The Missionary

by Jack Wilder

  She steeled herself for the worst. Part of her wanted to charge at them, knowing they’d kill her. That part of her welcomed death over rape. Not just rape, but a lifetime of sexual slavery. But then, just before her body left the bed, her instinct for survival kicked in. If she stayed alive, maybe she could escape eventually. Maybe someone would rescue her.

  As she battled with herself, she began to feel a gnawing, prickling need deep inside. Hunger for something. Need. Not for food, but for…the drug. The needle. She hated it, but her body was beginning to crave it.

  The arguments grew worse, loud and angry, verging on violent.

  Wren spotted a glass ashtray on the bedside table, and when the men weren’t looking, reached out and grabbed it, stuffed it between her thighs to hide it. The glass was cold on her skin.

  One of the men let out a disgusted groan and turned away, clearly incensed, waving his hand in dismissal. He spat out something in Filipino, then stomped toward the door and jerked it open. He stopped, though, surprised by something on the other side. The bark of a pistol echoed, and red spray burst from the back of his head. He staggered, fell, blood gushing across the carpet in a flood.

  Cervantes’ face contorted in shock, and then twisted into fury. He reached behind his back and pulled out a gun, darting to the side of the room closest to the window. The second buyer dropped to a crouch in the corner as the deafening explosions of gunfire filled the room, bullets digging into the floor where Cervantes had been. Cervantes fired his own pistol, and then cast a glance toward Wren. She was frozen, the crash of guns terrifying her into momentary paralysis.

  A shape filled the doorway, a huge figure in khaki shorts and a gray Navy T-shirt, a pistol clutched in his hands.

  Stone.

  Relief flooded through Wren, but it was short lived. Cervantes leapt over the bed and wrapped his arm around Wren’s throat.

  He jerked her off the bed, while Stone kicked aside the dying man in the doorway. He glanced at the second buyer, cracking off a single shot before returning his stare to Wren. She heard the slump of a body hitting the floor, and her gaze was drawn to the red painting the wall, trailing messily down to the carpeting.

  She felt dizzy, whether from fear or from how tightly the arm was clenched around her throat, she wasn’t sure. She fought for breath and for calmness. She had the ashtray clutched in one fist, and Cervantes hadn’t seen it yet. Stone was watching her—watching them—tensed, crouched, one finger on the trigger, the other palm cupping the butt of the pistol. He looked perfectly at ease with the fact that he’d just killed two men.

  Wren felt something cold against her temple.

  “We goin’ now. You move, she die.” Cervantes’ voice was low and calm.

  “Let her go, Cervantes. Let her go now, and you won’t die.” Stone’s eyes were hard, brown shards exuding mercilessness. “If you make me chase you, I’ll make sure you die slowly. If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you stay alive long enough to regret every single breath you’ve ever taken. If you hurt her, you’ll beg me to let you die.”

  Cervantes laughed. “Big words, American. You sure you want her back?” He licked the skin of her neck slowly, then laughed again, an low, nasty sound. “You know how many times I fuck her? She beg me to stop, and then—and then she beg me to fuck her again. Jus’ like she beg me for da drugs. She not your innocent little girl no more. She mine. She a whore now.”

  Stone’s face shifted, and even Wren was afraid of the rage and the promise of death she saw in his expression. She wanted to tell him it was lies, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. And…she realized, in some kind of nebulous way, that maybe Stone should believe it. Maybe if he believed it, he’d make Cervantes pay.

  She felt a shiver of something awful wriggle in her gut. It was something terribly like glee. The thought of Cervantes bleeding for what he’d done to her…it made a part of her happy to consider. And that scared her witless. What was happening to her? She shouldn’t wish pain on anyone, not even her worst enemy. She should pray for Cervantes. Turn the other cheek. Trust God to have a plan, even in the midst of this terror.

  But…she just couldn’t. Not any of that.

  She wanted Cervantes to hurt. She wanted him to hurt like she hurt. She wanted him to feel the kind of fear she felt.

