Queen of Humbolt

by Tagan Shepard

  “Certain acceptable boundaries?”

  “My priority is human trafficking.” His eyes went to the photograph. “That will be your priority as well. You can fund your work with other enterprises. You get to be yourself, but you also get to help a lot of people. I have a feeling that’s something you want to do. Something that would make your mother proud.”

  A buzzing like a swarm of angry bees filled Marisol’s ears. “What do you know about my mother?”

  “Likely more than you do.”

  That wouldn’t be hard, since Marisol didn’t even know her mother’s name. She had the face and the voice of a gentle, kind woman etched into her mind, but she’d just been Mommy to a five-year-old.

  “Tell me.”

  “You can earn it.”

  Marisol laughed, letting her head drop to her chest. The movement made the muscles in her neck and chest ache. “That’s the carrot. Where’s the stick?”

  He smiled again and the human came back into his eyes. Marisol trusted him even before he spoke. “You’re the stick. I won’t pretend we don’t need you. That I don’t need you. You have all the power here and I know enough about your mother to believe you’ll use it for good.”

  She stared at the wall for a long moment. She knew more than anyone else—more than her gang members, more than her lawyer, more than the guards who paced on the edge of her life—that she had nothing left to lose. She’d never had anything to lose. Not from the moment she was born. Marisol looked back at the photograph of the little girl.

  “Gabriela.” His voice was soft when he spoke the name, like a child making an offering to a priest. “Your mother’s name was Gabriela. She was a social worker. The rest you can find out if you cooperate.”

  No last name. Not enough to do her own research even if she could. Marisol never knew her own last name. She chose a last name by accident as a child on the street.

  “Gabriela.”

  She whispered the name and it felt nice on her lips, but not familiar. It was a pretty name, but not worth dying over.

  Before she had a chance to turn him down, he was speaking again. “Ruby, your kind friend from long ago, had a sister. She has a box full of letters from Ruby about a sweet street kid. She’s wanted to meet that kid for a long time. Thank her for giving Ruby someone to care about.”

  Marisol shook her head. She still couldn’t hear the Red Hot Chili Peppers without breaking into a blind rage. Ruby’s sister might have her same smile and Marisol couldn’t handle that.

  “Then there’s your other friend, Carmen. Don’t you want to know who claimed her body?”

  She held up her hand but suspected he wouldn’t have told her anyway. What could he have said? What could he possibly offer to heal that wound? When Marisol felt a prickling in the corner of her eye, she forced her mind away from Converse High Tops. It wasn’t hard to find something else to focus on. Something that made this whole conversation irrelevant. She put one fingertip on the photograph and slid it to the very edge of her cot, as far away from herself as she could manage.

  “I’m afraid you’re a little late, Agent…” She couldn’t remember his made-up name, so she left the sentence blank. “I’d love to accept your help, but I’ve got a lifetime lease on this cell.”

  With exceptional care, he tucked the photograph into his inside coat pocket. “The American justice system can be such a tricky thing. How the burden of proof is on the state. How people come forward with new evidence about old cases all the time. When they do, the state is obligated to act. To release anyone who may have been wrongfully convicted. They often have to compensate them for the time they spent in prison.”

  Marisol smiled at his back as he approached the door. She decided she liked this man quite a lot. Working for him might be fun. Here he was offering her freedom and seed money straight from the government’s pocket. She wrapped that knowledge around her like a warm blanket.

  “You’ll be given an extra set of personal effects when you’re released. I trust you’ll know what to do with them. Have you ever been to Humboldt Park in Chicago?”

  “No.”

  “You should go. You’ll like it there.” The lock released with a crack of metal on metal, but he didn’t open the door just yet. “You’ll like Chicago. You may have been a kingpin in Detroit, but in Chicago? In Chicago, you can be a queen.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cargo hold door squealed slowly open. Jordan stood on the threshold, while finishing a muttered conversation outside. Marisol studied her tension and nervous energy. She seemed keyed up, and that was never a good sign with Jordan. She was too volatile.

