The Wrong Hostage

72

TIJUANA

MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.

LANE SAT IN A broom closet and thought about playing soccer-with various heads used for the ball. His recent nomination for butthead of the hour was Fernando Diaz, one of Hector’s endless stream of nephews. Or maybe they were his bastards.

They sure had the attitude for it. The thought of kicking some of them right between the goalposts kept Lane from focusing on the steady throb of his bruised face and the fact that his bladder was so full his back teeth were floating.

And then there were all the seconds ticking away into minutes and minutes into-

Don’t go there.

Don’t think about it.

Think about kicking Fernando in the balls.

Lane was real tired of Fernando whispering through the door, telling him all about how he was going to be dog food by twelve-thirty.

Dad won’t let that happen.

Will he?

Lane wished he had more confidence in his dad, but he didn’t. This would be just one more in a long line of moments when his dad let him down.

Hey, the good news is that it will be the last time.

Lane tried to laugh.

It sounded too much like a sob.

He went back to running his fingertips over the mops, brooms, vacuum hoses, and dustpans that were hanging on the walls, waiting to be used. If he was some slick ninja, he’d break off a broom handle and go through the vatos outside like a one-man demolition derby.

But he wasn’t a ninja and he had too much sense to pretend otherwise.

No point in dying before he had to.

“Hola, nino,” Hector said, opening the door to the utility closet.

Lane squinted against the sudden light. His heart filled his throat, beating like a captive bird.

“You okay?” Hector asked.

Oh, sure, I’m just frigging fantastic, locked in a closet waiting to die. And Hector’s breath could kill scorpions at twenty feet.

“I could really use a bathroom,” was all Lane said.

With surprising strength, Hector pulled Lane to his feet and pointed to a door across the hall.

“Don’ be long,” Hector said around the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “You daddy, he wait.”

“Dad? He’s coming here for me?”

“You go. Then we go. Andale, nino.”

Lane was so relieved he nearly wet himself. He could hardly believe that his father was really going to come through for him.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Si, si,” Hector said impatiently. “?Andale!”

Lane hurried across the hall. With every step he felt the slight weight of the hard drive in his pocket.