Javier just looks at me, something inscrutable in his eyes. “And how, exactly, are we going to tell her all of this?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, but the truth doesn’t slow me down one bit. “But we’ll have to figure it out. It’s the only way.”
There’s only one place Javier knows of that Marcela de Guerrera visits daily without fail, and will be unguarded and secluded for at least a few minutes.
Which is how I find myself sitting on the wrong side of the confessional at Our Lady of Assumption, nervously tapping my foot as I wait. Javier is just outside, close enough to step in if needed but hidden from view of El Sombrerón’s men. I also have a handgun ready and waiting in my hands, in case of emergency. I’m not afraid of being caught by our enemies, though. I’m more worried that my intuition has been wrong, and Marcela won’t be willing to risk her safety to help us out.
But I didn’t imagine her hesitation in the parking lot, didn’t misread the haunted look in her eye as she let herself be escorted into that car.
Even a trapped rabbit will gnaw off its own leg to escape.
I lean my head back against the wooden walls of the suffocating cell, forcing myself to measure my breaths. Max and I weren’t raised religious. Neither was our mother. Dad was, and I remember sitting on hard pews every Christmas Eve as a child, complaining until my butt or my brain fell asleep. I’ve never been to a regular mass, let alone confession. I don’t know what a real priest is supposed to say, sitting right where I am now. In the movies, they just listen to you babble on, and then tell you the right prayers to say, and how many times in a row to say them, in order to not feel guilty anymore. I wonder if it actually works for people. I could use a little forgiveness. Then again, with a list of sins as long as mine, I’d spend eternity repeating the Hail Marys necessary to cleanse my soul.
The door to the other half of the booth creaks open, and I straighten in my seat, taking care not to clench the gun in my lap too much. The last thing I need is to accidentally shoot myself before I get a chance to save myself, let alone everyone else. Through the intricate scrolling of the screen between us, I watch the other woman close the door behind her, clearing her throat softly as she takes a seat.
Marcela de Guerrera, the young third (or fourth) wife of Atlanta’s cocaine kingpin. Javier doesn’t know too much about her, only that she was married to El Sombrerón about five years ago, and is rarely invited to participate in her husband’s business, except when she’s serving as mute eye candy. Oh, and the monster’s last two (or three) wives? All dead, and not in ways that could be easily construed as accidents. Javier wasn’t joking when he said women are expendable to El Sombrerón.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she begins, in a soft, feminine voice. “It’s been—”
“It’s not him,” I interrupt, my own voice coming out a little less commanding than I intended it to. I see the silhouette in the other booth begin to stand, and I click the safety off my gun, a sound that immediately stills the other woman. “I just have to talk to you. I’m not going to hurt you or anything, I promise.”
“Who are you?” she asks. She doesn’t sound startled in the least. She’s been playing the role of a criminal’s wife longer than I have, and it shows.
“Selina Palacios,” I say, searching in the dim light for a reaction.
“Javier Vega’s woman,” she says in recognition. I resent the title, but now isn’t the time to make some kind of feminist statement about my autonomy. “If you think hurting me will help take down my husband, you’re mistaken.”
She has a shadow of an accent, only audible in the way she hits certain letters. She sounds completely unaffected as she tells me that her husband could give a shit if she lives or dies. I know some society wives who could use a lesson in propriety from this woman.
“I told you, I’m not here to hurt you,” I say, my brows furrowing in earnestness even though I know she can’t see me. “I’m here because we need your help.”
I hear her shift slightly on the bench, and see the shine of her eyes as she turns to look at me through the grate. “How could I possibly help you?”
Not, why would I help you. How could I help you.
“We’re out of moves,” I tell her honestly. Nothing left to lose, after all. “We need to save our friend, and you’re the only one who can help us get to her.”
“You don’t want to save the girl,” Marcela says. She’s leaning closer now, and between shadows I can see golden eyes under perfect lashes, thin brows pulled tight. “You just want to kill my husband.”
