Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  “Señorita, I have all the drugs and money I could ever want.” He turned his stare on her full-force for the first time and she took an involuntary step back. His eyes were pale, pale green, almost yellow. “I’d prefer to stay and look at your artwork. And perhaps meet your model.” His raspy voice had the same accent as Marco.

  She shook her head, frantically thinking. “I used a reference photo to paint from. No model.”

  “I will wait for him.” He advanced toward her. Rey retreated. “I think Marco Santiago Flores will come back to you, given the proper incentive.”

  A chill ran down her spine. He knew Marco’s full name. She was the only person in Chicago who knew his full name. She bumped against the countertop where she had been cleaning her brushes and reached behind her for the razor knife she used to cut her canvases.

  Gripping the knife handle, she waved it at him. “No one comes to my home and threatens me.”

  He laughed. “Such a tigresa. No wonder Flores has been sniffing around you.”

  He pounced on her with the swiftness of a wild animal. Metal clanged and glass shattered on her workbench. She didn’t have time to scream before he was grinding her wrist in his painful clasp. Her heart pounded frantically as he forced her grip open.

  The knife clattered to the floor. She swung her left fist at his head, clipping him on the jaw. He slipped in a puddle and went down on one knee.

  She tugged futilely at his strong grasp. He was so close she could see the cold glitter in his eyes.

  “Muy bien.” He shook off her punch and stood. “Did Flores tell you I like women who fight me? Just ask his mamá.”

  So this was the man who’d tried to rape Marco’s mother. She glared at him. “A real man doesn’t need to force a woman.”

  His return stare was yellow and feral. He increased the pressure, bending her hand at an obscene angle. “How many statues will you sculpt after hand surgery?” She moaned as he twisted her wrist another few degrees. “I’ve found that torn tendons and ligaments heal much more slowly than broken bones.”

  She panicked and kicked at his crotch. He twisted away.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he chided. His pinky ring split her lip and she tasted coppery blood.

  He forced her to her knees and smiled at her. “I can see why Flores stayed here instead of moving on. You are quite appealing in that position.”

  “You can scuttle under whatever rock you came from.” She forced the brave words through the lump in her throat.

  “What a mouth you have.” He looked amused. “If only I had more time, I would put it to better use.”

  Rey tried a rational tone of voice, although she knew she was dealing with an irrational man. “If you leave now, I won’t call the cops.”

  He actually laughed. “I have Colombian cartels to answer to. Do you think your Chicago Police Department worries me?”

  The loft door rattled open. “Reina, we have to get out of here! Eddie said Rodríguez is on his way—” He froze in horror for a split second.

  “Marco, watch out!”

  He was already drawing his steel-gray pistol and spinning into a crouch.

  Rodríguez released her wrists and wrenched her to her feet. Yanking on her braid, he slammed her against him.

  “So, Flores, back to where we started.” The drug lord’s breath was hot and stale. She struggled, but he held fast.

  “With you hiding behind a woman?” Marco’s tone was cool, the pistol never wavering. Rodríguez’s arm tightened across her throat.

  “Ah, yes. Your beautiful mamá. Such a ripe body. And those sweet lips of hers.” He sighed in mock nostalgia and added a couple sentences in Spanish. She didn’t understand the words, but the vulgar tone was clear.

  Marco’s knuckles whitened around the pistol grip. “I should have cut your throat on that raft when you were unconscious. Mamá said no.”

  “A woman of mercy.”

  Marco laughed coldly. “No. She almost did it herself until she realized a shark feeding frenzy might swamp the raft.”

  He stiffened with rage. “Enough!” he barked. “Toss that pistol over in the corner.”

  Marco’s hand never wavered.

  “Do it!” Rodríguez wrapped her braid around his fist and yanked her head sideways. Her neck muscles screamed from the awkward angle.

  “Don’t do it, Marco!” She couldn’t see his face anymore, just the paint-stained concrete floor. “He wants to kill you!”

  “You know me, Flores. I can snap her neck in one second.”

  “You’d be dead the next second.”

  “Are you going to risk your pretty blond whore? If you drop the gun, I might let her live. Not you, of course. You know too much.”

