Stolen

By C. R. Alvarez

Kyle Reagan leaves a college graduation party but never makes it home. Passed out on the street, he is kidnapped along with homeless men, vagrants, drug addicts and other lost souls of Phoenix. When he wakes on a bus filled with these stolen men, he realizes his fate is in very dangerous hands,
Where he is headed or who has taken him are questions that circle in his head as he is whisked out of the country with no ID, wallet or means to get home. Even worse, his family will have no idea what happened to him. Somehow he must find a way to survive, escape his captors and return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667893365

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The lorry was an antique. It rattled and swayed as it moved along the dirt track through the jungle. The men in the back were lined up like dominoes, ready to be knocked over with each pothole, root or rock they hit. They winced and groaned as the thread-bare tires hit another big rut and shot them off their wooden bench.

Each man wore faded green army fatigue pants, stained white t-shirts, heavy soled boots and square hats that kept their faces out of the sun for part of the day. None of them were military but these were the clothes given to them to do the work. They did not complain because no one would listen. They sat stoic as their journey took them deeper into the bush where no smart, white man would ever venture.

The men on the open end of the truck slouched away from the dust that was being kicked up by the thin tires. It was always believed that the rain fell constantly in the jungle. It was not so. There was a rainy season which was creeping quickly upon them and then a drier season that was safer for travel.

This day had taken them from the mountains where the crop had been harvested and into this dense jungle where they would unload the lorry onto a riverboat heading downstream. The trip was already five hours long and most of the men were ready to get out and shake out the knots in their sore muscles.

The landmine buried in the road hit the truck with so much force, the entire vehicle was lifted off the track. Fire bloomed upwards and attacked the men with such relentless fury that most were dead before they could scream for mercy. The two men in the very back were thrown free. The man on the left sailed through the air, his arms flailing, legs running as if he could control his flight. His body hit head first into a huge tree, snapping his neck and killing him instantly. The man on the right was also thrown high and far. His body sailed off the truck and into the heavy undergrowth. He was impaled by stiff shoots of bamboo and long thorns, pinning him to the ground as if he was a fly on an examination board. The sticks shot through his right thigh, his left abdomen and his right shoulder. He screamed in pain as the jungle took him captive, crucifying him to the earth.

Trying to escape the torment that surged through his body, he attempted to roll over. The sharp, wooden shoots held him down. Laying back, he took a deep breath and stared at the canopy of leaves and foliage above him. It seemed from a great distance he heard a few guttural cries from the men he had been beside. They gradually faded away and only the crackling of flames of the burning lorry remained.

Finally, even that disappeared and the staked man could hear the incessant noises of the jungle. A small animal nearby snuffling in the grass, a cacophony of birds calling from the trees and insects buzzing around his face and the blood from his wounds.

He lifted his left arm and grabbed the bamboo shoot that had impaled his shoulder. At first he tried to break it off, but that only started new blood flowing and an agony like white-hot fire searing down his arm. Placing his hand under his armpit, he attempted to lift his pinned arm upwards. The cry that erupted from his lips was primal in its essence of pain and he lay back panting like a trapped, wild animal.

Tears tracked down his dirty cheeks, and he sucked at the salty liquid that hit his lips. Closing his eyes, he realized how hopeless and helpless this fate had left him. He wondered about his friends in the lorry and whether any of them had survived. Seven months ago he had his entire life before him as if he were on a throne beckoning it to come forward. Now, he was dying in the jungle, and no one knew where he had gone.

Male voices woke him. Without thinking, he tried to sit up and yelped in pain as the spikes held him in place. He groaned and then tried to cry out for help. Craning his head toward the sounds of feet pounding the vines, leaves and bushes, he raised his free arm and once again croaked out for help. His voice was so quiet, he knew they would not hear, so he tried to manufacture some spit in his mouth and swallow it to loosen his vocal cords. Again, he called for help. Again, it was too soft for the men to hear.

