by Pam Godwin
This might’ve been the stupidest thing she’d ever done, but she didn’t intend to enter that room. She was just going to put her ear there and listen.
She reached the opening with a painful knot in her stomach. Her teeth chattered, and her entire body coiled to spring at the smallest sound.
Holding her breath, she leaned in.
Silence.
She strained her hearing, her gaze darting behind her every second, as she tried to listen over her thundering heart.
A distant footstep drifted from behind the door, then another, followed by the heaving of breaths. Grunting. Panting. The sound of metal scraping against concrete.
All the heat in her face rushed to her feet. None of those noises should be associated with a child.
She looked back down the hall, the impulse to run pulling through her with eye-watering force.
Turning back, she touched the door and gave it the smallest push. The hinges didn’t squeak. She pushed again, giving her enough room to wriggle in.
A maze of sewer pipes greeted her. Narrow and long, short and wide, they stacked in various sizes and rows and ran the length of the vast dark space. Some connected at joints and elbows. Others vanished into the ceiling and floor. Most of the pipes were the width of her body.
The sounds of grunting drew her toward a large pipe that ran parallel with the ground. Ducking behind it, she followed it around a bend toward the noise.
The beam of a flashlight shone through the plumbing, aimed at something twenty feet away. She couldn’t see through all the pipes that separated her from whatever was breathing on the other side.
But there was a gap underneath.
Her hands slicked with sweat as she lowered to her knees. Chills gripped her spine and crawled over her scalp. She was so fucking scared.
Breathing silently through it, she dipped her head beneath the lowest pipe and stared across the floor to the other side.
Her heart stopped, and her mind fractured in horror, refusing to accept what her eyes couldn’t look away from.
Long dark hair floated in a puddle of red. A tiny mouth hung open in a soundless scream, and glassy dead eyes stared right at her.
Bile hit her tongue, and her insides filled with blistering poison.
Only the upper half of the little girl was in view. She couldn’t have been older than thirteen as she lay dead and nude in the blood that poured from her torn-out throat.
Tula was too late. Devastation reared up in her chest, crushing her heart.
Who had done this? How could someone kill a child?
The body jerked, followed by a grunt.
No, no, no.
The body rocked again, and again, being pushed by something she couldn’t see.
Tremors wracked her limbs as she crawled alongside the pipe until the rest of the child came into view.
A man knelt between lifeless legs.
Rutting.
Raping.
Fucking the dead body.
Saliva rushed over her tongue. Vomit rose, and tears hit her eyes in a combustion of horror and fury. She clapped her hands over her mouth to silence the scream clawing in her throat.
She knew that slim, masculine frame. Knew the linen pants he wore. Knew how soft that thin cardigan felt beneath her hands when she danced with him.
Everything her mother had said about Hector La Rocha was true.
Only this was worse. So fucking worse.
He wasn’t alone. Someone stood behind him, holding the flashlight. Watching. Allowing this despicable, gut-wrenching thing to happen.
The overpowering and agonizing feeling of terror, shock, dread, and revulsion incapacitated her. The utter fear of being caught by him immobilized her lungs, her legs, and the blood in her veins. She was afraid to breathe, petrified to make a sound.
The girl was gone. Dead. There was nothing she could do. She needed to get out of there. If he saw her…
The godawful groaning sounds of him finishing sent her scrambling backward in a flailing of arms and legs. She landed on her back, her clammy hands pressed to her mouth and nose, held in a frozen state of hell, and praying they hadn’t heard her.
“This one was with the batch we smuggled in from Texas,” the man with the flashlight said in Spanish.
She would recognize that slimy voice anywhere.
Simone.
“How many?” Hector stood and zipped his pants.
That sound… God, the ghastly sound of his zipper would forever haunt her.
Stiff and sickened with grief, she edged alongside the pipe, heading toward the door.
“Two dozen. It’s getting harder to smuggle them through the border towns. We need new routes.”
Realization slammed into her, redoubling her heart rate.
All those cries she heard over the past two years, the screams that had woken her from sleep…
They were real.
There had been other children, and she’d ignored them.
She’d let them die.
She would be next if she didn’t get the fuck out of there.
Rising on silent feet, she swayed through bouts of dizziness. Nausea threatened. Her nerves stretched, overtaxed to the point of breaking as her bladder quivered to release.
Push through it and go!
Instinct took over. Self-preservation shoved her toward the door. All pain and thought vanished as her mind narrowed to one imperative.
Survival.
She moved on impulse, out the door, down the hall, around the bend. The compulsion to look back tingled between her shoulder blades, but she ignored it, kept going, started running.
As her legs flew into a sprint, everything came flooding back.
The lifeless eyes. The jerking body. The sound of the zipper.
She gagged, and the violent hacking doubled her over.
Keep going. Run!
If she’d stayed in the sewer room, she might’ve picked up something valuable from their conversation. She might’ve heard names and locations of the men running the operation.