  It was the final straw that had convinced Marisol to move her years ago. Marisol employed an army of street rats—kids who ran envelopes of cash between couriers. One was a sweet, pre-teen boy who had looked at Marisol like she was a goddess. Jordan had resented his admiration and had promptly made it her mission in life to torment the boy. She and Marisol had spent some time together by then but there had been no question—in Marisol’s mind at least—that it was anything more than sex. Jordan, it seemed, had a different idea and she had flexed her muscles by treating Marisol’s people like her people.

  There was nothing of that unwarranted superiority in her posture now. Based on the timbre of the voice responding to Jordan, Marisol suspected the person on the other side of the door was a man and, more importantly, someone she regarded as an equal. She held her shoulders low and kept her voice even, her biggest tells. Marisol tucked the information away, trying to catch enough of the voice that she might recognize it if she heard it again.

  Movement from the corner of her eye revealed Sloane’s close attention to the scene as well. There was a fire in her eyes that Marisol was happy to see. Some of the Governor’s fear seemed to have dissipated. Now the only question was whether the returning confidence would make her bold or wary. Marisol knew enough of her personality to worry it would make her too bold.

  She must have felt Marisol watching her because Sloane met Marisol’s eye. Marisol cut her eyes at Jordan, then back to Sloane and gave a sharp shake of her head. Her warning earned her a spike of pain from her sore neck and a sour look from Sloane. Obviously she found Marisol’s warning unnecessary and, if her clouded expression and crossed arms were any indicator, probably insulting. Marisol found the venom delightful and smiled widely into Sloane’s brewing anger. She’d always known there was more to the unflappably pragmatic politician than she revealed to the public.

  With a quick laugh, Jordan ended her conversation and finally entered the hold. Marisol watched her bolt the door as the plane quivered through more turbulence. Jordan tossed a bottle of water at Sloane, who caught it awkwardly. Jordan dragged a chair so close to Marisol that their knees interlocked when she sat down. She leaned in and Marisol smelled coffee on her breath and the sharp, chemical odor of cheap cologne.

  “I believe the last time I was here we were chatting about The Hotel.”

  Marisol leaned back, looking relaxed despite the ropes cutting into her armpits. “You were chatting. I was yawning.”

  Jordan buried her fist in Marisol’s abdomen, pressing all the air up from her diaphragm in a whoosh.

  “You were saying about The Hotel?”

  Marisol groaned through the pain in her belly. “I’m more of an Airbnb girl myself.”

  Jordan pulled back her fist again, but didn’t strike, scanning Marisol’s face. “You aren’t ready to talk yet, are you?”

  “You figured that out all on your own?”

  Jordan sat back in her chair, mimicking Marisol’s pose before the punch had doubled her over. She tried and failed to look as confident as Marisol. After a moment’s standoff, Jordan glanced over her shoulder toward Sloane. When she looked back, there was a wicked glint in her eye.

  Sloane watched her approach but did not show the slightest concern. She met Jordan’s gaze with withering disdain before looking away, apparently intent on drinking her water.

/>   “Governor Sloane… May I call you Sabrina?”

  “You may call me Governor Sloane.”

  Jordan’s cheeks went slightly pink. Sloane set her water bottle down and crossed her legs, blithely ignoring her captor’s attempts to engage. Sloane’s bold contempt was enough to make Marisol’s mind and eyes wander.

  “Well, Governor Sloane,” Jordan said as she sat, pressing their bodies sickeningly close. “Let’s get to know each other, shall we? Want to start with me? No. I didn’t think so. How about Marisol? I should warn you she’s far more than a common criminal.”

  “It’s true,” Marisol spat back. “I’m an exceptional criminal and also a fantastic lay.”

  Jordan ignored her, stretching her arms wide and letting one fall across Sloane’s shoulder like a teenage boy trying to cop a feel.

