The Squire's Tale - 2. Chapter 2

THE PREVIOUS NIGHT—MONDAY, JUNE 18th, 10:00 PM — CUZCO, PERÚ

Keiran Bronson pulled back the thin curtain covering the dirty window of the double room in the youth hostel and peered down at the deserted street below.

“Shit. There’s fucking nothing to do in this goddamn town.”

His roommate, Chip Lawson, laughed and turned back to his laptop, where he was watching porn. “What the fuck did you expect? This shithole is 700 miles from fucking Lima, where all the action is. No wonder this place is dick-dead.”

With a sigh of disgust, Keiran tapped his roommate on the shoulder. “Hey, Chipster. You got any weed?”

“Sorry, Dude. All used up last night. We were fuckin stoned off our asses!”

“Sure as hell were. I guess we shoulda hung on to some of the shit for today.”

“Right on. We’ll hafta score some more when we’re back in Lima on Wednesday.”

“Shit. I can’t fuckin wait that long!”

“What’re ya gonna do—fuckin grow some?”

Keiran winked and patted him on the back. “I think I’ll go for a little walk—”

Chip taunted, “You’re fuckin crazy. You think you’ll find some shit in this town, this late at night?”

“It’s not hard if you know where to look.”

“Good luck, sucker.”

“Fuck you.” Kieran grinned at his roomie. “Treat me right, and I might share it with you.”

 

Keiran sneaked out of the youth hostel by a back door, finding himself in a dark deserted alley. Nervous, he hauled ass out of it and quickly emerged onto Calle de Santa Ana, a well-lighted side street.

Following directions a stoner at the hostel had given him, he made his way toward a busy avenue with a bus stop at the intersection.

Just like the fuckin dude said.

Once there, he crossed the bustling intersection and paused at the entrance to a small unlit alley between two run-down buildings.

There was something ominous about the opening, as though it led to a shadowy place of danger and hurt. Keiran hesitated, wondering to himself whether or not scoring some weed was it.

Hell, if you want the shit you gotta go where you can fuckin find it.

He took two or three hesitant steps into the darkness, halting as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He sensed, rather than saw, a presence—a sort of foreboding evil aura, and his fight-or-flight mechanism began ramping up for a hasty exit. Then his nose picked up the unmistakable aroma of burning marijuana.

I guess I’m in the right fuckin place to score some shit after all.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a heavily-accented voice in the dark surprised the hell out of him.

“You fucking lost, gringo?”

The hidden speaker was male, youngish, and spoke English with a heavy accent, his voice smoke-scratchy and rough. Keiran swallowed hard and fought to take control of his runaway emotions.

What the fuck? Is this for real? I better haul ass the hell out of here before I fuckin shit my pants.

He took a tentative step backward but was stopped by the sneering taunt of the other person’s laugh. He resolved to hold his ground, even though every cell in his body shouted at him to leave—and quickly.

“No, no estoy perdido, pendejo.” He spoke near-perfect Spanish, including profanity, and he wasn’t going to take any crap off a local.

“Who you calling an asshole, motherfucker?” Still speaking English, the voice became more aggressive.

Keiran continued in English. “Chill, dude. I’m only here to score some fuckin weed.”

Out of the deep darkness, a guy about Keiran’s age materialized and took one step closer. In the gloomy half-light spilling in from the street behind him, he could make out jeans and a sleeveless tee-shirt covering a lean but firm body. Expensive basketball shoes, which spoke of a successful purveyor of weed and probably harder drugs like cocaine, adorned his feet.

Keiran noticed the glow of the burning joint pinched between the man’s thumb and forefinger, shielded within his curled palm, giving credence to the raspy voice.

The stranger barked at him, “Well, why the fuck didn’t you say so? Follow me.”

Keiran hesitated a moment.

“Whatsa matter? You got no fuckin balls? You want the shit or not?”

Ignoring his better judgment, Keiran followed the young man.

They had only taken a few steps into the dark alley when a sound behind Keiran made him turn in dread. The blood drained out of his head as he saw the silhouettes of two other men.

