by Marvin Kaye
“Carlos told me I must obey you.” Once seated, Kyla turned toward the woman and did a quick body search. Hannah’s glaze remained placid. “Am I to entertain you?”
“No.”
Silence prevailed for the rest of the journey. Once inside her cabin, Kyla said, “Hannah, I apologize for what I did in the car. I want to be your friend.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve come to take you away from here.”
“This island?”
“This whole life—if you wish to go.”
A light seemed to flicker in her otherwise empty eyes. “Did you buy me?”
“No. No one will ever buy you or take you by force again. If you do what I say you’ll go home to America. You’ll be free. Do you wish it?”
The light receded from Hannah’s eyes. “Why are they—and you—testing me, Señorita?”
“No one is testing you, Hannah.” Kyla gently caressed the girl’s face. “I know what they did to you and I can take you to freedom and safety—if you wish it.”
“Of course I wish it.” Hannah’s hands crossed her chest, polished fingernails glinting like rubies in the muted glow of a kerosene lamp. “But we will never leave this place alive.”
“I can handle these people.” Kyla knew she had to bolster Hannah’s confidence fast if her plan was to work, so she added, “Hannah, I blew up Carlos’s yacht and I can save you, too.”
“It was you?” An invisible hand seemed to twist Hannah’s serene features. “You—a woman—did all that?”
“Yes,” Kyla nodded. “Now will you trust me?”
“I’ve learned I can’t trust men...” A rapid blink replaced Hannah’s usual stare. “But if you can do all that—I must trust you!”
“Excellent. All our needs are in these two canvas backpacks.”
Staring curiously as Kyla opened one pack, shucked her pants outfit and climbed into the garb she wore on Alvarez’s vessel, Hannah muttered, “Buen Jesús …”
“Good Jesus has nothing to do with this. As you see, I’m qualified to protect you.” Kyla slipped night goggles around her neck and threw a blouse, jeans, and boots to Hannah. “Lose the clothes and put these on. I have a deep sea fisherman on retainer waiting in a secluded cove a couple of miles from here. Your captors are scared and uncertain right now and I’m counting on that confusion to get us back to the Mexican mainland.”
As Hannah changed, Kyla noted the Egyptian pyramid, a symbol of universal power with its all-seeing eye, tattooed to her left breast.
“Señori—uh—ma’am, I don’t even know your name.”
“Call me Kay.”
“I’m ready, Kay.”
“Follow me.” Kyla swung one canvas backpack over each shoulder. “We’re leaving through the back window.”
Hannah’s chest heaved and perspiration glowed like tiny diamonds on her face by the time Kyla motioned her to stop near the crest of a thirty-to-forty foot high ridge. Moonlight splayed pale yellow beams over calmly rolling ocean waves below as Kyla dropped the canvas backpacks and punched a code into her cell phone. When the text was returned she said, “He’s ready for us.”
“But…” Hannah’s curious stare returned. “There’s no vessel in sight.”
“It’s tucked in an alcove under this ridge. You rested enough to go?”
“Si—I mean yes…”
“Then let’s go. Want to be back by daybreak.”
One of the first skills Kyla learned as a covert operator was how to identify and network with government agencies and independent collaborators domestically and on foreign soil. So she had bribe money ready in case of intervention by Mexican authorities or seafaring drug dealers, but the short cruise back to the mainland went unchallenged. Dressed back in civilian clothes, she paid the vessel’s captain and hailed a cab from the boat dock to the condo she had rented in Acapulco under the name Kay Pearsall.
Trained to know that successful infiltration requires advance knowledge of terrain, and a variety of safe houses if available, Kyla observed every precaution to better her chances of success. Once safely inside the condo, she ordered breakfast delivered from a nearby restaurant and watched the news while they ate. The sinking of the yacht “El Amor Siempre” or “Love Always” was the main subject of debate by local media, with theories ranging from rogue gangs demanding protection money to rival flesh-trade competitors muscling in on Señor Alvarez’s action. Kyla noted that one talking head came closest to the truth by spinning the idea that someone might want to draw attention to the fact that while adult prostitution is legal in Mexico, the debasement of children is not. That show ended with an interview whereby Señor Alvarez claimed all his employees were legal age and that he thought the United States was trying to deflect its immigration problems by fomenting public opinion hostile to its southern border neighbors.
