OUR UNLIKELY BABY

by Paula Cox

  “Yeah, right,” snorted the woman, rolling her eyes.

  “She's my high school sweetheart,” he growled, slamming Francesca against the car harder than the last few times. He tightened his hold until a whimper sifted from her lips. “She doesn't know the grit of this life.”

  Francesca's eyes widened, sudden realization slammed into her thoughts. She hardened her expression a moment later. “Well, that's not my fault!”

  Disgust peppered his thoughts. “And to think she wanted to help your sorry ass.”

  “What?”

  “She told me how that stupid fucking tat had something to do with the Torres family in Mexico or some shit.” He nodded to the rosary across her chest. Francesca's gaze darted to the blood red beads inked into her skin. Her face paled and little, incomprehensible sputters left her lips. Tyler didn't notice. He carried on with a darkening scowl, “It's supposed to belong to a family pretty well known in Mexico. They lost their daughter to an agreement with a cartel and she disappeared.”

  Francesca couldn't bring her gaze to Tyler's face. A simple gasp wafted on her lips, “What?”

  “Yeah, she figured that shit out from your stupid fucking tat,” spat Tyler, resisting the urge to slam Francesca “And she wanted to help you. We were talking about Lloyd, this morning, and getting his guarantee and everything. Fuck!”

  “I didn't–”

  “She wanted to help you, you bitch, and you handed her over to Pete!”

  “I didn't know!” She shrieked, glassiness filling her eyes.

  “Of course not, you shit, 'cause you never talked to us!” Tyler couldn't help himself. His muscles tensed and he rattled her against the car.

  Francesca hung her head, her words coated with a sob. “How was I supposed to know!?”

  “You should've talked to us,” he roared. He was amazed no one from the diner came out to investigate the ruckus. Then again, Francesca didn't seem to have a great reputation in San Marta. That same reason probably deterred her from reacting violently to him. If she kicked him or bit him, who could guarantee her life? And if she died, who'd take care of her 'girls’? Francesca Munoz was stuck in a town that treated her with barely masked disdain and she couldn't do a damn thing about it.

  “I couldn't!” The woman sobbed, her mascara trailing dark lines down her eyes. “I'd be sent back to Mexico and my family would die!”

  “If you talked to us, we would have scored you a deal,” he growled. He knew it wasn't fair to keep repeating himself. Francesca was stuck in a shitty situation, from what he gathered: sold off by her family to pay for a debt and the cartel used her, and her girls, as drug mules to dealers. If she didn't do what she was told, the cartel would carve her family up. She was stuck between a razor edge and a hard place.

  How was she supposed to truly know what they could have done for her? The woman bowed her head farther, tears dribbling down her cheeks. She sniffled loudly, her grip on Tyler's knuckles slackened.

  An upbeat pop song cleaved through the air, interrupting Tyler and Francesca. He paused, his mind shifting gears. The ringing, the incessant music, was a cellphone. Not his prepaid, though. It screamed from somewhere. Where? His eyes drifted down Francesca's body, until he noticed the squareish shape pressed into the pocket on her hip.

  “Get that,” he snarled, nodding to her phone.

  Slowly, Francesca's hand dug into her pocket. She yanked her phone out of her purse and answered it, “Francesca Munoz.” She paused, her focus shattering as her eyes widened slightly. Her gaze returned to Tyler's face, her eyes red-rimmed and lips twisted into a miserable frown. She thrust he phone out to him. “Here, it's for you.”

  Tyler eyed the woman and her gaze flicked to her phone. For a brief second, he debated on accepting the call or not. Could this be a ploy to earn freedom from his grasp? On the other end of the line, though, a scream shrieked out. He snatched the phone from her hand, forgetting the potential farce. He barked into the phone, “Don't fucking touch her!”

  “Meet Pete at 1523 David Drive tonight at ten,” said the voice on the other end of the line. Tyler couldn't help but hear goading smugness in the voice. “Bring no one or sweet-tits will be a tit short.”