From behind, some kind of heavy bag was thrown over his head and one of the men in front punched him hard in the gut.

While he was doubled over, someone roughly pulled his hands behind his back and tied them so tightly he could feel the rope cutting into the skin of his wrists. Other men appeared from somewhere, and he was brutally hustled down the alley and heaved up over the ledge into a van. The two rear doors slammed shut.

In seconds, with a screech of tires, the vehicle headed into the night.

“What the fuck?” Keiran mumbled.

Someone kicked him and shouted in Spanish. “Shut the fuck up, motherfucker! We’ll tell you when you’re allowed to talk.”

God, help me! I’m being kidnapped. They might even kill me. Oh shit! Oh shit! Help me, God!

His tears fell on the inside of the bag, releasing a sickening stench—a cross between excrement and some dead animal. He felt like he was going to throw up but fought it back.

The last fuckin thing I need to do is sit here with my goddamn barf all over my face and head.

 

TUESDAY, JUNE 19th, 1:00 AM —ON A ROAD IN LIMATAMBO DISTRICT, PERÚ

Stifled by the darkness and repulsive stink of the bag that was over his head, Keiran summoned all his strength to hang on to his sanity and courage. Counting the seconds one-Mississippi at a time, he estimated the van had been bouncing over bumpy roads for around an hour since leaving the paved streets of Cuzco.

With a sharp left turn, the vehicle abandoned the poorly-paved road, and he heard the crunch of tires on gravel. After another fifteen minutes or so of barreling over ruts and potholes, the van stopped abruptly and Keiran hit the floor hard.

Either the driver doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, or more likely he is deliberately giving me a rough ride to hurt or scare me. Well, it’s fuckin working!

The rear door opened with a groaning creak, and he was inundated by the damp, earthy smell of jungle. Heat and humidity worked together to make his breathing harder than ever inside the filthy sack. Strange, ominous animal noises were barely audible through the thick cloth, but they were enough to tell him he was in a dangerous place.

Shit. Shit. Shit! Where the fuck am I? Who are these assholes, and what are they gonna do with me? I am so fucked.

The voice of an older man said in Spanish, “Well, well, well. What do we have here? Some kind of cock-sucking gringo faggot?”

The remark was met by cruel laughter and a response in a language he didn’t recognize. Then he remembered that although Spanish was the official language of Peru, many indigenous people spoke Quechua, the ancient dialect of the country.

The same gravelly voice addressed him in English. “So, we have a fucking rich Americano who was hoping to purchase some ganja. Do you regret your decision now, hombre?”

“Where am I?” he croaked, coughing as he breathed in some loose threads from inside the bag.

“Oh, you don’t need to know, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. Let’s say you are far enough away from the city that no one will find your fucking body for months, if ever.”

“My body?” His voice cracked. The sour taste of vomit was inching up the back of his throat.

“Oh, only if necessary. I’m sure your wealthy parents will pay to have you back. All in one piece, if you’re lucky.”

“My parents aren’t wealthy.” Although he had been sweating since the moment of his capture, he now found himself soaked and on the edge of panic.

The voice turned angry and threatening. “Bullshit! All you Americans start out saying that. But after we send your family a finger or an ear, they miraculously find they have more than enough money to pay us to return what’s left of you.”

“Please don’t—” His head swam and he was about to faint. Someone hit him hard on the back of the skull, sending stars orbiting inside the bag.

The older man had tired of the conversation. “Shut the fuck up. I’m sick of your fucking whining. Another word, and I’ll turn my back while Pepe here has a little fun with you. You will not enjoy it, I can assure you.”

Keiran didn’t dare say anything more. Without warning, someone shoved him out of the van, and he landed hard on his knees on the ground. He shouted at the pain.

Another voice, probably the one called Pepe, laughed gruffly, then said in Spanish, “Oh, did that hurt, little girl? So sorry. We need to make sure you’re in no condition to run away, pendejo.”

