They drove for an hour. Mirasol couldn’t tell which direction they were going. She only knew it was well past the city center because the car drove slowly at first, then sped up. They would not drive so fast unless they were free of congestion.
When they stopped, she strained her ears. In the distance, she heard gay laughter, as though men and women were having a good time. She heard muffled club music. The door was jerked open. The bearded man next to her grabbed her by the arm and pulled her from the car.
The next voice she heard was that of the man who took her from the department store. “Watch your step.”
They guided her up two flights of stairs. They climbed slowly, so she would not fall. The clean man gripped her arm just above her elbow. Firm, but gentle. The street sounds disappeared. All she heard was faint music, and the thump of bass against the floor. They pushed her into a room, sat her on a bed.
With a flourish, the man in the jacket whipped the hood off Mirasol’s head. She blinked in the light. She was in a small bedroom. Sitting on a single bed with a metal frame. A small dresser was pushed against one wall. The window was fastened shut with a brass hasp and padlock. The room had a small toilet.
Her captors looked down at her.
“Welcome to your new home,” the clean man said.
“It was a hotel,” Mirasol says. “It could have been Hotel Verde, or La Cueva. All that matters is they had me, and there was nothing I could do about it.”
“Did you fight them?”
“Not at first.” In her lap, Mirasol’s tiny fists clenched. “I was still thinking like a tough Michoacán kid. I wanted to learn what I could, to plan an escape.”
I remember SERE training—Survival, Escape, Resistance and Evasion. Everyone thinks that way at the beginning. In the end, everyone breaks.
35
El Paso, 0320 Hrs Thursday
Everyone breaks.
SERE training starts like routine hazing. It gets serious when the opposing force waterboards you. Prepare for the worst. Every prisoner of war, male or female, is going to be raped. Accept it. Hold out as long as you can, wait for an opportunity to escape.
What can one expect from a fifteen-year-old girl?
Mirasol told me.
The first night, the bearded man raped Mirasol. The clean man smoked a cigarette and watched. She refused to struggle, so they demanded other services. When the bearded man sodomized her, she began to cry and scream. They found that satisfying.
With the windows shut, it was hard to keep track of time. Mirasol counted days by keeping track of her meals and activity in the hotel. Her captors’ behavior toward her was structured. The clean man directed Mirasol to perform services in specific ways. Forced her to develop skills. When she failed to please, he had her beaten.
The bearded man and his friends delivered the beatings. Calculated not to mark, they were like those delivered to Nevita. Blows to her belly. The flat of the hand to the side of her head. Until she saw double. After particularly severe beatings, the clean man shone a light in her eyes. She did not try to escape, so they did not torture her. She counted herself lucky. She had heard other girls were tortured for pleasure.
Many men used her. Her captors and their friends, dozens of clients. The clients provided feedback. The clean man told her she was working in the hospitality industry. Negative feedback had to be addressed. She was beaten for lack of enthusiasm. If her skills were deficient, the clean man provided instruction. The client was invited to return. If she failed to please a second time, she received further remediation.
Always, her captors and clients used condoms.
Once a week, she was tested for venereal disease.
After a month, the clean man brought her a small suitcase and clothing. Three simple cotton shifts. Two white, one black. One of the white shifts had lace about the hem. When they took her, she had been wearing jeans and running shoes. The clean man brought her plain, flat-heeled shoes to wear with the shifts.
“Take your clothes off,” he said. “Put on the white one.”
Obediently, Mirasol did as she was told.
The clean man smiled and gave her a slow clap.
I look at Mirasol. “The cartel was preparing you.”
Mirasol smiled sadly. “I will tell you everything, Breed. When I finish, you will not look at me the same way.”
No way to avoid answering that one. “Let’s find out.”
The clean man handcuffed Mirasol and hooded her. She stood in the middle of the room, dressed in the clean white shift and flat shoes. The greasy man took her by the arm, and they led her down the stairs.
They put Mirasol in the car and drove south by west. She knew the direction of travel because it was morning. Sitting in the back of the car, she felt the hot sun on the back of her neck. For a fifteen-year-old girl who had been raped and abused, she showed remarkable presence of mind.
When she heard the sound of airplanes taking off, she knew they were near the airport. Before long, the car stopped and she was ordered to get out. She found herself standing on a concrete tarmac.
“Is everything ready?” the clean man asked.
A third voice, someone new to her, said, “Yes, we can go right away.”
Bound and hooded, she was forced onto an airplane. She heard the propellers turn over. First the left, then the right. She sat in the back seat with the clean man. The pilot taxied the plane to the runway. The clean man put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Soon you will be at your new home.”
The word ‘home’ shook Mirasol. She thought of her mother and how worried she must be. She didn’t think she would see her mother again. Mirasol began to cry.
The clean man comforted her.
The airplane raced down the runway and lifted into the sky.
Mirasol became disoriented as the plane banked to avoid the mountains. It changed direction several times before settling into level flight. Mirasol could not feel the sun on her face, so she thought the airplane might be flying south by west. She could not be sure.
When the airplane landed, the clean man ushered her to a vehicle.
“There is a high step,” he warned her.
