The deep, throbbing hum of the rotors, as the pilot changed their pitch for the descent, resonated in her chest. The helicopter inclined forward, drawing closer to the dock, and she gripped the seatbelt strap tighter—her hands a sweaty mess. Out the window, she could see the Seals descending onto the ship's deck.
A few more minutes and Roger will be with me.
The bright morning sun illuminated the bustling docks. A rainbow of containers moved from docked ships to warehouses. Men in hard hats walked, ran, and chatted throughout the mile-long platform. At the end of the peer, a food truck served a growing line of workers.
Oh, Roger, please be okay!
The slight jar signaled they were down, and she quickly jumped out, fighting the silly urge to run to him. Mr. Doyle stepped in front of her to prevent her flight.
"He'll be here soon, Claire," he said reassuringly.
A slight breeze rustled her hair, a respite from the growing heat and humidity.
"Do you think he'll be alright? They wouldn't have hurt him?" the exasperation made her tone curt.
"We'll know for sure in a few minutes, but I'm positive he's fine."
"I'm such a fool!" the recrimination left a dull ache. If I hadn't set those silly rules. If I hadn't been so distrustful. If I'd been a proper wife.
"Roger's a competent and resilient man."
***
Roger breathed deeply, making his Ch'ulel cycle throughout his body. The breathing calmed his mind as he aligned his purpose. He positioned himself in front of the steel doors and took a balanced stance.
Outside, the sound of engines died, and he heard the faint voices of men. The image of Claire leaping into the man's arms flashed. A dull ache passed through him.
The sounds told him they were near.
He heard the pop of locks being opened and the scraping of the metal latches being undone on the other side. He smirked and clenched his fists.
He breathed deeply, steadying himself, and whispered, "B'alam K'at."
***
Claire ran, passing Mr. Doyle in a flash. Relief rushed through her.
Some of the workers stopped to watch the racing woman. One audacious youngster whistled at the beauty.
The seals were slowly escorting a man down the gangplank. She gasped from the desperation welling up in her chest. She willed her legs to go faster, but everything seemed to slow down. Finally.
The morning sun's glare made it hard to see the group of men, and she needed to see him. A scene of her hugging and kissing him played out in her mind.
She stopped at the foot of the walkway, anxiously waiting for the seven men to get there.
***
As the door opened a crack, Roger exploded into action. The force he exerted made the door swing wildly. A loud crunch and a scream followed as the door flung open. One down.
Two more men waited on either side of the door, startled by the sudden attack.
The dry heat made Roger instantly sweat. Time slowed. He measured his opponents. The one on the left was slightly off balance. He mentally smiled. That was all he needed.
Roger stepped forward and jabbed at the man's spleen. His movement is a blur of practiced precision.
With his second step he kicked the knee of his opponent. The crunch and scream almost instant.
Then, he followed with an elbow to the jaw. The ferocious attack left the would-be jailer slumped on the ground, unconscious—his jaw at an odd angle.
A half-step to the right avoided the incoming punch from the other captor. Roger wheeled a flying kick to the side of that man's head so quickly it made a wooshing sound. Then, he followed it with a back kick to the chest as his leading leg landed on the ground. With a crunch, the man's sternum popped.
***
Claire's impatience increased with each step of the men descending the walkway. Her heartbeat seemed to synchronize as if their movement was the only thing keeping her alive.
Hope welled in her. She strained to get a good look at Roger, but the sun betrayed her, making their black silhouettes indistinct. Slowly, they descended suspended in time.
Her heart skipped. It was an unconscious realization at first, but it gradually surfaced as the group approached.
Mr. Doyle ran toward her. The activity on the dock seemed to have stopped all eyes on the commotion created by the arriving group.
Something was off. It was more a feeling than a thought.
Is he hurt?
***
Roger walked to the slumped body of the nearest captor, limping slightly from the force of the last kick.
He thought of Claire. I'm sure she's okay with her special boyfriend.
The heart-wrenching moment she had leaped into that man's arms was still fresh.
The unconscious man was wearing a nondescript pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Rifling through his pockets, he found only a five-dollar bill and some change. Who are these people?
***
As Claire watched, one of the seals stepped in to help the man in the middle walk—his limp now more noticeable.
She peered, hoping, pleading. She strained her eyes. He's probably just slightly hurt.
"Where's the ambulance?" she turned and yelled at Mr. Doyle. Then, unable to control her desperation, she ran up the gangplank.
"At the gate. I'll call them in."
***
Roger, wincing, moved to the final man; he had a taser on his hip and a sheet of paper in one of his trouser pockets. He took both.
He unfolded the paper and started to read the set of instructions on it.
"Cross into Mexico," he mumbled.
***
Claire cocked her head. She could see his short, cropped black hair. Her heart raced.
Then, when she was a quarter of the way up, she saw him clearly. Her vision blurred, and her mind raced.
The face of an imposter crumbled her world.
Memories overwhelmed her. When they first met. When he made pizza. When she kissed him.
Where is he? Her desperate question demanded an answer from the universe.
Tears welled up. She sobbed, and her legs weakened. A cold rush of realization sapped her strength.
He's gone! My God, is he dead?
Mr. Doyle raced toward her.
