Saint (Mercy Book 2)

by JB Salsbury

  “Pónganse los!” Driver motions for us all to put on the blindfolds that he tosses into the center of the room.

  He’s alone this time. I assume the extra muscle is waiting out by the van, which is good. Taking out one guy will be easier than taking out two.

  While the others distribute the blindfolds, I reach up to my hoodie and pull out the string. I set my gaze firmly on the driver, who is preoccupied with guarding the door. His gaze slides around to make sure everyone is properly masked, and when his glare meets mine, I nod and make sure he sees me slip mine on.

  He tells everyone that we’re going to be leaving the same way we came, then there’s the click of a lock and the creaking of hinges as the van door opens. I remain still as the other six shuffle out with only minor grunts and apologies.

  “You!” Driver barks in Spanish. “Come!”

  I pretend to be confused on which direction to go. He makes a frustrated growling noise then grips my shoulder and leads me toward the door.

  “Gracias, señor.” I place myself behind him, holding his shoulder as he leads me forward.

  I smack into the doorframe and stumble, using it as an excuse to fall back. I grip my hoodie string in two hands. When I stand back up, I reach out, feel for his head, and wrap the string around his neck.

  He lets out an angry curse. I use the full force of my weight, jumping on his back, my knees at his hips, and wrench myself backward. His feet slip out from under him, and we both go crashing back into the room. His hands flail as he tries to rip me from his body. My hands burn and my muscles shake as I pull the string impossibly tighter. He hits at my face, knocking the blindfold out of place. His face turns an angry purple as he thrashes. I watch the door, hoping no one comes in, and I’m grateful when the big guy finally passes out.

  I clamber to my feet and pull off the blindfold. I search Driver for a weapon and pull a gun from the back of his waistband, then I rush back through the door to the sanctuary. The lingering scent of incense burns, but the red velvet chair is empty. I race to it and search the room for another possible exit.

  I run my hands along the wall, but there’s nothing. She couldn’t have disappeared into thin air. I don’t have much time and with the only exit being—my hand brushes a seam. A hidden door. There’s no lock, no handle, just a six-foot cut that runs up the wall. I jog back into the holding room and step over Driver’s body, then I dart out into the hallway. The other people have managed to make their way out blindfolded and without guidance, but it shouldn’t be too long before they realize I’m missing and their trusty driver is too.

  I hang a right down a corridor that leads to a series of hallway-like tunnels and wonder if we’re underground. I shove the gun into the double pockets of my hoodie, thinking I’ll do better at talking myself out of a confrontation if I’m not seen with a weapon. I do some mental calculations as to which direction to turn when I come to a fork. The sanctuary is on the right, the hidden doorway in that same direction. I jog down the corridor that’s on a decline. Definitely below ground.

  The walls are lined with doorways, each one with multiple locks. I jiggle the handle of one, then another, afraid to knock and draw the wrong attention. There’s stomping on the ceiling above me. I wonder if Driver is up and made a phone call.

  Fuck it.

  I knock on the next door. “Mercy? You in there?” When I get no response, I move on to the next. “Mercy, are you there?”

  And even if she is, there are so many locks on the doors, the only way I’ll be able to get to her is to shoot them out and risk leaving us trapped without any bullets left.

  With my heart pounding and the drive to find her burning behind my ribs, I hit every door and call out for Mercy, getting no reply. A door slams at the far end of the hallway, and I duck in close to one of the recessed doors with the gun tucked tightly to my side. Frantic footsteps come racing down the hallway. As I’m about to lift my weapon and shoot, a woman slams to a halt right in front of me.

  “No digas una maldita palabra o te mato.”

  Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head. “I don’t understand.” Her lip quivers and her eyes fill with tears.

  I notice now that she’s wearing a dirty yellow tank top and equally filthy shorts. Her hair looks as if it hasn’t been washed in as long as her clothes, and she’s tiny, nothing but skin and bones.

