Overhead, vultures wheeled black against a blue sky, a hint of a breeze kicking up dust, the blazing disk of the sun moving toward a bank of clouds on the western horizon. The second worst day of her life was almost over, to be followed, she was sure, by an even worse day. Worse for her, but much worse for Zach.
There’d been a Zeta with a big rifle standing in front of her cell door when they’d dragged him out, so she hadn’t been able to see his face. He’d been shirtless and barefoot, and she’d seen enough to know that he was tall, his body lean and muscular like an athlete’s, his wrists in manacles behind his back, his hands covered with blood.
Another agonized cry.
She fought back tears.
God in heaven, what were they doing to him? It sounded like they were killing him. She’d never heard cries like this before—more animal than human, a cross between a scream and a roar. No wonder his voice was so rough. His throat must be raw after six days of this.
Six days.
God, help him! Please help him! Make them stop!
Her throat tight, she took another bite, chewed, then washed it down with the last of the cola, ignoring the Zeta with the skeleton tattoo, who stood within arm’s reach, guarding her while she ate, a look of mingled amusement and lust on his face. Even from here she could smell the alcohol on his breath—and the stench of his unwashed body.
Not long after they’d come for Zach, a young Zeta had unlocked her cell door and led her out into the hot sunshine, where the one with the skeleton tattoo had been waiting with a plate of corn tortillas, an overripe banana, and a glass bottle of warm Coca-Cola. Then the younger one had disappeared inside the little prison with a broom, apparently sent to sweep it clean of scorpions and spiders. Why they’d suddenly decided to clean the hovel Natalie couldn’t say, but she no longer cared about the spiders or the scorpions.
Another cry.
Long and drawn out, it ended on a high, desperate pitch that made her chest ache.
“Why are you doing this to him?” No answer. She tried again in Spanish. “¿Por qué le haces esto a él?”
“Se robó nuestra cocaína.”
Zach had stolen cocaine from the Zetas.
Oh, my gentle Jesus!He calledthata bad decision?
Understatement of the century.
Still, he didn’t deserve to be brutalized and chained like an animal. No one deserved to be treated like this.
Another cry.
The Zeta guarding her stepped closer. He reached out to caress her hair. She smacked his hand away.
He laughed. “Nice.Le vas a gustar al Jefe.”The boss will like you.
Natalie ignored him.
Apparently thinking she hadn’t understood him, he translated his words into English, this time thrusting with his pelvis to show exactly what he meant. “He will like you very much. And then . . .Él te sacrificará a Santa Muerte.”
The words were close enough to English that Natalie understood.
He will sacrifice you to La Santa Muerte.
Saint Death?
Chills skittered down Natalie’s spine. Was that his way of saying that this Cárdenas was going to kill her? She looked up to see the guard pointing to the strange skeleton tattooed onto his forearm. Then he drew his finger across his throat in a gesture that needed no explanation.
He smiled, exposing missing teeth. “La Santa Muerte.”
And Natalie understood. The image on his arm wasn’t just a tattoo. It was an icon of sorts, like a dark saint, a saint of death. And he believed Cárdenas meant to sacrifice her to it.
Another long, strangled cry.
The last bit of tortilla that Natalie still held in her hand fell onto her plate.