Queen of Humbolt

by Tagan Shepard

  There was a heartbeat of pure, unadulterated silence. Marisol breathed into it, filled it with her oxygen and her spirit. She stared into Ray-Ban’s eyes while the light went out of them. Gravity took over and he tipped backward, slamming into the concrete floor.

  As Marisol exhaled, the world split apart. With a flick of her wrist she flipped the table. The jewelry her gang had collected through months of picking pockets, breaking into houses and knocking over one poorly secured pawn shop skittered across the floor, sending up sparkles of refracted light. Thunder erupted from a thousand places and she ducked behind the table. The surface jerked and shook as bullet after bullet slammed into it. Marisol took two deep breaths then glided out to her right. She popped off two shots in quick succession, then shifted her angle and fired another pair. She was back behind the table when she heard a body hit the floor.

  Splintering screeches accompanied her next three breaths. The table was buckling under the shower of bullets. She needed to move faster. Marisol gritted her teeth and popped out of cover again. She squeezed twin shots at her target, but they went wide. She felt the wind of a bullet pass close to her left cheek, but ducked behind the splintering table in time to take the last few seconds of safety it could provide. She smelled the warm, sweet scent of sawdust as each new bullet lodged into the thick tabletop. There was only one guy left and Marisol knew she would win. She fired off two more shots before her clip went dry.

  She dropped the Glock and rolled over her left shoulder to where Ray-Ban’s pistol had fallen. She scooped it up, enjoying its weight in her hand for a split second before using it to blast out a grey suit-clad kneecap. With a howl of pain he fell and she sent the next round into the crown of his head, plunging the warehouse into echoing silence.

  Surveying the room, Marisol saw bodies down on both sides. To her immense surprise, she noted that her people weren’t injured, only cowering in fear. Gray was the only one on his feet and his face was pale as death, the gun in his hand shook dangerously. Gray had shown well during the fight and proven himself to Marisol.

  Marisol felt no fear or shock at the scene around her. This was exactly how she’d imagined it playing out. The best possible result, she thought as Gray collected the scattered jewelry. She turned the Colt over in her hands, the chrome flashing in her eye. She had certainly come out on top today.

  Chapter Ten

  The sight of blood dripping from Marisol’s nose onto her leather pants in a slow, monotonous rhythm set Sloane’s teeth on edge. She had not led a quiet life since her gubernatorial victory. Aides, secretaries, lobbyists and other politicians constantly surrounded her. Her phone buzzed with emails and text messages at all hours. Being alone in this small space with an unconscious, bleeding companion was unsettling. She tried to clear her mind how her yoga instructor advised, but it was impossible. She had to stop the blood plunking on stretched leather or she would scream.

  She couldn’t understand why it was taking so long for Marisol to wake. The beating was terrifyingly extensive, but Jordan had left with bloody knuckles and a wide smile ages ago. As little experience as Sloane had with this sort of violence, she still felt that Marisol should be conscious by now. She let out an exasperated breath and fidgeted, looking over at Marisol for the hundredth time just to be sure she was still breathing.

  The rope stretched across Marisol’s chest kept her upright and Sloane studied her profile. Her chiseled jaw was an angry red on the left side. Her nose was split along the bridge, oozing dark red blood, but it still maintained the straight, graceful slope that had first caught Sloane’s eye. She stared at it long enough to see a bead rise from the flesh. Soon it would grow too heavy to maintain its precarious position and it would fall onto Marisol’s pants, pressing Sloane a little closer to the edge of sanity.

  “Are you awake?” She tested her voice, trying to be heard over the dull roar of the plane, but it came out quiet and croaky. “Marisol?”

  No response. Not surprising from such a worthless creature.

  Sloane had just passed her bar exams when Marisol had dropped into Chicago out of nowhere. She’d made a name for herself quickly and, apparently Sloane had been the only one who’d never heard of their new criminal hot shot. That oversight wouldn’t be repeated and she made sure, from that day at the courthouse forward, that no one so much as stole a candy bar in her town without her knowing about it. Over the next six years, Sloane had earned her reputation taking down Chicago’s rankest scum as well as a few crooked politicians, and then won the election for State’s Attorney by a landslide. She’d thought by the time Marisol’s name came up in connection with one of her first SA cases she could conduct the deposition herself rather than passing it off to a junior lawyer. She had realized her mistake the moment she’d laid eyes on Marisol again.

