by JB Salsbury
“You’ve been blowing off business for weeks now. I’ve been letting it pass, but not tonight. You don’t show, I’ll consider you a deserter and I’ll let the guards know you’re not welcome here. Then where will you go?”
“I won’t need to worry about it because you’ll make sure I’m dead before sunrise.” No one leaves the LS unless they do it in a body bag.
The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Fast learner.”
“When and where?” I have to do it or he’ll have me killed and I’ll never make it to the pickup spot where I’ll hopefully be taken to Mercy.
“Las Pulgas. Midnight.”
Fuck! I grab my plate and take it to the sink as an excuse to hide my face because I can’t let him see that there’s no fucking way I’ll be there. “Got it.”
“You know what happens if you’re not. Comprendé, cabrone?”
I fix my eyes on him and nod. I’m a dead man.
He seems satisfied and gets up to leave while I’m stuck playing the this or that game . . .
Follow this lead that may or may not get me Mercy and then have to go on the run for the rest of my life.
Or.
Follow Esteban’s orders and miss my chance to find Mercy but at least I stay alive for another opportunity.
Shit.
I STARE AT the candles circling the statue of the Virgin Mary here in Mercy’s personal prayer spot. I hoped coming here would make me feel connected to her somehow, that it would bring peace to my warring insides, but as the candles flicker in the dark, I feel nothing but regret.
I should’ve listened.
I should’ve been more concerned with comforting her than I was with fixing what was broken inside her. I’ve spent hours going over all the better ways I could’ve handled Mikkel. There had to have been a way to protect her without involving her in the LS, without bringing her to Mexico. I can’t change history, but I can sure as fuck make things right for her.
The backpack on my shoulders pulls hard with the weight of our combined belongings—a few clothes, as much cash as I could get my hands on, and water to sustain us for a day or so.
I close my eyes and tilt my head heavenward. “Blessed Mother, if ever I needed you, it’s now. Wherever she is, keep her safe. Protect her until I can get to her, please. I can’t bear a life of not knowing whether or not she’s alive and safe. Lead me to answers, show me where she is. I promise I—”
“Emilio?”
I turn as Maria comes up beside me. She’s wearing what looks like pajamas with a knitted wrap around her shoulders, her hair pinned back. Her eyes look puffy and tired.
“I thought it might be you,” she says in Spanish.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, I couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes cast downward to Mercy’s prayer altar. “I keep hoping to look out and find her here. When I saw someone standing here, I thought maybe . . .”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s wishful thinking anyway.” She eyes me for a moment, taking in my hooded black sweatshirt and backpack. What she can’t see are the two nine mils strapped to my sides. “You going somewhere?”
“Running a job for Esteban tonight, that’s all.”
Her eyes narrow, and to avoid giving myself away, I go back to studying the candles.
“Well then.” She kneels and reaches for one of the candles. An orange lighter I don’t remember seeing before sits on a rock near the statue, and Maria uses it to light the candle. “We should pray.”
When she sets the candle back down, I recognize it’s not one of the four that Mercy originally had here. “Who is it?”
“Saint Anthony. I’ve been coming here nightly, praying for his intersession on our behalf.” She interweaves her fingers in prayer position at her chest and closes her eyes, mumbling a heartfelt prayer in Spanish, but she’s speaking too softly for me to hear. “Amen.” Her hands drop to her lap, but she remains kneeling in front of the shrine.
“Who is he? Anthony. What is he the patron saint of?”
She peers up at me, and the flickering light of the candle casts shadows across her face that make her look ominous. “Lost things.”
My heart throbs and my throat swells when I realize Maria knows I’m leaving tonight to find Mercy and there’s a good chance I won’t make it back. I close my eyes and say my own prayer—one for guidance, protection, and success. When I hear the dead leaves crunch under Maria’s feet, I open my eyes to find her standing with a soft expression.
“Be careful.” She points at the sky. “Full moon.”
“I will.”
“May peace be with you.”
“And also with you.”
She squeezes my arm and walks away, leaving the small candle to burn. I don’t know how much longer I stay there, but I eventually force myself to walk away toward the underground garage. I punch in the five-digit code that opens the gate and jog to the El Camino.
I hit the gas and head out of the guarded gates like I would any other night on a job for Esteban. I hang a right and race toward the spot of the coordinates. The wind whistles through the windows, making my ears buzz in a way that matches the hum in my veins. I run through the possible outcomes of tonight and how I’ll respond to each, but every time I imagine having Mercy in my arms again, I lose all sense of planning and picture myself throwing her over my shoulder and running as far away as I can. To think beyond that is difficult. I resolve to do whatever it takes to free her and deal with the consequences later.
Milo
LESS THAN AN hour after I left Esteban’s, I pull up to the same spot near the Tijuana River. Tonight is different than the others, as a handful of cars are already waiting. I park, but don’t get out and watch as the people in the other cars do the same. They’re as cautious as I am, nervous as to what they’ve paid for and the mystery behind it.
I check my watch and see it’s nearly midnight. Sancho is probably just getting to the meeting spot at Las Pulgas. I smile when I imagine his response to my not showing up, which just goes to show how fucking gone my head is right now. No man should grin at the prospect of his own brutal murder.
