by Pam Godwin
Martin shifted back to the link chart, his stomach sinking at the thought of how many children would be lost before they finished this. “It’ll take years.”
“I know that look in your eye.” Ricky appeared at his side, arms crossed, and his gaze on Hector La Rocha’s picture. “You’ll get him. But you won’t be doing it without me.”
“Deal.”
Jaulaso Prison
Two years ago
For the next three days, Tula kept her head down and her presence aloof. She trusted no one, evaded everyone, and felt… Her feelings didn’t matter, as long as they stayed buried deep beneath her bones.
She dedicated every breath to surviving, proving her innocence, and escaping this nightmare.
The phone became her lifeline, and she used it to make some difficult calls to her landlord, her boss, and countless lawyers.
The principal at her school promised her job would be waiting when classes resumed, if she proved her innocence and returned to Phoenix in time. She found an attorney willing to take her case, but she couldn’t afford his fees and her monthly bills.
She had to let go of her apartment. It hurt like a bitch, but what choice did she have?
The landlord agreed to sell her belongings and use the money as payment for what she owed. Whatever she had left would go toward legal fees.
Tracking down her missing Jeep was a lost cause. Not that it was worth much.
After paying the lawyer’s retainer fee, she was broke. That wasn’t even the worst of it.
Vera’s phone had been shut off, the number no longer in use. There was no way to contact her sister. No way to leave a message explaining her incarceration or how to reach her.
When she made the call to file a missing person’s report with the Ciudad Hueca police department, there was nothing left inside her.
The impatient detective on the other end of the phone made no promises to find Vera and no guarantees to call if her sister turned up, dead or alive.
It was up to her to stay on top of it, and she would.
Area Three was the quietest between the hours of three and four in the morning. That was when she showered.
She crept through the halls, stepping around inmates who had passed out after a night of drinking. In the community bathroom, she quickly stripped and washed in private.
She ate just enough to keep her body alive and spent the daylight hours studying her fellow residents. She lingered along the perimeter, trying to make herself unnoticeable while memorizing faces and eavesdropping on conversations.
Whenever someone approached her, she walked in the other direction. For the most part, the prisoners left her alone.
Except Garra.
He didn’t touch her, didn’t stare at her suggestively, and never mentioned his threat about collecting rent next week. But he was always nearby, following her around and talking in her ear.
“The law is here, protected by a wall.” He gestured at the two-story concrete enclosure surrounding the outdoor pound. “We are the law, not the government.”
She never spoke to him, but she always listened, committing every word to memory. He seemed to know everything about everyone, including her. He knew her name, where she lived, and what she’d been charged with.
There was no telling what else he’d gleaned about her. Did he know she’d been wrongfully imprisoned? Or that she was born and raised in this city? Or that her sister was missing and possibly connected to La Rocha Cartel?
Asking him questions would require her to be civil with him. Being civil meant accepting what he’d done to her.
She couldn’t stomach the sight of him, and she sure as hell wouldn’t depend on him for answers.
He crouched beside her where she sat on a cement bench. She didn’t look at him, didn’t react to his nearness, no matter how badly she wanted to cut off his dick.
“That one is no good.” He nodded at the men playing chess at a table on the far side of the yard. “The one with the barbed wire tattoo on his forehead. He’s a serial rapist with unconfirmed connections to over fifty missing women. Keep your distance.”
It wasn’t the first time he told her who she could trust and who she shouldn’t. Fucking ironic, coming from him.
What was he in prison for anyway? Drugs? Murder? Rape was the obvious answer.
As a resident of Area Three, he was also a member of the vicious La Rocha Cartel. Though, not everyone in here was on the same side.
During one of his one-sided conversations with her, she learned Jaulaso was run by La Rocha Cartel, the González Cartel, and three gangs. They all lived here, cohabiting in their numbered areas, all the while fighting over control of the prison.
It seemed peaceful now, with men standing around, sharing cigarettes, lifting weights, playing cards, and listening to music. But Garra said it could change in a heartbeat.
There were no police, military, or prison guards inside Area Three. Garra claimed everyone needed a gun here because at any moment, hell could break loose.
Two nights later, it did.
She woke to the sound of gunshots reverberating in her chest. The bursts boomed outside her cell, too loud, too goddamn close. Her blood ran cold.
She leaped out of bed as the frantic din of footsteps and shouting erupted in the hall. Bullets pinged against her door, knocking dust loose from the cracks in the ceiling.
The pauses between each gunshot grew shorter and less frequent, until all she heard was the constant report of full-blown magazines being emptied.
What the hell was going on? Why were they shooting at one another? Was this one of the cartel wars Garra had warned about?
The clothes on her body—jeans and a shirt—were all she had to her name. Everyone in here owned a gun except her. Not that she wanted one. But dammit, she might’ve felt brave enough to peek her head out if she had a weapon in her hands.
A moment later, the door to her cell swung open.
