by Dana Marton
Rosita stepped closer. “Whatever. We need your body.”
If there had ever been a sentence to knock the air completely out of a person, that had to be it. We need your body.
Clara broke out in a cold sweat. She had to work to force out her next words. “What for?”
The girl flashed a taunting smile. “You’ll be a drug mule.”
Clara’s gaze flew to the bodies, to the red lines running down the men’s chests and abdomens where they’d been cut then sewn back together.
“We need more Americans,” the girl said.
And the puzzle pieces came together in Clara’s brain in a flash. The marine corporal at the US embassy saying that they’d seen an uptick in repatriation of bodies this summer. Walker saying he didn’t know how the samples of the new designer drug were getting into the US undetected.
Drug mules.
Bodies of US citizens who died abroad. Expedited through customs.
She lost her breath. Then lost it all over again when the girl stopped next to her and placed the tip of the knife against Clara’s breastbone. Rosita drew the knife down, without breaking the skin, mimicking a ruthless gutting, while Clara lay frozen motionless. Don’t panic.
“Why were you locked in?” she rushed to ask.
Was there strife between the girl and her brother? Could Clara exploit it?
The teenager flashed a sullen, baleful look. “Carlos told me I had to stay in my room tonight. I snuck out to see one of the boys. I got caught.” She swore in Spanish, worse than Walker.
Where was Walker?
He hadn’t been in the mansion. If he’d seen Clara being dragged away, he would have come to her aid. Was he in this building, wherever she was? Could he hear her if she screamed? Could he save her? Or would Rosita stab her in the heart before Walker had a chance to reach her?
The second scenario seemed more likely.
Clara filled her lungs. She was an investigator. Her job was to find and save people. She had to be able to save herself. Think!
Her hands were tied too tightly. She couldn’t move them at all, couldn’t grab for the knife. The girl stayed too far for a head-butting. Think.
“Ready?” Rosita asked, full of glee, lifting the blade.
Oh God. She was a teenage psychopath. Desperation washed through Clara, drowning her. She felt herself being pulled under, like in the Tamchén well.
“Wait!” She tried to distract the girl. “I’m General Roberts’s daughter. I know you like him. He’s worried about you. He sent me, not your aunt.”
God, she hated saying the words.
And they didn’t have the desired effect either. Rosita laughed in her face.
“Screw that old idiot. Oh my God, how freaking lame! You think I like him?”
“I thought you—” Clara fell silent as the knife pressed against her sternum.
“I set him up, bitch,” Rosita crowed. “For Carlos. He knew from Melena that my aunt worked for the old fart.”
Clara stared.
“Carlos is going to grow the gun trade,” Rosita bragged. “He needs someone at the DOD to ease his way. He needed pictures of the general so when the time comes, the old fart will do whatever we tell him.”
Rosita flashed a look of teenage superiority. “I roofied his beer, then I took my top off and took pictures with my phone. His too.”
Clara tried to comprehend the utter nastiness of the whole plan, and the utter futility of it, since her father wasn’t going to live long enough to be blackmailed. She wanted to reach out and smack the girl.
But before she could as much as respond to the whole vicious story, before she could come up with the slightest spark of a plan for escape, the door opened and a scarred-faced, twenty-something man lumbered in, wearing a butcher’s apron.
Clara really, really wished she wasn’t naked.
He was about the same height as Clara, heavy-set, but with fat instead of muscle. Fleshy chest, fleshy arms, fleshy lips. Eyes that were flat brown, holding no emotion, no spark, and very little sign of intelligence.
He had a ten-gallon galvanized-steel tub in one hand, an eight-inch-by-twelve-inch, plastic-sealed brick of drugs in the other, which he tossed onto the tabletop above Clara’s head. He dropped the tub on the floor and kicked it under the table.
Rosita grinned at Clara with dark malice. “Your guts will go in there.”
Scarface scowled at the girl. “Go back to your room.”
“You don’t give me orders,” the teen snapped back. “Where’s my brother?”
“Went to the safe house with Santiago. Raúl is looking for you.”
That the man was talking openly in front of Clara, confirmed he didn’t plan on letting her live long.
Clara’s heart banged in her chest.
Scarface held out his hand to the girl. With a few choice swearwords, Rosita handed the knife over, then stomped out, swearing some more as she went.
Who the hell was Raúl? Her boyfriend?
But Raúl’s identity didn’t truly matter, only that mention of him had called Rosita away. One on one was better than two against one.
Not that one attacker still wasn’t one more than Clara could handle under current circumstances. The breath got stuck in her lungs when the guy kicked the door closed behind Rosita.
His gaze livened up as it slid appreciatively over Clara’s exposed body.
She couldn’t look away from him either. The two dozen scars that crisscrossed his face were evenly spaced, as if they were not a result of an accident but systematic torture. She wasn’t in the mood to feel sympathetic.
He licked his fleshy bottom lip as he stepped up to the table.
Clara’s gaze dropped to his right hand. The way he held the knife, at a certain angle, with a certain grip, elbow loose—like the master chefs on one of those TV shows—did not bode well.
