by Camilla Monk
“Are you making excuses for him?”
“No. I’m just trying to understand.”
Because if my father truly killed a sixteen-year-old girl and her mother in cold blood . . . I don’t know how I can deal with that. It hits a raw nerve, makes me think of my mother.
His chest heaves, and the deep exhale that follows smells faintly of the cigar he must have smoked before he joined me. “He’s probably not the only monster I created. There’re two things you can never fully control in our business: side casualties, and . . . what you might call the ripples. Everything that will unfold once the job is done.”
I shift to look at his profile, barely outlined by the distant glow of the Refugio’s lights. “So that’s what they were, Morgan’s mother and his sister, side casualties?”
“They weren’t supposed to be in the plane.” In the dark, his hand moves to take mine, like a big, warm paw squeezing my fingers a little too tight. I startle before gripping it in return. “But it’s no use living in the past; I’m not asking for anyone’s forgiveness,” he adds gruffly. “Morgan should have never touched you. He should have come to me and faced me like a man. I would have given him a fair fight.”
“You would have killed him,” I correct him.
Dries’s thumb strokes my palm. “Of course.”
“So he went to Anies instead . . . like Stiles did.”
He jackknifes up with a look of outrage. “Please don’t tell me you feel sorry for that clown too!”
“Not really . . . more like this impression that . . . it never ends. They take revenge, you take revenge, and it goes on and on.”
Dries’s lips curl in disdain. “He was a low-grade frumentarius who traded intel behind my back—”
“I honestly don’t care what he did fifteen years ago,” I say wearily. “Don’t you ever have regrets? You never wish you’d have worked nine-to-five in your biltong factory?”
“And missed out on all this?” He chuckles, waving at the Refugio and the jungle around us. “No. But when Léa left . . .” His voice softens, hesitates before he goes on. “I found out she was pregnant a few months later, and I was too proud to beg. I told myself that if she wanted out, she could go to hell for all I cared.”
I reach for his hand again, gripping it under the stars while my heart breaks silently.
“I should have gone after her, kept you both.”
I sit up in my turn and huddle against him. I smell the sandalwood and the cigar. My father’s scent. “You would have made a terrible dad,” I say, wrestling the word past the lump in my throat.
“I know.”
•••
When I return from the garden, I find March lying on the bed with his eyes closed, his breathing soft and even. He almost fools me into thinking he’s fallen asleep, but he never lets his guard down: he stirs the moment I make it past the muslin curtains, as if that mere whisper was enough to alert him to my presence. I strip down to my underwear to join him back in bed and curl against him. The room goes silent, save for the occasional birdcall past the walls of the Refugio.
He gathers me close and presses a kiss to my forehead. “I saw you chat with Dries; I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Don’t worry; we’re safe. He doesn’t know what happened with the sloth.”
“I get to live to see another day,” March notes, a smile playing on his lips.
“Is it true that Angel is super Catholic, by the way? It sounds—”
“Strange?”
“Kind of.”
“It’s true. He thinks God needs monsters like him too. I’m still not entirely certain how he reconciles the path he chose and the demands of the Lord—he tried to explain it to me once, but I thought it was very convoluted, and we were watching his men bury half a dozen bodies in the jungle at the time.” He sighs. “But he thinks God is sending him signs once in a while. He accepted Beatriz’s wedding because Jesus came to him in a dream and told him Antonio was his cross to bear.”
I caress his chest, threading my fingers in the silky curls there. “Do you think God sends you signs too?”
“I don’t know. Religion never made much sense for me. But I’m starting to think he’s looking down, and he doesn’t want someone like me to defile you.”
This time I snort in laughter. “March, I honestly think the sloth was an accident.”
But March doesn’t laugh; he looks at me, his irises shining with an emotion I’m not sure I can read in the dark. “Maybe he believes you deserve better—”
“You’re all I need.”
He goes silent, his hand rising to caress my cheek. I lean into his touch as he smiles, and he replies, “Then I suppose I’m Dries’s cross to bear.”