  She raises shaky hands as if to block a bullet from coming at her head. “Um . . . por favor, uh, please don’t shoot.”

  The last word melts on a whimper, and I lower my weapon.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, but I need your help.”

  She stills and blinks at me as if shocked to hear me speaking English.

  “Where do they keep Mercy? I need to get to her now.” I turn back, fearing a gang of Driver’s compadres will storm in at any minute.

  “Mercy?”

  “The angel.”

  Her dull brown eyes shift down the hallway, and she chews her lower lip before nodding. “This way.”

  I keep the gun in hand and follow the woman down the hallway, flying past doors and wondering what the fuck that asshole has hiding behind each one. The scent of the incense is long gone and replaced with the musty stench of dirty bodies and sweat.

  I continue to follow the woman I don’t even know if I can trust. For all I know, she’s taking me to the devil himself. Fine with me. There’s a bullet in this gun with his name on it.

  I blindly follow her deeper and deeper into the building with the clock ticking. I grab her elbow and pull her back. “You better not be fucking with me.”

  Her eyes already look huge in her thin face, but they widen even more. “I know where she is.”

  “If you’re lying to me, I’ll kill you.”

  “If I’m telling the truth, will you take me with you?”

  I contemplate that for a half second. “Yes.”

  She seems anxious standing still and wiggles out of my grip. “Good, then let’s go.”

  I follow her, and we take one more right into another passageway that I now sense has taken us in a full circle around the sanctuary. If I’m seeing this all clearly in my head, we should be lined up with the back—

  A door swings open.

  I lift my gun and point. My trigger finger presses in until a flash of white comes stumbling out of the room. “Mercy.”

  I push past the girl and hear her whisper, “That’s her.”

  Mercy seems lost as she staggers around, and when she turns toward me, her face and neck are splattered in blood. I rush to her.

  She sees me and collapses in my arms. “Milo, I . . . you’re here.”

  “Fuck, are you hurt?” I scoop her close, and fearing we’re too exposed, I push her back into the room she came out of.

  When she realizes we’re back in the room, she struggles in my hold. “No, we have to run. We have to get out of here.”

  The woman in the dirty clothes follows us inside and closes the door, then she gasps and whimpers, covering her mouth to keep from crying out.

  “What?” I follow her gaze and . . .”Holy fuck.” The man from the ceremony lies in a pool of blood that spills from his neck and mouth. “Mercy, did you do that?”

  She nods into my chest, and I squeeze her tighter.

  “It was the only way.” Her statement is resolute, as if she’d considered every possible alternative and found murder to be her only chance.

  “Is that Papa?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, okay, it’s all right.” I pry her off of me so I can look at her face.

  Her pale blue eyes are slow to track the movement, but she looks up and settles on me. I can see now she has an old cut on her lip, and a dark bruise mars the perfect skin of her jaw.

  “What the fuck did he do to you?”

  “I’m okay.” Her breasts heave against the gown, and she runs her teeth along her lower lip.

  I don’t care that she’s covered in someone else’s blood; I pu
ll her back into my arms and hold her. Her back arches into me, and her hands run up beneath my shirt. An erotic moan slides from her lips as her nails bite into my pecs, which has my mind hollering wrong time, wrong place.

  I pry her off and stare into her eyes, which are glazed over with desire. “What are you on?”

  Tears fill her eyes as if she’s in pain. “MD-something is what he called it.”

  “Ecstasy? Motherfucker.” I slam my foot into his dead fucking ribs.

  “We need to go,” the other girl says. “We’re wasting time.”

  She’s right. I jerk my head toward her and Mercy looks less sex-crazed and a little embarrassed, which makes me want to kill this fucker one more time.

  “Do you know her? Can she be trusted?” I ask.

  Mercy squints at the girl who comes closer as if she knows she needs to in order to be clearly seen. “Yes, this is Philomena.”

  Perfect. Now that introductions are done, I hold Mercy close again and ask the girl, “Is there a way out?”

