by Box Set
“Why, Alberto?” I ask, my voice harsh and dry from terror.
He doesn’t answer at first. He stalks forward, grips my arms and drags me down the hall, shoving me toward Cristo’s room, pointing with a demanding finger. I nod and reach for the knob. His hand lands on mine and he stops me. I look up, fear shuddering through me, positive he must have changed his mind.
“I love him like a brother,” he grunts, his voice low. “Your death will destroy him. If you die by his hand, he won’t survive. I debated taking you out myself to save him the trouble. If there were no kids, it’s what would’ve happened tonight.”
I lift my hand to crush the sob that escapes my throat. I’ve known Alberto as long as I’ve known Andres. I have tried my best to love and respect this man, but I also know that I’ve never earned his respect in return. He’s been suspicious of me and my motives from the beginning. He knows as well as I that I never fit in with the Los Zetas.
“Go,” he says, releasing my hand and stepping back into the shadows.
6
Andres
Two days.
It takes two extra days, a truly impressive amount of resources and some deadly persuasion to find my wife and children. Forty-eight more hours should have given me plenty of extra time to calm down, to approach the imminent apprehension of my wife with less emotion. Instead, I’m angrier, more blazingly furious than I had been when I first set out to find her.
I have lost my best friend. Alberto’s betrayal is sharp, like the invisible blade that cuts deep from under the ribcage. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that there was only one way for my helpless, unskilled wife to figure out I was in the vicinity, to run into the night with our children, only her purse and the clothes on her back.
We’d shed tears together, Alberto and I, when I finally got the truth out of him. And though he didn’t deserve it, I let him have a dignified death. One bullet to the temple for his betrayal. He’d seen it coming, hadn’t even put up a fight. Gave me his reasons for letting the bitch go and stood still as a statue while I sent him to his death.
Now I’m finally closing in on her, the woman who caused all of this. Hatred burns hot and black in my heart. The heart that once beat only for her, my Luna, my everything. No longer. Now she is nothing. She is ashes.
I watch as her boat takes a reckless turn, tipping to the side against a particularly large wave in its attempt to avoid us. We’re so close behind them that I can hear her voice cry out sharp in the night. I know that she is terrified for the children, urging the man who is commanding the small speedboat to slow down, to not take the waves with such speed lest he overturns the boat. Neither of my children can swim.
Fury, my constant companion these past several days, surges as my boat, a much more powerful prospect than the one Luna is on, pulls up alongside. I can see the captain of her vessel, a weather-beaten Cuban man, glancing over his shoulder, fear etched into his wrinkles. He should be afraid. There will be no mercy for the man helping my family, the man disregarding my children’s lives.
I pull my gun, take aim and shoot the captain in the leg. He immediately goes down on one leg. The boat swerves to the side and mine is forced to compensate, slowing down so they don’t crash. As soon as the captain straightens out, I command my vessel to pull up alongside again. Once we’re even I shout, “Stop, or the next bullet finds your skull!”
Most of my words are lost to the wind, but my tone of voice and the lift of my weapon is threat enough. He pushes forward on the throttle, slowing the boat. As ours slows too, I finally do what I’ve been avoiding, I glance toward the back of the boat. The sight that greets me crushes a heart that I’ve thought grown cold and hard by Luna’s betrayal. She is sitting on the bottom of the boat, sobbing, her arms wrapped around each of our children.
My chest begins heaving in anger. I’m absolutely furious at the man captaining the small vessel for recklessly disregarding the safety of my small family. I am terribly, brutally angry with Luna that she has brought us to this moment. I’m so fucking mad that I feel anything for her at all, that I’m concerned for her well-being. That she might have been hurt during her dash for the border. Fuck, it hurts me that her narrow shoulders are shaking and that she refuses to look up at me.