The night ticks on as the moon rises higher. Adrenaline and the anticipation of getting new information about Mercy has my knees jumping and my fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
In the distance, two headlights shine as a vehicle comes our way. At first I think it’s another prospective client, but as it gets closer, I see it’s a van. A windowless black van.
Taking this as my cue to get out and make an appearance, I shove my backpack into the backseat and check to make sure the two guns holstered at my ribs are still in place before getting out of the car. Other people follow my lead until a group of seven of us are standing in a cluster where the van pulls up and parks.
A man gets out and eyes us. “Siete.” He seems satisfied that there are seven of us and pops open the back of the van. “Leave your wallets and phones here. If we find them, you won’t get them back,” he says in Spanish.
A few people jog back to their cars to drop their things. I didn’t bring mine because I don’t need these assholes knowing who I am or being able to hunt me down. We’re ushered inside the small space like cattle. There are five men, including myself, and two women who hold hands. They must’ve come together.
The back of the van is stuffy, but thankfully it’s air conditioned, so I’m able to wear my sweatshirt without being suspicious. The man driving gives a half-hearted apology about the ride and points at bottled waters stacked in the corner, then he closes the doors and locks them.
I’m alert and try to keep track of which direction we’re heading, but as we drive, I get the feeling the driver was instructed to take twists and turns in order to confuse us.
One of the men—an older guy in his sixties who seems to have some money, judging by his nice clothes, watch, and big diamond earring—speaks up first. “What are you all here for?”
The woman with her arm ove
r the other lady answers. “My sister is sick. We were told the angel could heal her. What about you?”
“I’m expecting she’ll be able to help me get back money owed to me and curse those who robbed me.” He must sense my look of disbelief. “No, really. I have a friend who met with the angel and it worked. He too was sick, but she healed him. He’s now married to a girl half his age.” He laughs with a throaty cackle.
The image of Mercy, my Mercy, putting her hands on this man, pressing her body against his like she did mine that night in Los Angeles when she was trying to “heal” me, makes me want to rip him apart with my bare hands. I take a deep breath, focusing on the fact that everyone here is mentioning an angel. How many other albino women could be in Mexico? They have to be talking about Mercy.
“How long ago?” I ask.
He shrugs from his slouched position on the padded bench seat across from me. “Few months, maybe six.”
That doesn’t make sense. Mercy was safe with me six months ago, which means there’s someone else. A heavy feeling of defeat settles over me and I lean forward with my head in my hands, telling myself not to give up. At least now I’ll know where she was kept. After this, I can go back to Los Angeles and tell Laura what I know.
Then I’ll head out on the run, because after tonight, the LS will be out for my blood.
Mercy
THERE ARE MORE. More like me—children being caged and used.
I pace my bedroom. The pain in my jaw from Papa’s hand has disappeared with the rush of adrenaline. I’ve wrapped the small wound on my thigh in torn bed sheets, and one thought pounds in my mind.
I have to save them.
This whole time, I’ve been wishing I’d never left the safety of Milo’s arms, the protective walls of the estate, but I have a bigger purpose.
“This is my destiny,” I whisper while feeling the hard blade strapped to my belly with a strip from the sheets. “I’ve been called to save them.”
My thoughts tumble, scatter, and reform as though I’ve gone mad, and I struggle to hang on to every bit of sanity I have left. I need to stay clear-headed if I’m going to come up with a plan.
My gaze darts to the air vent above the door and the large bookcase that hides a secret door that leads to the sanctuary. Vague memories of people streaming in through an open door in the sanctuary assault my mind. Surely that door leads out—where, I have no idea.
I rush to the bookshelf and slide my fingers along the seam where the wood meets the wall. I dig with the pads of my fingertips, my nails. I take out the knife and shove the tip into the gap and try to leverage it open, but it’s all useless.
Foggy memories flow in and out like the tide on the beach. Before I can grab onto one long enough to glean information, it rushes out again, leaving me chasing but never grasping a memory. I sheath my knife and head over to the door that leads to the small patio with high walls. There are so many locks, both key and touch key, I wouldn’t even know where to start. And if I managed to get out, where would I go?
Without many more options, I flop onto the bed, discouraged and angry about getting caught trying to communicate with the child a few doors down. If I hadn’t been caught, Papa would still trust me and he might even let me go back out, but those opportunities are gone now.
I drop back onto the bed and roll to my side. “My last hope . . .” is a ceremony.
I have to figure out a way for Papa to allow me the opportunity to meet with people, then maybe, someway, I can slip them a message. But the chances of me ever being allowed in the sanctuary after what I’ve done are unlikely.
I press my cheek into the pillow and wince at the pain in my jaw. He’d never raised a hand to me in the past. I never gave him a reason to.
Hours pass, and no matter what I try to do to make time move faster, it doesn’t work. My evening meal never comes, and I wonder if being starved is part of Papa’s plan to break me. With every grumble of my stomach, the room gets darker and darker. I continue to stare at the wall across the room, thinking about Milo.