Kyla motioned Hannah to get comfortable on the living room settee while she sat facing her in a cane-backed chair, then said, “You know the Internet makes any agenda hard to hide any more. Anyone can find out about child prostitution or anything else with the strike of a key these days. That’s how I became emotionally concerned about you and your sister. While surfing, I found a story released on an anonymous blog about a missionary nun who ran a hospice in one of the barrios and treated a young American girl suffering with AIDS. She said the girl’s name was Naomi Brant and that Naomi explained how she and her sister were deceived as children into leaving their home in Long Island and forced into prostitution in Mexico. The nun reported Naomi’s claim to the local police and the town newspaper. The story was never officially printed, although a version was circulated by an underground press, and a few days after that the nun almost died at the hands of a hit-and-run driver while walking to the marketplace.”
Hannah stared woodenly, then asked, “Is my sister still alive, Kay?”
“Don’t know…” Kyla frowned. “A nurse found her bed empty the morning after the nun’s accident.”
“I see.”
“Do you know where she was working before she tried to escape?”
“No.” Hannah curled into a semi-fetal position and lowered her head. Her long red hair framed her face as she murmured, “Only that Carlos sent her away.”
Kyla continued, “My next internet research proved indeed that you and Naomi had disappeared from Long Island. Many news articles covered the story at the time. I even contacted your mother.”
“My mother! How—is she?”
“Not well. Cancer. Receiving chemo treatments.”
“Still smoking?”
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
Kyla hesitated. “Uh…”
“Drunk?”
“Afraid so.”
“Maybe I can help them—if I get back home.”
”When. Not if,” Kyla assured her. “Now on to the big picture.”
“Que—what?”
Kyla walked into the bedroom and returned with a digital camcorder and tripod. While setting the equipment up she said, “I’m going to tape an interview with you about your abduction and the child abuse in Poseidon’s Trident. Some internet blogs claim even torture and murder urges can be gratified for a price. Tell me everything you know, then I’ll email it to major media outlets. When they respond we’ll arrange for a public news conference right here in Acapulco. After telling your story you’ll demand asylum in our embassy until you can be escorted home safely by American authorities. The publicity should generate enough outrage to shame the Mexican government and hopefully prod the United States and the U.N. to take action against these thugs.”
Hannah revealed a host of sordid details into the camcorder and Kyla shot it right through the internet. Fifteen minutes later, the first phone call came to her throwaway cell phone. She handed it to Hannah who set the time and place for a public interview. S
everal more news outlets contacted her within the hour and she gave them all the same appointment. Then she showered, put on fresh clothes, and said, “I’m ready to go, Kay.”
“Good luck.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“No. My work’s done. I’ll disappear now. It’s your show. Again, good luck.”
Kyla stepped onto the balcony and squinted against the morning sun to watch Hannah walk down the oceanfront street toward the hotel where she was to hold her outdoor press conference. A small crowd of reporters were loitering in front with several satellite vans in anticipation of the upcoming event. Hannah stopped momentarily and drew a cell phone from the pocket of her jeans. Kyla realized she had forgotten to take that phone back. An unsettled feeling kicked in when she saw Hannah dial a number and become engaged in conversation. Minutes later, Hannah pocketed the phone and continued on to the hotel.