THIRTY-TWO
THE RABBIT HOLE
Time slipped away too fast. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and I recognize Dries’s deep voice and March’s smoother intonations. I push back the comforter and peek in the direction of their hushed voices. March is standing in the bedroom’s doorway and is listening, shirtless, as Dries delivers the news. “. . . Retreating north . . . accepted the deal.”
Anies took the bait. He’s easing up his iron grasp of Angel’s territory in exchange for us. After they’re done, March returns to the bed and sits on the edge. I don’t know what to say that could possibly reassure him, so I just crawl out of the comforter and kiss his cheek. A low purr rises from him in response. “It’s time, biscuit.”
“I know.”
We don’t shower. No need to when we’re supposed to have spent the night in Angel’s basement, and we’re going to wear filthy cargo pants and shirts anyway. I get a tank top too—one that must have been white decades ago. The three of us meet with Angel’s men in the lobby. I can see the muscles work in March’s jaw as he tries to adjust to the grimy clothes they made him wear. We get a little dirt smeared on our faces for good measure; I lace my fingers with March’s when I see his throat constrict while Ernesto’s fingers swipe at his cheeks. I remind myself, with a shudder, that it’s probably nothing compared to the rest of the day awaiting us.
We’re led outside, where three armored station wagons await, their black paint gleaming in the golden light of dawn. It rained a little, and the temperature dropped during the night. Fresh air engulfs us, heavy with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Angel walks to us, carrying hinged handcuffs. Before he can lock mine in place, Dries pulls me to him. The pink sky and glistening vegetation spin around me, their colors blend. I close my eyes and block it all out while my father hugs me tight. His voice is a low rasp meant just for me as he says. “Now you have my blessing, little Island.”
I bury my face in his chest, dirt be damned, and I squeeze him. I eventually let go with a sigh and step back to slap his arm. “Now man up, poes.”
A deep laugh shakes his shoulders as he allows Angel to handcuff him. March’s turn comes. “You know what to do,” Angel tells him once he’s finished. I examine the handcuffs now securing his wrists. Rigged? When it’s my turn, Angel’s touch is unexpectedly gentle, guiding my hands into the thick steel trap. I feel March’s eyes on us, a flicker of jealousy hovering close to the surface of those blue pools. Angel ignores him though, and his fingers wrap around my arms, rotating them carefully in opposite directions. “You need the right angle,” he explains. “Then you apply a little pressure. You don’t need to push hard, but do it fast, like you want to snap them off.”
I flick my wrists the way he showed me, and to my amazement, the handcuffs give way with a sharp click. Satisfied, Angel closes them again, and they snap back in place. One of his men opens the door to one of the station wagons for me. I’m about to climb inside when I notice a flash of white at the edge of my vision. A ghost has been watching us. Standing atop the stairs in front of the villa’s entrance, the Queen is here. The pristine silk of her jumpsuit billows around her body as she walks down, flanked by her bodyguards.
She plants herself in front of March. “Never show yourself before me
again.”
The words are harsh, but the rueful curve of her lips tells another story. After twelve years, she’s setting him free, for good.
I offer her a tentative smile. “Thank you.”
She shrugs it off. “There’s little guarantee either of you will live anyway.” She then walks to Dries, and jaws collectively drop when she places a hand on his chest. Her smile turns coy as she leans closer to whisper in his ear, “You are forgiven after all.”
I stare at the two of them in complete disbelief, at the boyish glee in his eyes, the sway of her hips as she walks away, regal, indeed. Oh God . . . I send a distressed look to Dries, who cocks a suggestive eyebrow in return. For the first time, I notice the thin gold chain under Angel’s shirt when he clutches the tiny cross nested between his collarbones and utters a low expletive in Spanish. March was right: Angel has Jesus on speed dial.
And by the way, the true Lion king struck again.
