Queen of Humbolt

by Tagan Shepard

  At her side now, Sloane listened to the few words of instruction Marisol gave her before they slipped noiselessly out into the night. Clouds now blocked the moon, making the trip easier. Sloane kept low and close behind, just like Marisol told her, and they were under the cover of the scrub in moments. Marisol watched the patch of street visible at this oblique angle. A pickup truck stood idling in front of the house. She could pick out the flicker of flashlights from the house’s interior. Not a villager out for a stroll after all.

  “Head back to the van,” Marisol said against Sloane’s ear. “I’ll be there soon. If I’m not there in an hour, drive to Bogota.”

  Marisol prepared herself for the argument she saw forming behind Sloane’s eyes. Whatever her concern, she said nothing. She nodded once and grabbed Marisol’s face, her fingertips clawing into her jaw as she pressed their lips together. Yanking her lips away from Marisol’s, Sloane turned and carefully picked her way over the rocky terrain through the trees.

  Reeling from the kiss, Marisol watched until Sloane was out of sight, then turned back to the enemy and crept to the front of the property. All thought of Sloane evaporated as she watched the men emerge from the tumbled-down house. There were three, one significantly larger than the other two. Marisol’s grip around her Colt tightened at the sight of Hulk and she thrummed with the chance for revenge.

  One of the men trotted back to the street and the rumble of the truck’s engine choked off. The driver joined the other three, and all of them marched toward the shed. Marisol waited until they conferred at the back door. She slinked behind a tumbled fence just in time to hear Hulk order the driver to stay outside the door and another man to circle the property. He took the last man inside with him.

  The driver turned his back to the wind to light a cigarette and Marisol was on him. The cigarette sparked as it bounced against her leather-clad bicep. The lighter made a metallic clink against his boot, but he barely had time to yank at her arm before losing consciousness. She used the hunting knife from his belt to ensure he never regained it.

  Leaving him where he fell, she picked up the lighter and peered around the corner. The sentry was facing away from her, wandering along the perimeter. She tossed the lighter nearby and ducked behind the corner, listening to his approach. As he knelt to pick it up she brought the butt of her Colt down on the intersection of his neck and shoulders. She heard his spine pop and he dropped face-first into the dirt. She left his assault rifle but took his knife with her back to the door.

  She could hear someone rummaging through the shopping bag at the back of the shop and sincerely hoped it was Hulk. She wanted to take her time with him. Slipping into the shadows, Marisol made her way across the floor. The other man caught sight of her before she could get within reach. As he raised his rifle, she threw the knife. It brought him to his knees, dropping his weapon and pawing at his chest. She reached him before he could recover and whipped her Colt across his cheek. Hearing Hulk shout, she decided speed was more important than silence.

  Her bullet removed the man from the equation as Hulk burst out of the office, firing. She dropped and rolled, heading right for him. He couldn’t adjust his angle quickly enough and released the trigger as she stopped at his feet. Using her momentum, she drove her boots into his knee, reveling in his roar of pain as it bent backward. When she lifted her Colt, he brought down his rifle to knock it away and the two weapons ended up tangled together, flying off into the corner. Again he was quicker than her and his fist came crashing down into her cheek.

  Marisol’s vision tilted. Fighting vertigo, she lashed out at his knee again. It was a glancing blow, but she’d done damage the first time and this hit dropped him. As he fell, Marisol fought through her own pain, pushing herself to her knees. Hulk writhed on the ground beside her, gripping his knee as sweat poured down his face. When she looked at him, she saw Jordan’s sneer in his contorted features. She was on him before another thought entered her mind.

  Leaning all her weight on her forearm, she pressed it across Hulk’s massive throat. When he reached for her face she smashed her fist into his jaw. His head wobbled sickeningly and she hit him again. Her vision blanked out and she brought her fist into his face a half dozen times before he went limp. She leaned in harder, watching his bleeding face turn purple. The color reminded her of Ruby’s face when she’d emerged from the hotel closet. Of her mother as she’d lain on the kitchen floor. Of Sloane with Jordan’s hands wrapped around her throat.

