by Keri Lake
None of the stories seem to derive from any credible source, either. Other than the urban legends, there are no pictures of him, no news stories. Surely, a man embedded that deep in the criminal world, with the reputation of that many kills, would have some history of arrest, embroiled in one of the many murder rumors that seem to involve his name.
I’m chasing a ghost.
As for Father Javier, he could fit the bill—I’d guess him to be somewhere in his fifties, which would make him quite young in the early eighties, but it’s plausible. As for him being a priest, well, I know better than anyone how easily one can hide in plain sight.
Setting my laptop aside, I climb out of bed and kneel down beside the nightstand. Opening the door brings me staring down into a black hole again. The entire inside of it has been hollowed out completely, leaving an empty shell of furniture that covers the gaping entrance to a tunnel. I reach for the same flashlight I used the night before, and peer into the hole, which must extend a good fifteen, or twenty, feet down. The smooth surface of the dirt, reinforced by concrete, shows great care in constructing the tunnel, and the ladder appears to be anchored into the earth.
Sliding the flashlight between my teeth, I set my foot onto one of the ladder rungs and push down on it to test its capacity. Through the cupboard door, my other foot joins the first, until I’m half in and half out of the nightstand. Ducking down, I step down another rung, and another, each time pressing down on the ladder to test its weight. In minutes, I’m fully inside the nightstand, what seems to be around halfway down ladder, and twisting around, I point the flashlight toward the darkness below me. More dirt. More tunnel.
With slow steps, I descend the ladder farther, occasionally glancing up to see the light from my bedroom diminishing, the deeper I go. When I reach the bottom, the air is cooler and feels damp at the back of my throat with every inhale.
I point the flashlight ahead of me to see the narrow tunnel extends far beyond the arc of light. Thousands of feet, I guess, beneath the border wall into Mexicali. It’s big enough that I can stand upright down here, and the air isn’t as thin as I expected. Perhaps because of ventilation systems installed throughout, which line the ceiling alongside electrical wires connected to the lamps. I’ve read about them in passing, state of the art tunnels designed to transport goods, but I always imagined some sketchy-looking abandoned joint being the entry, or exit, point. Certainly not a rectory, which makes it somewhat brilliant, in all honesty, if not a little unnerving.
I can’t imagine it stands useless, or unused, which means someone has access to my living space. Javier must have expected that, at some point, I’ll come face to face with an intruder.
Still scanning over the surroundings, I take a moment to imagine what that means for the other priests who’ve come and gone.
Pulling myself up the rungs of the ladder, I ascend the hole back up into my bedroom, where I crawl out of the nightstand and tumble onto the floor beside the bed. Flicking off the flashlight, I stare at the entrance, silently measuring the pros and cons of keeping this discovery to myself.
One thing is for certain, I can’t allow any trace of who I really am to remain at the rectory.
And should anyone come through that entrance while I’m here, I only hope they’ve made peace with God beforehand.
33
IVY
The moon sits high in the sky, as I finish up the last of my smoke and head in for the night. Tomorrow, I plan to do a bit exploring throughout the city—at least go for a walk to shake off the boredom of living out of a small hotel room for the next three weeks.
A notification lights up my phone, and I stare down at an email address I recognize, before clicking it open to a message from my old boss in the medical records department. Perhaps the only person, besides Mamie, who happens to have access to my personal email.
A man came by looking for you today. Suit and tie, carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. Told him you didn’t work here anymore. He gave me his number in case I heard from you. 555-347-2991. Hope everything is well with you.
Barbara
Suit and tie, and expensive briefcase? Could’ve been an investigator, or worse. Hopefully, he won’t return there, and I won’t have to watch another news report of someone indirectly murdered because of me.
For kicks, I look up the number, which takes me to some law firm out of Los Angeles.
Law firm? With a frown, I scour my brain for any recollection of the place, and the only thing that comes to mind are the fees that shithead Calvin supposedly got waived for my grandmother. Perhaps this place got word of her death and wants to strap me with her debt.
Shaking my head, I delete all evidence of the phone number from my search, and the email Barb sent, to which I have no intentions of responding.
A noise from inside my room steels my muscles, and I push up from my chair, hidden outside the curtain of the door, and peer inside.
Damon stands at the entrance, emptying something from his wallet onto the dresser.
With a smile, I run my fingers through my hair, and take a quick sniff of my armpits to make sure I remembered deodorant, before stepping back inside. His eyes devour me from where he stands, and I’m pretty sure if I was a slab of steak right now, I’d be half eaten already.
“Well, well. Look what el gato dragged in.”
Lips pressed in a poor attempt to hide the smile that dimples his cheeks, he tosses his wallet onto the dresser and removes his white collar. “I see you’re picking up the language.”
“To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?” Arms crossed, I lean against the frame of the door to keep from jumping into his arms.
“I have some things I need to keep here. Personal effects I don’t want rummaged.”
“Is that a warning to me?”
“I get the impression my new home isn’t very private. And my colleague isn’t quite as oblivious as Ruiz.”