Cristo is shouting at me, his arms wrapped firmly around Luna’s neck, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Sola is cradled safely in Luna’s lap, a life jacket secured around her tiny body. I can tell that she’s crying too, probably because her mama is hysterical, and she doesn’t know what to do.
“What do you want us to do with them, my friend?” A deep voice asks from beside me.
I glanced toward my Cuban contact, an ex-American marine that moved to Cuba decades ago and runs arms through several countries in the region. I didn’t tell him much about my reason for being in Cuba, just gave him a brief description of Luna and the children, told him where I thought they might go. I knew she was too smart to take one of the few airports as an out, which left the docks. Sure enough, she was caught trying to make a run for Miami. Though obvious, it was her best bet. A short piece of water, a quick boat ride in the middle of the night. She’d obviously greased a few palms that weren’t connected to someone who would turn her in.
Unfortunately for her, courtesy of my American friend, I had men crawling all over the docks in Havana, Varadaro and any surrounding port. She is well and truly fucked.
“Take the children, keep them safe. Someone will come for them, take them back to Mexico,” I finally tell him. “I will deal with my wife.”
Their boat slows to a crawl and finally stops. I grin as the captain falls backwards on his ass, his bloodied leg straight out in front of him. He clutches his thigh right above the gunshot wound. I step up onto the edge of our boat and over onto his. I can sense the moment Luna lifts her head and looks at me, can feel the heat of her eyes on my back.
I stride toward the captain and lift my gun. He starts to protest but I put a bullet through his head. He collapses to the deck in a heap. I can hear Luna crying behind me, trying to calm the children. Seconds later her sharp screams rend the air. I turn slowly, hardening myself, knowing what I’ll see.
Alex and his men are separating Luna from the children. For a brief moment I question myself, question if I should step forward to comfort my children, tell them that they will be safe, taken care of. But I shake this weakness away. They have spent years coddled by a mother that has refused to understand her place. Now her punishment will be death. I was raised within the Los Zetas organization and I will die there, as will my children. It is time they learn their place. I watch dispassionately as they’re removed from their mother.
Luna screams and lunges after the men taking her children away. One of Alex’s men knocks her back. She rocks back on the boat, already unstable from the choppy waves and falls, hitting the bench behind her so hard it knocks the wind from her. Fury rises, and I want to murder the man that dared to touch my wife. Instead I reach for her, taking her arm in a hard grip as she tries to push herself up, guided now by desperate maternal instinct. She cares now about nothing else other than going after her children and taking them away from the strangers. She doesn’t seem to care that she is smaller and outnumbered.
“Luna,” I growl, swinging her around to face me.
I can tell by her unfocused eyes and pale cheeks that she doesn’t hear or see me anymore. So I hold her tight in my arms and nod at the Alex, telling him without words that the other boat can leave.
“Cristo,” I shout, finally acknowledging my son. His head snaps up from where he’s crouched on the other boat, comforting his sobbing sister. “Take care of Sola. I’ll see you soon.”
“What about mama?” he yells back.
I study my son as the other boat begins to pull away. He’s only four, but he’s intelligent. He probably knew the moment Luna fled with them in the middle of the night that she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. That there would be consequences. I nod gr
imly at my son and turn away without answering.
7
Luna
His scent fills my mind, teasing my senses, and sending me into a spiral of confusion. Andres usually represents safety, love, strength and so much more. I know he’s here to murder me, to torture and hurt me, but my body wants to sink into him, to cling to his hard body and beg him to hold me. Andres is like coming home. There’s just something about him that I recognize on a deep, subconscious level.
Once the other boat pulls away he lets go of me as though he can’t stand to touch me. I sink to the deck, my shaky legs unable to hold my weight up. I crawl to the other side and watch as the boat holding my children grows distant, tears pouring down my cheeks. I don’t bother to check them. There’s no point. This is probably the last time I’ll see Cristo and Sola; my heart is breaking.