  Sloane prided herself on her good taste. She loved fine art, with a penchant for the Pre-Raphaelites. She loved violin music and well-tailored clothes. She appreciated beauty in all its forms, and she would not apologize for that. So it was unfortunate how distractingly beautiful Marisol Soltero was. Her confident smile that would make any woman swoon. It was unfortunate and infuriating. Marisol was a liar. A criminal. A modern-day pirate with the insufferable arrogance to style herself The Queen of Humboldt. She was everything that Sloane detested.

  Had Marisol been a law-abiding citizen—a teacher or a doctor, hell, even if she waited tables at some dive café—Sloane would defy her critics and friends alike and throw herself at her without shame or regret. But god had a sick sense of humor. The angel’s face was attached to a devil’s body.

  Sloane could not abide a lawbreaker, no matter how much they made her mouth water and her mind wander. She had spent every moment of her adult life trying to make the world a better place. As Governor, she pursued peace and cooperation bound by the clear lines of fair and just laws. Marisol lived outside those lines.

  Now that she could admire Marisol at close, albeit horrendous quarters again, some of the mystique was wearing off. Marisol’s bravery was admirable, but it was completely pointless. She needled Jordan purposefully, increasing her punishment. And for what? No doubt the result would serve Marisol and no one else. The Queen of Humboldt indeed.

  The people of Humboldt Park were not the poorest in the city, but the community was majority Puerto Rican and they faced insidious discrimination. The L bypassed Humboldt and the bus system was only marginally more available. Most of the neighborhood qualified as a food desert. With no grocery stores willing to invest in the area, a trip for food was a day-long event. With Marisol’s violent gang in charge, that situation was unlikely to change. What Humboldt needed was protection from the law, not from a gang leader.

  Anger flared in Sloane and it pushed her to her feet. She took a few, halting steps across the cabin. With her shackled hands Sloane awkwardly yanked a paisley bandana hanging out of Marisol’s pants pocket. Taking a deep breath, she knelt in front of her, listening closely to see she had woken her, but her breathing was just as even as before.

  The tight fabric of Sloane’s dress pinched around her knees as she knelt. She was second-guessing her decision to approach her fellow prisoner. Being this close, smelling Marisol’s fresh blood and sweat, reminded Sloane viscerally of who this woman was.

  The thought of her victims was in the forefront of Sloane’s mind as she dabbed the bandana against Marisol’s bleeding nose. She’d meant to be gentle, but Marisol’s flinch told Sloane it had hurt. She scooted away involuntarily, prepared to defend herself.

  Sloane summoned her resolve. She was being ridiculous. She was no wilting flower. Marisol was bound. She was not a threat. Moreover, Sloane was a woman of action. This cowering did not become her. She stiffened her spine and felt better than she had since the first gunshot this evening.

  This time she pressed the fabric firmly against Marisol’s nose, pinching the bridge to stop the bleeding. Marisol grunted and stirred. One simultaneous, sharp movement from both of them caused a wet,
crunching sound from Marisol’s nose. Sloane winced, waiting for the roar of pain and anger, but none came. Marisol’s eyes opened and fixed on her. Sloane held them for a moment, then looked pointedly away.

  When the bleeding had stopped, Sloane pulled the bandana away, leaving a sticky trail along the bridge of her nose. She wiped it again and Marisol hissed in pain.

  “That hurts, you know.”

  “Yes, well, I suppose you’re familiar with being bloodied up.”

  Marisol grinned. Her teeth were stained with blood. “It is an occupational hazard.”

  Sloane dabbed at her lip impatiently. “Did you have to be so disagreeable?”

  Marisol’s voice was low and rough. “It’s in my nature, dear.”

  The familiarity made Sloane’s cheeks burn. “Perhaps you should embrace a better nature. I’m sure we wouldn’t be in this predicament if you weren’t such a hedonistic, lawless, selfish criminal.”

