‘No thank you,’ I said sharply as the air hostess tried to hand me a tray. She was distracted and continued to push it in my face, so I pushed it back towards her. ‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, louder this time.
The air hostess looked affronted, and was about to withdraw the foil-wrapped tray when a hand shot across mine and grabbed hold of it.
‘She’s watching her weight,’ Murphy said to the air hostess, charming her with his fake smile and candy-sweet tone. ‘I keep telling her she’s beautiful just the way she is, but she keeps on with these silly diets.’ He shook his head for effect and took the tray from the air hostess.
The air hostess moved on and I felt a hand grip the back of my neck.
I tried to wrench my head away, but Murphy was surprisingly strong. With his other hand, he unlatched my tray table and let it fall into my lap, pushing my meal in front of me.
I recoiled as he brought his mouth close to my ear. ‘Take the foil off,’ he said, his nails digging into the soft skin on my neck. ‘Move the food around, put some in your mouth, and spit it back into your napkin.’
He pulled at my neck, forcing me to meet his gaze.
‘No,’ I replied. I knew I should just do what he said, but I’d always been the stubborn, hot-headed girl who hated being told what to do. This was all I had — a small chance to defy him, to defy someone. A tiny choice that I could make in a reality where I was no longer in control of anything.
His jaw tightened. ‘You know air marshals carry guns, don’t you, Ana?’ he threatened.
I returned my gaze to the TV screen in front of me and feigned indifference.
‘Go fuck yourself in the ass with your gun,’ I hissed.
He leaned back and away, as far as he could, which wasn’t very far in the cramped confines of economy. ‘You’re not afraid of me, are you?’
Of course I’m afraid of you. I could feel his eyes burning into the side of my face as I pushed my food to the side. ‘Nope,’ I said boldly.
Murphy took the meal from my tray and held it in his hand.
‘You should go to the bathroom while you have a chance,’ he said pointedly.
I was confused. ‘Emilio said —’
‘It’s a nine-hour flight,’ Murphy said in a low voice. ‘If someone noticed you hadn’t used the bathroom once in that whole time they would think it very strange.’
I saw the opportunity for a few minutes alone and latched my tray table up. Murphy sat to the side, letting me pass. I slid past him, trying my best not to touch against him any more than I had to. I might have told him I wasn’t afraid of him, but truthfully, I was terrified.
I was just good at hiding that from him. I’d always had an excellent poker face.
Must have gotten that from my mother.
I hurried down the narrow aisle without looking back. I wished Este was here with me and suddenly I was overwhelmed with visions of him. It was getting harder and harder to push my terror down, to stop myself from having a complete meltdown. I’d told myself that I was only allowed to break down and sob when I was alone. The closest bathroom stall was vacant and I stepped in, closing the door with a small sigh of relief. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and immediately wished I hadn’t; I looked awful. Rather than covering up the black circles under my eyes, Murphy’s dodgy concealer job had actually intensified my exhausted appearance. My eyes were bloodshot, and cheap mascara clumped my black eyelashes together in haphazard sections.
I turned the tap on, cupping water and bringing it to my mouth. Small sips, Emilio had said. I let myself swallow a little water and spat the rest down the sink with great reluctance. As I straightened again, I stuck my tongue out. It no longer looked pink and smooth; instead, it had angry red indentations scalloped around the edges. I’d been clenching my teeth so tightly since the moment I had seen Emilio’s men in the alley, it was a wonder my teeth hadn’t started to crack under the pressure.
My head began to spin as the events of the last day came crashing back into me again.
I closed the toilet seat lid and sat down, dissolving into hot, salty tears before my ass had even hit the seat. What the hell was happening? In less than twenty-four hours I’d gone from college student, girlfriend and daughter to a drug mule and a fucking hostage 35,000 feet in the air.
I thought for the first time about what this meant for my baby boy. My Luis.
In my mind, my fingers traced his perfect rosebud lips and dark eyelashes as he stared back at me with my mother’s eyes, a brighter blue than my own.
