He awoke like he always did, regardless of the season or hour: groggy and hung over – his stomach alternating between a sea-sick-like nausea and a ravenous hunger.
“Here,” said a disembodied voice on his right. A warm, wet face cloth hung in the air, as if by magic. Below the cloth, a breakfast tray was balanced with the morning paper, a small stack with a mound of home fries, bacon, eggs and coffee. The faces that spoke to him were always hidden behind desk lamps – ostensibly, he thought, to hide their true identity.
He eyed the food warily, captive to both a growing hunger and a hatred for his captors.“He upset the food tray and threw the wash rag on the floor. “No “Stockholm Syndrome” today, he shouted to the crew – all professionals, he assumed, given their self discipline and training.
No, this was not just another Mexico City taxi kidnapping he thought. By the looks of it, they must have abducted at least 50 men and women of every shape and color..
But he had a secret. A secret that would save his life. A secret so clever, it would even force his captors into the hands of local law enforcement.
The secret? He had contacted his son, Mark with the news of his horrendous experience, as well as his GPS coordinates. Dear God in Heaven – I’m finally going to be free again.
That evening, Mark and his wife showed up at the given coordinates precisely at 8:00pm.
Mark threw his arms around his father, but his father remained motionless. He looked into his son’s eyes . . .”Who are you?” he asked his son, but Mark had learned, that in the advanced stages of dementia, a good hug was something to be grateful for.