It had been over a week since Layla’s arrival as part of el Coyote’s harem. In that time, she had gotten to know Marisol much better, and the two had forged something of a friendship in their shared hellhole.

Linda, however, was a force to be reckoned with. Every single one of the other women were under her control. Linda acted as a sort of madam, arguing for the rest of the girls’ safety and scoring them personal items from time to time—things like juice, makeup, and for the younger girls, better shoes.

She’d devoted years of her life to those girls. Those Mexican girls. Layla was some white bitch infringing on her turf, and Linda was having absolutely none of it. She wasn’t about to risk their welfare for Layla’s sake.

By extension, Marisol had also been cast out. She was a traitor, wasting her time on some spoiled white brat from the ‘burbs who knew nothing about nothing and never would. Layla was ashamed to admit Linda was probably right, and she didn’t quite understand why Marisol stuck around.

“Linda ain’t never done shit for me,” Marisol said one day, completely unbidden. “She acts like she’s our mom but all she does is buy herself favors. She gets the girls thinkin’ they don’t have it so bad so they do what the men what ‘em to. El Coyote loves her.”

Then she’d looked at Layla, almost conspiratorially, as she ate her cereal in front of the Saturday morning cartoons. It reminded her of how young Marisol was and it broke her heart. “You and me,” she’d said, “are rebels. We’re Che Guevara. You and me.”

That was almost a comfort. And for a little while, it had been enough for Layla to get by on. Because of Marisol, she didn’t spiral into a pit of despair.

But she did worry. She worried about Jesse and his gunshot wound. She thought about the way they’d last made love. She wondered about Gareth and dreamed sometimes about his hands on her, his tongue. She thought of Hollywood’s goofy smile and Gordo the worry-wart. And she had nightmares about Camel and the night el Coyote had nearly taken off his head right in front of her on that curb. And when she thought about Maritza, the woman left behind in all this, it took everything inside her not to sob.

There were her parents to think about, too. She couldn’t call them. Couldn’t tell them she was all right, or that she was even still alive. Layla didn’t know how long either of those things would be true, but at least it would put her parents’ minds to rest if they had some indication of what she was doing. She thought of all the lies she’d tell them: Yeah, Mom, I made it to LA! Can you believe it? Katy Perry hired me as her personal assistant. Well, it’s an internship, but you won’t believe how much fun I’m having!

She definitely wouldn’t tell them the truth: that she and her friends had fucked with the wrong drug cartel, and now she’d spend the rest of her life as one of their sex slaves—and later, one of their mules.

Layla was thankful that neither of those things had happened yet. But with every day that passed, the tension in the room mounted. She and Marisol both were asking the same, unspoken question.

When?

On the ninth day, they got their answer.

That afternoon, the door flew open so suddenly and with such force the knob implanted in the wall. Two tall, lumbering men came into the room Layla shared with Marisol. Both of them had closely-cropped hair, bordering on being completely shaven—Layla had always thought that men were more intimidating without any hair, and these two goons seemed to think the same.

“El Coyote te quiere, gringa,” the taller of the two grumbled, their eyes both focused on Layla.

At first the idea of being taken to el Coyote for God-knows-what made her insides turn, but she realized that this might just be her best chance at making her play. She had to think quickly. She had to make executive decisions.

Even if that meant putting someone else in a position Layla knew she didn’t want to be in.

“I… Marisol,” she stammered, looking over at the young girl in a flash of inspiration. “Tell them that I want you to come with me.”

“¡¿Que?! I don’t—”

“Tell them. Say that I want el Coyote to have a special treat.”

Marisol’s eyes widened, her face contorting in rage as the full reality of what Layla had implied hit her. She narrowed her eyes, glaring daggers in Layla’s direction. Layla understood the betrayal that the teenager must have felt, getting dragged into an unwanted threesome with some slob of a biker all so this white bitch didn’t have to get fucked by herself. Layla watched Marisol’s fists clench, her nails digging into the heels of her palm as she translated her request.

The two goons glanced at one another, grins spreading across their faces as they nodded. They beckoned Marisol to come with them as they made their way down the richly decorated hallway.

