Last Hope

by Jessica Clare

  There’s a quick knock at the door, and then I hear the doorknob rattle. I shove the folders back into the purse, my heart pounding.

  Fouquet storms into the room, his too-plastic face furious, his eyes wild. I instinctively draw back a little, and when his gaze lights on me, his nostrils flare with anger.

  “You stupid bitch,” he snarls and advances toward me.

  I get up from the bed and retreat, holding the case in front of me like a shield. “What did I do?”

  “You met a man at the café!” He pulls back as if to backhand me.

  I flinch away, holding the purse in front of my face. “What? Yes I did! He was nice and bought me lunch. I didn’t say anything! I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t risk Rose!”

  “You met Rafe Mendoza. Do you know who he is? How dangerous he is?” He pushes at the purse clutched in my arms, slamming me into the wall.

  “No!” I cry out. Rafe Mendoza is a name that means nothing to me. “Of course not. Who is he?”

  “A hit man,” he hisses. “You flirted with the enemy. Are you too stupid to do this job? Shall I find another mule?”

  “No,” I say quickly, ducking out of the way before his swinging fists can hit me again. “I can do this. I can.” Rose is depending on me. I have to do this.

  “You might have cost us a buyer. The Turkish buyer is pulling out now that Rafe Mendoza is here.” He grabs at the purse and tosses it toward the bed. I immediately lunge to catch it, and he slams me backward onto the bed. I immediately scramble to get up, because on my back with this man? Not where I want to be.

  He grabs my ankle and I kick at him, panicked. “This is not part of the deal!”

  Fouquet laughs. “I do not want you, idiot girl. Not with your ugly eyes.” He drags me back down onto the bed and his hand goes to my throat, pinning me. “Now. Tell me what Rafe Mendoza said to you.”

  I stare into his pale eyes and for a moment, I’m hit with a surge of hate so strong that I’m tempted to shuck all responsibility and tell him to go fuck himself. I think longingly of the knife back at the café that Mr. Mendoza nudged toward me. I should have slipped it into my case.

  But my best friend, the person I love most in this world and owe everything to, is being held by killers.

  So I swallow my anger. “He said his name was Rafael Mendoza. He’s American. From Arizona.” I detail our conversation as best I can. I want to point out that they have me bugged and they could hear everything, but it’ll sound bitchy and confrontational. I need to be nice, sweet Ava so they don’t take their anger out on Rose.

  Fouquet’s face tightens as I speak, and the hand on my throat grows punishing. His thumb is right over my windpipe, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to choke me. “If you kill me, you have to mule your own purse,” I tell him in a raspy voice.

  The hand loosens. “Did he say anything about the bag? The buy?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Did he think I got some sort of silent signal? The only thing he did was nudge a knife toward me. “I told you everything.”

  Those pale eyes narrow again. Fouquet delivers another ringing slap to the side of my face. This one smacks my teeth against my lip, and I feel it split, taste my blood in my mouth. “If I look like shit, people are going to notice,” I warn him.

  He narrows his eyes at me and grips my chin, puffing my cheeks like a chipmunk’s. Then he says, “You had best clean yourself up nicely, then.” And he releases me and crawls off the bed.

  I sit up and scramble backward, ignoring my aching wrist and my throbbing face. “What now?”

  Fouquet straightens his jacket. “Now I must go apologize to the Turkish buyer. I will try to convince him he is still interested.” He glances back at me. “You will see me again when decisions have been made.”

  I slide to the corner of the bed. “Can you send up some food?” I’m starving. “And a first aid kit for my face?”

  “Later,” he says dismissively. He shuts the door behind him and then I’m in the room alone again.

  I exhale in relief. Touch my throbbing lip. The longer I’m here, the more Fouquet hits me. By the time I’ve met with all the buyers, I’m going to be a freaking bloody pulp. It just reminds me that I’m expendable to these men. I have to be more careful.

  I get up from the bed and begin my regular check for bugs and listening devices, running my free hand along windowsills and lampshades. As I do, I think about Mr. Mendoza. I think about him nudging the knife toward me. Was it a signal I somehow missed?