For the first time since I’ve returned here, I feel it’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again.
My eyelids slide closed as sleep beckons me with promises of relief from the pain in my heart. I dream I’m in the sun with Milo’s body wrapped around me, but I feel no burn. No heat. Only him. He runs his fingers through my hair, smiles, and tells me I’ll be okay. I beg him not to leave, and—
“Angel, wake up.”
The voice shakes me from my dream. Startled, I shoot to a sitting position on the bed. I reach for the blade beneath my gown and find comfort that it’s still there, concealed.
Papa sucks his teeth while studying me. “You’ve looked better.” He roughly cups my chin and yanks my face from one side to another, inspecting.
I wince as his fingers dig into my sore jaw. I haven’t looked, but there’s sure to be a nasty bruise.
“Shame you made me hurt you like this, Angel,” he says in a tone much softer than the one he woke me with. He releases my face with a push that would’ve had me falling back onto the bed if I wasn’t braced for it. “It’ll have to do.”
I don’t dare ask what he means, but wait quietly for instructions.
“Prepare for a ceremony.”
My gaze slides to his. I keep my expression impassive to avoid him seeing my excitement.
With his arms crossed, he tilts his head to study me more even though he’s less than a foot away. “You’ll have to do it on your own. You’ve proven I can’t trust you with others—first you keeping the girl in your room and then you disobeying me.”
I know whatever I say in this moment will be wrong, so I remain quiet.
He heads to my closet and whips out a long white ceremonial gown, the back cut so low it reveals the top of my backside. “You think you can manage it?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good, now get ready and I’ll be back with the serum.”
“With all due respect, Papa, I don’t need—”
“You’re in no position to make requests. You use your voice to say ‘Yes, Papa’ and that’s it, or you stay locked in this room forever. Is that understood?”
I bow low, resting my forehead on the floor by his feet. “Yes, Papa.”
He lets out a rushed humph and leaves, but not before locking all five of the locks.
This is my chance.
I quickly bathe, pull my hair into a tight bun at the back of my neck, and apply oil to my body. I slip on my gown. With my back exposed, I can no longer strap the knife around my waist. I search for a new place to hide it and settle for the bandage on my thigh. I can conceal the blade between my legs, the only place I know Papa won’t go near.
I check my reflection in the mirror. Other than the discolored old wounds and the fresh bruise on my cheek, I look just as much an angel as I ever did. If anyone knew better, if they looked hard enough, they’d see what I see glowing behind my eyes, brighter than any heavenly host. Determination.
When I was in California, it was easy to tap into who I used to be. My angel side surfaced without my even trying. When Julian was sick or Milo was hurting, I could become the healer, and now there are people who need me. There are others no one outside this prison even knows exist, and it’s my job to save them.
I lower to my knees, fold my hands in my lap, bow my head, and close my eyes, focusing on my breathing, searching desperately for the inner strength I’m going to need to do what needs to be done. The metal of the knife warms between my thighs, and I make a silent vow to use it if anyone stands between my goal and me.
“Forgive me for the sin I’m about to commit,” I whisper into the emptiness of the room.
Is mortal sin wrong when it’s used to save the lives of others? Am I prepared to carry the weight of eternal damnation to rescue someone I don’t even know?
As the questions filter through my mind, so does the resounding answer. Yes.
This is my purpose. My destiny. Like Saint Berna
dette and Saint Philomena, I am called to do something bigger than could ever be understood in the hearts of men.
Thumping footsteps grow louder outside my door. The locks click, and the door opens. I remain with my head bowed and imagine from the stillness of the person in the doorway that I am being studied.
“Beautiful, my Angel,” Papa says then closes the door.
There’s the scrape of a food tray being set on the table, then the tinkling of china. I remain still, so still even my breathing is shallow.
His feet shuffle closer, and the bed springs creak as he takes a seat at my side. “You’re stunning.”
“Thank you, Papa.” I dip my head lower, hoping he believes my submission is sincere.
“Come now, time to drink.”
I sit up tall and fix my eyes on his. I don’t miss the slight jump in his jaw as he meets my gaze, and I wonder if that jump is from fear. Does he believe his own lies, the lies he tells others to earn their trust, faith, and money?
He brings the cup to my lips. “Drink.”
I close my eyes and swallow the warm, bitter tea.
“All of it.”
There’s no telling what he’s giving me. I have no choice but to swallow it, but unlike the past when I would feed off of the euphoric feeling it brought, tonight I will fight it with everything I have.
“Good girl.” He takes the cup back to the table and checks his watch. “Your parish should be here any minute. It won’t be long now.”
“Yes, Papa.”
He squats in front of me, meeting me eye to eye, tilting his head to study me, and I drop my gaze to keep him from seeing my true intentions. My head swims, and I blink to focus on the swirling grains of wood that move and dance around me.
No! Fight it!
I lick my lips, and the warmth of my tongue spreads like sunshine on my skin to my cheeks, ears, neck, and down my chest.
“What did you give me?” I sway on my knees only to be caught by his firm grip on my bicep. In my weakness, I spoke out of turn, but I sense no anger in his touch.
“How are you feeling, Angel?”
