Graham stood and shook his hand. He hoped like hell his interview with Pete went fast, and he got the information he needed to find Becca and the other girls. Without Pete’s cooperation, he’d be screwed.
Gravel crunchedbeneath his tires as he pulled into the parking lot outside of the jail Pete had been transferred to. Peering over his steering wheel, he gazed up at the large white walls jutting out in four different directions. A watchtower stood tall in the center. Two armed guards looked out the square windows, their assault rifles ready for action.
Graham stepped out of the car and checked to make sure his Glock was in the back of his waistband. Chances were the guards would make him take it off, but he’d at least try to get it inside. He’d only been inside a Mexican jail a handful of times, and it wasn’t a place he wanted to be left unarmed. Shouts of undistinguishable Spanish penetrated the walls. He locked his jaw, kept his head high, and his mind alert as he walked into the jail.
The smell hit him first, and he struggled not to cover his nose with his hand. Sweat, urine, and feces mingled together in the stifling heat, making bile burn his stomach. He held his breath and walked up to the office Eric had told him to find. He knocked on the closed door, and was greeted by an overweight Mexican guard with an assault rifle dangling at his side.
“Que deseas?”
Graham searched his mind for the limited Spanish he knew, but came up blank. “Hola, yo soy Graham Grassi. Yo necesito ver Pete Bogart.”
A deep laugh rumbled up from the guard’s belly and out of his mouth. He turned and sat down on his chair, leaning back and crossing his ankles on top of his desk. The chair squeaked under his weight, and Graham feared the chair would fall backward.
“I met your friend last night. He said you’d be around, and you’d have something for me.” The guard’s thick accent made the words come out slow and broken.
Graham nodded and pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket. “This should cover it.” He extended his hand, the bills hidden in his palm.
The guard leaned forward and grabbed the money. Shifting through the bills, he nodded his head and a large, crooked grin showed off brown stained teeth. “This will do nicely. I will take you to a room where the prisoner will be brought in. You’ll be alone, with one guard outside the door. You’ll have twenty minutes.”
“What if I need more time?”
“Too bad for you,” the guard said with a laugh as he stood. “Follow me.”
Graham followed the man out of the office and down a long corridor. Cells filled either side of the hall, and men shoved their hands through the bars and yelled as they walked by. Graham ignored them, his attention focused solely on Pete. Twenty minutes wasn’t much time, but he’d have to make it work.
A young man with dark skin and dressed in military style fatigues stood outside of a white steel door. Dark stains…blood?... ran down the door and dents made it bow in in several spots. One small window looked into the room. The man’s lips were set in a grim line and he fixed his eyes straight ahead.
The head guard spoke to him in Spanish, and the young man gave one nod.
“Okay, he’s already in there. If you need help, Hector will be right outside the door. Remember,veinte minutos.”
Graham reached out and opened the door. The room was small and the stifling air inside had to be close to a hundred degrees. Beads of sweat coursed down his face and gathered on his back. A rectangular table sat in the middle of the roomand the only light hung down from the ceiling over the center. One empty chair sat pushed into one side of the table, and Pete Bogart sat on the other side.
Graham’s blood boiled hotter than the room.
Pete glanced up and met his eyes. Damn, he looked like shit. His ashen skin sunk into the hollows of his cheeks and dried blood lingered around his swollen lips. Clumps of dirt clung to his close-cropped brown hair and red veins ran like spokes in the whites of his eyes. His hands clasped together on the table. His gaze stayed fixed on Graham as he walked to the table, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
Graham sucked in a deep breath and the hot air burned his lungs. He crossed his arms over his chest and hardened his gaze. “Where are the girls?”
Pete never looked away, just shrugged his shoulders.
“Is this where you want to live out the rest of your days?” Graham asked and waved a hand in the air. “This is hell. Tell me where the girls are and we’ll transfer you to the U.S. Better food, a clean bed, air conditioning. You can’t be stupid enough to want to stay here.”
“It doesn’t matter where I am. Nothing matters anymore.” Pete’s voice held no inflection, no hint of emotion. His eyes stayed fixed on Graham, but they were looking through him.
“Why? Because you were caught? You can’t honestly believe you’d have a better life here. Tell me where the girls are and I’ll bring you home.” Graham’s mind raced. He needed an angle, a carrot to dangle in front of Pete’s face to get him to give up the girls. If it wasn’t being expedited back to a more comfortable cell, what was it?
“I have no life. Not anymore. Not when he has her now.”
Graham’s heart rate kicked up. “Becca? Who has Becca? Tell me where she is and I’ll get her away from him.”
“It’s too late. I’ve lost her forever.”
The words pierced Graham’s heart like a dagger. “It can’t be too late. I can find Becca, if you help me.”
Pete’s eyes cleared and pain contorted his face. “This has nothing to do with Becca. Paula! He has Paula! I fucked up so he took the only thing that matters to me. I got too caught up finally having her. I used my real name, I let Mickey into my life. All so she would finally be mine. And now she’s gone.”
“Who has Paula?”
