Authors: Jamie Freveletti
The Ninth Day
The Ninth Day
Jamie Freveletti
For my husband, Klaus,
who taught me that life is an adventure not to be missed
Contents
Sneak Preview of the Next Installment
Resounding Praise for Jamie Freveletti
E
mma Caldridge sat in the tunnel and watched the rats gather around her. Their eyes glowed when they bisected the small beam of moonlight pinpointing through the jagged seam in the ceiling. Sacks of marijuana lined the walls, and metal rails ran along the floor. Emma heard the voices of her pursuers whispering to each other in Spanish outside the tunnel’s entrance.
She’d been tracking their progress through the dry, dusty Arizona night. She couldn’t believe her luck, coming upon an actual shipment as she did, but her good fortune changed when a straggler among them appeared at her back. She’d run through the night, chased by the coyote who was as fleet as the animal itself. The man was whipcord thin and feral and he’d stalked her with the intensity of one who knew his continued livelihood depended on catching her before she went to the police. She’d outpaced him on the flats, but he had the advantage of knowing the terrain. He’d caught up with her on the twisting path, when she found herself stumbling off it at the turns. She’d fought down the fear she felt, doing her best to focus on the trail and her pace. As an ultra marathoner she’d learned how to discipline her mind to halt any thoughts of defeat, and now she’d used that training to keep the terror at bay. She’d kept one ear tuned to the noise behind her in order to gauge his approach, and when he neared she increased her speed. She knew she could outrun him with ease as long as the trail remained visible and clear. What she didn’t know was what obstacles loomed in front of her.
A second had joined him right before she fell. The tunnel’s entrance was well hidden, and she’d tumbled straight down into it, legs first. She’d managed to sit up as the rats converged, but she could feel bone-deep pain in the soles of her feet where they had hammered into the packed earth floor on her descent.
She rose with a grimace, her feet throbbing at the extra weight. A whiff of air fanned her face and she dodged the dark body of a bat swooping toward her. Two more flew past and she hunched over, lowering her face to her chest. The fear fought its way upward, causing her breath to hitch. The fall into the tunnel had changed the dynamic from one where she had the whole world in which to flee to one where her flight was controlled. Now her pursuers had an edge. With one hand on the side wall and one foot along the rail, she started forward. The air smelled of dirt and grass overlaid with the distinctive odor of marijuana. At least here the shipment was inanimate. What she’d seen above was the transportation of human slaves, most of them men, being moved to locations where they would work without rest until they died.
She heard the coyote land in the passage behind her. She stepped up the pace, shuffling along, keeping her feet in contact with the rail and her hand on the wall. She’d left that evening with a camelback filled with water and a fanny pack filled with packets of running gel composed of amino acids and electrolytes to provide her with any immediate energy boost she might need. Her cell phone remained on and she’d sent a text to the main office at the first sight of the shipment. She doubted the phone would get a signal now and didn’t waste any time pulling it out.
The cavern curved left, the darkness broken here and there by shafts of light from above. The men behind her had gained ground—that much was obvious by the sounds of their approach, growing louder. She stepped up to a jog, her anxiety spiking and her eyes watering with the effort of trying to pierce the gloom. Her panting echoed in the space and she sucked on the camelback spout, pulling the tepid water into her dry mouth. She came upon a handcart stacked high with sacks and for a brief moment she considered jumping on it and using the pump bar to propel the device. She discarded the idea. It would be too noisy, and she wasn’t sure if the trolley required two people to move the seesaw handle.
Her hand hit some wooden supports and she felt a splinter gouge deep into her index finger at the first knuckle. She grit her teeth on the pain, doing her best not to make a sound. She kept moving, even picking up speed. The tunnel curved right and she felt the floor sloping upward. A creaking, squealing noise echoed through the enclosed space followed by the sound of the trolley wheels sliding over the rails. She ran faster, holding her right hand out in front of her and stumbling as her foot hit a small pothole in the dirt floor. She stubbed her toe on the rail when it curved once again.
Her hand knocked into a plywood wall. She ran her fingers over it, looking for a doorknob and finding none. She rubbed her palms along the walls a few feet before the door and on either side, hoping for an opening that might send her in an alternate direction, but she met with solid, packed earth. She’d reached the end.
The trolley moved toward her, the screeching metal sound filling the tunnel. Her fear choked her and all thoughts of stealth flew out of her head. She pounded on the wooden panel with both fists, no longer caring about the noise she made. The door flew open and she plummeted through the entrance, landing face-first on a linoleum floor. Bright light blinded her. She rolled over and looked up into the eyes of a man and down the barrel of a pistol.
“Welcome to Mexico,
señorita
,” he said.
T
he coyote stepped through the door and leveled a reddened stare at Emma. He wore jeans and a black tee shirt, and his heavily tattooed arms were ropey and muscular. Behind him came the second, a stocky man with a mustache and greasy hair that hung past his ears. Both gave the man with the gun a nod and moved a bit to the side, as if they were content to let him handle her. The gunman twitched his weapon, indicating she should stand. Emma rose, dusting dirt and twigs off her legs as she did. She noted his jeans, white shirt—the sleeves rolled—expensive belt, and flat black loafers. A Rolex watch glittered on his wrist. A pistol-shaped pendant, encrusted with diamonds, hung from a thick gold chain that encircled his neck. His swarthy skin indicated that he was Hispanic, but his eyes were a bright green, like Emma’s own. She stared back at him. Waiting.
“Name,” he said in English.
“Emma Caldridge.”
“You Border Patrol?”
Emma hesitated. She was fully prepared to lie if it meant she’d stay alive, but she wasn’t sure if claiming Border Patrol status would protect her or destroy her.
“No,” she said.
The man visibly relaxed. He kept the gun on her, but it was clear to Emma that he no longer saw her as a risk.
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking for night-blooming plants. I’m a chemist for a lab that makes cosmetic products. We’re always searching for plants we can use.”
The gunman fired off a sentence in Spanish. The coyote answered.
“What did you see?”
“See? I don’t know what you mean.”
The gunman stepped closer and raised the pistol so that its muzzle was only inches from her face.
“Don’t lie to me.”
Emma kept her breathing shallow, but allowed the panic she was still feeling to show on her face. She knew her only hope of staying alive was to pretend ignorance of the shipment.
“I’m not lying.”
“Carlos said you ran.”
“He scared me and then chased me. He didn’t seem friendly.”
The gunman chuckled. “He’s not.” The gunman spoke English with only a slight Spanish accent. Not native, but not late acquired either. Emma thought he may have been educated in the States or had a business over the border where he practiced his English often.
She kept her eyes riveted on the gun, but tried to get a sense of her location. She was in a small room, maybe twelve by twelve, with gray cinder-block walls, no windows, no furniture, and one door on the opposite side. She heard the hum of fluorescent lights above her. One of the tubes buzzed as if it was close to burning out. The gunman snapped out an order in Spanish, and the coyote stepped up.
“Give him your jewelry and your packs,” the gunman said. Emma handed him her watch and a chain bracelet. She left the stack of three rubber bracelets, the kind used by charitable organizations to indicate a donation, on her other wrist and the gunman didn’t seem to care. She shrugged off the camelback, unclasped the fanny pack, and handed both to the coyote. He squeezed the camelback until liquid squirted out the water tube. He tossed it on the floor. He unzipped the fanny pack. Dumped her running gel, pen, pencil, handed her cell phone to the gunman, who put it in his pocket, and pulled out her GPS tracker. The coyote peered at the handset, a puzzled look on his face.