Tempest Road
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Chapter 2
‘Hero MacLeod?’ That says it all. The Man Who Pulled It Off.
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Traveling, in a van. They took him outside for a second. They forced him on his side and pushed him back, bound and gagged. And they shoved heavy stuff close to him. Now he’s speeding along in the back of a van, surrounded by tools and oiled equipment and vicious thugs.
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But who are they? Who does this?
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Lying on his side, bouncing along in darkness. The sledgehammer man took a break as the previous night’s actions started to shift into place and solidify. There was a sequence to the events.
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He’d taken the flight to Panama, the day’s work done. Then arriving at the hotel, checking in to his upscale bay-view room. Then the nightclub, celebration and drinks all around. Seven players from the team, there. They were all in the famous blacks—black tees with a hand-sized American flag over a skeletal soccer ball on the chest. They had MacLeod put one on. He didn’t want to go bare-chested in the middle of a nightclub, so he wore it over the gray tee he’d donned post-meeting. Photos. Team. Part of the team. The celebration was a taste of things to come. The blacks were the same shirts they sported after winning it all three years ago.
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It was so stunning—all of it. A late sub-in and a quick assist to beat the Netherlands in the World Cup quarterfinals. Then, in the semi against Brazil, two goals, the game-winner coming in the ninety-third minute. In the final, another last-minute goal to beat Italy and win the whole enchilada. No side in the history of soccer had ever been so preposterously lucky, people said. It was decades’ worth of do-gooder, positive karma delivered in frantic moments, the stars-aligned heroics of eleven men and their cohorts. Every major newspaper across the globe ran with a cover photo of players in gaudy red-on-blue and trumpeted headlines of ‘Miraculous’ or ‘Stunning’ or ‘Impossible.’ The Yankees were world champions, thanks largely to MacLeod.
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Along with the famous blacks, seven or eight celebratory shirt lines sold like crazy. People who’d never heard of MacLeod’s up-and-coming Premier League team, Culverhouse Crossing, donned their jersey—orange with black crosses down the sides. Everyone was a Sentries fan, everyone was a Yankees fan. Millions flocked to Chicago for a victory parade that supposedly had New Yorkers feeling left out, for once. Charities were funded, youth soccer league rosters swelled, the cash flowed in virtual rivers. In Cleveland, MacLeod’s mother and siblings were deluged with interviews. His Uncle Mortimer in Glasgow groused about the sudden fame and TV appearances (which he secretly loved) and all of Scotland celebrated as if one of their own had just brought the trophy home. Most everyone danced at the party.
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Thirty-two months later, the champion Yankees squad marched through a cheering phalanx of supporters and saluting soldiers to board a plane in Dallas. The U.S. would begin its next World Cup qualifying round in Panama. Half the cameras were focused on the thirty-year-old hero from the last campaign, MacLeod.
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Hero? You better toe the line, man, or you won’t get out of this alive.
Someone is sitting close to him, talking. Is it the lunatic? What’s his accent? He sounds like Holoçec, the Culverhouse keeper. Always shouting commands, his face extra red against his powder-blue shirt.
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That guy’s from Prague, isn’t he? Or Pilsn?
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“Hey, are you comfortable, Yankee?”
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The bound man grunts a response—he’s not used to wearing a gag.
There’s laughter. A fourth person has joined them, MacLeod is sure. A man. Maybe back here with him and the lunatic.
“That happens, man. The gag,” the fourth adds. “You ask them something and they forget they can’t really talk, but they try anyway. It gets me every time.”
Latin accent. He makes a grumbling sound that mimics a dog talking, and both of them laugh.
So one of them is experienced at this sort of thing. Bloody brilliant.
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They’ve been going for many hours. Tied up in the dark, with the constant vibrations of a moving vehicle, it’s hard to tell. Where are they taking him? And why?
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Possibilities have been running through MacLeod’s head—gnarled dripping things on a nightmare factory’s conveyor belt. His shorts are already damp, due in part to the close-quarter heat.
The van bumps and rocks. Something metal slides against the back of his head. It feels heavy. His fingers grope for anything sharp. The binds must be those plastic zip ties he’s seen the police use when they detain someone, hands tight against the back.
And what would you do, then? There’s four of them.
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He tries and fails to catch his breath, as if his ribs are compressing his diaphragm.
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Just relax. People have noticed you’ve gone missing.
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MacLeod wills his brain to un-fog, fingers pushing to clear stiff mud from the surface of truth—the effects of whatever drug they put in his drink.