I started to sob loudly, pressing my hands over my mouth to try and suppress the noise.
I almost had a heart attack when a loud rap sounded at the door. ‘I won’t be long!’ I called to whoever was out there, jumping to my feet. The knocking continued. ‘Go away!’ I yelled.
Suddenly, the door burst open and the tiny space was filled with him.
‘I thought you might do this,’ he said, slamming the door shut behind him so I was trapped.
I jerked backwards just as Murphy’s hand closed around a handful of my hair. I let him pull me towards him, not enjoying the prospect of losing part of my scalp in an aeroplane toilet.
‘Get out!’ I protested loudly.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘You’ve been in here long enough, sweetheart.’
‘I’ll scream,’ I threatened, glancing at the door behind him. ‘I’ll scream so loud, people will think I’m being murdered. The hostesses will help me.’
‘Who do you think let me in here?’ he taunted, his bright blue eyes wild with excitement and anger. ‘I’m a fucking air marshal, sweetheart. Remember?’
‘Fuck you,’ I spat, pushing his chest with my hands.
That pissed him off. He clenched his jaw, then reached out and slammed my head into the wall. I was too distracted by the pain in my temple to stop him from wrapping his arm around my throat. His chokehold was tight, leaving only a tiny opening in my windpipe to sip at the air.
The room spun. ‘I can’t breathe,’ I rasped, clawing at his arm. In the mirror, I saw the crazy look in his eyes and my stomach lurched. His nostrils flared as he breathed heavily, one arm around my neck, the opposite hand pulling my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze in the mirror. And what I saw there terrified me beyond belief. This man could actually kill me right now, in this toilet stall on a fucking aeroplane.
‘I think you misunderstand the situation you’re in,’ he said through gritted teeth. Black dots started to swim in my vision. Don’t pass out. If I passed out, who knew what he would do to me. The thought of what he was capable of made me shudder.
‘I’m in charge here, do you understand? If I decide you’re a risk, I will shoot you in your pretty little face before you can argue with me about it. And all of this will have been for nothing. I’ll go back to Colombia and I’ll kill every single person you’ve ever met.’
His eyes flashed as he delivered the final sentence.
‘Including your son.’
I’d gone limp in his chokehold, but the mention of Luis sent me into a frenzied struggle. I kicked at the counter in front of me, driving us back into the wall behind Murphy. He was jolted enough that his hold on me loosened minutely, and I took the chance to tilt my head down and open my mouth, biting as hard as I could into the meaty bit of skin below his wrist.
‘Bitch!’ he yelled, pulling his arm away. I whirled around and lashed out with my fist, getting him in the nose with a satisfying crunch and a burst of blood. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d chosen to swing with my left hand, the black onyx ring my grandmother had given me entirely responsible for the damage to Murphy’s face.
My hand throbbed from the impact. I shook it, trying to ease the pain a little, and stared at my knuckles. The skin had split and was bleeding over my index finger.
Without warning, a hand wrapped around my face, pushing me back into the mirror. The back of my head hit it with a dull thunk, and something cold pressed into my forehead.
A
gun.
I scrambled to get a hold on the counter behind me, looking up past the gun between my eyes at an enraged Murphy. He looked as bad as I felt, or possibly worse, wiping his bloodied nose with the back of his hand as he stared me down. I cowered, silently willing his finger away from the trigger.
‘You can’t shoot a gun on a plane,’ I whispered, closing my eyes. Fresh tears tracked their way down my cheeks and dripped onto my chest.
‘Yes, I can,’ he murmured. ‘I know just where to shoot you so there’s no exit wound.’
He was an air marshal. Of course he knew how to shoot a gun on a plane without risking the rest of the passengers by puncturing the hull with a mis-aimed trajectory.
‘Open your eyes,’ he demanded.
I did, but I immediately regretted it. In his free hand he held the crumpled picture of a sweet baby boy, the picture I’d taken from my locket and hidden in the rubbish bin.
