Free Blood of the Wicked by Leighton Gage

the association had circulated a photo of him, a photo meant to ensure that he never got a job on any ranch owned by a member.
    Orlando let his eyes sweep around the group, scanning the other faces, trying to commit each and every one of them to memory.
    The entire circle was looking back at him with contempt and with no pity at all. In an attempt to avoid their eyes he looked down at the hole and had a sudden and very ugly thought. No. They wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t make any sense. They’re just trying to frighten me.
    He strove for reassurance. “How much is it?” he said, nervously.
    The spokesman gave him a quizzical look. Orlando felt a shiver of fear go down his back, but he tried again. “The ransom. How much is it?”
    The spokesman’s brow wrinkled. “Is that what you think this is all about? Money?”
    Orlando swallowed.
    The man in the red shirt grinned, but no one else did.
    “We’re not interested in your money,” the spokesman said.
    Up to that very moment Orlando had always thought that e veryone was interested in money. It was very late in his life for him to discover that some people weren’t. He struggled with the thought.
    Far away, in the trees by the river, a parrot shrieked. The sun was warm on his cheek. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He could smell the freshly turned earth. Despite his persistent hangover, Orlando felt very much alive and he wanted to stay that way. There was a space between the spokesman and the man in the red T-shirt. Orlando tensed his tired muscles, prepared to run.
    Something struck him on the back of his head. There was no pain, just a flash of light, and then blackness.
    But it wasn’t the end.
    He awoke lying on his back. Thin slivers of light shone through planks that were only centimeters from his face. He tried to lift his hands, but they were still bound behind him, the wire cutting into his wrists. He tried to raise a knee. It wouldn’t move. His feet were wired together at the ankles.
    He called out for help, and as if his call had been something they’d been waiting for, he felt them lifting him up and then lowering him down. When the movement stopped, he found himself resting at a slight angle, his feet somewhat higher than his head.
    Then began a series of thuds. He didn’t recognize them for what they were until something fell onto one of the small cracks above his face, and some of it trickled through and landed on his lips. He opened his mouth to taste it. Dirt!
    And then he knew: Those thuds were the thin red earth of his fazenda falling on his coffin. The bastards were burying him alive.
    He cried out for them to stop, drummed against the top of the box with his knees, beat against it with his head.
    The shoveling continued at the same rhythmic pace. He screamed, screamed as loud as he could, and while he was still screaming they began to sing.
    It was that song of theirs, the one he hated, the one they always accompanied by waving their left fists in the air, the one about brotherhood and justice and all that other crap.
    It was the anthem of the league.

Chapter Eight
    THE FBI NATIONAL ACADEMY is located on the grounds of the United States Marine Corps Base at Quantico in Virginia. It shares the same campus with the FBI Academy, and bears a similar name, leading some people confuse one with the other. They are, in fact, separate institutions.
    The FBI Academy exists to train special agents for the bureau. The FBI National Academy is an advanced course of study for experienced law enforcement officials. Among them, there is always a handful of senior officers from countries outside of the United States. The benefit to those countries is that their most talented cops have an opportunity to share ideas, techniques, and experience with their American counterparts. The benefit for the United States is that lifelong relationships are established, relationships that transcend national boundaries.
    In June of 1983, four and a half years after his