“Yes,” I admit—is something that obvious even considered an admission? “But that’s what you want too, right? I know you must want him gone.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps—a flash of white teeth and chastely glossed lips. “Without his protection, I’ll be dead by the end of the week.”
“With him, you’ll be dead in a few years anyway,” I say, leaning out of the shadows as well. “And all those extra days, are they really going to be that much better than death?”
She’s quiet, still. I wonder how much time we have before her guards become suspicious. How many sins does this woman usually have to confess?
“I’m sorry,” I try again. I imagine I’m talking to a friend, if I had any real ones. “But you know that’s true. Don’t you want to give yourself a chance at freedom, at happiness? Make some moves of your own? I don’t know exactly what you’re capable of, Marcela, but I know it’s more than anyone gives you credit for. You can help take down the monster you’re married to, and you can find a way to keep yourself alive after that, too.”
Another silent beat.
“Women like us, we don’t get to be free, and we certainly don’t get to be happy,” she says softly. “At least not in this life.”
“Well then, here’s to hoping for an afterlife,” I say, because I can’t argue with what she’s saying. She knows better than I do, after all. “But I’d rather be sent to it knowing that I did everything I could to save myself. What about you?”
Selina is out of her fucking mind. I gave her an inch, and now she wants a mile.
“Absolutely not,” I say, taking the next right turn a little too hard. “Letting you talk to Marcela was dangerous enough. I’m not risking it.”
“It’s the only way,” my wife whines from the passenger seat.
“There’s always another way,” I say firmly. “We’ll figure something else out, something safer.”
We both know I’m lying. Sure, there’s always another way, one last crack to slither through to safety. This is that crack. There are no more chances after this, especially not ones that end with Miel still alive. But I still refuse to get on board.
Selina’s idea—hell, her plan, which she’s already worked out with El Sombrerón’s timid wife—is too risky. She wants me to let her get caught by the enemy and serve as a distraction while I sneak into their stronghold myself, with Marcela’s help. And then what? Assuming we both even live long enough for a next step, we can’t take on all the guards on our own. It’s not a plan, it’s a dream, a wish. Selina’s used to things falling into place just the way she wants them. What she still doesn’t see is the people and the money working overtime behind the scenes to make those things happen for her. In the real world, there’s no such thing as luck.
And pure, dumb luck is the only way we’d be able to take out El Sombrerón without an army.
Even if I believed in luck, Selina is walking directly into the belly of the beast over my dead fucking body.
“A few months ago, you gladly would have traded me over to that monster in exchange for your freedom,” Selina accuses, arms crossed tight over her chest.
I almost pull the car over, grab her by the shoulders, and shake until it finally sinks into her pretty little head: I would never do anything to hurt her. Not now, not a few months ago, not five years ago. Not since the very first second I laid eyes on her. She may not
understand my methods, but everything I do is to keep her safe. I’d give my own life for her.
But am I willing to give Miel’s life, the woman who’s been like a sister to me, my right hand in the darkest of times?
“I’m hungry,” Selina says abruptly, not giving me a chance to refute her claim out loud. “We didn’t eat breakfast.”
“Okay,” I say tightly. “We’ll go back to the del Reys’ estate, grab a bite and regroup.”
“You know we can’t do that,” she says. “We don’t have—”
“Fine,” I snap. We’re in a fairly suburban part of town—not high end enough for them to be looking for Selina here, not seedy enough to accidentally run into any of El Sombrerón’s people. I pull over into the next strip mall and park in front of a mostly-empty looking Applebee’s, quickly taking stock of the exits from the building and from the parking lot. We’re both still armed to the ears after her meeting with Marcela, so I just do a quick check to make sure no protruding blades will cause a panic, before heading in and requesting a table for two, with a little more force than perhaps is completely necessary.
