Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  Somehow, I manage to suppress the laughter bubbling inside my throat. This scene is way too surreal. Keeping my tone serious, I say, “Then let us in. He’ll be quiet once inside, trust me.”

  The man’s nostrils flare, but after a considerable amount of cursing, he opens the gate. As we get in, Diego and I share a smirk. He’s a crafty bastard, definitely.

  But we’re not out of trouble yet. One of the guards steps in front of us before we can venture inside the building. He has a rifle and a frown on his face. “Doctor.”

  “Santiago.”

  None of us move. At first, I worry he will throw us out or shoot me for lying about Marcelo, but when Santiago avoids my eyes, gaze fixed on the ground, I relax.

  “Do you need something, Santiago? Are you feeling well?”

  The ex-con and regular tough guy wrinkles his nose and sucks air between his teeth, acting timid. “You know … that stuff we talked about it before?”

  “About … your friend?”

  He nods rapidly. “Yeah. So … it got worse.”

  I smile. Of course, there is no friend. I’m not sure why some people insist on the whole ‘I’m asking for a friend’ story when it doesn’t fool any doctor ever. I suppose the embarrassment of admitting you have an STD is always greater than any rational thought.

  “Okay. That’s not good. Tell him to see me back at the clinic as soon as possible,” I answer diplomatically, but my amusement at the exchange vanishes a second later. I might not be at the clinic to help his ‘friend’. I might die here.

  “Right. But can’t you just give me some pills now? For him, I mean. So I can give it to him.”

  I feel Diego’s presence closer. He’s in a hurry to move on. So am I.

  “Sorry. I didn’t bring any with me today.”

  Santiago’s face falls. “Oh. Okay.”

  He moves to the side, letting us go, but before we do, I get an idea.

  “Hey, I heard there was a commotion earlier. A fight?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was someone hurt? Do they need medical attention?”

  Santiago snorts, but then stops himself as if scared of getting caught. “Some girl kicked Antonio in the head. He was seeing stars until now. Ezequiel was furious.”

  I feel my blood turn cold. “A girl? Is she… Was she captured?”

  He nods. “Ezequiel had unfinished business with her. So she’s still alive. Locked up in the basement.”

  “I suppose this means it wouldn’t be a good day to ask Ezequiel for more supplies, right?”

  The guard laughs. “I don’t know. He’s in a good mood now. Went to his apartment whistling.”

  Chills run down my back at the thought of what made him happy. I hear Diego shuffle his feet. A silent sense of urgency emanates from his looming presence behind me. An urgency that we both share. I end the conversation, trying to maintain a casual tone in my voice.

  “Well, I better go see my patient. Don’t forget to tell your friend to come to the clinic.”

  “Sure thing, Doc.”

  We leave Santiago behind and enter the building. The hallways are full of people coming and going, and I can hear the usual fights and their cheering crowds. Since I know the place, Diego follows me as I guide him along dark, damp hallways and into an abandoned laundry room. Here, we are alone and can talk safely.

  “We can go to the basement using the stairs,” I say immediately as I close the door. “There will be a guard there, but maybe I can convince him Ezequiel sent me to …” I take a deep breath. “… to examine Isabel.”

  Vargas says nothing, gaze lingering on the door.

  “Hey. Are you listening? She’s close. We can get her right now.”

  “No.”

  I blink. “What? No? Didn’t you hear the guy? She’s in there.”

  Finally, he looks at me. “Doc, you only had to get me inside. Your job is done. You can leave. In fact, you should go. I’ll stick with my plan.”

  “Are you crazy? We have to take her out of there before Ezequiel decides to pay her another visit!”

  “And I will. But on my terms.”

  Frustration builds up inside me. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

  “This has to be done properly.”

  His sharp tone leaves no room for discussion. He’s not making any sense. Knowing that Isabel is locked up, beaten and bleeding on the ground, and I’m not going to help her is painful. I still vividly remember finding her unconscious near the clinic. But there’s no way I can rescue her on my own. I need his help to overpower the guard at least.

  “Fine. But I’m staying to help. You saw how useful I am here. People know me.”