Kyla sensed trouble and loaded up her backpacks while watching the live TV interview. Hannah’s features registered no emotion as she looked into the camera and said, “Before I take any questions I have to tell everyone that the message I put on the internet was false. I was being held against my will by a woman named Kay who threatened to kill me if I didn’t make that video. My sister and I were never coerced into anything. We ran away from home because it was miserable there. We made our way to Mexico and worked as dishwashers and waitresses until we were old enough to become prostitutes—which, by the way is legal in Mexico and pays very well. I believe my captor is an American operative whose agenda is to discredit the present Mexican authorities for political reasons that I can’t understand.”
Kyla snapped the TV off as reporters began hurling questions. She counted on intuition to tell her which way to play this surprising and unfortunate turn. She tucked one pistol under the waistband of her jeans and covered it with a loose fitting blouse. If pursued by Alvarez’s thugs, killing would not be a problem. But fighting with police was out since they were just doing their jobs. She hefted the canvas backpacks, one containing her weapons, the other various portable necessities such as the snorkel, camcorder, laptop, and other electronic items, then headed through the door to the stairwell, which would make for a faster exit than the elevator. But the sounds of tramping boots and the squawk of two-way radios sent her back into the room and out to the balcony. Her condo door shook under a heavy knock and a stern voice shouted, “Policía! Abre la puerta!”
Kyla whipped open the grappling hook from the weapons backpack, thrust it into the portable launcher and aimed for the roof. The grapple careened upward past two balconies and hooked the groove of a terracotta tile. She then slung that backpack on, abandoned the other one and jumped off the balcony. Planting both feet on the stucco wall, she climbed upward to the sound of wood splintering inside the condo and someone shouting, “Policia! Open! Surrender—”
Kyla reached the peak of the slanted rooftop before she heard yelling on her balcony below. That same commanding voice issued orders to look for her in the stairwell and watch the elevators in the lobby. She managed to quietly scramble over the many adjoining rooftops she had mapped out in advance to another building, where a brunette named Laura Jeffries rented an apartment. Opening the roof hatch gingerly, she peered into the empty stairwell below and quickly descended three flights until she reached her floor. A thirty-something couple with two young boys nodded as she passed their elevator bank. She killed time by a vending machine until they boarded, then entered her apartment. Now was the time to shower, limber up with yoga stretches and meditate. Tomorrow a woman with a black pixie hairstyle and dark brown eyes would emerge into the Acapulco sunshine to seek another path to success in a mission that today had gone awry.
“Sor Maria?”
The ancient crevices of a weathered face writhed like awakened snakes as a wheelchair-bound woman glanced up at Kyla. “Norteamericano?”
“Si.”
“I teach—taught English.” Tight lips smiled toothlessly. “Yes. I am Sister Maria.”
“My name is Laura Jeffries. May I sit?”
The nun favored the single bed beside her with a wave of a blue-veined hand over the rickety chair her visitor was about to use. “Sit there, please.”
“I am a freelance journalist,” Kyla explained, “and I know about your involvement with Naomi Brant.”
“That is why I am crippled in this chair.” Curling both arms under her threadbare poncho the nun shivered, although no breeze crossed the stuffy little bedroom. “Satan has Méjico by the throat. I am also—was a nurse. I tried to save that child…”
“I know. I read about it.”
“Si—yes. I reported her story to authorities.” The nun’s watery eyes fixated on Kyla’s face. “Were you the one who tried to rescue Hannah recently?”
Kyla never flinched from Sister Maria’s stare. “No.”
“Our sisters go to the marketplace. News travels.” The nun’s eyes shifted to the crucifix on the wall above the side of her bed, then back to Kyla. “Domingo Melendez rules the very souls of those poor girls.”
“Domingo! I thought Alvarez—”
“Clever Domingo leads everyone to believe that.” The nun slowly shook her head. “Alvarez is a scapegoat. The one you want is Domingo.”
Kyla’s eyebrows twitched at the nun’s implication, but her voice remained unperturbed. “Did Naomi tell authorities about Domingo’s true criminal status?”
“Yes. But Domingo had himself edited out of all reports. Even the underground got the information wrong.”
