Chapter 18
THE CELL JAKE was placed in also housed two other prisoners. The lack of a window made it impossible for him to see who they were or what condition they were in. He hadn’t heard beatings, but he did hear lots of clanging and guessed most the people stored in this facility were chained by hands or feet or both.
The place smelled like feces and stale urine. He imagined it would be difficult to use the honey bucket he knew to be in the corner of the cell without missing, since there was no benefit of light. He tried to sit back on the itchy mattress he’d been given and soon discovered he was covered with fleas.
He knew it had to be mind over matter. The fleabites stung and then itched afterward. If he indulged, the itching would get worse, and then there would be the possibility of infection. That was always going to be his biggest problem. That and obtaining enough water to keep his brain functioning in such a stressful situation with little food.
One of his cellmates had a hacking cough that didn’t sound healthy at all. Someone at the end of the hall was mumbling with fever and the rest of his cell was complaining. He heard Spanish spoken, as well as what sounded like an African dialect. Jake imagined Baja was a magnet for peoples from all over the world to try to gain entry into the US, in a state that was lax on enforcement of immigration laws. With the added juice of a very healthy drug business run by cartels all around Central and South America, the clash of money, cultures and greed made for dangerous bedfellows. Jake didn’t have to compete with all this distraction. He just had to outlast it all. Somehow, he had to remain alive long enough for a rescue, a fair resolution to his legal troubles, or a miracle. He was praying for the latter. He didn’t want anyone risking their life for him today.
He could hear water dripping down the stone blocks of the cell’s perimeter. The long corridor echoed in mysterious ways, sometimes making him think a voice was whispering in his ear, and other times not. He remembered on the tour of Alcatraz in San Francisco Bay that inmates on the rock could sometimes hear partygoers on expensive yachts berthed at the Marina just as if they were standing on the pier. Water and wind would carry the voices so the inmates could hear what they were missing, even if they couldn’t see it.
He started doing what he always did when he was gripped with fear. He started counting his blessings. First on his list was his family—all of them, but of course mostly Ginger who had come back into his life when he didn’t deserve it. He was grateful for those lush days and nights he’d had with her, and for chance to give her back the joy she’d given him. It was a dream he had no right to expect, but was the thing he would be clawing toward every minute of every day he had to spend in this awful place.
He was grateful his brother had found his father at last, that he had a new purpose in life, and was sure the best was yet to come for him.
He regretted his father had never taken care of himself and would be missing the growing grandkids and all the new family history that would be created in the coming years. He regretted not being able to tell his dad he loved him more often. He couldn’t even remember a time when he had said it, recently.
He was grateful his mom could now devote herself to her grandkids and the rest of her family. He wondered, should he not make it out of this prison, who would finish his father’s wishes as executor but dismissed it as probably something his mother could do by default. And she’d do a great job of it.
Jake was grateful for his Team, and the guys who had sacrificed, kept him safe and those he had saved, both innocents and Team Guys. It was a job he wished most men could have the chance to perform. He was the lucky one doing all the things he’d done. He got to be a force for good, not evil, in the world.
He would need his strength and so willed himself to sleep, rolling down on his side and letting the tiny fleas have their way with him. He just pretended it was some exotic form of skin treatment, willing his body not to react, like he did with the adjustment to his heart rate. He remembered the rebreathing exercises he’d done in BUD/S, how some of the guys had a hard time with the disorientation exercises they’d done under water. But for him, he just held his breath, and calmly conducted his tasks with time to spare, pushing up to the surface with smooth grace, loving the knowledge that he’d passed on his first try.
That was going to be how he’d survive this ordeal, just the same way. He’d remain calm. He’d listen and watch for opportunity. He’d look for a tool, a weapon, something to either defend himself or protect himself with. He needed to read every situation in the building and just like in BUD/S try not to stand out, grand stand or express frustration or emotions that could tax him or make him slip. He was going to survive. He was made to do the impossible, the things that other people couldn’t do. He was special, but not better. He was a super strong killing machine who loved with great passion. He would lie here and experience himself getting stronger mentally and physically and wouldn’t give up. No matter what they threw at him, he would not give up.
That was what he was all about.
JAKE WOKE UP with a start. Someone in the next cell was being dragged down the hall and the man was either dead or unconscious. The heavy iron bars rang with finality as they were shut behind the lifeless body and the lock reapplied.
He also was careful to take even, deep breaths, which renewed him with the flush of new oxygen carried throughout his body. He flexed and unflexed his leg muscles, to the point of making his lower legs cramp, and then let them relax afterwards, and wait until the cramping stopped. He flexed and unflexed his arms, fingers, rolled his neck and shoulders, moved slowly to a sitting position with his legs crossed, doing the power breathing exercise they’d all been taught. He held a forefinger against his right nostril and inhaled and exhaled, then did the same with his left. He tried to bring as much calm, cleansing spirit into his body as he could.
He saw Ginger holding out her arms to him, and experienced his longing for her, causing his eyes to water. He let them stream tears, and knew that if he was experiencing emotions, then he wasn’t dead, or even close to dead.
Again, this was another survival technique. All emotion could be controlled through breathing. It was not something to dread, but a proof of life. Controlling it stopped the destructive negative cycle of despair and turned his body into a vessel of bliss.
JAKE DISCOVERED HE was able to sleep in the lotus position when he awoke and was still sitting erect with a slight bob of his head. A door had been opened at the end of the hallway and light flooded into all the cells. Some dirty forms cowered and covered their faces from the brightness. He made his eyelids into slits and viewed the light sparingly so as not to damage his eyes, and realized he might have to do this for several days, perhaps longer.
Through the slits he examined his cellmates. The man who had been coughing all night long was now in a deep raspy sleep, curled up to a stone wall, shirtless and with wild hair that appeared not to have been combed in weeks. Part of the sides were matted with early formations of dreadlocks.
The other man didn’t have the darker complexion of their other cellmate. His skin was fair. His belly flabby. He was leaning against the wall, one leg out in front of him, and the other bent at the knee. He had been wearing a white long sleeved button-down shirt when he’d come into the cage, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to the elbow. One arm was draped over his knee. Jake saw the outline of something familiar.
The man had an anchor tat on his left forearm midway between his wrist and the inner arm joint.
The man was former or currently in the Navy.
With renewed interest, Jake adjusted his arms and legs and tried to see the man’s face.
Well, he’d asked for a miracle, and one had just been shown him. He’d created it with his own mind. The man who was his cellmate was none other than the man they were supposed to bring back with them: Wade Fuckin’ Seacord.