first man to enter was the burly, scarred, machete wielding man whom Salem always assumed was Bautista's second in command. The man was always at his boss' side, ready to fulfill his next order. The second man to emerge from the doorway was Bautista himself. He wore a red, pressed cotton shirt rolled up to his elbows, expensive khaki pants, and a pair of genuine leather cowboy boots.
"Buenos días," Bautista greeted with a half smile as he sauntered across the filthy cell. He knelt down on one knee in front of Salem, the small, friendly grin still spread across his lips. "How is my amigo this fine morning?"
Salem released a shaky breath, unaware he was holding it in since the door began to open. "Bien, señor," he muttered nervously. "Gracias."
Bautista nodded, suppressing the smugness that threatened to creep into his smile. "Eh, that's my little luchador. He's a tough one, no? Muy fuerte."
He looked up to the scarred man, who simply grunted in agreement.
"Ah, look at you," Bautista remarked, his voice filled with concern as he took Salem's thickly scarred, trembling arm into his hands. He hissed, as if examining the wounds pained his own flesh. "Looks nasty, my friend. Most men wouldn't have lasted as long as you."
He waved over the man that stood behind him, and took from him a small, fabric case. Bautista unzipped the bag, and laid it out open on the concrete floor, revealing syringes, a blue tourniquet, and small vials strapped inside.
"You know," Bautista began, taking the tourniquet from the case, and tying it taut around Salem's left bicep. "You've really proved yourself to me, hombre. You got the will of ten men, a real fighting spirit. Most of these guys I recruit wouldn't have lasted a weak, but you-"
He slowly filled the syringe with the clear liquid from one of the vials, and put the tip of the needle to the bulging, blue vein in Salem's arm. "You really caught my attention."
Salem watched as Bautista eased the needle into his arm, and pushed down on the plunger of the syringe. He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he marveled at the rapidity of the morphine's soothing potency.
Bautista removed the needle, and returned the instruments to the case, watching the relief wash over his captive with a grin. "Yeah, that's much better. What I was saying, amigo, is that you've really shown me your worth during your stay with us, and I want to congratulate you, welcome you into the family."
"Family?" Salem murmured, his eyes becoming lidded with drug induced contentment.
"Sí, my friend," Bautista replied, playfully punching Salem on the chin. "I'm making you one of us. You've earned it."
Salem shook his head lazily in confusion, making Bautista chuckle.
"Hey, I know it's been a hard couple of weeks," he said sympathetically. "Your friends left you, abandoned you, but I'm taking you in, brother. This is your special day."
He looked Salem's filthy body up and down, then clucked his tongue in disappointment. "You can't be looking like this for the initiation, my friend. We're gonna have to clean you up, aren't we?"
Salem nodded anxiously, still unsure of the legitimacy of this offer, and terrified of objecting. "Sí, señor."
"No, no, no," Bautista gently corrected. "You call me jefe now."
"Sí, jefe," Salem muttered. He received a light, approving pat on his shoulder from Bautista.
"That's my little soldado. Tráelo a las duchas."
The burly man nodded at the command, and hoisted Salem up by the armpits. He guided him out of cell, then down the dimly lit hall toward the showers.