The vehicle must have been a large pickup. A man in the truck reached down, grabbed her by the arms, and lifted her aboard. The clean man followed, and she was sandwiched between the two. She must have been in a four-door, because the man on her left was not the driver. The driver started the truck. With a roar, it sped off.
The pickup came to a stop. The clean man opened the door, hopped out.
It was impossible for her to get down with her hands bound behind her back. The man on her left got out, came around to the other side. Together, he and the clean man supported her by the elbows and helped her to the ground.
The clean man exchanged jovial banter with the others. Took her by the arm and guided her. “Come into the house,” he said. “It is very nice. You will like it.”
Mirasol heard the snorting of horses. The sound of the animals trotting this way and that. The whoops of men. The hot air smelled of dust and dung. There was an animal smell she couldn’t escape.
They walked a short distance, and the clean man knocked on a door.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice greeted them. “I heard you land. Is this the new one?”
“It is.”
“Take off the hood, Marcello. I want to see her face.”
The clean man jerked the hood from Mirasol’s head. She blinked in the light. Slowly, a middle-aged woman’s face came into focus. She was distinguished, her graying hair piled in a bun.
“Oh, she is pretty,” the woman exclaimed. “I am Carmen. What is your name?”
“Mirasol.”
“A beautiful name.” The woman turned to the clean man. “Take off the handcuffs, Marcello. She has nowhere to run.”
The clean man shook his head. “Instructions, Carmen. Let us take her upstairs first.”
“Of
course.” Carmen clucked. “Come this way, Mirasol. You will love it here.”
They were in a ranch house. She had been brought in through the kitchen. A kitchen bigger than six Juarez apartments put together. Carmen was obviously the cook or housekeeper. She guided Mirasol and the clean man through the dining room. There was an intricately carved dining table of hardwood. Long enough to seat ten people a side with one more at either end. Cabinets with glass doors displayed expensive china. Each plate and saucer was painted with beautiful, intricate designs.
A wide staircase and foyer set the dining room apart from the living room. The banister was thick and rich. It curved gracefully to a second floor. The furniture and bookshelves in the living room looked expensive. Against one wall was a gun case, with various long rifles racked in a row. A thick chain was strung through their trigger guards and secured with a padlock.
Mirasol made a mental note of the guns.
The clean man whispered in her ear. “I saw you entertain a foolish thought. Put it from your mind, little one. Papi can love you like a daughter. He can punish you like you cannot imagine.”
Heat surged to Mirasol’s face.
The second floor was large, the walls exquisitely paneled. Mirasol was surprised the staircase continued to a third floor. Carmen was proud of the house. “Papi’s rooms are above us,” she explained. “The second floor is for girls like you.”
“Are there others like me?” Mirasol dared ask.
Carmen and the clean man exchanged glances. “From time to time, there can be,” Carmen said. “You will see.”
Mirasol was shown to a bedroom at one end of the hall. It was surprisingly comfortable. A queen-sized bed, en suite toilet, and a dresser. The bed and dresser were of the same expensive wood as the rest of the furniture. There was a closet. The clean man put her little suitcase next to it.
The window drew Mirasol’s attention. It was big, and she could see the whole world through it. Of course, it was closed so the house’s central air-conditioning could work.
The view took Mirasol’s breath away. She was happy to see so much, but she was depressed by what she saw.
Mirasol was held captive on a ranch. A big ranch in the middle of the Chihuahuan desert. Miles and miles of creosote and yucca. A barn, a corral, horses. Outbuildings that served as barns, workshops and garages.
The temperature outside was anywhere from a hundred to a hundred and twenty degrees. Alone in the desert, she would not survive a day.
There was no escape.
Mirasol’s story has gone in a surprising direction. I expected a tale of exploitation and debauchery in the seedy whorehouses of Juarez. A trip through the mountains and across the border. Perhaps a midnight crawl through narrow tunnels. Emerging from the storm drains of El Paso to be sold into sexual slavery.
None of that happened.
Except the exploitation and debauchery.
“What was Papi like?” I ask.
“Papi was the devil.”
Papi came to see her that night. Sixty, fit, masculine. Light-skinned, a mestizo with silver hair and patrician features. He came in his finery. Dark brown jeans, cream shirt, bolo tie with a gold slide shaped like a serpent.
“Remember what I taught you,” the clean man had admonished her. “Strive to please and all will be well. If you make them angry, they will be cruel.”
“I’ll try,” Mirasol promised.
“I know you will.” The clean man stroked Mirasol’s hair. “You have been my best pupil.”
Then he was gone. Mirasol heard the roar of an airplane’s engine. She looked up and watched the twin-engine Cessna take off from the dirt airstrip.
Papi was kind and solicitous. He unlocked Mirasol’s handcuffs. Put them on the dresser, sat next to her on the bed. He took her hands in his, stroked her wrists. There were no marks. The clean man had been careful not to fasten the bracelets too tightly.
“You are very pretty, my little one,” the old man cooed. “Come, show yourself to Papi.”
Already, Mirasol was planning her escape. She needed the keys to the gun cabinet. She needed the keys to a vehicle. She needed a map. She needed Papi’s trust.