  He nods. “I did, and I’m glad you’re sticking around. We should go. I want you to take me to Ezequiel’s apartment.”

  I widen my eyes but don’t argue.

  Zeke’s apartment is on the second floor. I had the unfortunate opportunity to be invited to his home multiple times. And each time, I left the place supporting a black eye or a broken rib to remind me who’s in charge.

  Only one person is guarding the door. He also knows me. He was stabbed by a now-dead rival, and I pulled the blade from his thigh, stopped the bleeding and successfully saved his life. Would he return the favor and not kill me, if ordered to? I doubt it.

  I should be afraid, even more than back at the gates, but knowing Isabel’s life is on the line, that she likely needs medical attention urgently, makes lying easy. Whatever Diego’s plan is, we need to finish it fast.

  “Hey, Kiko. I need to talk to Ezequiel. Right now. I examined Julia, and I have bad news.”

  I don’t even need to give the man details. He imagines whatever he wants and widens his eyes in shock. Maybe he thinks Julia, Ezequiel’s sex slave, is pregnant, maybe he thinks she has a disease. Whatever thought crosses his mind, Kiko immediately unlocks the door and lets us in—there are very few things that worry Ezequiel in Bonita, the availability of Julia’s lower parts is one of them.

  Kiko follows us inside. Luckily, he’s already so fearful of telling the bad news to his boss that he doesn’t think twice about Diego’s presence.

  The place is decent: chairs, tables, a kitchen, a large sofa, and a TV. Not that the TV works, but it’s a bit of civilization that no one else can get in Bonita. Privacy and your own bed. In many ways, it’s the most luxury anyone can hope for in here.

  We find Zeke with his legs crossed and arms spread on the back of the couch he’s sitting on. He’s about my dad’s age, perhaps. But looks far older thanks to all the scars. He wears them all with pride.

  “Zeke, Doctor Brown needs to talk. About Julia.”

  Kiko’s voice trembles to the point of becoming high-pitched.

  Ezequiel slowly turns his head toward us, but his gaze fixates on Diego, standing next to me. He smiles. Does he recognize Vargas? If they are friendly to each other, why bother bringing me? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just announce himself and be invited in? Unless … I was a distraction.

  Without a word, Zeke waves Kiko away. The guard nods, probably relieved to be dismissed. He steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind him.

  “Vargas,” Ezequiel says. “Welcome.”

  Diego steps forward, hands inside the white jacket’s pockets. “Zeke.”

  So they do know each other. Of course, they must be cartel pals.

  “It has been a while.”

  “Not long enough in my book.”

  The gang leader raises an eyebrow, amused. “Why the hostility? You should be grateful I kept your son safe all this time.”

  “I’m grateful, yeah. But also pissed you tried to use him as a bargaining chip.” Diego reaches for the back pocket of his pants and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He crumples and tosses it at Ezequiel’s feet. “I got your letter.”

  “We both are who we are, Vargas. Nothing in life is for free. I’ll give you your son back once you deliver on your end.”

  An
outsider to the conversation, I have no idea what they’re talking about except that Ezequiel is clearly bluffing. He doesn’t have Alex anymore and thinks Diego hasn’t the boy either.

  “You made a mistake, Zeke. You would’ve asked for the guns without turning to blackmail. I’m not friends with Ortiz. Arming your people and having him killed would’ve been enough of a trade.”

  The older man takes out a cigar from his pocket and slowly lights it. Only after inhaling a few times does he speak. “Of course you say that now. As always playing the good guy. I know your tricks, Vargas. Your sweet talk doesn’t fool me like it fooled my cousin. Yeah, I would get the guns, but you would have taken the credit and the rewards for the kill. This way, it’s clear who’s in charge.”

  The corners of Diego’s mouth shoot up for a second. “I see. So you’re afraid I’ll take over this shitty little operation you have going? That’s funny. But your worries are warranted. It’s what I did to your cousin after all. You are slightly smarter than El Loro. I’ll give you that at least.”

  Ezequiel’s nostrils flare. “Enough chitchat. Let’s talk business.”