"Claire, are you okay?"
She crumbled to the ground, the pain in her chest too much to bear. A silence enveloped her as her being was torn asunder. She sobbed uncontrollably.
Where was Roger?
Disbelief marked her face with the realization that it all had for naught.
Get it together, Claire! Her internal pep talk surged her hope.
You haven't found a body. I'll find you; just hang on.
***
Roger surveyed the inside of the deserted warehouse where his container was stored. Outside of the three downed men, the only other thing inside was a dusty black SUV.
The thirst he had kept at bay through willpower surfaced, as well as hunger pangs.
He left the warehouse in the SUV and instantly recognized his location. He had roamed these streets in his youth.
There was a Jack In The Box on 95. He should be able to get something to eat there.
Then, he would make the meeting tonight outlined on the sheet of paper at Andrade Rd. and cross over to Algodones.
He'd lose his DACA status, but there was no other choice.
Time for me to be the hunter. Time to find who's behind this.
Claire was awakened by the chime of the fasten seatbelt sign coming on. The Gulf Stream seemed to be descending.
Where are you, Roger? Her fear for him threatened to overwhelm her. Claire breathed deeply and steadied herself. She thought of every time he had rescued her. He'll be fine. This a story we'll tell our grandchildren.
She stretched, popping her neck. If not for the pill Mr. Doyle had given her, she would not have slept.
She put her seat rest up and looked around. The Seal commander was on the phone. The team of six were now her only companions.
She yawned, and her ears popped.
Langford had returned to New York, and Mr. Doyle had stayed in Kingston to deal with the operation's aftermath.
The plane rattled as it passed through some turbulence.
Her phone rang. It was Doyle.
"Mrs. Williams, it's confirmed. He's a Guatemalan national and also has Mayan descent." His words conveyed the news, avoiding unneeded pleasantries. Does he have Roger's bloodline and capabilities?
The plane's interior darkened as they entered the cloud cover, and Claire turned on the overhead lamp.
"Thank you. We're arriving at Veracruz just now. We'll continue to the container's delivery address. Who's the local contact?" It was her only clue. She would find her husband.
"I just texted the name and photo of the man to both you and the commander."
"Thank you, Mr. Doyle. I'll check in in a few hours."
The plane's wheels touched as she hung up the phone.
She looked at the message and the picture of the FGR agent who would liaise with them. Fiscal Especial Armando González was a 20-year veteran in law enforcement and the highest-ranking official in the area.
She mused as the coastline and the city started to come into view through the window.
Hopefully, he won't be a hindrance. She had spoken to Tio Carlos directly that morning, so she was sure it would be okay.
She checked the address on her phone's map. It was about forty minutes from the airport. She crushed the fear welling in her.
I'll find him safe! The believe her only anchor. If not here, I'll go to his hometown and look there.
As they taxied, she saw a group of black SUVs surrounded by military vehicles waiting at the end of the runway. The Mexican Government would not expose a high-value target like her.
"Ma'am, please let us secure the area before you descend," the seal commander informed her.
"I want to get straight to the address. Accept no delays, Commander Adkins."
She waited, pacing as the team disembarked.
Claire looked at the convoy and sighed. Where are you? Please be safe!
It was pitch black on Andrade Rd. as Roger pulled to the side about two miles after the meeting point. I'll walk back and watch.
An hour before the designated time, he moved from the tree line onto a ridge about five feet tall. He lay flat on top of it, getting a clear view of the meeting point about fifty feet away. He squirmed slightly from the hot sand.
A flat field of tumbleweeds separated his hiding place from the road's edge.
A single lamp tenuously illuminated the area. The night chill started to dispel the day's dry heat, and crickets sang their mating calls. The full moon climbed in the night sky.
Roger's heart raced, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end, a primal instinct warning him of danger.
A coyote howled in the distance.
He implored Ixchel.
Solitary minutes passed.
A Peterbilt semitrailer stopped underneath the lamp; two men got out and started to patrol the perimeter with measured strides.
Then, a black Chevy Suburban arrived. What could only be described as a security detail got out. Each of the four men walked in a different direction. Roger watched them intently.
After a few minutes, a Maybach arrived, and a woman with silver and auburn hair dismounted. She wore a white lab coat, carried a small black doctor's bag, and a paper coffee cup in one hand.
Roger paid little attention to her. He watched the men, astonished. They move like Nácom Tzakab.
In his mind, he heard his Tata, "Watch the gait. It'll tell you their skill." They are well-trained. I can't make any mistakes with them.
The designated hour came and went, and the woman's exasperation was palpable at the distance.
Roger crawled closer through the tumbleweeds and stopped about ten feet away, hidden in the underbrush.
"We can't delay por un pendejo. Let's go, we have to get this lot across," she yelled, her anger visible as she hurled the coffee cup.
He crouched and prepared himself. Alert to any sign of being discovered. He readied his Ch'ulel.
Roger inched closer as the other vehicles left. Finally, as the trailer started to pull out, he whispered, "B'alam K'at," and exploded.
He jumped on the back of the trailer and climbed on the roof—time to hunt the hunters.
I hope you like this chapter. That first scene took me a long time. I hope I didn't leave you dizzy with that changing POV.
Let me know what you think!