“We’re going to have a riot.” Garra leaned in, captured her eyes, and returned his gaze to the sights on his rifle, which he aimed into the hall. “The González Cartel is trying to take control of Area Three.”
A riot? Images of fires, hostages, breakouts, and bloodshed caved in her chest. Without the aid of prison security, who would contain it?
The mayhem of stomping boots and gunfire grew closer. Her pulse exploded, and her hands slicked with sweat as she hunkered down and covered her head.
They could kill one another for all she cared, as long as she didn’t get hit in the crossfire. This wasn’t her fight.
“It’s safer upstairs,” Garra said calmly and fired off a few rounds down the corridor. “Go!”
Then he was gone.
She clenched her fists. He wanted her to go out there without a gun? Shots were firing from every direction. Why couldn’t she just stay here?
Fear trembled through her as she inched toward the open door. A peek into the hallway gave her a view of the stairwell thirty feet away. Beyond that, crowds of inmates ran left and right, plowing one another down.
Some faces she recognized. Others she didn’t.
The unfamiliar men swept along the corridor, spraying bullets into every cell they passed. It wouldn’t take them long to reach hers.
Paralyzed by panic, she ducked back into her cell. Adrenaline coursed through her system. She couldn’t catch her breath.
The attacking cartel would consider her an enemy merely because she was in Area Three. She was a sitting duck.
Dropping to her hands and knees, she poked her head into the hall, waited for a clear break, and scrambled for the stairwell.
Bullets whizzed by overhead, and one tore a hole in the wall right beside her. A scream escaped her throat, and she might’ve peed a little. She couldn’t feel her body amid the violent pounding of fear.
She bustled across the floor, crawling, sliding, falling, and dragging her legs. Her lungs heaved a frantic pace, chopping her breaths and burning her chest.
With a knee-grinding lunge, she flung herself through the gap in the open doorway of the stairwell. Her elbows banged against concrete, and her head hit the wall. But she made it.
“Fuck.” She released a heavy exhale and flew to her feet, pivoting to race up the stairs.
Gunshots rang out overhead. Multiple shooters. Angry shouting. A firefight waged right above her.
Her stomach flipped inside out.
Goddamn Garra! She couldn’t go up there, and she couldn’t risk running back to her cell.
Fucking fuck, fuck!
She spun in a circle, jumping at the deafening pops of guns. Shooters were in the stairwell, in the corridor, and she was caught in the middle.
“What are you doing?”
She whirled toward the deep voice in the hall.
Across from her, the door to a cell stood open. An older man with silver-black hair leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, arms hanging at his sides, his expression as calm as could be.
“I…I don’t know.” She’d seen him a few times in the common area but hadn’t learned his name.
“Do you know how to use a gun?”
No. She nodded jerkily.
He removed a pistol from his waistband and tossed it across the hall to her. “The safety’s off.”
She palmed the heavy weight of metal, turning it over in her shaking hands.
The sound of his door jerked her head up.
He’d returned to his room. Shit. She should’ve told him the attackers were shooting into all the cells.
The stampede of boots broke out in the corridor, stomping in her direction. The report of gunfire on the stairs above her resounded in her ears. At any moment, she was going to get shot.
But she had a gun.
Clutching the grip in both fists, she hunkered low to the floor between the corridor and the stairs and tried not to throw up.
Her nerves wound so tightly the pistol rattled in her sweaty hands. She’d never even practiced on a paper target. How would she shoot a moving person? She didn’t have the guts or the skill.
Except she’d strangled a man with his own belt.
Surely, a bullet would be easier. Quicker.
The thought steeled her spine as an army of González members ran past the stairwell.
She backed into a shadowed corner, out of view, and held her breath.
Some of the footsteps slowed at the doorway, but the sound of gunfire upstairs sent them continuing down the hall.
All but one.
A young, lanky guy with a rifle stopped at the door to the old man’s cell and tried the handle. It didn’t open.
Her pulse rushed in her ears.
The armed man stepped back, trained his rifle on the door handle, and fired.
The bang stopped her heart and echoed in her eardrums so loudly and painfully she wondered if they’d ruptured.
Ten feet from her hiding spot, the shooter raised his gun to fire into the now open doorway of the cell. He intended to kill the old man.
What if the old man had given her his only weapon? She couldn’t just stand here with his gun and let him die.
Three running steps brought her into the hall. The shooter swung his gaze over his shoulder and met her eyes. His mouth opened, but she was already squeezing the trigger.
The explosive bang kicked her arms back and jarred her insides. But the bullet aimed true, hitting her target in the back, dead center.
He dropped to the floor.
The gun blast echoed in her head, her hearing momentarily lost as she stared at the unmoving body.
She’d taken another life.
Guilt tried to work its way in, but her relief was too big. All around her, the sounds of gunfire had fallen silent. She was still alive.
So was the old man.
He stood in the doorway of his cell, his expression etched in surprise and gratitude.
Would he want his pistol back? She tightened her grip on it, unwilling to surrender the only thing in this place that made her feel safe.