I hear a splash and look over. The body of the captain is gone. I assume Andres has just thrown him into the ocean. I shudder, imagining it could have just as easily been me, except Andres will want to keep me alive a little longer so we can discuss my error in leaving him and my extreme colossal mistake in taking his children. A sob escapes and I drop my head into my arms against the bench. There’s not much else I can do at this point.
I feel the engine shudder to life and nearly fall backwards as the boat leaps forward. I cling to the seat, still sitting on the floor of the boat. I finally wipe my tears against my sleeve and peek up at Andres where he stands at the helm. His back is to me. He can’t seem to look at me. Or perhaps he can’t be bothered. I know when it comes to Los Zetas, if a person betrays, they become less than nothing, and this is not my first betrayal. The first was quickly swept aside. This one won’t be.
His refusal to look at me can be my one chance at survival if I’m brave enough to take it. I can jump off the boat and make a run for the United States. I will lose my children. A thought that makes me want to die, but I am stronger than that. Perhaps one day I will find a way to be with them again. They will remember this day, remember the father that separated them from their mama.
I am halfway to Miami and I’m a strong swimmer. One of the few skills I’ve managed to hone over the years. I try not to think of shark infested waters and edge toward the back of the boat, gripping the seat cushions in my shaking hands. If Andres suspects, he’ll try to stop me and I know that I’d rather die in an escape attempt than under his hands. As I reach the back, I pull myself up, reaching for the railing along the side.
I stand up on the seat and wobble a little as the boat hits a wave. I glance at Andres, who is concentrating on his destination, the distant, brightly lit shores of Miami. I look away, step up to the railing and dive over the side. Cool, dark water instantly engulfs me, enveloping my entire body and head. I close my eyes and allow myself to sink a few metres, before bringing my arms up and pulling myself toward the surface. The first thing I do is listen for the boat and pray that he hasn’t turned it around. As soon as my head breaks the surface I open my eyes and start looking around.
I can’t see the boat. Even worse. I can’t hear it. I blink water out of my eyes, shove my dark hair back and twist and turn until I’m oriented to the far-off twinkling lights. Then I start swimming for my life. I barely make it several strokes when strong arms snatch me back against a hard chest. I open my mouth to scream but a wave hits us and my mouth fills with salty ocean water.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarls as soon as we’re able to surface again. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
He clamps an arm around my neck and hauls me quickly through the water in hard fast strokes. I can’t see where he’s going until he hits something. I realize it’s the side of the boat. He reaches up and pulls a small ladder down, then using his enormous strength, yanks me out of water with him. I fight to remain standing when we step onto the deck, but he shoves me against the bench. I fall, landing on my hip. I bite my lip to keep from crying out. He searches the boat and comes up with rope. I flinch away as he stalks back toward me. He brings my hands forward and ties them together.
When he’s finished, he grips my chin and forces my face up. I think he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stares down at me, studying my face in the moonlight. I stare back at him, caressing his chiselled features with my gaze. His olive-toned skin, his wet, black hair, the tattoo peeking out of the top of his wet T-shirt. His stubble is coming in, as though he hasn’t shaved since I left. I want to run my fingers along his jaw, feel the texture against my skin. I can feel my body warming in response to him, preparing for my husband.
I lower my eyes, letting my eyelashes drift down. He finally releases my chin and turns away. He starts the boat again and pulls the throttle, turning towards Miami. A chill slithers down my spine, chasing away my previous heat. Why is he taking us the States?
I huddle in the bottom of the boat, dropping my head onto my knees, the wet strands of my hair falling around me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this miserable. From the moment we met I’ve been Andres’ pampered, petted princess. The light and love of his life. Now I resemble a drowned cat. My hair is such a tangled mess I’m not sure it will ever recover and several of my fingernails are chipped and broken. I sneak one into my mouth to nibble on the edge in an attempt to smooth it, the move awkward since my wrists are tied together.
