The hallway to the right leads toward a large living room. I can see portions of an enormous gray sofa and a glass coffee table. Tall ornate lamps anchor both sides of the sofa and a vase holding a large purple orchid sits at the center of an antique trunk that’s being used as a side table.
To the left is another hallway. It’s dark and uninviting, but I know this is the way to the basement. With our backs up against the wall, we sidestep our way down the hallway, our heavy boots scraping against the dark woodwork. I lift each foot and set it down like a ballet dancer, touching down my toe, then the ball of my foot, then the heel, doing my best to not make a sound against the hardwood floors.
Black-and-white photographs cover the cream-colored walls. Beautiful pictures of the ocean, clouds, mountains, Colombia’s famous Cattleya orchid. Each photograph is matted against a white background and hangs in a simple, elegant black frame. There’s a certain softness to the pictures, the angles and the focus, something I wouldn’t expect a killer like Torres to collect.
We get to the end of the hallway. I bend my knees, lowering my stance, and peer around to the next hall. It’s empty. About fifty feet away is a dark wood door that I know leads to the basement stairs.
I hold up my hand, motioning for Luke to stop while I listen for creaking doors, even the sound of someone breathing. Still nothing. I raise my thumb, giving Luke the”all clear” sign. I whip my body around the wall, stretch out my arms, and point my gun down the empty hall. I wait another moment before taking the first step, my fingers tingling.
We press our backs up against the wall and sidestep our way toward the basement door. I hold my breath as we get closer. Forty more feet. Thirty more feet. Twenty more feet. Ten more feet.
Bang. The tip of Luke’s gun hits the side of the bookshelf and before I can even turn around, a guard has swung around the corner, his strong arm wrapped around Luke’s throat.
“Luke,” I say, raising my gun to fire at the guard, but before I can get my finger around the trigger, I feel myself fall backward. What the hell? I reach for the bookshelf along the wall to brace myself, but it’s disappeared. Suddenly, my breath is gone. I try to lean forward, but someone has grabbed me by the throat from behind. Holy shit, my head is screaming as a man pulls me away from Luke and into the hidden, pitch-black room with so much force, the heels of my boots drag against the hardwood floor.
I try to scream, but every wisp of air has been forced out of my lungs. I cannot breathe. The man’s grip tightens, crushing the bones in my neck. I flail my body and try to suck in new air but nothing comes. Sixty seconds more, I’ll be dead. Don’t let me die this way, my mind cries. God, don’t let me die this way.
I drop my weapon on the floor to free my hands. It lands with a blustering bang. I grab the man’s large right arm with both hands, grind my teeth, and pull down with all my strength. I feel him weaken, the tightness of his grip loosening so I can suck in a new breath.
“Puta, puta,” the man yells at me. Bitch, bitch. He tries to tighten the choke hold but I’ve already pulled his arm too far down. I feel his body weight to my right. I jut my left leg behind his, forcing him to lower his stance. I yank down on his arm and jerk my head out of his grasp. He yelps as I pull his right arm behind his body and across his muscular back.
“Mierda,” the man hollers as I pull his arm even tighter. Come on, come on, come on, I scream in my head. His arm fights back, pulling me forward, but I won’t let go. With his body off balance, I kick in the back of his knee with my left foot. He buckles under the force of my strike and falls to the ground. I pull away and try to run for the door, but he still has me by the wrist and yanks me down on top of him.
My elbow strikes the ground first and my body lands beside his with a thud. Pain rushes up my arm and through my entire body, but I push it away. He holds my left hand down on the ground and struggles to get on top of me. I knee him in the stomach and swing my free arm to punch him in the face. My fist strikes his nose. I hear a pop and feel his bones shatter against the back of my fist.
“Puta,” he screams, letting go of the tight grip on my arm and raising both hands to his bleeding face. This is my chance. With nothing holding me back, I rise to my knees and put out one foot to stand up. He leans forward and grabs me by my thick ponytail. I scream as he yanks me back onto the ground, my head slamming against the hardwood floor.
Now he’s really pissed. “Bitch,” he thunders in English. He climbs on top of me, his legs straddled on either side of my stomach. Before I can throw another punch, his hands are wrapped around my neck.