Chapter 8: The Desert Kidnapping - Part 1
POV: Jesse
The meeting was supposed to be routine—deliver four pounds of blue crystal, collect payment, shake hands like civilized drug dealers. Instead, Jesse found himself staring down the barrel of Tuco's chrome-plated .45, the man's pupils dilated to black holes that seemed to swallow light.
"You're all coming with me," Tuco announced, gun steady despite the chemical tremor in his hands. "My uncle wants to meet the cooks."
Jesse's stomach dropped through the floor. Uncle meant Hector Salamanca, and Hector Salamanca meant cartel business that people didn't walk away from. He caught Marcus's eye across the warehouse, looking for some kind of plan, some probability calculation that would get them out of this.
Marcus's face had gone pale, but his expression remained eerily calm. The dude was probably running numbers in his head—death percentages, survival odds, escape probabilities. Jesse wanted to scream that this wasn't a math problem; it was a kidnapping that would end with three shallow graves in the desert.
"Tuco," Mr. White said carefully, "there's no need for—"
"Shut up!" Tuco's voice echoed off warehouse walls like a gunshot. "Nobody asked for your input, science teacher. You cook good shit, but you don't make decisions here."
Two of Tuco's crew appeared from the shadows—Gonzo and another guy Jesse didn't recognize, both carrying serious hardware. This wasn't paranoia; it was premeditation. Tuco had planned this from the moment they'd walked through the door.
"Move," Tuco gestured toward the back exit with his gun. "Car's outside. Anyone tries to be a hero, I start shooting kneecaps first."
Jesse walked on unsteady legs, hyperaware of every sound, every movement, every possible escape route that led nowhere good. Mr. White moved with the rigid control of a man fighting panic, while Marcus maintained that robot-calm that was either really impressive or really disturbing.
The trunk of Tuco's Escalade yawned open like a metal mouth. No discussion, no negotiation. They were cargo now.
"Get in," Gonzo ordered, gesturing with his shotgun.
Jesse climbed into the cramped darkness, followed by Mr. White and Marcus. The trunk slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid, sealing them in suffocating heat and exhaust fumes.
The engine started, and Jesse felt his world compress to three square feet of metal and terror.
"What's our play?" Mr. White whispered, his voice tight with suppressed panic.
Marcus pulled out his phone—the screen provided the only light in their metal tomb—and began typing. The soft glow illuminated his face, making him look ghostly in the confined space.
Jesse watched him type, delete, type again, like he was having an argument with the words themselves. Finally, Marcus turned the phone so they could both read the screen:
Tuco is high on his own product. Paranoid. Uncle Hector is cartel—old school. We cook for him, buy time. 53% survival if we cooperate.
Fifty-three percent. Jesse wanted to grab the phone and smash it against the trunk wall. Who calculated their life-or-death situation down to specific percentages? And why the hell did fifty-three percent feel so much worse than "maybe" or "probably"?
"Fifty-three percent isn't exactly reassuring," Mr. White muttered.
Marcus typed again: Better than 12% if we resist. 8% if we run.
The numbers were clinical, precise, terrifying in their certainty. Jesse had known Marcus was weird—the guy talked like a computer and seemed to know things he shouldn't know—but this felt different. This felt like Marcus had access to information that normal people couldn't possess.
"How do you—" Jesse started to ask, but the car hit a pothole and threw them against the trunk wall.
They were heading out of the city, toward the desert where people disappeared and coyotes scattered their bones across the sand. Jesse closed his eyes and tried not to think about his mom getting a phone call from the police, tried not to imagine her crying at a funeral for a son who'd chosen crime over college.
The car drove for what felt like hours but was probably ninety minutes, judging by the fuel consumption and average highway speeds. Marcus seemed to be timing everything, his phone occasionally lighting up as he typed notes to himself.
When the engine finally stopped, Jesse heard car doors slamming, footsteps on gravel, Spanish conversation too rapid and too distant to understand. Then the trunk opened, flooding their cramped space with desert sunlight and superheated air.
"Welcome to paradise," Tuco said, grinning like a man who'd found religion in violence.