Blank face. Blank face. I tried to convey confusion. ‘What is that? Is that a baby?’ I shifted my eyes to his face. He wasn’t buying.
‘Oh, Mariana,’ he hissed, pressing the gun into my forehead so hard I cried out. ‘I know all your secrets, sweetheart, and all your lies. Luis, right?’
He knew his name. If he knew his name, he knew everything.
‘No,’ I moaned, feeling my face shift into sorrow and terror as I reached out for the photo. He snatched it away and shook his head.
‘Mine now,’ he said, pocketing the photo.
‘He’s not my son,’ I lied.
Murphy sneered. ‘Of course he is. Little Luis. You think I didn’t do my research last night after you went to sleep, Annie? I have access to every single thing about you. Hospital records, adoption papers …’
FUCK!
I took a shuddering breath inwards. ‘Did you tell Emilio?’ I asked in a small voice.
‘No. But I will. Unless you start fucking behaving.’
Oh, God. ‘What do you want?’ I asked in a voice that sounded far calmer than the fear and rage swirling within me.
‘Nothing, yet. For now, do as you’re told. If I tell you to visit the bathroom, visit the fucking bathroom. If I tell you to take the food tray? Take. The. Fucking. Food. Tray. If I tell you to do anything —’ he paused for effect, pressing the gun deeper into the flesh between my eyes, ‘— you do it.’ His eyes flared wider, and I flinched.
I nodded, letting my shoulders sag under the weight of my defeat.
‘Good girl,’ he said, letting the gun fall and patting me on the head, as if I were a goddamn dog. He lifted my chin so we were eye to eye. ‘You’re brave, I’ll give you that. You’re not like the other girls. But in this world, you’re going to have to start being smarter, or somebody is going to snuff you out.’
The rest of the flight ground on so slowly, I started to feel like I was going insane; that maybe I had actually been shot in the bathroom stall, and this was hell, and I was stuck here forever.
But eventually, after a stopover in Mexico City and another five hours of hellish turbulence, we arrived at San Diego airport. I had remained largely mute for the rest of the first flight and the second flight, only responding if questioned by Murphy or a flight attendant. Inside me, nineteen capsules full of cocaine churned along with my rising panic. Murphy knew. He knew about my son, and he was using the knowledge of Luis’s existence against me.
He had found my Achilles heel.
The power he held over me, in a crinkled-up photograph from the locket around my neck, meant he could ask me to do almost anything, and I’d have to do as he wished.
At San Diego airport we walked past a sign, ‘Welcome to the United States of America’, and my heart contracted painfully as I remembered my conversation with Este only the night before, moments before he was shot. How he had been so sure we would make it together. Start a new life, away from my father and the cartel.
It made me wish I’d died with him.
I walked as slowly as I could through customs, but they didn’t give me a second glance. I dragged my feet as we made our way to the parking lot, lagging well behind Murphy. He seemed confident that I wouldn’t run — he barely turned around to check I was still behind him. But eventually we arrived at a sleek black BMW, and I was ordered inside while Murphy packed the luggage in the trunk.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as he slid into the driver’s seat. He slipped on a pair of aviators and gave my thigh a squeeze. ‘I’ll play nice if you do.’
I didn’t answer him. Instead, I pressed my forehead to the window and swallowed back my grief as the place of my dreams became the place of nightmares.
As soon as we reached the motel, I rushed to the bathroom. I’d started experiencing intense cramps, and I needed to get the pellets out of me before they ruptured.
Murphy laughed as he settled into a recliner.
‘What’s so funny?’ I demanded.
He shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing.’
I was about to close the bathroom door, but then something occurred to me. Feeling the blood rise in my cheeks, I turned back towards Murphy, who had cracked a beer. I had no idea where he’d gotten it from.
‘Don’t I need a …’
He raised his eyebrows mockingly, tilting his head. ‘A …?’
Bastard. ‘A strainer, or a bowl or something,’ I said through gritted teeth.
He sniggered, taking a swig of his Corona. ‘Flush ’em,’ he said.
