Saint (Mercy Book 2)

by JB Salsbury

  Why was I raised to believe I was an angel while these poor children were treated like objects for the same condition?

  I scroll through photos of bloody body parts. My stomach sours, and I swallow the thick lump in my throat.

  A knock on the door has me scampering to shove the device away, but it’s too dark. I fumble, drop it, and bend down as light pierces the dark space. I spin around to see Maria’s silhouette in the doorway. I jump up and rush to leave, but she stops me with wide, terrified eyes.

  “Maza?” she asks.

  Maza. She’s asking for maza. I turn, spot the device on the floor, and shove it beneath the stool with my foot.

  “Si.” I grab the first thing I can find and hand it to her.

  She thanks me, pretending as though I handed her what she needed when in brighter light, I can see I handed her salt. I walk out to find Milo with a hip resting on the countertop, and he’s looking right at me.

  “Buenos dias,” I say and nod my head low, hoping he won’t see the guilty color rise in my cheeks.

  “Mornin’.” His voice is scratchy. He’s up much earlier than normal. “I’m surprised to find you down here.”

  “Why?” I busy myself wiping down the already clean workspace, all the corn tortillas and sweet bread from earlier gone.

  “Because it’s eleven thirty and you’re usually outside playing with the dogs by now.”

  Eleven thirty?

  Milo rambles something in Spanish. Maria shoots me an apologetic look from the corner of her eye then grins at Milo and answers him.

  Milo’s eyes shine with pride and maybe even a little relief as he watches me. “Is that right? Mercy likes cooking, huh? Maybe if I’m nice, she’ll cook me dinner. What do you say, Güera?” He winks, and all the butterflies take flight in my belly.

  Nope, because whatever Maria said to cover for me is a lie. I can’t cook. “Of course.”

  He crosses to me in his baggy sleeping shorts and T-shirt and steps behind me to wrap his arms around my middle. His left hand grips mine and brings my ring finger forward. “I love seeing this on you.”

  He brings the ring to his lips and kisses not only my ring finger but every other finger as well. I relax into his chest and hate the sinking guilt that presses against my chest. If he knew I’ve been breaking Esteban’s rules to research things that give me nightmares, he’d be furious.

  With his chin on my shoulder, he nuzzles my neck and whispers, “How about we get out of here?”

  My spine stiffens and hope blooms in my chest. “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  I spin around and toss my arms around his neck. “But I thought . . . I mean, where will we go? Maybe there’s a small village nearby and I wouldn’t have to wear my sweatshirt.”

  His smile falls and his expression turns pinched.

  “What?”

  He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “I’m sorry, I meant get out of the kitchen. I have an hour before I meet with Esteban. I was hoping to take you back to bed.”

  I don’t know what my face looks like, but I know that my disappointment must be easy to read in my expression.

  Milo chuckles and says, “Okay, bad idea. How about we go for a walk around the compound? Get a little fresh air?”

  I drop my arms from his shoulders and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He slides his big hands up my sides to my arms, pulling them high and placing my hands back behind his neck. “Hey . . . I’m sorry, I know this is hard for you. I promise it won’t always be like this. I just want to keep you safe.”

  “From who? Mikkel is gone. Who else could possibly be after me?”

  With his forehead pressed to mine, he whispers, “I don’t know. That’s the problem. You just need to lie low for a little longer. I can’t function unless I know you’re in the safest place possible, and that’s behind the walls of this compound.”

  Nod and agree. I should nod and agree, but the images of hacked up children flicker in my mind’s eye and stir up a fire in my gut that I can’t control. “Freed from one cage only to be put into another.”

  He steps back, his expression hard. “No, it’s not like that.”

  My skin crawls and a force from behind my ribs wants to cry out that I’m a person, not an object and that people, kids, are out there suffering while I’m here picking fruit and playing with dogs. “You want to keep me safe but locking me up forever—”

  “It won’t be forever. Just . . .” He runs a hand over his hair, leaving it to stick out at all ends. “I need a little more time and then we’ll go back to LA, okay?”