  She wanted him to pay for the need she felt in her veins, the horrible, itching, crawling, hot and then cold need she felt in her skin and in her blood and in her belly.

  Need for the needle to pierce her vein and send the evil chemicals into her.

  Need for the needle. Perhaps that was where the term came from. The word need was buried inside needle, after all.

  “You gonna let us go, American. Count to thirty, slow. I see you, I hear you, she dead.” He nodded at the bathroom door. “Go in dere. Sit, wait, count, or I kill her.”

  She watched in despair as Stone reluctantly moved into the bathroom and sat down. Wren felt herself dragged through the doorway, her heels scrabbling on the threadbare carpeting. She smelled Stone, faint cologne, sweat, and blood. She managed to meet his eyes briefly, saw the hate there, saw the anger and the sadness and the determination. She tried to comfort him with a single glance. She tried to pour all of her heart into that fleeting meeting of eyes.

  And then she was out of sight of Stone, and she missed him so much, needed him. She knew he wouldn’t stop until he had her safe. All she had to do was stay alive.

  But Cervantes wasn’t taking any chances. He dragged her down the stairwell, her feet slipping on the concrete, missing a stair or two at a time, off-balance and gasping for breath. The gun barrel wasn’t pressed against her anymore, but she still had no chance to break free. Not yet, she knew. Not yet.

  Then they were out on the street and his arm was gone from her throat, but the gun was pressed against her back, his arm now draped casually over her chest, cradling her almost tenderly, like a man with his girlfriend out for a stroll on a hot afternoon. Into the mall, into the wild and bustling crowds, the ceiling high, high overhead, bright lights and sunshine streaming, voices chattering in Filipino and a smattering of other languages, even English…found a purse…only a hundred pesos…Daddy please…

  A purse. A girl begging her father for money to buy a purse. She had been that girl before. Now she just wanted to be free, to survive this hell.

  Wren sucked air into her lungs, trotted to keep up with Cervantes as he wended through the crowd, angling across the cavernous space as if he knew exactly where he was going. She scanned the signs, looking for one in English that would give her some kind of clue. Then she saw a sign pointing the way toward a train station, and realized what his plan was.

  If she got on a train with Cervantes, she’d never be free. Stone would never be able to find her again. She wasn’t even sure how he had in the first place, but if Cervantes got them onto a train, she was as good as dead. Or worse.

  It wasn’t time to fight, yet. She had to wait until he was distracted.

  They left the mall and entered the train station.

  This was her chance; the crowds in the station—which the signs announced to be the Shaw Boulevard MRT station—were thick and chaotic, jostling elbow to elbow. She waited, waited, let Cervantes push her through the crowd. She felt her pulse pounding, readying her for action. She tried to breathe slowly and evenly, tried to take in everything. A door, there. A bathroom? No, no way out except the way in. A security guard? Perhaps. Her best bet was to simply get away and try to lose herself in the chaos.

  They approached the ticketing counter. Cervantes kept the pistol between their bodies, shielding it from view while digging in his pocket for money. Once he had the tickets he wanted, his arm went back around her and guided her down to the platform level. The bustle of people was worse here, barely room to breathe or move without bumping into half a dozen people. An elderly man in front of them moved with glacial slowness, and Wren could feel Cervantes growing impatient, trying to push around h
im. But the thickness of the crowd wouldn’t allow it.

  And then the moment came. A woman stumbled, her three-inch heel catching on the floor and careening her into Cervantes. He cursed angrily, shoving the woman away. In that moment, a split second, the barrel of the pistol wasn’t pressed into her flesh. Wren whirled, holding the thick glass ashtray in her fist with the edge leading. She bashed Cervantes in the skull, near the temple, and felt bone crunch, give. He stumbled, blood immediately masking his face.

  People screamed, pointed. Wren ignored it all.

  She struck again, aiming for the same place. Cervantes fell to his knees, his gun slipping from his fingers. She kicked it away and ran, pushing through the crowd. She was in full panic, now, adrenaline bursting through her, putting speed into her movement, strength in her tired, pain-ridden body. She elbowed people away, pushed and kicked and shoved, striving for as much distance as possible. She found the escalator, made her way back up to L3, where the bridge to the Pavilion Mall was.

