Chapter 20
Lauren
Unsurprisingly, my calls to my handler bounce back.
The decision is made by him blocking my number.
I know better than to call from another phone.
Hell, I should’ve dumped this phone before hitchhiking five hundred miles to catch up to Angel in Lubbock.
It’s not like it’s a lifeline. My contacts serve that purpose for me, but I no longer have a connection to the Bureau.
Alan blocking me tells me all I need to know.
The Bureau is looking for me, not that I expect them to put much effort into it.
What I know and the things I’ve been involved in hiding go much deeper than one dead man’s perverted son.
There probably isn’t any push for me to be found.
It wouldn’t be until I started making waves that they’d worry.
There’s too much other shit going on in the world to get distracted by one agent who skipped the red tape and took matters into her own hands.
“You are a wet fucking dream.”
I smile at the man, stopping to stand directly in front of him rather than shying away like a normal person would.
“You think so?” I ask, my teeth digging into my lower lip.
The move seems ridiculous, but men go crazy over shit like that.
Like the creep he is, the guy points to the front of his jeans. I know he’s trying to showcase the start of an erection, but the guy just doesn’t have what it takes to be considered impressive.
Bless his heart or whatever southerners say when someone is lacking something they’re expected to have.
“All that for me?” I manage to say without laughing or sounding offensive.
“If you want it to be.”
“I think,” I say, dropping the tone of my voice as I step in closer to him, “that I’ll need a drink before I ride that monster.”
A slow grin spreads across his face, and I know I have him on the hook.
“Depends on if you’re the adventurous type or not.”
“I’ve been known to let loose.”
“It’s in Mexico.”
I stop myself just shy of frowning. It’s not much of an adventure when all the details are explained beforehand, Chad.
“I don’t have a passport.”
His grin grows wider, a little more sinister. It’s exactly what I’m looking for. “You won’t need one.”
“I’m in,” I tell him. “But I hear Mexico is dangerous. Will you keep me safe?”
His eyes scan me from top to bottom. “Of course. I’m parked right over there. Let’s go.”
I step in behind him, tossing my phone in a trashcan on the street before thanking him for opening the door for me.
“Doorhandle is broken on the inside,” he says, and that sense of danger hits me once again.
“No problem,” I tell him as I climb inside.
Most women would follow the instinct that tells them something is off about this guy, but this is the shit I live for.
The drive to the border isn’t long, but I’m antsy as he parks the truck.
I honestly thought he’d use the adventure excuse to get me into his truck before finding something, but I realize shortly after we each pay a guy to help get across the border without having to go through customs, that this guy is just a low-rent thrill seeker.
The adventure for him isn’t what waits in Mexico. It’s simply breaking the rules to get into a different country.
He’s smiling ear to ear as the guy points to another truck. “The fun is in Tamaulipas. They take you.”
We walk in that direction as the guy I just met takes my hand. We haven’t exchanged names. He doesn’t give a shit who I am any more than I care about him.
I can tell by the way he watches me that he wants to take something that doesn’t belong to him, that there are thoughts swarming through his head about being capable of something like that, but he just doesn’t have the balls.
Two guys waiting outside a van smile as we approach. Of course the ride to Tamaulipas costs more money that wasn’t covered by our safe crossing into Mexico, but we gladly pay. The further from Texas I get, the closer to danger.
We ride in the backseat of the van in silence as the driver and his friend chat about mundane shit. It’s clear the guy beside me doesn’t speak much, if any, Spanish, but I became fluent in the language after joining the FBI.
The drive is long, close to three hours or longer. I have to guess because I threw my phone in the trash.
By the time we make our way into the city, the sun is setting.
“I didn’t get your name,” my companion says, looking like he’s seconds away from falling asleep beside me. “I’m Ryder.”
I highly doubt that’s his real name, and if it is, his parents are assholes.
“Lola,” I tell him, my agitation growing by the second.
The guy in the passenger seat looks over his shoulder at us, asking in Spanish where we’d like to go.
I look at Ryder, making him think I have no clue what’s being said.
“A bar,” Ryder answers.
Maybe he understands more than he lets on.
The passenger nods, relaying to the driver what we’re looking for.
Three hours in a van with three strange men and I get fucking nothing.
It feels like a waste of time, but I do know that we’re currently driving through a city that is very much an epicenter for crimes against people.
If I can’t find my adventure with Ryder, then I know it won’t take long for me to find it elsewhere.
Just the thrill of going out on my own, knowing I can’t call Alan any longer when I get in trouble, makes my blood pump harder, my heart race faster.
Maybe this adventure will be my last. The idea of it makes me smile.
