over my head. I thought it was a small
mercy that I wouldn’t see the drop. The engine spluttered and coughed as it
slowed down and then we hit the ground with a thud and a bounce, then rolled
onward and taxied to a stop.
The door opened. I heard slicing and
tugging at the duct tape. Hands grasped me and pulled me out of the seat. My
legs buckled under me, but strong hands kept me upright.
‘Welcome to my humble abode, Kurt.’
Chapter 10
The Villa
I was jammed in
between two people in the back seat of a vehicle, listening to my new captor
chat in an accented but cultured voice from the front passenger seat. He
rambled on about the upcoming presidential elections in Mexico. His stance on
the state of the Mexican economy and the need for better social housing,
schooling and health care for the poor clearly defined his politics. If he was
the one who was going to look after my welfare, at least I knew he had a
conscience. At least I dared hope.
We had only driven for around ten minutes
when we stopped and someone helped me out of the vehicle. An arm either side of
me gripped and guided me in a shuffle along a pathway. My host quietly gave his
orders.
‘Take off his leg irons at the door. I
don’t want the ceramics damaged.’
I was brought to a jarring halt and,
someone fumbled with the chains and removed the ankle shackles, leaving me with
an itch from hell. The toe of my boot stubbed against a protrusion. I assumed
it was the threshold and I could feel a welcome blast of cool air from an AC
unit.
‘Remove the sack.’
I scanned the opulent surroundings, and my
jaw slackened at the contrast with the poverty of Leila’s home. We were in a
large hallway facing two stairways running either side of the walls, leading to
a balcony supported by two marble columns, and framing a large doorway. The
feminine pink and cream decor and Greek-style ornate reliefs seemed at odds
with the heavily armed guards. They wore black Special Forces-type uniforms.
Glancing down at my feet, I could see my reflection in the ceramic floor tiles
and I could smell floor polish.
From behind me, my host called out orders.
‘Take him for a shower and remove all his
shackles. Give him a change of clothes and then bring him to the dining room.’
I noticed camera domes in the foyer and on
the ceiling at the top of the stairway. He was obviously relaxed about any
attempts I might make to escape, but then with the armed guards and the
security system, I would have put my chances on a scale of one-to-ten at a big
fat zero.
A rifle barrel digging in my back guided me
up the stairway and into a bedroom.
The room was far removed from the one at
Leila’s home. A chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. There was a
flat-screen television facing a king-size bed. French windows led out onto a
balcony. In the corner of the ceiling next to the clothes closet there was a
CCTV security camera.
A guard removed my waist and wrist shackles
while two others watched and pointed their automatic rifles in my direction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young maid enter the room. Maybe in her in
her early twenties, she was wearing a black skirt and a white starched blouse
with a huge black bow tie. Her black hair was fastened in a bun. In her arms,
she carried a bright orange bundle with what looked like an oversized
wristwatch perched on the top. She set it down on the corner of the bed.
‘I need your clothes,’ she said.
She had the appearance of a native Bolivian
with her narrow eyes and high cheekbones. The rest of her was all Hispanic,
especially her fulsome lips. My cheeks flamed and I hesitated, until the prod
of a rifle butt prompted me to undress. Stripped of my dignity, I stood there
in my underwear. Her hand gestured in a wave. An impish grin formed on her lips
and a glint in her dark, almond-shaped eyes told me she enjoyed watching me
squirm. One of the guards stepped forward. I slipped off my shorts and stood
with my hand covering
mercy that I wouldn’t see the drop. The engine spluttered and coughed as it
slowed down and then we hit the ground with a thud and a bounce, then rolled
onward and taxied to a stop.
The door opened. I heard slicing and
tugging at the duct tape. Hands grasped me and pulled me out of the seat. My
legs buckled under me, but strong hands kept me upright.
‘Welcome to my humble abode, Kurt.’
Chapter 10
The Villa
I was jammed in
between two people in the back seat of a vehicle, listening to my new captor
chat in an accented but cultured voice from the front passenger seat. He
rambled on about the upcoming presidential elections in Mexico. His stance on
the state of the Mexican economy and the need for better social housing,
schooling and health care for the poor clearly defined his politics. If he was
the one who was going to look after my welfare, at least I knew he had a
conscience. At least I dared hope.
We had only driven for around ten minutes
when we stopped and someone helped me out of the vehicle. An arm either side of
me gripped and guided me in a shuffle along a pathway. My host quietly gave his
orders.
‘Take off his leg irons at the door. I
don’t want the ceramics damaged.’
I was brought to a jarring halt and,
someone fumbled with the chains and removed the ankle shackles, leaving me with
an itch from hell. The toe of my boot stubbed against a protrusion. I assumed
it was the threshold and I could feel a welcome blast of cool air from an AC
unit.
‘Remove the sack.’
I scanned the opulent surroundings, and my
jaw slackened at the contrast with the poverty of Leila’s home. We were in a
large hallway facing two stairways running either side of the walls, leading to
a balcony supported by two marble columns, and framing a large doorway. The
feminine pink and cream decor and Greek-style ornate reliefs seemed at odds
with the heavily armed guards. They wore black Special Forces-type uniforms.
Glancing down at my feet, I could see my reflection in the ceramic floor tiles
and I could smell floor polish.
From behind me, my host called out orders.
‘Take him for a shower and remove all his
shackles. Give him a change of clothes and then bring him to the dining room.’
I noticed camera domes in the foyer and on
the ceiling at the top of the stairway. He was obviously relaxed about any
attempts I might make to escape, but then with the armed guards and the
security system, I would have put my chances on a scale of one-to-ten at a big
fat zero.
A rifle barrel digging in my back guided me
up the stairway and into a bedroom.
The room was far removed from the one at
Leila’s home. A chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. There was a
flat-screen television facing a king-size bed. French windows led out onto a
balcony. In the corner of the ceiling next to the clothes closet there was a
CCTV security camera.
A guard removed my waist and wrist shackles
while two others watched and pointed their automatic rifles in my direction.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young maid enter the room. Maybe in her in
her early twenties, she was wearing a black skirt and a white starched blouse
with a huge black bow tie. Her black hair was fastened in a bun. In her arms,
she carried a bright orange bundle with what looked like an oversized
wristwatch perched on the top. She set it down on the corner of the bed.
‘I need your clothes,’ she said.
She had the appearance of a native Bolivian
with her narrow eyes and high cheekbones. The rest of her was all Hispanic,
especially her fulsome lips. My cheeks flamed and I hesitated, until the prod
of a rifle butt prompted me to undress. Stripped of my dignity, I stood there
in my underwear. Her hand gestured in a wave. An impish grin formed on her lips
and a glint in her dark, almond-shaped eyes told me she enjoyed watching me
squirm. One of the guards stepped forward. I slipped off my shorts and stood
with my hand covering
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