Mirasol took off her shift.
36
Lazy K, 0340 Hrs Thursday
I spin the wheel and pull off the highway into the Lazy K’s access road. Switch on the brights and race toward the ranch house. Take my phone, dial Stein.
Again, I am kicked to voicemail.
“Clock’s ticking, Stein. Call me.”
We arrive at the ranch house. The forensic teams have long finished their work, but crime scene tape remains strung everywhere. I ignore it, park in front of the garage. The phone number. The shell casing. The murder location. I’ve given Stein more hard evidence than they’ll ever find here.
I get out of the car, beckon Mirasol. “Come inside,” I say.
The ranch house is dark. I lead the way to the living room. Mirasol reaches for the light switch, but I stop her. “No. We don’t want to ruin our night vision.”
We step over the white outlines where Mary and Donnie fell. Mirasol sits on the couch.
I take out my phone and call Garrick. He should be in bed, I’m surprised he’s awake. It is one of those nights.
“Breed. Where the hell are you, boy?”
“I’m at the Lazy K. When was the last time you spoke with Stein?”
“A few hours ago, after midnight. She’s making an online presentation right now. Washington’s two hours ahead.”
Of course. That’s why she was pulling the all-nighter. Probably has her phone on silent.
“Sheriff, get over to Stein right now. As soon as she’s off her call, bring her here. Come together, be careful you’re not followed. There’s a good chance soldados are watching the hotel.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.”
I disconnect the call.
Mary grabbed the Mossberg from somewhere. While Donnie stabbed the intruder. Where did she get it?
The living room opens to the dining room, kitchen, and Keller’s study. The dining room and kitchen are open-plan. The study is closed off and opens to the living room through a door. I go inside. It’s dark, but my eyes have adapted. There is a gun rack with a row of shotguns and rifles, including an M4 carbine. Mary had unlocked the chain to get at the Mossberg. The technicians neglected to secure it.
I take the M4 and check its breech. Empty. Check the bolt face. Clear. The cabinet is stacked with ammunition. I take a thirty round magazine, load the rifle. Pull back the charging handle and release it. A round chambers with a satisfying clack. I flick on the safety and go back to Mirasol.
The technicians have drawn the curtains back from the picture windows. I sit on a comfortable easy chair, kitty-corner to Mirasol. From here, I can watch for approaching cars. We sit in the dark, protected from prying eyes. I set the rifle across my knees and sigh.
“Is everything all right?” Mirasol asks.
“Yes. Nothing to do but wait.” The rifle in my hands is comforting. “Will you finish your story?”
Mirasol’s eyes glisten in the dark.
“You want to hear of my pain.”
Mirasol worked hard to become Papi’s favorite.
She lived at the ranch for months. Papi acted like a solicitous old man, but he was El Jefe. The boss of one of the cartels vying for control of the Juarez drug trade. His men trafficked drugs, women, young girls. He demanded the best for himself.
Papi had his passions. Rifles, girls, bullfighting. He loved the corrida. He raised his bulls, sponsored bullfights in Juarez. The Plaza del Toros. The crowds waited for Papi’s events—bullfights in which his bulls performed. These events were special because the bulls’ horns were not filed. That made them especially dangerous for El Matador. Papi sponsored the matadors. The prize money was as spectacular as the performances. The best matadors in Mexico vied to perform at Papi’s events. The risks
of being gored were high, but so were the rewards.
Mirasol watched Papi’s men work the bulls and horses in the corral behind the big house. She catered to his masculinity. Marveled at his vigor. He had the strength of the bulls he loved. She used all her skills to please him.
Soon, Mirasol was given the run of the house. Other girls came, but Mirasol was Papi’s favorite. There were times he was so vigorous Mirasol could not satisfy him. On those occasions he took Mirasol and others to bed.
The guns were locked away. The men around the ranch all carried weapons. The cowboys had pistols in holsters or stuffed in their hip pockets. Kept automatic rifles in their pickup trucks, or in scabbards when they rode horses.
One day, Papi celebrated a particularly grand bullfight with a fiesta at the ranch. He invited his friends and all his men. Hired a mariachi band. While the band played gay music, Papi’s men brought three steers to the ranch. They took their pistols and dispatched the animals with a single bullet each, between the eyes. Exactly the way professionals stunned animals in the slaughterhouse. The men gutted the steers, skinned them, and the women roasted the best steaks. Fed all the men, their families, and Papi’s guests.
While the men celebrated, Papi’s friends were invited upstairs to the second floor. There, they were free to use Mirasol and three other girls as they wished.
Mirasol worked hard to please the men. They were drunk on liquor and sex. She used her skills to coax information from them. The ranch was in the Chihuahuan desert, two hundred miles south of Juarez. It was a thirty-minute flight or a two-and-a-half hour drive from major centers.
Escape was possible. All Mirasol needed was a vehicle and a compass. Two hours in the right direction, and she was certain to hit a major highway.
She would teach herself to drive.
What balls. Why not steal a plane?
“I made a run for it that night,” Mirasol says. “If I waited too long, I might lose my nerve.”
Danger Close (A Breed Thriller Book 1) Page 17
