by JB Salsbury
Eventually the inky night gives way to street lamps that increase in number. We must be getting close to a city. I tuck back into a ball, making myself as little as possible as I glue myself to the driver’s side corner. The whirring sound of traffic and rhythmic beats of music confirm we’re in a city.
After the stop-and-go goes on for a while, we eventually come to a complete stop. I hold my breath as the engine cuts off and Milo opens the door. My pulse pounds in my ears as I wait for his angry growl, but there’s no sound except for the slam of his door followed by his retreating footsteps.
I count to one hundred before unfolding from my protective spot and sitting up. My vision struggles to adjust to the bright neon sign that stares back at me.
Mirabonita is written in pink lights, and I’m in a dark parking lot.
I jump from the car and hide my face as best I can behind my hood as I scurry toward the door. A man comes out and I dip my face as I pass him. The music from inside becomes louder when I walk through the door.
My feet still when I’m hit with the sounds of what must be hundreds of people all around me. Instinct sends me back a step, but I slam into someone who shoves me forward. I stumble but thankfully don’t fall. The air is thick with the musky scent of human bodies—sweat, perfume, and the sickly sweet stench of alcohol.
I make my way around the space on shaky legs while people talk loudly and laugh even louder. I can’t see where I’m going and end up getting shoved a few times, followed by cursing in Spanish.
This was a mistake. I’ll never find Milo in this crowd and can’t see well enough to find my way out.
I chance a look up and instantly regret it.
Women dressed in nothing but panties and high-heeled shoes dance on tables. Some are with men, allowing them to touch their breasts and kiss them.
My stomach turns painfully, and I long to get out of here. My pulse races and sweat breaks out on my forehead as I search for Milo, all the while getting sick that he’d ever want to come to a place like this.
“Salida,” I say to whoever can hear me. “The exit?”
No response.
I move through a crowd of people to the counter where a man is serving drinks. He passes me several times to serve others, having not noticed me tucked into the safety of my sweatshirt.
“Excuse me.” I wave my hand, but he doesn’t see me.
Bodies press in around me. I wipe sweat from my forehead, and my pulse quickens. My hands shake, and in a panic, I pull off my hood just to get a big breath of air.
“Excuse me!”
The man behind the counter doesn’t respond, but this time when he passes by, he catches sight of me and freezes.
That’s better.
“Salida, por favor.”
He blinks a few times then points at some unknown location over my head.
“Ay, muy bonita.” A man shoves in next to me and paws at my body.
I push away from him and move in the direction the man behind the counter pointed. My skin is clammy as people stare and yell at each other in Spanish.
After getting turned around twice, I finally find the door and push outside, but there’s no parking lot. Only a long corridor, similar to an alleyway, framed with a run-down, one-story structure.
I head away from the big building, trying to regain my composure. I suck in deep breaths of fresh air but find it too is heavy with an unpleasant stench. People mull about, coming and going from the many doors lining the alleyway. Some are closed, but others are open as a woman stands in the doorway, wearing next to nothing.
What the woman said back at the restaurant comes flooding back in. These are prostitutes.
Please know that everything I do is for us. Milo’s words from last night come back to me.
Is this why Milo has come here? Not for sex, but in search of the people who kept me?
My gaze climbs the walls of every building, looking for something familiar from my past—a tall wall that reaches to the heavens, something—but everything is short, dirty, and loud. I would’ve heard the music if I’d been raised nearby. Even my short experience with being outside would have introduced me to the pungent scent of car exhaust, smoke, and garbage.
The women call out to me in Spanish as I continue down the alley. I’m only able to pick up on a few words—bonita, dinero, and me gusta. Men stumble out of rooms, smiling as others pass money to the women before being invited inside. I search as best I can for Milo, but it’s hard to know where to look. I turn back toward the club and wonder if he’s still inside. My heart throbs at the idea of going back in there. What if I never find my way out?
A firm grip latches onto my elbow. “Belleza blanca.”
I whirl around to find a man with a thick black mustache, his calculating gaze skidding over my face and hair.
“Let me go.” I try to pull my hood up over my head with my free hand, but before I can, my arm is wrenched behind me by another who smells like alcohol and smoke.
Mustache man smiles, his teeth crooked and yellow, and his breath makes my stomach turn. “American.” He goes on to say something in Spanish to the man at my back before swinging his gaze back to me. “Usted no pertenece aquí.”
“I don’t understand.” I try to jerk my arms free, but they’re too strong. “My boyfriend, he’s with me. He’ll be here—”
His fingers dig deep into my elbow, and my words dissolve on a whimper. “Yo soy tu novio ahora.” He laughs and drags me forward.
I try to fight him. I dig my feet into the asphalt, but the man at my back shoves me forward and I sag in his grip. I cry out as pain rips through my shoulder. A woman standing in a nearby doorway looks on with pity in her eyes but makes no move to help.
“Please help me!”
With a sharp look from the mustache man, she ducks inside and closes her door. The men talk in clipped Spanish as I desperately search for someone to help, but all the women seem too terrified as I’m dragged down the alley.
“I can pay you! Please!” I offer them money in English and do my best to do the same in Spanish, but the more I plead for my life, the more the men laugh.
