Crossing the Line

By Keith Dobson

‘Crossing the Line’, a breathtaking and fast-moving action thriller, tells the gripping story of Jack Wallace and his arduous 5,000-mile journey to the dense and impenetrable Central American Belizean jungle with a group of audacious and unruly British soldiers. There, they find themselves implicated in illegal trading between the military and the ruthless Sinaloa drug cartel. Viciously beaten and imprisoned by corrupt Mexican police, Jack manages to escape, but following the brutal and savage murder of a soldier is captured and tortured, only to flee into the dense and unforgiving tropical jungle to evade his pursuers, where his real fight for survival begins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Nov 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839786525

Book preview

9781839786525.jpg

Crossing the line

Keith Dobson

Crossing the Line

Published by The Conrad Press Ltd. in the United Kingdom 2023

Tel: [phone]

www.theconradpress.com

[e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-839786-52-5

Copyright © Keith Dobson, 2023

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Certain places within the work exist, but the incidents described are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk

The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.

Dedicated to the closest and most influential people in my life who gave me inspiration and encouragement, you know who you are…

Crossing the line – to overstep a boundary, rule, limit,or go too far. Doing something that is outside the bounds of acceptable behaviour.

1

If thou gaze long into an abyss,the abyss will gaze also into thee

Friedrich Nietzsche

The heaving prison truck swayed alarmingly and jolted abruptly, the partly worn tyres intermittently losing traction on the warm, dry tarmac.

The driver struggled to retain control of the almost three tonnes of lurching metal box as the vehicle tore around the tight corners of the streets of Cancún and into the hot, humid Mexican night. His ever-tightening grip on the uncompliant steering wheel caused his knuckles to stiffen and ache and momentarily lost control as he lifted a hand in protest and felt the tiny sting of a mosquito’s hypopharynx push into the soft flesh of his salty and sweat-soaked neck.

The side-shifting momentum, swaying, and lurching of the vehicle was slightly increased by the weight of the human captives imprisoned and locked in darkness in the purpose-built cell attached behind the driver’s cab.

The swaying motion convinced one of the prisoners to lie flat on his back on one of two hardwood benches positioned along the walls on each side of the cell and to prevent being thrown around as he tightly gripped the sides of the bench with each hand causing his wrists to ache as the muscles and tendons exerted and stretched to their extreme.

There were three others in the cell with him, but the only sounds came from the screeching tyres and the slight noise of groaning metal as the frame of the truck lurched objectionably against its own stiff and intended construction.

The others were silent and remained still in the moodiness and foreboding of darkness. He had no doubt they would be attempting to do the same as he was, bracing themselves against the tilt and momentum of the vehicle as if on some turbulent roller coaster ride.

As he lay on the bench, a surge of indignation overtook his thoughts taking his mind elsewhere and providing a brief respite to the ever-increasing pain and aching of his tiring wrists. His concentration turned to why he had been so unexpectantly and violently incarcerated with the other men; indignation intensified to fury as he thought of the events that had led to their inhuman confinement.

Of course, he knew precisely why he was here, it was all down to the stupid, irresponsible, and reckless behaviour of the burly and towering man from Wales who was sharing his imprisonment.

Jack’s anxiety intensified the more he thought about it and continued to strain against the shift of the vehicle, fighting to retain its dignity on the dry, hot streets of Cancún City, Mexico.

He knew that if it hadn’t been for the Welshman’s boneheaded stupidity, which often verged on lunacy, he and the others wouldn’t be lying in a urine-stinking mobile prison and being tossed around like rag dolls.

Occasionally, above the sound of the moaning engine and in the dark shadows of the cell, he heard the slight sounds of a shuffle and random mumble, sometimes followed by groans as those who also occupied the lockup tensed their sore and nagging bodies with every jolt and rocking motion of the groaning metal box.

From time to time, a tired and grouchy voice could be heard above the racket of the straining engine, as someone in the darkness cursed the driver for swerving sharply or pressing on the brake too quickly and caused those lying on the floor to roll around like eggs in an oversize tin box.

