He smiled with intrigue, his dark eyes backlit with greed and expectation.
He looked me over. Young, white, American girl with a plan and a purpose. A girl, who clearly by my decision to go dangerously into Mexico by way of a coyote, knew that I not only had bigger balls than him, but also a much bigger bank account.
“Fifteen thousand,” he said, and I knew it was non-negotiable.
But money was the least of my concerns—I went into our negotiations expecting to pay no less than twenty thousand.
“Fifteen for the ride,” I agreed, handing over an envelope stuffed full of cash. “And I’ll also be needing a few other things.”
He cocked a thin brow.
I explained what else I needed, and by the time our meeting was over, he had half of his money up front (twenty-five thousand), and I had a very eager and willing coyote at my disposal.
I close the curtain and slip back into my room. There’s blood on my clothes from an earlier meeting, and I intended to change, but decide against it at the last minute. The blood will only help me to play the part—I just have to make it appear to be mine. No need to pack a bag or grab a toothbrush or anything like that, because kidnapped victims bound for sex slavery compounds don’t have such luxuries; they’re lucky to still be wearing shoes by the time they’re brought through the gates of one of the last places they’ll ever call home.
I swallow a birth control pill, and get to work on braiding a month’s worth of the little pills into the roots of my hair.
A knock echoes lightly through the house. At first, I think it came from the basement, but when I hear it again seconds later, I confirm the source to be at the front door. Maybe it’s the coyote. He told me to call him Ray, but that’s his real name as truthfully as mine is Lydia. I had chosen the name on a whim, thinking a lot about the good friend I lost escaping Mexico the first time. I guess it’s my way of honoring her, of avenging her murder.
Before I go into the living room, I peek out the window of my bedroom and look into the street. Ray’s old beat-up car is gone, and there’s no other vehicle anywhere I can see that wasn’t there before.
The knock sounds again.
I grab my gun from the bed, head down the hallway, crouched low, and take a right into the kitchen instead. Quietly I slip out through the laundry room door, and make my way around the side of the house. Always on high alert, especially while I’m still in the United States, out in the open for Artemis to find me. She is still on the run, as far as I know.
Looking around the corner of the house, I glimpse a woman standing at the front door. The porch light is not on so it’s hard to make out anything more than her being female—the long hair and petit frame easily give away that much.
Pointing the gun at her just five feet away I say, “What do you want?”
The woman’s hands come up slowly, as if she knows I have a gun, and then she turns her head toward me.
“I just want to talk,” she says. “Well, actually I want more than that, but I can assure you I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t,” I say with confidence.
She nods, raises her hands higher. “Yeah, I’m fully aware of that.”
I move in closer, feeling the cool, smooth concrete underneath my bare feet; my finger hugs the trigger.
“Turn around,” I demand.
She does exactly as I say, keeps her hands level with her shoulders.
“Now reach out with your right hand,” I instruct, “and open the front door.”
A brief look of surprise flashes over her partially shadowed face. “You left your front door unlocked?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I’m not going to live in fear. Someone wants me bad enough, a locked front door isn’t going to stop them. And if they get in by way of that door and catch me off-guard, then I deserve whatever happens to me. Now open the door.”
She cups the knob and turns; the door opens soundlessly; dim light from the living room lamp touches the entrance and the woman, revealing her light brown hair and kind eyes. She’s dressed in a simple pair of khaki-colored slacks, and a short-sleeved white button-up blouse tucked in; her shoes are flat-soled, white, and pointy in the toes. I don’t care about any of this stuff—I was looking for a weapon somewhere amongst it all.
“Where’s your gun?” I ask, still looking her over.
“I don’t have one.”
“A knife?”
She shakes her head.
I gesture my gun at the doorway. “Go inside. Keep your hands where I can see them.”
The woman enters my house, and I follow in closely behind her, closing the front door with my free hand.
“Sit in that chair,” I tell her, glancing at Dina’s flea market wooden chair.
She sits down.
“Put your hands on your knees.”
She puts her hands on her knees.
I sit on the coffee table, facing her, gun still pointed at her. She doesn’t look threatening; she’s smaller and much frailer than me, but I’d never underestimate her because of her size. Or even because she appears to be weaponless. It’s often the ones you least expect capable, who turn out to be the most dangerous.
“Now tell me who you are, and what you want.”
She keeps her focus all on me, but she doesn’t seem afraid—careful and smart, yes, but not afraid.
“I’m Naeva Brun,” she says. “I’m sure you know by now who I am and how I know you.”
Victor and Niklas’s sister. Interesting.
“Go on,” I tell her.
“And I’m here because I need to go with you to Mexico.”
A wave of disappointment and betrayal rushes over me. How could Victor do this after everything I told him? After I warned him? After he pretty much gave me his word that he wouldn’t interfere? I bite down on the inside of my mouth, and look at Naeva with exasperation.
“So he sent you to babysit me,” I say, and then stand.
“No,” she says, “I came on my own. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
I jerk my hand toward her to emphasize the gun’s presence, just in case she needs reminding.
“Then how did you know about Mexico?” I drill her. “How did you know when I was leaving?”
“Like you, and my brothers,” she says, “I have a set of my own skills.” She shrugs her petit shoulders. “Nothing to brag about, but I’m not completely useless.”
Hmm…to be related to Victor and Niklas, Naeva sure lacks the confidence in herself that they reek of.
“Then tell me how?” I say.
She looks up at the popcorn ceiling. “I was hiding in the building’s venting system,” she says, looking back at me. “It was easy to get into the building after everything had been moved out, and everyone with it. I snuck in a couple hours before nightfall, and I waited.”
“Waited for what?” I ask. “How’d you know there’d be a meeting?”
“Niklas has a big mouth,” she says. “You were right about him, about what you said in the meeting.” She smiles softly. “I’ve been going to that bar he sleeps at, for a while now. I’ve sat next to him a few times, wanting to tell him who I am, but I never had the courage. I don’t think he’s ready to see me.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t hit on you,” I say.
She blushes. “Actually, he did,” she says, and I cringe. “But I brushed him off, and he left me alone.”
“Good thing Niklas isn’t the determined type,” I say. Though he seems to be with me, unfortunately, I think to myself.
She nods. “Yes. It’s a good thing.”
We’re both quiet for a moment.
Feeling less threatened by her, I decide to sit down on the coffee table again. The gun remains in my hand, resting on the top of my leg; I casually take my finger away from the trigger.