She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m a veterinarian, remember? I did my best.”
He selected one of the vials and studied it. Morphine. She must have been pumping him with this at regular intervals. She’d been afraid to let him wake up, and not just because he was a threat to her. As soon as he got better, she’d no longer be useful.
It was a clever strategy, but something had gone wrong. Maybe she’d misjudged the amount. Or she’d slept too long and missed an injection. He was lucky she hadn’t accidently overdosed him. But perhaps slipping into a drug-induced death was preferable to hours of torture, followed by a beheading. That was the usual way cartel leaders dealt with traitors.
Like him.
“I want to go home,” she said in a shaky voice.
He had no response for her, no words to calm or comfort her. After a long, awkward moment, she returned to her cot in the corner and cried. He watched her slender shoulders quake with a curious detachment. Her distress should have weighed heavily on him. He was responsible for it, after all. He’d brought her here, knowing the risks involved. There was no safe way to kidnap a woman and take her across the border to a drug lord’s secret hideaway. He’d put her life in danger. The man he used to be would have found that choice appalling. The man he’d become felt almost nothing.
His years on Moreno’s crew had hardened his heart into stone. Sarai was the only person who mattered to him. If he couldn’t save her, why save anyone?
When his arm stopped bleeding, he removed the electronic pulse monitor and sat up. His wound ached, but it was bearable. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood gingerly, testing his strength. He didn’t fall over, so he continued to the bathroom. He managed to take a piss and drink some water from the sink without passing out. There was no mirror to reflect his image, which was probably for the best. He pictured a hobbled, buck-nakedviejowith tired eyes. He felt older than his forty-one years, and he knew he looked it. His skin was as dark as his Indian mother’s, who’d died in the fields when he was a child. His hands were like leather from working alongside her. And his face…well, it had never been pretty.
He found a stack of clothes near the doorway, so he pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants. Then he started pacing the room, back and forth. He had to get his blood circulating, stay alert. After about two minutes, he leaned against the wall, lightheaded.
“What’s your name?” he asked finally.
She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Go to hell.”
Fair enough. He took a few deep breaths and drank another mouthful of water from the sink. “I’m Armando.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Have they fed you?”
She nodded. “They put it through the door.”
“The man with the scar?”
“No. A boy.”
“A little boy?”
“A teenager. He has long hair.”
Jorge’s son, Domingo. That was unexpected. Like Jorge, Domingo wasn’t involved in the cartel. And although this was technically a safe house, it wasn’t really safe. It was a stronghold for criminals. Something very strange was going on.
Before he could question her further, the slot opened and a plate of food was pushed through. Eggs, chorizo,papas fritas. His mouth flooded with hunger.
“Oye,”he said, knocking on the door.“¿Quién es?”
No one answered.
“I need to talk to Jorge!”
Nothing.
He picked up the plate and ate with his fingers. It was crude, but he was starving, and there were no utensils. He had to force himself to stop and offer her half. She gave him a disgusted look and shook her head. Shrugging, he cleaned the plate. Then he started pacing again, slower this time. He didn’t want his meal to come back up. His companion stared at the wall, dead-eyed. An hour later a walkie-talkie came through the slot in the door. He grabbed it.
“I hear you’re feeling better,” a voice said in Spanish.
It was Jorge Felix. Even though he worked as Moreno’s gardener, rumor had it that Jorge used to be a cartel assassin. Armando didn’t know if that was true, but the grounds worker always seemed to be doing double duty, guarding the perimeter.
Armando had to tread lightly. He’d been shot in the back by his own partner, Chuy Peña. If Peña had managed to evade arrest, he’d probably been trying to cover his ass by placing blame on Armando. He might have circulated the rumor that Armando was a rat from the Los Rojos cartel.
It was half true. And Armando was in deep shit.