The language they spoke was Spanish and sounded urgent and angry. One voice stood out above all and it was demanding and commanding. They continued to beat the brush all around him, and he couldn’t understand why they had not found him.

His left hand pushed around the damp leaves hoping to find a rock or a branch that he could throw to grab their attention. His head swiveled in a vain search for anything he could toss. Moist leaves, coiled vines and more bamboo shoots and thorns were all that he could find.

A sharp snap came from the right, near his feet, and he jerked toward the sound. A young man, dressed in a grey uniform with a rifle strapped across his back, stood before him. His deep brown eyes stared at the man pinned to the earth and surreptitiously glanced back at the jungle path.

Help me. The injured man whispered.

The young soldier lifted a dirty hand and placed his index finger toward his lips. Shaking his head, he motioned silence and then took a step backwards.

No. The trapped man pleaded, his free arm reaching toward the young man.

Again, the soldier shook his head and then quickly turned around and hurried back toward the dirt track. He never looked back nor did any alarm go up around him that he had found a live victim. It was as if there had never been an encounter.

The crucified man tried to cry out again, but he had no voice. It was dried up and gone as the harsh heat of the day sucked all fluid from his body. The sun was high overhead and beating down, stealing all his juices as if he were in a desert, not jungle. It was so hot. He was so thirsty. Why had the soldier abandoned him?

When he woke again, it was dusk. There was a definite coolness to the air as the sun drifted below the horizon. The humidity still clogged the air with its wetness, but the stifling heat lifted from his body as if a blanket had been tossed aside. Dragging his head off the leaves, he stared at the sharp pieces of wood that held him stationary. Around each of the wounds was blood soaking his t-shirt. Around his abdominal wound were several large black ants attacking the blood. He watched in fascination as their front pinchers plucked greedily at the liquid. They were so large that their bodies had five sections and each leg was over an inch long. They had blunt horns on top of their heads, and their front legs were covered in fuzzy, yellow hair.

At first, he didn’t feel their sting but, as they worked at his bloodied white t-shirt, several caught part of his skin and the pain was horrible. He viciously swatted at them, sending them back into the dense foliage. Two caught on to his hand and stung again before he shook them loose. The poison raced into his body, and it was as if he was walking barefoot on hot coals. Sharp agonizing pain ate at him and his arms dropped down, paralyzed from the ant’s venom. He tossed his head back and forth and once again tried to lift himself from the dangerous ground. The bamboo shoots would not relinquish their hold and more blood leaked from his three wounds. Slowly, he lost consciousness and as night took hold, he gladly reached out toward the black oblivion beyond the deep pain.

It was deep into the night when he woke again. Shivering uncontrollably, he tried to move his left arm to warm his body that was moving into deep shock. The pain from the large ants had dissipated, but he still felt sluggish and his mind was blurry as if he needed glasses and had none.

Suddenly, there was a panting from off his right side and he craned his neck to see what large animal was near. He croaked a warning cry and waved his left arm to try and deter the small cat. The body of the feline was compact and muscular, its square head leaning toward the smell of blood.

His shooing motions only brought a low growl from the cat’s mouth. He kicked out his left leg and hissed at the sharp pain as the bamboo barbs moved in his wounds. The small cat lowered his body and inched forward, sniffing at the metallic smell of blood in the air.

Get away! The man grunted, his voice a raspy whisper.

He fisted his left hand and shot it at the encroaching animal. It came up short but made the cat spring back. Laying his ears back, the feline hissed, his mouth showing sharp, white teeth. Keeping his fist ready, he watched as the cat turned his head and growled deep in his throat.

Then, without preamble, the cat pounced onto the chest of the pinned man and dropped his head, mouth open toward the vulnerable neck of the human. The man screamed hoarsely and rammed his fist into the animal’s gaping mouth.

The fangs bit viciously into his palm and fingers and worried the flesh for several seconds before bounding off the prone human. The cat tried to pull the arm across his body, but the man pushed his fist further into the animal’s mouth and flung his arm back and forth, literally lifting the small cat off the ground.