  Is he on my side? Or just using me because I am a tool to be used?

  Either way, he might be my only hope.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RAFAEL

  On the way back to the hotel I stop by and pick up some soft bread, cheese, and sliced salami. She probably doesn’t have a knife in that room. I’ll leave it outside her door. She can think it was Fouquet who left it for her or that it was dropped by some other resident. I don’t care. I just want to get some food inside her before she collapses from hunger. I add a box of macaroons. She was eyeing the table next to us who had an order of them.

  When I arrive at the hotel, Fouquet is climbing into his black Audi. A quick detour down an alley yields the employee entrance. I pass by a few who say hello to me, and then quickly disappear into the stairwell.

  I wait in the stairwell for a few minutes. Not because I’m worried I’ll get caught. Fouquet has left. Outside her room there is no guard, but I don’t make the mistake of thinking there aren’t eyes on her at all times. I wait because I need to get myself under control. A great stupid portion of me wants to charge down the hall, kick down her door, and drag her into the bedroom. She will, of course, be willing. She claws at my clothes, ripping them off and then falling to her knees. In porn, that’s what the women do. They fall to their knees, jerk out the big cock and swallow it whole, looking at the camera the whole time as if cock is the best fucking meal in the world to them.

  Ah, how porn has steered so many men wrong.

  No one has ever had their mouth around my cock and no one has looked at me worshipfully. With fear. With anger. With a hell of a lot of pain, but no worship.

  It’s a stupid, foolish game I’m playing with myself.

  The fuck of it is, I don’t need her to suck my cock. I’d rather be facedown on her pussy, inhaling her musk and drowning in her juice. So instead of her falling to her knees, I’d push her on the bed and I’d rip her pants off and bury my tongue inside her until she’s crying out for God or Buddha or whatever greater entity she thinks is bringing her glory.

  That would be me. Rafe Mendoza. I laugh and the bitter sound bounces off the walls so I can hear the echo of my own mocking. The cement wall is a good place to bang some sense into myself.

  A sharp knock to the head brings clarity. I’ve never brought a woman glory, only pain. No doubt it would be the same for Ava. Even if I had a chance, which I don’t because snowballs in the Amazon have a better likelihood of survival than I have of ever laying my tongue on Ava, I wouldn’t allow myself to touch her. My mother told me I was cursed in the womb. I lived to prove her wrong, but each successive year of my life revealed the truth.

  I hurt those I touch. I kill those I love.

  Deprivation isn’t all that bad, not when the alternative means hurting an innocent woman.

  I tuck my chin against my chest and step out into the hallway. A door next to Ava’s room opens and a heavily armed man about six feet tall steps out. He straddles the entrance, watching me carefully. So Fouquet isn’t the only one within arm’s reach of Ava. Out of my periphery, I glance into the bedroom. There’s another man inside, seated with a long gun over his knee. I could take the two of them out, grab Ava, and have her on our way to the island in about thirty minutes.

  But if I do that, I’m signing Davidson’s death warrant and he’s too good a man to leave behind. Besides, what would I do with Ava if I had her? Stare her into an orgasm? Stroke
her hand until she whimpers with pleasure?

  Fool, I curse myself. But I’m still here like a jackass standing with my pitiful offering of food.

  I walk on past, gripping the bag, and then stop at the far end of the hall. The room is silent, unlike a couple of the others that had television sounds. I lift my phone to it and open an application. The lock snicks open in seconds. As I open the door, the thug retreats into his room. I wait for a count of ten, walk back down, drop the bag and then hustle to the elevator. I’m just another tourist who forgot something.

  When I get back to the base, Bennito gives me an update.

  “Fouquet was back. He slapped her a couple of times and I think she told him about you.”

  “He hit her?” I growl.

  “Yeah, man, across the face this time.”

  I’ve got my hand on the doorknob before I come to my senses. Squeezing the metal until the round ball starts bruising the skin, I strive for calm. “Place a call to her room and tell her that there’s a meal for her outside her door.”