We’re seated at a booth in the corner (no windows close by, and the front door, carry-out entrance, and kitchen exit are all within sight) and handed sticky menus. I’m not hungry. I know logically I need to refuel, but I can’t fathom the idea of putting down some mozzarella sticks and a bogo margarita when we should be out there making our next move, whatever that may be.
If Miel was here, she’d be glaring daggers at me over a salted rim, reminding me that desperate moves are always messy. I don’t know when things fell apart, exactly. We started with a plan, with every step to freedom meticulously outlined, every possible roadblock accounted for. Where did things go wrong?
I watch my wife from across the table as she peels the paper wrapper off her straw and delicately takes a sip of water. Her face is bare, the shadows under her eyes darker than ever. Her hair is collected into a loose braid that hangs over her shoulder, somewhat obscuring the gaudy blouse she borrowed from Isla. Her long fingers wrap around the cold glass; fingers that search for me in her sleep, fingers that have fired a gun without a trace of hesitation. Fingers that shook when she signed our marriage license, and fingers that dug into my arm when she looked me in the eyes and told me she would be the one to kill our enemy.
We never accounted for Selina.
In all our plans, all our schemes and contingencies, it never occurred to us that Selina Palacios might be a force to be reckoned with. I never imagined that she could one day be by my side, not just on my arm.
My princesa has been the wrench in the works, the thorn in my side, since day one. And now we’re in the endgame, just the two of us.
‘Til death do us part.
“I have to go to the restroom,” Selina says, scooting out of the booth. I move to stand, too, but she just glares at me. “Please, Javier. I think I can handle this one myself.”
“It’s not safe,” I say, eyes darting to reexamine our fellow diners, the servers chatting by the hostess stand, an elderly couple heading across the parking lot toward the entrance. No red flags yet, but letting your guard down is the first step to getting yourself killed.
“Come on, there’s no one here,” my wife insists. “I’ve got my gun, and you can see the restrooms from here. You would only attract more attention by going with me.”
I rub my temples. I’ve been giving in to her too much lately, ever since she found out about her brother. She’s getting spoiled, disobedient, when I most need her to behave. But every time I want to deny her, I remember the way she looked on that closet floor, the coldness in her eyes. She’s always hated me, but that had been different. That had actually meant something to me.
“Fine,” I say, with a heavy sigh. “Make it fast. If you’re gone for longer than five minutes, I’m coming to get you. No, three minutes.”
Three minutes is still too long. The idea of her being out of my sight for more than three seconds makes my jaw clench. But she’s right, it would only call more attention to us if I followed her into the ladies’ room, or stood guard outside it.
She nods her appreciation and heads to the back of the restaurant, weaving through empty tables and past a server carrying a tray of steaming plates. I watch Selina carefully as she pushes open the restroom door with her foot, and disappears inside. I don’t move my eyes from the closed door.
Not for the first minute.
Not for the second minute.
Not for the third minute.
By the fourth minute I’m halfway across the dining room, ignoring a redneck woman who gives me a death glare as I shove too forcefully past her table. No one stops me as I push open the door to the ladies’ room, hand not so subtly on the gun tucked into my waistband.
There’s no one in there, every stall door hanging open. Heart pounding, I make my way down the row, pushing every door back to make sure the stalls are all truly empty. In the accessible stall at the end, there’s a small window high above the toilet. It looks like it was only meant to crack open and inch or two, but its hinges have been broken, forcing it all the way open. There’s a scuff mark halfway up the wall, and a palm’s worth of dust wiped off the sill.
Goddammit.
I know Selina wasn’t taken, though. I’m certain of that.
No, she ran. Again.
I’m going to fucking kill her.
It’s a little terrifying how well my plan works. I’m barely a couple blocks away from the Applebee’s when an SUV with tinted windows pulls up next to me, and before I even have time to fully turn and face the vehicle, there’s a hand over my mouth and I’m being jerked inside.