“It’s yours.” He thrust his chin at the gun and gave her the first warm smile she’d seen in days.
“Thank you.”
With a nod, he retreated into the darkness of his cell.
“It’s safe now,” someone shouted from down the hall. “You can come out!”
Bodies were pulled away. Furniture was straightened, and stashes of alcohol emerged out of nowhere.
While she was the only female inmate in Area Three, there was no shortage of women. Prostitutes came and went at all hours. Especially tonight. They filed in by the dozens, and with them came the sharp scent of weed.
Music blared. Cocaine covered the tables, and the aroma of grilled food permeated the air.
An hour after the riot ended, an enormous party swung into full force.
She stood in a quiet, shadowed alcove off the main common area, taking it all in with disbelief.
These men narrowly survived a bloodbath with a rival cartel. They lost fellow inmates. People fucking died. Yet here they were, laughing, banging hookers, and getting high.
A familiar presence moved into her space, darkening her corner. She ground her teeth.
“You survived your first riot. Well done.” Garra leaned a shoulder against the wall beside her. “The boss wants to see you.”
Boss? She scanned the crowd of drunk criminals. A leader lived among these assholes? Who?
“How long is this silent treatment going to last?” Garra tapped his fingers on the wall above her head. “It was just sex. Nothing personal.”
Her hand moved to the pistol in her waistband, her fingers itching to blow a hole in his stupid face. But if she killed him, every man in this room would fire a bullet in her direction.
He shook his head, scrutinizing her. “You have no idea who runs this operation, do you?”
Evidently, she was about to meet him, and the prospect chilled her to the bone.
She’d listened to enough conversations over the past few days to know what made people nervous around here.
They didn’t trust newcomers. Convicts often paid their way into different areas of Jaulaso to gather information and keep tabs on enemies.
What if the boss thought she was a spy from another gang? Would he confiscate her gun? What if he didn’t want her here and kicked her out?
“Come on.” Garra strode in the direction of her cellblock.
She followed on shaky legs as he led her away from the party and crowds. He entered the corridor where she slept, and her steps slowed with shock.
“Here we are.” He stopped at the old man’s cell.
Confusion pulled her mouth into a gaping frown.
The door had already been replaced with a new handle and lock. Well, not new. It looked as though the parts had been taken from someone else’s cell.
He inclined his head. “This is the private quarters of Hector La Rocha.”
Her breath caught in her chest. She couldn’t have heard him correctly.
“I see you know his name.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you know he has absolute control of the prison and the city?”
That nice old man? The one who had given her the gun? He was Hector La Rocha? How was that possible?
His name alone struck fear in the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Mexico. With an army that outmatched the Mexican military, he was responsible for thousands of deaths every year.
How did he maintain such an atrocious reputation from prison? And why didn’t she know he’d been incarcerated?
Oh, God. Even if he didn’t expel her from Area Three, how would she sleep at night knowing his cell was only thirty feet from hers?
“Don’t be afraid.” Garra tsked. “You are here because he allows it. He wants to get to know you.”
Why? She wanted to ask, but her lips were frozen in terror.
Garra knocked, and a muscular man with a mean scowl opened the door. Intimation deepened
the shadows on his face and oozed enough menace to make her heart rate explode.
Was he the cartel boss?
With a grunt, he turned and lumbered into a room that was four times the size of her cell.
She stepped forward, and Garra closed the door behind her, shutting himself out.
Her feet carried her into the dark quarters, her senses shuddering at the overwhelming scent of spicy food and cigarette smoke.
Some of the interior concrete walls must’ve been removed to expand the space, though she couldn’t imagine how it would’ve been done.
The first ten-foot section was arranged like a dining room. At the center, the old man sat at a small table, surrounded by platters of steaming burritos, carne asada, and rice.
Random pieces of furniture encircled the space. Wooden bookcases, filing cabinets, and antique chairs—the furnishings were nicer than anything she’d seen in Jaulaso.
Stockpiles of guns and ammunition filled what would’ve been a neighboring cell. Beyond that, a heavy drape hung from the ceiling. The edge of a bed peeked out from behind it.
The scowling wall of muscle returned to the door and stood with his back to it and his arms crossed.
Was he a guard?
“Don’t mind Luis.” The older gentleman wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, his Spanish thick and hypnotic. “He’s my security.”
Where had Luis been during the riot? Had he been in here the entire time? Or out there killing people? Maybe she didn’t want to know.
“Okay.” Her hands trembled at her sides. “I…um… My name is—”
“Petula Gomez.” The syllables rolled off his tongue with old-world eloquence.
He knew her name.
The most feared man in Mexico knew who she was.
Her pulse quivered as reality crashed in.
She was talking to Hector La Rocha, standing three feet away from him, in the room where he slept. Sweet merciful hell, her mother must’ve been rolling in her grave.
“What do I call you?” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.
“Call me Hector.” A smile touched his gentle eyes. “Please…” He gestured at the seat across from him. “Sit. Eat with me.”