  Only the rasping of her breath broke the silence. Until she heard metal clatter against the floor. “No, Marco!” Hot tears blurred her eyes.

  “What now, Lobo?”

  Rey tensed her muscles to run to Marco.

  “Please, señorita, stay here with me.” A circle of metal pressed into her neck. She froze, the gun’s chill pouring through her body.

  “If you hurt her, I’ll cut you up and feed you to the sharks. They don’t have any qualms about eating their own.” Marco’s voice was cold and deadly, but she saw his face turn pale, his lips thinning.

  “How touching.” The older man laughed. “Your obvious affection for each other will only make my task more appealing.” He released her hair and reached into his overcoat pocket. She panicked. Was it a knife this time? Instead he pulled out a roll of silver duct tape. “Look familiar, Flores? I brought the duct tape especially for you.” He nudged Rey with the gun. “Walk slowly over to your lover and tape his wrists and ankles.”

  “What’s the matter, Rodríguez? Are you afraid to come over here and do it yourself?” Marco’s eyes glittered as he taunted the drug lord. “I taped you up myself on the raft and I was only twelve.”

  “Shut up!” Rey watched apprehensively as a purple vein bulged on his temple. “Now walk slowly and tape his wrists behind him.”

  Her shoes scuffed against the concrete as she crossed to Marco. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

  “It’ll be all right, corazón.” He turned his back to her and brought his wrists together behind him. She started to tape around the thick cuffs of his coat, not touching his skin at all. Maybe he could slip his arms free.

  “Señorita Freya, that is not exactly what I had in mind.” Rodríguez’s sardonic voice stopped her covert maneuvers. “Pull off his coat and try again.”

  She bit her lip and pulled off his coat, wanting desperately to wrap her arms around him and hide them both.

  “Do it, Reina.” Marco’s voice was cold and expressionless.

  She found the end of the duct tape and wrapped his wrists together.

  “Now lie on your stomach, Flores.”

  She threw the drug lord a hate-filled glance as Marco obeyed, dropping to his knees. She helped him ease down, his entire body rigid.

  Rodríguez watched them with a glittering stare. She realized he was becoming sexually aroused. He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and began stroking himself, and she almost gagged. Frantic, she looked for a weapon, a cell phone, anything, but he pointed the gun at Marco’s head. “Tape his ankles to his wrists.”

  She froze. If Marco were bound hand and foot, he would be helpless. So would she.

  Rodríguez cocked the gun. The hammer’s harsh metallic click shattered the silence.

  No. She would not be helpless. As long as she kept cool, she would save them. She bent to tape Marco’s ankles, whispering encouragement to him.

  “Perfect.” The older man uncocked the pistol. “Come here.”

  She forced her wobbly legs to abandon Marco and return to their enemy, the stink of turpentine assaulting her nose as she drew near. The metal container had spilled onto the floor during their struggle. She realized with a savage glee that he’d stumbled into the combustible solvent when she’d knocked him over.
Wet patches ruined his expensive pants and loafers.

  Her small victory vanished as he put the gun down and stroked her cheek, his damp fingertips leaving trails of slime on her skin. “Give me the duct tape.” His voice was low and intimate, a grotesque loverlike parody.

  With Marco tied up on his stomach, their enemy obviously felt safe to assault her. She shook her head, recoiling. Could she reach the weapon before he did?

  He read the direction of her stare. “Now, querida, if you took my pistol, would you even know how to use it?” He strapped her wrists together with several turns of duct tape.

  The Spanish endearment sounded creepy coming from the older man instead of Marco. For the first time in her pacifistic Swedish life she wished she’d had formal weapons training. She wanted to kill him with her bare hands. “You’re nothing but a low-life criminal.” Maybe if she enraged him, he’d get careless.

  “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.” He pulled off a six-inch length of tape and held it in front of her. “Before you condemn me, look at your boyfriend. He knew about at least three murders and even went along as backup for one.”

  Marco interrupted, “Reina, I was deep undercover. I pretended to go along until I had enough evidence for an indictment. The killings happened in the Caribbean, where I had no way to stop them.”

