Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Regardless, I’m well-guarded, and escaping from this cell will be difficult, especially given the fact I don’t have a single item on me or in this cell that I can MacGyver into something to pick the lock.
Of course, the danger of this job is what draws and fulfills me. The only thing that makes me feel really alive. Which is fucked up, when you think about it. Near-death experiences enhance my joy of living. I’m sure a shrink would have a field day getting into my head, but I’d simply tell them I have nothing else.
Men’s voices filter down the hall. They get closer, the sounds of their boots on the concrete floor echoing off the walls. I take a few steps back from my cell door, and Hugo Mejia comes into view, along with two other men.
One is wearing a military uniform while the other is clearly Vecindario 18, as evidenced by the Roman numeral XVIII tattooed over his left eyebrow. He’s wearing a pair of baggy jeans, an oversized T-shirt, and a plethora of gold chains around his neck and wrists. He gives me a leering smile, and one front tooth flashes a diamond.
“Señorita,” Mejia says, his tone heavy with disappointment in me as well as the promise of retribution. “You have stolen from me, and I don’t like that at all.”
I don’t reply, keeping my eyes locked on his.
He continues on as he slowly takes a key from his pocket and inserts it into the cell lock. “I know you thought you were slick downloading information from my laptop, but you can’t outfox a fox.”
I want to roll my eyes. Snort in derision. I’m not sure how he knew I took something from him, but what I want to say is if he’s so cunning, then how come I got away and had time to hide my spoils before he could get me?
But I’m not stupid. I keep my mouth shut.
Mejia turns the key, the old tumblers inside creaking as they line up to unlock, and the door swings open with a mighty groan. He doesn’t step inside, though, but merely says, “Espada.”
Blade.
The man steps through and I hadn’t noticed, but he has a length of rope in one hand and a large knife strapped to his hip.
I resist the inclination to back up farther, but I need what little space I have to fight if he pulls that knife. I won’t win, but I won’t go down meekly either.
Rather than touch the weapon at his hip, he orders in Spanish, “Put your wrists together.”
“I’ll pass,” I say in English.
The man clearly doesn’t understand me and looks back at Mejia.
Mejia chuckles, as if delighted by my snark. But his words are cold and hard as he tells the man, “She’s going to fight. Don’t draw it out.”
That’s all the man needs, and I don’t have time to react. He swings a balled fist, and it connects with my left temple. I feel myself falling as the world goes black.
♦
I’m not out long. The pain in my shoulders wakes me as I feel myself being hoisted. I blink back tears, not from fear but pain, and see Mejia standing in the cell doorway.
My shoulders wrench again, and I look up to see my wrists tied and the rope looped over a hook in the ceiling that I’d noticed when first thrown in here. I had considered the hook a potential weapon, but it was too high for me to reach.
The gang member who hit me pulls once more, so I almost have to go on my tiptoes, and then knots the rope securely. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I know I’m in deep shit.
I’ve been in bad situations before, more times than I care to remember. I’ve got scars and had therapy for some of those times, but I’ve always persevered.
Something about this, though, seems to have a ring of finality to it. I know I’m not in danger of dying anytime soon, but I feel in my gut that I’m not walking out of here alive.
The man steps back, and Mejia moves in closer to me. “Tell me… what exactly were you after?”
That tells me he may know I was in his office and rooting around for something, but he doesn’t know what. I hold my tongue and pray it’s not cut out at some point.
“Who are you working for?” he asks, not seeming to mind I didn’t answer the first question.
I remain steadfastly silent.
This seems to please him, and his mouth curves into an evil smile. “Don’t want to talk, huh? Good. My men are bored.”
A tremor of fear races up my spine, and because I’m all kinds of fucked up, it also heightens my adrenaline. This is one of those times I feel more alive than ever.