8. Grace
8
Grace
A thundering crash had me leaping from the chair in the corner of my room, the Bible in my lap, tumbling to the floor.
Women screamed, their high-pitched tones carrying over the chaos raining down in the church rooms above me.
Furniture scraped against the floors.
Thunk .
I stared at the ceiling as though I could watch the events unfold above me.
Footsteps skid across the stone stairs.
Someone is coming.
Perspiration froze on my brow as the heel-toe clomp of boots moved toward my room.
A dark figure rushed by the cracked door, pulling me out of ice-cold fear and holding my legs still.
Shit.
I raced across the room, slammed my good shoulder onto the floor, and rolled beneath the bed as the door swung open with an eerie cry.
The air in my lungs held as my knees ached from the impact.
Large black boots walked around the bed pressed against the wall and paused at the flipped corner edge of the rug.
I closed my eyes and rolled my cracked lips, pinching them between my teeth as I held my damaged arm.
His feet turned and shuffled, and I cracked my closed lid, his toes pointing my way.
Leave.
Please leave.
Time stretched into a never-ending point of despondency.
Leave .
He moved toward the door, and I exhaled as he stepped over the threshold.
Swallowing, I let my back relax against the wall and rested my head on the floor.
A hand gripped my ankle and yanked.
My heart leaped out of my throat, and my scream caught on a tight chest as he hauled me into the bright lights, his knees crawling up my body as he straddled me.
"Look what we have here…"
I kicked out, driving my knee into his back with a fierce warrior’s cry, lurching him towards me.
His head came down, and my nails went up, drawing down his cheek.
He bellowed and pinned my head between his hands, lifted, and slammed back down.
Spots seared my vision, my hand dropping at my side and twitching.
The room fogged, and the sounds dulled to a hum.
The thick silhouette of the man stood over me, his booted feet on either side of my thighs as he kneeled.
My vision focused onto a bright, crooked-toothed smile cracking his face in two, his cheekbones sharp, his nose sharper. His worn blue jeans stretched around his knees and thick thighs.
Blood whooshed in my ears as he pulled a pistol from behind his back and pressed the barrel to my temple. "Who. Are. You?"
A cold sweat dripped down my brow, yet my muscles froze, taut and unforgiving.
"I'm no one. I've just been sleeping here for a few days." My voice shook, and he pressed the gun harder into my temple. "Please ."
His other hand slid through my hair, and my mind slipped into my favorite deep, dark place as he pulled my head back with a forceful jerk. He smiled again, baring the silver-capped back molar, a trickle of blood seeping from my torn stitches.
Lullabies and Licorice.
Sweet melodies, a soothing stitch.
"Where are you from?" He climbed off me and pulled me to my feet.
"Chi—Chicago."
The man tugged me toward the open door, into the hallway, then up the stone stairs.
"Look what I found."
We entered the main room where Father Franklin lay on the floor face down, blood seeping from his head wound, while Sister Tally and another two sister nuns huddled beside her on their knees. Four men pointing their silver-handled guns at them .
"She's innocent in all of this. Let her go," Sister Tally said.
"No. I don't think I will ."
His Spanish accent thickened as he spoke, his hand jarring my head back and forth, punctuating his words, my rib screaming.
The man threw me to the floor beside the nuns, and sprites of pain branched out.
I bit my tongue, and bursts of copper tinged my mouth.
"Where is Victor?"
"We don't know who that— aah."
The man questioning her swung his meaty hand across her cheek. "Do not lie to us."
"Please. We don't know a Victor."
Bang.
Screams erupted as he lowered his gun.
A crimson rain, thick with matter, splattered the floors and pews. My ears rang with a high-pitched angry bell, drowning out the flurry of voices.
I scrambled back, ducking beneath a long pew with worn-down wood trim and flattened cushioned seats.
The men shouted.
Bang.
I covered my ear with my hand and pressed my other to the floor, my knees drawn to my chest. My heart hammered against my rib cage like a wild beast trying to break free. Pulses of adrenaline surged through my veins, setting my body ablaze.
Strong hands wrapped around my hair and pulled, dragging me out from beneath the pew.
The shadows of my fragile shelter burst beneath the cinematic lights.
"What do we do with her?"
The man who pulled the trigger stepped over me as the hands fell away from my hair, stopping me before him. "Kill her."