He was pushed and dragged across a small dirt area and dumped into some kind of shed. Without untying him or removing the bag over his head, the men heaved him into a corner and attached chains to his ankles. He didn’t dare speak.

The loud click of the door being locked told him he was alone and hopeless.

Lying on the cold dirt floor, he shivered even though the temperature had to be over 100 degrees. His tears flowed, but with his hands tied and the fucking bag over his head, he couldn’t wipe his face. He tasted the saltiness and began to sob.

What the fuck have I done? Why was I such a goddamn smart-ass? I had to prove to that dickhead Chip that I could score some shit, easy-peasy. Well, the motherfucker gets the last laugh. I’m probably gonna fuckin die here.

When he didn’t have the strength to cry any more, Keiran fell into a restless sleep, filled with nightmares about fierce wild animals, murdering kidnappers, and occasionally the grieving faces of his mother and sister.

*****

Seated at the dining table in his hacienda, Filiberto Suares, the owner and Jefe of the gang of kidnappers, examined the cell phone and wallet his henchmen had take from Keiran. The evil one, Pepe, sat smoking a cigarillo on a sofa nearby. Three others stood around the room nervously watching their boss with an eagle eye.

In Spanish, El Jefe commented, “So, what do we have here? Our prisoner is a little shit named Kee-ran Bron-son. He is eighteen years old and lives in Santa Barbara, California. A lot of rich fuckers live there.”

Looking up at his men with a cruel laugh, he went on. “It’s a lucky thing he has a fucking expensive mobile phone that can make international calls. He will be making a very important call manaña.”

 

TUESDAY, JUNE 19th, 6:00 AM —LIMATAMBO DISTRICT

The night passed without Keiran hearing or seeing anything more from his captors. He woke from a restless slumber, his mind racing.

What the hell can I do? Nobody knows where I am. We’re supposed to go to Machu Picchu today, so I hope they’ll miss me when they load up the bus. If Chip thinks I’m out getting high somewhere, he won’t say shit about it.

Momentarily forgetting about the bag over his head, he drew in a deep breath, almost choking on the fetid air.

Oh, God, how did I fuck up so bad? Why did I have to have weed last night? Why couldn’t I wait until we got back to fuckin Lima, where you can buy the shit on the street in broad daylight?

The lock clicked and the door opened, allowing a bit of light to filter through the dirty bag, letting him know it was daytime.

Footsteps approached him and someone helped him sit up. The hands were warm and gentle. A soft voice said something in the unknown dialect Keiran had first noticed last night.

“Lo siento. No entiendo. ¿Habla usted español?” He prayed the person could speak Spanish.

The answer came in Spanish. “Yes, but my people hate that language.”

Their conversation continued in the hated language. “Where am I?”

“None of your business, pendejo.”

Keiran was tiring of that word. He had known how to curse in Spanish since second grade, but now the words filled him with dread.

“I need some water.”

“That is why I am here. Now sit still. You make a funny move and I will beat the shit out of you. And no questions. Understand?”

“OK.”

The cord tying the dirty, stinking bag around his head was loosened, and the rough cloth was pulled up and off. The light beaming in through the open door blinded him instantly. He squinted and lurched to the side, trying to shield his face from the burning brilliance.

The guard punched him in the stomach.

“I told you no shit. Do not make me hurt you.”

Kieran gasped. “Ss...sorry. The light is so bright.”

“If you prefer the dark, I can put the bag back on.”

“No, no. Please. I’ll behave.”

“Much better.”

Carefully, Keiran turned back with his eyes open in slits until they adjusted to the sunlight.

His jailer turned out to be a young man about his own age, with brown skin, black hair, and brooding dark eyes. He was wearing a torn tee-shirt and cut-off jeans, and he was barefoot. His expression was tough, verging on cruel.

I wonder if this kid is that fucker Pepe’s little brother. He sure acts like it.

Keiran ventured, “Do you live here?”

The kid punched him hard, throwing him against the wall and knocking his breath out. “I said no questions, pajero!”