•••
The station wagon jostles through the jungle along the Rio San Miguel, shrouded in the morning fog. Sitting by March’s side, facing Dries and Angel in the opposite seats, I watch palm trees flash by, lining the muddy banks. We pass wood-and-tin shacks overlooking the murky waters in which the occasional canoe glides by. I can feel my pulse slowly rise as we approach a rickety bridge marking the limits of Angel’s territory. I wish I could take March’s hand, but feeling him next to me will have to be enough.
I take deep, slow breaths.
“I’m with you,” he murmurs.
I startle and look up at him. His face is a perfectly blank mask, but I know better. We share the same fear, and it’s oddly comforting to think that we’re so attuned to each other. It’s been a while since we saw any house, and through the foliage, the bridge comes in sight.
Dries’s eyes narrow when we get close enough to discern a procession of black SUVs waiting on the other side. “Here we go . . .”
In spite of our audience, March bends toward me on an impulse, to kiss me. A brief swipe of his tongue against mine earns us a low hiss from Dries—“Fokenwil . . .” For fuck’s sake . . .—before the doors open, and Angel gets all business. He shoves us out with controlled strength, and his men drag us toward the bridge, in the middle of which a group of men now awaits. I recognize the black uniforms I had gotten used to seeing everywhere at Ingolvinlinna.
My sneakers skid in the fresh mud, each step harder than the previous one. In my legs, the muscles tense and protest, my self-preservation instinct kicking in to stall my body, warring with my will to keep walking. I can do this. I’ll return where it all started, in the cradle of Anies’s palm.
March darts anxious eyes at me, but we keep going, stumbling under an occasional vicious shove—Angel’s men take their job very seriously. Under our feet, the squishy ground becomes solid wood that creaks ominously with each step. We’re on the bridge. Our improvised captors stop and aim their guns at us. We cross without looking back, toward the mist from which shiny black hoods emerge.
When we reach the middle, Anies’s Lions encircle us, their guns drawn much in the same way Angel’s men have done. As they escort us silently to the other side, I glimpse the rear window of Angel’s car rising. He’s watching us go. Our fate now depends entirely on whether he and the Queen can successfully storm Saraya while we entertain Anies with our much-desired presence . . .
We’ve crossed the bridge. The trail on which the SUVs parked appears to zigzag back into the jungle. Into the depths of Anies’s small kingdom. The door to one of the cars snaps open and a lean figure steps out. I shiver, but it’s almost a reflex. Seeing Morgan’s eye patch and his leather jacket tear through the fog, I’m overwhelmed by anger, and sadness most of all. That’s it; he has what he wants, and the grin cracking through his stubble says so. Like me, he’s reached the end of the rabbit hole, and his reward awaits him. Dries is at his mercy.
He walks to us and holds his fist in front of his mouth, like this is all too much joy. He looks like a little boy opening his Christmas presents. He sizes Dries up and down, his gaze burning with the madness that consumes him. He laughs and shakes his head. “Whew. I kind of worried Somoza would kill you. But you’re here.” He shivers in apparent delight. “And you’re all mine.”
Dries returns his smile. “Am I? Or did Anies order you to bring me to him?”
Morgan’s joyful mask wavers. “Don’t get your hopes up. I have his word. Once he’s done with you, you and I are gonna spend some quality time together.”
Dries shrugs off the threat. “What are we waiting for then?”
With a jerk of his head, Morgan signals for his men to take us to the cars. “They ride with me,” he says, looking at Dries and me. “And do something about Mr. November. I didn’t like what happened in Romania,” he adds, sending a hateful glare March’s way.
As soon as he’s said this, one of the men produces a syringe from a pouch on his jacket. He tears the plastic wrapping with his teeth while two men take hold of March, who strains against them before submitting with gritted teeth. Dries tenses—he probably didn’t expect that. I leap toward March when they stab his neck. “No!”
Morgan pulls me back roughly and fists my hair. I shriek in pain as, before me, March sways and falls to his knees, his breathing increasingly labored.
“Island, calm down!” Dries shouts.
I draw a shuddering exhale and relax in Morgan’s grip. He’s right. There’s nothing we can do for now. We need to bend, because that’s how we’ll resist. I let Morgan drag me toward one of the SUVs while his men haul March’s prone body into another vehicle.