I screamed and huddled into a ball, dragging my knees up tight to my chest, my free hand covering my face just as he raised the gun.
This is it.
My fate didn't end on that hillside or the riverbed. It ended here, in a church before God, with evil men hidden from his view.
"Wait. What is that?"
I peeked through the crack in my fingers as the men stared down at me .
"What is what?"
"That mark." The man pointed to a spot behind my ear, got down on his knee beside my head, and moved my hair out of the way.
"Do you think he would want to know about this?"
"We weren't supposed to leave anyone alive."
The two men argued with one another while the other two flanked my side. I drew my hand down my face, rolled over onto my back, and sat on my butt, keeping the men within my view.
"Spy," one of the men said, then turned his gaze my way.
I bounced my focus between the two men, then shook my head. "I'm not a spy."
They turned their attention to me, and I crumbled under their scrutiny.
"Now, why would you think we were talking about you?" the man closest to me said, his black hair tangled on his head.
"I-I just..."
" Deberíamos llevarla a Grimaldo."
They wanted to take me to Grimaldo? Who was that?
The tall, scary man shook his head. "I don't think that's necessary, Ximén."
"And what do you think we should do with her, Jesús?"
The man on my right, Jesús, shrugged. "See if she's worth anything."
The quieter man in the back flopped his hands. "And who are we supposed to ask for a ransom?"
Jesús gave the quiet man a sideways glance. "I think we all know who she belongs to."
My skin went cold, and my stomach curled into a tight ball, threatening to expel my tea and donuts.
"I'm not anyone." I shook my head. "I won't tell anyone what I saw here."
Jesús pressed his finger to his lips. " Cállate."
"Please. I won't. Just let me go." My hands clasped together in prayer, and his palm connected with my cheek, throwing me to the floor.
"You're either going with us or in a body bag. Entiende, puta? Do you understand?"
I groaned and nodded, cupping my sore, swelling cheek.
My face throbbed, drowning out their plans, the speech a muffled jumble mess.
The man they'd called Ximén picked me up by my good arm, dragging me to my feet, and steadied me, the tears streaming down my face.
"Today might be your lucky day, puta." He dragged me toward the entrance of the church, the dead bodies of the priest and sisters in my periphery.
His hand pressed into the deep bruise on the back of my arm, causing a tingling to zip down to my fingertips and zing up my elbow.
We blew through the doors as though on a mission, our footsteps filled with purpose.
He glanced both ways and bounced down the steps with me, his silver rings glinting in the streetlamp as he opened the back of the beat-up white four-door Kia.
Ximén tossed me inside and slid in beside me while Jesús popped in on the other side, wedging me between the two large men. The other two got into the front seats, put the car in drive, and drove away as if they didn't just kill four people and kidnap another.
Signs directing us towards the border appeared in the headlights, and my skin broke out into a cold sweat.
"Where are you taking me?"
"I can put you in the trunk. Would you rather sit there?"
The car turned onto the road, following directions and warning signs.
"You can't take me back there." I turned in my seat, doing a double take of the sign. My heart leaped into my throat, my head swimming, my cracked rib screaming with each breath. "I can't go back." The words escaped in a breathless cry as the car came to a stop just before the border patrol.
"Keep quiet." Jesús dragged a knife along my thigh, hips, and waist. He stopped at my ribcage and pressed the sharp end into my bone without breaking the skin. "I'd hate to make you bleed all over the car before we get there."
I winced, my breaths shallow as each exhale pressed the knife deeper into my chest.
The car drew closer to the checkpoint I'd crossed, to the people who'd saved me.
Would they help me again?
Would I get a chance to say something before he put the knife in my chest?
"Hello," the driver said with perfect English, his accent vanishing into thin air.
The agent bent down and looked in the windows, his gaze clashing with mine.
Help me. I mouthed.
His gaze dipped down to my moving lips, then he glanced back at the driver and tapped on the door. "Safe travels."
My chin trembled as the car moved beyond the safety of the United States and back into Mexico .
Air seized in my lungs, my heart thumping against my breastbone. "No, No. I can't go back there." I screamed and lunged forward, a sharp nick ripping across my side.
I grabbed the driver's shoulders, and Ximén yanked me back into my seat. His elbow slammed into my cheek.