by R. B. Schow
SYDNEY FOX
Santiago called Sydney in to show her the computer screen. There she saw the faces of her two younger daughters. She wavered on unsteady legs before Jose put her in a chair.
“We received bids for Zoey from a prince in Qatar and a sultan in Iran, and a bid for Maisie in…D.C.” He looked at her and said, “Shocker.”
More bids had come in for Zoey from Saudi Arabia but then there was a bid for both sisters. The only caveat was that Santiago would have to pay to transport them out there.
“Well, we’re not doing that shit,” Santiago said.
He messaged back: NO WAY.
Other bids came in, one from a couple from Columbia who agreed to arrange transportation for the girls.
“We will charter a private aircraft to meet you in Juárez,” the message read.
Both parties quickly agreed on the price and the girls were officially sold. Sydney watched all of this in abject horror. She started to cry when she realized this was actually happening.
She turned to Santiago with nothing but homicidal rage in her heart, but then Jose put his big blade to her throat and said, “You remember the knife, no?”
Ignoring Jose, she turned and spoke to Santiago. “Why are you doing this to me and my family?”
“To some degree, it is personal,” he said, finally being truthful.
Sydney looked at him, waiting.
“Your husband worked very closely with ICE in the former administration, did he not?” She nodded, dreading the answer about to come, and how she would feel about it. “He supported a raid on a group of migrants who were settling into Fayetteville. My cousin was working to help resettle them.”
“Who was your cousin with?” she asked.
“What does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“It was a publicity stunt, Mrs. Fox. Your husband was playing with their lives for a photo opportunity.”
“He’s a politician. That’s like getting mad at a cat because it chases mice.”
“Well, in this case, ICE raided my cousin’s home and he was shot in the head three times. They ruled it a suicide but I managed to track down photos.” Santiago pointed to his face in three places and said, “This was where he was shot.”
“Who was your cousin with?” she asked again.
“As I said before, it does not matter.”
“Yes, it does.”
“MS-13,” he said reluctantly.
“Since when did MS-13 get into the resettlement business?”
“You don’t believe me?” he challenged.
“I know MS-13 well, Mr. Cardenas.”
“You don’t even know your asshole from next Tuesday.”
“I’m quiet,” she said, “but I listen to everything.”
“You may be listening now,” he said, “but are you learning?”
“What are you going to do with me?”
“First I’m going to violate you in the worst of ways because that’s what gets me off, and then I’m going to let anyone else who works for me make you theirs.”
“You’re not only revolting,” she said, “you’re unimaginative.”
He continued, undeterred. “When you’re all filled up inside, when your heart is battered, your will is crushed, and you want nothing more than a swift and permanent end, Jose will give you the ending you deserve.”
“You have a serious problem with femicide here in Juárez,” Sydney said.
“I don’t see it as a problem,” he replied with humor in his eyes.
“I never understood how you could just kill a woman because she was a woman.”
“Someone like you never would.”
“Why do it then?” she asked, point-blank.
“Guys like seeing women get hurt and killed because it helps them imagine that someone is killing their wives, their mothers, their bosses. It’s all very sick, I agree. But me? I’m different from those men. That doesn’t’ mean I don’t appreciate an aphrodisiac for those who dine on fear. Truthfully, it’s the fear and repulsion that gets me off.”
“What made you like this?” she asked. Just knowing there were entire societies who savored this sort of demonic mayhem made her want to vomit.
“I have everything I want, Sydney Fox. I have had it all for so long I’ve grown bored. To continue the high, you need to take new drugs, then more of those drugs, then stronger doses of those drugs.”
“Then, killing people is your addiction?”
“The complete indifference to life is my addiction. That is why we will mail your husband a video of you getting killed regardless of whether or not we receive the ransom money. And the man who paid for this whole soiree? He insisted on getting the original tape.”
“Someone paid for this?” she asked, tears leaking down her face.
“A man who saw your family as a means to an end.”
She wiped her face, her nose starting to stuff up. “And what was his end?”
“He hates someone very, very much,” the man said with deep laughter in his throat. “That someone is coming to save you. But he will not save you.”
“So we’re just no one to you, to this man?”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “Beyond the role your husband played in getting my cousin killed, you and your girls are nothing but a dollar figure to me.”
She wanted to spit on him but Jose’s blade never left her neck. She contained herself but for how long? When would holding back cost her everything? Did she even have a chance? Was she already dead?
Turning to Jose, Santiago said, “Take her to my room, remove her clothes for me, then secure her to the bed. I want a limb tied to every post.”
“Yes, boss.”
Jose grabbed her by her shirt, hauled her up, and walked her down the hallway. The fear of what was to come grabbed hold of her and wouldn’t let go. It sank its fangs into her very soul and locked its jaw.
When they reached Santiago’s bedroom and he opened the door, Sydney saw the four-poster bed with big metal eyelets attached to each post.
Jose said, “Take off all of your clothes and get on the bed.”
“And if I don’t?”
“This will not be the first time Mr. Cardenas has had to throw away a bloody mattress.”