Jack remembered with anguish the earlier violence and pain he and the others had endured, so viciously inflicted by the two police officers in the front cab, the officers now taking them to their destiny. He recalled how they had viciously beaten him, and he seethed with rancour and loathing for the driver and his passenger.

Too many times, he feared that the sudden swaying and lurching of the vehicle would throw him from the bench to the floor. He was determined that that wouldn’t happen, his nostrils stinging from the acidic stench of vomit and urine left by prisoners before him. Body fluids had more than likely been deposited by the numerous drunks, hoboes and prostitutes who would have been the frequent and regular residents of this dark and dismal hellhole.

Earlier, following the extreme violence of the evening, he had found himself on the wet floor for a short time, and it had not been pleasant, realising he had been sitting in what felt and smelled like human excrement.

He was conscious that time was passing and was becoming extremely concerned. He sensed that he had been imprisoned in the vehicle’s rear for maybe three or four hours; it was difficult to quantify in the complete darkness.

In any case, it partially explained why his back ached so much, mainly due to the time he had been lying on the hard and uncomfortable bench. His left leg and foot began jarring up with spasms of cramps due to motionlessness and inactivity.

The constant and sustained grip of the bench strained his tiring forearms and wrists, but it was all he could do to prevent rolling to the floor. Instead, he would put up with the aches and pain for as long as it would take, as he knew the other option was to be forced to lie on that stinking wet floor with the others, and that would be inconceivable.

Recalling the surreal events he had endured earlier, Jack recollected that over a single evening, at different times and locations, he and his three friends had been threatened, beaten, and manhandled by brutal and violent Mexican police officers only to be finally locked in the prison truck.

Now, the truck seemed to be continually driving around the city and had been for hours without reaching a destination. He assumed that in a large city like Cancún, with all the crime and disorder Mexico’s second-largest city would surely encounter, there should have been a central jail or prison located in the city centre.

Again, his mind drifted to the thugs in the driver’s cabin. If they intended to take them to the police cells, they were taking a damn long time or taking the longest route imaginable. He guessed the city would be beginning to quieten by now and it was probably the early morning hours, the roads would hardly be congested at such a quiet time. It would be ridiculous to suggest that the police driver and his passenger were somehow confused and had forgotten how to navigate to the city jail.

Suspicion and doubt, heightened by inaction and impatience, began to course through his restless mind. He thought it possible they may be being kidnapped, then quickly dismissed the idea and recalled their uniforms, weapons, and the vehicle had all seemed genuine.

He recollected reading somewhere or perhaps had been told that the Mexican authorities had a reputation for being the most corrupt in the western hemisphere, second only to Guatemala.

On the surface, this charade could be a nefarious deception which may turn into something Jack and his friends would live to regret. He knew that only time would tell; just let it go a bit further, and if they still failed to reach a destination, he would have to work out how to escape this stinking wretchedness, either with or without his friends.

Then suddenly, the truck abruptly stopped for the first time during the long journey.

Hoping that they had reached their destination, he listened to the engine as it quietly ticked over. There was no movement in the driver’s cab and realised they had probably stopped at a red traffic light or allowed another vehicle to pass.

In the silence, he could hear faint movement and regular breathing from the others occupying the dark space around him. With relief, he sighed, momentarily releasing his grip and readjusting his position on the bench. It was an opportunity to relax his aching limbs and provide much-needed rest for his muscles, and for the first time, he felt able to relax during the treacherous and unpredictable journey.

The heat and humidity in the cell were almost unbearable and very little air circulated in the box which accentuated the stench that emanated from the floor. He guessed that the temperature was probably thirty-five degrees at best.

He rubbed his wet face and neck with both hands and felt sweat trickle down his lower back and inner thighs then ineffectively licked his cracked lips with his rough, dry tongue.

He inhaled the cocktail stench of sweat and urine and suddenly felt a tightness in his gut as vomit refluxed into his oesophagus, rising from his stomach. He managed to swallow the acidity down, realising he desperately needed to drink something, his throat stinging from the caustic effect of the bile.

