by JB Salsbury
Murmured voices hum all around me.
“It’s me . . .” But in my ears, it sounds like ithsme. “Mercy.”
The voices get louder, and something wet drips into my mouth. I try to swallow it but cough and gag until my stomach wrenches. The pain is so strong that my eyes fly open only to draw me into the softest pools of pale brown eyes.
I know you, I think.
Comfort washes over me, and more liquid is dropped into my mouth. The voices get louder, but I can’t make out the words. Those brown eyes darken with worry.
“Where . . .” am I?
I lose those warm eyes and watch his full lips move as he speaks. I can’t understand because he’s speaking Spanish.
Milo.
I try to sit up.
He presses me back. “Just relax.” He grins, but he’s worried, I can see it in the slight turn down at the corners of his lips. “You’re safe.”
He drips more water into my mouth. This time I’m able to swallow, then he drips more.
“There you go.” He pulls the heavy weight off of me, and with it goes the cold.
I shiver.
“I’m sorry, I was trying to bring your body temperature down. You overheated out there.”
“Where are we?” I clear the cobwebs from my throat.
“A house.” His expression grows lighter. “There’s no phone, but Manuel said he’d take us into town.”
“The kids?”
He pushes my hair off my forehead. “They’re good. Safe. A little scared but good.” He chuckles. “Since when did we start sounding like some old married couple?”
I laugh, but it’s weak. He drops his lips to mine, being cautious of my sensitive skin. A male voice says something in Spanish, and Milo answers then turns back to me and smiles.
“We should go,” I say.
“Not until the sun goes down.”
“Will we go to the police?”
“No, I don’t trust the federales. Esteban can’t know where I am.”
I don’t understand why we can’t call Esteban, but the “don’t ask” look in Milo’s face tells me that too is a story for another time. “Then where will we go?”
“I can only think of one person who will help us. To stay safe and to help whoever we left back there, we need to get to the border.”
Milo
I THOUGHT I’D lost her.
After finally making it to the small house and banging the door down, I had to calmly explain to the owner—who I now know as Manuel—that we’d been lost in the desert and needed help. He took a little convincing, but when he saw Philomena carrying the little angel, he let us right in. The only problem was there was no sign of Mercy.
As tired and sun-sick as I was, it surprised me when I was able to sprint. My feet dug into the sand, dirt, and rocks until I got to Mercy, who was flat on her back and baking in the sun. I scooped her up and nearly cried when I heard the tiny burst of air that came from her lips. Manuel let us right in, where I laid Mercy on the couch and he came over with ice blocks wrapped in plastic to try to cool her down.
Then she woke up.
Thank fuck she woke up.
While Mercy, Philomena, and the kids got rehydrated and ate a few tortillas with butter to get back some strength, I sat in Manuel’s kitchen and got to know the old man. I wanted to make sure his living out in the middle of the desert by himself wasn’t a warning sign that the guy was fucking loco.
Turns out Manuel used to own a successful restaurant in San Felipe. He and his wife ran the place for twenty years and made a decent living, enough to raise a handful of kids, but a cartel leader in the area—who Manuel wouldn’t even name out of fear that he’d somehow hear him—did some of his business at the restaurant. One night that business ended in bullets, one of which made a home in his wife’s head. He knew he couldn’t go to the cops because the cartel would have him killed, so he sold the restaurant for nothing and moved here with just enough money to build a small house and live until he ran out of cash and died.
As he spoke, his eyes filled with moisture and the muscles jumped in his weathered cheek. I recognized the emotion instantly—fury and grief. A sick fucking combination.
I couldn’t help but feel guilty. Esteban’s dealings in Mexico are far from the low-budget organization he ran with the Latino Saints in LA. The shit he deals, the people he runs with down here? They wouldn’t bat an eyelash at an innocent getting caught up in crossfire.
But I keep those thoughts to myself. When Manuel asks about me, I tell him I just graduated from high school in Los Angeles, that these are my friends and I need to get them back to the States. He doesn’t ask questions, but by the way he looks at Mercy and the kids, I can tell he’s curious. Cautious even.
Now Mercy and the kids are on the couch, all of them asleep, and Philomena is on the floor, her legs tucked behind her, her head on a cushion as she sleeps peacefully. I’m facing them from my seat in a plastic folding chair while Manuel moves around his small house, doing who knows what. I’ve jerked awake a few times, but I force my eyes open, so afraid I’ll blink and they’ll all be gone. Time passes slowly while we wait for sunset.
My lids pop wide open and a soft hand on my face brings me to Mercy’s pale eyes.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you, but we have to go.”
“I’m glad you did.” I rub my eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” I sit up straight from my slumped position in the chair, and my muscles scream and cramp.
Mercy steps between my knees, and I pull her close, resting my forehead against her chest as she runs her hands through my hair.
I hum at the comfort of her touch. “You keep that up, I’ll fall back to sleep.” When she doesn’t laugh, I tilt my chin up to look at her. A small frown tilts her pretty pale lips. “What is it?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I want this to be over with, but it feels like we have so far to go.”
I tug her close, bringing her to my lap. “There’s so much we need to figure out. There’s a lot I need to tell you and things you might not like.”