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The girl must’ve done it.
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He was at the club, celebrating with the team. A few well-deserved spirits with jokes and stories, followed by dancing. The redhead girl dancing with him—she and that towering brunette in a Brazilian jersey. Dancing together, too, and laughing. At some point, the Brazil fan jumped on another player, another guy from the team. Had one of the girls handed him a drink?
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Hammer-head to metal wall, sparks and dust.
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They flash back—snapshots of going down the dark hall to the restroom. Urinating, washing up, his disheveled reflection a little fuzzy in the stylish oval mirror. Then, when he came out, it happened.
He’d turned back toward the roving light beams and artificial fog, and then it was gone. He couldn’t see—he only felt rough movement.
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This is all just a spot of holiday, right? Just roving through Panama, motoring to the coast to watch the pretty boats come out the Canal. Grab a picnic basket and a ukulele, you’ll have a fine time.
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Against the gag, his lip trembles. The WD-40 smell takes him back to the steel tank, where the man can’t get out.
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In the darkness, a mind occupied with thoughts of escape. Of not toeing the line, not getting out.
***
A Friday afternoon in May. Spent but satisfied with his five-mile effort, MacLeod grabbed his sweatshirt and water and took the back route toward his locker. His high school was a ghost town populated only by the sweet smells of freshly cut grass and approaching storms. He was meeting Madison at the movies at seven. His brother took the beat-up Honda to a party, so MacLeod would have to hoof it the two miles to the cinema. He might impress this girl with his casual cool. It seemed to open the doors for others.
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Voices ahead, an argument. “Come on, give me my shit!”
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MacLeod paused at the corner of the equipment shed, out of sight. It was Riley Cooke—that pain-in-the-ass.
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“Come get it.”
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That sounded like Mel Schenker. Decent guy, big football star.
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MacLeod heard scuffling feet, a grunt.
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“Yup. There we go.”
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That sounds like Coleman? What are these two doing hanging out with Riley? Schenk hates Riley—always fucking around in Trigonometry, driving Ms. Perez crazy.
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MacLeod’s new casual cool urged him to take a step forward, to carry on with his business. But a curious sound or tinge in the air halted him on the balls of his Adidas-clad feet. Among the scuffing of sneakers was an odd sound—a contact, an expulsion of air. Somebody had been struck.
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MacLeod heard Coleman grunt, as if in approval. Then panting.
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What is this?
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“Come on. Keep trying,” Schenk taunted.
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“Fuck you. Give it back.”
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Something flying and caught—a backpack.
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“What’s in that drum, Dave? You think that’s where Ole Jimmy keeps his oil?”
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“No!”
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“Lemme look.”
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Another lunge and a hit. Coughing.
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“Give it back. Fucking kike.”
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Coleman said, “Oh no, he didn’t.”
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“I think he did.”
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“You did not say that, Riley.”
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Coughing. “Give it back you—”
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It was cut off by a tackling sound. Just like when Darcy plowed into Mills after that slide tackle, MacLeod recalled.
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Riley cried out desperately. Contact, a grunt. Again.
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Words punctuated by hits. “The world—is sick—of—your shit! You—faggot waste of—space! Stupid shit. Here’s—a sayonara—from the class—of ten!”
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It paused. The violent whump that followed had to be a boot going into Riley’s body. Followed by a yelp.
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“And to think you were trying to get in Annie Murrow’s panties. What a—” whump “—fucking joke!”
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Another yelp.
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It ended. MacLeod suppressed a breath, listening to Riley’s desperate intake of air amid sobs. He sounded like a dog that had been run over.
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“We, uh, we better get out of here,” David Coleman said quietly.
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“Yeah.” A sniff. “Guess I got a little carried away. Time to split.”
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What happens if they come back this way and find me? What would Schenk say? We’ve never been tight, but…
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MacLeod took a step back, ready to retreat around the corner, to stay hidden. Schenker and Coleman took off in the other direction, the frequency of footsteps increasing. Soon, the only sounds in the world were Riley’s weeping with the ripping of undeniable thunder.
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MacLeod crept back the way he’d come, feeling in his bones that Riley had probably deserved it.
***
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The van stops for a second time. Maybe they’ll let him out to take a leak.
“The farmer finally moved his truck,” the girl says.
They turn onto a rutted path. The van bounces back and forth on gravel. Someone flips a magazine page.
“Hmm, look at this chica,” the girl says. “She’s sexy.”
A man grunts in reply.