  “We can leave through the sanctuary. Or we have to go through the hallways and there’s a chance at getting caught.”

  “No.” Mercy pushes off my chest, a slight slur in her voice, which makes me think she’s on a lot more than MDMA. If Mercy hadn’t ended his life, I would’ve happily done it. “We have to unlock all the doors.”

  “No, we have to get out of here now. Before they find us.”

  She stands on her own, and I drop my hands to my side. Her glare is fierce and her jaw strong as anger emanates from her body. “I won’t leave without them.”

  “Them?”

  Mercy stands stoic, so I look at Philomena, who confirms with a grim nod.

  “Shit!” I run a hand through my hair and fist the strands. “I don’t know how we’re gonna do it. I don’t know if we can get to everyone.”

  “We have to try.”

  I whirl on Mercy. Seeing her like this, her spine rod-straight, her jaw set, her eyes becoming clearer by the minute, she is every bit the angel they’ve sold her to be, although this time she’s not an angel of healing. She’s an angel of vengeance.

  “All right, mi alma. Okay.”

  Her posture softens a little and she jumps into action by crossing to the dead body.

  “I can do that.” I reach forward to help, but by the time I get to her, she already has a small black device in her hand, totally unaffected by the lifeless body.

  “We’ll unlock doors one by one and lead them in here. Once we have them all, we’ll go through the hidden door into the sanctuary.”

  Philomena steps forward. “Give me the keys. I’ll go in the rooms first.”

  “No.” Mercy heads to the door. “I’m going with you.”

  I snag Mercy’s arm and whip her around to face me, making sure I’m close enough that she can see my eyes without question. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not even for a second. Wherever you go from here on out, I go with you.”

  “All right then. Let’s go.”

  I grab her hand, and we head as a team of three to rescue god-knows how many captives in this hole-in-the-ground version of hell.

  Mercy

  MAYBE IT’S THE thrill of having Milo back in my arms or maybe the drugs are wearing off, but either way, I’m feeling a little more like myself and regaining control of my body. There’s still a heavy fog in my head and every touch feels electric, but my need to survive tampers down the drug’s effects.

  “Let me go first,” Philomena says as she reaches for the door handle. “I’ll make sure no one is in the hallway, then we’ll start unlocking doors.”

  “Do you know how many there are?” She must, since she’s responsible for bringing them food, ensuring they’re bathed and prepared for whatever things Papa used them for.

  “Yes.” Philomena slips out of the door then motions for us to come along.

  We move to shuffle out, but Milo throws an arm across my chest, stopping me. “Wait.”

  I want to scream that we’re wasting time and that—

  “For you.” He reaches down to the hem of his sweatshirt and pulls it off over his head to reveal a black, long-sleeved Henley.

  I slip my arms through the oversized sweatshirt and pull up the hood.

  “Good.”

  He grips my hand as we head out into the hallway. Philomena’s at a door just across and down from mine. She cracks open lock after lock then disappears into a dark room. I squeeze Milo’s hand, terrified of what I might see as we follow her inside. Milo curses, and it takes a few seconds for my vision to focus.

  Philomena sits on the edge of the bed and whispers to a person who sits up at the sound of her voice. Not just a person. A child.

  I release Milo’s hand only to have him reach out and grip me tighter. I drag him with me to the child and flip on the light at the bedside, but I recoil immediately.

  A boy stares up at me with eyes the color of my own. He can’t be older than ten, and when he pulls his bed sheets from his body, I realize he’s missing three fingers on one hand.

  All those stories I read about the mutilation of albino children come flooding back to me.

  The murmuring of voices echoes all around me, but I can’t pull my eyes away, imagining the horrors he must’ve endured. He jumps from the bed, wearing a similar robe to what I’ve worn my entire life while living in this den of nightmares.

  “Get on some shoes. We need to move,” Milo says to the kid.

  “We don’t have shoes.” The dull, lifeless tone in my voice shocks even me considering the fire raging within me. “No use for them.”