He knew that if he had to, he would drink his own urine if it came to it. He had done it before during jungle survival training, which he had completed in England in preparation for serving in Belize, he wasn’t ready for that just yet, but that time might come later if he felt the need to survive.

After less than a minute, the engine accelerated slightly, and he gripped the sides of the bench as the vehicle lurched forward and continued its seemingly never-ending journey.

It was almost pitch black in the prison truck, making it difficult to see; the only light came from occasional flashes of streetlights and oncoming vehicle headlights, flickering across the ceiling above him like some broken monochrome kaleidoscope.

The dull pain of cramps surged through his calf muscles, causing him to sit up and place his foot on the floor. Maintaining his grip with one hand to steady himself, he rigorously rubbed the area of pain in his aching limb as the truck slowed down again.

Squinting his eyes and scanning the darkness, assisted by the intermittent flashes of light, he made out the grey, murky shapes of the others sharing the dark space with him, two of them lying on the stinking floor and another lying on the bench running along the opposite side of the cell.

He looked for the source of the glancing lights, seeing they were coming through the square metal grill at the front of the prison chamber. Measuring about thirty centimetres squared, it was enough to allow some light to pierce the darkness of the cell and he could see the coloured lights of the dashboard in the driver’s cabin and flashes of light filtering through the windscreen.

Then he noticed, caught in the rays of light, swirls of smoke and then the smell of burning tobacco. The introduction of this stench caused him to retch; it was the unique pungent smell of strong American cigarettes, the acidic smoke only added to the cocktail of odious smells already circulating in the cell.

Wincing, he recalled when the two feral police officers had so viciously beaten him, brutally pushed him through the rear doors of the cell and violently hit him with a police baton causing him to fall to the stinking floor.

Stan had followed, after being hit with a police baton across his shins, and unceremoniously collapsing into the cell and then, to his utter shock and confusion discovered his other friends, whom he had left earlier in the evening, were already incarcerated in the darkness of the transportable police cell.

Feeling that the unjust and inhuman ordeal presented the most serious predicament that he had ever experienced, and his previously unblighted career would surely be wrecked when this crisis was over. He thought there were two possible outcomes which would result from his desperate situation, either the Army would make official attempts to bail them out of a Mexican prison, or if the corrupt authorities failed to inform them, he and his friends would end up rotten in a stinking jail for however long it would take to make someone aware of their whereabouts.

His thoughts again turned towards Gareth, the Welshman, who was responsible for their ordeal due to his continual, irrational and idiotic behaviour; then he thought of the other two guys who were incarcerated with him and how worse it could have been if he had been alone in the cell with Gareth and felt a little cheered, knowing that the others were dependable enough if the time came to consider a plan to escape their suffering.

Again, the truck decelerated and slowed, giving him a reprieve to release his grip and allowing him to rub his sweating face then quietly muttered to himself, ‘The stupid Welsh bastard,’ while hoping the burly person the slur was aimed at couldn’t hear him.

Lowering his hands, he squinted, attempting to focus his vision through the thick veil of darkness which shrouded the bodies that lay on the floor.

Shockingly, the truck lurched forward with a jolt, and he almost fell from the bench, only prevented by clenching the sides. Then the vehicle increased speed and continued its long journey through the quiet Mexican streets as dawn began to break.

Vibrant lights occasionally glinted through the metal grill, which separated them from the cab. Turning his head, he looked again at the dark shapes of the men lying on the floor and saw it had become easier to distinguish the larger of the two and responsible for their incarceration.

He looked up at the quivering lights dancing across the ceiling, and his thoughts drifted back to how events had begun when the police stopped them as they walked through the dark and empty streets of Cancún. What then followed shocked them both beyond belief.

Earlier, he and Stan had left a quiet bar after a few drinks and were feeling content and relaxed, mainly due to the copious amounts of strong Mexican tequila, they had consumed. They eventually found themselves walking along the main road and discussing how they may find a safe and comfortable place to sleep the night.

