They came to an actual doorway, a slab of wood with chipped red paint, jury-rigged to fit into the space, hinges fastened by bolts to the corrugated metal wall. Cervantes pulled the door open and shoved Wren in. The space was tiny, six feet by six feet, if that. There were no windows, just the dirt under foot and the walls, wood and metal. Cervantes closed the door behind him, pulled the knife from his pocket. He twisted his wrist, and the handle of the knife flipped to reveal the blade, six inches of silvery and serpentine metal glinting in the light of the lantern he held in his other hand.
Wren went still, waiting. Would he kill her? Cut off a finger to punish her? He set the lantern on the floor, casting slanted shadows on the wall. Moving behind her, he cut the zip-tie free, and then traced the tip of the knife lightly up her spine. She didn’t dare even breathe. For as much as she imagined she’d rather die than be raped or sold, when a blade was pressed to her skin, self-preservation kicked in.
Cervantes pressed the point into the skin just above the collar of her shirt, beneath her tied-up hair. The tip twisted, and the knife descended, slicing through her shirt. Her skin pinched as he forced the blade beneath the strap of her bra, and then she felt her breasts bounce as the fabric gave under the razor-sharp blade. Down her back, through the thin cotton of her shirt. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Over her hip, over her buttock, down one leg of her shorts. The fabric hung free around her leg, and then he cut that away. Two more quick slices, through her panties at her hips, and she was naked.
Cervantes stepped back, flicking his wrist so the knife closed, and then opened. Over and over, he flipped the knife closed, open, in an endless circling of his wrist. His eyes perused Wren, taking in her full breasts, generous hips, the bruises on her cheek, the bruises at her ribcage. His gaze finally landed on her privates.
“You need a lesson.” His voice was a low slither. His lips curved up.
She shrank away, covering herself with her hands. “Please, no…”
Cervantes reached behind his back and pulled out his gun, leveled it at her. “Shut up. Be still. You been a lot of trouble, little bird. I sometime think it be easier to just kill you.” He pressed the barrel to her head. “You don’t cause me no more trouble, huh? Or dis be only da beginning.”
He closed the knife, pressed the cold metal to the inside of her thigh. She trembled, clamping her thighs closed. Cervantes laughed, a quiet chuckle, and slid the knife upward. Cold metal dug into the soft, sensitive flesh of her core, pressing in painfully. She refused to loosen, to let him violate her.
“No.” She shook her head, the hard O of the barrel scraping the skin at her temple. She spoke through clenched teeth. “Kill me. You’ll have to kill me.”
Cervantes responded by thumbing back the hammer of his pistol. “Don’ test me, little bitch. You will die.”
She felt steel thread through her veins, cold and ungiving. “Then I’ll die.”
His eyes narrowed, and he pressed the knife harder. She curled her body inward, closing herself away with all of her strength. Cervantes drew away the gun, and then hit her with the butt, slamming the top of her head so hard she saw flashes and her back slammed against the wall. Blood trickled hot down her scalp. The blow weakened her, and she cried out when the icy metal gouged into her. Screams ripped from her as Cervantes jabbed up, in.
She had no way of comprehending the pain, the raw agony. She couldn’t stand up under the brutal onslaught of the pain as he twisted, withdrew, and shoved the closed knife into her again. Something caught, tore. Wren slumped, fought to stay upright. She couldn’t even sob, as she had no breath.
Cervantes withdrew his knife, and let her fall. “Maybe next time, the knife will be open, yeah?” He left, taking the lamp.
Wren’s lungs screamed from the lack of oxygen, and she gasped in a breath, shuddering, and curled on the floor as if she could curl in on the pain, the throbbing, fiery, excruciating burn inside her.
Beside the pain was something else, something burning just as hot: Rage.
16
Regaining consciousness was like vomiting, painful and unstoppable. Stone was hot, sweating. His head throbbed, and his body ached. His side was a mass of screaming nerve-endings, something beyond mere pain.
Wren.
Stone opened his eyes, saw nothing. He heard voices, though. Not far away, but muffled. His breathing echoed back to him; he was in a small space, then. His arms were bound behind him by what felt like zip-ties. He flexed his fingers, reaching to see if he could touch the restraints. His fingertips brushed smooth plastic, then the ribbed teeth. He grinned in the darkness.
Levering himself to his feet, Stone clenched his jaw as his side protested the movement. The zip-tie had been pulled so tight his skin was dimpled and throbbing. Perfect. He lifted his arms, bending forward and pressing his shoulder blades together. He raised his arms as far away from his body as he could, tensed against the coming agony, and then slammed his bound wrists against his backside. He ground his teeth as his healing gunshot wound tore open and trickled blood. His wrists were still bound, which meant he had to do it again. He sucked in a breath, tensed, drew his arms up and away, and slammed his wrists against his tailbone, shoving his hips back to maximize the force. This time, the ratchet mechanism of the zip-tie snapped, and his wrists came loose. The plastic had cut into his wrists, drawing blood, and his side was bleeding again, but he was free.
He paused to let the pain subside a bit, then moved toward the closest wall, followed it around with his palms until he found the door. Unlocked—the stupid bastards. He twisted the knob slowly, gingerly. The catch gave, and he pulled the door open a crack and peered through. More darkness, except for a sliver of light. He slipped through the door, moving as silently as he could. The light was just enough to let his darkness-accustomed eyes make out a pile of blankets on the floor of the room, which he avoided. He stopped by the cracked-open door. Beyond, a small fluorescent camping lantern sat in the middle of a table, surrounded by face-up playing cards. Pipes, syringes, joint roaches, and half-empty bottles of booze littered the table. There was only one man in the room, though, sitting on a chair facing away from Stone. His head leaned back, and he was making small groaning noises. A wet sucking sound told Stone what was happening.
Casting his gaze around the room, Stone saw a small folding knife on the table beside a hunk of wood that was being skillfully whittled into the likeness of a bull. He crept into the room, snatched the knife off the table and unfolded it partway, waiting to open it the rest of the way so the click didn’t give him away. The man in the chair groaned, long and loud, and Stone used the cover of the noise to snap the blade open.
It was a tiny knife, the blade no more than two or three inches wide, but it was better than nothing. He tested the blade against his thumb, and found it razor sharp, probably kept so by the owner. He took small, silent steps until he stood behind the thug. The man’s groans were growing louder, and he was starting to move his hands and hips in time with his groans.