  She thanked God that she’d been paying attention, so she knew exactly where to go. Run. Run. Run. She heard shouts behind her, heard Cervantes’ voice, and she poured on speed, zigzagging through the crowds at a breakneck pace, crashing into people, knocking them aside and earning curses and shouts, not heeding them but only running faster. She saw the entrance to the bridge to the Pavilion Mall, choked with people. Her eyes scanned the crowd, seeking one face, one blond head standing over the rest. She didn’t see him, and felt despair. Surely he’d followed them?

  Shouts of pursuit echoed behind her, and she knew she had to get out of this complex, away from the mall and Shaw. Running full sprint now, Wren found a stairway leading down, toward the street level, and she tore down it, slipping and tripping, slamming into walls. She exited, and felt the humid wall of heat blast her like a fist as she stumbled out into the open.

  Hide, she had to hide. People would see her running and talk.

  There: a Starbucks across the street, full of locals and tourists alike. She crossed the street at a fast walk, trying to slow down and not attract attention. She realized she looked just like everyone else, here, except few had the bruises on her face and the dried blood on her nose. Her clothes were ripped and filthy, showing too much skin in places. The shirt had been a blue V-neck, scooped low, but it had been torn at some point and now revealed the dirty white lace of her bra and the tan expanse of flesh it contained. People stared and pointed, and she knew all Cervantes had to do was question a few people in order to follow her trail.

  She hurried through the congested traffic, causing a taxi to brake hard and nearly hit her. She entered the Starbucks, the familiar sight and sound and smell of the coffee shop comforting her. She was so thirsty, so hungry, so tired. She wanted to sink into a deep red suede chair and sip a latte, nibble on a blueberry muffin. Read back issues of The New York Times. Pretend to do the crossword.

  She couldn’t do any of that, though. She pushed toward the back of the crowded store, past the clang of the espresso machine wands and the hiss of the steamer, ignoring the chatter and the music, jostling a display of travel mugs and pound-bags of exotic coffee beans. Cool air washed over her skin, drying the sweat and making her shiver. The ladies bathroom door swung open and a woman stepped out, blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an open white button-down shirt over a pink tank top and cut off jean shorts.

  The woman cast a critical glance at Wren, and then her expression changed to concern. “You all right?” she asked, her accent faintly German.

  Wren wanted to beg for help, plead, weep. “I just…I ripped my shirt.”

  “Looks like more than that, sweetheart. You need a doctor.”

  “I’m…I’m fine.” She resisted a glance over her shoulder for Cervantes, not wanting to look as desperate and terrified as she really was. “Can I borrow your button-down?”

  The woman immediately shed the shirt and handed it to her. “Sure, honey. Here. Do you need anything else? Are you sure I can’t bring you to a doctor?” She leaned in close. “You don’t have to stay with him, honey. Don’t let him keep hurting you. Okay?” The woman turned away, and as she passed, she pressed a tightly folded wad of bills into Wren’s palm.

  Wren slipped into the bathroom and locked it, then sat, trembling, on the toilet. She buried her face in her hands and let herself shake, but refused to cry. If she started crying, she’d never stop. After a moment, she forced herself to her feet and peeled the dirty, ripped T-shirt off her body, groaning in pain as her injured ribs protested. In the mirror, she saw the bruises on her torso and her face. No wonder the woman had assumed Wren was in an abusive relationship.

  If only the truth were that easy. She wet a length of paper towel and scrubbed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face and around her nose. There wasn’t much she could do for her knotted and snarled hair, but she ripped a piece of her old shirt and used it to tie it back so it didn’t look as bad. Then she put on the new shirt and buttoned it, feeling more human.

  She dug the money the woman had given her from the pocket of her shorts and counted out $20USD. Enough for a bottle of water and something to eat, at least. Assuming Cervantes wasn’t just beyond the door waiting for her.