With nothing left for her to do but submit, she started to undress. When she was completely naked, Jose looked into her eyes and said, “For your sake, Mrs. Fox, I hope that you have made peace with God.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
ATLAS HARGROVE
After an unbearable trip to a small property near the sewage processing plant, Leopold traded the drugs for guns and ammo, then got back into the Audi and said, “We have guns now, and not a drop of sweat off my nuts.”
Kiera didn’t blink, Cira barely breathed, and Atlas sat back and marveled in the humor of it all. A block-chain multimillionaire working his ass off to be a part of the team he put together.
“You know, Leo,” Atlas said. “I’m kind of admiring your ingenuity right now. It’s not easy going from being a suit to doing this. It takes time, street smarts, and the right connections. But you’re doing it. Good job.”
They pulled up in front of the hotel where they were meeting Esty and Yergha. Leopold parked the car then looked in the rearview mirror at Atlas. He had that look like he wasn’t sure if the compliment was a dig or a genuine commendation.
“I’m being serious,” Atlas said.
“I appreciate that.”
“If you want to live in this world, though, sooner or later you’re going to have to get your hands dirty.”
“Are you saying that trafficking drugs over international borders to buy arms in a country that bans assault weapons with you problematic people isn’t getting my hands dirty?” he asked. “Because if that’s not getting your hands dirty, I don’t know what the hell is.”
“This is a wet crew, Leo. On this crew, drawing blood is you getting your hands dirty.”
�
�You don’t even know Yergha or Esty,” Leopold said.
“I bet they’ve gotten their hands dirty.”
“They have,” Cira confirmed.
Atlas looked at her and said, “You didn’t have the stomach to pull that girl’s body out of that hazardous waste bog back in Ukraine.”
“I thought she was Kaylee Barnes at the time,” Cira explained. “The thought of that was not just physically traumatizing, it hit me—”
“It wouldn’t matter if we were pulling Margaret Thatcher out of a Port-O-Potty. You either have a stomach for this line of work or you don’t. Leopold needs to find that out the hard way.”
“He’s right,” Leopold said.
There was a sudden knock on the window that made them all jump. He looked up and saw a good-looking Pakistani man who looked wired and tired. He was maybe five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds, longish brown hair that was thick and straight and fell to his shoulders. The scruff on his upper lip and the lower part of his chin made him look like he was getting close to his thirties, but the crow’s feet lines around his eyes told them he was getting closer to his forties.
“This guy looks like he’s been sucked through a hundred miles of hell’s asshole and spat out in this dumpy ass hotel.”
“That would be Yergha,” Leopold said as he rolled down the window.
“Hey,” Leopold said.
“Estella is in the room,” Yergha replied. “You need to check on her. She’s got to hear from you, boss.” The Pakistani looked at Kiera, then at Atlas. “Hi, I’m Yergha. I’m sure glad you two are here. Same with you guys, Cira, and Leopold.”
In their hotel room, Atlas met Estella Baccarin where she lay on the bed recovering from something horrific. She had a bag of ice on her face which she promptly rolled off of her face so that she could get a good look at everyone. Atlas couldn’t tell if she was pretty beneath the abuse or if that was just what he wanted to see in her.
“You’re Atlas Hargrove?” she asked, sitting up.
“In the flesh,” he replied.
Estella turned to Cira like she couldn’t believe it. “You hooked up with this guy?” she asked.
Atlas turned to Cira and said, “Does everyone know?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“She didn’t have to,” Leopold said.
“In his defense,” Cira said, “he’s trying to make sure the homies on the block don’t look at him and think about having a good time with his evacuation hole.”
“True story,” Atlas chimed in. “I clean up all right, though.”
“Speaking of cleaning up,” Cira asked, “what’s the room situation?”
Leopold said, “Yergha can stay with me, I want Kiera to stay with Estella, and that means Cira you’re with Atlas if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine by me,” she said.
Atlas had the feeling that she was disappointed that Leopold hadn’t chosen to share a room with her. “Yeah,” he added, “I’m good, too.”
Yergha handed them each a room key, then Atlas glanced over at Cira and said, “Shall we?”
“As long as your first stop is the shower.”
“Oh, trust me. It is.”
Atlas and Cira went to their room, opened the door, and frowned. To him, it didn’t look so bad, but his last bed was a concrete floor with a hole for a toilet.
Cira looked around and said, “Well, this is interesting.”
Atlas walked inside, sniffed the sheets then said, “I think someone just had sex in here.”
“Really?” Cira asked, flabbergasted.
“No,” he laughed. “But you should have seen your face.”
She shook her head and feigned a frown. “If there’s any pubic hair or blood in the bathtub, I’m getting another room.”
It turned out the bathroom was clean but the door’s lock didn’t lock, not that it needed to. Cira turned on the bathtub faucet, made sure there was hot water, then dropped in the drain plug and watched it fill up.
“As tempted as I am to burn your clothes,” she said, “you might be in them for the duration of this op. Or at least until we can find a thrift store or something.”
