Ryker didn’t come back to the hotel last night. He texted me late in the afternoon saying he wouldn’t be back until sometime this morning. He and Rever went to visit Ignacio. Ryker told me he didn’t want me to go with him, which was fine. I never wanted to step foot inside the Vargas compound again, much less see Ignacio. Ryker said he wasn’t doing well, but that didn’t soften my opinion of him.
As I exited the hotel, I turned on my iPod. I needed to run. I needed fresh air. We’d been in Mexico for almost four days, and I hadn’t done much of anything except work on a research paper for my graduate degree. My back ached from being hunched over my laptop. Ryker warned me not to stray too far from the hotel grounds, but I hadn’t jogged in days. I didn’t plan to be gone long. Maybe thirty or forty minutes, and we were in the middle of Playa del Carmen, a tourist destination, not a cartel stronghold.
I rounded the corner, increasing my speed. At six thirty in the morning, the streets were empty except for a few people standing at the bus stop. I liked exploring the town this way. I could see traces of the sleepy fishing village before the tourist industry crept southward from Cancun.
With each stride, my feet pounded against the uneven sun-bleached pavement. Music screamed from my earbuds, blocking out the world. The faint tinge of ocean air tickled my nose. Sweat beaded at my temples. The humid air stuck in my lungs. Even this early in the morning, my clothes clung to my body like a second skin. I’d never get used to this weather.
I vaulted on and off the narrow sidewalk, avoiding signs, trashcans, and planters. My legs burned, but I pushed harder, hammering away at the cobwebs in my brain from too many sleepless nights and too much anxiety.
My phone repeatedly vibrated against my leg in the zipped pocket of my running shorts. Ryker was probably trying to reach me. He could wait. I’d decided to fly home today or tomorrow, regardless of whether his plans had changed. I wanted to go home. I hadn’t seen Ryker much during the entire trip. He didn’t need me here. I didn’t belong here. As much as he denied it, this was his world.
I paused at the intersection as a white sedan turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt. A convoy of three trucks whipped around the corner, slamming on their brakes, effectively boxing me in.
A chill ghosted down my spine, and my skin prickled beneath the sheen of sweat. My heart squeezed painfully. I ripped my earbuds from my ears and draped the wire around the back of my neck. Panicked, I glanced over my shoulder for an escape route that didn’t include walking by the cars. Just then, the passenger car doors opened. Men dressed in black exited the cars with assault weapons slung over their shoulders.
A scream bubbled up in my chest, but when I opened my mouth it resembled a whimper. Frozen with fear, I bit down on the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood coated my mouth. My stomach flipped like an over-easy egg. Hundreds of thoughts raced through my mind, colliding like bumper cars as they vied for my attention.
I willed my legs to move, but dread cemented them to the ground.
“Rapido. Rapido,” one man bellowed, waving his gun back and forth like a macabre music conductor.
Fuck. They were here for me. Blood drained from my face, and I swayed. Trembling, my iPod slipped from my boneless fingertips, cartwheeling down the sidewalk into the street. Strangely detached from reality, I watched it tumble around and around until it skidded to a stop.
Then, something clicked in my brain, and I ran. I ran like my life depended on it, and it probably did.
“Help me. Somebody help me,” I screamed, not even pausing to glance over my shoulder. I vaulted over a collapsible sidewalk sign advertising breakfast. The toe of my sneaker caught the wooden edge, and it tipped over, sliding across the pavement.
“Agarrarla,” a man yelled.
Strands of hair whipped around my face. Cold sweat poured down my back. My lungs burned. Blood thundered in my ears like a steam train, getting louder and louder with every stride.
Please don’t let them catch me.
Please don’t let them catch me.
Please don’t—
Before I could finish the thought a third time, arms snaked around my waist, gouging the flesh of my stomach, centimeter by centimeter. The rubber soles of my sneakers scraped across the pavement. I lurched forward, battling him with every muscle fiber in my body, but instead of breaking his hold, we tumbled forward onto the sidewalk. Pain zigzagged up my arms as my hands crashed against the ground. Dirt and gravel dug into my flesh like shrapnel.
I scrambled forward, my fingernails clawing at the hairline fractures in the pavement as though I could rip them open and find refuge from the nightmare unfolding with lightning speed. Rust-colored blood from my hands streaked the pavement in parallel lines. He yanked my head backward by my hair, and my scalp pulsed with mind-splitting pain. Like a bull taunted by a matador in a bullfight, a red haze of bloodlust tinted my vision. I donkey-kicked backward over and over, relishing every grunt and groan spilling from the man’s mouth.
I wouldn’t win. I knew it. He knew it. He weighed at least a hundred pounds more than me. He had a gun. He had five men helping him, but I’d fight until I couldn’t fight any longer. For me. For our baby.
“Pinche puta,” the man cursed next to my ear. Saliva splattered across the side of my face. Like a noxious gas, the smell of garlic and stale cigarette smoke infiltrated my lungs. I gagged, barely choking back the bile blistering the walls of my throat.
He shoved my face into the ground. My teeth rattled. Tears streamed unchecked down my sweat-stained face. Dirt coated my lips, crunching between my teeth.
“Fuck you. You piece of shit.” I growled as I reached back and yanked a handful of his greasy hair, tearing it from the roots. My hand fell to the ground. Looking down, my stomach lurched when I saw a fistful of black hair threaded between my fingers.
“Did your boyfriend think we’d ignore his insult? That we wouldn’t retaliate?” His hand coiled around the front of my neck, constricting the air to my lungs, and pressing with alarming accuracy against my jugular. I gasped for air. My body ached. Terror screamed through my veins.
My fingernails burrowed into his hand, scratching and mauling him like a feral alley cat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, but the words sounded more like hoarse whimpers.
“Shut the fuck up. All he had to do was mind his own business and stay the hell out of Mexico and away from Anna.”