Despite the situation she was in, Layla couldn’t deny that Nuñez’s house was absolutely gorgeous. The floors were stained hardwood and were warm beneath her bare feet—heated floors were damn expensive, and apparently Nuñez spared no expense when it came to his own comfort. Layla glanced over at Marisol as they rounded a corner into another hallway, lowering her voice so that only the two of them would be able to hear.

“Do they speak English?”

Marisol sneered. “Does who speak English?”

“The guards,” Layla said, motioning as subtly as possible. “Do they know any English?”

“Those idiots? Fuck no. They barely know how to speak Spanish.”

“Good. Because I have a plan.”

“What plan, gringa?” she hissed. “Is it the one where we both have to get el Coyote’s carajo near our cunts? Great fuckin’ plan.”

“No,” Layla answered, motioning for Marisol to lower her voice, “It’s the plan where you, me, and the rest of these girls get the fuck out of this place.”

“And how does getting screwed by that lodo get us out of here?”

“I’m working on it,” she whispered, “Just follow my lead, okay? I won’t let him touch you.”

For a while Marisol was silent, her eyes trained on the ground as they were led farther along the winding hallways of Pablo Nuñez’s villa. The two guards lead them out into a large open patio, an expansive pool stretching out on their left.

Layla and Marisol were taken beneath a gorgeous arbor, a thick canopy of vines flourishing above their heads and blocking what little sun remained hanging in the sky.

“I’ll do it,” Marisol whispered as the henchmen halted at a door to a detached building that Layla took for some kind of mother-in-law cabin. “Just promise me that that cabrón won’t lay a fucking hand on me. Promise me, Layla.”

Layla’s mouth ran dry as she said the words she wasn’t sure she could live by. “I promise.”

Then she reached out and grabbed onto Marisol’s hand, squeezing it with all her might. Marisol did the same, like some kind of blood pact, minus the blood.

“Entrar. ¡Ahora!” the goon behind them barked, the one in front pushing open the door to allow them through. The stench of weed and booze wafted out to meet them.

Normally Layla liked those smells, especially right before she was about to have sex, but this time it gave her none of the excitement, only dread. The small, cramped foyer of the cottage was dark, a haphazard mess of clothes, bongs, pipes, and liquor bottles, all wrapped up in the woeful stench of general uncleanliness. Compared to the villa proper, this place was a landfill.

“Aquí,” came a cold, familiar voice, one that had haunted Layla’s nightmares since Camel’s death.

As the two of them shuffled farther into the depths of the cabin, Layla caught sight of the last glimmer of light streaked across the far wall before it was banished with the soft click of the door latching closed, engulfing them in a stifling darkness.

Yet again she felt the forceful hand of one of the guards at her back, egging her forward into the yawning blackness of the room beyond. She could hear movement just beyond her limited vision as her eyes fought to adjust.

“It’s good to see you again, chica,” el Coyote’s said from the shadows. Without warning the lights suddenly flared to life, forcing Layla to turn her head down to save her eyes the sudden shock. She could hear el Coyote chuckle close by, gloating. He and his cousin both enjoyed fucking with people—playing with their food before they killed it.

Fucking dick, she thought.

When she finally able to see properly, Layla turned her eyes up to where she’d heard him. He sat on the edge of an opulent bed that seemed so out of place among the filthy surroundings. He smirked, showing off a horrific set of teeth as he opened his legs.

“I’ve been waiting for this for a while,” el Coyote said, biting his lip as he looked Layla up and down. She felt a chill run down her spine. She’d never felt so disgusted in her entire life. “And you brought a little putana with you, huh?”

“I thought you’d like something a little extra,” she began, forcing a smile onto her lips and she stepped a bit closer. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you got rid of those disgusting Marauders. But if I’m being honest… I thought you were dead.”

“Seems like your boys never heard of Kevlar,” he chuckled, undressing Marisol with his eyes as Layla sat on the bed beside him, her leg tentatively touching his thigh.

“They treated me like their own personal whore,” she said, “living out of that disgusting little chop shop of theirs. I couldn’t stand it. If I’m going to be someone’s personal slut, I’d much rather live in a palace—like this one.”