“I don’t care—”
I silence her with a kiss, and she melts deeper into me. “Later. First, let’s get us all somewhere safe and get the authorities to go clean out Papa’s sicko circus.”
Her gaze darts down. “I can’t remember much, but I know what I did. Do I tell?”
“I remember Laura said they gave you something that messed with your memory. We’ll keep what you were forced to do a secret for now, okay? Once the right people see what’s going on in there, see where you were kept all your life, there’s no way they’ll press charges for doing what you had to do to escape.”
“And them?” She nods toward Philomena, Dom, and the little angel. “What will become of them?”
“I don’t know, but I can promise you that wherever they go, it’ll be a fuck of a lot healthier than the place they came from.”
“Amor joven.” Manuel stands nearby with a soft expression, but I see the pain that pinches his eyes. “Aferrarse a ella.”
“Young love,” Mercy whispers.
I squeeze her close.
“What else did he say?” she asks.
“He told me to hold on to you.” I swing my gaze from Mercy’s soft eyes to Manuel. “Planeo continuar. Estamos listos?”
“Si.” He heads to the door.
“What did you say?” she says.
“I told him I plan to.” I hug her tight to punctuate my words. I have every intention of holding onto Mercy now and for as long as she’ll let me. I’ll do everything I can to keep from chasing her away again. I help Mercy off my lap. “It’s time to go.”
The kids and Philomena are all awake and waiting in the kitchen. I cringe when I see the blistering red burn on Dom’s head and cheeks. He’s going to need medical attention as soon as we get to the border. Mercy’s face is bright red as well, and her back where her gown is open would’ve been just as burnt if it weren’t for the hu
man SPF she carried through the desert.
I squat down to Dom. “You feeling okay?”
“I am. My face hurts.” The kid looks as though he’s been underfed for most his life.
“We’ll get you some medicine for that as soon as we can.” I hold my hand up and he stares at it, his white eyebrows pinched inward against flaming red skin.
“Here.” I pick his arm up by the wrist and press his two-fingered hand into my palm. “It’s called a high-five.” The second the word is out of my mouth, I wish like hell I could take it back, but Dom doesn’t seem to notice or care and holds up his hand for another slap. “Cool, let’s get going.”
Little angel looks okay. She’s swimming in the black sweatshirt I brought for Mercy, and her eyes are wide and staring blankly at the wall. She’s been mostly quiet since we got to Manuel’s, but I think shock is fairly normal after what she’s been through. Philomena helps the kids into the back of Manuel’s minivan before climbing in. I help Mercy in then get in the front seat.
Manuel turns the key four times, making the engine groan and howl in protest before finally coming to life. The interior smells like cigarette smoke and sweat, but the sweat could be coming from us. Duranguese music comes from the small speakers. The one on the right side is completely blown, giving it a muffled, static sound.
We leave Manuel’s house in a cloud of dust before we eventually hit a paved road. Everyone in the back talks about food and wanting a bath and some clean clothes while I study our surroundings in order to explain how to get back.
“You’re pretty secluded out here,” I say in Spanish.
“I like it that way.”
“Where’s the closest neighbor?” I wonder how much he knows about what goes down roughly ten miles from his house.
“Closest city, if you can even call it a city, is Héroes del Desierto.”
I do the mental calculation in my head. That town is a little over an hour out of Tijuana, which makes sense with the lengthy van ride. There are few signs or other people on the barren highway that takes us toward the border. As each mile marker passes, I’m more and more at ease about getting us all to safety, which leaves me worrying about Esteban and the LS. There’s no place far enough from Esteban’s reach.
He took out my mom for her defiance.
I wouldn’t put it past him to take out his own son.
We’re almost at the one-hour mark when the lights of Tijuana pierce the thick darkness. Manuel plans to drop us off at the border, where I hope I can get the attention of the US guards, explain we’re United States citizens, and demand to speak to whoever is in charge. I’ll need to make a couple phone calls. After that, our fate is in their hands.
“THANK YOU, MANUEL.” I pull off my watch and offer it to him, but he only pushes it away.
He jerks his chin toward the back of the van. “Get them out of here and keep them safe. That is payment enough.”
I shake his hand and help get the kids out of the back and onto the sidewalk, where Mercy gathers them close. The streets and walkways are filled with people—vendors selling a hundred different kinds of Mexican specialties, tourists, and Federales.
Mercy and the kids get the most stares, the young ones still in their dirty gown-like outfits and Mercy wearing the sweatshirt with the hood up. Her gown is blood-stained, and now that we’re so close to freedom, I don’t need the complication of someone spotting her.
“Everyone hold hands and stay together,” I say.
I grip Mercy’s hand, she laces her fingers with the little angel, who is holding on to Dom, with Philomena rounding up the end. We all walk quickly, weaving through the crowds and avoiding vendors who have zero respect for personal space.
The main entrance to the border building has four sliding glass doors that auto-open when we get close. Inside, a few agents stand at checkpoints to verify papers before waving people through. We hit the shortest line with just a few people in front of us. The agent does a double-take when we get close, but he maintains his professionalism as he checks passports. Mercy squeezes my hand as we take a few steps forward.