  “On the contrary, Governor.” Jordan’s voice boomed out with shocking malice from behind Sloane. “If that was all Marisol was, I would have no use for her at all. Sit back down.”

  Sloane had her eyes on Marisol, her concern rising to the surface with surprising speed. The first two times Jordan had come in, she’d knocked Marisol unconscious. Her return did not bode well—even if Sloane wasn’t exactly sympathetic, she did not like to see anyone hurt. Marisol gave her the ghost of a wink and motioned her chin toward the chairs across the room. Somehow, even though Marisol must know nothing good was likely to happen with Jordan back, she seemed confident and that bolstered Sloane’s resolve. She stood with dignity, but she did not return to her seat as instructed.

  “I demand an explanation.”

  “You demand, do you?”

  “Yes. I do. I want to know why you killed my security detail and why you tried to kill me. I want to know why you kidnapped me. What do you want?”

  “I want you to sit back down.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Jordan’s eyes flashed as she bolted forward, forcing Sloane back until she was pressed against a cargo net.

  “You should be.”

  Her eyes crawled over Sloane. A buzz of fear filled Sloane’s ears and she felt the blood drain from her face. The moment Jordan stepped back, she slipped across the cabin and sat down.

  “I believe,” Marisol said, drawing Jordan’s attention away. Sloane felt the moment those eyes left her, allowing her lungs to expand. “You were going to tell me why you weren’t trying to kill Governor Sloane.”

  “Was I?”

  Jordan was warming to her task. Whether it was the obvious success she had intimidating Sloane or the sight of Marisol’s bruised face, she seemed more confident.

  “I suppose now’s as good a time as any.” She paced while she lectured. “Governor Sloane was not the target. Had you arrived on the scene later, she would be dead and that would’ve been fine. You were the real target.”

  “Me?”

  “You are far more valuable than our Governor.”

  Marisol cut her eyes across at Sloane for a heartbeat. There was an unreadable look in those regal features, but, in the space of a breath, she returned her focus to her tormentor.

  “Then why go after her at all?”

  “Because I know the best way to lure you away from your den,” Jordan swept the room with a smile directed at Sloane. “Is to threaten her.”

  The words landed in Sloane’s brain like a physical blow, knocking her off center. The statement made no sense to her. Apart from the irrational pleasure Marisol had always taken in provoking Sloane, there was no obvious reason that she would think about her at all, much less care if someone threatened her.

  “Twitchy D,” Marisol whispered, shaking her head.

  “He’ll do anything for a fix, Your Majesty.” She added a simpering, pathetic tone to the title. “Tweakers are so easy to manipulate. I just fed him the info and complained that you wouldn’t trust a warning from me. He practically begged for permission to pass it along.”

  “You used him.”

  Jordan leaned over and swept a stubby finger across Marisol’s jaw. “I learned from the best.”

  Sloane’s confusion morphed into withering disdain. They’d been lovers, that much had been obvious from the start, but now Sloane could see how much they deserved each other.

  “If this is about blackmail, I wrote the book. Don’t challenge a master,” Marisol said.

  “I think you know what this is about.”

  “We tried that once before, Jordan. I recall being unsatisfied by the encounter, but you did…give it your all. Maybe if you’ve learned your way around a bedroom in the last few years, I’ll give you a chance to make up for it.”

  With an open palm Jordan slapped her hard across the cheek. The sound made Sloane wince, as did the splotches that appeared on Marisol’s face.

  “That’s more like it.” Marisol flexed her thighs beneath her chains and smiled. Fresh blood shone on her teeth in the half-light of the cargo hold. “I want my lovers to show a little spirit.”

  Jordan reached up, her fingertips brushing over the imprint of her hand on Marisol’s cheek. “I’ve missed this face.” Her touch went to caress one thick, dark eyebrow and then the other. “I don’t want to mar this face, Marisol. Please don’t make me.”

  “Whether it’s bleeding or whole,” Marisol sneered. “It’ll never be yours again.”