We turn a dark corner toward a waiting car with the engine running.
“No no no no . . .” I throw every bit of strength I have left into thrashing.
The man at my back loses his hold. I twist and turn to get my other arm free. The man curses in Spanish, and my arm slips free. I stumble, whirl around—and pain slices through my jaw seconds before the world goes black.
Milo
ARTURO FUENTEZ, A.K.A. El Tiburón.
I’ve spent the last two days with the man, and every time I feel as though I’m getting close to him revealing the information about the mysterious Angel and where she was kept, he freezes up.
Here in his plush office, surrounded by the kind of furnishings that could only be afforded by the man who runs the majority of Zona Norte, I swirl two fingers of Don Julio Real tequila in my glass. My watch says he’s been gone for ten minutes after getting a phone call and politely excusing himself. Since I’m the son of Esteban Vega, he offered me a variety of drugs and his top-quality whores to keep me occupied. What a fucking gentleman.
I turned them all down, saying something about being happy with my drink, but really, I’m crawling out of my skin being this close to what I need.
How long would it take for his security to burst in here and slit my throat if I beat the information out of him? I wonder if he’d take kindly to a good ol’ fashioned threat of bodily harm or if it would be better to cut off his supply of guns and drugs—something I could do with a few simple phone calls—
The door clicks open and in walks the fat fucking prick. From the looks of him, you’d never know he has enough money to buy Baja. He’s wearing a white collared shirt complete with a brown stain on the chest—probably from his dinner. His pudgy legs are shoved into black pants that look a few inches too long, and his thin salt-and-pepper hair looks a month past a wash.
/> “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says in Spanish as he crosses to the bar and pours himself a drink. “Something came up.” He sits on the couch across from me. “You understand.” He gulps from his drink.
I feel my hands shaking with barely restrained fury. “Tell me what you know about the angel and I’ll get out of your hair.”
This dick is starting to feel like a dead end, and I don’t like wasting my fucking time.
He frowns, and his eyes become shrewd. “I already told you, I don’t know anything—”
My arm flies, and the glass of tequila hurls over his head to shatter on the wall behind him. “You’re lying!”
The doors burst open as two of Arturo’s personal security come rushing in. Arturo holds them off with a lift of his hand. They step back but stay in the room.
“I know you’re hiding something. I’ve been sitting here playing your fucking games and you’ve given me nothing.”
“How much is this information worth to you?”
I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees and glare at the tubby asshole. “I already explained. You name your price. It’s yours.”
He sips from his drink, and my jaw tics with the strength it takes to restrain from tackling him. He shrugs. “I don’t have anything for you, but I’ll put the word out that you’re willing to buy information. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“This is bullshit,” I mumble.
I’m up and walking out before he finishes his last sentence. I shove past the hired muscle by the door and out into the hallway, down the stairway into a crowded club, and make my way to the door through the throngs of people in various stages of drunk and dirty.
Once outside, I pull out my phone and send a text to Sancho, letting him know I’ll be on time for the exchange tonight. I could’ve stayed home a little longer with Mercy, held her in my arms, made love to her again, but instead I spent an hour chasing my own fucking tail—or rather, Arturo’s. Prick.
I slam my palm on the El Camino’s steering wheel.
I really thought I could do this. I thought I could hunt down her captors and give her closure.
Maybe she doesn’t need to be reunited with them to put this all behind her. Is it possible I could heal her in another way?
Maybe she’s not the one who needs the vindication. Maybe I’m the one who has needed the revenge all along.
THE SKY IS getting light by the time I pull back into the underground parking garage. Exhaustion has me dragging my feet to the stairs that lead from the garage to the kitchen. My knuckles ache after being forced to rough up our buyer tonight—who just happened to be short on the payment he owed us by half. I’m not big on violence, but the mood I was in, I was happy to deliver a beat-down for what ended up being almost four hours before his men showed up with the cash.
It’s quiet in the house. Not even the staff are awake yet.
I jog up the stairs to our room and slowly open the door. My clothes smell like smoke, and my skin is covered in the stick of humidity, seedy establishments, and blood. I head to the bathroom, but not before turning to see Mercy’s delicate frame sleeping soundly beneath a mountain of bedding and pillows.
The tension in my shoulders slides away, and I continue into the shower to get clean so I can crawl into bed with her for however long I have until she wakes up for the day.
This whole time, I’ve been thinking that having her wasn’t enough, that I had to fix things. Fix her nightmares. Get revenge for her past.
I was wrong.
She’s enough.
We’re enough.
First thing tomorrow, I’m going to talk to Esteban about going back to Los Angeles. I miss my brothers. I want our lives back, and even if I have to do LS business while I’m there, it’s got to be better than the smuggling shit I’ve been doing here.
I take a quick, hot shower and stuff my dirty clothes in the closet hamper.
The room is a little lighter now, and as I crawl into bed, I reach out to pull Mercy into my arms.
My fingers clench around pillows.
I scoot closer and throw my arm over her only to find more pillows.
What the fuck?
I sit up and hit the light on the bedside table. I rip the pillows off the bed, throwing them on the floor. She’s gone.
