One of the men climbed in the back and Nico got the same treatment minus the tape over his mouth.
He raised his eyebrow and she shrugged.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and then curled up into a ball to sleep, exhausted from her escape attempt.
Gabriella drifted off into a nightmare-laden sleep that took place at the ruins in the clearing. No matter how often she turned around, and she whirled in circles, until she was dizzy, she could never catch sight of the evil entity that was always just behind her.
That night, when they stopped to let her use the bathroom and eat, Gabriella stuck close to the road, not caring if the three men saw her going about her business. She was relieved when it was time to crawl back into the van.
On the morning of the second day, while the barest hint of sunrise was pinking the sky above, the two men in the front seat became livelier, chatting in Spanish. Gabriella, who had tried to sleep most of the time, sat up, raising her eyebrows at Nico. She could only make out a few words. El jefe. The boss. Hacienda. Estate. Drogas. Drugs. Envio.
Envio? She didn’t recognize that word, she shrugged at Nico.
“Shipment,” he whispered.
And then the men talked about their plans for the weekend involving beer, women, and dancing. Cerveza, muchas mujeres, and bailando.
Of course, she was mostly interested in the first part of the conversation about el jefe, hacienda, and drogas. Envio.
Obviously they were in the hands of someone working for the Cartel.
The only reason she could fathom was that they were after a ransom. She was sure that in many drug-ruled countries in Central America, kidnapping wealthy American citizens must seem like a lucrative business.
A bit later, as the road seemed to smooth out and became less bumpy, Nico listened to the men’s conversation and nodded, leaning over to whisper to her. “We are almost to our destination, wherever that might be.”
From what little Gabriella could see out the front windshield and two back windows, they were still deep in the rainforest. After a while, the van slowed and made a sharp turn onto a smaller road. About one hundred feet in, hidden from the main road, was a tall gate flanked by jungle too thick to drive through or around. On the other side of the gate was a paved road. As they approached, the gate swung open automatically. After they passed through, Gabriella turned and saw it slide closed behind them.
The van continued to climb the small mountain. At one point, the driver swerved to a stop and gestured for Gabriella and Nico to look out the front windshield. A huge jaguar was lolled on the side of the road, its eyes glowing yellow in the pre-dawn dark. The driver honked and it lazily stretched and headed off into the surrounding jungle. The passenger turned and said something in Spanish to Nico. Gabriella understood enough to realize that the surrounding fenced land had been stocked with the large jungle cats and smaller prey to feed them.
After another five miles the sun had risen and they’d reached the summit of the hill where there was a twelve-foot-high stone wall with barbed wire on top and another gate blocking their path. The gate swung open as they got closer. Once they were through it, they summited a small hill, a huge, three-story hacienda with a red-tile roof came into view. The hacienda was perched on a large flat plateau at the top of the mountain. It reminded Gabriella a bit of Hearst Castle except instead of zebra and other wildlife roaming the grounds the owner had jaguars.
They pulled into a huge circle drive. The house was an enormous three-story stucco palace encircled by a huge, shady veranda stocked with chaise lounges and tables and chairs.
Outside the van, the gunmen untied her wrists, ripped the tape off her mouth, and gestured that she should follow them inside.
Inside the house was filled with expensive furniture, leather and velvet chairs and chandeliers and gigantic art pieces. Gabriella recognized a Joan Miro and a Picasso as she was whisked through a large dining room and down a hall.
They stopped in the open doorway of a giant bedroom with a large bed, fireplace, and long windows overlooking the veranda. She stalled in the doorway watching as they led Nico to another room just down the hall. Although his back was to her, he gave her a thumbs up behind his head. For some reason, that small gesture made Gabriella’s shoulders relax. It was going to be okay. At least for now.
A small, fine-boned woman led Gabriella into a bedroom, pointing to the bed and the closet. The woman wore an apron and there was a silver streak in the black hair she had neatly tucked in a bun. Gabriella followed her into a large closet.
The woman held out a silky nightgown, thrust it at Gabriella and pointed at the bed.
Gabriella understood. She was supposed to take a nap now.
“La cena es a las siete.” Dinner was at seven. Now the woman took a slinky red dress off the clothes rack and held it up against Gabriella. And she was supposed to dress for it.
Gabriella nodded. The woman smiled and then left the room.
Fingering the dress and nightgown, Gabriella realized something with a start. They were her size. Size eight. Quickly, her blood racing, she flipped through the hanging clothes and then stooped down and examined the dozen shoes, high heels, flat sandals, and boots. Her face turned numb. They were her size. Size seven.
It couldn’t be a coincidence. The shoes and clothes still had price tags on them. They hadn’t belonged to some other woman in this house who just happened to wear the same size clothing and shoes. This had been planned.
She threw the designer clothing down on the floor and stripping off her cargo pants, curled up under the soft bed covers in her underwear and tank top. She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to explore the room and see ways to escape but she could barely keep her eyelids open. Sleeping in the van had been next to impossible. A good few hours of sleep would make her sharp and rested to plan her escape that night.