Ryder takes it as me being pleased with him as the van rolls to a stop near the sidewalk. The sun has gone down, and that means the smarter, more diligent civilians of Tamaulipas are safely tucked away at home. The people remaining are the ones looking for trouble. This is my kind of place.
As we step inside, the bar isn’t too crowded, but it does take a while for the bartender to give us an ounce of his time.
I glare at the man when he looks me up and down, his gaze locking on my chest before finding my eyes.
Nice doesn’t always get the job done. Sometimes you have to be mean, push a little, to get the desired results.
This bartender knows things, knows people and their business. I want to be on his radar.
Ryder? He’s a fucking chump, but from the whispers going on around me, he may not be as safe as he’s convinced himself he is. According to one man, he’s in the way of getting me on my back. His friend agrees, but neither of them make any moves to rid me of Ryder.
With as much of an American accent as I can manage, I call the bartender an asshole in Spanish when he finally slides my drink over to me. The guy chuckles, shaking his head as he walks away.
I get nothing from him but bad service.
I’m not going to find what I need in this place, but at the same time, I also feel a little guilty at leaving Ryder to the wolves.
American women are considered a profit around here, easily exchanged for goods or services.
The feistier they are, the more money they bring.
American men are looked at like the police, useless and in the way.
They spell trouble and are sometimes taken care of quicker than the women.
You chase ants with a magnifying glass. The game is torture.
Snakes have their heads cut off because they pose the real danger.
Boredom sinks deep inside of me to the point I’m actually starting to regret coming along for this lackluster adventure.
I could be trying to find Angel and killing him for the shit he put me through last night.
Making love?
The man really is a fucking psycho, unlike all the idiots in this fucking place.
“I’ve got to go to the restroom,” I tell Ryder, leaving my glass on the bar.
He nods at me, his eyes on the television above the bar, showing replays of a soccer game.
I won’t be coming back, and that’s a shame because there’s a real chance someone, not likely Ryder’s dull ass, will drug my drink. I just can’t stomach the lackluster way my day has gone.
The women’s bathroom is just as disgusting as I would’ve predicted. The floors are sticky and it reeks of piss. It’s clear the men use this one as well. There’s no toilet paper in the doorless stall, nor any paper towels at the discolored sink.
This place is a shithole, exactly what I was hoping for when Ryder suggested a bar in Mexico, but I’m growing increasingly underwhelmed.
Of course there’s no latch on the window, meaning anyone can come and go as they please.
Cold, night air hits my face as I climb out.
I wonder how long Ryder will wait for me to come back or if the guys in the bar will even give him a chance before they drag him out back and beat the shit out of him.
I stumble, the tip of my shoe catching on a rock in the uneven sidewalk, as I make my way to the end of the alley.
I hear a couple catcalls, but the words translated in my head don’t seem like they will offer me what I’m looking for.
The street is crowded on either side, with buildings that practically share walls with each other. They could either be homes or businesses, or a combination of both. Concrete locks in the warmth of the sun from earlier and lacks any breeze that tries to get past.
It’s a weird vibe of quiet but not silence at the same time.
I swallow thickly as I sense someone approaching in a rush and feel just as relieved as I do disappointed when a man rides past me on a bike without so much as acknowledging that I’m there.
My heart is pumping as I wander, avoiding small groups of men who look dangerous, but give me that rape-and-kill vibe.
The whole point of getting abducted is working toward taking down the men that run the organizations.
Getting killed in the middle of Tamaulipas without hurting some of those men who think they can do whatever the fuck they want is never the goal.
It serves no purpose. It doesn’t matter that I’m no longer with the FBI, I still want to help as much as I want to give my demons the nourishment they deserve.
I know if I do get lucky enough to end up trafficked, it’s going to be even more lackluster than the time I spent with Ryder at the bar.
There’s just no way around it.
After spending several nights under Angel’s calloused hands, I know nothing else will compare. I’m going to end up hurt without the normal thrill and sense of satisfaction to go along with it.
Doing this was a mistake. I should’ve headed north, back to Kansas, instead of walking the streets of Mission, looking for trouble.
Footsteps creep up on me, and for added flare, I fake another stumble.
It wouldn’t be uncommon for a woman to get drunk and try to make it to safety by walking down these streets.
It makes me an easier target, not that I would fight them too hard.
I don’t want to actually get away from them.
I need to be in their den. I need to help the other women they may have.
I smile the second I feel weight pressed to my back, and despite the tears running down my face when I feel the pinch of the needle in my neck a second before a black bag is shoved over my head, I’m actually happy that my wait is over.
Maybe they’ll manage to hurt me enough that Angel will be a long-forgotten memory.