CHAPTER 2
HER HEAD THROBBING, Natalie struggled to breathe in the strangling darkness, her heart beating so hard it hurt, the sweltering air suffocating her, breath catching in her throat before it reached her lungs. She had to get out of here. She had to get out!
God, please help me! Somebody help me!
She might have screamed the words, or she might only have thought them. She didn’t know. But, regardless, no help came.
She twisted in the cramped space, tried to stretch out, desperate for room to breathe, but the trunk was too small. Gasping for air, she reached out with bound hands to find only inches between her face and the underside of the trunk lid.
It was like being buried alive.
A scream caught in her throat, panic driving her as she pushed on the trunk lid with her hands and feet, striking it, kicking it, trying to force it open.
It didn’t budge.
And for a moment, she was back in New Orleans at the hospital, the storm raging.
Come see, darlin’. They were already dyin’, them. I jus’ made it easier. Ya get on in there now. Go on.
No! You can’t shut me in here. I’ll suffocate!
Hush, you! Have a good death, a peaceful death.
Darkness. Cold. No air to breathe. The endless howling of the storm.
The car hurtled around a corner, throwing Natalie against the side of the trunk, her face pressed against rough carpet that stank of exhaust, the violent motion jolting her past the worst edge of her claustrophobia and back to the present, the pitch-black of the morgue locker fading into the darkness of the closed trunk—and a reality just as horrible and terrifying.
Joaquin was dead.
He was dead, along with so many others. Dear Sr. Marquez, who’d loved his grandkids so much.
Ana-Leticia Izel, who’d been about Natalie’s age.
Isidoro Fernandez, who’d survived being shot in the leg on his way home from work last year.
Sergio de Leon, who’d spent eight months in hiding after exposing several corrupt government officials as pawns of the cartels.
All gone. All dead.
And she was a captive of the men who’d killed them.
The cold, hard truth brought her heartbeat to a near standstill.
Oh, God.
What were they going to do to her?
What do you think they’re going to do?
The El Paso police had talked about it a lot on the first day—the unsolved murders of young women and girls in Juárez.
Hundreds had gone missing, and those whose bodies had been found had been sexually brutalized and dismembered.
At first, the police had believed there was a single serial killer to blame. Then they’d blamed copycat killers.
But now, years later, it was clear that rape and murder were just part of the violent landscape, with drug cartels, sex slavers, human traffickers, gangs, and serial killers from both sides of the border preying on the young women who flocked to Juárez hoping for a job in one of the maquiladoras.
During the seminar, they’d shown photos of some of the victims, stark images of young women lying naked and dead in ditches, in garbage bins, in the open desert.
And suddenly Natalie found it hard to breathe again, her heart tripping hard and fast, her stomach threatening to revolt. But it wasn’t claustrophobia this time.
It was straight-up terror.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the unbearable images from her mind, the distress and sorrow she’d felt at seeing what had happened to those women becoming fear for herself. Is that what these men planned to do to her?
I don’t want to die like that. Not like that.
She didn’t want to die at all.
Maybe they would hold her for ransom. She was a U.S. citizen, after all, and they knew she was a journalist. Maybe they just wanted money. Oh, God, she hoped so.
God, help me!
It was so hot, so hot. Her entire body was sticky with perspiration, her mouth dry from thirst—or was that fear? Claustrophobia began to take hold again, the close air pressing in on her. She had to get out of here. They needed to open the trunk now.
Except that . . .
What would they do to her when they did?
Abruptly, the car swerved, then accelerated. Men’s voices rose in shrill whoops and shouts, guns firing, the terrible sound making Natalie jump. Were they being pursued? Had someone come after them, hoping to free her? What if there was a firefight and someone accidentally fired into the trunk?
She held her breath and listened, desperately hoping to hear sirens.
More shouts. More gunshots. And now singing.
But no sirens.
And then it came to her.
They weren’t being pursued. They were celebrating.
All those murders, the grief they would cause, the fear they’d created on that street—they had committed a massacre, and they were reveling in its aftermath.
What kind of men could enjoy killing like that?
No, not men. They were monsters.
And she was their prisoner.
ZACH LAY ON his side, no longer able to give a damn about scorpions.
