Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller Read online

  After a pregnant pause, he weakly managed the words, “What about September twenty-fifth?”

  “September twenty-fifth. Ten…years…ago.”

  Peterson’s eyes widened, and his brow wrinkled. No, a different September. A different anniversary.

  What was this? What were they doing to him? How could they…

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, almost pleading.

  The kidnapper pounced on him. “September twenty-fifth, ten years ago, South America. The press, those who reported on it, called it the La Aldea Massacre, but the people behind it were never found. We know the truth.”

  The kidnapper gave another of his dramatic pauses, then tore into his speech again.

  “A business deal of yours went sour. The people you needed to sell to you reneged on the deal. They had a crisis of conscience. You’ve read about those, haven’t you?” The kidnapper laughed coldly at his sarcastic joke. “Yeah, you stood to be out millions, Anthony Peterson, and losing millions didn’t sit well with you then any more than…well, any more than it’s sitting well with you today.” He took a breath to let those last stabbing words sink in, then continued. “So, what did you do? What did Anthony Peterson do when push came to shove and money was on the line? Why, you had them killed, of course. All of them. Every last one.”

  Peterson was shaken. He tried to tailor his voice to its most serious and businesslike, its least emotional so that it would sound the most truthful. He tried.

  “No, no, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a lie. It’s an absolute lie.”

  “You hired mercenaries.”

  “No, now that is an absolute fabrication. Who the hell have you been talking to?” He could feel himself losing control of his loudening voice.

  The kidnapper spoke louder over Peterson’s protestations. “Oh, and not just the men. But the women and the children.”

  “No, no I wouldn’t–”

  “Entire families…you had wiped out. Every…last…one.”

  “I didn’t! That’s a lie!” Peterson shouted in his own defense.

  “You paid those mercs extra to make examples of the ones who wronged you.”

  “Lie! Lie!”

  “You had them decapitated, and their heads stuck on pikes and planted on the outskirts of the city.”

  Peterson was enraged now. “What? No! Liar!” he yelled.

  But the kidnapper would not be interrupted. “You bathed the streets with their blood!”

  Peterson held his breath and just shook his head as the accusations, this one long accusation, continued.

  “Ever go back and visit that little town? Of course you haven’t. Of course you just put it out of your mind and moved on as if it was just another day to you. Tuesday in Anthony Peterson’s busy week. But if you had gone back to La Aldea…you’d see the streets are still stained by all of that blood. Skulls still unexpectedly wash up in the little canals that line the streets. You literally left that many dead in the ditches.”

  “No, you’ve got the wrong…” Peterson’s quivering voice couldn’t finish as the graphic imagery bombarded him. He could see it in his mind. Suddenly, he could see everything.

  The kidnapper waited for complete silence, then continued, back in a quiet register, as if to let the next words speak for themselves.

  “You killed the children last,” the kidnapper almost growled. “You made the children watch their parents being murdered as they screamed helplessly. Some of them had the honor of being baptized in their parents’ blood and bile before you had them taken care of. Never let it be said that Anthony Peterson doesn’t take care of children.”

  That last mockery twisted Peterson’s guts. He could only listen now, wide-eyed and disbelieving the words he was hearing.

  “You were sending a message, weren’t you? Well, that message came through loud and clear. ‘Don’t…fuck…with Anthony Peterson!’”

  By this time, Peterson was speechless in his rage. Those words. It was as if they could read his very thoughts. His face twisted into a mask of fury and then relaxed into an angry stare that could have frozen the kidnappers in their tracks, had they the balls to face him directly.

  And with every new word, he got angrier.

  “You had the money and influence to keep it out of the press, paid off all the right people, judges, cops, politicians. Dummy companies and shell corporations are a very useful thing in what I will ever so generously call ‘international relations.’ And it was all swept right under the rug…but everybody knew. Those few who did survive? They know too. And they’re worse off than the dead. The dead you, personally, are responsible for.”