  “Didn’t feed her? What kind of date are you?” he jokes as he punches in a few keys on his computer.

  “A shitty one.”

  I force myself to walk back to the monitors, and we watch as she turns away from running her fingers over the lamp to eye the phone with suspicion. She lifts the receiver. Bennito adopts a Peruvian accent even though he is from West Texas. “Senhora, there is a package at your door.”

  “Um, okay. Can I ask who brought it?”

  “Your white knight.”

  I cuff him on the back of his head and he hangs up. “What? You’re the good guy in this situation. I was smoothing the way for you in case you hook up with her later. I see how you watch her.”

  I imagine shoving my fist into his toothy grin. “Don’t fuck around. This isn’t a game.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “No more jokes, but you know, I’d have thought that you’d be swimming in pussy. If I had my own private island and a boatload of cash, I’d be Leo fucking DiCaprio with my harem of supermodels to feed me grapes and rub my feet. But you, I never see you with a broad. Never. There are plenty of hot mamacitas on the island and they’d all open their legs for you in a heartbeat, but you don’t even look twice at them.”

  “Rub your feet, Bennito?” Garcia has crept in behind us. “You have a dozen supermodels and you think only of food and feet?”

  Garcia’s gentle mocking has the intended effect. Bennito flushes but doesn’t bring up my near-monkhood status again. He changes the subject. “I saw a picture of Leo the other day. What the hell do those women see in him?”

  “Money. Fame. Power.” I tick them off.

  “All of the above,” Garcia adds.

  Bennito harrumphs. “You’ve got all that.”

  A warning look from Garcia shuts him up, but I don’t care that Bennito believes I abstain. It’s a good lesson for him—to go without builds character. And the longer you go without, the more that you forget what you are missing. At least that is the lie I tell myself.

  Across the street, Ava peeks out her peephole and then opens the door. She looks around and then at the floor. Her hand reaches out, snatches the bag, and drags it in quickly. Slamming the door shut, she leans against the wood slab and peeks inside the bag. Then she lifts it to her nose.

  Damn straight it smells good. Fresh from the bakery. She hurries over to the counter and unpacks everything.

  “Shit, did you buy out the entire store?” Bennito mumbles around a chip.

  It does seem like a lot of food now that it is spread out. There are honey butter rolls along with fresh cheeses and meats. A couple of fruits roll precariously to the edge. There is jam along with chocolates and the macaroons.

  “She didn’t eat enough,” I remind him.

  “Right. So is the stuff Duval selling legit?”

  She breaks apart the roll and shoves half of it in her mouth. Her head drops back and even though I can’t hear her, I know she is moaning. God, I want to hear that sound. Is it soft? Is it a short sigh or a long, extended low note that would make my cock shiver in response?

  “I assume it is or we wouldn’t all be here.”

  “What happens next?” Garcia leans a hip against the edge of the desk.

  “From the surveillance, she has five folders in her bag. She’s presented the yellow to the buyer from North Korea. The green went to the Libya. Once all the buyers have their chance to look at it, then the auction goes down. We wait for the exchange, fuck that up, and make off with the package.”

  “And if we don’t get it?” Bennito asks. “What happens then?”

  “That’s not an option.” Garcia cuffs Bennito again.

  “What the hell? It was just a question,” Bennito complains.

  I place a pacifying hand between them. “You are new, but the vow you made when you came was to protect everyone at the Tears of God as if they matter more to you than your mother. We leave no man behind. It does not matter if God himself holds one of us hostage. A man or woman of the Tears of God knows to wait, for his family will come and save him. Isn’t that why you are with us, Bennito?”

  He has the grace to look ashamed but with the exuberance of youth rallies immediately. “Well that and the women.”

  Garcia slaps him across the top of his head but it’s light this time. Almost affectionate, but Bennito’s head will ache tonight from all the strikes; maybe it will drum some sense into him. As we all laugh, the monitors flash.