Clara’s heart pounded so hard, it hurt.
Rosita had just been playing. This guy was the real butcher.
* * *
Walker searched the upstairs of the mansion first but found no other sign of Clara. He didn’t waste time wondering how in hell she had gotten into the compound.
He’d ask her later. Because he was going to find her alive.
He tried not to think about her shirtless and bleeding. Or how she got that way.
He clamped down on his emotions, in robot-soldier mode. He was going to go through this place and kill every bastard who stood between him and Clara until he found her. It was that simple.
And if they’d hurt her… Hurt wasn’t a big enough word to describe what he would do to them.
He had free rein of the rooms. The house guards were fighting the fire in the courtyard.
By the time Walker checked the last room downstairs and made it outside, Carlos and Santiago were long gone. The men, still wrestling with flames that had spread to a carport, paid no attention to him. He was heading for the building that housed the kitchen and food storage when he heard the sound of approaching trucks on the street.
He slowed for a second.
Shit. He’d planned to be outside the compound by now. With Santiago.
To blow the gate or not to blow the gate, was the question.
Hell. The more distractions the better, right? He reached into his pocket, then pushed the remote.
The Land Rover he’d parked by the gate blew the next second, blowing the gate right off its hinges, chunks of metal flying through the air like shrapnel.
All around in the yard and the guardhouse, men screamed and ran for cover. Then the Jeep that had parked behind him burst into flames.
Walker ran toward the outbuildings.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed. Couldn’t remember how to do it. So all he said was, “God, please, don’t let me be late.” And then he said it again and again.
If something happened to Clara…
The thought was a frozen black hole that threatened to swallow him. He refused to let it.
As the first of the Tamchén trucks burst through the open gate and gunfire erupted, Walker ducked into the kitchen.
He’d tipped off the Tamchén about how many men were in the compound, so they’d likely brought more. Which meant they’d overtake the Xibalba in the courtyard in short order. Then they’d move to take the buildings.
He only had minutes to find Clara and get her out of here. He would find her. He refused to accept the alternative.
But she wasn’t in the kitchen or the pantry.
He rushed back outside. The first man who charged him, he shot in the face. The second man he shot in the chest.
Walker strode forward, not letting anyone stand in his way. When he ran out of bullets he snapped in his backup magazine. When that ran empty, he started pistol-whipping people and breaking necks.
He refused to acknowledge his own injuries.
In his mind, he was back in the fighting ring. Boxers didn’t fight to win over their opponents. They fought to win over themselves, win over their own doubts, the exhaustion, the pain. Boxing was as much a mental game as it was physical. Just like Navy SEAL training.
His mind was locked on a single thought. He would save Clara.
He kept going.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Clara looked up at the man who loomed over her, leering at her as he held the knife. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, but she fought back the panic.
Do. Not. Pass out.
If she blinked out now, she’d never wake up again.
Scarface had ignored the explosion outside and was now ignoring the gunfire. Apparently, he’d been given the job to gut her, and he was good at focusing on the task at hand, minding his own business.
Normally, Clara appreciated goal-oriented people. This one time was the exception.
She was tied spread-eagle to the table, naked, as vulnerable as she’d ever been. She desperately wanted a weapon, or at least to be able to use her hands, but none of that was going to happen. Her mouth was the last line of defense left to her.
“I work for the US government. I’m not a random tourist you can pretend died in a car accident.”
Carlos Petranos probably had a deal with the local coroners. All deaths were ruled accidental. By the time the embassy sent someone to collect the bodies, they were stuffed with drugs. The sewed-up incisions wouldn’t be suspicious, as they were the standard autopsy Y-cuts.
Then the bodies would go through rapid repatriation, in deference to the families. The cartel likely had someone on the US side who followed the bodies and removed the drugs either before or after the families received the remains. Possibly even after burial, via exhumation.
“If I disappear, the US government is going to look for me,” Clara promised, filling her voice with confidence and warning.
Scarface simply shrugged as he reached out and thumbed her nipple.
Revulsion and fear mixed into a cold, sticky mud inside her, a dark swamp that threatened to swallow her.
His eyes stayed focused on her chest.
Clearly, he wasn’t the one making important decisions here. He’d been told to gut and stuff Clara, so he would gut and stuff her. The only thing left up to him was what he would do with her body prior to slitting her stomach open.
He caressed one breast with his hand, the other with the flat side of his blade. She held herself still and didn’t react. Maybe he got off on fear. She wasn’t going to cry and make him any more excited.
Then his hand slipped to her belly, moving downward.
Not reacting became increasingly difficult.
“Could you please at least untie my legs?”
He didn’t seem to hear her.
She tried to squeeze her thighs together as much as possible. He forced his hand between them.
“No!” She kept her voice strong. “Stop!”
His flat gaze did snap to hers then. The humorless laugh he gave said he’d do with her as he pleased, with or without her approval.
He pressed the tip of the knife between her breasts. Then pressed down harder.
Blood welled up.
She caught her breath at the piercing pain.