  Peterson gasped. He was almost hyperventilating at the verbal assault. All of these accusations. How could they…

  “Liar,” Peterson finally managed to hiss through his clenched teeth, his lips peeling back like an attacking animal. “Liar!”

  “Murderer,” the kidnapper said back to him and hung up the line with a slap.

  Peterson turned to look at the disconnected phone.

  “Murderer.”

  He shut his eyes and shook with ire and shame.

  4

  The Rainy Day Cometh: 2:37 AM

  Anthony Peterson stood in silence, arms crossed, one hand on his chin, deep in thought about the words the kidnapper had spoken to him.

  And one word in particular.

  “Murderer.”

  He sighed. Was that what he was? How could they say that? Just look at him. Just look at Anthony Peterson and what do you see?

  It was a ‘power look’ Peterson had cultivated. That was what they called it back in the 80s when he was young, great looking, and carefree, making money hand-over-fist in the glorious Reagan years. Before his wife was even born.

  That was what Anthony Peterson was. A money-making, powerful businessman. He didn’t take any shit, and he knew exactly when to fight back if he was wronged. So, no. He wasn’t a murderer. Was he?

  Just look at him.

  The ‘power look.’ He had it. He still had it, actually, but it was useless. Nobody could see him, for one thing, and for another, he had never felt so powerless.

  Powerless. Not something Anthony Peterson was used to feeling.

  But that feeling was virtually all he had…at least physically. His head was still throbbing like the antichrist of all hangovers. His mouth was dry. They hadn’t even had the courtesy to leave him a bottle of water. He felt like he had just come out of the desert. And he was hungry. He had not eaten since the day before…sometime. How the hell did they expect him to function for them when he had no blood sugar to work with?

  It was this physical ailment that kept reminding him how real this horror was. This was reality. He would never dream a nightmare this vivid. The pain in his knee, the dryness of his mouth, the rumbling of his stomach, and the constantly booming headache. Without all of this, he might convince himself it was not the reality that it was. But it was.

  This was absolute horror. A horror he didn’t deserve.

  Did he?

  Anthony Peterson. Look at him. He was no murderer. This was ridiculous.

  The cell phone rang, breaking his pensive introspection (though none of his physical pangs) and demanding his attention. Peterson brought the phone to his ear without checking the number. “Tom. Is everything a go?”

  Tom coughed and seemed to battle with the right words. “Uh, yes…” Peterson exhaled and started to smile before Tom completed his sentence “…and no.”

  Peterson’s smile turned to a grimace. “What the fuck does that mean?” Peterson spat.

  “We’re a-ways short of the ten million.”

  “How much is ‘a-ways’?”

  Tom consulted his papers and said “Four…maybe five.”

  “What? You have got to be fucking kidding me! That’s half the money. That’s a little more than ‘a-ways,’ Tom!” Peterson shouted.

  Tom was defensive. “Hey, man, you kno
w goddamn well that the last few years haven’t been your best. It ain’t the eighties anymore, man. Shit, you’re still making money, but you’re mortgaged to the hilt.”

  Peterson shook his head in frustration, eyes closed, pained. What Tom said was true. Anthony and Susan Peterson had expensive tastes and so what if they did? What was wrong with borrowing from yourself once in a while? The money was always there…until you needed it.

  Tom broke the silence of Peterson’s despair. “Look, Anthony, maybe you can make them an offer. That’s what you do best, isn’t it? The art of the deal? Well, make them a deal. Five or six million is still a lot of scratch.”

  “No, Tom, no, you didn’t hear this guy. He won’t settle for a nickel less than the ten mil he’s demanding.”

  Tom scoffed in exasperation. “Well, then you’ve got to let me call the long arm of the law, here. You can’t just lie down and go all bitch dog for these sons of whores and you know that. You’ve never bent over for anyone in your life.”

  Peterson shook his head “This is different, Tom. I told you, if I do that then she dies. They kill Susan. Susan…is…dead!” he said, making his point immensely clear.