Coughing and struggling to sit up with his ankles still in chains, Keiran regrouped.

I can’t afford to piss off this dude. He’s the first one here to be the slightest bit kind to me. I’d better get on his good side and fuckin stay there.

“Sorry. Can you at least tell me what is going to happen to me?”

“I do not know. It is up to El Jefe. And also your family.”

“So I’ve been kidnapped? And The Boss is waiting for a ransom?”

“That is how it usually works.”

“What do you mean ‘usually?’”

“Well, sometimes the family will not pay right away. Then El Jefe has to give them a reason. He likes to start with a finger. If they still do not give in, he might cut off your whole hand.”

The young captor grinned heartlessly. “And if they never pay...well, your body will turn up in some back alley in Cuzco or somewhere.”

“Jesus Christ!”

The young man hastily made the sign of the cross and then punched Keiran in the face, knocking him to the floor again.

“¡Hijo de puta! Do not profane the name of El Señor!”

“I’m sorry,” Keiran said through tears. “I’m just scared.”

The briefest flicker of compassion passed over the kid’s face, but it was quickly replaced by the original mask of hardness and cruelty.

“Listen, you are not the first one to come here. El Jefe knows what he is doing. He does not want to hurt anybody, but sometimes he has to. If everything goes according to plan, your family will give him the dinero he asks for, and you will go home all in one piece.”

“How much?”

“El Jefe usually starts at a million dollars.”

“A million dollars? Shit! My family doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“Oh, you would be surprised how fast parents can find the money when they have to.”

I’m fucked. Mom doesn’t have much money, and neither does my Dad. Only my grandfather could come up with a million fuckin dollars. I hope he’ll do it.

“Am I allowed to ask you what your name is?”

The kid smiled grimly showing several spaces where teeth were missing. “You can call me El Arquero.”

“The Keeper? Is that your job?”

“Sometimes. Right now, I am going to bring you something to eat. Do not raise your hopes. It will not be anything like what you are used to, niño rico.”

El Arquero left and came back in five minutes with a bowl of some kind of mush.

“What is it?” Keiran asked hopefully in Spanish.

“It is one of our native dishes, gachas de quinua.”

“Quinoa porridge? Never heard of it, but I’m starving.”

“I am going to untie your hands. If you try anything, I swear I will beat the shit out of you.”

“Understood.”

The kid untied Keiran’s hands. Rubbing his raw wrists together, Keiran tried to smile at his guard.

“Thanks. I promise I won’t try anything.”

“Hmph. We will see. They all attempt to escape, sooner or later. And then El Jefe has to hurt them—bad, so they learn.”

He smiled with a devilish grin. “Of course, that is only if the fucking jaguars and anacondas do not catch them first.”

Without another word, Keiran ate his mush and washed it down with a bottle of San Luis water.

When he had finished, El Arquero retied his hands, more loosely this time, and he didn’t replace the filthy bag over his head.

He looked the young man in the eye and gratefully nodded once.

The guard shrugged, “You cannot see anything in here anyway.” He turned and left.

Keiran’s heart fell as the lock clicked.

 

TUESDAY, JUNE 19th, 11:45 AM —LIMATAMBO DISTRICT

Late in the morning, El Arquero came for Keiran and unchained his ankles. Keeping his prisoner’s hands tied behind his back and with a vise-like grip on his upper arm, he led him across the dirt compound and into the main building. Keiran was forced down onto a wooden chair in a sunny living room, and his hands were tied to the arms of the chair.

I would have expected better from a guy who ransoms people for a million dollars. I wonder if he’s just the front man for some kind of guerilla group.

A voice behind him spoke in accented English and he recognized it as the man who had welcomed him last night.

Suares said, “So, I trust your luxury accommodations are to your liking, Señor Bronson.”

Keiran turned his head toward the man speaking to him. His face was bronzed, as though he were a field worker, but his clothing was new and stylish.