“Don’t.” She turned to begging after all. “Please.”
All she could think of was how el Capitán at the cantina had held in his own guts. She wouldn’t even be able to do that.
Scarface drew the knife down, scoring her skin, blood beading up. It stung like hell. For a panicked moment, she thought she was going to watch him open her up. Her hands were tied. But even if they weren’t… She was frozen in terror, could barely breathe, let alone move.
But he kept the cut light, little more than a bloody scrape, as if to mark out where he’d slice her later. He watched the blood well up. He licked his lips again, his other hand suddenly restless between her thighs. Then he gave a low grunt and shoved his fingers inside her.
The new wave of terror and the pain between her legs snapped Clara out of her frozen state.
“I didn’t break out of the storage room on my own,” she lied in a rush—inspiration born of desperation. “There’s someone else.”
Scarface’s gaze snapped to hers, his eyes narrowing as he breathed heavily. He slid the knife up to her neck.
The blade pressed against her madly pulsing carotid artery.
“I could never have managed to get out earlier by myself. You know that, right?” She kept going. “One of the men helped me.”
“Who?” Scarface barked the single word as he pulled his fingers out of her and fisted his hand.
“I want to talk to Rosita.” Clara put as much steel in her voice as she was capable. “I don’t care what you do to me. I’m not going to talk to anyone but the girl.”
Scarface, not nearly as sharp as the knife he was holding, watched her for a moment, trying to decide what to do.
“Carlos will want to know who the traitor is,” Clara pushed.
Her plan was just to delay the moment when the knife would slice into her for real. But then, for the first time since she’d begun the investigation, something finally went right.
Scarface laid the knife between her breasts, the blade touching the underside of her chin, before he lumbered away with a last dark scowl at her.
Her stomach felt like a nest of squirming eels. Nausea washed over her. Do. Not. Throw up. Tied down lying on her back like this, she’d probably choke to death.
The door closed with a thud. Clara listened for the key scraping in the lock. The sound never came. Scarface probably didn’t see any way for her to get away at this stage. And maybe there wasn’t a way, but she wasn’t about to just lie there and wait for death.
When she figured he was too far to hear, she began throwing her body from side to side, until the table started rocking.
The knife slid off, first to the tabletop, then to the floor with a clatter. Nobody came to investigate.
Clara kept rocking, the ropes burning her tender, scraped-up wrists, then ripping her skin. She didn’t stop. Instead, she gritted her teeth and put all her strength into the effort.
Then her momentum finally tipped the table to two legs, and she strained, grunting, tears springing to her eyes. And at long last, the table fell over with a crash. It landed on its side, her shoulder slamming into the tile floor.
Oh sweet Jesus.
Her bones rattled. Pain shot through her. If her collarbone wasn’t broken, it was probably cracked.
She’d worry about that later.
All she cared about now was the knife that lay closer to her foot than to her hand. She had one chance. If she kicked the knife out of reach, she was done here.
She swiped upwards with her toes, connecting with the handle. The knife skittered across the tile. Toward her, thank God, not toward a distant corner. But it stopped short of her fingers.
She wiggled, rocked again, trying to slide the table on its side as she strained to reach the weapon. “Comeoncomeoncomeon.”
And then the tip of on
e finger touched the blade, then another. But she wiggled too much as she tried to get a better grip. The table tilted, then crashed over, trapping her facedown underneath.
That hurt.
The weight would have broken her nose if she hadn’t had her head turned to the side. Maybe it’d broken her cheekbone. Her face pulsed with pain.
But she didn’t let go of the knife. She positioned it at the right angle—nearly dislocating her wrist—until she could use the blade on the rope, with the weight of the table as added pressure.
Minutes ticked by as she sawed through strand after strand. Hurry. Scarface could be back any second. Dear God, let Rosita be difficult to find in the chaos outside.
Sweat beaded on Clara’s forehead. She nicked herself more than once. Blood made the rope slick. But then the last strands finally gave.
Having her right hand free was a tremendous help. She freed her left hand in just a minute. Then she half crawled out from under the table and freed her legs.
She tested her limbs. She was scraped, bruised, and bleeding, but as she yanked clothes on, she gave thanks that nothing was broken. Underwear first, then jeans. Her blouse was missing.
She put on her bra, had no time to worry about modesty. She would have run naked.
She pulled on her boots, then picked up the knife, listened at the door—couldn’t hear anything beyond distant gunfire. She cracked the door open an inch. An empty corridor stretched before her, lit by an overhead light, no windows here either. She was definitely in the basement.
How far was the gate?
She hurried forward and almost reached the stairs at the end of the corridor when the door opened above and Scarface appeared. This time, he had a gun. And the second he saw Clara, he aimed the weapon at her.
* * *
Chaos swirled through the compound. Everyone was running around, shooting at everything that moved, the scene apocalyptic.
Walker rushed from building to building. Then a heavy-set guy in a butcher apron hustled across the courtyard, catching his eyes. On instinct, Walker followed him, taking out anyone who got in his way, grabbing a new weapon every time the one he was holding ran empty.