  Tom considered aloud “Well…would that be…such a bad thing?”

  “What…the fuck, man?” Peterson cried out in shock. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Tom reasoned with him calmly. “Hey, you were the one always saying she was a stone-cold ass bitch. You said the old magic was long gone, and the only reason you kept the marriage going is that it was cheaper to keep her.” Then, Tom did his best impression of Peterson’s voice to add, “‘Divorce is a bitch, Tommy-boy! It’s always cheaper to keep her!’ You said that shit a lot. Don’t you remember?”

  Peterson closed his eyes, flustered and ashamed. He had said that. He knew he had said that many times. He regretted it now. “I was…drunk…when I said that, man. Give me a break.”

  “In vino veritas, my friend.”

  Peterson shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, especially as desperate as the situation was. Was Tom out of his mind? He wanted to berate Tom back into shape, but alienating Tom would mean certain death for both Susan and himself. “No, no, Tom, I didn’t mean it…not ever, I–”

  “How do you know this isn’t all a con?” Tom asked, speculatively, cutting him off. “And if it is a con, who knows who’s in on it? Who knows…maybe…Susan?”

  Peterson tensed up at those words. He was ashamed to admit to himself the thought had crossed his mind.

  Susan was an actress. What if she had cooked up this whole scheme to get all of his money, then leave him for someone else? He could be in an abandoned warehouse in bum-fuck suburb USA while she was safe at home making plans to leave the country.

  But no…he knew better. What the hell was Tom playing at? Tom was a recovering addict and alcoholic, but…he wasn’t off the wagon, was he?

  “No. She…wouldn’t…do that…to me, Tom,” Peterson insisted, actually pointing through the empty air with wide eyes.

  “Well then, I don’t know what to tell you, my friend.”

  Peterson was stone-faced, unsure what to do or how to feel. What was Tom doing this for? Why was he resisting? Did Tom have something fucking better to do? This was his life! Susan’s life!

  Peterson started when the phone beeped in his ear.

  “Ugh! Hang on, Tom. I got another call.” He tapped the screen, sighed in exhaustion and put on his business voice again. “This is Anthony Peterson.”

  “The money,” the now-familiar voice said.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got most of it.”

  “Not good enough,” came the response without a missed beat.

  “Well, I can’t just come up with ten million dollars,” Peterson argued, flustered. “I mean, that is just crazy!”

  The kidnapper remained calm as if playing by a different script. “If you can’t come up with the money, take it out of your rainy day fund,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Peterson’s face twisted in confusion again. “Rainy day fund? What are you talking about?”

  “A man like you has got to have a lot of cash on hand. Crooked judges and lawyers don’t come cheap.”

  Peterson shook his head and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, should I not call it that? Well, let me clarify for you. By ‘rainy day fund,’ I’m talking about an offshore safe deposit box.”

  The words hung in the air. Peterson was wide-eyed, taken aback, shocked. How could they know about that?

  The kidnapper waited a moment and twisted the knife. “Yes, we’ve been doing our homework on you, Mr. Peterson.” He paused again, then added, “And not just that one with your little gold nest egg. We know about the Swiss bank accounts. So secretive. And, lest we forget, the Delaware holdings. Yeah, shell companies again. We know your fingerprints when we see them.”

  Peterson’s adversary seemed to be really enjoying himself now. The voice was still low and largely unaffected, but a sinister, nearly playful, edge could be heard. It was almost like listening to a human predator play with his prey.

  Peterson’s anger got the better of him. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about? Are you some kind of fucking terrorist group? Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  The kidnapper laughed again coldly. “I’m the one who’s going to make you pay, Mr. Peterson. One way or the other.”

  Peterson pushed back. “I cannot pay you ten million dollars, not in twenty-four hours, it’s impossible!”

