Chapter Eleven

Plans and Information

El's treatment changed almost immediately. Two men in white jackets, not conspicuously armed, came to the library and helped him to his feet. They walked him slowly to a dining area, where Asian servants, also not armed, were clearing away the remains of a meal. Solicitous without being overly friendly, the servants brought him a sumptuous dinner, much of which he didn't have the appetite to eat.

Now that he was not bracing mentally for blows, he was able to look around more and start to build a map of the estate in his mind. Though the servants and his escorts did not appear to be armed, guards were posted, sometimes obtrusively, sometimes not, at every door and in every room he was in. Delgado must be employing a small army, and they were not the fat, sleepy security for hire that Lorenzo had found. These men were trained and loyal, and very numerous. No wonder Delgado was concerned about his cash flow. Besides the damage to his business from losing customers, you can't risk not paying your army. They'll turn on you. El thought about that as he tried to eat.

When he was finished, the white-jackets led him to yet another room, a small infirmary. For a moment El flinched mentally at the reminder of some of the implements the Castilian-accented man had used on him, but this man gently removed his garments, bathed and treated his injuries, and helped him back into his clothes.

"Why do you work for Delgado?" El asked.

The man smiled tightly. "I am not to talk to you about such things. Let me see your hands."

The man rebandaged El's fingers, this time placing small caps of some material over his exposed flesh where his fingernails had been. Another anesthetic, this one with some kind of glue, held them in place. "You should be able to shoot by tomorrow," the man said with satisfaction.

"Is that when I am to go to Villahermosa?" El asked.

"I am not to speak to you about such things," the man said again.

El shrugged, and obeyed the man's instructions until they were finished.

He was then led, not dragged, to his, or Sands's, room. On the way, he noted that the room was one of a half-dozen doors in a row, facing one of the inner courtyards. He wondered if Maria and Lorenzo were in another. Inside the small room, he found that a second bed had been squeezed in, opposite the first.

"Rest," his escort told him, as an armed guard took his place outside the door. "You leave tomorrow at dawn."

So El rested. Food, drink and civil treatment had revived him considerably, but he was concerned that he wouldn't be in good enough shape for whatever the morning would bring him. His worst physical problem, now, he found, was swelling. He couldn't expect to assault so much as a church service if he couldn't move a little better.

The door opened, and Maria entered, accompanied by two wary guards, and two other men carrying Styrofoam ice chests. These they set down, and everyone but Maria retreated.

El sat up, and Maria came to him, crying his name.

"Is it true you are going to work for them?" she asked.

El felt his face grow hot. He thought his decision had been a good one, but it still shamed him. "I have no choice," he said, and changed the subject. "What are you doing here? I thought . . ."

"I am not to stay the night," she said in a rush. "But they want you in good shape. These chests have ice packs." She opened one and produced plastic cuffs with ice in them. Pleased, El took them from her and put them on, himself.

"Lorenzo has a plan," she said in a low tone.

El put a finger to her mouth. "Search the room, first," he said.

He helped her examine the bare room for anything that could be a listening device. The room held only the beds, the tiny basin table with the lamp, and the sink, so it was not difficult to be thorough. Finally satisfied, El allowed himself to sit back down on the bed and readjust the ice packs. "What is his plan?" he asked.

"Our room has molding up near the ceiling, and the room is small, like this one. Lorenzo can hold himself up there, braced against the walls. He tried it today."

El nodded, seeing the potential.

"What about you?"

"I am to hide under a bed. They will see me anyway, and that is why they will enter the room. Then Lorenzo will drop on them, and get their guns." The girl's eyes were wide and frightened-looking, but excited.

"Maria, tell Lorenzo to do this tomorrow, while I am away. Then I will know that you are no longer hostages."

"What will you do?"

"If I am to be killing people tomorrow, there will be guns. I will find a small one and hide it on me. Don't worry about me. You and Lorenzo must get away."

Before Maria could answer, there were sounds at the door. The door opened, and someone shoved Sands into the room. The agent stumbled into the foot of El's bed, as the door slammed behind him.

"Shit!" he cried. "What the fuck is this?"

"It's my bed," said El. "Yours is where it usually is."

Sands took the few steps to his bed, stumbling over an ice cooler on the way. He didn't ask what it was, or explore it at all. He had a purple bruise on one cheek.

Maria sat on El's bed in order to get out of his way.

"So Florence Nightingale is here again," Sands said bitterly as he lay down on his bed.

"Stay away from him, Maria; he's sick," said El.

Maria nodded.

Sands tossed himself onto his side, facing them. "So, El, you decided to work for the big bad drug cartel after all."

"What did you mean," El asked, "when you said you came after me?"

Sands rolled to his feet and went to the sink. He ran the water and splashed it over his face. Then he did it again. And again.

"What did you mean by that?" El asked again.

"Just leave me alone," said Sands, gripping either side of the washbasin and rocking himself back and forth.

"No," said El. "You're going to answer my questions. We're going to be spending some time together in this room, and I don't give a fuck what you feel like; you're going to give me some information." El got to his feet, feeling much stronger.

Sands shrank away from him and fell back onto his bed. He raised a hand to his temple, wincing.

"What did you mean by that?" El demanded.

"They were watching Romero's place, that's all. Waiting for you. What the hell else do you want to know?"

Sands pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

El considered. He did have other questions. "Why do they call this 'your shipment'?"

Sands tipped his head back and banged it rhythmically against the wall. "It's genetic engineering. I gave them the recipe for a coca plant that can survive freezing temperatures. They've been growing crops in the mountains where no one will look for them. Now go away and lick your wounds and leave me alone."

His final words were probably intended to be nasty, but El heard mostly desperation in them. He sat back down to consider what he had learned. Sands, he concluded, had not told him all of it. Did the Delgado cartel really want El so badly that they had posted a watch on Lorenzo's place for months? Unlikely. Somehow they had known when El was there.

As for genetic engineering - El reserved judgment. It sounded impossible, to him, but science, particularly U.S. technology, had surprised him before.