Zach laughed, winced as if laughing hurt, then answered in Spanish.
Sr. Scar Face glowered at him and shouted something to the other Zetas. As abruptly as her blouse and bra had been removed, they were shoved into her hands. She turned her back on the men to dress, her fingers fumbling as she tried to fasten her bra clasp and buttons, angry shouts filling the little room.
When she turned around again, Zach was blindfolded once more. Confused, afraid, she wanted answers. “Zach, what—”
He turned his face toward her, a black bandana tied tightly over his eyes. “Go, Natalie! Go, and don’t ask questions!”
The Zeta with the skeleton tattoo grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, but not before she saw Sr. Scar Face pick up the electric cables and move in on Zach.
She heard her own voice shout in protest. “Stop it! Please don’t—”
Then a hand closed roughly over her mouth, and she was dragged out the door, Zach’s agonized cry following her back to her cell.
NATALIE PRESSED THE joint of her left handcuff against the mortar and scraped as hard as she could. It was so dark she couldn’t see, but she knew she was making progress, mortar crumbling like sand and falling over her fingers to the floor. If she could scrape away the mortar and remove the bricks around the metal plate that held the latch, she might be able to open her cell door and escape. At the very least, she had to try.
If she didn’t find a way out of here, she would have to endure a lot worse than just a man’s filthy, repulsive hands on her breasts.
She scraped back and forth until her arms ached and she was out of breath, then rested for a few minutes and started again, oblivious to anything that crept or crawled in the darkness, a part of her listening for Zach’s quiet moans—proof that he was still alive. They’d brought him back about twenty minutes ago, two Zetas dragging his unconscious body between them, and although she’d called his name, he hadn’t responded.
What if he doesn’t wake up?
He would wake up. He had to wake up.
She would never forget the sight of him, blindfolded and chained from the ceiling, his body twisting in agony as electricity shot through him. She couldn’t fathom how he had endured that for a single hour, let alone six days.
All for some stupid cocaine.
His suffering dwarfed her own. Even so, she’d never felt more violated in her life, the sickening sensation of that man’s hands cupping and squeezing her breasts leaving her nauseated. Even worse had been the expressions on the men’s faces—even Zach’s. They’d made her feel dirty, degraded, less than human, like a sexual toy to be played with and eventually broken. Oh, how she wanted a bath!
At least they didn’t torture you, too.
That’s what she’d thought they planned to do when they’d brought her into the church. She would probably never know exactly what had happened in that room—why they’d brought her in, why they’d stripped off her blouse and bra, why Sr. Scar Face had groped her, displaying her to Zach like a piece of meat, why Zach had looked at her the way he had or said the things he’d said. They’d been trying to make a deal—information about the cocaine Zach had stolen in return for sex with her. Although part of her wanted to believe that Zach had been pretending, that he’d been playing along in hopes of escaping, she’d realized she knew nothing about him besides the fact that he’d stolen cocaine. And as she’d sat in the dark, unable to keep herself from hearing his cries, the stark reality of her situation had become clear.
If she wanted to live, she had to find a way to escape.
She certainly had nothing to lose by trying. The worst the Zetas could do was kill her, but Cárdenas was going to do that anyway. She might as well fight them with everything she had. At least then she’d have a chance.
That’s when it had dawned on her that their little prison was made of the same crumbling adobe bricks as the houses. She’d tested it, scraping it with the edge of her handcuffs, her heart soaring when the mortar turned easily to dust. Then she’d looked around for the quickest and surest way out and had gone to work.
Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner?
Though shewasmaking progress, it was slow going. If they came for Zach again, if they caught her, if Cárdenas came for her before she was finished . . .
Don’t go there, girl. Worrying won’t help.
Her mind kept drifted back to Zach—and what it would mean for both of them if she left him behind.
You can’t take him with you. You might not have time to break him out, too.
She might not. But to leave him here to suffer and die?
You don’t know him. You can’t trust him. He’s a criminal.
Yes, he was. But could she turn her back on him? She knew from the way he’d tried to comfort her that there was kindness in him. Besides, no man deserved to suffer as he had.
He told you to do whatever you had to do to survive. He would understand.
He might understand, but would she be able to live with herself? Or would she hear those terrible cries for the rest of her life?