She might’ve been killed.
How did he sneak the children into the prison? What did he do with the bodies? Did he bring them in on a schedule? Could she track it and figure out a way to stop him before he did it again?
The questions fell behind her as she ran into the stairwell. But she couldn’t outrun the toxicity of what she’d just witnessed. It boiled inside her, bubbling in her stomach. She made it to the second flight of stairs before her guts emptied in a spew of vomit and tears.
Her knees crashed onto the step, and she heaved great sobbing waves of anguish, puking all over the stairs.
When there was nothing left, she pushed away from the mess and wiped her mouth.
What was she going to do?
How would she look Hector in the eyes and pretend she couldn’t see the bloody, gruesome wasteland of his soul?
She needed Martin and Ricky. Her heart demanded she run to them, tell them what happened, and let them console her as she fell apart in their arms. She was desperate for them. They would take this burden from her and make it easier to breathe.
Her chest constricted.
They were leaving in a few hours. If she unloaded this on them, they would sabotage their departure. They would find a way to stay and keep her safe.
Her mind spun through the horrid details of Martin’s childhood. After everything he’d been through, he would never let a monster like Hector La Rocha live. If she told him about this, he would go on a killing spree and get himself killed.
Even if she could convince him not to retaliate, how could she put this on their shoulders and send them off without a resolution?
They had come to Jaulaso because they already knew Hector was evil. Telling them what she just saw didn’t gain anyone anything.
She only had a handful of hours left with them. She didn’t want to spend it rehashing the horrors of what she’d just witnessed. She had the next three years to do that.
<
br /> But if she didn’t tell them, she would be tainting their final moments with dishonesty. She would have to slap on a smile, pretend nothing was amiss, and send them off with kisses and hope.
It was an impossible decision.
She forced herself to her feet and returned to their cell. The short walk didn’t give her enough time to shake the trembling from her body.
The deepest shivers would never go away. She would never escape what she saw tonight.
But she could do something about it.
The seed of an idea sprouted as she silently opened the door and slipped into their cell.
Darkness slammed into her, pressing in on all sides. She felt it on her skin, the contamination of Hector’s depravity infecting her pores.
“Tula?”
Ringing invaded her ears, disorientating her as she stumbled in the blackness.
“Tula? What are you doing?” The distant voice was smothered by a heavy fuzz of violence.
Grisly images flashed behind her eyes. Long black hair. Pools of blood. Tiny fingers. The zipper.
She swayed in the nightmare, drowning in the pain, trying to keep her head above her and her feet beneath her.
“Tula? Tula?” Warm arms came around her, competing with the coldness. “Are you okay?”
Martin held her up, his presence a beacon in the dark. Then Ricky pressed in behind her, his mouth falling to her neck, anchoring her to him.
This was what she needed. What they needed. For the next few hours, she couldn’t let anything take this from them.
She knew what she had to do.
She’d promised herself she would be strong.
For her.
For them.
“I had a nightmare.” She pressed a kiss to Martin’s hard chest.
“Come back to bed.”
“Just a sec. I want to brush my teeth.” She slipped away, fumbling in the dark for her toothbrush.
“Why are you dressed?” Ricky lit a candle, illuminating the room in a soft glow.
“I was going to take a shower.”
“Do it tomorrow.”
Today was tomorrow.
Their last day together.
“Okay.” She turned away before they saw the plastic smile that wasn’t working on her face.
They were half-asleep with exhaustion. That was the only reason they hadn’t detected her dishonesty.
Lying to them made her feel sick, but it was the only way she could protect them.
As she brushed her teeth and stripped her clothes, her mind picked up and discarded a dozen ways to deal with Hector La Rocha.
Maybe there were smarter, safer solutions to end his depravity, but there was only one outcome she wanted. The seed of her idea bloomed into a plan.
Right now, though, she only wanted to think about the two people who mattered most to her. She was going to savor every second they had left together.
Then, once they were safely out of Jaulaso, she would iron out how, where, and when.
She was going to kill Hector La Rocha.
Saying goodbye was the most excruciating thing Tula ever had to do.
She stood between Martin and Ricky in the privacy of their cell and peppered desperate, tear-soaked kisses over their faces and hands.
They were already dressed, seconds from walking out the door.
From the moment she’d crawled back in bed with them early that morning, they’d been saying goodbye.
They said goodbye while moving inside her body. They said it with growly, pain-stricken words. They said it with their eyes as they memorized her features and collected her tears with their lips.
Three months with them hadn’t been enough.
A lifetime with them wouldn’t have been enough.
“You need to go.” She pulled them closer, protesting her own command.
“This is fucking bullshit!” Martin wrenched away and tore his hands through his hair. “We haven’t thought through every option. There must be a way—”
“We’ve beaten this to death.” Tears slid free, and she swatted at her cheeks. “You can not stay here. Giving up your freedoms helps no one. There’s no reason—”
“There’s one reason.” Ricky cupped her face. “And you’re the only reason that matters.”
