A Touch of Regret (A Nick Bracco Thriller Book 8), page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
A Touch of Regret
Gary Ponzo
Copyright © 2023 Gary Ponzo
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written permission from the author/publisher.
Chapter 1
The vultures circling overhead were lower now, as if to judge just how long they had to wait. The oppressive heat had forced Jake Marino to rest under a spiny palo verde for a glimpse of shade. He applied pressure to a deep gash on his leg while the Arizona sun scorched everything in its sight. It left his vision with a suffocating blanch of brightness.
Jake wore nothing but a pair of underwear as he maneuvered away from the prickly trunk. The soles of his feet were bleeding and his knees were scraped from miles of tumbles and awkward steps around jagged rocks. He wanted to keep moving, but the sizzling desert floor would not allow bare feet to travel in the summer heat. He guessed the temperature exceeded 115 degrees, his mouth was parched, and he was dizzy from dehydration. He also knew if he stayed under that tree much longer, he would ultimately die there before the sun went down again.
A normal person would’ve succumbed to the elements hours ago. Jake, however, was a triathlete. He was conditioned to endure pain and push through barriers that standard humans couldn’t imagine. His training was continual. Seventy-mile bike rides one day, followed by fifteen-mile runs or two-mile swims the next. He must’ve surpassed the perimeter of the search party, but he could never exceed the global reach of the people chasing him.
His body was bruised and battered. The torture he’d endured at the facility was just the beginning. After his escape last night, he’d found a discarded bag of trash in the desert and used parts of Styrofoam cups as shoes, fastened tightly by the plastic liner. That didn’t last long though. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been barefoot. Two hours? Five hours? Time was distorted. He was going through withdrawal as well. Not a sip of alcohol for thirty-nine days, even before the kidnapping. His body and mind were in constant combat with his choices.
And then there was Bruce. Jake’s mind would wander, but eventually it would always return to the deep anguish over leaving his friend behind. How could he run when Bruce was still down there? How?
He thought of resting to let his wounds heal, but his lightheadedness converted into a mental fog. His mouth hung open as a vulture swooped low enough to reach his peripheral vision.
Black vultures would eat live prey. They’d been known to devour newborn calves by pecking them to death. First the eyes, then the tongue, then the meaty flesh. Jake knew this because he’d studied ornithology at the University of Arizona, less than fifty miles north from where he sat.
He considered luring the vulture, then grabbing it and eating the creature for nourishment. This demented thought penetrated his disabled mind as he heard a nearby car engine rumble. His survival instincts were barely intact, but he remained still. Invisible. Just part of the desert landscape. He thought he might’ve just imagined the engine noise until a green and white Chevy Tahoe ascended a hill fifty yards to his right and stopped. Border Patrol. If they spotted him, he would die right there. It would be quick and it would be over. No more running. It was almost appealing. He licked his dry lips and remained motionless. He wasn’t ready to die just yet. Maybe in an hour he’d feel different. Maybe even ten more minutes. But not yet.
Jake felt the gaze of the officers scanning the landscape, searching for movement, something out of place. He wasn’t going to give them a reason to explore his direction.
Minutes passed. Jake kept breathing but nothing more. His body ached, his feet ached, his mind was losing focus. Was he being paranoid? Should he ask for help?
No. That wasn’t paranoia he’d just experienced. It was very real. The facility he’d escaped from was right on the Mexican border near a small village where he could hide and possibly disappear. Instead, he went north, condemning himself to the cruelties of the scorching landscape. It gave him an hour head start, while his captors spent most of their energy searching the southern route, believing he would never survive the other option. Now it seemed they were right.
A drop of sweat slid around the curve of his eyelid and dissolved into the corner of his eye. He blinked it away, practically feeling the sun drain all the moisture from his body. Every molecule was being sucked dry. His lips were two pieces of chalk.
The Tahoe rolled down the gradual slope and turned away from him, the tires spewing bits of loose rocks as it drove off.
Jake wanted to sleep but knew he would never wake up. He needed to keep moving. He leaned back for support and burned the heel of his hand on a rock as he pushed off to get upright. Blotches of white floated across his vision as he tried to gain his balance, while his legs sent jolts of agony up his spine. His limbs were stiff and weak.
There was a dry riverbed up ahead, a wall of rock creating a slice of shade along the western base of the ravine. A wash that meandered north, created by centuries of flash floods rushing down the desert floor. Jake didn’t know how long it stretched, but he needed to find out. His bare feet couldn’t last more than a few steps without searing pain, so he measured his distance and decided he could make it to the wash in five large steps. If he was quick enough, maybe the pain would only last a few seconds.