  “Yes. Good idea. Here’s my proposition to you: I’m not giving you any guns. There’s no shipment waiting to be smuggled in. I never had the intention of giving you anything. Nobody uses my son to threaten me.”

  Diego’s stance is relaxed, unflinching. Meanwhile, Zeke adjusts his seating position as he grinds his teeth to keep the cigar from falling out of his mouth. He’s on the defensive now.

  “You’re condemning your son to die.”

  “No. My son is safely out of your hands.”

  Ezequiel blows smoke slowly. “You were the one who sent Isabel to grab the kid then. Of course. But why the hell are you here? You got the brat already. Why risk coming back? Do you think I’m going to let you leave alive?”

  Diego says nothing. Realization slowly dawns on the older man’s face. He smirks.

  “Oh. This is about Isabel. You’re here to make a new deal. But you got nothing to offer me, you said yourself. No guns. No deal.”

  “There’s no deal to make, Zeke. Not with you. Not after what you did to her.”

  “Come on. There’s always a—”

  Diego pulls a gun from his back and shoots. Ezequiel’s head snaps backward, brains and pieces of his skull splattering against the wall behind the couch. I feel the warmth of his blood hitting me on the cheek. I blink.

  The cigar falls from Ezequiel’s fingers and onto the floor.

  I’m still shell-shocked when Kiko kicks the door and runs inside. He raises his gun, but Diego is already pointing his at him. Without hesitation, he shoots. Kiko drops to the ground with a painful yelp, a hand on his bleeding knee. I twitch, almost running toward the injured man, but Diego steps between us and quickly tosses the rifle away from Kiko.

  “How old are you?” Vargas asks, crouching.

  Kiko moans in pain. Since he’s clearly having trouble focusing on anything, Diego repeats the question with the barrel of his gun pressed against Kiko’s nose. That gets his attention.

  “I … I’m twenty f … five.”

  “Old enough to know our history. Were you in prison with this man?” Diego asks him without any hint of concern for the amount of blood gushing from Kiko’s wound. I swallow.

  “Y … yeah.”

  “You knew he was a member of the Rio Alto cartel, right?”

  Kiko merely nods. His eyes are unfocused.

  “Do you know who kept Zeke safe in prison? Who smuggled his drugs and his money so he could parade as its king? More importantly, do you know who the current leader of that cartel is?”

  He shakes his head as sweat beads slide from his forehead. “W … who?”

  “I am.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Yes. Holy shit indeed. Did Zeke have a second-in-command?”

  Another desperate nod.

  “Good. You’ll find him and tell what just happened. And who’s responsible for it.”

  I snap out of my shock. “Are you crazy? He’s hurt. Going down the stairs will worsen his condition. And … once he tells anyone about this, they’ll rush in here with their guns to kill us. How is that going to save Isabel?”

  Diego looks at me from the corner of his eyes. “They won’t hurt us.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  It’s Kiko who answers, “He’s Diego Vargas, gringo. He’s the boss.”

  Darkness surrounds me as the blood on the corner of my mouth dries. I don’t know how long it has been since Ezequiel left the room, locking the door behind him after a promise of coming back to finish the job. All I know is that my right shoulder feels like it’s on fire and my tongue can’t escape the coppery taste of my own blood. Every muscle and limb screams in pain, my shoulder and abdomen on fire from the bruises he inflected on me again and again, but unlikely as it is, the agony wakes me up, spreading fire through my veins as my body prepares to fight for its survival.

  Ezequiel’s beating didn’t kill me. I’m beaten and broken, but not dead. Not yet. And if I die, it will be fighting.

  Faint light shines through the tiny gap under the door. As my eyes adjust, I see them flicker as if someone is just outside the door. A guard? I hold my breath and focus my hearing. A faint, metallic jiggling echoes. A key. Is someone coming to open the door? Is he coming back?

  That’s it. I’ll kill the bastard and take the key from him.

  Except I’m stuck in this chair. If I’m going to win against Ezequiel, I need to free myself before he walks through that door again.

