Free The Traveler by David Golemon Page A

there to die after committing some grievous error in judgment against the cartel.
    Eyes watched the boy who had struggled to push his wheelchair into the far corner of the large cell for protection. Thus far the young man, who was no more than twenty-five and who had a beard as soft and sparse as a young deer, had to be given the credit he deserved. He had fought and been beaten for the right to hang on to the wheelchair after some toughs had decided they needed it more. The young man wiped the blood from his nose after placing the bed’s broken slat in his lap. The three men who had attempted to purloin the chair were now trying to stem the flow of blood from the noses of two of their number after the young man had released a torrent of blows to their faces. They were stunned for now, but the new prisoner knew they would come again and very soon.
    The eyes watched as the out-of-place young man once more brought the old wooden bed slat up and waited for the second assault to begin. The wheelchair-bound man didn’t have to wait long.
    The three men turned as one, their burly leader tossing a bloody rag to the floor. They started toward the brave young man in the chair. The largest attacker reached into the waistband of his pants and brought out a small picklike weapon. The toothless smile that crossed his face was one of pure pleasure at what they were about to do. They surrounded the young man, who raised the slat to defend himself.
    â€œThat’s not a very wise thing to do, my brothers,” came a voice speaking in Spanish.
    The three men turned and saw a small but very stout man dressed in denim pants and a white, affectionately nicknamed “wife beater” undershirt. His close-cropped dark hair was covered by a black bandana. The goatee and crocodile smile were illuminated by the newcomer’s three gold front teeth. But the most outstanding feature of the muscular man was the tattoo that started down from his scalp, crawled over his nose and eyes, and ended at a tanned jawline. The tattoo was in the shape of a claw and was etched in deep blues and reds. The man was smiling, showing his gold-plated dental work.
    â€œBe patient, ese, you can be next, wait your turn,” said the middle-sized man on the left while he placed his arm around the larger one with the toothless grin and the improvised knife. “We have meals-on-wheels to take care of first.”
    In the corner the young man raised the wooden slat higher. It was noticeable the young man was barely old enough to shave, but his determined look said that he had faced this sort of abuse before … bad-luck kids like him usually did.
    The rest of the fifty-plus men inside the overcrowded cell took a step back when they saw that the small man who had confronted the three refused to move away. He held his ground as he studied the three very much larger adversaries before him.
    â€œYou think Senor Gutiérrez will take the killing of his prized prisoner lightly? If you do then I want to be around when you explain it to him.”
    The young man in the wheelchair tilted his head as if he were having a hard time following the Spanish being spoken.
    The first faltering smile came out of the large one with the shiv and no teeth.
    The smallest of the three turned and looked at the wheelchair-bound prisoner. “Later, ese, Gutiérrez may not come soon enough, then you’ll be ours.” Then the man turned to face the tattooed busybody. “But you, ese, what was to be his, is now yours.” The three men spread out and started to surround the newcomer. He made a stance that invited the three to make their attempt.
    The whistle stopped the men before they could spring. The five guards were standing at the bars looking in.
    â€œYou speak of patience, I advise as much, for your benefactor will be arriving within the hour. For some of you”—the guard smiled as he looked at a few of the frightened eyes that watched him