  “I’m scared.”

  The small voice speaking heavily accented English rips my eyes from Milos. He releases me, and I move toward the child who looks at me with a hint of wonder in his eyes that I’m sure matches the wonder he sees in mine. This is the first time I’ve ever seen anyone like me, and the way his wide eyes study me say I am the first he’s seen as well.

  “What is your name?” I ask.

  “I am called Demonio.”

  I flinch at the sound of Milo’s fierce curse and turn to him only to see his eyes alight with vengeful anger.

  He must sense the question in my gaze. “Demon. They fucking named him demon.”

  I lick my lips and try to put on a mask of serenity when I turn back to the boy. “They called me Angel, but when I left, I got to change my name.”

  He eyes Milo cautiously but focuses back on me. “What do they call you now?”

  “Mercy.”

  He repeats my name and nods.

  “So listen, when we leave here, things could get scary, but staying here will be scarier. When you come with us, at least you won’t be alone.” I hold out my hand.

  He eyes it for a few seconds before he takes it. As my fingers wrap around his, the pad of my thumb brushes over the buds where his pointer and middle finger used to be. My chest cramps, but I push forward and on to the next door.

  “Hurry.” Philomena unlocks the same door I knocked on earlier today.

  After a few tries with different keys, she gets the door to swing in, and Milo ushers us inside while leaving himself as a protective barrier behind us, checking the hallway before closing the door.

  “Wake up.” Philomena clicks on the light. “You have to hurry.”

  Another young person, this one smaller than the boy clinging to my hand as if he’s hanging on for his life.

  “Why?” The tiny voice is as light as a bell and most definitely female.

  I get closer to take a better look, and when I do, she catches sight of me and the boy and stares with parted lips. She is like us, like me when I was that age. Small, maybe seven years old, but rather than having long pale hair like mine, hers is in tight curls close to her head.

  I approach cautiously and hear Philomena say, “It’s okay.”

  That seems to settle the girl as I study her hands and toes, noticing she has all twenty. I breathe a sigh of relief. “We’re going
to get you out of here.”

  “I don’t want to leave. Papa will—”

  “Papa’s dead,” Milo says, drawing the girl’s eyes to him.

  Tears fill her pale blue eyes, and her lip quivers.

  I gently cup her face and wipe her tears with my thumb. “It’s all right, I’ll explain everything, but Papa is gone and you can’t stay here. There’s no one here to take care of you, do you understand?”

  She nods, but I’m not convinced she’ll walk out of here willingly. My mind throws me back to the day I woke up strapped to a bed with Laura explaining how I’d been “rescued” when I felt as though I’d been ripped from my home. I didn’t feel safe, I felt robbed, taken from the safety of Papa’s twisted castle and thrown into a world that was completely foreign to me. I was more than twice this girl’s age.

  “Come now,” I say. “I promise you’ll be safe. We just need to move fast before someone gets hurt.”

  Her spine snaps straight. “Hurt? But I can heal them. Papa says I’m very powerful for—”

  “That sick son of a bitch,” Milo says with both hands in his hair, gripping the strands with white knuckles.

  The sounds of yelling and feet stomping above our heads forces us back to reality.

  I reach my hand out to the young angel. “We must go. Now. You have to trust me.”

  She crabwalks backward on the bed, recoiling.

  “Angel.” Milo steps forward and scares the girl even more.

  She’s probably not used to seeing many people outside of Philomena and Papa. But Milo has a way with people like us. He was the only person who brought me comfort in a way that even now I can’t explain. He sets his eyes on the girl, and she spots the tattoo on his neck. He hooks my sweatshirt and pulls me forward before spinning me so my back is to the girl. Then he lifts the sweatshirt and I hear the young girl suck in a breath.

  “So you see? She’s an angel like you,” he says.

  “But—”

  “You know angels can’t lie, they can only do good, right?”

  “Yes,” says the tiny voice.

  Milo drops my sweatshirt and moves away for me to take his place.