So this is El Jefe. I’d better fuckin say what he wants, and nothing more. He looks like he enjoys hurting people. Not to mention that motherfucker Pepe. I’m sure he likes to cause pain.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You are being smart. As you have learned, saying the wrong thing around here only gets you hurt.”

Keiran nodded hesitantly.

“We are about to make a most important telephone call. You could say your future—your life—depends on how this conversation turns out. I think it would be best for you to do exactly as I say, don’t you?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Remember that.” The man reached into his pocket and brought out Keiran’s cell phone.

“So good of you to have added ‘Mom’ to your speed-dial list.” The man sneered. “You are close to Mommy, are you, little boy? Does she still wipe your shitty little ass for you?”

The prisoner stared at him in silence.

Whatever he says, don’t fuckin piss him off.

“Even better. You know when to speak and when to keep your fucking mouth shut. We’re going to get along just fine as long as you remember that.”

El Jefe picked up the device and examined it.

“You were wise not to password-protect this phone. Pepe would have enjoyed getting the PIN out of you, one way or another. It would have been unpleasant for you.” He sounded disappointed.

Scrolling through Keiran’s contacts, he looked up and taunted, “Who is this Karen? Your girlfriend? Do you fuck her a lot?”

“She’s my sister.”

“Hmph. I see a listing for ‘Mom’ but nothing for ‘Dad.’ Is your father living?”

“They’re divorced. He lives in Pennsylvania.”

“Well, well. I bet he’ll be involved at some point. Now for the important part. When your mother answers, you will only say her name. If you say anything else, the next thing she hears will be your screams of pain. Do you understand?”

He nodded again. A tear was forming in his eye.

“Oh, have I frightened you, chiquita? Don’t you have the balls of a man?”

He didn’t dare answer.

El Jefe pressed the speed-dial button and held the phone to his ear. Keiran could hear it ringing faintly. His captor pressed the speaker button when Natalie answered.

As soon as he heard his mother’s voice, he cried out, “Mom? Mom!”

Putting his hand over the phone, El Jefe growled, “That’s all you fucking say. ¿Entiende?”

With tears flowing down his face, Keiran lowered his head and concentrated on the floor.

“Mrs Bronson? Are you there?”

 

After the call ended, Keiran spoke to his captor. “We’re not rich. She doesn’t have a million dollars.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but we’ll see. Sometimes we offer a discount.”

Keiran’s eyes were wide with fear.

“Yes, once the goods are damaged, we charge less for their return.”

Suares left the room without another word, and the kid who called himself El Arquero came in to take his prisoner back to the shed.

As they made their way back across the compound toward the shack that was now his prison, Keiran studied his surroundings. The big house was flanked by several smaller buildings. Some of them were obviously housing for El Jefe’s workers.

“Do you live here?” he asked the young man a second time, hoping that he might strike up a conversation and learn something of use.

El Arquero wheeled and slapped him in the face. “Shut the fuck up!”

Neither said another word for the rest of the short walk.

He was again chained at the ankles with his hands tied. El Arquero left quickly, locking the door behind him.

Recalling the sound of his mother’s voice, Keiran whimpered.

Why the fuck did I do this? Why do I have to get high? My life is great. My family loves me. I did OK in school and I’m going to Cal State on a soccer scholarship in the fall. Why did I fuck everything up by going out to buy some shit?

Tears came to his eyes.

Where will Mom get a million fucking dollars? Maybe Grandpa Tom will pay it. He’s got money and could surely afford it. But what if he won’t? What if no one believes I’ve really been kidnapped? What the hell am I gonna do? El Arquero said nobody ever escapes, and if they are caught trying, bad things happen to them. God, get me out of this mess alive and in one piece, please!

*****

Meanwhile, in his private office, Suares’ cell phone rang.

Looking at the Caller ID, he rushed to answer in Spanish.

“Yes, Boss.”

“Report.”

“We have him. Contacted the mother at noon, as you ordered. One million dollars.”

“Very good. Take care of our little gold mine.”

“Yes, Boss.”

The caller hung up.