  Click.

  Tyler stood, staring off into the distance with the phone still pressed to his ear. Miranda's shriek still clawed through his head. His stomach roiled and bile itched in his throat. Something had to be done. Francesca wiggled under his palm, reclaiming his focus. Tyler's heated glare lit onto the woman's face. She squeaked and sunk against the car, preparing for a strike to her face or more degradation.

  He leaned close, making Francesca flinch as his hands grappled at her elbows. She didn't try to get away from him as he snarled into her ear, “Are you going to make yourself useful and help me? Or do I need to call the Bandits early?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  “Man, that Red is pissed,” laughed one of Baldie's flunkies. His laugh echoed around the warehouse, making it twice as horrible as his boss snapped his cellphone shut, cutting off the call.

  The second flunkie managed to restrain Miranda, clamping her wrists together with a zip tie. He managed to hoist her arms over her wrist with hook hanging from a chain. The restraints forced her to stand on her tiptoes or else her sockets burned. Flunkie Two seemed proud of his work as he stepped up to Baldie. He jerked his thumb toward Miranda, his tone lascivious, “What should we do with sweet-tits?”

  “Don't touch me!” Even on her tiptoes, she could kick someone in the balls. Miranda's heart slammed in her chest, prepared to crush some nuts if need be. In the back of her mind, she took note of her setting.

  Faint light filtered in through the dust caked windows. A chill swept across the industrial floor and sunk into Miranda's flesh. Other than the sole light bulb, artificial light didn't puncture the darkness of the warehouse. Various hooks and clamps hung on the chains, swaying gently in an unseen breeze. The instruments made a sick shiver curl around her spine, bringing about images of blood-drained livestock and a butcher shop. The scent of dust and oil mingled with a stomach-churning acridity in the air.

  Baldie chuckled, his voice taking on a slick and amused lilt. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. If you like Red, you'll like one of us just as much.”

  The loogie splattered across his cheek. Miranda glared lividly at him, her nose wrinkling and eyes dark with rage. Baldie swiped the spittle away, his ice-blue eyes harboring a chilly frost. There was a half-beat of silence as he sauntered closer to her.

  His hand moved in a blur. Her face snapped to the side, pain cracking along her cheek. The blunt throb his knuckles left behind bit across her face. Tears burned at the back of her eyes as a whimper gasped from her throat. Before Miranda could reign in her shock, Baldie caught her by her chin. He forced her eyes to his and lowered his face. She struggled against his hold, his fingertips holding her in a bruising grasp. “You better hope he comes for you, or else your ass is mine.”

  Miranda ceased her struggling and turned her eyes on Baldie. She bit out a growl, “He'll come.”

  “You think?” The man chuckled and tilted his head to the side. He brought up his other hand, showing Miranda his prepaid cellphone. “I called Frannie's phone and he picked up. You don't what Frannie does, don't cha?”

  Miranda glared, uncomprehending. What did Francesca do? She ratted on Miranda, for one. Something tussled at the back of her thoughts. Did Baldie mean her less-than-reputable job?

  His smirk broadened as he supplied the answer for her, “She sucks sad fucks off.”

  A sick coldness careened through her stomach. While part of her knew he was lying, a smaller part of her wondered. It would be easier to leave Miranda behind. It wasn't like she didn't spill all the information she had. Tyler could locate the next step and finish off Pete without her. Doubt coiled around her thoughts.

  “I guess we'll see at ten, yeah?” Baldie laughed and released Miranda's chin with a forceful yank. Her gaze fell to the floor, the cogs in her
brain turning. She didn't hear Baldie's other goading retorts or the guffaws of his flunkies. They clicked the light off, darkness consuming every inch of light. Their footfalls died away into the distance, interrupted by the churn and sliding of metal doors.

  Left in the dark, restrained and secured to a chain, Miranda felt the tears ease down her cheeks.