His body shivered uncontrollably from shock.
His skin burned, seeming to shrink around his bones, every nerve ending on fire.
His throat was raw from yelling—or whatever you called it when you screamed from between clenched teeth.
He’d been through surf torture in BUD/S.
He’d been hungry, cold, hot, sleep deprived.
He’d lain half-dead in the dirt for hours with a round lodged in his back.
But he’d never ever been through anything that could touch this for sheer pain.
What was it Jimmy used to say when they went into combat?
Hoka hey! It is a good day to die.
Today was a good day to die. Yesterday had been good, too. The day before would have been even better.
Quit your whining, McBride. You’re pathetic! On your feet!
“Hooya!” Zach answered aloud and raised his head before realizing that the voice he’d just heard had come from his own mind.
He was losing it. He’d hit the wall—hard. Time to rest. He needed rest.
He closed his blindfolded eyes and sank into oblivion.
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water
Jack fell down and broke his crown
And poor Jill got stuck carrying the water by herself.
Natalie bit at the duct tape that bound her wrists, reciting nursery rhymes in her mind to keep her panic at bay.
She spat out a little piece of tape and bit into it again, gratified when she realized she was down to the layer just above her skin.
The tape was so strong and sticky that she’d had to nibble through it a layer at a time.
Not that having the use of her hands would do her much good.
There were more of them—and they had guns.
Hey-diddle-diddle
The cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon
The little dog laughed . . .
And she couldn’t remember the rest.
She spat out another piece of tape and another, then twisted her wrists, the tape pulling apart where she’d weakened it and at last giving way. Biting back an exultant laugh, she tore off the strips that stuck to her skin and threw them aside, her hands finally free.
Then, careful not to bump anything or make a sound, she turned onto her side and brought her knees up toward her chest, reaching down to pull off the tape that bound her ankles.
It was hard to maneuver, and it took more than a few tries before she was able to find the end, get a grip on it with her nails, and unbind her ankles.
For a while, she lay there in the stifling dark, breathing hard.
She was thirsty, so thirsty, the heat unbearable, the carpet itchy against her sweaty skin.
She had no idea how many hours had gone by.
Wherever they were taking her, it was far outside the city, far from any place where the police would think to look for her—if they were looking for her and not in cahoots with the men who’d kidnapped her.
Jack be nimble
Jack be quick
Jack jump over the candlestick
She reached out beside her, searching the darkness for something, anything she might be able to use as a weapon.
A pair of boots. Bits of cord and what felt like burlap.
A box of bullets. A roll of duct tape. Something cold and hard—a tire iron?
No, it was too short to be a tire iron. Both ends had holes, as if it were meant to screw on to something.
Was it a scope for a rifle or part of a gun barrel?
She closed her hand around it, then froze as smooth asphalt gave way to the crunch of gravel. The car slowed, turned, and then rolled to a stop. Loud music. Men’s voices. A burst of automatic weapons fire.
Oh, God.
She drew deep breaths to steady herself, fear slick and cold in her belly.
Little Miss Muffet, sat on a . . . sat on . . . on a tuffet,
What the heck is a tuffet anyway?
Car doors opened and closed, scattering her thoughts, the sound of boots in gravel all but drowned out by the thundering of her own pulse. She clutched the metal rod, held it fast, rolled onto her back, every muscle in her body tense.
A key slipped into the lock.
The trunk opened, bright sunlight hurting her eyes.
She struck out blindly with the rod, kicking with both legs, her right foot connecting with something hard, hours of pent-up grief, fear, and fury rushing out of her in a long, strangled cry that sounded more animal than human.
She found herself on her knees, the rod still in hand, her breath coming in pants.
Four men watched her from a safe distance, astonishment on their faces, assault rifles hanging from their shoulders.
Another—the one who’d killed Joaquin and Sr. Marquez—stood doubled over, groaning and cupping a bleeding nose, the sight giving her a momentary sense of satisfaction.
Then the oldest one, a man with a thick mustache and a tattoo of a strange veiled skeleton on his left forearm, began to laugh. He said something in Spanish to the others, who also laughed—all except for the one still holding his bleeding nose.
The older one motioned for her to get out of the trunk. “Come, senorita.”