“Wow. That pretty much defeats the purpose of joining the church down here, doesn’t it?”
“This is not a typical church. But I’m certain that, by staying there, I’m as close as I could be to finding our goat.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I think his business operates out of my bedroom.” His fingers work the buttons of his black shirt, and he tilts his chin in that authoritative way that tells me he didn’t just come here to drop off some personal stuff. “Are you going to take off that shirt and shorts, or do I need to rip them off of you myself?”
Like him, my attempt to hide a smile is useless. “My, aren’t we anxious?”
“Stressed. I need to clear my head, and you’re the only source of distraction that seems to be effective for me.”
“Well, then ...” Tucking my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt, I lift it over my head and slide my shorts down my thighs. It’s been weeks since I’ve worn one of my vintage dresses, and if I knew he’d be popping in on me tonight, I might’ve opted for one. I’m just glad I was bored enough earlier to shave. “Forgive me for the sins that I’m about to commit.” As I lower myself to kneel before him, his palm wraps tight around my throat, bringing me to a halt.
Eyes brimming with torment, he doesn’t let go as he casts his gaze from mine. “Perhaps I’m in the most dangerous place I’ve ever been, with criminals who would gut me alive”
If he thinks his words are a turn on right now, he’s wrong. My libido is fizzling like a deflating balloon.
Pressure builds inside my throat, where he curls his fingers around my neck, physically passing off his frustration into me.
“My head is spinning, and yet, the very sight of you still brings me joy. Contentment.” He articulates every word, as though it’s the opposite of what he’s conveying. As if this fact frustrates him completely. When his eyes meet mine, his grip loosens only slightly. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid, Ivy. Because I’m not convinced that bringing you here wasn’t the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done, and if something
happens to you …” There’s a sudden rage in his eyes, a cold blackness that tickles my skin as he stares down at me. “God will never forgive me for what I would do. I’ve lost everything in this world, but you.”
I want to remain untouched by his words, to smile at them, for fear that the moment they seep into my skin will be the moment I know immense pain. But I’m past that. I’m so far out of my comfort zone with him, that I can’t even confess I’ve fallen in love with him.
The tickle at my temple are the tears his eyes track, and when they find me again, there’s an unspoken understanding between us. By my throat, he pushes me onto the bed and holds me down, as he forces his way past my thighs. He enters me in one rough thrust, without remorse or apology. His face turns red with anger, the veins popping out of his neck, and he throttles me as if he’d prefer to kill me himself, rather than watch me die by someone else’s hands.
His cock stretches and fills me, sliding inside of me with ease, while I revel in our sin. Head tipped back, I close my eyes and gasp for the breath he’s denying me. My lungs pulse, begging for one drop of air with each dizzying stroke of his cock.
“I will not allow another man to touch you,” he grits through clenched teeth, and I wonder if its me he’s seeing, or the men who would die at his hands.
Part of me longs to question his preoccupations, but a larger part of me is distracted by the lack of breath and the climax that awaits.
The fringes of my vision begin to flicker, blackness seeping in like poison, threatening to take me under, but the tight clench of muscles and the throb of my pussy sends me arching into him, writhing for both oxygen and release.
In one blink, the world explodes behind my eyelids, and a flash of blinding light chases the cool drink of fresh air that fills my lungs.
I open my eyes to see Damon’s head tipped back, his body arched and shuddering, as he bangs out the last of his release on a curse.
Holding my neck, I roll over and cough, slurping up air like I’ve just come back from death. As I struggle to catch my breath, I’m ashamed of the sensation creeping beneath my skin. I’ve never climaxed through asphyxiation before, but it might just be my new favorite thing.
Lying beside him, I snuggle into Damon’s chest, breathing in the delicious masculine aroma of his cologne. I trace my finger over the small bit of hair on his chest. “What were they like? Your wife and daughter?”
His body shifts beneath me. He’s likely frowning down at me, but I don’t bother to look up at him. Perhaps it’s masochistic of me to ask, but I genuinely want to know how he loved them.
Chest expanding with a deep breath, he sighs. “Val was … beautiful and smart, like you, but bolder. Sometimes foolish because of it.”
“I’m not foolish?” I ask, surprised that he wouldn’t think so.
“Sometimes.” At that, I do sit up and smack him on the arm, and he laughs, pulling me back against him. “You’re more calculated. You know when to lie quiet and wait.”
“She was impulsive, then?”
“Yes. And Isabella was the opposite.” His thumb traces over my shoulder, and he leans forward to kiss me there. “She was patient and wise. And so very strong. My fighter.”
“I’m so sorry they were taken from you.”
“I’ve made peace with that. And now, I’m just trying to make things right.”
“Why Val, though? Why did El Cabro kill her?” I know I’m walking on eggshells, but I have to know.
“She was privy to my father’s dealings. And in the world of crime, where knowledge is power, she was a threat. And threats are eliminated without question.”
“Why didn’t they kill you?”
“There’s an etiquette to murder. Killing Val was business. Killing me would have ignited a war with my father.”
“And Isabella?”