  * * *

  An hour out of San Marta, a quiet manmade reservoir was tucked away into a far neck of the woods. Tyler had noticed it on the paper map he and Miranda used. The sun blared down, nearing high noon, as the black sports car rolled up to the edge of the water. He stepped from the car, dragging Francesca over the gear shaft and across the driver-side seat. The forest's chirps and chitters went silent as soon as the woman was dragged out of the vehicle. His fingers clamped, vice-like, on her elbow. She didn't put up much of a struggle, now, after an hour of driving.

  He led her onto the dam, letting her overlook the flowing manmade waterfall. Nausea clawed up Francesca's throat, quickly, and pinched her features. With just enough momentum, Tyler could force her up and over the edge of the wall. The way down would be long and loud and wet. She wobbled slightly, looking over the edge of the dam.

  Tyler shook her arm, threateningly moving her toward the water. She locked her legs and bore down all of her weight into her heels, resisting movement toward the dammed up river. “Where are they?”

  “I-I don't know,” she answered, digging her heels farther into the soft dirt. Her hazel eyes gazed at the water with fear.

  “Don't lie to me!” Tyler's grip tightened on her arm. A small part of him felt bad for his strategy. Terrify-the-woman-until-she-spoke was pretty common among all less-than-reputable motorcycle clubs, though.

  “I don't know!” She cried, fighting against his pull. Her feet scrabbled at the ground, trying to force distance between herself and the water. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to rack her brain for any small detail Tyler may approve of. “They use the van for a lot of shit.”

  “For what?” He ceased his pulling and his grip loosened, just slightly. His mind piqued, trying to stack his questions all in line. All information helped him out. “Who owns it?”

  “I don't know.” Francesca shook her head, emphatically. Tyler's fingers tightened, jolting her out of her momentary safety. Tears brimmed on the edge of her lashes. She fought to keep her voice level, but a crack shattered across her voice. “Please, if I die, the girls I oversee and my family…They'll get–”

  His eyes focused on the woman he still held in a bruising grip. In his waistband, her handgun sat snug and in his pocket, her car keys sat comfortably. She was unarmed and terrified. It didn't help that Baldie left her with him. That sort of abandonment, undoubtedly, played havoc on her mind. He wasn't helping much.

  “Shit,” Tyler growled, releasing Francesca from his grip. He paced down the dam a couple feet, running his hand through his hair. The water rushed below them, filling the space of silence easily. It even drowned out the sounds of the forest all around them. He turned sharply and paced back to Francesca, right where he left her. The woman watched him, worry and concern in her large, glassy eyes.

  He sorted out the problems in his head as he paced back and forth: Miranda was being held by Pete's lackeys; Pete was stealing and lying to the Bandits; Francesca feared for her life, her girls, and her family. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as a migraine clawed over his brain. There had to be a way to fix this.

  Guilt swelled in his heart. If he hadn't gotten Miranda involved, she wouldn't be in trouble now. Hell, he didn't know what they'd already done to her. The sheer thought sent a sick roil rumbling through his gut. He swallowed it down, trying to shove all horrible imaginings from his forethought. Wondering what they were doing wouldn't save her.

  “Fuck, I should have contacted her family,” Tyler hissed to himself, running his hand through his hair, again. He stopped suddenly, just in front of Francesca. Realization pinged through his head and his gaze shot to the woman's face. It was all falling into place.

  There was one part that still needed to be called, though.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Miranda kept track of the passing hours by the light through the dust-encrusted windows. With every passing moment, her shoulders burned a little hotter. She flexed her fingers, working blood into them. Her toes ached from standing on tiptoes and her calves screamed from her position. The tears she had spilled hours ago dried on her cheeks, leaving the skin dried and taut.

  As the sunlight moved from morning to noon to evening, she listened to the world outside the warehouse. Every so often, she'd listen for the crunch of a lone car trundling by on the rocks outside. She couldn't tell if they were coming or going, but – judging from the rattle of their vehicle – it sounded like the same car every time.