“We’re sticking to the plan.” She dug in deep and shoved back her shoulders. “You’re walking out of here today, and that’s final.”
There would be no communication. No phone calls.
Over the past two years, she’d only used her phone to contact the U.S. consular. She checked in regularly to monitor the status of her sentence and nag him about an early release.
La Rocha Cartel monitored the call logs of all cell phones in Jaulaso. If she veered from her pattern and called a number she’d never dialed, it would raise suspicion. Even if she called an untraceable number or a reception desk at some random business, Hector would know about it.
She couldn’t do anything that might cause him to second-guess her. Especially now that she knew how cruel and truly sadistic he was.
Once he discovered Martin and Ricky’s charges had been dropped, he would know something nefarious was going on with them. Drug trafficking charges didn’t just go away. Not in Jaulaso.
Martin and Ricky wouldn’t be safe in Hector’s city. The instant they walked out of here, they would have to leave Ciudad Hueca.
There would be no visits from them. No calls. No letters. No packages. Any contact would make Hector suspect she’d taken sides with them.
They would be heading back to the Colombian headquarters of the Restrepo Cartel, where they lived. Only the residents knew the location. It was a secret they couldn’t share.
She would never be able to find them.
They promised to come to her when she was released. She wanted to believe them, but her plan made that impossible.
When they left, she would have to forget them. At least, whenever she stepped out of this cell. Her pain would be trapped in this room, hidden from the rest of the world.
Ricky embraced her in a rib-crushing hug. “We’re going to get you—”
“No more promises. Just hold me.”
He tightened his arms and kissed her deeply. His breaths shook as painfully as hers, but they kept the tears at bay. They’d cried enough.
Martin moved in, tugging her away from Ricky. His kiss was harder, angrier, more punishing. Every lick commanded she stay safe. Every bite confessed how much he hated leaving, and every sucking pull laid claim to her heart.
They owned her. No matter what happened, she would always be theirs.
As they opened the door and stepped into the hallway, her entire world pulled away, and she was left standing outside of it. Alone. They knew it, too, given the way their shoulders tightened, and their faces hardened.
The pain was unwieldy, like a blanket made of boulders had been draped over her shoulders. It weighed her down and pinned her in place, making it physically and emotionally exhausting to stand beneath.
They glanced back with love and fear, hope and grief filling their parting expressions.
No words were needed. Everything had already been said.
Except the one thing she’d held back.
She told them with her eyes.
I love you.
If she ever saw them again, she would tell them with her voice and every part of her being.
She shut the door before they took the steps that would carry them away.
Her forehead dropped against the doorframe. Her breath perished in her chest, and her fingers slid helplessly up and down the wall as she tracked the sounds of their retreating footfalls.
Then she couldn’t hear them at all. She couldn’t feel the warm glow of their love pulsing through her body. She was too cold. So unbearably frigid. Her heart actually ached. It ached so ruthlessly it felt as though she were suffocating beneath the colossal pain.
They were still in the building. If she ran, she could catch them b
efore they exited the stairwell.
Then what? More kisses? Another goodbye? It would never be enough.
She pressed her feet firmly to the floor and mentally traced the path they would take through Jaulaso. She imagined herself at their sides as they walked out of Area Three.
No one would stop them. They weren’t members of La Rocha Cartel.
They would reach the front of the prison and leave with their escort. A prison guard would notify Hector as that happened.
But they would already be gone.
Safe.
Far away from her.
Her grief sat right beneath her sternum, next to her heart. It expanded with ungodly pressure as her body took deep sighing breaths in an attempt to draw more oxygen. Panic rose with swelling agony, and her chest tightened, fighting a looming anxiety attack.
Martin and Ricky had coached her through this. She could hear their voices in her head telling her to relax and stay calm. They knew the next few hours would be the hardest, and they’d reminded her over and over to not break down.
A knock would sound on her door soon. Meetings would follow. Interrogations about where they went and what she knew.
She would endure it with a disappointed expression fixed on her face while she slowly died inside.
But she had a plan.
What Martin and Ricky didn’t know was that she wouldn’t be finishing her three years in Jaulaso.
Killing Hector La Rocha wouldn’t be easy. If she somehow succeeded, she would have to flee Jaulaso before his body was discovered. Timing would be critical.
Pushing down her grief, she grabbed her phone and dialed the U.S. consular. He answered after a few rings.
“This is Petula Gomez.” She pulled in a deep breath and released it.
“Petula.” He sighed, exasperated. “Nothing has changed with your sentence.”
“I’m not calling about that.”
In 1977, the United States and Mexico signed a prisoner transfer treaty. Since that time, some American and Mexican prisoners have been transferred to their respective countries. She’d already been sentenced, which made her eligible to transfer to a prison in the United States.
All she had to do was plead guilty and hope to hell Hector didn’t discover her intent to desert the cartel.