“Look at her ass, though. It’s a couch cushion. I think the women down here all wear thongs.” Another page flips. “Would you like that, Mon Amour? If I got collagen injections in my ass so I could strut around the flat and open your beer with my cheeks?”
The driver laughs. Not much of a talker.
“Are you comfortable back there, Darling?” the girl asks MacLeod.
Let me out of here. I’ll show you comfortable!
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Rocking back and forth. More stuff knocks into his feet. Is anything heavy or sharp going to fall on him? He’s trying to shove out that scene from that Stephen King movie, where the guy’s tied up in bed and the lady takes a sledgehammer to his feet.
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Jesus, this could be worse. I can’t do anything about it.
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After a curve, the van comes to a sliding halt. “Mérde,” the girl says. “It must’ve been the fucking storm.”
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“What’s up?” the fourth guy asks.
“Ah, the bridge.” That was the lunatic. “Is it too deep to cross?”
“Probably.”
They sit idling for a minute.
“How far is it?” the girl asks.
“From here? About eight kilometers. I had to walk it once.”
After another pause, the girl says, “There. We can ditch it there.”
“Sí.”
The van backs up, tires spinning underneath the floor. Then a sharp turn followed by rough ground underneath. Stuff shifts, pinning MacLeod’s legs. This gets more uncomfortable as the van bounces around, then finally stops.
Fuck, now what?
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The world gets brighter when doors creak open. Grunts signal the moving of heavy items. Things are pulled off his legs, the daylight becoming threatening.
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“Get the tools,” someone says.
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Hands lock on MacLeod’s ankles and pull, and he is roughly dragged across the vehicle’s floor.
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“Hey you, Yankee. Are you going to behave for us?”
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He nods obediently, the warm, moist air under his chin exchanged for coolness. He must be soaked.
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Hands pull him to sit upright.
“Are you? If not—” There’s a click and a loud hiss nearby, above him.
Someone laughs. The awful hissing approaches, coupled with a strange, foul brightness.
What in Hades is that?!
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“Acetylene,” a man says, intuiting his thoughts. “You know what that is? It takes the number off the engine block. It can do other things, too.”
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MacLeod shakes his head. The noise and light seem far too close.
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No no no no no!
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After a second, the alien threat retreats. Another creak—a door being opened. The engine hood, he guesses. Work begins.
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“That’s good. Be smart. You’re a long way from home.”
He is hauled to his feet, to stand in thick grass or weeds. Metal clinks sound right near him. Maybe a screwdriver. Someone helps steady him.
The drugs have mostly worn off, he realizes. Before, he wouldn’t have been able to stand upright.
“Got to piss?” the girl asks.
She takes MacLeod’s arm and walks him over a few steps—away from the crackle of the torch on the engine, or whatever they’re doing.
“Let’s have a peek,” she says, unzipping his fly. He winces when her cold fingers find his penis.
Oh, I don’t like this.
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“Feet apart. You don’t want to try anything funny right now,” she adds.
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He tries to relax, fighting fear and nerves. After several deep breaths, steadying himself, he douses the ground.
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God, the relief!
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Droplets spatter his leg where the sock has slipped. He’s not wearing his Ecco loafers, he realizes.
“You done? Should I put it away, or do you want to walk around the jungle with your dick hanging out?”
He makes a noise, trying for compliance.
“Hey, are you done playing with the prisoner?”
Her response to this is a move with her arm. The air change is probably her giving someone the finger, MacLeod surmises.
“I think she likes him,” the lunatic says, working.
“Bah, chinga tu madre,” someone replies.
Laughter, then.
Excellent, they’re all friends. College fraternity stunt.
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The girl puts his penis away and zips him back up, careful not to snag his soft flesh with the metal teeth. He exhales a sigh of relief.
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The crackling and hiss stop. She leads MacLeod back over to the group. A metal clinking sound has ceased. They stand for a few moments while someone closes a van door.
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At least one thing is familiar.
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Someone grunts and strikes something hard. This is followed by an odd hiss, and the action is repeated. The van shifts. He believes they’re popping the tires. That would keep someone from running off with the vehicle, for one.
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“Incendiary?”
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“Yes, yes.”
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Incendiary? Doesn’t that mean…
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“Throw the hoodie on him,” someone says. The older-sounding guy, the leader.
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They yank off MacLeod’s blindfold. He shuts his eyes against stinging brightness, the hammering man at it again. Each strike—a more insistent alarm.
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This can’t be good.
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Enjoy!
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