  “How much more time because I’m going crazy in here.” My breath comes faster now. “You’re gone most of the time. Everyone else here is either working or ignores me. My only friends are dogs, Milo—”

  His hands cup my cheeks and he presses a soft kiss to my lips, silencing my rage and calming my pulse a little. “I know.” Another kiss. “I’m sorry. There are a few more things I have to do in Mexico, then we’ll make a plan.”

  Defeat weighs heavy on my chest as uselessness washes over me.

  His thumb makes a slow swipe on my cheek to my lower lip. “Hang in there with me. I promise I’ll give you the life we talked about. Just hang on a little longer.”

  What choice do I have? “I will.”

  “Good girl.”

  I melt into his chest and wrap my arms around his middle. I can hang on a little longer, but eventually I have to get out of here. To do what? I don’t know. I only know I can’t live this protected, pampered life while people like me are out there fighting for theirs.

  Milo

  “Estas listo?”

  My shoulders bunch at the sound of Esteban’s voice at my back as I watch Mercy with the dogs on the front lawn. With a pocket full of stale bread, she attempts to train them how to sit, and for a moment, I pretend we’re in our own house in LA without the threats of gang life and her foggy past.

  A past that, despite my best efforts, isn’t getting any clearer.

  “Did you talk to your contact?” I don’t take my eyes off Mercy as she holds out the treat, her lips saying sit over and over while slobber slides from the pit bull’s jowls.

  “Si, pero . . .” I turn around as Esteban, who’s wearing his signature black on black, frowns through his thick mustache and goatee. “You don’t want to mess with these cabrones. They’re bad news.”

  “And we aren’t?”

  He sucks on his front teeth and shakes his head. “There ain’t no we on this, mijo.”

  I grit my teeth at how easily he can call me son in the same breath that he tells me he won’t back me up. I don’t care what he does or how much he helps me track down the people who might be able to give me some answers; he’ll never be blood to me again. I still believe he’s responsible for my mother’s death, and nothing he says or does will change that.

  “You’re on your own,” he adds.

  “Fine. Where are they?”

  He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. It has a scribbled address, and when I take it, he holds it tighter. “You get dead? I’m not keeping the girl.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Incentive for you to not fuck up. She’s worth nothing but pesos to me, ese.” He releases the paper and heads toward the door.

  I watch his back as he moves through the house like a fucking prince of hell. With the address tucked tightly in my palm, I follow him and pray he’s bluffing.

  Milo

  THE BUSY STREETS of downtown Tijuana at two o’clock in the morning have a distinct smell. I scrunch my nose as the combination of beer, weed, piss, mildew, and cooking meat assaults my senses. A group of college co-eds in tiny skirts and tall shoes stumble past me, giggling, talking loudly, and bringing a mixture of powerful perfume. Their bright dresses leave little to the imagination and attract the wrong kind of attention. I say a little prayer that they end up on the right side of the border before they pass out.

/>   I’m leaning back against the hood of the El Camino, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, waiting to meet my contact. There’s no telling when the guy will show. Reminds me of the days in Los Angeles when Laura would bitch about the cable guy coming between ten and two. You got no choice but to sit it out and wait.

  My mind takes me from the wet streets of Tijuana back to the warm home of my foster parents. Julian watching the Disney channel and Miguel with his headphones, effectively ignoring the world. I feel the corner of my mouth lift before I realize what I’m doing and force a frown. I never know who’s watching me when I’m making a run for the Latino Saints, and happiness of any kind can be seen as vulnerability. After all, happy people have something to lose.

  I tell myself that’s what I am—happy. How could I not be? My brothers are safe in foster care, and now that I’m gone and back in the Saints, my younger siblings will be left alone.

