For the first time in three months, Tony Romano sat on the balcony of his condo, smoking a cigar and enjoying a glass of scotch. Grateful to have come home without an injury, he leaned back in the chair and propped his feet up on the railing and smiled to himself. The life he led, when he wasn’t on a job, was one many wished for. He owned a condo that sat near the lake on a golf course, he played golf at least three times a week, and he drank the best scotch and smoked the most expensive cigars.

Yes, he led a wonderful life he’d worked hard to deserve, but to get there, he’d seen the worst humanity had to offer. Ugliness the average Joe could never understand and wouldn’t want to see. Their worst nightmares were tame daydreams compared to the realities he’d seen and wished he could forget.

Sighing through his reflections, he sipped his scotch and watched a crane lift off the bank of the lake and fly over him, graceful and magnificent. He was gifted with beauty occasionally, but his wariness, his inability to completely relax, blighted the charming aspects of the world. He inhaled the flavorful smoke of his cigar and wondered if he was too young for retirement.

At thirty-seven, he was only reaching his prime, he thought, and what would he do as a retired man? Golf every day? Travel? He snorted at the idea. When his job—which had taken him to so many countries he couldn’t remember them all—ended, he would stay home for the rest of his life. No place on Earth called to him more than his home, his space, the only place he felt marginally safe. But never one hundred percent safe.

He grunted as he rose to replenish his drink, reminding himself that he’d signed up for the job and could quit at any time. He had plenty of money—more than enough, if he was honest—to give him time to decide what his next job might be. He could write, create a fictional character based on himself and write of his adventures. The books would sell, he was certain. Americans loved bloody tales.

All you have to do is quit picking up the phone, he thought, as he wandered through his condo to the bar, glancing at the space he’d turned into a home.

Because his home was his sanctuary, he’d carefully selected everything in it. The couches, which sat parallel to each other, were leather and dark brown, overstuffed and more than comfortable. A throw rug in a slightly lighter shade of brown lay between them with a large leather ottoman rather than a table in the middle. Each couch had its own end table, on opposite ends, with matching lamps that plugged into sockets on the floor, hidden by the tables. He enjoyed laying on the couches, his head at the end furthest from the door, facing the balcony windows during a storm or at sunset.

A television mounted to the wall had been turned on perhaps a dozen times in the three years he’d lived in the condo. He enjoyed the fireplace beneath it and a good book much more than any movie or show. The bar was really an island that separated the living room from the kitchen, one he’d designed and had built specifically for the condo. The dark wood had been honed to look like a bar in a saloon, with shelves rather than cabinets underneath, and was fully stocked. A wine fridge was built into it, though he usually put water bottles in there.

The wine fridge had been a whim. He didn’t partake in wine unless he was eating at a fancy restaurant, but the idea had been that he might eventually marry. A woman would appreciate such foresight. He snorted again. I definitely have to retire before any woman will marry me, he mused, swirling the scotch in his glass as he returned to the balcony. He left the door open so the cool evening air could penetrate the condo and leave its refreshing scent behind.

As he pondered the fact that no woman would be able to deal with a schedule like his, his phone interrupted his reverie. You can quit picking up the phone, he reminded himself as he fished the ringing offender out of his pocket. He sucked air through his teeth when he saw the name on the screen. Not a number he could ignore.

“Hello, Charlie,” he greeted, his voice a step above grouchy. “Been a long time.”

“Yes, it has,” Charles Hudson answered, his voice as brusque as it had always been, even when they’d been teenagers. “How are you?”

“Good as can be expected,” he replied. “A little curious about this call. You don’t call just to chat.”

Charles chuckled. “You’re right about that. I need your help.”

Tony’s eyebrows furrowed as a frown crossed his face. Charles owned a magazine in New York, was married with two kids, and shouldn’t need the kind of help Tony provided. The two men had served in the Marines together, started together in boot camp, and were sent to some “bad places,” as they’d always joked. While Charles had chosen the civilian life as soon as his time was up, Tony had remained in the Marines and had worked special ops for a time. When he’d finally chosen to leave the Marines, his set of skills was good for one thing: rescue missions for civilians who had put themselves in dangerous positions. He was paid handsomely to bring these people home, and in the few years he’d made this his job, he’d lost only one.

“Not sure what I can do for you, Charlie.” Tony fished, hoping Charles would take the bait.

“Are you in New York?”

“No, but I’m in the States,” he answered cagily. He preferred no one knew where he lived. “I could get to New York quickly if it’s important.”

“It’s important,” he replied, his voice quietly serious. “How soon can you get here?”

“When do I need to be there?”

“An hour ago,” Charles joked humorlessly.

Tony’s frown deepened, accenting a scar on one eyebrow as it pulled down. “What’s going on, man?”

His friend cleared his throat on the other end before he spoke. “Let’s talk when you get here. Keep your receipts and I’ll pay for your flight.”

His eyes narrowed, his friend’s severe tone causing alarms to ring in his head. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s just after six here. I’ll text you when I get a flight.”