  Blue darkness inched its way across the floor, followed by the chill of nighttime. Miranda shifted uneasily. Baldie's last words to her resonated in her head. What if Tyler wasn't coming? All the information he needed was on her work laptop. She bit her bottom lip, both guilty for her lack of trust in Tyler and ashamed of herself for being so easily taken in. Her stomach ached with hunger, puncturing her thoughts. She hadn't had a blasted thing to eat all day.

  Just a little longer, she told herself just before a door rattled across the warehouse. She squinted her eyes as the door rolled up. A slice of night silhouetted two figures against the light from a bright streetlamp. They stepped into the warehouse and the door closed behind them. Their heavy footfalls echoed through the building, taunting Miranda's sense of hope. As they neared, she realized a heavy cologne tucked around them, suffocating the very thought of either being Tyler.

  “Can't believe we gotta stay here while Mike gets the boss,” one muttered as they closed in on Miranda.

  “Yeah, but you know what a gloryhog Mike is,” the other snorted. They stopped a few feet from Miranda. She glared into the darkness, hoping her sight was centered on one of them. The second man chuckled. “At least the sight is pretty, yeah?”

  An angry flush burned over her cheeks. How could they see her in this darkness? She blinked, suddenly realizing something. She was bathed in the light from a window high in the wall. The constant light screwed with her night vision. No wonder she couldn't see very well. There wasn't much time to writhe in embarrassment. A click echoed through the air and bright light flashed in her face. She hissed and jerked her head away as the beam of light surveyed her whole body.

  “Well, she's in one piece.”

  “Still would rather get some points with the big boss,” groused the first man, crossing his arms. The flashlight made Miranda's eyes water, unable to see the men clearly.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  The metallic pounding rang through the air. Her two guards hissed, but only one traipsed to the door. Miranda heard the door go up and saw a slit of light as someone wiggled into the space. The door quickly shut behind him, leaving her and the guard with the flashlight. Both of them listened, intently, with piqued senses. In a few moments, the slash of light reappeared. This time, though, it was opened a bit more so two figures could duck under the door. Their footsteps echoed in the air of the warehouse.

  “What the Hell's going on?” The man who stayed behind with Miranda stepped to the figures.

  “Frannie wanted to get one last look at the whore,” the second man said, airily.

  Miranda tensed, realizing Francesca Munoz was here. Rage and anger puckered her thoughts. The three figures, obscured by darkness, writhed in the shadows.

  “But, Mike said no one was to hurt her 'til ten.”

  “This whore has been causing problems for my man, sweetie,” Francesca's voice ballooned out from the darkness. Sickness latched onto Miranda' gut. If pain hadn't licked across every muscle of her body, she'd charge at the woman. Chains or no chains. She didn't have long to relish in angry fantasies, though. “Now, if you two could leave, I need to talk to her, girl-to-girl.”

  “Girl-to-girl?”r />
  Francesca slid something from her purse. There was a brief silence before lascivious and cruel chuckles slid through the air. Sickness crawled down Miranda's spine and she resisted the urge to vomit. She didn't even know what Francesca held, but judging by the sounds the men made, it wasn't polite.

  Miranda's stomach churned as one of the men snickered, “Well, whatever you do to her, you can do with us present.”

  “Yeah!”

  Tears burned at the back of her eyes. Was she going to be touched with these two watching? Baldie had made some unspoken promises of what would happen should Tyler not appear. Until now, her hope had numbed the fear and disgust. Now, terror hit her full in the gut, making her stomach churn wildly.

  “Get out,” Francesca growled. “This is between me and the puta.”

  The two men, taken aback by her sudden venom, shuffled awkwardly. They made some paper-thin excuses, before bumbling off in the dark, taking their flashlight with them. Their heels scuffed the cement, as if they were dawdling in an attempt to catch a glimpse. Miranda got the impression Francesca watched them go with silent disdain.