  The image of Sloane made her recoil. She pulled her arm away as though it’d been burned. Hulk sucked in a wet, gurgling breath and twitched. Marisol looked at her hands, covered in his blood. She’d almost killed him with those hands. Almost become that john or her father. She’d almost become Jordan.

  He didn’t move when she climbed off him and ran from the shop, no longer worried how loud her steps were in the night.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Sloane had no watch to keep track of time, but she wouldn’t have left for Bogota without Marisol, no matter how long the wait. It felt like an eternity as she sat in the van’s passenger seat, her eyes on the path she’d taken through the trees. There was a bottle of water between the seats. They’d left it that afternoon for their drive to the city and, though her parched throat burned, she didn’t touch it. Marisol would need it more than her.

  A breeze shifted the clouds overhead, revealing the nearly full moon. There was no hint of sun on the horizon, so clearly visible from the top of the Eastern Hills. Hopefully it would be a long time until morning. She and Marisol had only been in the garage a few hours. So much had happened, it felt like days. She returned her eyes to the path but let her mind wander back to the mattress bathed in sunset glow. Had she truly thought the sex they’d shared all those years ago in Chicago was good? It paled in comparison to the ecstasy of this encounter. To Marisol’s tenderness and her own burning need. The memories of those nights had twisted to anger after Krone’s revelation. She would not make that mistake again. Nothing anyone said could ever change her mind about Marisol again.

  A shadow moved in the trees. Until this moment she hadn’t considered the scenario of anyone other than Marisol emerging from the path. As the shadow moved again, she recognized how foolish she’d been. There were no weapons in the vehicle—nothing she could use to defend herself—but if those men had hurt Marisol she wouldn’t need them. She would tear them into pieces with her bare hands.

  Moonlight flashed off Marisol’s pistol a moment before her face emerged into the light. Sloane took a full breath for the first time since she’d left Marisol’s side. Catching sight of the expression on her face, Sloane’s relief wavered, but she came straight to the van and climbed behind the wheel.

  “Is everything… Marisol! Your face.”

  “What?” she asked, raising a hand to the cut on her cheek. The hand was liberally splattered with blood.

  “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  Marisol lifted her hands to her eyes, turning them to look at her own palms. Her hands quavered once and then stilled. “Not my blood.”

  Sloane ripped the top off the water bottle and splashed some on Marisol’s hands, using a rag from the glove compartment to wipe off as much blood as she could. It lingered under her fingernails. She didn’t trust the rag was clean enough for Marisol’s face, so she trickled water down her cheek and wiped it as clean as possible with her fingers.

  She didn’t ask what’d happened. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Marisol was alive and with her and that was all that mattered. She’d wanted to stay with her at the shed. Had wanted to help, though she knew there was little she could have done. Mostly, she had wanted to stay at Marisol’s side. In the end, she’d made the decision to go and it had been the right one.

  The van’s gas lasted them out of the mountains, but not much farther. They coasted to a stop after the last of the foothills surrounding Bogota as the sun was just peeking over the mountaintop. Marisol took the keys, pur
ple rabbit’s foot still dangling from them, and tossed them deep into the brush. They had miles to walk, but the morning was cool for most of the journey. They kept out of sight of the roads and as many of the houses as they could. Once or twice she spotted a woman carrying food or children, but none of them paid her or Marisol any attention.

  The sun had cleared the tallest mountain when they wearily but warily trudged into the outermost fringes of Bogota. Marisol slid the phone from her pocket and dialed from memory. The longer the ringing went unanswered, the darker her expression grew.

  “God damn cabrón. Answer the… Carajo! Por qué I put up with you güevón… Mierda!”

