She tucked that thought away while Jordan cut again, an inch or so away from the first slice. This one was just a hair deeper and Marisol hissed a little as the blade went in. Sloane stopped screaming. Marisol could hear her crying.
“Where is it?”
The door wasn’t far away. It would take only seconds to cross the room if her feet were free. A little longer if she couldn’t cut the ropes around her ankles first. She would worry about that when she figured out how to get off the hook. She moved on to listening for more traffic on the road. She hadn’t heard anything since the truck. It couldn’t be a well-used road. She was probably on one of the estates dotting the hills around Bogota.
During the third cut, one of Jordan’s minions slipped into the room while talking on a cell phone. He whispered into Jordan’s ear and Marisol couldn’t hear what he said, but she saw the door was still open. The shadows of feet on the other side moved away almost at once. She heard the faint sounds of cheering in the background and an echoing voice. A soccer match on TV.
The man left, pulling the door shut behind him. She couldn’t tell if he’d secured the locks. Jordan dropped the knife onto the rickety, blood-splattered worktable beside her. Marisol knew Jordan would grab the cattle prod. She had time to close her eyes and let her head fall back before the electricity sent her into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sloane started shaking as Jordan left the room. She sat with her back against the wall hugging her knees hard to her chest. The metal wall jostled, filling her ears with a gentle rattle to accompany the buzz left by the cessation of Marisol’s screams. Sloane knew she was losing control. Now her muscles were locked in place and her only movement was the involuntary tremor.
Her eyes were fixed on Marisol. At least she hoped they were fixed on Marisol and not Marisol’s body. The bloody, broken husk that used to be Marisol. Sloane had worried she was dead since the last scream cut off with a wet gurgle and her head slumped onto her chest. Jordan prodded her a few times, perhaps hoping she was faking unconsciousness, but finally accepted that their interview was at an end. Since then, Marisol had hung from the hook like a side of beef, her arms stretched painfully.
Sloane watched her intently, following the slight, shallow movements of her tight gray T-shirt. It could be Marisol breathing or it could be a trick of Sloane’s eyes. A desperate illusion she invented because she was begging her brain to see signs of life.
As Jordan left, she had dropped a bottle of water in Sloane’s lap. She’d taunted Sloane about the tears that ran in a silent stream down her face. When Sloane had refused to engage her, Jordan had promised to return soon. The water sat untouched. Sloane was loathe to accept any offering from a sadist.
It was the thought of that evil that finally sent her to her feet. Marisol had been facing it alone. Whatever Marisol had been, whatever she was now, she certainly deserved a better death than this. They would both die, Sloane was sure of that now, but not yet. For now, Marisol had to be alive. She just had to be.
The first step was the hardest one. Once Sloane got it out of the way, she knew she could manage the short trip across to where Marisol was hanging. Several more steps and she lost her nerve, imagining what she would do if Marisol really was dead. She went back to collect the water bottle and took another deep breath. This trip took her all the way across the room, to stand in front of Marisol.
She heard wet, ragged breathing on the very edge of what was audible. It was enough to prove that Marisol was alive. Relief brought Sloane back to herself all at once, and her spine knitted into something solid again. Sliding the bandana from Marisol’s pocket was easier this time. She cracked the top of the water bottle and poured a few drops onto it.
Marisol’s knees had buckled, and she slumped so low that Sloane had to kneel to see her face. It was difficult in her tight dress, but she managed to bunch it around her waist and drop to her knees. Finding a place to begin on Marisol’s dirt-streaked face was a much harder task. Her jaw looked the messiest spot, so Sloane touched the wet fabric there. The skin was streaked with blood, but not from attack. True to Jordan’s word, she had avoided damaging Marisol’s face, but she had grabbed her head often with blood-soaked hands. Sloane had always loved the slope of Marisol’s regal jaw. This evidence of her ordeal did not diminish its beauty.
Marisol opened her eyes as Sloane wet the handkerchief again and pressed it to her face. She didn’t move, even to take the weight off her tortured arms. Marisol’s gaze met Sloane’s as she stared back into those endless brown eyes. Her hand fell away from Marisol’s jaw.
Sloane forced herself to look away, the stream of water wavering as she realized her hand was shaking. She set the bottle down and wrung out the cloth, delaying the time before she looked at Marisol.
When she did turn back, the eyes were still there. Still full of life and bravery. So full of emotion and strength. Sloane’s lungs stopped at the sight. She swallowed hard and with the damp cloth reached toward Marisol’s temple.
“Marisol…”
“No.”
Sloane wasn’t surprised that Marisol could read her mind. Worse still, her desire.
“Please.” She swallowed hard and forced herself to look at the dried blood on Marisol’s temple and not Marisol’s penetrative look. “Please tell her what she wants to know.”
“I can’t do that.”
“It’s only one safe house.” Sloane hated herself for saying the words. They tasted sour on her tongue, but she hated more the idea of Marisol’s eyes never opening again. “There have to be others.”
“There are a lot of people there, Brin. It’s more than just a building.”