  Jordan’s face was in front of hers in a flash, her teeth bared and a growl bubbling in the back of her throat. She shouted in a low, barely controlled voice, “Where is The Hotel?”

  Sloane felt like she’d walked into the wrong room. The non sequitur caught her off guard, but she didn’t have time to wonder about it.

  “There are a lot of hotels in the world, Jordan. It depends on where you want to go.”

  Jordan slid onto Marisol’s lap, straddling her in the chair. Marisol’s groan of pain, the first she’d uttered all night, made Jordan laugh sickeningly.

  “You know where I want to go?” She ran rough fingers over Marisol’s face. “I want to go where I’m the queen and you’re my slave. Where I have all the power and the beautiful women draped all over me every night. I want you on your knees, begging. That’s where I want to go.”

  Marisol laughed. She threw her head back and opened her mouth wide and tossed wild shouts of glee at the ceiling. The sound was hollow even to Sloane’s ears as she watched Jordan stiffen and stand.

  “I’m afraid you can’t afford the airfare on that one, princesa.”

  “I have my own plane, remember?”

  As they swapped barbs, Sloane watched the exchange like a tennis match though she felt like she didn’t know the rules.

  “And we already established that’s not enough to turn me on.”

  “It better be enough to get you talking,” Jordan countered, her hands back on Marisol’s face, pressing at her prominent cheekbones. “Or that little redhead who was grinding on you tonight will be crying alone.”

  “You know what that’s like, don’t you Jordan? Grinding on me and then spending the night crying alone?”

  Jordan’s false confidence snapped. Her probing fingers curled into a fist and smashed into Marisol’s gut.

  “Where’s The Hotel?”

  “I assume you want one that charges by the hour? Although, for you we can go with one that charges by the minute.”

  Her face contorted in rage and she raised her fist again.

  “Stop it!”

  Sloane found herself on her feet as her own shout died away. Jordan’s eyes, wild and bloodshot, turned on Sloane. Marisol’s found her too, though her eyes held a note of warning.

  “I want answers,” Sloane said into the new quiet. “Nothing you’re saying makes sense.”

  “It doesn’t need to make sense to you,” Jordan said, stalking toward her. “You aren’t even supposed to be here. If it weren’t for the idiots I work with, you’d be dead and Marisol and I wou
ld be sharing this lovely trip alone.”

  “That’s the part that doesn’t make sense!” Frustration had overridden her fear and she ignored the threat in favor of answers. “You said I was bait for her. That’s preposterous.”

  “Isn’t it?” Jordan was in her face again, bringing the reek of cologne applied so liberally it smelled like pure alcohol. “The question is: why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would she save you?”

  Jordan’s gaze roamed over Sloane’s body, making her feel exposed. She didn’t like the renewed interest.

  “I think we both know it’s not out of the goodness of her heart,” Sloane sneered.

  “Of course not.” Marisol’s voice was strained. “I don’t have any.”

  “No dispute there,” Jordan said, rubbing her chin as she continued her inspection. “But Marisol Soltero always has a reason. There’s always something in it for her. What’ve you got on her?”

  “If I had anything concrete she’d be in jail right now.”

  Jordan grinned as she circled Sloane, her words arriving on a breath against Sloane’s shoulder. “Or wrapped around your little finger. Is she someone watching your back?”

  The accusation wasn’t completely off base. Sloane knew of at least one predecessor in the Governor’s Mansion who had that very arrangement. That wasn’t how her administration ran, however. “She might be corrupt slime, but I’m not.”

  “No, you aren’t,” Jordan said, slipping around Sloane so closely their bodies brushed. She tapped a fingernail to her teeth and said, “You’re a Girl Scout if ever there was one.”

  “I don’t like your tone.”

  Jordan ignored her words and her angry step forward. She turned her attention back to the chair bolted to the center of the floor. “Is that it, Marisol? Is she your handler?”

  “Can’t you just knock me out again? It’d be so much better than listening to you talk.”

  “What do you mean ‘her handler’?” Sloane asked.

  Yet another mysterious comment added to this infuriating conversation, and she was ready to scream. But Jordan was ignoring her again, her focus entirely on Marisol.