  “Who died?” Rey hoped to God it wasn’t an innocent police officer or soldier.

  The older man shrugged. “Rival dealers. Scum. The last one forced underage girls to smuggle in drugs and then sold them into prostitution. When my man Sánchez shot him, he was raping one of the girls.”

  He turned to Marco. “Thanks to me, Flores, you understand street justice. It’s a good thing you won’t live long enough to go back to your straight-arrow job with the federales.”

  “I’ll live long enough to see you behind bars.”

  Rodríguez strode over to Marco and kicked him in the ribs. Marco flinched but didn’t groan. “No more tracking down and killing street trash.”

  The drug lord grabbed Marco’s forehead, forcing his head up into a contorted position. “You have the succulent taste of blood on your tongue. You have the sweet stench of fear in your nostrils as someone begs you for his life.” His voice became a sibilant hiss. Marco’s face turned purple from the increasing pressure on his neck. “You can never go back. You have become what you hate.”

  “That’s not true! He’s not like you!”

  Rey shrank away as he dropped Marco’s head and walked toward her with the strip of duct tape.

  “Not yet anyway. After all, Flores stopped Sánchez from shooting the girl. Said he wanted a piece of her first. I suppose you smuggled her to safety, didn’t you?”

  “Far from the likes of you.” Marco’s voice was husky, but his color had subsided to his normal tan.

  “Now, now, you of all people know I like my women nice and round and mature. Like your mamá. Like your girlfriend.” He turned to her and wadded up the strip of tape, his eyes glowing. “On second thought, I won’t tape your mouth. I can think of several other things to do with it.” He shoved her and she stumbled onto the chaise, perching on the edge.

  “Keep your damn hands off her!” Marco rolled onto his side with a thud, muscles bulging futilely against his bonds.

  Rey shuddered, thinking frantically. He’d given her an idea with his nasty innuendo. “How about a drink?” she asked brightly. Her mother had left a bottle of sleeping pills the last time she visited. Rey had just tossed them into one of her kitchen cabinets. Could she slip some into his drink? “I have whiskey, vodka and that Cuban beer with the Indian on the label.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered how she and Marco had shared a bottle of Hatuey beer right before they made love for the first time. They would share another bottle as soon as she beat that murderous bastard.

  Her thoughts must have shown on her face because he laughed. “Forgive me my suspicious nature, but I must decline your hospitality. However, there is something I’ve been wanting to do.” He turned his attention to the vest pocket of his overcoat. She was dumbfounded at what he removed.

  A long, fat cigar that looked like a stick of dynamite and would be just as deadly.

  Marco groaned. “Those damn cigars of yours.” His voice was tight and worried.

  “Damn cigars?” Rodríguez smirked. “I’ll have you know these are hand-rolled to my personal specifications by the fine workers of Cuba.” He trimmed the end of the cigar with tiny gold scissors and produced a heavy gold lighter from the same pocket.

  “No, stop! You can’t smoke in here!” The odor of turpentine was strong enough to choke on. What was the matter with the man? Couldn’t he smell the fumes? She looked at Marco. He shook his head.

  “Ah, you Americans and your antismoking.” Rodríguez chuckled indulgently. “Afraid I’m going to pollute the air of your precious loft?”

  “You polluted it by just coming here.” Rey couldn’t let him light that cigar.

  His face hardened. “Or maybe you just want to get down to business. Find out what you’ve been missing.”

  “Just let him smoke the damn thing, Rey. Mouth cancer is a painful death.” Marco flicked his glance between her and his enemy, obviously calculating something.

  “Ah, but you’ll be dead long before me, Flores.”

  Not if she could help it. “Oh, just smoke the damn thing,” she managed to say through a tight throat, imitating Marco’s flip tone.

  “How kind of you to allow me one of the few gustatory pleasures I still have.” He bowed mockingly at her. “Unfortunately I lost my sense of smell years ago. Occupational hazard.”

  “Cooking drugs in jungle labs will do that.” Marco jerked his chin, motioning to the chaise. It was a solid Victorian piece, the heavy hardwood frame covered in thick upholstery. Maybe it could block some of the explosion sure to come.