There it was again. The nickname that made Sloane’s heart feel lighter than air. Now that she’d heard it again, she didn’t want to stop hearing it and that made her selfish in a way she’d never been before. Selfish enough to look back into those eyes and put voice to the thought that scared her the most.
“She’ll kill you.”
“Then I’ll die. I’d rather die than let anyone hurt them again.”
Regret, not fear, showed in her eyes. It was the regret that made Sloane so bitterly angry. She shot to her feet, towering over Marisol but standing so close their bodies nearly touched.
“Damn it, you need to look at the big picture!”
“Do you know what happens to them?”
Sloane didn’t answer, which was answer enough. She’d put a few trafficked women on the witness stand, but she’d never really heard their stories. She’d only heard their testimony and she was starting to understand how different the two were. Marisol struggled to straighten her legs, getting some of her weight beneath her and finally relieving the strain in her shoulders. Once she was stable, she looked down into Sloane’s eyes.
“They’re taken from their homes. Some of them from the US, but most of The Bishop’s come from around here. From Colombia where his money makes sure there are fewer questions asked. They’re young, Brin. Very young.”
Sloane hadn’t tried any cases against human traffickers. She had closed down massage parlors and sent some pimps to jail, but those weren’t men like this. It was a shock to realize just how small the fish she’d caught had been. Most of the women in those cases had been either convicted of petty crimes or, more often than she’d like to admit, deported. Frightened and abused women. She hadn’t fought for them. She had let them go to whatever fate. What had they been through before? What had they been through after? Sloane shivered at the thought.
“Whatever you’re thinking, it’s nothing to what I’ve seen.” A familiar ghost travelled across Marisol’s eyes and she swallowed hard before she continued, “When there aren’t any men willing to buy them anymore, the women are disposed of. If they cry too much or they refuse to do something, they’re disposed of.”
There was something in the wobble of Marisol’s voice that suggested there was more to tell. She didn’t give Sloane a chance to ask before she continued.
“I can’t let Jordan, or worse, The Bishop, get them. Not a single one of them. If you’d seen what I’ve seen, you wouldn’t tell me it isn’t worth it.”
The water bottle hit the floor and splashed against Sloane’s legs. She didn’t tell her hands to move, they did of their own accord, wrapping around Marisol’s face. She held it up gently, cupping it reverently so they could look at each other. Sloane knew her eyes were wild with fear, but if that frightened Marisol now, all the better.
“There’s no hope. We can’t get out of here,” Sloane hissed.
“You can. You will. If you do exactly what I say.”
“I don’t understand.” She looked up at the rope tied so tightly around Marisol’s wrists that her fingers were white and how she barely had enough slack to move her arms even now she was standing as upright as she could manage. She reached up to try pulling the rope free, but her fingers couldn’t reach the hook. “I can’t get you down. I’m not strong enough to lift you.”
“I said you will get out. Now listen closely…”
“What? No!”
“Governor…”
“Stop it! No! I won’t leave you!”
“God damn it, Brin!” Marisol’s patience snapped, her face twisted in frustration. She continued in a whispered shout, “I did not go through all of this to watch you die! I have worked too hard for too many years to keep you alive to fail you now!”
Sloane’s heart beat so loudly, she was sure Marisol could hear it. Blood pounded in her ears.
In a flash, Marisol’s face was smooth and her voice silky. “Good girl. Now listen to me very carefully. There were only three men, as well as Hulk and Jordan here at the start. A car left during my last chat with Jordan.”
Sloane’s eyebrows came together as she tried to figure out how Marisol knew. She whipped her head around, certain she’d missed an open window all this time.
“I heard the engine and felt the vibration through the floor. I think two people went with it, that’s why there’s so little movement outside. I think it’s just Jordan and two others now.”
Straining to hear, Sloane just picked out a scuffing footstep through the wall.
“Jordan always comes in alone and closes the door without locking it. She’s carrying a gun in a holster low on her hip. It isn’t strapped in, so it’ll be easy to get out. She’s always worn it that way because she’s sloppy and she likes a quick draw. Time to make her pay for it.
“When she comes in, I’ll distract her. All you have to do is come over quickly and quietly. Grab the gun and run. Don’t worry about Jordan. Don’t shoot her unless you have to. Chances are the other two aren’t paying attention by now, but they will if they hear the gun. Run past them and outside. If you’re lucky, you can get out of here without firing a shot.”
“I don’t know if I…”
“You have to be quick. There’s no way to know when the others will be back. They didn’t take the van we came in. That hasn’t moved since we got here. I know the sound of that engine. Get into the van and get the hell out of here. They left the keys in the ignition when we got here. I saw it when they were trying to pull me out. There’s a purple rabbit’s foot on a long chain hanging from the key. Clearly they aren’t expecting us to try and escape. Drive west. Go to the nearest village and ask them to give you directions to Bogota. It isn’t far. Go straight to our embassy and you’ll be safe. If you don’t have enough gas to get there, you can find a phone. I’ll tell you the number of the embassy, okay?”
Marisol had the number memorized from her last trip and she called it out, slowly and quietly. Sloane nodded along, begging it to sink in. She repeated them when Marisol commanded her to, but got them wrong. Marisol told her the number again and the second time she repeated them back correctly. They wouldn’t stay and Marisol’s look said she knew the truth as well as Sloane.