  “Then, you pay in blood. Then, your wife’s dead,” the kidnapper whispered. “And then, you’re dead.” Peterson recoiled. “Maybe we’ll be generous and leave the oxygen on and you can starve to death slowly or maybe you die of thirst. Whichever comes first. And your wife? After we’re…” he laughed “…finished with her, we’ll cut off her head and stick it on a pike. Just like in South America.”

  Peterson desperately tried to dispel that talking point again. “Hey, now I told you that was a lie, that’s an absolute lie. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I told you that!”

  That grim laughter again. “Sure. Nice pivot. You want me to believe I’ve got you confused with someone else.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you do. Maybe you do!” Peterson said aggressively.

  “Right, another egomaniacal sociopath business tycoon with delusions of morality and nobility. You got me there. There are plenty of those in this country, the good ol’ You Ess of Aay!” the kidnapper drawled those last words in a sarcastic parody of a southern accent. “But there is only one Anthony Peterson.”

  “No, it’s not me. You’ve got the wrong man! I’m not a sociopath. I’m a good–”

  “Nobody thinks they’re a bad person,” the kidnapper cut him off. “Not even the worst people. Not even a monster. Not even the monster named Anthony Peterson.”

  “You…you are the monster,” Peterson said, the words slithering from his mouth, painfully.

  The kidnapper didn’t bother responding. “If I were you, I would start thinking about the contents of that safe deposit box you’re so carefully protecting. Then the Swiss accounts, then the shell company bucks. Do it.”

  These assholes weren’t getting the message. Impatiently Peterson repeated himself. “I told you, I don’t know any goddam thing about any safety deposit box or any fucking rainy day fu–”

  “Yeah? Well, all right. I can see you need a little coaxing!”

  And with that came another vibrating hum, this one louder than before. He heard it before he felt it.

  But this time, it was not the cell phone.

  This time, it was everything around him. The entire container was one big electric conductor, and that electricity flowed through his body at that moment.

  Peterson froze like a statue. Every muscle in his body tensed as the voltage shot through him. He trembled like a dying man being electrified to the point of near death as the lights faded and came back.<
br />
  He felt blood vessels burst in his eyes and visual purple involuntarily clouded his vision. Even in his pain, the purple clouds reformed to make blood blossoms and he thought about La Aldea. He wasn’t a murderer. But South America…and the blood…and the–

  The torturous electrical onslaught continued.

  It was agony, and it seemed to take forever to end. But at long last it did end in the reverse of the way it started. The hum ceased while the electricity continued to coarse through his body and finally fade out. His heart restarted, and it beat more fiercely than he had ever felt it before. He fell to the floor in agony, blood streaming from his nostrils.

  Had he really been complaining about hunger, thirst, and body pains? How foolish had he been? That was like heaven compared to this hell.

  The phone was lying on the metal floor just before his eyes. Shockproof case. Electricity proof. Frankenstein had been right. Now he knew why.

  Blood dripped around his face, and he stared straight ahead, hurting, paralyzed. He would have vomited, had he not been so empty.

  The kidnapper’s voice came from the phone and Peterson could just make out the words “All right. Hopefully you’re in a more…harmonious…frame of mind.”

  Peterson coughed and fought to catch his breath. It took all the strength and effort he had to look at the phone and say “Go…fuck…yourself.”

  The electrical hum came a second time. The entire container was electrified once again, and Peterson along with it.

  The current contracted his muscles and forced him to sit up straight as if on command. His head trembled, and he felt his eyes roll back in his head as his jaw clenched painfully. Blood began seeping from his ears onto his shoulders, and he knew he would soon be dead. This was the way he was going out…shitting his pants on the floor of a goddam cargo container all because of a business deal he barely remembered that went south.

  South.

  And with that thought, the blood and skulls took over his mind again. He could see them floating up, dead, but the jaws seemed to open with gravity as if to scream at him. After another excruciating moment, the current stopped, the vision vanished, and Peterson fell backward to the floor, hyperventilating.