“Fromyou, señor?” She stared at him, feigning amazement. “Thank you for your kindness and generosity. Truly, God will bless you.”
“Did you help to unload those shipments?” He wanted to know whether she’d seen the drugs.
“No, Señor Ruiz. I am the newest sister at the Mission and not very strong, so I spent most of my time cleaning or in the kitchen cooking. In the afternoons, I distributed food to the poor if my other work—”
A knock came at the door, interrupting her.
“Come!”
A man with bad acne scars entered, blood spattered on his T-shirt—most likely Dylan’s blood. “When is our partner arriving?”
“He is stuck at the airport in Valencia waiting for this storm to end. Has the bastard said anything?”
“Not a word. I’ve tried electroshock. I can make him scream, but he won’t even tell me his name or say where he’s from.”
Gabriela’s heart constricted again, a sharp pang behind her breastbone. She hadn’t heard any screams. Which must mean the basement was soundproofed. That made sense if you were a cartel boss. Why have a lovely house if you had to listen to your victims scream while you’re eating dinner?
Ruiz frowned. “You’d best stop for now. If he dies, it will be your head. Be careful what you say around him. Sister María tells me he speaks Spanish.”
“Sí, Patrón.” Rather than looking afraid, the man grinned and was gone, closing the door behind him.
Ruiz studied her. “You don’t approve. After all this man did to you?”
“All of this violence—kidnapping, killing, torture. Forgive me, but I have never seen such things before.”
“The world is a rough place, Sister María. You are either the wolf or the sheep. Which are you?”
She lifted her chin, drew herself up to her full height. “I am a child of God, as are we all, each of us made in God’s image.”
He chuckled, got to his feet. “When did you last eat?”
She tried to remember. “This morning, I think.”
“I’ll have the kitchen prepare you some food while we wait.”
She followed him, holding tightly to the blanket, certain they would see the bulge in her T-shirt and discover the Glock now that they were in a lighted house. She did her best to memorize the layout of the place and gauge Ruiz’s strength. She thought she’d seen five men take Dylan downstairs. Another two stood just inside the front door, while the majority—about fifteen men—milled about on the covered veranda.
She fought back a wave of despair. She was outnumbered roughly twenty-three to one, and all she had was fifteen rounds in a Glock.
You’ll take weapons from the men, use their bullets against them.
She had never been in a gunfight before. She’d only ever fired weapons at paper targets on a range. She’d never killed anyone.
You’ll do it—for Dylan.
Ruiz introduced her to a tight-lipped, unhappy-looking cook named Imelda and asked her to make Gabriela a meal. “She’s had a rough time, so we must care for her.”
Gabriela knew he hadn’t made up his mind about her yet.
“Thank you, Señor. God bless you for your kindness.”You bastard son of a bitch.“I am grateful.”
She had to find a way out of this—and soon.
* * *
Dylan pretended to be unconscious,hoping to seem weaker than he was and to buy himself some time to recover, his skin shrinking from that last shock. The bastards had stripped him down to his trousers and taken turns pounding on him until Acne Man had pulled some kind of homemade electroshock device out of a closet, plugged it in, and showed Dylan what real torture was.
Dylan had been through advanced SERE training—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. He’d been interrogated, beaten, threatened with rape, starved, deprived of light and sleep, and submerged in cold water until he’d almost drowned. But he’d known it wasn’t real and that it would end.