Then, to their utter bewilderment, the chaos and violence began.

They weren’t even aware that the police had been searching for them when the law enforcement truck drove towards them in the street, tyres screeching, the vehicle coming to a shuddering stop, doors slamming, two irate cops yelling and running towards them.

Then, surprise and confusion, as one of the officers, who was shockingly overweight, drew a baton from his belt and began waving the menacing weapon above his head whilst incomprehensibly screaming and shouting towards them.

While trying to understand the distressing conduct of the lunatic in front of them, and to their further astonishment, a second policeman, who noticeably, wore a substantial black walrus moustache spreading across his lips and cheeks, failing to disguise his dreadfully pocked-marked face, was also holding a baton which he swirled above his head as if threatening to strike and screamed frenziedly and incoherently towards them.

The overweight officer nervously darted his gaze between Jack and Stan as if watching a tennis ball being thwacked forward and then back across a tennis court net.

Feeling warm spittle spray on his face as the indignant police officers continued their screaming rant, he wanted to raise a hand to wipe the foul-smelling sputum from his face but felt that if he made a move, it would send the two cops even more demented, and a baton could quite possibly strike him with pernicious consequences.

Both Jack and Stan were carrying backpacks containing their personal belongings and realising his bag was an additional burden, Jack shrugged the straps off his shoulders and dropped the bag to the floor, momentarily distracting the berserk police officers.

He was tempted to turn on his heels and run as fast as possible from the terrible anarchy and hostility unravelling before them but couldn’t find it in him to leave his friend to the wrath of the two psychotic lunatics gyrating, yelling, and swinging their batons.

He felt it prudent to maintain eye contact with the moustached officer, who seemed to be about to swing his baton and strike either of them on the head.

Observing their fierce and erratic expressions, he thought that the whole situation made absolutely no sense and hoped that any second, the cops would realise that they had made a terrible misjudgement and had detained the wrong suspects; perhaps only then would they lower their batons, cease posturing, and apologise for the mistake and the inconvenience.

That did not happen, and their threatening display continued towards the two soldiers, then the overweight officer began shouting something that Jack half understood.

‘Detención penal, detención penal.’

On hearing his police partner, the moustached officer stopped shouting and lowered his baton, swiftly forcing it into his belt. Then with both hands, reached forward, taking hold of Jack in an armlock and promptly twisted him around.

Jack complied and instantly felt immense pain spread across his shoulder, then, as the officer came closer, he felt warm breath on his nose and cheek. Panting heavily from the shock and trauma, he inhaled the acidic smell of cheap cigarettes.

The pain made it impossible for him to try and resist, as the cop swung him around and into the side of the truck; slight pressure was applied to the arm lock, which heightened the pain, forcing him to comply; otherwise, he knew his arm would be pulled from the socket.

A large hand pushed his face against the hard metal of the vehicle, causing a sharp pain to his cheek and jawbone. Suddenly, he felt a painful jolt in the small of his back as the officer’s knee found more flesh to bruise and hurt.

Standing restrained against the truck, he heard a loud thud next to him, and the truck vibrated as Stan’s head was also rammed into the side of the vehicle.

The hand holding Jack’s face against the metal released, resulting in his head involuntarily falling backwards; then he winced as he was jolted sideways, still in an armlock and realised he was being pulled to the rear of the truck.

He stumbled as he was pushed towards the metal steps leading to the truck’s rear doors and realised, before it was too late, it was time to attempt to reason with these lunatics before he was pushed into the dark abyss of the cell.

‘Please stop; there must be a mistake, we haven’t done anything wrong,’ he screamed above the chaos.

He felt the officer place his mouth close to his ear, and spoke in a hushed, calm voice, ‘Detención penal.’

Jack raised his foot and placed it on the bottom step then leaned slightly backwards as the officer continued to apply the arm lock pressure and pushed from behind.