  “Tell me why, Governor, when you were such a powerful SA and took down every crooked cop and drug dealer in Chicago, that you couldn’t make anything stick against Marisol.”

  Sloane shook Jordan’s arm off her. “She is extremely well connected.”

  All three of them felt the weakness of the argument. Marisol knew how hard Sloane had worked to bring charges against her, dogging her every move for years. It wasn’t until the distraction of the gubernatorial campaign that she loosened up, and then it was only for a short time. It would have been flattering to be the object of such single-minded attention if Sloane weren’t trying to send her back to jail.

  “She would need connections to God himself to wriggle out from some of the things she’s done.” Jordan laughed mirthlessly. “Especially having her life sentence reversed. You know about that, right? Few people make the connection between our Marisol and the Michigan case all those years ago.”

  “Of course I know. There was new evidence presented that exonerated her.”

  “Yes. How convenient.”

  “What exactly are you implying?” There was a hunger in Sloane’s eyes now that she finally turned her attention to Jordan. “Do you have information that could…”

  “Do I have information?” Jordan’s laugh made Marisol’s blood run cold. “You may have guessed from our chat earlier that Marisol and I know each other well.”

  “I gathered that you work for her,” Sloane replied, pointedly ignoring the innuendo. “Not exactly something that makes me trust you.”

  “Oh, we’ve done more than work together.” Jordan leaned in close to Sloane, but kept her eyes on Marisol. “We were lovers.”

  Marisol laughed, a single note into the close air. “Just ’cause I gave you a piece doesn’t mean there was love involved.”

  The usual look of disgust Sloane reserved just for her shone brighter in the dim light of the cargo bay.

  “There wasn’t on your side,” Jordan admitted. “But I loved you.”

  “Garbage isn’t capable of any emotion. Even love.”

  “Say what you want,” Jordan sneered. “But I was broken for a long time when you sent me away.”

  “My heart bleeds for you.”

  “You don’t have a heart, Marisol. I figured that out by watching you very closely these last few years. At first I was trying to find a way to get you back. Then I just wanted to know why you left me. After that…well, when I paid attention I noticed some very strange behavior.”

  “Leaving you isn’t strange behavior, Jordan.” Marisol’s throat went dry even as she tried to laugh through the conversation. “It’s perfectly natural to want to be as far from you as possible.”

  Jordan turned back to Sloane. “Of course my suspicions were shared by others. People with money and power. They required independent verification though.”

  “Independent verification?” Sloane asked.

  “There’s a woman Marisol knows. She showed up in Peoria. We had a chat much like the one Marisol and I will have once we’re on the ground.”

  “What woman?” Sloane asked, her voice riding the line between anger and fear.

  “Just a piece of garbage we tossed out the window and Marisol picked up. You know the one I’m talking about, don’t you? Sweet girl, shame about the birthmark.”

  The roar erupted from Marisol’s lips before she could stop it. She couldn’t shake the image of Anna’s kind, hesitant smile when Marisol had left her at The Hotel. The smile had been capped by a Port-wine stain birthmark below her right dimple. Marisol flung herself against her bonds, numb to the pain of metal and nylon cutting into her flesh. She bared her teeth and when she spoke blood and spit flew out with her words.

  “If you hurt her…”

  “You’ll do what? Bleed on me?”

  Jordan laughed at her joke, but Sloane paled several shades. When Jordan caught sight of her shocked expression, it made her laugh all the harder. She wrapped her arm around Sloane again, pulling her close and speaking conspiratorially into her ear. “You’d be surprised the sort of things a woman will confess when certain pressures are applied.”

  Now it was Marisol’s turn to blanch, but her face did not show shock. Rage. Hatred. Frustration, certainly, but not shock. She forced herself to regain her calm, but Jordan must have known she’d scored a point. Marisol took a pair of steadying breaths and reminded herself where she was and what she had to lose.

  The door bolt clanked and a man roughly the size of a minivan bent to get through. His muscles strained at the seams of his clothing and his eyes bulged from his ruddy face, the whites jaundiced and his pupils wide. A short fuzz of blond hair covered his scalp and neck, disappearing into the collar of his too-small blazer.