Six hours later, Gabriella woke up. Yawning, she looked at the clock. It was 5:45. Someone was knocking on her door. “One minute please.”
Before opening the door, she threw on her grimy black cargo pants, kicking the silky red dress into a corner as she walked by it. In the small bathroom, she found some facial cleanser, a toothbrush and toothpaste, so she washed her face, brushed her teeth and ran her fingers through her messy hair.
These bandits might be keeping her against her will but she wasn’t going to do as they pleased. Opening her door, Gabriella paused before she took her first step into the hall. She had a feeling she was going to meet her captor.
The woman with the apron was waiting. She gestured for Gabriella to follow her. She glanced at Gabriella’s clothes with a worried look but didn’t say anything.
Passing by several doors to giant rooms, the woman led Gabriella to an outside door. As they rounded a corner, she saw Nico standing before a man seated at a small iron table. To the right of the table another man stood ramrod straight with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a white linen suit and dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. His hair was cut close and he had a neatly trimmed beard and goatee.
“El Loro,” the woman murmured.
When she got close, Gabriella saw the man called El Loro was wearing a Carnival-style mask with a long birdlike nose and brilliant green, turquoise, and yellow feathers, like a parrot. He wore a black cape and black, knee-high boots.
The woman in the apron gestured that she should stand next to Nico who was about ten feet away from the man at the table.
Gabriella wondered how long it would take her to grab the man’s gun, an old-looking revolver, off the table in front of him.
The table was covered in a tile mosaic picture of the Virgin de Guadalupe. The man was poking at a pomegranate, plucking its seeds and putting them in a small glass bowl, his fingers dripping with the red juice onto the table. His hands, the only part of his skin that showed, were startling white. The man in the white suit behind him didn’t appear to have a gun, but who knew.
“You shall both be tre
ated as my guests,” the masked man said, not looking away from the pomegranate. “You will have the run of most of the first floor of the hacienda. The second and third floors are my own private quarters so they are off limits. But please make yourself comfortable in the other portions of the first floor. In addition to your private rooms, the first floor features a library, a fine dining room and the kitchen.
“Esmeralda, my esteemed chef and housekeeper, will fix your meals and answer any questions you might have. I can’t imagine it happening after you eat Esmeralda’s cooking but if you find you need to snack, please help yourself to any food in the kitchen. You are my guests. If you act like a guest, you will come to no harm.”
The man wiped the reddish pink juices from his fingers onto a pale pink silk cloth, staining it with droplets of red.
They would have access to most of the rooms on the first floor, Gabriella thought, scrunching her face. What were in the other ones?
“Yes, senor,” Nico said in a low voice beside her.
Gabriella stayed silent glaring at the man. She would not speak until he looked at her. The man ignored her, continuing to concentrate on the fruit in front of him.
“You will find your stay here to your liking, I’m certain. It is one of my finest homes. I will leave you here while I am on business. My assistant, Marco, will be here more often than I am and he will answer any questions you might have that Esmeralda doesn’t have answers to.”
The man in the white suit gave a slight nod.
The masked man continued prodding the pomegranate, sticking one beefy white finger inside the fruit up to a knuckle before extracting a seed between a finger and thumb. Holding the tiny seed, he held it up to his mask, examined it and then delicately stuck the seed through a small mouth hole, leaving red stains along the edges of the opening.
Finally, he looked up.
“Why am I here?” Gabriella gritted the words.
The man gave the slightest shrug. “I don’t think that is necessary for you to know that at this time.”
“Who are you?”
“Some call me El Loro.”
“Let me at least call my mother. She must be worried sick.” Inside, Gabriella was more worried about Grace, but didn’t want this man to hear her daughter’s name or that she even had a child.
“Ms. Giovanni. Your mother and daughter have been told that you were killed in a kidnapping attempt gone awry. They will not miss you.”
Gabriella practically fell to her knees, imagining Grace’s face on hearing the news. For a few seconds, she saw black. It was only Nico’s grip on her elbow that kept her from collapsing.
The man gave a loud sigh. “Yes, I’m sorry to cause them that type of pain. But this will prevent anyone from looking for you, which would be inconvenient for us.”
Us.
“Fuck you.” Gabriella said the words in a low growl. She shot a glance at the man in the white suit. He hadn’t moved.
The man chuckled. “Not so fast. You should still be polite to me. You see, if you behave, enjoy yourself, and are not a problem to my staff, or me, there is still a chance you will be able to return to your mother and daughter. And just think how happy they will be to see you rise from the dead, so to speak. It will be a miracle.”
Gabriella steeled herself. She needed to be smart. She needed answers.
“What must happen for me to return home?”
“Alas, that is not something I can discuss with you.”
Frustration filled her.
“What can I do to hasten that return?”
“Aha. I know you feel helpless so let me reassure you there is nothing you can do to speed up your possible return. But there are things you can do to prevent it. If you act like a guest here and do not cause any problems, you will have no potential conflicts that will prevent your homecoming.”