The cat released its biting hold and backed away. His tail whipped back and forth in anger and frustration. Standing for a long minute, then pacing back and forth several times, the wild feline finally determined his next move. With a low growl and hiss, he turned and disappeared into the undergrowth.

The man cradled his bloodied hand against his chest and heaved an anguished cry of pain. Every part of his body ached and roared with the injuries. Why had he fought the cat? He should have just let the animal devour him. He was trapped, wounded and dying. It would have been a horrible death, but laying here like a crucified Christ was even worse. His whisper of impotence at his fate was lost in the dark night. He closed his eyes and prayed that he would not wake up to a new day.

CHAPTER TWO

Seven Months Earlier

Kyle Reagan stumbled down the stairs and grabbed the railing before he face-planted. His mop of blonde hair covered his grey eyes as his tall, lean frame stumbled. He was drunk, high and reeling with a euphoria of finally being finished. Graduation was tomorrow night and he would take the summer off to hike around Europe and then start working for his father. He was not sure he was ready for the corporate world, but his parents had footed the bill for college, so he needed to at least try and help the family company.

Hey Bro! Don’t leave yet! The party’s just getting started. His best-fried called to him from the open fraternity doorway.

Kyle waved his hand and stood swaying on the sidewalk. I gotta meet my parents for breakfast, Mike. I gotta head home. His retort was slurred and matched the cadence of his dancing, drunken feet.

Come on, buddy. One more.

Kyle just shook his head and stumbled on the crack in the concrete, grabbing for a lamppost that luckily had been placed right there for his reach. He giggled at his inebriation and swung a full loop around the metal pole before setting his feet toward his apartment.

His path home was only five minutes. Down two blocks, across a wide avenue and then through a park. If he concentrated really hard, one foot in front of the other he would be there in ten. Don’t mess around, Kyle, he mumbled to himself, just get back to your apartment and then you can crash. Concentrate and walk forward. Wow, he was really messed up tonight, but it had been so much fun. When was the next time he would ever party with all his frat brothers? When was the next time he would be so free?

Standing on the corner where he needed to cross, he hugged another light post for a long minute. What did he have to do? Oh yeah, push the button to set the walking person up on the lighted screen. He focused on the big button and pressed it with his whole hand. Leaning his head against the cool metal of the pole, he waited for the light to tell him he could go. His eyes closed and he shook his head to focus on the orange hand telling him to wait. It took so long. Come on, get the man walking, he thought and giggled again at his rambling mind.

Finally, the white walking sign appeared and he carefully let go of the post that had been holding him upright. One foot in front of the other, he slowly stumbled across the road. A horn honked at his ambling gait and he tripped over his feet, landing with a hard thud on the asphalt. Crawling the rest of the way, he sat on the curb and leaned against the opposite post. He glanced over at the opening to the park and wished he was already home. Taking a deep breath, he pushed upwards but his legs just wouldn’t take his weight. Plopping down on the concrete, he laughed at his predicament. Two hundred yards from his apartment and he couldn’t even imagine crawling there. He would rest for just a minute and then try again. He had breakfast with his parents. Had to make that date. They had done so much for him. Just take a minute break. Just a moment…

The black van pulled up next to the prone man and idled for thirty seconds. The passenger side door opened and a young man dressed in black surreptitiously glanced around and then knelt next to the unconscious man. Turning the man’s head, he saw youth and sturdiness. He patted down his pockets and pulled out two tens, a single key and in his back pocket, a phone.

Probably stole the damn thing from some unsuspecting tourist. He mumbled shoving everything in the pockets of his sweatshirt.

Glancing around once more, he lifted the bum’s shoulders off the cement and pulled him toward the van. The side panel slid open without him knocking and he heaved the guy inside. Jumping out, he lifted the man’s legs and rolled him all the way in. The unconscious man bumped into the other two prone figures in the van but did not utter a sound.