“Thanks, man,” Charles answered gruffly. “Text me what airport and I’ll have a car waiting for you. You can stay with my family.”

“Will I be staying in New York long?”

“Hmm, regardless of your answer, I doubt it,” Charles answered. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Tony stared at his phone as the line disconnected, his frown becoming a scowl. If Charles was calling him, someone he cared about was in danger. Tony knew the magazine Charles owned often contained stories that could pose a threat to the publisher himself or his employees. He wished he could have seen the man’s face while they spoke; he couldn’t get a read on the seriousness of the issue only by listening to his voice. He could guess, though.

Shaking himself, he downed his drink and stood. He strode to his laptop and packed it in its bag as he called his buddy who could usually fly him anywhere at a moment’s notice and paid the outrageous, last-minute fee begrudgingly. He hurried to his bedroom and packed the essentials, thankful for the private plane so he could carry what weapons he needed. Since he had no idea what Charles needed him for, he packed lightly, determined to come back to the condo if he needed more.

* * *

At fifteen after ten that night, Tony was escorted into the skyscraper that housed the offices for Hudson Monthly News. The security guard on duty looked askance at him as they walked side by side to the elevator. Tony smirked at his behavior. His Italian heritage leant him a fierce look, with his dark skin and dark, buzzed hair. He had a nose on him, but it fit his face even though it had been broken a couple of times. The healed nose and scar on his eyebrow added to his fierceness, and the fact that he was three inches above six feet and could pass for Dwayne Johnson’s body double didn’t help. He scared people, a useful tool in his profession.

“Ride the elevator to the twenty-seventh floor. When the doors open, Mr. Hudson’s office is to the right,” the guard explained as he reached for the button to call the elevator. “Or I can escort you up?”

“I think I can make it on my own, thanks,” Tony replied, his deep voice solidifying the tough-guy persona he liked to exude. As he stepped into the elevator, he said, “Have a good one.”

“You too, sir,” the guard replied quickly as the elevator doors slid closed nearly noiselessly.

Tony chuckled to himself as the elevator glided smoothly up. The man had looked in his eyes once and not again. Some security, he thought churlishly, feeling sorry for the guy. Probably doesn’t have much to do other than sign people in and out all day. He stepped out of the elevator and looked both directions, assessing the area as he automatically did when he was in a new place.

With steps as quiet as a cat’s, he walked down the hall to the door emblazoned with Hudson Monthly News on the glass. He thought the name sounded more like a television news show, but he’d done a little research during the flight and read several pieces. None were fluff pieces but intelligent articles about a myriad of topics, most accompanied by photos that told stories of their own. He was surprised the magazine wasn’t more well-known, though he did discover that national newspapers had reprinted their stories, with permission.

He pushed the door to the offices open and stepped inside, a jangle of chimes sounding somewhere in the back to announce his presence. Sighing at this lack of security, he hoped Charles didn’t rely on the pitiful excuse for guards downstairs. He waited for Charles to appear, absorbing the scene before him.

The room was large with desks crowded together in an open space. Apparently, only three people had enclosed offices: Charles, a man named Trevor Davis, and a third office didn’t have a name on the door. Tony briefly wondered who occupied the third or if it was used for a conference room when Charles’ door opened and he stepped out.

“Tony,” he called, gesturing for him to join him. Tony grinned as he reached him, and they executed a handshake that turned into a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, man,” Tony said as they stepped back.

“I would rather be seeing you at a BBQ in my backyard, but…” Charles shrugged his large shoulders, his bald head gleaming in the overhead fluorescents.

“You’ve got a problem,” Tony finished.

“That’s an understatement, but yes. Come in to my office,” Charles replied, leading the way inside an office that was messy without being dirty. Tony would bet his next paycheck Charles could lay his hands on anything he was asked for in a moment.

A man sat behind the large desk, his eyes trained on the computer screen. He was so focused, he didn’t look up, and Tony watched a parade of letters and numbers reflect in his frameless glasses. Tony glanced at Charles, who indicated they should give him another minute, which was really only thirty seconds. The man sat back with a sigh and rubbed his eyes wearily.

“The information on the video is correct, as far as location,” the man announced as he leaned his elbows on the desk. “That video was uploaded somewhere near some shit hole called Pacamque. Literally in the middle of Mexico.”

“Is that close to Matamoros?” Charles asked. Tony listened carefully, waiting patiently for them to finish. He’d need this information eventually.

“Not really,” the man answered. He swiveled the chair and typed on the computer. “More than two hundred miles apart.”

“Jesus,” Charles whispered, running his hand over his bald head in what looked like resignation. His eyes met Tony’s. “Tony, this is my assistant, George Martinez.”

“Nice to meet you,” he commented as they shook hands, noting the Hispanic surname. The man had a dark complexion and brown hair, but his speech was accent free. “Tony Romano.”

“You too,” George said, eyeing him. “You look like a guy who could pull this off.”