They don’t put a sack over my eyes or any of that movie shit. Maybe because that’s not what villains do in real life, but most likely, because they don’t care if I see where they’re taking me. I’m not meant to make it out of this alive.
This isn’t the first time El Sombrerón has intended to kill me, or even the second time, but I’ll be damned if it’s not the last. One way or another, it all ends today.
I take a deep, grounding breath, gather my wits as best I can, and take in my surroundings. That’s what Miel and Javier do, even when no danger is immediately present. They find all the exits, identify emergency escape points, count the people present and calculate each one’s threat level. So that’s what I do too, keeping my face neutral while my eyes scan over the driver, the two men in the backseat with me, the doors with locks pressed down, tinted windows rolled up. Oh, and the giant guns each of my captors is holding. Yeah, there’s no getting out of this car, but luckily, I don’t need to. This is exactly where I want to be.
I count the street signs as they fly by, not because I think I’ll need the information later, but to keep my brain from spiraling into the panic pounding at its door.
Peachtree. Forsyth. Juniper. Piedmont. All the street names I mouthed tentatively in my car seat on the way home from school, street names that blurred by as cabs carried me to bed after a late night, the street names that I couldn’t see through my tears as I was carted off to my wedding.
Marietta. Pryor. Fulton. It occurs to me that this could easily be the last thing I see, that the likelihood of me surviving this day diminishes with every mile we drive closer to El Sombrerón. I can pretend to be a bad bitch all I want, but I’m still just a helpless princess, going up against the king of Atlanta’s underworld. The odds aren’t exactly in my favor. My fists ball tighter in my lap, and I feel my nails bite into my palm. They’re short, ragged, bare, and my palm is cold and calloused. It’s a new sensation I’m still not used to. I may be helpless, but that’s never stopped me before. I’ve survived so far on all bark and no bite. I can hang in there a little longer.
I just need to make it long enough for Javier to find me. And I know he will find me.
It’s a fact I used to fear, and now, it fills me with new hope.
Javier will always find me.
We’re in
an area of the city I’ve never been to before when the SUV slows to a stop. The driver parks behind some sort of small business, the loading zone, but I’m being pulled out of the vehicle before I can figure out what kind of establishment we’re at. They don’t bother putting a hand over my mouth or issuing any warnings as they steer me down a narrow hall, and I don’t bother trying to yell for help, or even ask where I am. I try to memorize every turn we take: right, left, down the stairs, third right, first door on the left. I repeat the list to myself like a mantra as they unlock the door and shove me in. My concentration stutters when I spot the only figure in the dark room. She’s turned away from me, face hidden in shadow, but I would recognize that unruly tangle of curls anywhere.
Miel’s bare shoulders immediately straighten at the sound of the door opening, and she turns her face to me. She’s tied to a chair, with her arms behind her back. Her signature leather jacket is nowhere to be seen, and her tank top is more red than white. It’s obvious from her bruised knuckles and the dried blood trailing from her nose to her chin that she didn’t go down without a fight. When her eyes meet mine, her shoulders slump again, but not before a flicker of hope dances in her dark eyes. I try not to react in any way that would lead our captors to believe this is anything but a defeat on our front. And it very well might be. From Miel’s body language, it’s clear that she has no expectation of salvation, at least not from me. Fair enough. She’s the one who always told me I’d never be strong enough, quick enough, smart enough to put up a fight against El Sombrerón. But I was ballsy enough to pick one, and that has to count for something.
The men pull up a second chair and force me into it, my back against Miel’s. I get nervous when they kick my feet apart, forcing my knees open, but they’re nearly clinical as they tie my ankles to the legs of the chair. These people are clearly no strangers to sexual violence, based on what little I know about how El Sombrerón runs his organization, but these guys remain completely detached as they finish securing my wrists behind my back and leave the room. No one is left to guard us, but I hear the unmistakable click of the door locking from the outside. If there’s a way to escape, it won’t be from this room.
Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 41