I must have looked stunned, because he burst out laughing. ‘Your face!’ he said, spitting some of his beer out as he laughed.
I shifted uncomfortably. ‘I have nineteen pellets of cocaine in my stomach, and you want me to flush them down the toilet? Emilio will kill me! What is so funny?’
Murphy settled down enough to take a breath between all the laughing. ‘Cornflour,’ he said, wiping a tear from his cheek as he rocked back in his chair.
My stomach growled as if on cue. ‘Cornflour?’ I repeated dumbly.
‘You just smuggled in about fifteen pesos worth of pure cornflour. You could sell it and buy yourself a taco.’ His face said he thought he was hilarious.
I clenched my jaw. ‘I don’t believe you. Get Emilio on the phone. I want to hear him say it himself.’
His mouth returned to a sneer, but he got his phone out, and dialled.
‘Boss,’ he said. ‘We’re at the motel. The little girl doesn’t want to flush the junk.’
Emilio said something on the other end that I couldn’t catch, and Murphy tossed it to me. I caught it, surprising myself, and put it to my ear.
‘Yes?’ I said, keeping my voice monotone.
‘You have my permission to get rid of the pellets,’ Emilio said smoothly. ‘You are not required to keep them for me.’
Anger flashed inside me and I tamped down the desire to start smashing things. I made my free hand into a fist and squeezed it as hard as I could.
‘Why?’ I managed to utter.
There was a brief silence on the other end. ‘It was a test,’ Emilio said. ‘Congratulations. You passed.’
CHAPTER TEN
Mariana
Several agonising hours later, with all of the pellets somewhere in the greater San Diego sewer system, I heard the beginnings of an angry buzz.
Motorcycles?
I swallowed the French fry I’d been chewing on and glanced at Murphy, who was sitting across from me, watching me with those weird blue eyes.
The buzz turned to a steady growl that threatened to shake the room.
I don’t know how I knew it was them. It just made sense.
‘Gypsy Brothers,’ I whispered.
That got Murphy’s attention. ‘Oh, you know them, do you?’
I glared at him. ‘I know of them.’ If you knew of Il Sangue, it was kind of impossible not to know about the Gypsy Brothers motorcycle club. The two went hand in hand. Like clouds and rain.
Like blood and death.
Murphy’s grin grew wide as he observed my horrified face. He took
one last swig of his beer and slammed it on the table in front of me, his eyes never leaving mine.
‘I would have been so much nicer to you than them.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re gonna rip you apart.’
The collective buzz reached its peak. I drew the curtain back and glanced outside to the shitty parking lot, my heart hammering in my chest as I saw about fifteen bikers pull up on Harley Davidsons and dismount. They looked strictly business as most of them stayed close to their bikes, a few at the front of the pack approaching our motel room.
They looked fierce, but I’d grown up with fierce.
No, they looked terrifying.
Even though the bikes were silent, their buzz continued to resonate in my head. Panic grabbed my throat and squeezed. Just breathe, I told myself. Breathe.
Three hard raps hit the door to the motel room, and I jumped out of my seat. So far I’d been able to hold it together, but now, with this fresh hell outside the door, I was breaking apart.
I dropped the curtain and turned back in time to see Murphy opening the door. Three men in full leathers and open-face helmets strode in like they owned the place. Hell, they probably did. They sported identical patches on their leather vests, tapered triangles that rounded at the corners in black and white threads. I glanced at one of the patches nervously, mentally cataloguing the wings that framed a sword, a ribbon furling across the bottom with ‘Gypsy Brothers’ embroidered in block letters.
The one who was clearly in charge — the one with the bright red and black patch that said ‘VP’ underneath the Gypsy Brothers ribbon — knocked Murphy with his shoulder on his way past. Murphy clenched his jaw and stepped back. I smiled a little, my fear momentarily forgotten as I realised Murphy was shitting-his-pants scared of these guys. I wondered if they’d ripped him apart before, and his warning was from personal experience.
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