“Because you saved my life in Venezuela,” I answer. “And because you and every other girl I spent even two minutes with in that compound in Mexico, are and always have been very important to me.” I take her into another tight hug, and as I stand here with her in my arms, I learn something about myself. Or, rather I remember something that I’d forgotten slowly over time since I escaped Mexico. Those girls are another part of me; I shared something with them that I could never share or feel even with Victor. And I’ll do whatever I can to help any one of them for as long as I live.
Of course, these aren’t my only reasons for helping Naeva. The plot has thickened, so to speak; and Naeva is an unexpected, and very welcoming piece of a complex puzzle that I intend to put together all on my own. The very fact that Victor’s own flesh and blood sister was in the same compound that I was in, is an intriguing mystery in itself. Coincidence? Not even close—too significant to be a mere coincidence. And there’s more. So much more. The mystery surrounding Brant Morrison: his blatant jealousy and hatred for Victor, and his protectiveness of Naeva; why The Order wants Victor and Niklas brought in alive; why The Order wants me brought in alive; why I’m worth so much. My head is spinning with the possibilities!
I will get to the bottom of this. Everything is soon to come full circle. And that inevitable end will begin where things began—in Mexico; back into the heart of the nightmare that was my life.
“Are you sure about this, Naeva?” I gently grip her upper arms in my hands, anticipation seizing me now more than ever. “I meant what I said—you could die. And as much as I want to help you, I don’t want that on my conscience.”
Naeva smiles softly. She reaches up and touches my face.
“If I don’t go, Sarai…I’ll die anyway. I have to find him. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I have to find him.”
We embrace each other tightly.
Naeva Brun. The long-lost kid sister of none other than the man I love. Standing in my living room on the eve of the most important mission of my life. It’s one of those moments when you look back on your plans, your hopes and dreams, and realize that nothing ever happens the way you envision it; something odd or extraordinary, the one thing you never could’ve imagined, is thrown into the wheel in the most unexpected of moments. And it either helps to turn it, or it stops it in its tracks. Naeva, I believe, is very much turning that wheel—I feel it. I know it.
And even still, when I look at her, I can’t for the life of me see her as Victor’s sister. She’s Huevito, the girl who Izel nearly beat to death eleven years ago, a girl who I was not so unlike once upon a time, and I still feel as though I’m peering into a mirror when I look at her.
“What was that?” Naeva asks suddenly, pulling out of our hug.
I pretend not to have heard anything.
But then the voice gets louder, carrying through the vent in the floor.
“Did you hear that?” she asks; she squints her eyes in concentration, and gazes off in the direction of the muffled voice.
Then she looks at me, seeking answers.
I wasn’t going to tell her—or anyone for that matter—but since I trust her enough to take her to Mexico with me, I may as well let her in on this dark project, too.
I sigh and say with the wave of my hand, “Come with me and I’ll show you,” and she follows down the hallway.
Izabel
Pushing up on my toes, I reach above for the key hidden over the basement door. “I left the front door unlocked about twelve hours ago,” I say, sliding the key into the knob, “and someone almost wanted me bad enough.”
“Oh?” Naeva cocks an eyebrow, watching me with intense curiosity.
I open the door and reach out to flip the light switch on the wall; light floods the carpeted steps leading down into the basement. The voice becomes louder. “I need to take a piss, you fucking bitch!”
Naeva stops on the second step and just looks at me, her face all twisted up with confusion and concern.
I jerk my head back casually. “It’s all right,” I tell her, insisting she continue to follow. “He may’ve worked the gag out of his mouth, but there’s no way he’s getting out of the ropes.”
“Who is it?” Naeva whispers, still immobile on the second step.
I take her by the hand and lead her down the last ten steps, and we make our way into the basement.
Naeva’s eyes widen, and she gasps quietly. “My God,” she says, her hand loosely covering her mouth, “it’s Apollo Stone.”
Apollo is bound to an old wheelchair; ropes are tied around his arms and wrists and the chair’s frame; his legs and ankles to the folding leg rests. His feet are bare and the only clothing he wears are his form-fitting boxer briefs. He has muscle-defined runner’s legs, and a physique like the God Apollo himself. But this Apollo, being tied to a dusty wheelchair in nothing but his underwear and colorful language, isn’t doing his divine namesake any justice.
“Come on, girl,” Apollo insists, with the backward tilt of his head, “I gotta piss. Get me a soda bottle or somethin’. Don’t even have to untie my hands—you can hold it for me.” His mouth turns up on one side.
Naeva can barely take her eyes off him.
“Why—how is he here?” she asks, without looking at me.
Apollo snorts.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says, looking Naeva over with comical disappointment. And relief. “This is who you brought to keep an eye on me while you’re in wetback country?” He throws his head back and laughs.