POV: Elijah
The adobe shack squatted in the desert like a monument to abandonment, its walls the color of dried blood and older sins. Elijah climbed out of the trunk on shaking legs, immediately cataloging escape routes, weapon locations, and survival probabilities.
The math was brutal. They were forty miles from the nearest paved road, surrounded by cartel soldiers armed with military-grade weapons, and completely dependent on the goodwill of a paranoid methamphetamine addict who'd just kidnapped them for reasons that remained unclear.
Tuco dragged them toward the shack with theatrical enthusiasm, chattering about family and respect and business opportunities. But Elijah's attention focused on the figure waiting in the doorway—Hector Salamanca, wheelchair-bound patriarch of the cartel family, watching their approach with eyes like chips of obsidian.
"This is bigger than Tuco's paranoia. This is cartel politics, and we just became pieces on a board we don't understand."
Elijah activated his Leverage Finder the moment they entered the shack, focusing on Hector despite the distance and poor lighting.
Scanning Hector Salamanca...
Former cartel don. Witnessed murder of Gustavo Fring's partner Max Arciniega in 1989. Personal vendetta against Fring organization. Paralyzed but retains significant influence within Salamanca operations. Motivating factor: revenge.
Cost: $4,800.
The secret hit him like a physical blow. Hector wasn't just Tuco's uncle; he was Gus Fring's mortal enemy, a player in a war that stretched back decades. Whatever was happening here had implications far beyond their immediate survival.
Elijah tried to scribble a warning note to Walter, but Tuco snatched it before he could finish.
"No secrets!" Tuco ripped up the paper and scattered the pieces. "Family business is open business."
Hector's bell rang once—approval or amusement, impossible to tell. The old man studied them with the predatory patience of a spider evaluating flies.
"Cook," Hector rasped, his voice like gravel grinding against bone.
Tuco clapped his hands together with manic glee. "You heard him! Uncle Hector wants to see what all the fuss is about. Set up the lab, make your magic happen."
They were herded into a back room that had been converted into a makeshift laboratory—propane burners, glass beakers, chemical precursors scattered across folding tables like the components of an elaborate bomb. Jesse and Walter began assembling equipment with the resigned efficiency of men who understood their options had been reduced to compliance or death.
Elijah positioned himself near the door, ostensibly to watch for problems but really to calculate escape scenarios. Walt caught his eye and gestured him over.
"Ricin," Walt whispered. "We poison Tuco's food."
Elijah's power activated automatically.
Probability Assessment: Poisoning Tuco Salamanca in current environment.
Success rate: 34%. Risk factors: Hector's security protocols, cartel paranoia regarding food safety, timeline for ricin effects (12-24 hours), probability of cartel retaliation (96%).
Cost: $1,100.
"Too risky," Elijah whispered back. "We need a distraction—someone looking for us."
"Like who?"
Elijah's mind raced through possibilities. Then it hit him—Jesse's connection to law enforcement. He activated the Omniscient Locator.
Locating Hank Schrader...
Subject location: DEA field office, Albuquerque. Current activity: investigating Tuco Salamanca's crew in connection with recent drug seizures.
Cost: $200.
Perfect. Hank was already investigating Tuco, which meant he might be close to finding them even without intervention.
"Jesse's DEA brother-in-law might be sniffing around," Elijah lied smoothly. "If we've been missing long enough, he could trace connections."
Walter's eyes lit up with something approaching hope. "Hank."
"Hank," Elijah confirmed.
Outside their makeshift prison, Tuco paced like a caged predator, muttering in rapid Spanish while his crew maintained perimeter security. Night was falling across the desert, and with it came the terrible understanding that their survival now depended on variables beyond their control.
Jesse approached them, voice barely audible. "How do you KNOW this stuff? About Hank investigating, about survival percentages, about—"
Elijah's speech curse activated before he could stop it. "I read it in a... fortune cookie... about DEA agents!"
Jesse stared at him like he'd lost his mind, which was probably accurate. The Entity's restrictions were turning him into a caricature of himself, someone who spoke in absurd metaphors because the truth was literally unspeakable.
But the lie held, barely, because Jesse had bigger problems than Marcus's weird explanations.
Night settled over the desert like a burial shroud, and in the distance, coyotes began their evening hunt.
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