Give him this. The driver handed him a needle with fluid in it.

He’s out cold.

Yeah and this will ensure he stays that way for another four or five hours.

The man in black shrugged and jabbed the bum in his arm with the needle, emptying the syringe with a quick push of the plunger. He hopped out and jumped into the front seat, pounding on the dashboard with his fist.

Goddamn easiest three grand I ever made. He whooped and lightly punched his friend. Come on let’s get these last three to the bus and collect our reward.

His friend grinned and gunned the engine, pulling away from the curb. Ten bums for three thousand dollars is a good night’s work for sure.

They laughed together at this coup and drove into the night. By the time they dumped their haul at the bus twenty miles away and sped home it would almost be dawn. They didn’t care. They had money in their pocket that was worth every bit of this sleepless night.

CHAPTER THREE

Gavin McAllister leaned his forehead against the glass and felt soothed by the coolness. Tall and thin, he wore his expensive suits well. His brown hair was cut short around an angular face that was clean-shaven with a sharp nose and deep brown eyes that were forever cold. He was never one for coddling or questioning if someone was all right. If you were employed by him then you better do your job well without complaint. If not, you were fired without any severance pay or job references. He was a hard man.

Staring out over the city from his high-rise office, he vacillated over multiple decisions he had just made. The feeling was foreign for such a decisive man with little use for incompetence or ineptitude, but the last several hours had left him flustered.

First the call from his Colombian manager that had angered him, frustrated him and set him on a path that was dangerous and possibly destructive. But he had invested too much money to turn back now. So, he had thought for several hours about various solutions and when he called Diego Martinez back and told him his bold plan, the manager balked and wavered at its audacity. Gavin would hear nothing of it. Once he set his mind to a course, it was hard to stop as if he were a wave washing upon the sands. He took down anything in his way, anyone blocking his goal. It was decided.

Now, two hours later he was still contemplating this audacious solution, and he was angry at his Colombian manager for questioning it. Diego had needed men to work the coca fields and all his attempts at getting Colombians from surrounding villages had been thwarted. Don Manuel Alonzo held all power over the Putumayo-Caqueta region in southwest Colombia and Diego Martinez held onto 10,000 acres on the most southern section of this growing area. On this acreage, seven hundred tons of cocaine could be cultivated. It would make both Diego and Gavin very wealthy men. But only if they could pull off the logistics of growing the coca plant, processing the harvest and then getting it safely into the United States. It seemed simple at first, but Gavin had never worked with men as money-hungry as these Colombians.

He bribed the para-military group in the area where Diego had bought the land, to keep the area safe from encroaching guerrilla fighters that Don Manuel Alonzo constantly sent out. This expense alone to keep their land safe was like putting money into a bottomless pit. The para-military group always wanted more and more. Gavin was already tired of the squabbling and grubbing from this group.

Now, he needed the incompetent Diego to gather workers to clear the land, plant the small bushes, maintain the fields until the coca plant was ready to harvest. But Diego couldn’t obtain any farmers from all of Columbia? It boggled Gavin’s mind that he had hooked up with a man of such incompetence, of such small mind. He had slammed the phone down and then thrown it across the room in his anger and frustration before gathering his wits and formulating his bold plan.

The homeless people of this city was the perfect solution to his manpower deficit. Within two hours he had sent his minions out into the bowels of Phoenix and gathered sixty able-bodied men. All were homeless, junkies, addicts or mentally unstable humans, but it did not matter. They would be transported to his new venture in Colombia and no one would ever miss them. They were the forgotten, the lost, the disposable population. It would not cost him that much to get them to Colombia once he had his network set up and Diego Martinez would figure out the rest. The plan was ingenious and had cost him less than twenty thousand dollars. That pittance would be surpassed a hundred times with his first crop of cocaine.

Gavin was pleased with his ingenious plan but still felt unsettled. His wife was adding fuel to the turmoil in his gut. She was like a relentless wind chafing at him to find