The Greatest of These Greg Wendleton (best free ereader .txt) 📖

and feces. Tears had dried and crusted onto their faces and insects buzzed around their bodies with no regard to the situation. They remained silent, only mouthing encouragement and messages of love to each other as Jones alternately paced the interior of the shack and laid on the filthy mattress.

On one occasion Jones walked outside and relieved himself, then walked the perimeter of their prison. Chad looked over to Jamie and said, “If he keeps drinking like he is, he may pass out. If he does, I might be able to get my hands lose and untie us.”

“Shut up! No talking!” yelled Jones as he walked back into the shack. “Keep your mouth shut if you want to live to see tomorrow.” With that threat, Jones took another pull on the Jose Cuervo bottle and plopped down on the bed.

“We really need some food” stated Jamie, in a mild tone.

“Yeah, well, too damn bad. I need some too, but there isn’t anything here to eat.”

“What about some of the sliced meat? Could you share that with us?” asked Chad.

“No. It’s all gone. Now shut up and go to sleep, or something.”

The Wilhites had no idea what time it was, just that it was dark and had been for what seemed hours. Had it only been twenty-four hours since they had walked out of the Rock and Brews in Paia? Monday had been such an awesome day and they were floating on a cloud of euphoria, and now they were prisoners of a drunk mercenary and who knew who else. What was going to happen to them? Those were not the thoughts that allowed you to sleep, restrained in a wooden straight back chair. Instantly Chad’s body began to ache from the position that he had been in since early that day.

Dear God, please help us. Send someone to rescue us…soon, very soon.

Sometime during the night, both Chad and Jamie had given in to their fatigue and had fallen asleep. Chad woke to the sounds of Jones’s horrible snoring. Coupled with his normal obnoxious sound, was the compounded impact of the drunken state he was in. It was enough to rattle the window and shake the walls of the shack.

Fortunately, or not, Jones stirred from his, sleep of the dead, and rose from the bed, belching and farting like a frat boy. What a disgusting person he was, beyond his profession. He stretched, popping several joints in his back and neck, then tugged at a wedgie and adjusted his package. Good grief, what an immature man thought Jamie as she looked over to her husband with deep sadness in her eyes.

Jones found his bottle of tequila, twisted off the cap and took a two or three-ounce slug from the bottle. It was going to be a long, long day in the shack. Another belch, a yelp and a pronouncement from Jones, “I gotta piss!” With that, out the front door he walked.

Chad and Jamie thought they were hearing things, but they definitely heard the roar of the SUV’s engine outside the cabin. Next was the crunch of tires on the dried brush, then he was gone.

Chad quickly began working his hands, trying desperately to free them from the restraints. The more he worked them, the deeper they cut into his wrists. It wasn’t rope holding his hands behind his back, they were zip tied. He wasn’t going to escape from his captivity without the intervention of someone else. He dropped his head and sobbed.

Jamie took a deep breath and said, “Chad, stop. We have to have faith that God will deliver us from this situation. We have to stay positive. We have to maintain our dignity. Please, for my sake.”

Desperately trying to regain his composure, Chad looked at his wife and said, “You’re right. We have to have faith. Thank you for being strong. I love you.”

The couple sat in their chairs taking deep breaths, controlling their emotions and waited for their captor to return. Twenty minutes later they heard the crunch of tires leaving the roadway and reentering the yard in front of the shack. Jones was back.

He walked into the one room shack with a flourish, carrying a bag from a fast-food restaurant in Hana. The smell was wonderful and the Wilhites could only hope Smith had purchased something for them as well. He walked over to the makeshift kitchen counter and laid the bag on the wooden surface. He opened the bag and started unwrapping what smelled like a breakfast burrito that he had removed from the package. Whatever it was, he noisily consumed it in less than a minute.

He picked up the bottle, took another long pull, and said, “Tequila and burritos, the breakfast of conquistadors!” He unwrapped a second burrito and took a little more time eating it. Apparently with his hunger satisfied, he crumpled up the bag and paced the interior of the shack.

Laughing, Jones said, “Oh shit, I forgot about y’all.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The sun had barely risen over the eastern horizon when I stumbled out of my bed. I quickly pulled my dopp kit from my suitcase and rushed into the bathroom. I turned the shower dial on and adjusted the water temperature so that it started to steam. Stepping inside the shower, I let the heat penetrate my aching muscles for a few minutes then got busy washing my body and my hair. Five minutes later I was toweling off and getting ready to brush my teeth.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror for a moment and said, “Garret, if you’re ever going to do anything good and right, make it be today.”

With that I pulled on a clean set of clothes and laced up my hiking boots. Declaring myself ready to face the challenges of this day, I grabbed my rental car key fob, iPhone, laptop pack and my gun case, and walked out the door of my suite.

The GMC Terrain roared to life and I drove out