“Please tell me everything you can about Domingo—especially his personal habits if you know of any—to help me expose him to the world.”
The drive back from the barrio to the luxurious dwellings of Acapulco Bay took about two hours. Kyla mulled over the details of mind persuasion Sister Maria had related as employed by Domingo. Blondes, redheads, and other light-skinned women were especially rare in bordellos south of the American border and fetched top-dollar fees. But they had to be kept under control by means other than physically destructive drugs, and Domingo discovered the way to do that.
Food and sleep deprivation, chanting, lengthened contemplation, and hours of one-on-one interrogation followed by group gatherings persuaded newly-abducted members that a better life lay before them if they would renounce themselves to a greater cause. This explained Hannah’s betrayal. She had been unhappy at home, had dysfunctional parents and fell under Domingo’s persuasion somehow in Long Island. In turn, Hannah excited Naomi with promises of a better life if she accompanied her and Domingo to Mexico. Naomi went willingly and succumbed to the spell of Domingo’s mind-control programs. But when she contracted AIDS from a high-paying customer who refused to use sexual protection, she was relegated to the lowest brothels of the island. Disgusted by this life, she somehow found a way to escape and ended up at the Catholic shelter.
Kyla reflected on how Thomas Jefferson once said: The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.
Dennis and Larry had been patriots and Domingo Melendez was a tyrant. Benjamin Franklin also noted ‘that rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God.’ These ageless sayings bolstered her determination to strike whatever blow she could against evil, without suffering the pangs of guilt associated with unbridled revenge. While Domingo’s death might not destroy his empire or free its present captives, the loss of his charismatic talents would certainly impede its expansion and perhaps prevent the enslavement of more young people in the future. Now the task ahead was to combine logic with intuition and draft a workable plan.
Kyla returned to her apartment carrying a list of Domingo’s habits in her bag. The nun had learned a lot from Naomi, and Kyla felt she could blend in at the clubs and restaurants he frequented until an opportunity to take him down presented itself. Stepping into the room, she intuitively felt, rather than saw, a figure behind t
he door. Swiveling about she launched a kick that fell short when a jolt of power knocked her to the floor. She heard herself moan as flames seemed to engulf her every pore and corpuscle. Hands gripped her arms, dragged her, then threw her down. She blinked through eyes that seemed clogged with sand until the vision of a grinning man appeared hovering over her and a familiar voice said, “Saludos, Puta! Do you not know I have eyes everywhere? Why would a well-off American visit a missionary nun in a barrio unless it was to make trouble? Informers know I pay well. I received a call with your rental’s license plate number and traced you to this place, Laura Jeffries—or whoever the hell you are!”
“That’s Kay.” A feminine voice chimed in. “She looks different, but I recognized the sound of her voice when she moaned. And the nose and lips…that’s Kay.”
“I went through your canvas backpack, Kay, and found your nice toys. I like toys myself. Especially my Taser, which I am going to use to extract the truth about who employs you after we return to my quarters at Poseidon. But first I have to help restore your bodily functions so you can bring me pleasure. Hannah, help me take her clothes off, then—”
“Por qué Domingo? She is not one of us…”
“Do not question me!”
“Lo sentimos, Domingo.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough. Do as you’re told!”
“Si.”
“And speak English. I want this bitch to understand us.”
Kyla’s muscles convulsed as the clothing was stripped from her body. Then Domingo held her head while Hannah spoon-fed an orange liquid into her mouth. After a while, the liquid began to relax her muscles and restore a feeling of physical normalcy. When she was able to sit up on the bed, Domingo said, “Emergen-C is one great product with its powerful combination of electrolytes and vitamins. Now you’ll be normal enough to appreciate my passion.”
Domingo chose one of Kyla’s pistols from her canvas backpack, removed the safety, and slid a round into the firing chamber. Then he handed it to Hannah, saying, “This Sig-Sauer is silenced. All you have to do is point and squeeze the trigger. If she resists me in any way do just that.”
