The airport?
I’m frowning in surprise when the man on my right—Afonso—grabs my hand again. I hiss in pain when his fingers dig into my wrist, and his mouth curls into a sneer. “Don’t get too excited, little one. This is only temporary.”
Excited? At his bruising hands? I jerk my hand out of his grip. “Don’t touch me.”
“You will be with me, Daughter,” Afonso says, and holds up his passport. Afonso Wessex, it says. Ugh. He then hands me mine as “Lucy Wessex.”
“Great,” I say, my voice lacking enthusiasm.
“Try anything and your friend Rose will die,” Fouquet calls from the front seat. “And it will not be a quick, painless death.”
You guys are dicks, I think, but I don’t say it aloud. I just say, “I know. I’m not going to do anything.”
Because Rose is depending on me to be the good, sweet mule. And that’s who I’m going to be.
I look over at Afonso, and he’s peering down the front of my blouse. What a classy “dad.” I hitch it higher instinctively. “May I use my plastic gloves and hand lotion while we’re here?”
They’re used to my weird issues with my hands. I’m a hand model, which they know, and so I’m constantly lotioning my hands and putting on plastic gloves to protect them from any sorts of environmental mishaps. I bought them one day after I’d met the first buyer and have used them religiously since, even though Fouquet looks at me as if I’m up to something. I’ve told them it’s because I want to go back to work as if nothing has happened once this is all done. And they allow it, which might be some kind of psychological torture, but the plastic and lotion are a comfort.
The gloves serve a second purpose in that they’re going to keep my fingerprints off any of this shit. Mule or not, I’ll still go to prison if the kind of information I’m carrying gets out and has my name attached. It’s Snowden levels of information from what I can tell, and the thought terrifies me.
“Put those in your bag for now. It will give you an excuse to keep your carry-on with you.” Fouquet tosses the box of disposable gloves that were in my luggage in my direction. I catch them and am startled by the dark ring around my right hand. My wrist is ugly and bruised, and I wince at the sight of it. I pack the gloves and the lotion into my case.
I go into the airport with my “dad” Afonso and Fouquet flanking me. We don’t even look casual, not in the slightest, but no one notices. Maybe it’s because we’re in Lima and no one gives a crap about this sort of thing?
We get to the check-in counter, go through security, and head to the waiting area. It’s all very low-key and I want to scream at the people wandering past, lost in their own thoughts. Can’t they see I don’t want to be here with these two men?
But everything is normal, and I hand my ticket to the girl moments before getting on the flight. “Enjoy your stay in Pucallpa,” she tells me with a smile.
Is that where we’re going? Never heard of it. I smile back, because what else can I do?
? ? ?
“Pick a card,” Afonso tells me for the hundredth time, leaning in too close to my seat. “Any card.”
Oh God, I hate this flight so much. Fouquet received a phone call at the moment of boarding and told us we’d meet in Pucallpa so it is just my “dad” and me.
I glare at my captor, who’s getting more drunk by the minute, thanks to harassing the flight attendant. I should have more patience. He hasn’t hit me once, and if he smells of whisky and hair product, that’s better than a punch to the mouth.
But I swear, if he looks down the front of my blouse one more time, I’m going to lose it.
“Come on,” Afonso says, waving the deck at me. “Pick a card.” He keeps trying to do magic tricks. I’m not sure if it’s a euphemism for something or if this is more of the daddy-daughter shtick, but it’s creeping me out.
For what feels like the millionth time in a row, I pick a card. The plastic gloves on my hands make it difficult to pull one out, but I manage. Two of clubs.
He shuffles the deck and gives me an exaggerated wink, then slaps a card against his forehead. “Is this your suit?”
It’s a diamond. “No.”
He frowns and looks down at his card. “Eh?”
I show him mine. “Maybe I jinxed it.” I’m pretty damn unlucky.
“No, it just needs the touch of a real hand,” he says, nodding at my gloves. “Those are messing up the flow. They, like me, need the touch of a real woman.” And he gives me what I suppose is a lady-killer wink.
Gross. I smile politely and wiggle my gloved fingers at him. “I’m sorry. I’m going to keep wearing these. My hands are my livelihood.”