She hurried through the congested traffic, causing a taxi to brake hard and nearly hit her. She entered the Starbucks, the familiar sight and sound and smell of the coffee shop comforting her. She was so thirsty, so hungry, so tired. She wanted to sink into a deep red suede chair and sip a latte, nibble on a blueberry muffin. Read back issues of The New York Times. Pretend to do the crossword.
She couldn’t do any of that, though. She pushed toward the back of the crowded store, past the clang of the espresso machine wands and the hiss of the steamer, ignoring the chatter and the music, jostling a display of travel mugs and pound-bags of exotic coffee beans. Cool air washed over her skin, drying the sweat and making her shiver. The ladies bathroom door swung open and a woman stepped out, blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an open white button-down shirt over a pink tank top and cut off jean shorts.
The woman cast a critical glance at Wren, and then her expression changed to concern. “You all right?” she asked, her accent faintly German.
Wren wanted to beg for help, plead, weep. “I just…I ripped my shirt.”
“Looks like more than that, sweetheart. You need a doctor.”
“I’m…I’m fine.” She resisted a glance over her shoulder for Cervantes, not wanting to look as desperate and terrified as she really was. “Can I borrow your button-down?”
The woman immediately shed the shirt and handed it to her. “Sure, honey. Here. Do you need anything else? Are you sure I can’t bring you to a doctor?” She leaned in close. “You don’t have to stay with him, honey. Don’t let him keep hurting you. Okay?” The woman turned away, and as she passed, she pressed a tightly folded wad of bills into Wren’s palm.
Wren slipped into the bathroom and locked it, then sat, trembling, on the toilet. She buried her face in her hands and let herself shake, but refused to cry. If she started crying, she’d never stop. After a moment, she forced herself to her feet and peeled the dirty, ripped T-shirt off her body, groaning in pain as her injured ribs protested. In the mirror, she saw the bruises on her torso and her face. No wonder the woman had assumed Wren was in an abusive relationship.
If only the truth were that easy. She wet a length of paper towel and scrubbed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face and around her nose. There wasn’t much she could do for her knotted and snarled hair, but she ripped a piece of her old shirt and used it to tie it back so it didn’t look as bad. Then she put on the new shirt and buttoned it, feeling more human.
She dug the money the woman had given her from the pocket of her shorts and counted out $20USD. Enough for a bottle of water and something to eat, at least. Assuming Cervantes wasn’t just beyond the door waiting for her.
Wren hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Her heart was pounding so loud she could no longer hear the café’s music. What if he was out there, waiting? She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him take her again. She’d fight to the death, if she had to.
Where was Stone? Had he followed her? Had he stopped to deal with Cervantes? Was he even alive?
She knew in her gut that Cervantes wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to stop. He’d find her.
Wren pushed through the door, tensed for the worst.
10
Stone slid between people, scanning faces. Shaw was insanely busy, people streaming in all directions. Ahead, he saw a commotion, a cluster of onlookers crowded in a circle around someone. Stone used his height to peer over their heads, caught a glimpse of Cervantes climbing to his feet, his face a mask of blood.
“She went that way,” someone said in Filipino, pointing toward the escalators. “She looked like she’d been through some shit.”
Cervantes had ripped off his shirt and had it pressed to his temple. He was sagging against a pillar, clearly in pain, dizzy and disoriented. Stone wished he could finish the job, but Wren was his first priority. He’d have to deal with Cervantes, but he couldn’t do anything at the moment. Stone pushed through the crowd toward the escalators. Where would Wren have gone?
Out of the mall. Out, away. Somewhere familiar, probably. Stone headed toward the mall’s entrance, scanning, searching. Outside, he paused, watching the crowds and cars move in an endless stream.
There: a Starbucks. Probably the most familiar place of all for a lost and afraid American girl. The first place Cervantes would check, too, most likely. Stone ran across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit a few times before reaching the sidewalk, leaving stopped cars and shouted curses in his wake. He jerked the door open and sucked in a breath of the familiar coffee shop air. He didn’t see her in the dining room, didn’t see her in line or waiting for a drink. Maybe she wasn’t here.
Then the bathroom door opened, and there she was. She’d cleaned up a bit, found a new shirt. Good girl.
She still looked battered and in pain and terrified, but she was scanning the shop with wary, alert eyes. Stone’s gut twisted at the sight of her. Bruises darkened her face, and she looked sweaty, even though it was cool—almost cold—inside Starbucks. He saw her reach a hand to her forearm and scratch absently, then notice what she was doing and stop, shaking her hand as if flinging away the need to scratch.
He slipped through the crowd, willing Wren to glance his way, to see him. He dared not call out, knowing she’d bolt, and that would make a scene. He needed to get her away from this area without drawing any more attention than necessary. He closed to within three feet before she spotted him.
Her entire being lit up, as if merely seeing him was salvation. She flew through the air and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. His arms clutched her waist and he buried his face in her hair.
A moment passed, and then another, and then he felt her body jerk and shudder, a sob ripping from her. “Stone…oh God, Stone. Don’t—please don’t let him—”
“I’ve got you, Wren. You’re safe, baby. I promise.” Baby? Stone thought. Where did that come from? “I won’t let him hurt you again.”
Wren sobbed again, and then drew a deep breath and seemed to physically force herself to stop crying. “Did you…did you see him? In the mall? I hit him with an ashtray, but I’m not sure how good I got him.”
Stone chuckled. “You got him good.”
She lifted her chin to look up at him. Her eyes were wet, brown and wide and afraid and relieved. “Is it horrible that I’m glad I hurt him? He’s…he’s evil, Stone. You don’t even know…”
“That’s a perfectly normal emotional response,” he said. “And I do have a pretty good idea what he’s like.” Stone refused to think about that mission. He was positive it was Cervantes he’d seen, there at the last, watching them fly away.
He pulled Wren out of the Starbucks, his gaze roving the street for any sign of Cervantes, mind racing. Cross the street, just move, keep moving. Find a cab, put distance between them and Cervantes. He walked quickly, almost carrying Wren with one arm. A jeepney hauled past them, then braked at a stop. Stone tugged Wren into a jog and pushed her onto the flamboyantly colored vehicle, which was crowded well past any logical capacity. He held her against his front, shielding her from the view of anyone on the street.
She was panting, pressing one hand to her side, sheened with sweat.
“Are you hurt?”
She nodded. “Ribs. He…he kicked me. A few times. Not broken, I’m pretty sure, but it hurts.”
“Did he…hurt you in any other way?” He hated asking, but he had to know, if only so he’d be aware of her psychological mindset.
Wren shook her head. “No. He was…saving me. For whoever bought me.” She scratched her left forearm again, then stopped with a curse under her breath. “They…forced drugs on me. Not sure what. With a needle.”