He drew enough courage to lean forward and dashed across the hot earth, howling with each step. As he dove onto a patch of sandy dirt, he looked at his bloody feet, riddled with deep cracks and wide-open blisters. He kept them off the ground to allow as much relief as possible. In their condition, they would take days to heal. He didn’t have days. He had minutes. He glanced up at the swirling vultures. They could sense his body giving out. Eons of selective genetics kicking in.
He got up on his heels to look above the ravine, the end of the wash was just twenty yards away. Beyond that, nothing but a pure expanse of intense sunlight penetrated the ground like a giant laser. It took his breath away. He dropped back down, exhausted. Just that one move had tapped everything out of him.
Jake leaned his head back against a hard slab of rock and shut his eyes to rest, but was startled to hear a low growl. When he opened his eyes there was a coyote crouched by the tree he’d just left with its head low to the ground and teeth bared. Five steps away. It seemed the entire desert could sense his presence. He was their next meal.
Jake slapped his hands together to frighten the creature, but this had no effect on the coyote’s disposition. The predator simply stood its ground. Jake grabbed a nearby rock the size of a baseball, preparing for the battle.
When he looked back at the coyote, there were two of them. He blinked and one disappeared. His vision was doubling up on him. Jake didn’t try to run, or attack, or make any movement at all, which taught the coyote something: Jake was severely injured. The predator could strike right now and deal with whatever fight Jake could put up, or wait until all the fight was gone.
The coyote had decided to wait.
Jake stared while gripping the rock. The torture, the intense mental anguish, the threats, they were all a distant memory. None of that mattered now. Even Bruce was drifting away from him. His bones would be retrieved months, maybe years down the road. Everything he knew would simply vanish. The information he’d acquired would die with him.
Time passed. Minutes? Hours? His breaths were short and labored. His oblique muscle twitched violently, like a light bulb about to burn out.
Finally, Jake’s eyes slowly closed. Not by choice. Something rustled nearby, but he’d lost interest. It was time. He’d put up a good fight. Now he longed for sleep. The long and eternal sleep.
He’d simply lost his will to survive.
Chapter 2
The terror didn’t end when his consciousness faded. In the fog of his dreams, Jake sensed the coyote nibbling on his flesh. He could actually feel the creature’s breath on his arm, the eager licks on his wrist. The curious part of his nightmare was the absence of heat. He no longer felt any scorching sunlight. Even the coyote’s bite seemed painless somehow. Maybe that’s how it was. Once you crossed over, you retained the fear, but lost the pain. There was a moment between consciousness and unconsciousness where he couldn’t tell which was which. Was this a dream? Was he between worlds?
Something told him to open his eyes, but he feared what he might see. When he finally did, the sun was gone. It was replaced by the roof of a vehicle, yet the coyote still fed on his arm.
“Max!” a man shouted. “Stop that!”
Jake lay on a padded bench seat inside a recreational vehicle with a German shepherd panting next to him.
“I’m sorry,” a Hispanic man said. “He’s licking the salt from your skin.”
Jake’s head throbbed, and his mind was a cloud of confusion.
The man pulled the German shepherd away by the collar. He was a short, stout guy with a worn Dodger baseball cap and weathered skin.
“I’m Carlos,” the man said. He pulled a bottle of water from a mini refrigerator, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Jake. “I wasn’t sure what to do with you.”
Jake got to an elbow and managed to drink, sucking it down with greedy lips until it was all gone. He dropped the empty bottle onto the floor and plopped back down to a prone position. The cool air felt so good on his face. His body temperature must’ve dropped low enough to revive his vitals.
“Thank you,” Jake said with a raspy voice. He had a million questions, but his first thought was, “Can I have another bottle of water?”
Carlos obliged.
Jake drank the entire bottle in one pull. It gave him the strength to sit up, despite his headache and sore body. The engine was running, and the air conditioning cooled the interior of the RV remarkably well.
Carlos sat across from him, scratching Max’s neck. The dog sat there panting and wagging his tail. Without asking, Carlos pulled out another bottle of water and Jake drank only half of it before stopping.
“I am all out of Gatorade,” Carlos said. “I am surprised you are alive.”
Jake glanced through the horizontal blinds at the sun low in the sky. “How long?”
Carlos shrugged. “You tell me. Max spotted you around ten-thirty. What country are you from? You don’t look like a Guey.”
Jake guzzled the rest of his water and felt the hydration regenerate his mind as well as his body. He pointed outside. “How far away from here did you find me?”
“Less than a mile. I have no service on my phone, so I was about to drive you to the hospital in Tucson.”
This send a jolt of adrenaline up Jake’s neck. His suspicious mind returning to its senses. “Is there anyone else with you?”
“No.”
