“The DEA was in the middle of a wet dream over the charges they held over Miguel; his testimony against Cruz was solid. If we can find Miguel, we’ll have enough evidence to convict Cruz—and I don’t have to tell you that infiltration into that level of the Mexican Cartel is the modern day equivalent to crumbling Capone’s empire.”
“Not to mention putting away a drug trafficking murderer like Miguel himself,” I remind him. But I get it. The government’s obsession with cracking down on El Carnicero is nothing new—they’ve been after him for years. They thought Miguel’s eyewitness-murder fiasco would be the key to bringing the cartel king to his knees and putting an end to his virile command. He headed the export of billions of dollars in drugs, which flooded into the US each year. His cartel also brought everything from gang violence, not only in Mexico but north of the border too, to human trafficking, to murder-for-hire, kidnappings, prostitution and extortion.
“You do know, unless he’s a lot more important to Cruz than the feds suspect, Miguel is probably already dead,” I say, stating the obvious.
“Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But Homeland Security isn’t taking any chances. They just put a seven-digit bounty on Miguel’s head,” D’Angelo responds, sweetening the pot
Chapter Two
Rachel
Adrenaline isn’t my ally.
I hear footsteps approach. Fight or flight kicks in full-throttle, and what are you going to do with that when you’re locked up like an animal?
Wrenching at the chain, involuntary whimpers escape my throat as I try to move my body to run, escape, fight, anything, but the steel links keep me steadfastly bound.
“Tranquila hermosa. No estas lastimado.—Quiet, beautiful. You are not harmed. The voice speaks soothingly before placing what feels like a plastic bottle to my lips. My first instinct is to back away, but as the cool water dribbles down my chin I’m struck by my voracious thirst.
I open my mouth like a greedy child and try guzzling the liquid until I choke—sputtering and drowning in my captor’s offering until he pulls it away.
“Cálmate. Cálmate.”
It takes me a moment before I can regain my breath and he gives me the drink again. This time I command myself to try and be slow. The water still pours down and around the sides of my mouth, soaking down over my shirt.
“?Hablas espa?ol?” Do you speak Spanish?
I don’t move. My blood chills. He’s asking me if I speak Spanish. Somehow I don’t think it’s wise to admit I’m fluent. Let them think I don’t understand a word they’re saying. I silently thank my mom for enrolling me in a dual language program when I was in school.
“?Hablas espa?ol?” he repeats.
“No espa?ol, I don’t know what you’re saying!” I cry out and struggle against the shackles. “What am I doing here? What do you want from me?”
He laughs before I hear the sound his boots make against the floor as he walks away.
I’m brought back to a memory of the why . . .
At Tulane University, it’s always Mardi Gras. Students leave as much time in their schedule for evening parties as they do for daytime classes.
I was all dressed up—gold glitter around my eyes, a short halter dress covered in metallic sparkles that looked amazing in the evening light. My best friend and dorm roommate assured me that Thomas Monroe—class president and political science major—would be there. Thomas had been asking me out for weeks, but I was playing hard to get. That night might have been my night to get got.
Because I had so much homework to finish up, I was late getting to Frat Row where all the fraternity parties happen. So I took a stupid shortcut through a few back alleys. It was dark; the moon was nothing but a thin tear in the sky. And I was alone at eleven thirty. It was the kind of thing my mom would come down on me hard for, and I’d be grounded for a month.
Straight-laced, straight-A student. I never do anything this stupid, I reasoned. I’ll be okay this once.
That’s when arguing voices reached me—one in Spanish, the other in English with no hint of an accent. No big deal.
Except for the conversational content.
“Estás muerto, chico blanquito lindo.” You’re dead, pretty white boy.
Pretty white boy started begging for his life.
I pressed the number 5 on my iPhone to speed dial campus security and poked my head around the edge of the alley. Maybe I was overreacting and the situation was really less dire than I imagined. But as my eyes adjusted to the bright headlight beams from an idling car, I saw the Spanish speaking guy standing over the pleading English speaking guy—who I knew as a classmate and fellow Tulane student—with a pistol pressed against his forehead.
As I hitched in breath to scream, a sickening sound deafened all thought, freezing me in place. Blood and bone, milky-white chunks of brain and sticky strands of hair splattered against the brick wall behind them.
My phone plummeted from my hand and bounced hard off the blacktop.
The guy whirled around to face me, aiming the same gun he’d just exploded the other kid’s head with.
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OUT THERE!?” a masculine voice shouted, cutting through the last echoes of the gunshot.
“THE FUCK!?” another brayed.