Reluctantly, he acquiesced while shuffling up each step, supported from behind by the officer. After feeling the last step with his foot, he stepped towards the open doors as the officer released and pushed him forward. It was pitch black inside the truck, but he was more relieved that his shoulder and arm were not broken and knew there was no choice but to move cautiously towards the darkness.

The officer wasn’t finished with him yet, which was evident as he felt the excruciating painfulness of a police baton swiping across his rear calves, causing him to collapse limply onto the truck’s metal floor, the right side of his face cushioning his fall.

He screamed out in crushing pain then began to gag as he drew breath and inhaled the stench of something rancid and acidic, then lay choking on the hard, damp floor for what seemed minutes but was probably seconds.

His arm felt as if it had been pulled out of its socket by the armlock, both his calves ached from being struck with a baton, and his face felt swollen and bruised, amongst all the physical trauma he still did not understand why this was happening to him and his friend.

Using what little strength was left, he lifted his face from the metal floor to free himself of the acrid stench burning inside his nostrils, then began to shuffle further into the darkness as he heard the officers shouting outside the vehicle.

He guessed that the odds were Stan would be joining him very soon and didn’t want to be in the same position when his friend was forcibly launched through the open doors.

Pushing himself to his knees and wincing with pain, he slowly clambered forward into the darkness until the top of his head gently touched the wall. Then slowly turning into a sitting position, he shuffled his bottom, feeling the cold and sticky dampness soaking into his trousers.

Seconds later, and as expected, he heard the sound of someone stumbling on the metal steps; the truck rocked gently as the silhouette of his friend appeared at the open doors. He knew what would happen next and waited for Stan to collapse into the space and could only watch as the officer appeared behind him, baton held as if about to strike.

2

Not today, Satan, not today

Bianca del Rio

The old and decrepit ex-British Army Land Rover spluttered and coughed as it was clumsily driven along the twisting and rocky Belizean jungle trail. The battered vehicle was curtained on either side by hanging green vines, ferns, and lush foliage. The murky brown waters of a ten-metre-wide slow-flowing river ebbed precariously close and just a few centimetres from the jaunting and bouncing rubber tyres.

The vehicle was one of the original models left by the British Armed Forces when they first extracted from Belize in the late 1970s, probably manufactured in the 1950s and due to its age, had more than likely experienced some military action due to its scars, displaying more wear and tear than it deserved. It was now being pushed to its limits and driven on the extremely rough and uneven jungle trail.

The prolonged Belizean humidity and extreme weather conditions had caused accelerated deterioration to its engine, not to mention the groaning dented chassis and severely bald tyres struggling to maintain the vehicle driving straight on the mud and rocks.

The driver fought to prevent the metal machine from sliding uncontrollably into the deep river adjacent to the meandering trail and curiously felt the water beckoning him to steer into its depths of oblivion. Perhaps it was the high tensile steel wires poking out of the rubber tyres that provided much-needed grip to keep the vehicle on course and away from a watery peril.

The tired and weak diesel engine, belching a blue and greasy oil-smoked plume from the exhaust. It was obvious the machine was struggling to cope with the arduous journey, and the driver jerked and fought to retain the forward trajectory, forcing him to maintain a tight grip on the steering wheel, his hands uncomfortably shaking due to excessive wear and deterioration of the steering shaft. The vehicle had rarely seen any genuine care or maintenance for years but held its dignity and was trying to perform in the last of its days.

The man in the passenger seat was only too aware of the uncomfortable experience of travelling in the dilapidated vehicle but had little concern for such trivial matters. The position he commanded in his cruel world carried little sentiment for such issues, and his emotion and care for other human beings were even less.

He had known his driver, Mikel, for many years but held diminutive respect for him; he knew that if he failed to complete this critical journey, he would reduce him to dust as he had done to many weak people. Ordinary people possessed no value in his world; they either served him and were allowed to survive or if they failed him, would be hastily neutralised.

Mikel was very aware of his boss’s, or jefe’s contempt and utter disregard for human life. He had witnessed the malice