  But Marco didn’t have any protection. All of her papers, canvases and paints were tinder for the flames. Marco would be unable to escape.

  The bile rose in her throat. Time slowed as Rodríguez’s hand settled on his gold lighter. She saw every ridge on the striker wheel pass under the flesh of his thumb. The heavy wood dug into her back as she scooted her feet under her. The flint sparked. For an agonizing moment Rey saw the turpentine fumes shimmer around the drug lord.

  “Now, Rey!” Marco shouted. A flash of orange flame engulfed the man who called himself El Lobo. She threw herself onto the chaise and somersaulted behind it. She crashed hard on her right shoulder, her bound hands unable to break her fall.

  The older man let out a long, hideous scream that raised the hair on her neck.

  “Get out, Rey!” Marco’s beautiful face was reddened from the explosion, his hair and eyebrows singed. He rolled to his side and tried to scoot himself to the loft’s heavy sliding door.

  She struggled to her feet, ignoring her painful shoulder. She tried to free Marco, but the tape had tightened from his struggles and she couldn’t find the seam. “Hold on!” She flipped him onto his stomach and grabbed his calves with her own bound hands. She was grateful that adrenaline and years of hauling heavy stone blocks gave her strength to lug his helpless body to the door. She threw open the door and dragged him outside. He gasped as his injured ribs bumped across the threshold, snowflakes landing on his reddened skin.

  An animalistic howl rose above the fierce winter wind that whipped up the flames. She turned to see Rodríguez rolling in agony, beating at his fiery legs and chest. He lit a pile of sketch pads on fire with his frantic moves. If she didn’t put out the fire, he’d light her whole loft ablaze.

  “Rey, you don’t have time! The bullets in the guns cook off when they get too hot!” Ignoring Marco’s shouts, she fumbled for her small fire extinguisher and pressed the lever.

  She sprayed the burning papers and turpentine puddles before turning to the man who’d held them prisoner and planned to kill them both. She couldn’t just leave him to burn to death in her home. Despite what he’d
tried to do, no one deserved that. Well, maybe he did. But she wasn’t going to have any dead-guy vibes in her home. She sprayed him with thick white foam, emptying the extinguisher on his miserable carcass.

  She heard the wail of sirens from the fire station three blocks over. Thank God. They could deal with the mess. She only wanted to free Marco and make sure he was all right.

  “Flores!” A terrible croak stopped her in her tracks.

  She turned and saw Rodríguez had pulled himself to his knees. He lifted his gun in one shaking hand and pointed it at Marco, who was perfectly outlined by the streetlight. Marco stared at his enemy, his body bracing for the bullet’s impact.

  “No!” Rey screamed. The berserker blood of her Viking ancestors roared through her veins. She kicked his wrist. He screamed and dropped the weapon as his bones crunched under her toes. “That’s for trying to kill us!”

  Oil paints on a smoldering canvas burst into flame, but she ignored it. She aimed a kick at his stomach. “That’s for hurting my sculpting arm.” The orange flames and the ancient bloodlust turned her vision red.

  She pulled back her foot once more. “And that’s for Marco’s mamá and all the other women you hurt!” Her sneaker sunk satisfyingly into his balls as he screamed and toppled to the floor.

  The firefighters rushed by her as she ran to Marco. The paramedics had already cut him free. He grabbed her in a desperate embrace, each wrist still encircled with silver duct-tape shreds. “Why the hell did you go back? I told you the bullets cook off!”

  “I don’t even know what the hell that means!”

  He closed his eyes for a second and kissed her hard. “It means they explode. You could have been killed.”

  “Oh.” She shuddered, finally realizing how close they had both come to dying. She ground her mouth against his, her tongue tangling with his, inhaling his smoky scent.

  The paramedic cleared his throat. “Hey, buddy, miss, we gotta check you both out. Not that you don’t look like you’re doin’ okay, but them’s the rules.”

  Rey reluctantly let go of him but wouldn’t take her eyes off him, not even grimacing when the paramedic ripped the duct tape off her skin.