“What were you doing out here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Carlos cocked his head. “I found you passed out in the desert in nothing but your underwear. And these are the questions you ask?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. You saved my life, and I can never repay you. But there are people chasing me. Bad people. We’re not safe here.”
Carlos gestured to Jake’s body, all scraped and beaten. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“I’d like to, but it would put you in danger as well.”
“We are safe, Gringo,” Carlos said. “What people? Immigration? Cartel?”
Jake thought about Bruce. With every step closer to freedom, his heart sank a little deeper with regret. He wanted to go back, but he knew it was suicide.
“Can we go north?” Jake asked. “Away from here? You may think it’s safe, but...”
Carlos stood and flipped the blinds to peek outside. “You need to understand, I know every Border Patrol agent, every sheriff, every deputy. I know their names, I know their weekly schedule, their routes. There is nothing about this sector I do not know. And they know me as well.”
The way he spoke, the way he moved, told Jake there was some gravity to his words. Carlos returned to his seat and reached down to smooth the fur on Max’s neck.
“You asked what I was doing here,” Carlos said. “Five years ago a group of exiles, including my sister, paid a coyote to get them across the border. My sister went down to La Paz to rescue an undocumented friend and bring her back to our home in Phoenix. They took this same route through the Sonoran Desert. I was supposed to meet her and take them back home.”
His eyes drifted as he continued. “My sister never made it. They found the bodies of seven people who traveled with her, including her friend, but not hers. So, once or twice a week, I take Max here with me and we search the desert, looking for her remains. Max knows her scent. He’s been trained. I know she is not alive, that much is for sure. I do not kid myself. I just want her to be buried back home where she belongs.”
Carlos lowered his head, just the lid of his baseball cap was visible. When he raised up to face Jake, his eyes were swollen and full of torment. “So, you ask what I am doing here in the middle of nowhere? I am searching for my sister. Is that good enough for you?”
Jake squeezed his water bottle and frowned. “I apologize. My mind isn’t working right.”
Carlos seemed to accept the apology. He ruffled the fur on Max’s head, then pointed to the welts on Jake’s body. “Some of those are from the desert, I know. But some are not.”
Jake understood the inference but left it there.
“You’re a good man, Carlos. I want you to find your sister’s remains. The best thing you can do for us is to get me away from here. We can figure out the rest on the way.”
Carlos nodded, accepting the evasion. He must’ve seen some horrific things and heard plenty of stories in the past five years and by the look on his face, he understood the reluctance to share. He took a banana from a bowl and handed it to Jake as he went to the back of the RV and pulled open a sliding door. A moment later he came out with a pair of denim shorts, a blue T-shirt, a pair of socks and old sneakers. He dropped them on the bench, then went back for a belt and handed it to Jake.
“They’re old and worn, but it’s all I got,” Carlos said. He took a small towel, rinsed it under hot water, then squeezed the excess moisture and tossed it to Jake. “You’ll want to clean those feet. It’s painful just to look at them.”
Jake softly applied the cloth to his feet until the dirt and blood were diminished, then did the same with the rest of his torso. He gingerly dressed and couldn’t believe how much better he felt after just a few bottles of water. He peeled the banana, then bit into it like it was filet mignon. His body absorbed the missing electrolytes and boosted his energy level to the point where he was strong enough to stand.
Carlos sat in the driver’s seat and adjusted his side view mirror. Jake took a couple of wobbly steps and sat in the passenger seat next to him.
“Okay, Mr. Secretive,” Carlos said, putting the RV into drive and slowly rolling along the desert floor. “I believe you when you say you’re in trouble. Where should I drop you off?”
“Are you going to Phoenix?”
“Yes.”
“Can you drop me off in Tucson on the way?”
Carlos seemed to think about it. “You would be a dangerous passenger.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to tell me who’s chasing you?”
“No.”
Carlos navigated the RV between cacti, ocotillo, and palo verde while Max stretched out on the floor between the two seats. Carlos checked his sideview mirror, then gestured over his left shoulder. “There’s a paved road that bends toward us in a mile or so. The ride will be much smoother then.”
“Why don’t we stay off the road for a while, just to be sure?”
Carlos steered the car slightly left. “There’s a Border Patrol checkpoint in five miles. I take this route multiple times a week. They all know me. If I vary my route, it will look suspicious. Pedro Cruz is manning the checkpoint today. He used to be a professional soccer star down in Acapulco until he got into a bar fight with a cartel thug.”
“He got hurt?”
“Worse. He got blackballed. Cartels wouldn’t allow him to play with anyone ever again. So he decided to get his US citizenship and become a Border Patrol agent. Now he puts away cartel thugs. Guy’s pretty brave.”