Once the doors have slammed, I find myself sitting regrettably close to Morgan while Dries is sandwiched between two Lions in the opposite seat. Morgan tilts his head at Dries as the car starts driving, racing so fast down the trail that outside, the dense vegetation is little more than a greenish blur flashing past us. “What were you seriously going to do?” he asks with a chuckle. “Raid Saraya with the last retard who still follows you? All of that . . . for the three of you to get caught by Somoza like rookies . . .” His gaze hardens. “You’re fucking pathetic.”
Dries shrugs. “What can I say. I’m a dreamer. Always have been.”
Morgan stares at him and clasps his hand around my thigh, massaging roughly. I freeze in pain. Dries’s jaw tightens; his mouth becomes a pencil-thin line.
“You should have seen her back at Ingolvinlinna . . .” He spins his finger against his temple. “Completely fried. She’d do everything we asked like a good girl.” His smirk turns feral. “I wondered who she was gonna suck first, me or Stiles.”
Dries’s eyes screw shut, and in that moment, we’re connected. I feel as sick as he looks.
“He’s bullshitting you,” I tell him, forcing a smile to my lips. “Anies would have never let him touch me. He’s just a goon.”
Morgan’s fingers dig into my flesh hard enough that I know they’ll leave a bruise. I hiss in pain, and that same agony registers on Dries’s face. “Don’t worry, little Island,” he says through gritted teeth. “Mr. Morgan won’t see the sun set.”
That psychotic asshole lets go of my leg with a snort. “You’re so full of shit . . . By the way”—he points to the windows with his thumb—“take a long, good look at that.”
I glance sideways, and my eyes go wide, as do Dries’s. Angel’s wall was a joke compared to the sight that greets us when the vegetation disappears. All around Saraya, the jungle has been razed to establish a security perimeter, and we’re driving in the shadow of a ten-story ribbon of concrete. We pass a first checkpoint, a simple barbed wire fence delimiting a zone inside which I’m pretty certain anyone who gets caught gets shot, human or animal. Ahead of us, gates open in the wall, guarded by more armed men. Even if they manage to sneak inside Saraya’s water-drainage pipes, how the hell will Angel’s and the Queen’s men take over this fortress?
The gates clank shut behind us, and we’re now . . . in a mostly empty industria
l complex. The launching ramp I saw on the satellite map is here, but there’s no one around it, and I’m starting to realize that with its few buildings and hangars, the actual space center is fairly small compared to the size of the octagonal area enclosed in those massive walls.
Dries and I look at each other in doubt while the procession of cars drives toward one of the hangars.
An adolescent grin quivers on Morgan’s lips. “You’re gonna love this shit.”
Somehow I doubt that either Dries or myself will enjoy anything that goes on in these walls. The hangar’s doors slide open. Here too, I’m getting the impression that we’re not getting the entire story: the place is empty and almost entirely dark, save for fluorescent light illuminating a spot at the center of the building. We drive to that improvised stage, and I notice yellow paint stripes on the floor, marking off a circular area, a dark line that looks like a continuous cut in the asphalt. Muted whirring sounds rise from beneath the car, and a low vibration comes from the floor that reverberates in my chest. The yellow disc we parked in is rotating slowly . . . and we’re going down.
I watch, wide-eyed, as we’re engulfed into an underground elevator. I try to evaluate how far down we’re being taken, but I lose track of the steel platforms we glide by after having counted at least five. At last, the elevator stops with a jolt, and there’s a well-lit tunnel ahead of us, entirely lined with white panels. I’m getting the feeling that this tunnel too is circular. Numbered gates flash by—1, 2, 3, 4 . . . each number on the wall glows red from a dotting of LEDs. I register movement at the edge of my vision, and for the first time, I see humans in this facility. A little group of technicians in gray coveralls and wearing bright-orange safety helmets strolls past us in the tunnel, without so much as a glance for the procession of SUVs. As if they’re used to it.