  And then there’s Mercy. Mi alma. She’s the reason I sold my future to El Jefe. She’s the focus now. It’s not enough to simply keep her safe. I’ve heard the cries in her sleep, watched the life in her eyes dim as each day passes. I thought protecting her body was enough. I was wrong. In order for her to be free of the visions that torment her, for us to move forward together, I need to help heal her soul. There’s only one way I can do that. She needs retribution. She has to bury the monsters from her past in order for her to find hope in our future.

  A blunt force hits the tip of my shoe.

  “Ow!” A woman stumbles after snagging the toe of her high heel on my foot. Her torso lurches forward, arms flailing, and I grip her waist before she gives herself a concrete facial.

  “Easy.” Once she’s steady, I release her.

  She turns toward me with bloodshot eyes. She looks young. I’d be surprised if she’s eighteen, but seeing as she’s clearly shitfaced on booze and whatever else, she either has a fake ID or a baby face.

  “Gracias muchacho.” Her ridiculous attempt at a Spanish accent makes me want to drive her ass to the border and throw her over to the US side. Girls in her condition could easily stagger into the wrong kind of person.

  A little voice whispers that I am that wrong kind of person.

  I went from Milo the high school senior foster kid, to Emilio Vega, son of Esteban, prince to the LS—active gang member, drug and gun smuggler, and enforcer. Hell, I have a key in my pocket that will start a large moving van packed full of heroin. Everything about me, including the nine mil tucked in the waistband of my jeans, says I’m not the kind of guy you want to meet in a dark alley. Drugs and guns are what keeps El Jefe in the rico lifestyle he’s become accustomed to—the same lifestyle that keeps my Mercy safe. I don’t have to like it, but I sure as fuck have to play like I do.

  The girl sways on her feet. I lean back, watching her, ready to swoop in if she falls again. She probably thinks coming to Tijuana is all about underage drinking and dancing until the sun comes up. What she doesn’t know is this city is a hotbed for human trafficking.

  That’s the second reason why I’m here.

  Not to buy and sell bodies, but to find out who the big players are in that trade. To gather information that’ll lead me closer to finding out who’s responsible for Mercy’s captivity, and to finally make them pay.

  “Dondé . . . um . . .” She rubs her forehead, and the movement makes her list to the side. “Estás el street-oh to the border . . . oh?”

  This girl is in bad shape. “Where are your friends?”

  She blinks at me through mascara-smeared eyes. “You speak English?”

  I’m pretty sure I just did, so I don’t answer and only tilt my head, waiting.

  “I don’t know.” She flings an arm out to motion somewhere. “We got separated at Coko Bongo. I’ve been walking around forever. My feet are killing—”

  “Chica bonita . . .” Sancho, my lookout, strolls up with two hands full of street tacos and offers me one while keeping his gaze on the young girl. His dark eyes light up as they move over her body.

  “No.” I wave off his taco offer and look to grab the nearest cab. I tell myself I’m doing this because it’s what Mercy would want me to do, even though I’m not sure if I’m buying my own bullshit anymore.

  “Holá,” the girl says back to Sancho. “Um . . . gracias and uh . . . um . . .” She chews on her lip then bursts out laughing. “I got a B in Spanish this semester. I think I’m just really drunk.”

  Clearly she’s as street smart as she is at Spanish, but a bad grade in smart choices here could mean life or death.

  Sancho licks his lips. “Fresco. Joven. Apuesto que sabes igual de dulce—”

  “Chale!” I shake my head in a firm “don’t even fucking think about it” as I wave down a cab.

  He glares at me, the prick. Sancho used to be el Jefe’s right hand, and he hasn’t liked me from the second I stepped into the Vega compound. Esteban explained where my place is in the hierarchy and Sancho got demoted.

  But he’s a stubborn ass. He grins and turns his eyes toward the girl. “Hungry, bonita?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” I growl under my breath.

  Her eyes widen, and she takes the taco. “Yes, thank you.” She downs the thing in three bites, and Sancho gives her another as a cab pulls up to the curb.

  “Come on.” I hook her by the elbow and lead her away from Sancho toward the back door of the cab, which I swing open and motion for her to step inside.