“Um, thanks,” he replied. “Mind telling me what this is?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Charles told him, pointing at a chair in an invitation to sit. He cleared his throat and began his story. “A few days ago, I sent my best reporter and photographer to Mexico. The photographer, Grace McIntyre, had proposed a story to me about what the cartels are doing to the small towns there. Trevor was on board, and even though I should have said no, I sent them.”

Tony nodded, the main idea of his story already clear to him. “So your employees have been kidnapped by the cartel.”

“Grace has, yes. Trevor is dead,” Charles stated, his voice revealing no emotion. His eyes, however, told the story of fear and sadness.

“The video?”

“Hard to watch,” he responded, looking briefly at George.

“They’re torturing her,” George explained, paler than he had been. “They ask for a ransom for her.”

“The email with the video also had pictures of Trevor’s body and what had been done to it,” Charles told him. “Posthumously. But if the ransom isn’t paid, Grace will be alive when they…” His voice trailed off.

Tony had visions in his head of this woman being tortured and violated in a hundred different ways on this video, and he hoped his thoughts were far worse than what he was about to watch. “Let’s look at the pictures of Trevor.”

George cleared his throat. “I’m going to turn the screen for you. I’d prefer not to see either again.”

Tony nodded as Charles sat in the chair next to him. George handed the wireless mouse to him, and he navigated through the email and opened the first of three pictures. The body of a handsome man lay on a wooden floor, blood pooled around him. His shirt had been removed, and dozens of cuts ranged all over his chest, shoulders, and neck. His face was unmarred, though Tony imagined Grace’s would not be considering the torture he would view in the video. Hard to bruise a dead man, he mused internally.

The next picture revealed the man’s back. A deep stab wound that had probably punctured his heart from behind oozed blood, and more cuts had been added, deep cuts that would have flayed muscle from the bone and caused extreme pain, had the man been alive. The third picture was the worst. The man had been stripped and castrated, his member laying in the center of his chest.

Tony had seen a lot in his time, but the last picture was gruesome, though he did not reveal his disgust outwardly. A normal man would have shuddered, and he imagined poor George’s reaction to this photo, to all the photos. Charles hadn’t once looked at the screen as Tony viewed the pictures. Tony nodded at Charles, who closed the pictures and sighed.

“He was a good man, didn’t deserve that undignified death,” Charles growled gruffly, his emotions trying to control him.

“I can watch the video on my own, if you’d prefer,” Tony offered quietly.

Charles straightened, pulling strength from inside. “No, it’s fine.”

“You obviously care for these two people,” Tony observed.

“I do. They are more than employees,” Charles explained. “Especially these two. They helped me build this magazine, make it what it is.”

Tony nodded his understanding and looked at the screen again as Charles opened the video and pushed play. The video and sound were clear, though the angle was off until one of the men adjusted it. The woman in the chair was probably pretty when she wasn’t in a state of panic and with a bruise appearing on her left cheek. A large man’s hand covered her mouth while the first spoke.

Charles paused it. “He’s telling us about the ransom and whatnot.” Tony remained fixated on the video, so Charles played it again.

The man finished speaking and reached for the towel to cover the woman’s face. She began screaming, and Tony could see the blood on her lips where they’d been smashed against her teeth. The towel was laid over her face while the large man held her hand in place. The smaller man began pouring water onto the towel. Tony watched as the woman struggled and began to thrash as the feeling of drowning overcame her. After nearly a minute, but what probably felt like an eternity to her, they lifted the towel and allowed her to breathe. As the man placed the towel over her face again, Charles paused the video.

“They waterboard her two more times, until she loses consciousness,” he muttered. “You can finish watching it, but I’d rather not.”

Tony looked at George. “Can you forward that video to my email, please?” George nodded and turned the screen around, taking the mouse from Charles.

“Can you save her?” Charles asked after Tony recited his email.

He shrugged. “I’m assuming somewhere in that litany of Spanish they gave a location?”

“Yes. I’m adding the transcript of the video to the email I’m sending you,” George responded. When Tony lifted an eyebrow, he explained. “I speak fluent Spanish and Italian.”

“Gotcha,” Tony responded. He looked at Charles again. “Can you afford the amount they’re asking for?”

He shook his head sadly. “It’s an outrageous amount, and I’d pay it in a second for Grace’s life. But I’d have to sell everything to raise it. This magazine doesn’t generate that kind of profit. But I can pay you.”

“I understand,” Tony said, his mind inwardly remembering the woman’s face. Her eyes had been wide with terror, her hair a mess, her clothes dirty. He couldn’t get her eyes out of his mind as he debated a course of action, and rage filled him. A defenseless woman in the hands of those animals… “Pay my expenses. That’s all I ask.”

“No, no.” His pal immediately began to protest. “I’ll pay your fee as well.”

“Charles, we’ve been friends for a long time,” Tony reminded him as he rose. “I won’t take your money. I’ll leave as soon as I’ve gathered what I need.” His mind whirring as he planned his strategy, he turned abruptly towards the door. He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be in touch when I get to Mexico.”