“That’s a good plan,” Sloane said sarcastically.
“It’ll work.”
“There’s just one problem.”
“It’ll work, Brin.”
“I’m not a gun person.” Her frayed nerves splintered and crumbled at her feet. “I’ve never even held a gun!”
“Shh!” Marisol hissed as she looked at the door. “Be quiet or you’ll get us both killed.”
She moderated her tone, but her words were still frantic. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but I have no idea how to shoot a gun.”
“Point the open end at the bad guy and squeeze the trigger. You don’t even have to hit them, just make them go for cover so you can run.”
Everything in Marisol’s face said she truly believed Sloane could do this. Sloane knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she couldn’t. She didn’t argue the point. It scared her too much to think about how this would end. Instead, she picked up the water bottle.
She wiped the blood off Marisol’s chin first, then the rest of her jaw. The room went quiet except for the gentle sounds of wet cloth against skin. She washed Marisol’s split lip and tried to stop the tears from showing at the corner of her eyes.
“You can do this.”
Sloane’s voice was husky when she asked, “What will happen to you?”
“I’ll keep her busy as long as I can. Until…Until you get away.”
“Or until she kills you.”
Marisol adjusted her weight, getting her feet beneath her more steadily. Her eyes were clear and they were fixed on Sloane’s face. She nodded. Nothing extravagant, nothing showy, just the quick bob of her head in acceptance of her own imminent death.
“I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“When you get to the embassy…”
“When we get to the embassy.”
“I need you to make a call.” She looked to the door and dropped her voice even lower. Sloane could barely hear her over the unsaid words between them. “Call Dominique. She’ll… know who to inform.”
“She’s your handler?” Marisol cringed as Sloane spoke the word aloud, but she nodded, her eyes back on Sloane. “So she’s… not your girlfriend?”
“She was never my girlfriend.”
The way she looked at Sloane said so much more than her words. For the first time in years, she wondered what would’ve happened if she’d gone to Mario’s that night. Sloane brought the bottle to Marisol’s newly cleaned lips. She tilted her head back and Sloane poured the water in a thin stream. Marisol drank greedily and Sloane watched her long, lean neck bob as she swallowed. They moved at the same time, Sloane removing the bottle and Marisol lowering her head.
Sloane reached up and dabbed the water away from Marisol’s lips. “Why are you doing this?”
Marisol blinked slowly and then looked into Sloane’s eyes. Something shifted in Marisol. She was beyond arguing. Beyond fighting. Beyond hiding. She was raw.
“Because I love you.” There was a moment of quiet. “I’ve loved you since the moment I met you in that yuppie bar all those years ago. It wasn’t the sex. It was you. I couldn’t get enough of you. I knew that guy had told you who I was when you didn’t turn up at the bar after our day on court. But I followed your career and I loved you even more. When you took down all the vermin like me in Chicago. If my… If my life had been different, maybe…”
Marisol stopped and looked away. Every muscle in Sloane’s body was frozen in place until Marisol spoke again.
“The first time I saved your life it was an accident. I wanted to see you again, after the coffee shop and the date you didn’t show for. And again, after the deposition where you acted like you’d never met me. I went to your press conference when you pressed charges against the cop who’d killed the little Black boy playing with a toy gun. I left as you were taking questions from the press. There were a bunch of white supremacists outside, trying to ambush you on the way to your car in the alley. They were easy to take out. Idiots.
“I watched from behind a dumpster as you got safely into your car and drove away. My heart s
plit in two that day. Half drove away with you in that sedan. The other half kept me alive only enough to protect the half I sent with you. You were the only thing in my life worth living for. You are the only thing worth dying for. I love you, Brin. I always have.”
Sloane kept herself perfectly still and silent until Marisol ran out of words. She hung there, acting as though it was acceptable to declare undying love and her intention to die in the same breath and then say nothing more.
Just as suddenly as Marisol had declared her love, Sloane decided her own course. She had denied her feelings for too long. She should’ve given in years ago. She should’ve kissed Marisol in the coffee shop. Should’ve followed her after the deposition. She should’ve slapped that tequila out of her hand on the Drake Hotel’s balcony. Now, in the quiet horror of this place, she would finally give in to her desire.
Sloane threw herself at Marisol, pressing their lips together with wild, joyous desperation. She kissed Marisol and tasted blood and felt her whole life come together as it never had before. Marisol kissed back with everything she had, even with her pain and her weakness and her hands bound over her head. They lost themselves in each other.
With one hand, Sloane held Marisol’s face close, with the other she pulled their whole bodies flush, dragging Marisol to her. The hook over their heads rattled as Marisol tried to wrap Sloane in her arms but was thwarted by the bindings.
The heat of Marisol’s breath in Sloane’s mouth was intoxicating. It gripped her and drove her wild. She pulled Marisol’s face closer. Sloane moaned into her mouth, her stomach lurching pleasantly as her body electrified. Her fingers slid into the damp hair at the back of Marisol’s neck. She whimpered as they kissed harder, the sound soft in Sloane’s ears.
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