  I try to get the driver’s attention, but his eyes are firmly set on Sancho. I look between the men, wondering if we’ve been made or if maybe they know each other from I-don’t-fucking-care. It’s then I notice a quick jerk of Sancho’s chin.

  The cab driver’s eyes come to mine. “No la meta, señor. Estoy fuera de servicio.”

  Off duty?

  The girl falls back onto the sidewalk when the cab speeds away, but she seems content, chewing on her taco. I swing my head around and glare at Sancho as he slips his cell phone back into his pocket.

  “I got a ride on its way,” he says in heavily accented English. “He’ll drop you at the border, bonita.” Sancho shrugs. “It’s better this way. Less witnesses that we were here,” he says in Spanish.

  “That’s bullshit.” I attempt to flag down another cab but find them all either tied up with a fare or they speed by without even looking.

  A blue two-door pickup truck pulls up, and Sancho meets it in the street. He says a few things to the driver then pops open the passenger side door.

  “Cesar will take you to the border, no charge.”

  The girl smiles and seems a little more sober. Maybe I’m misreading Sancho and he’s really trying to help. Still a little uneasy, I follow the girl to the truck.

  Once she’s inside, I lean in through her open window and set my eyes on the driver. “She goes to the border. No stops. Nothing. Straight there.”

  The guy blinks at me in recognition. He clearly knows who I am, but he acts as though he doesn’t understand English. I repeat my demand in Spanish, then just in case intimidation isn’t enough, I throw a thousand pesos into his lap.

  He plucks up the bill and shoves it into his pocket with a nod, agreeing to get her there safely. The girl waves as the truck pulls away and merges back into traffic.

  Sancho leans against the door of the car. “Just because we’re on a job doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun,” he mumbles in Spanish.

  Whatever. I ignore him, resume my position, and continue to scan my surroundings. All I want to do is get home, shower the criminal grime from my skin, and crawl into bed with Mercy.

  I imagine her curled up on her side, her hands shoved under the pillow and all that long, pale hair catching the moonlight as it streams through the window. A sense of peace washes away the constant pinch of disappointment that has become a regular in my gut. The ache I live with daily after walking away from my old life and plunging myself face-first into the life I despise.

  I mumble a string
of curses and pull back up the image in my head of Mercy sleeping easy and safely in el Jefe’s mansion, surrounded by armed guards. My sacrifice is a small price to pay for her safety.

  “That’s him. Ernesto,” Sancho says in Spanish then walks away to get some distance and keep his lookout.

  A short man who looks to be in his sixties comes along beside me. “Cervesa?”

  Rather than answer, I nod toward the small hole-in-the-wall-style cantina two doors down from where I parked. It’s dark, out of view, and the owner is on el Jefe’s payroll so there are no cameras or Fedarales inside.

  We take a seat at the bar and order a couple of Modelos. I don’t like drinking, especially when I’m on a job. I prefer to stay clear-minded. But for the sake of appearances, I swig back a mouthful of bitter beer.

  We chat briefly about the latest dog races and which boxers we support, but the small talk makes me antsy. With the key in my palm, I slap it on the bar and slide it to him only to have him snag it quickly and effortlessly.

  “One more thing,” I mumble in Spanish with my lips to my beer bottle before taking a swig. I lean on my forearms and keep my eyes forward. “You know where I can get a woman?”

  He gives me a list of different whorehouses in the area, none of them new or uncommon.

  “I’m looking for something a little more . . . unique. Underground. Where they keep the real special product.” I turn to look at him and frown when I see he’s genuinely confused.

  Shit. Dead end.

  “No, ese. I don’t know anything about that . . .” He goes on in Spanish about how beautiful the women are at Mirabonita and about how a guy like me shouldn’t have to pay for pussy.

  I’ve heard enough.

  I slap fifty pesos on the bar to pay for our drinks and nod.

  He goes back to drinking his beer as I stride out of the bar and to the El Camino. I give Sancho a few seconds to get in before I fire up the engine and we head back to the compound.