Then I realize what I’m doing, worrying over my appearance. Typical Luna. When faced with enormous adversity, I turn to what I know, vanity. I laugh bitterly, the sound lost in the rushing wind as we speed rapidly toward our destination. In the space of less than a week my life has changed entirely. I have gone from my beautiful, perfect mansion, my jewels, designer clothes and celebrity make up brands to becoming a dead woman walking.
“Stand up,” Andres growls at me, loud enough that I can hear his voice over the engine and elements.
I lift my head to look at him. He’s staring down at me, his sharp features harder than ever, utterly inscrutable. There isn’t a single ounce of forgiveness there. For one wild second I frantically consider killing myself. I know it will be faster than whatever he is planning for me. But my husband is smarter and faster than that. He’ll get to me before I can do anything to myself and I know I’m too weak-willed to truly hurt myself.
I grip the back of the seat and pull myself up, struggling to stand on limbs shaking with fatigue. I cling to the back of the passenger chair and turn my head, staring out toward the city of Miami, brightly lighting the sky. I squint as the wind stings my eyes and cheeks and I bring my bound hands up to protect my face. I wonder where Andres plans to take us. I had been assured by my contact in Cuba that there would be someone on the beach to meet me and the children.
My question is soon answered as he steers our tiny boat right into one of Miami’s huge dockyards. I hold my breath, awe and trepidation filling my heart. Massive container ships surround us on both sides. I want to cling to my husband as we weave between these huge beasts that could so easily crush us, but I know he will provide no comfort.
He pulls the boat up to a smaller dock, one that is meant for boats like ours. He cuts the engine and quickly ties it off. Then he leaps onto the dock and turns to glare down at me.
“Come,” he snaps.
I flinch and ease back against the seat I’m clinging too. I know my hesitation is pointless, but I can’t seem to bring myself to walk willingly toward certain doom. He growls impatiently, steps back onto the boat, rocking it wildly and grips my bound wrists. He turns and hauls us both out onto the huge dock. I bite my lip again to keep from crying out as my wrists chafe against the rope. I’ve been doing that a lot, holding in my sounds of pain. I know soon those moans will turn to screams.
We walk side by side across the dock, eerily lit up by huge yellow lights. I stumble in an attempt to keep up with Andres’ long strides and wince as I stub my toe. The ballet flats I’d chosen to wear had been lost when I jumped in the water. My feet are now bare and my dark blue hooded sweatshirt and thin whi
te trousers are thoroughly soaked.
Andres is just as wet, but he seems uncaring or unaware of any discomfort. He’s wearing his usual working outfit of thick, black combat trousers and a black T-shirt, stretched taut over his muscular chest. The only thing that’s missing is his vest with the red Z for Los Zetas. I wonder if he’s bothered to change at all since he started hunting for his family. Sadness over what I’ve done to him begins to eat away at me. Perhaps I should have tried talking to him again, just one more time. Maybe told him the truth about why I left.
But I know my Andres, he won’t listen. He never listens. He loves his family, but his loyalty is elsewhere. It’s been trained into him since birth.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a man materializes out of the darkness, striding swiftly to meet us. I cower against Andres, who tightens his hold on my hand. I’m not sure anymore if this is a protective gesture or his way of keeping me from escaping. I don’t care. I take comfort in his firm hold.
“Decena,” the man grunts.
I see something glowing in his hand and stare curiously until I realize it’s a cigar. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long, deep draw before exhaling the pungent smoke. Andres nods, but doesn’t say anything.
“You got something there, friend?” he asks, a leer in his harsh voice. I shudder and press myself tighter against Andres. “Didn’t know you’d be travelling with a package. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”
I feel tension vibrate through Andres, rippling the muscles of the arm that I cling to. I squeeze my eyes shut hoping that this won’t end in the same way as my boat’s captain. Andres seems even more trigger happy than usual, as though his emotions are a hairbreadth away from exploding into white hot fury, taking down everyone within range.