  Jordan got to her feet. She shot another meaningful look at Marisol and said, “Speaking of the pressure I applied…”

  There was something in the set of his jaw that confirmed Jordan’s words. Marisol found herself unable to hold his gaze. She turned and stared hard at the cargo netting and the boxes and bulkhead behind it. The plane shook again and Marisol tried to focus on the reason for the turbulence. Was it a storm or a natural updraft? Possibly from crossing a mountain range? The question of where this plane was headed distracted her from Jordan’s implications.

  “How could you?” Sloane’s words had no effect on Jordan. After a quiet moment she turned her attention to Marisol and her words dripped with regret. “Was she…”

  Sloane didn’t finish the question and Marisol didn’t respond. She just stared at the netting as it swam in and out of focus.

  After a few whispered words, the hulk of a man left and Jordan came back over to them. Apparently she’d been listening.

  “Was she what, Governor? Marisol’s girlfriend? No, she doesn’t do relationships.”

  Marisol had herself under control again. Enough, at least, to shift her attention back to the byplay between the other two. Enough to see the flush on Sloane’s cheeks when she countered, “Of course she does. There’s that actress.”

  Jordan shook her head. “She makes more a show with that one than the others, but the truth is she doesn’t spend her night with ladies. You have other, more interesting pastimes, don’t you Marisol? Shall I tell her the truth?”

  “Why don’t you go to hell instead?”

  Jordan must’ve known she had the upper hand. Marisol could feel her power slipping away. The only question she had was how much Jordan really knew. Something told her she was about to find out.

  “The women, the nightclub, hell, even her businesses—they’re all just a cover.”

  “What kind of cover?”

  Jordan had the Governor’s complete attention. Sloane was leaning toward her now, rather than the other way around. Marisol could see her chest rising and falling through her clinging dress. She took a moment to appreciate the beauty of that lithe form while she waited for the axe to fall. Jordan didn’t give her long to wait.

  “The kind that hides her connection to the men who pull her strings back in Washington.” She held the silken thread of Marisol’s carefully woven life for a split second before she snapped it irrevocably. “Marisol is the NSA’s
most useful and successful spy.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Jordan laughed and Marisol had to admit Sloane’s shock was something to see. Governor Sabrina Sloane was not the type of woman to accept such a massive change to her world view readily. She had, after all, spent a good portion of the last ten years hunting down Marisol Soltero, Queen of Humboldt, Chicago’s most notorious criminal.

  “You really don’t, do you? I guess you aren’t her handler. Then who…” Jordan’s eye flicked back to Marisol, who kept her face as neutral as she could manage. She apparently didn’t find what she was looking for there, because she turned back to Sloane. “I didn’t believe it at first either, which is why it’s such an effective cover. But I have ample evidence. The way I got my information left no doubt she told the truth.”

  It was Jordan’s wicked smile that made Marisol’s vision go red and her mind go blank. She fought against her bonds, screaming incoherent obscenities and threats. She didn’t feel the pain, even when a thick trickle of blood dripped down her wrists where the handcuffs cut into her flesh. She could tell by the wild panic in Sloane’s eyes that she needed to calm down, but all she could think of was frightened women and huddling, shivering girls.

  When Marisol finally ran out of energy, she could hear Jordan’s mocking laughter. Marisol took a moment to chide herself, then immediately began planning how to take the advantage back. A confident Jordan was dangerous, but a confident Jordan could easily turn into an overconfident Jordan.

  “Believe me, Governor, I’ve done my research.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

  Jordan paced the small space, her words directed at Sloane and her eyes locked on Marisol’s heaving chest. “A Russian businessman living in Chicago who had several women chained in his basement. This was what, four years ago?”

  “He was found unconscious in his driveway,” Sloane said. “With his basement and computer both unlocked. There were…videos on the hard drive.”