  Wren hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Her heart was pounding so loud she could no longer hear the café’s music. What if he was out there, waiting? She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him take her again. She’d fight to the death, if she had to.

  Where was Stone? Had he followed her? Had he stopped to deal with Cervantes? Was he even alive?

  She knew in her gut that Cervantes wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to stop. He’d find her.

  Wren pushed through the door, tensed for the worst.

  10

  Stone slid between people, scanning faces. Shaw was insanely busy, people streaming in all directions. Ahead, he saw a commotion, a cluster of onlookers crowded in a circle around someone. Stone used his height to peer over their heads, caught a glimpse of Cervantes climbing to his feet, his face a mask of blood.

  “She went that way,” someone said in Filipino, pointing toward the escalators. “She looked like she’d been through some shit.”

  Cervantes had ripped off his shirt and had it pressed to his temple. He was sagging against a pillar, clearly in pain, dizzy and disoriented. Stone wished he could finish the job, but Wren was his first priority. He’d have to deal with Cervantes, but he couldn’t do anything at the moment. Stone pushed through the crowd toward the escalators. Where would Wren have gone?

  Out of the mall. Out, away. Somewhere familiar, probably. Stone headed toward the mall’s entrance, scanning, searching. Outside, he paused, watching the crowds and cars move in an endless stream.

  There: a Starbucks. Probably the most familiar place of all for a lost and afraid American girl. The first place Cervantes would check, too, most likely. Stone ran across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit a few times before reaching the sidewalk, leaving stopped cars and shouted curses in his wake. He jerked the door open and sucked in a breath of the familiar coffee shop air. He didn’t see her in the dining room, didn’t see her in line or waiting for a drink. Maybe she wasn’t here.

  Then the bathroom door opened, and there she was. She’d cleaned up a bit, found a new shirt. Good girl.

  She still looked battered and in pain and terrified, but she was scanning the shop with wary, alert eyes. Stone’s gut twisted at the sight of her. Bruises darkened her face, and she looked sweaty, even though it was cool—almost cold—inside Starbucks. He saw her reach a hand to her forearm and scratch absently, then notice what she was doing and stop, shaking her hand as if flinging away the need to scratch.

  He slipped through the crowd, willing Wren to glance his way, to see him. He dared not call out, knowing she’d bolt, and that would make a scene. He needed to get her away from this area without drawing any more attention than necessary. He closed to within three feet before she spotted him.

  Her enti
re being lit up, as if merely seeing him was salvation. She flew through the air and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. His arms clutched her waist and he buried his face in her hair.

  A moment passed, and then another, and then he felt her body jerk and shudder, a sob ripping from her. “Stone…oh God, Stone. Don’t—please don’t let him—”

  “I’ve got you, Wren. You’re safe, baby. I promise.” Baby? Stone thought. Where did that come from? “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

  Wren sobbed again, and then drew a deep breath and seemed to physically force herself to stop crying. “Did you…did you see him? In the mall? I hit him with an ashtray, but I’m not sure how good I got him.”

  Stone chuckled. “You got him good.”

  She lifted her chin to look up at him. Her eyes were wet, brown and wide and afraid and relieved. “Is it horrible that I’m glad I hurt him? He’s…he’s evil, Stone. You don’t even know…”

  “That’s a perfectly normal emotional response,” he said. “And I do have a pretty good idea what he’s like.” Stone refused to think about that mission. He was positive it was Cervantes he’d seen, there at the last, watching them fly away.

  He pulled Wren out of the Starbucks, his gaze roving the street for any sign of Cervantes, mind racing. Cross the street, just move, keep moving. Find a cab, put distance between them and Cervantes. He walked quickly, almost carrying Wren with one arm. A jeepney hauled past them, then braked at a stop. Stone tugged Wren into a jog and pushed her onto the flamboyantly colored vehicle, which was crowded well past any logical capacity. He held her against his front, shielding her from the view of anyone on the street.

  She was panting, pressing one hand to her side, sheened with sweat.

  “Are you hurt?”