I barely heard him, merely staring at the battered remains of my mother in the photo until he lowered it and stepped to one side. Lifting my chin to direct my attention to one corner of the room, Don Marco gestured at one of his men, who pushed open a heavy, iron door.
Panicked shrieks instantly ricocheted across the hard walls, and two other men came into view, holding a gangly boy by his arms that were bound behind his back. He was blindfolded, but I could tell by the shape of his face and the youthfulness of his otherwise battered skin that he was around my age; maybe fifteen or so. His dark hair was shaved off, razor nicks scabbed over in places on his head, and his limbs were covered in abrasions and bruises that ranged in newness from fresh purple to sickly yellowing-green.
My instant reaction was empathy because he and I were the same. Given everything I’d been required to do by the men running this prison, I wondered if the twisted examination waiting for me involved the boy and I fucking for the entertainment of the small group of men holding us captive.
Truth be told, it didn’t seem as bad as everything I’d already done.
Or rather, had endured.
But that’s not what Don Marco had in mind.
“Do you see this boy, little girl?” he queried, pointing at the writhing, screeching teen.
I nodded.
“He may be a boy, but he has committed the crime of a man.”
The boy howled like a feral hog with its leg caught in a trap.
Don Marco held the photos in front of my face again. “He is the one responsible for doing this to your mother. For his own sadistic pleasure.”
The boy wailed again, his screams punctuated by guttural sobs and cries in Spanish that he was innocent. One of the men restraining him gripped his hair and slammed the boy’s face against his knee, silencing him. The two men wrenched him upright again, and the boy sputtered and choked on blood.
For a second, the small part of my mind still tethered to the world beyond the walls believed him. But, faced with the gore of my mother’s lifeless body and the death of all hope, the tether frosted over like the rest of me and snapped under its own miniscule weight.
The philosophy with which the men of the cartel had filled my young mind via classic literature and torture demanded retribution for her violent end. And the men who owned me had identified the culprit.
“You are now an orphan because of what this boy has done,” Don Marco continued. “Your mother died a brutal death. She suffered at his hands. What does that make him?”
My response was automatic and lifeless. “My enemy.”
He nodded his approval and passed the photos to one of his men, then stepped close to me. His hand went to his belt, revealing the large, leather handle of a sizable knife. Unsheathing it, he raised it to the level of my chin.
“Before we get to your examination,” Don Marco inserted, turning the blade so that it flashed a reflection of the minimal overhead lighting in my eyes, “a brief anatomy lesson.” He pressed the point of the blade to the leaping pulse point in my neck. “Located here are the carotid arteries and the jugular veins.” He dragged the blade down the side of my neck, then repeated the motion on the other. “They are on both sides. They provide critical blood flow to the brain. If restricted, a person can lose consciousness in a matter of seconds. If severed, it will kill them.” He stroked the blade in a smooth sweep across my neck, below my chin. “A horizontal cut across the neck and throat will not only sever the jugular vein and cause death, but it will also cut the trachea and ligaments, which control movement of the head.”
Retracting the knife and holding it up in front of my face again, he offered a sinister, toothy smile. “Now, little girl, did you understand this anatomy lesson?”
I nodded.
“Good.” He gestured with the knife at one of his men, who stalked toward me and unshackled my wrists. Don Marco lifted my hand and placed the handle of the knife in my palm, then turned and pointed at the boy. “Now, deal with your enemy, Natalia Luna.”
His use of the name my mother had given me was a trigger, and the necessity for retribution on her behalf solidified the ice in my veins. The knife weighed heavily in my grasp as I crossed the space toward the boy, who began howling and wailing and thrashing again. Convinced of his crime, I set my jaw and silently pitied his show of weakness.
Whether he was at fault or not, someone would pay the penalty, and I dared not accuse the men holding me prisoner, nor would I defy them. I was little, and they were big. There was one of me, and there were many of them. This was the way, and it was my job to carry out the punishment for her suffering.
The death of hope.
I raised the knife and pressed the blade against one side of his neck at the location of the veins and arteries about which Don Marco had just educated me. The boy struggled with desperation and his last ounce of strength, but the two men held him still enough for me to carry out the task.
One swift motion silenced his wails and reduced him to gurgling and choking on his own blood as it spilled in a cascading, red waterfall down his neck and chest. Mere seconds later, just as Don Marco had explained, the boy went still and lifeless.
Don Marco heaved a chuckle, clapping his hands twice. “Excellent job, little girl. Come to me.”
I turned from the boy’s body, which hung limply from arms still held by the two men at his sides, and walked back across the room. My shackles were reattached, and Don Marco took the knife from me.
He wiped it with a cloth and then slid it back into its sheath on his belt. “You have made me proud. Passing this examination means you are prepared to begin working for the cartel. You will have a very important job, and I can see you will do it well.”
AFTER A NUMBER OF searches in Ernesto’s browsing history, the only thing related to his finances that I’m able to find is the website for his personal bank. His login information is cached, and I nearly laugh at his total disregard for security on this laptop. I’m able to log in without issue, and then I balk at the amount of money in his various accounts. It’s almostsinfulhow many commas and zeros I’m staring at.
