Sophia, what have I done to you? I’m so, so sorry.
She hated her father. She hated him for walking out on her mother. She hated him for working too much and for always making excuses. She hated him for thrusting himself back into her life. She hated him because he wasn’t here. But most of all, she hated herself for feeling so helpless and for betraying her friend.
Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a key inside the lock.
Her tormentor was coming back.
The door opened, and Hector stepped in. For a moment, he hesitated.
At the sight of him, she felt adrenaline surge through her body, and all her pent-up rage and fury broke loose. With a feral scream of sheer anger, she attacked.
The pungent smell of vomit caught Hector off guard, and he recoiled. Startling him even more was Leila leaping at him as if she was possessed. She slammed into him, momentarily knocking him off balance, her screams echoing through the entire floor. Somehow, she managed to hold on to him with her legs and dug a finger deep into his right eye while scratching the other side of his face with her nails. His cheek throbbed where her nails had gouged deep cuts.
The little ungrateful bitch.
Hector backhanded her away with all his strength. She hit the ground hard and rolled several times before becoming still. Hector raised his hand to his right eye and cursed. Every time he blinked, a knifelike pain drove into his eye.
He sidestepped a fresh puddle of vomit and knelt down next to Leila. She was still motionless. Her chest wasn’t falling or rising.
Mierda. Did I hit her too hard? Not that she didn’t deserve it.
He pressed a finger on her neck to check for a pulse. He was relieved there was a strong one. He stuck his ear in her face and listened for a breath.
Leila’s whole body hurt from landing on the floor. Every muscle. Her head was throbbing. She fought to remain conscious, afraid Hector would do unspeakable things to her if she didn’t. She flinched when she heard his footsteps getting closer and closer. She kept her eyes closed and willed herself to lie still, but her heart was pounding.
Play dead, Leila. Maybe he’ll leave you alone.
Her throat constricted when he touched her neck. A thick smell of sweat, shaving cream, and coffee made her nose burn. She opened her eyes a slit, only to realize he was right in her face, his ear less than two inches from her mouth.
She acted out of instinct more than anything else. She bit his ear. Hard. She felt a crunching between her teeth and wildly shook her head from left to right until a piece of Hector’s ear tore away. The hot, salty, and metallic taste of his blood filled her mouth.
Hector, howling like a wild animal, grabbed her by the throat and squeezed, robbing her of oxygen. She tried to knock his arm away, but he was too strong. He gritted his teeth as his grip became even tighter. Leila frantically looked around for something, anything, that she could use to defend herself, but her strength was almost gone. She had only seconds to live, and the unfairness of it all crushed her. Her last thought was for Sophia. She hoped her best friend would fare better.
I’m sorry, Sophia.
Leila didn’t feel the needle Hector jabbed into her neck. She had already passed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Stafford, Virginia
Simon Carter punched in the number Hunt had given him and drummed his fingers on the table while he waited for his friend to pick up. Hunt picked up on the fourth ring.
“Thanks for doing this, brother,” Hunt said by way of greeting.
“No worries, man. I’m here for you. Anything you need, you know that.”
“I do. What do you have for me?”
Carter looked at the printout in front of him. “Listen, Pierce, most of the fingerprints you forwarded to me came back negative. But two of them scored a hit.”
“What do we know?”
“That you’re dealing with real professionals. The guys were former members of the Mexican navy, more specifically from the Infantería de Marina.”
On the other end of the line, Hunt sighed.
“Their names are Eustacio Sarmiento and Juan Pablo Carballal,” Carter added, his eyes still on the printout. “They spent seventy days at Camp Pendleton in California in 2010.”
“Doing what?”
“Seems like they went through the Marine Corps’s Basic Reconnaissance Course,” Carter said. “That’s how we got their fingerprints.”
“Goddamn it! This makes me so sick.”
Hunt’s tone suggested he was beyond mad.
“You’re telling me we trained those guys? And now they turned against us? This is fucking nuts!”
Carter didn’t disagree with Hunt’s assessment, but this was hardly the first time such things had happened. Rogue Afghan and Iraqi soldiers were increasingly turning their weapons against their American trainers. In fact, Carter had read somewhere that this was now the leading cause of death for NATO troops in Afghanistan. How sick was that for a statistic?
“I know,” Carter replied.