“Walk, bitch, or I’ll put a hole in your skull.”
I lock eyes on the biker through the railings; he gives me an almost imperceptible nod, like he’s willing me to come forward. I do as I’m told. My heart’s kicking wildly against my ribs as I put my right arm between the railings and hold out my open hand. The biker steps forward, closing in on me and taking hold of my wrist. He places the shining, tarnished gold piece of metal into my palm and curls my fingers around it tight.
“Tell them you’re a virgin,” he murmurs. “Whatever happens, make sure Hector knows that.”
“The fuck you saying to her, ese?” Raphael snaps. Before I can register what the guy has said to me I’m yanked backward, away from the stranger and away from the gate. I almost lose my footing. I hear the soft clicking of a gun being cocked behind me. “Open your hand. Tell me what you’ve got there,” Raphael snarls in my ear.
My fingers barely work; it takes serious effort to stop shaking and open my hand. Inside, I can see the slightly scuffed bullet, see the scratched marks on its surface.
“What is it?” Raphael demands, jabbing the gun in my back.
“It’s…it’s a bullet.”
“And what does it say on it?”
“It says…” I turn the metal over in my hands, trying to focus through my tears. “It says WAR.”
Howls of raucous laughter explode behind me; Raphael reaches forward and snatches the bullet from me, holding it up for his friends to see. “War!” he shouts. “Fucking war!”
The bullet is clearly a declaration, and Raphael and his men are overjoyed by it. The biker gives me a firm, meaningful look; he holds my gaze for a long moment, and then he turns around and pulls up his hood. Somehow, through all the laughter and rough housing going on around me, I hear the creaking of the snow under his boots with every step this stranger takes away from me. The Widow Makers club emblem is emblazoned in white across his back; it’s the last I see of him as he climbs back onto his bike, starts the engine and rides away.
Hands take hold of me again. Raphael’s still grinning from ear to ear as he squeezes my arm. “We’re done here,” he says.
“What are you going to do with me?” Strangely, I almost feel like laughing. People ask that question in movies, when they’re kidnapped and taken from their homes and their lives, stolen away from everything they know and hold dear. I never thought that it would one day be me asking that question.
Raphael smiles a cold, dead kind of smile. “Oh, Chiquita, we’re not going to kill if you if that’s what you’re worried about. No, you’re much too pretty for that.” He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek again, the same hand he hit me with before, and a wicked light sparks in his eyes. “You’re going to come with us. My name is Raphael...but from now on, you will call me master.”
ALEXIS
Three of Raphael’s men disappear and return shortly after in a beaten-up panel van. The windows are so dirty I’m surprised the driver can even see the road. I may be powerless against so many of them, but that doesn’t stop me from fighting like a hellcat when they try and make me get in the back. I’m reminded of a poem, a famous one by Dylan Thomas, ‘Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night.’ The title in itself is comment enough for the situation I find myself in. The poem demands the reader kick and scream against death, and that’s exactly what I do. I kick and I scream, because getting in the back of that van is the same as dying, and I don’t want to die. I want to go home and listen to my mom gossip about her church friends. I want to do the dishes, and I want to watch TV. I want my sister, always so strong and distanced from everything, to come and find me and save me. I thrash so hard that another of the men has to take hold of my legs in order to restrain me.
“Let me go! Let. Me. G—” I choke on the last word. My head spins as something hard and blunt impacts against the back of my skull.
“Get her in the fucking van,” Raphael snaps, and then another heavy thud connects with my head. No spinning now. No fighting or screaming or clawing furiously for my life. Only a sinking sensation and blackness.
Only blackness.
The void envelops me, whisks me away from the events of the last half hour. I sleep, or lose consciousness, I don’t know. It feels like I’m still awake; I can feel the side-to-side rocking motion of the van as it takes corners. My ears still hear talking, distant and muddled, but I can’t make out the words.
We travel for a long time. I have no idea how long. It could be hours; it could be mere minutes. Everything is a blur. I’m in pain and I’m wet, chilled to the bone.