  Sloane assumed she’d called the person who’d take them to safety, and there were a million reasons why he might not answer, but she could only focus on the ominous ones. Marisol fired off a text, then yanked out the SIM card and ground it to dust under the heel of her boot.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sloane stopped moving. “Marisol.”

  “Let’s go!”

  “Talk to me.”

  Sloane could see how much she wanted to refuse. Maybe even throw Sloane over her shoulder and run. Instead, she sighed and explained, “We aren’t safe here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the danger is. We can handle this together.”

  Marisol growled in frustration as she pulled them into the shadow of a small alley, still dark with the sharp angles of morning sunlight. Sloane allowed herself to be led, determined to get the whole story. Marisol checked both ends of the little alley carefully before relaxing.

  “I have a lot of enemies in South America in general and Colombia specifically.” No sooner was the explanation out than Marisol checked her escape routes again. “In Bogota I have one very bad enemy surrounded by several smaller ones. This is not a safe place.”

  “Tell me why.”

  “I’ve spent years fighting to stop human trafficking. There are a lot of people who want me out of the way. When I came here with Dominique I…removed a few people from this very neighborhood. And another we’ll be moving through soon. You’re in danger being here with me.”

  Marisol slumped against the wall behind Sloane, hopelessness and pain washing over her face.

  “Don’t you dare suggest sending me away.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marisol said, pulling the Colt from the back of her waistband and checking her rounds for the hundredth time. “I’m too selfish for that.”

  Sloane put a hand on hers, pressing the gun away. “We’re almost there. Are you sure you need that?”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely need it. If not today, soon enough.” The old shadow crossed over her eyes. “This is who I am. When you spend enough time in the shadows, you become part of the darkness.”

  “That isn’t who you are.”

  She allowed herself a moment to wonder if that was really true. She didn’t know half of what Marisol had done in her lifetime and she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to. None of it mattered as far as Sloane was concerned. She knew all the good she had done and continued to do. It would surely outweigh the bad. There was no sense in arguing the point, not now when their lives were in such danger.

  “Maybe not in my soul, but it’s who I have to be right now. I need to keep you safe.”

  Marisol slid the gun back into her waistband and ducked back out into the street. Sloane followed closely behind. She had lost Marisol once—she wasn’t letting her go again.

  It took several more blocks for Sloane to realize something still wasn’t right. “If it’s so dangerous, why are we heading deeper in? Isn’t the airport outside the city?”

  They passed more sleeping houses, fewer residents here rose as early as the people of the mountains. Only the miracle of their early arrival was keeping them hidden now. That advantage would evaporate as the sun rose higher.

  “We aren’t going to the airport. We’re going to the embassy.”

  “The embassy? I thought your friend was flying in now?”

  “He is. I’ll make my way to him as soon as I get you to our embassy and safety.”

  Sloane wrenched her hand out of Marisol’s grip as she came up short. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “We have to go. Move!”

  “Not unless you come with me.”

  Her patience ended, Marisol marched back to Sloane and grabbed her high on her arm, just under her armpit. She didn’t grip hard, but she was stronger and her momentum was enough to propel them both forward. She leaned in close as they walked, her eyes scanning every door and window as the buildings they passed went from one story to taller and better maintained.

  “Trust me, if I go in there with you it will only spell trouble for both of us.”

  A man stepped out of his front door, a cigarette dangling from his lips and sleep still in his hair and eyes. When he saw them, he slipped back in the house without a word. Sloane wondered if he was calling one of the enemies Marisol warned her about.

  “I won’t go unless I know you’re safe, too.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Sloane tried to stop again, but Marisol used her hip to nudge her forward. “If anyone in Colombia knew I was at the embassy, they would find a way to get to me. I know too much. Much more than the location of The Hotel. That was only the start. Once Jordan broke me there would have been more questions. I should never have gotten out of that shed alive and they will make sure I never board a plane out of here.”

  “Then the airport is certainly not safe for you.”