He pushed back the chair and stood. He was at least six feet tall, which was unusual in this country.
“Enjoy your stay. Esmeralda has prepared a dinner to die for. I’m very sad that another appointment awaits me and I will miss her cooking. She is the finest chef in Guatemala, which of course is why she is in my employ.”
Before Gabriella could say or do anything else, the man had scooped up his gun and shouldered past, the hem of his cape brushing against her bare arm. A second later, the man in the white suit followed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sean Donovan stared at the photograph that was becoming slightly soft from his handling. He’d been staring at it for a few weeks and it still didn’t mean anything.
Monica’s bare breasts pressed against his naked back, making him moan. “Do you recognize her yet?” she asked in her sultry Spanish accent.
He flipped and in one smooth motion her nude body was on top of his on the thin cotton mat and his mouth was on hers. After a few minutes he came up for air.
Finally, he answered her question. “No.”
He turned his head to the side squinting at the dim light seeping through the block glass windows near the ceiling. Months ago, when he was first put into his basement prison, Donovan had run his fingers over every inch of the concrete wall. The room was about twelve by twelve feet. He’d counted it out during one of his first days of captivity. Not for any real reason, just for something to do.
The basement’s hard clay floors were surprisingly clean. In one corner near the window and wall but not up against it, was his bed—basically a futon mattress on the ground. A small wood table that only reached his knees held a small bowl and cup and pitcher. In the opposite corner, there was a shower stall in the corner without sides or curtains, open to the rest of the basement. A small toilet and tiny sink were next to the shower. Near the toilet was a small metal bucket.
Donovan wasn’t sure what it was for. He sometimes used it to stand on to see out the glass block windows. The only thing he could see through the thick glass was a swash of green. Once when he’d heard voices outside, he stood on the metal bucket and saw darker figures moving past, but the rest of the time, he saw moving green images—some type of foliage that sometimes moved with the wind, he figured.
The glass block windows were too small for him to fit through even if he managed to break them.
The dark-haired woman beside him sighed. “You sure? You do not know her?”
Donovan shook his head in frustration.
The woman in the photograph plucked at something deep inside him, but he couldn’t have said why or who she was. They kept asking her name. He didn’t even know his own name. But he knew somehow the picture was important. Every day, they sent Monica down into the damp dim room to ask him the same question: “Do you recognize her?”
He’d stare at the woman. Her tousled brown hair, dimples, and huge expressive eyes did not trigger any name or memory. She was beautiful. But she meant nothing to him.
Every day it was the same. His captors were so adamant, he wondered if the woman in the photo was a spy they were trying to identify. He knew she looked familiar and something told him to protect her identity, but it didn’t matter because he couldn’t remember who she was or her name anyway.
His memories only went back a few months. They told him he had hit his head in a plane crash. He remembered waking up in the deep jungle. The men who grabbed him and brought him to this house told him he was an American spy who had important information they needed. They said they were going to keep him in this basement prison until he remembered whom he was and what that information was.
At first, they didn’t believe he had truly forgotten and he had long scars on his back to prove it, but then a small, bespectacled doctor had come and examined him, asking him questions while he was connected to a lie-detector machine. That’s when they believed he was telling the truth about his amnesia.
Starting on the first day of his captivity, they sent Monica down every day to bring him simple meals of beans and cheese and tortillas. At first, she also bathed him in the tub in the corner until he was able to do
it himself. She was gentle in treating the wounds from his beatings. And always, she asked him questions.
When she looked at him, brushing her sleek black hair back from her huge dark eyes and pursing her lips together, Donovan wanted to tell her everything he had ever known and then some. But his mind remained a blank white space.
On about his tenth day of his captivity, when Monica came down, she took off her shirt and gently guided his mouth to her breasts. He didn’t object.
Now, some months later, he dreamed of Monica’s voluptuous body every night, all night long, tossing and turning with lust until she arrived with the dawn. It was the only thing he had to look forward to in this prison. It was the only thing that kept him from sinking completely into his despair.
This morning she gently took his face in her soft hands and turned him away from the window, back to her. Her mouth pressed on the corner of his and then her tongue trailed his jaw, down his neck, chest and settled on his hip bones until he was groaning in pleasure and straining to get his pants off.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Back in her room, Gabriella curled up in a ball on the bed. While some tears slipped out of her eyes, more than anything she was angry.
The woman had told her to dress for dinner. Never. They might be able to keep her prisoner here, but she would never do what they want. She’d wear her own clothes until they turned into rags and fell off before she’d wear clothes the man in the mask had picked out for her in her size.
Thinking of her own clothes made her remember the envelope with her mother’s words on it she had found in her jacket. Quickly, she reached down and retrieved it from the zippered pocket in her pants. Seeing her mother’s words would be painful but would motivate her to find a way to escape.
She slit the envelope with a fingernail and took out the pages with her mother’s neat handwriting.
Gabriella,
Blessed are the Peacemakers Page 7