The guard’s eyes jump from the small pale-headed children to Mercy then to me as if he’s ready for an explanation but only asks, “What is your citizenship?”
“United States.”
“Can I see your ID?”
“We don’t have any.”
He frowns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“Look at them.” I don’t need to specify who I’m talking about.
His eyes go directly to the children. He must see their bruised and scabbed bare feet protruding from filthy torn slippers, dirty clothes, cracked lips, and severe burns. His eyes widen when Dom scratches his chest with his mutilated hand.
“If I could just use your phone, it would really help.”
He pulls a walkie from his hip and presses the button. “We have a situation. I’m gonna need the chief out here.”
He asks us to step to the side while he checks the documents of the people who’ve lined up behind us. Each of them pass by and look at us with varying degrees of disgust and compassion.
The man who I assume is the chief walks out looking as if he’s prepared for a fight, but when he sets eyes on us, specifically the kids, all the tension in his expression melts away. “What’s going on here?”
Mercy pulls off her hood, giving the man a jolt. “We’ve been held captive our entire lives and finally escaped. The longer you allow us to sit out here in the open, the more at risk we are of being captured again.” She steps forward, as close to the agents as she can with the half wall that separates us. “Please. Help us.”
The chief opens the gate and ushers us through, directing us to follow him to his office. As illogical as it may sound, just knowing our feet are back on US soil has me breathing a sigh of relief. The kids, Mercy, Philomena, they’ll all be safe here.
As for me? I may end up dead either way.
Mercy
CHIEF BASTILLA GIVES us all bottled waters, little bags of potato chips, and enough Coca Cola to keep us awake. Milo explains our story, starting with where he rescued us but leaving out the part about me murdering the man who kept me for all my life. When I asked him about it earlier, he shook his head and asked me to trust him.
Milo gives the chief the location of where we were held and lets him know we suspect there are others.
The chief runs his finger along a paper map he unfolded onto his desk. “You’re saying it’s about fifteen miles southeast of Heroes?”
“Yeah, it’s out in the middle of the desert and most of it is underground.”
The chief turns to his computer and hits a dozen buttons. “Pretty sure the place has been raided before.”
“What?” I look at Milo, who seems as confused as I feel.
“Yeah, looks like . . .” He types more. “Couple years ago. They didn’t find anything major. Sex for sale, but nothing like you’re describing.”
They were there? And they didn’t find us. I scoot forward to the edge of seat. “He kept us hidden, in the tunnels. People are—”
“He?” The chief looks over his reading glasses at me, his bushy gray eyebrows raised high. “You know his name?”
Milo squeezes my thigh under the table. “No, they all called him Papa.”
“Huh.” He grabs his cell phone. “All right, we’ll see what we can do about getting out there. In the meantime, why don’t you make that phone call, and I’ll be back with Child Protective Services.”
Milo snags the phone off the desk and punches buttons.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
He hits speakerphone, and the ringing fills the room.
“Hello?”
My eyes pop wide at the sound of Laura’s voice. “Laura!”
“Mercy?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Oh God, Mercy, honey, where are you?” There’s mumbling in the background and Chris’s grumbled questions. “Are you okay
?”
“I don’t know, um . . .” I meet Milo’s eyes in question, and he smiles sadly.
“Laura, it’s Milo.”
“Milo! Oh my . . . where are you? I’m coming to get you both, please tell me you’re all right?”
“We’re fine, but we’ve got a bit of a problem and we really need your help.”
“Of course. Anything. What is it?”
“We’re at the border in San Ysidro. We’re going to need a lawyer, a doctor, and you might want to put a call in to Andy. There are some kids like Mercy who could really use some help.”
“Oh my God . . . Milo, stay put.” Her voice is stern and all business. “I’m on my way.”
Bastilla walks into the room and shoves his cell phone into his pocket.
“Hold on, Laura,” Milo says.
“Yeah?”
The chief nods toward the phone.
“There’s someone here who would like to talk to you.”
The speaker goes silent for a few beats until Laura says, “Okay.”
“This is Chief Bastilla,” he says and drops into his squeaky desk chair.
“Chief Bastilla, those are my children, and if they’re not kept safe until I get there, I swear to God I’ll hold you personally responsible.”
He blushes and grabs the receiver, taking Laura off speakerphone, but I can still hear her ranting from the tiny speaker he presses to his ear.
“—yes, ma’am. I—uh-huh, I assure you they’ll be—” He pinches his lips together and stares between Milo and me. “Understood.” He hangs up the phone and blows out a breath. “All right, you guys hang tight. Your mother will be here soon and we’ll get all this straightened out.”
I notice Milo doesn’t correct him that she’s not our mother and we’re legal adults, not children, so I keep my lips sealed too.
Milo turns toward me and takes my hands. His warm eyes melt into mine. “You okay?”
“I think so. Yes.”
He searches my face as if trying to determine if I’m lying. We still don’t know what will happen from here. Will we go back to Laura’s? Will the kids be safe and get the kind of care I received when I had to learn to acclimate to life outside of the same room?