My pulse slams against my neck.
Where the fuck is she?
My muscles twitch, prepping for a rampage, but instead, I suck in a deep breath. “She’s fine.”
She’s probably down in the kitchen with Maria. My shower must’ve woken her. Maybe she’s at the shrine I found her at last night.
I drop back down to my pillow, grabbing hers and putting it over my face. The orange blossom scent of her hair washes over me and dulls my nerves.
When was the last time I slept?
I imagine Mercy on her knees, head bowed and hands in her lap, with Toro at her side as she prays to the Virgin, and my worry falls away.
Esteban won’t be up for a few hours, and I’ll talk to him then about going back to Los Angeles. A few hours of sleep would do me some good. This could be our last few days in Mexico. I can’t wait to tell Mercy.
With images of her smiling face dancing through my head, I fall asleep.
Mercy
I WAKE WITH a gasp in the dark. Adrenaline surges through me. I sit up and slam my head on the low ceiling. The roar of an engine and smell of exhaust reminds me of when I came across the border with Milo. I feel around, my skull pounds, but there’s nothing but rough carpet and metal.
I’m in a trunk.
My stomach flips over on itself.
Milo was right.
I wasn’t safe outside of the compound.
I roll to the side as the car comes to an abrupt halt. Then we’re moving again.
“Let me out!” I cringe at the splitting ache in my jaw. “Hello!” I lie on my back and kick the walls of the tight space. “Let me out! Please!” I bang my fists on the roof, but the car continues to twist and turn.
The combination of the exhaust and the jerky movements make my stomach hurt. I ball up and grab my knees to my chest.
I should’ve listened to Milo.
I should’ve listened.
My head aches and dives before swirling around until I’m sick. A violent surge of vomit rushes up my throat and all over the shoulder of my sweatshirt. I spit and gag but can’t move away from it in the tight space. I’m thirsty, and my head spins with the blackness around me until I don’t know which way is up or down.
I grip my throbbing jaw, wondering if it’s broken, as another wave of sickness rolls up from my stomach. I cough and spit as every muscle in my body tenses to the point of snapping. I gasp for a full breath. My eyes roll back without my permission. Whether it’s from the fumes, fear, pain, or exhaustion, I don’t know.
By the time the vehicle comes to a stop and the engine cuts off, I’m yo-yoing in and out of consciousness. The trunk pops open, and a wave of fresh air washes over me.
I tell my limbs to move, to fight, but I feel as though eight-hundred-pound bricks have been tied to my wrists and ankles.
Rough hands hoist me up as if I weigh nothing, and my head falls heavy backward.
“Why . . . are you doing this?” I hear myself mumble.
The man carrying me ignores me, but barks something in Spanish that has the other man racing ahead and opening doors. Fluorescent lights pierce my eyes and I squint as they flicker like strobe lights, making the pain in my head worsen. I’m being taken down a long hallway. I test my limbs as they slowly come back to life.
My captors speak in Spanish to each other, then there’s the sound of a metal door being swung open. I attempt to look around and see where we are, but I’m suddenly airborne. I flail my arms to try to protect my face, but they don’t move fast enough and I crash chin-first onto unforgiving wet concrete.
A horrifying groan echoes off the walls all around me, and it isn’t until I feel the rumble in my throat
that I realize the sound came from me. I push up to hands and knees, but the pain in my chin is too much. I drop my head to my forearms and cry.
Milo
I LOGGED A good four hours sleep before the sun shining in through the patio door, and straight into my eyes, woke me. With fresh workout clothes on, I figure I’ll hit the gym after I find Mercy and hope she hasn’t eaten lunch yet.
I skip down the steps into the kitchen where Maria is preparing what looks like beef flautas. She hands me a mug of coffee. I was never much of a coffee drinker back in Los Angeles, where I was able to get a solid eight hours sleep a night. Here in Mexico, the liquid energy is a necessity.
“Good morning,” I greet Maria in Spanish.
“It’s almost noon.” She laughs and continues to stuff and roll tortillas.
I sip my coffee and take my spot at the window, my eyes hungry for Mercy. She’s usually in the grass with Toro, but not today. I lean from one side to the other to try to see the full expanse of the yard, but she’s not there.
“Is Miss Mercy sick?” Maria says.
I turn toward her and frown. “I don’t know. Is she?”
Her hands stop mid roll and she seems confused.
“She was up early this morning.” I sip my coffee. “Did she mention not feeling well?”
“I haven’t seen her today, that’s why I asked.”
Something akin to liquid fear charges my blood.
Maria’s brows pinch together, but she goes back to rolling meat into tortillas. “She usually comes down in the morning. I thought maybe she was still in bed.”
I set down my coffee and tell myself not to overreact. There’s a logical explanation. There has to be. I repeat those words to myself even though my gut tells me something is seriously fucking wrong.
I burst out the front door. The sun is high and it beats down on the top of my head.
I run around the estate to the servants’ quarters and, just like last night, peek in windows. I search through the citrus trees and gardens. Toro and a couple of the other property pit bulls follow me, sniffing at the ground and jogging to keep up.