  The door to Ava’s apartment bursts open. Fouquet is at the door. He is motioning to two others behind him. Ava has the second half of the roll halfway in her mouth when the man I saw in the hallway pulls her to her feet. They drag her out and the door slams shut behind her.

  “Fuck.” I jump to my feet. “They must be moving her.”

  Garcia shoves a bag in my hands—the one we laughingly call the Boy Scout bag. “I double-checked the emergency kit this morning. Go!”

  I grab my two Glocks and shove them into a dual shoulder holster. I sling the leather over my shoulders and catch the jacket that Garcia tosses at me. And then I run. I don’t even know if I’m running to save Ava or the package at this point; I just know I can’t let her out of my sight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AVA

  “Where are we going now?” I ask for the tenth time in the last ten minutes. There is a man on each side of me in the car, and the purse is in my lap. My wrist feels sore from where Fouquet has grabbed me, over and over again.

  No one answers me. Of course they don’t. I don’t matter to them. I get my answer soon enough, though, when the car pulls up to the airport and parks in the fire lane.

  The airport?

  I’m frowning in surprise when the man on my right—Afonso—grabs my hand again. I hiss in pain when his fingers dig into my wrist, and his mouth curls into a sneer. “Don’t get too excited, little one. This is only temporary.”

  Excited? At his bruising hands? I jerk my hand out of his grip. “Don’t touch me.”

  “You will be with me, Daughter,” Afonso says, and holds up his passport. Afonso Wessex, it says. Ugh. He then hands me mine as “Lucy Wessex.”

  “Great,” I say, my voice lacking enthusiasm.

  “Try anything and your friend Rose will die,” Fouquet calls from the front seat. “And it will not be a quick, painless death.”

  You guys are dicks, I think, but I don’t say it aloud. I just say, “I know. I’m not going to do anything.”

  Because Rose is depending on me to be the good, sweet mule. And that’s who I’m going to be.

  I look over at Afonso, and he’s peering down the front of my blouse. What a classy “dad.” I hitch it higher instinctively. “May I use my plastic gloves and hand lotion while we’re here?”

  They’re used to my weird issues with my hands. I’m a hand model, which they know, and so I’m constantly lotioning my hands and putting on plastic gloves to protect them from any s
orts of environmental mishaps. I bought them one day after I’d met the first buyer and have used them religiously since, even though Fouquet looks at me as if I’m up to something. I’ve told them it’s because I want to go back to work as if nothing has happened once this is all done. And they allow it, which might be some kind of psychological torture, but the plastic and lotion are a comfort.

  The gloves serve a second purpose in that they’re going to keep my fingerprints off any of this shit. Mule or not, I’ll still go to prison if the kind of information I’m carrying gets out and has my name attached. It’s Snowden levels of information from what I can tell, and the thought terrifies me.

  “Put those in your bag for now. It will give you an excuse to keep your carry-on with you.” Fouquet tosses the box of disposable gloves that were in my luggage in my direction. I catch them and am startled by the dark ring around my right hand. My wrist is ugly and bruised, and I wince at the sight of it. I pack the gloves and the lotion into my case.

  I go into the airport with my “dad” Afonso and Fouquet flanking me. We don’t even look casual, not in the slightest, but no one notices. Maybe it’s because we’re in Lima and no one gives a crap about this sort of thing?

  We get to the check-in counter, go through security, and head to the waiting area. It’s all very low-key and I want to scream at the people wandering past, lost in their own thoughts. Can’t they see I don’t want to be here with these two men?

  But everything is normal, and I hand my ticket to the girl moments before getting on the flight. “Enjoy your stay in Pucallpa,” she tells me with a smile.

  Is that where we’re going? Never heard of it. I smile back, because what else can I do?

  • • •

  “Pick a card,” Afonso tells me for the hundredth time, leaning in too close to my seat. “Any card.”

  Oh God, I hate this flight so much. Fouquet received a phone call at the moment of boarding and told us we’d meet in Pucallpa so it is just my “dad” and me.