His brows flicker with the inclusion of her name. “An innocent casualty.”
I don’t want to admit that I had a conversation with Sergio about El Cabro, but the nagging thought that he would so willingly kill children, like Sergio’s brother and Isabella, tells me he’d never spare Damon, if it came to that. “You don’t have to do this, you know? We could leave this place and never come back.”
“We could.” The slightest smile stretches his lips, but disappears with the tight knit of his brows. “The night before they died, Isabella had woken up from a terrible nightmare. As I tucked her back into bed and sat with her, she asked me what I would’ve done if she’d died of cancer. I spent so many months pushing that thought away that I never really thought about it until right then. There was only ever a black void. I told her I didn’t know.” Exhaling a long breath, he folds his arm beneath his head, staring off at nothing. “With cancer, there’s only the emptiness after. No one to be angry with, except maybe God. And whether you forgive, or drown in that anger, the cancer just keeps on, killing one child after the next. All you can do is move on. But murder … now that’s something else.” His eyes are lost to the words, holding a level of fascination that’s unfitting for who he was only weeks ago. “I can’t walk away, Ivy. Since Calvin, I’ve had these lucid dreams of Isabella, reminding me how young and innocent she was. It’s not right, the way she fought so hard to survive, only to be ripped out of this world by some greedy bastard.”
“Why does it have to be you, though? This isn’t like going after Calvin. This is a cartel.”
“And I’m only after one person.”
“Yeah. The big boss. And I don’t need to read about your body ending up in an oil drum for it.”
“I’m a priest, Ivy. I’m sure they’d be a bit more respectful in my disposal. Maybe bury me alive in concrete, or something.”
“Do you even have a plan? I mean, you came down here on a whim to take out a cartel. That’s a little irresponsible, to be honest.”
“My plan is to figure out who ordered the murder of my family. I’ll figure it out from there.”
The lack of information stirs my frustration, promising more weeks in this lonely place. Yes, I volunteered to come with him. Yes, I understood the consequences. And yes, I recognize going after a drug lord isn’t something a man rushes into, to spare his girlfriend the boredom of spending weeks in a motel. It still pisses me off. “You worry so much about something happening to me. But what if something happens to you, Damon? Did it ever occur to you that I might go apeshit, too?”
“You and apeshit don’t belong in the same sentence, but yes, it has occurred to me. Which is why I’ve told you repeatedly now: having you here isn’t a good idea.”
Groaning, I push up from him, and at the grip of my arm, I bat him away. “You know what I wish? I wish I would have gotten a pair of handcuffs, because I’d cuff you to the bed right now, and keep you cuffed until you grew some sense!” Throwing the blanket off of me, I shoot out of bed, my frustration at it’s height. “Putain! Fais chier! Merde! Ferme ta gueule!”
“I have no idea what you just said, but I have to admit, it’s quite a turn on.”
“I curse in French when I’m beyond pissed!”
The smile stretching his lips only goads my anger. “Va te faire foutre!”
“What was that?”
“Fuck off.”
The dimples in his cheeks betray his shitty attempt to hide his smile, as he pushes up from the bed. “Ivy, come here.”
With a fake smile, I curtsy. “Va te faire foutre.”
“Please.”
“Why? So you can rope me into falling deeper in love with you, and then go off and get yourself killed? No thanks!”
Pulling his knees up, he rests his elbows there, the sheets bunched between his legs and making him look like some David Gandy GQ spread. Disgustingly handsome. “I’m just observing right now. Watching. Learning. I don’t have a plan because … I don’t know what I’ll do yet.” He runs his hands through his hair and down his face. “When I found Isabella, covered in blood and lying next to her dead mother, I remembered her question the night bef
ore, asking what I would do. I felt helpless. And hopeless.” The tight pinch of his brows and the shine in his eyes tugs at my heart. “At the very least, I want to look her killer in the eye. I want him to know what he stole from me. I want him to feel pain and suffering, and helplessness and hopelessness, just as I felt. But most of all, I want him to know how special that little girl was, how she was loved so much, that her father would do something batshit crazy like go after the leader of a ruthless cartel.”
Muscles sagging in defeat, I look everywhere else in the room, except at him, because I’ll break into tears if I do. Tears of frustration and understanding, and more frustration. I pad back toward the bed, and once I’m in reach, he yanks me onto the mattress, caging me against him with his arms and legs. He grips my chin. “I curse you for coming into my world. For giving me purpose beyond these hateful thoughts. I curse you for being beautiful and irresistible, always tempting me. You’ve made this hell for me.”
I focus on his lips, those beautiful, kissable lips, and back to his eyes. “Good. If that keeps you alive, then I’m glad.”
His mouth slants over mine in a frantic and frustrated kiss, and the moment his hand snakes down inside my panties, I know I’ve grown weaker. Absolutely defenseless against this man and the way he makes me swallow up his pain and agony like an alcoholic fiending for the last drops out of a bottle.
34
DAMON
“The crux of Jesus being nailed to the cross was not that he was so helpless as to die for our sins, but that he refused to exercise the power given to him to prevent it.”