He walked into the bathroom, looked at her, looked in the tub, and then he looked back at her.
“What?” she asked.
“Are you hanging out?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?” she asked. “Because I can leave if you want.”
“I’m not sure yet,” he said. “Maybe we’ll play it by ear.”
He took off his shirt gingerly because he’d been kicked an awful lot in the last few days. He was proud of his lean muscle but he was also bothered that he’d lost some of his size being in solitary confinement.
“Jesus,” Cira said softly.
She was looking at the bruises all over him. Some were nastier than others, and one was really bad.
“The guards like to kick you when you’re down,” he said. “Makes them feel better to re-establish the pecking order.”
“They’re not supposed to beat the prisoners. The Bureau of Prisons has specific regulations. You guys have rights, too.”
“Sorry, but that’s crap,” he said. “You do what any of us did, or claim not to have done—because everyone in prison is innocent—you need guards who are willing and able to rule with an iron fist. That’s my opinion for what it’s worth.”
“How does it feel to be on the receiving end of it, though?”
He pulled off his pants and his legs were just as bruised. Cira looked shocked, and then she turned away, unable to see him like that anymore.
“From the guards, it’s fine. I mean mostly, we know it’s coming. It’s when it comes from the other inmates that it becomes a problem. You don’t always know what’s coming until it’s too late. For me, it was almost too late twice.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been stabbed twice,” he said, removing his underwear. “Those were the two times when it was almost too late.”
He stepped past her, stepped into the bathwater, then slid down and reclined, his knees coming up. “Oh, my God, this is amazing,” he purred.
She looked at him and said, “I’m getting some fruity shampoo and a fresh bar of soap.”
“You brought both?”
“Of course.”
She returned a few moments later, saw the poor state of the water, and said, “This is just unacceptable.”
Cira reached into the tub to pull the drain plug, but he stopped her. “Let’s wash my hair first, and my beard, and then we can drain it. I want the hot water, even if it’s dirty water.”
“You’re going to make mud if we clean you any harder.”
He laughed then said, “It’s not that bad. Plus, the tank needs time to replenish the hot water otherwise I’m going to be stuck taking a cold bath which—if you don’t already know—does wonders for the male member.”
“You’re stupid, you know,” she said. “I don’t care about that.”
“Every woman cares about that to one degree or another.”
“Whatever,” she said, waving him off. “How do you feel about raspberry-lemon?”
“Do I get a sucker with every wash?”
“Yes,” she grinned.
Cira washed his hair and beard and then got the bar of soap wet and washed his back and arms. He took care of his chest and armpits, then he handed her the bar.
“Okay, let’s drain it,” he said.
They watched the cloudy water go down the drain and then they ran the faucet again, getting lukewarm water at best. She left the bathroom only to return wearing only her bra and a sexy pair of underwear. The sight of her took his breath.
“Oh, my God,” he said.
“Turn around!” she replied, motioning for him to stop looking.
With great reluctance and some serious self-control, he turned away and gave her the privacy she requested. A moment later, she stepped into the tub, slid down behind him, and snaked her legs
in over his. A pair of arms curled around his midsection and he felt her breasts being pressed into his back. This was not what he expected when he had agreed to come to Juárez but apparently, Cira had ideas of her own. Then again, who was he to stop her?
He handed her the soap and said, “I don’t think you need it, but if you do…”
She lathered up her hands, then reached around and soaped his chest. Then she went lower, and then even lower. Going with it, he leaned back into her and let her have her way with him.
“I can’t believe it’s been nearly six months,” she said.
“Since we saw each other last?” he asked.
“Yeah, but also since I’ve been with anyone,” she admitted.
He turned and shot her a look, her hand still on him. “Are you being serious? You haven’t been with anyone since you and I…since last time?”
“I’m serious,” she said, letting go. “I was both so nervous and excited to see you, and then when I saw you, I thought maybe I’d time-traveled back to the Stone Ages. The way you looked, I was like, I freaking waited for this?”
He laughed then apologized, and then he said, “I think it’s time to cut my hair and beard.”
“I think you’re one thousand percent right.”
When they were done with the bath, the two of them walked a few blocks up the street where they found Plaza Torres. There, they picked up a plug-in set of clippers, a comb, a can of shaving cream, and some razors. They also found a suitable button-up shirt and pair of pants for Atlas at the tattoo parlor in a side display that was labeled “Seasonal.”
“If I wasn’t full from the tacos,” Atlas said as they were walking back to the hotel, “I’d have us stop at Tabasco’s Restaurant & Bar. The nachos look amazing.”
Cira started laughing because the large advertisement display for the nachos looked green and unappetizing.
“I might’ve just thrown up in my mouth a bit,” she said.
“Do you have toothpaste?” he asked.
They turned around and went back to the same mart they bought the razors from and picked up a tube of toothpaste and a two-pack of toothbrushes.
“When I let you make out with me later,” he said as they started back to the hotel once more, “I want you to have fresh breath.”