  “It is if I hurry.”

  “Then take me with you. I don’t need the embassy.”

  “And how would that look, Governor Sloane? You arriving back in the States with the Queen of Humboldt? It would either blow my cover or ruin your career or both.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I do.” The streets were wider now. “Illinois needs you and Washington needs me.”

  “Washington! That’s it. We both go to the embassy and they can contact your people.”

  “I can’t contact them. They can’t help. That’s not the sort of arrangement we have.”

  “What sort is it then?”

  “The sort where they swear they’ve never heard of me if I get in over my head.”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  “Exactamente.”

  “But you got into this because of them.”

  “And you got into this because of me. I intend to honor that responsibility even if they don’t.”

  “It isn’t fair.”

  “Nope.” Sloane saw the embassy, gleaming white stone and a black wrought iron fence. The edge in Marisol’s voice made it clear that, rather than the building, she saw the soldiers outside. “But it would be selfish to jeopardize all the good both of us could do.”

  “The good I can do,” Sloane mumbled.

  “What?” Marisol asked, her eyes on the soldiers.

  “I’m the Governor of Illinois, Marisol. I have resources. I can help.”

  “I’ve got resources, too, Brin, and they don’t need legislative approval.”

  “I can be creative with my resources.”

  Marisol peeled her eyes off the soldiers and looked at her, her eyes twinkling in the sun. “Are you considering abusing your gubernatorial power?”

  “I’m considering doing the right thing in a different way than I have before.”

  Marisol moved closer to her, their bodies brushing provocatively. “Let’s worry about getting out of here first, then we can decide which approach to take.”

  They were close enough to the embassy now that Marisol slowed to a stop near the mouth of a side street. The reality of her leaving hit Sloane all at once and tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them. She hated herself for the tears. Hated herself for the yawning loneliness opening in her gut at the thought of taking those last steps alone. Marisol reached out a hand to wipe the tears away. Sloane grabbed her hand and held it
in place, pressing her cheek into it.

  “I love you, Marisol.”

  “I love you, too, Brin.”

  A sob wracked Sloane’s body but she knew they didn’t have time for this. Marisol didn’t have time for this. Safety for Sloane was close enough to touch, but Marisol still had a dangerous journey ahead of her. Still, Sloane selfishly clung to this moment, with Marisol’s hand on her cheek and her love so close to the surface. She wanted to live in this moment forever. She pressed her lips to Marisol’s palm, feeling her skin one last time.

  “We can figure all this out back home,” Marisol said, pulling back. “We just have to live that long.”

  “Come with me.” Sloane tried one last time, desperation gripping her though the tears had mercifully stopped.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can! You’re an American citizen. Any American citizen can walk in there and find safety.”

  One of the soldiers noticed them, squinting in their direction as he stood at attention. His focus fixed squarely on Marisol, reminding Sloane of her bruised and battered face. She couldn’t tell from this distance whether he was concerned or wary, but either reaction brought attention Marisol wouldn’t want at the moment.

  She laughed sourly. “Sorry babe, you’re not dating a citizen. You’re dating a criminal.”

  It took a long moment of silence for Sloane to pry her eyes off the soldier and realize what she’d said. The silence lengthened and she felt the weight of it.

  “Scratch that,” Marisol said, looking at the toes of her boots and scratching the back of her neck. “You aren’t dating anyone at all.”

  Sloane slid a hand along her jaw, tilting her face up before running her fingers into Marisol’s hair. “No, I’m not dating a criminal. I’m dating a spy.”

  She drew Marisol into a kiss. Not the sort of chaste kiss one would expect on an unfamiliar street in a dangerous city with a pair of heavily armed soldiers watching, but the sort of kiss that left them both panting and craving privacy. Craving a chance to touch each other again. It was a goodbye kiss, but one that made it clear they would see each other again. Sloane drew out of it slowly, dragging Marisol’s bottom lip with her for a moment.