  Immediately, I start wrestling against my bonds, pulling, yanking, and scraping the rope on the wood. The chair won’t budge. The ropes won’t snap.

  Between rasped breaths, I close my eyes to calm down. This isn’t working. I need to try something else.

  So I jump, pulling the chair with me. It barely leaves the floor, but I try again and again until it starts moving. I direct my weight forward, dragging the chair closer to the door with each tiny jump. Once I’m near a wall, I throw myself against it multiple times as hard as I can, until the force of the impact loosens the pieces of the chair, weakening it.

  With gritted teeth and holding back a strenuous yell, I kick the wall one last time with everything I’ve got.

  The fall breaks the chair, and I roll off it, my wrists still firmly tied. With an eye on the door, I begin to scrape the knot against a sharp edge, freeing my wrists. Then, I start biting the rope biding my knees together.

  Footsteps echo outside. I mentally curse and try to chew faster. I finally pull with enough strength to unravel the knot. I throw the ropes away and break a leg off the chair to use as a weapon when Zeke or anyone else opens that door.

  The sound of keys jiggling is closer now, so I stay to the side of the door, my back against the wall and my wooden weapon raised.

  The door swings open and a figure steps inside, someone much smaller than Ezequiel. Light hits his sandy hair, and I hesitate.

  “Bel?”

  I drop the piece of the chair and let out a sigh of relief. It’s Liam. I don’t know how he managed to find me or if I’m imagining things, but the adrenaline that held me together dissipates as he steps forward. Suddenly exhausted, I let him hold me, resting my head on his shoulder.

  “It’s over,” he whispers in my ear. “It’s over.”

  Finding some strength left, I raise my head to face him. “How … did you get here?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, another figure steps into the dark room. I immediately recognize the silhouette.

  Diego.

  He came for me. With my emotional walls bulldozed by the past hours, I can’t hold back the tears. I never dared to hope he would come, yet he did. I’m not alone anymore. I quickly dry my eyes and take a tentative step toward him.

  He stands by the door like a statue, making no attempt to reach for me.

  “Alex … Did he find the clinic?” I ask, trying to understand why he�
�s acting like this.

  Diego nods, but his expression is empty of emotion.

  “Alex is safe. He told us what happened, so we came,” Liam offers his explanation. “Let’s get out of this hell-hole. I need light to examine you properly.”

  I don’t take my eyes off Diego but let Liam guide me out of the room. There’s no sign of a fight outside the door. No unconscious guard or dead body. Did they sneak around or has something else happened? As we climb the stairs to the ground floor, neither Diego nor Liam seems worried about the danger awaiting us upstairs.

  To my surprise, two of Ezequiel’s men greet us not with guns but with nods. Diego steps in front of us and addresses them like he would his own men.

  “Is there a room big enough to gather the troops?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then tell them I want to speak to everyone there in an hour.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  I look up to Liam to confirm I’m not the only one who heard that conversation. Boss?

  The two men rush to follow Diego’s orders, and we keep going. They take me to a small laundry room, and Liam tells me to sit on the table. While he examines me, Diego paces from one side of the room to the other. I want him to talk to me, to explain his coldness, but every time our eyes meet, he quickly turns away.

  “This is a nasty burn,” Liam says as he pulls aside my neckline to view the mark Zeke’s cigar left on my shoulder. “Where else did he hit you?”

  Diego stops moving, his back to us.

  “Cheek. Stomach. Head.” As I list my injuries, Diego stiffens and closes his hands into fists. “It wasn’t that bad. Not like before. He wanted to take his time … Thanks to you, he didn’t have the chance to continue.”

  My attempt at comforting both men doesn’t seem to work. Liam avoids looking at me. Diego remains tensely quiet.

  “Right,” Liam finally says after clearing his throat. “I want you to follow my finger, okay? I need to check your reflexes. You might have suffered a concussion.”

  He evaluates my reaction time, asks a series of simple questions, and then gently touches my stomach to find the sensitive areas. Once he’s satisfied, I slide off the table and happily discover I can stand on my two feet—my legs are wobbly but working.