Hunt the Jackal by Don Mann, Ralph Pezzullo Read Free Book Online

me, but I need to use the bathroom.”
    There was no reason not to maintain her dignity and appear polite.
    “Of course, Señora ,” the young man answered. “You are not hungry today?”
    “No. My stomach is bothering me.”
    “It’s upset, Señora ? I will call someone.”
    “Thank you.”
    She had to wait for a female guard to accompany her. As the young, oval-faced woman looked on, Lisa did her business, washed her hands, and drank heartily from the bathroom tap. Somewhere she had read that a person could live for two weeks or more without food, but only a couple of days without water.
    The last day and a half had been weird, disorienting, and frightening, but not unpleasant as far as her physical comfort was concerned. Aside from the fact that she was being held prisoner; had been drugged; wasn’t allowed access to a phone or computer, books, newspapers, or news of any sort; and was watched 24/7 (even by a female guard as she took a shower), she had been treated relatively well.
    Her current surroundings reminded of her of a very upscale resort, not unlike the one in Sedona, which felt like it was a million miles and many years removed.
    She had her own beautifully appointed room and bath with sixty-four-inch plasma TV equipped with Netflix, the finest bath and spa products, and a closetful of resort attire and shoes in her size. Anytime she wanted anything from the kitchen, all she had to do was ask one of the young guards—all of whom were well groomed and polite—and it was served to her by a servant dressed in white.
    Her primary worry had been her daughter, whom she loved more deeply than she had even realized. But as the hours and days passed and she didn’t see or hear her, she became more and more convinced that Olivia had managed to escape or had been spared.
    She held on to that belief because the alternative was too awful.
    Every time she asked why she was being held and who was in charge, she was told that the jefe would arrive soon and explain. But she was given no indication who the jefe was.
    Since jefe was a Spanish word that meant “boss” and the people guarding and attending to her spoke Spanish, Lisa concluded that she was somewhere south of the border—maybe Mexico or Costa Rica, two places she had visited in the past.
    Turning to the young woman who was sitting with her now, she asked again politely in English, “Can you please tell me when this is likely to end?”
    The young woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, Señora . I don’t know.”
    “Does the jefe want something specifically?”
    The young woman smiled. “We all want something, Señora .”
    “Do you know the jefe personally?”
    “Of course. He’s like my father.”
    Lisa tried not to reveal anything about herself, or what she was feeling, or to offend her captors. The room was elegant, with ornate Moorish-style plaster flourishes in the cornices and on the walls, but didn’t say much about the people who owned it, or ran it, because there were no personal or unusual items in it, except for a large framed picture of a skeleton in black nun’s robes holding a scythe on the wall beside the bed.
    She thought it looked vaguely Mexican and might have something to do with a Catholic sect or cult.
    “Who’s that?” she asked, pointing at the picture and feeling relatively clearheaded for the first time since her abduction.
    “La Santísima Muerte,” the woman answered.
    “La Santísima Muerte.”
    “Yes.”
    “Doesn’t muerte mean death?”
    “Yes.”
    Lisa, who had been raised Catholic but had rarely gone to church before she was married, had never heard of La Santísima Muerte. Her husband studied and regularly quoted the Bible, but she had never heard him mention anything like this.
    “Who is she?” she asked.
    “La Santa is a very powerful force,” the young woman answered. “Some say she’s an incarnation of the Aztec goddess Mictecacíhuatl, who is the wife of the death god Mictlantecuhtli.”
    Lisa