El Coyote let out a laugh, roughly pulling Layla to him. He reeked of alcohol, the smell of it rolling from his breath whenever he opened his mouth to speak. It was enough to make her want to gag.

He turned his eyes toward the two guards, both of them trying to hide their excitement at maybe getting to see at least a part of the show Layla and Marisol would put on for their boss.

“¡Oi! ¡Vamos! ¡Salir!” he barked, and the two men jumped in surprise. “Tome el resto de la noche fuera. No quiero verte mientras disfruto de mi premio.”

Both of el Coyote’s goons mumbled and nodded obediently, the two of them exiting the room with sullen expressions. All was silent until the sound of the sound of the door once again clicking into place told them that they were finally alone.

“Now, where were we?”

“I think that I was just about to give you your prize, el Coyote,” Layla cooed in his ear, putting special inflection on his name. He seemed to enjoy that, his grin spreading from ear to ear.

“How about you two little chicas give me something to watch before we have some fun, huh? Kiss her,” he said, motioning toward Marisol with a wave of his hand.

Layla’s stomach dropped as she turned to look at the fourteen-year-old girl wearing a horrified expression. With an imperceptible shake of her head in Marisol’s direction, she dragged her gaze back to el Coyote.

“Aren’t I enough?” she asked, trying to buy as much time as she could. “I mean, shouldn’t you be the first one to touch me? Fucking the last thing that the Marauders had—making it yours?”

El Coyote let out another laugh, staring into Layla for what felt like minutes. She could see how glassy they were, bloodshot—he was stoned out of his mind.

“Jealous little punta ain’t you?” he purred, looking down Layla’s shirt at her substantial cleavage. “Maybe I can fuck you first and make her watch. Maybe that’s what you want?”

“I love being watched,” she said, trying to push what little advantage she had. “And I love that you’re finally giving me a chance…”

Layla laid her hand right on el Coyote’s cock, surprised to find it already hard through his pants. She swallowed nervously as she began to run her hand up and down along its length. She couldn’t say that the biker was small, but the idea of putting him inside of her did no favors for her state of arousal.

El Coyote made a satisfied sound in the back of his throat as he watched her molest him. On the inside, she screamed as he wrapped his icy hands around her arms and pulled her in to a forceful kiss.

It took everything in her power not to pull away, to not punch him right in his murdering face. Instead, Layla forced herself to undo his pants, her hands working through a set of motions she’d become more than familiar with and needn’t give any thought to. Next she pulled his ripped jeans down off of his hips, freeing his erect cock before wrapping it in her fingers and beginning to stroke it.

El Coyote relaxed back on his hands, watching as Layla worked his dick. In her mind, Layla did her best to be anywhere else, somewhere she couldn’t think about what she had to do at that moment, but no matter how hard she tried her thoughts returned to the Marauders—Jesse, Gareth, Hollywood, Gordo… and especially Camel.

She could still picture the way he was bleeding out on the pavement, his teeth caved in and shattered after el Coyote forced a concrete wedge into his mouth. Layla could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, could still hear her own screams as she watched Camel looking up at her, choking to death on his own blood.

“Get those fuckin’ clothes off,” el Coyote growled, pushing Layla’s hand away as he shuffled his jeans the rest of the way off of his legs until he was completely naked from the waist down. “Then come sit on your papi’s lap.”

Layla froze for only a moment, trying her best not to give in to the building fear that was coursing through her as she began stripping off her own clothes. She felt more than naked as she stood in front of him, her limbs shaking from a cold that she could only feel on the inside.

This was your plan? she thought. What the hell are you going to do?

El Coyote was stoned. Totally blasted. She could find a weapon, maybe. Or once he passed out, maybe he’d be more vulnerable…

“That’s what papi likes,” el Coyote purred, licking his lips like a hungry, mangy dog. “Now get your ass over her and sit on my cock.”

She tried to stall. “But I’m not wet—”

“Do I look like I fuckin’ care, puta?” he snapped. “If I wanted you wet when I fucked you, then I’d shove a fuckin’ knife up your cunt and make you bleed.”

Layla flinched as he reached for her, but he was too fast. He locked her in a vise grip, digging his fingers so hard into her waist that she could already feel the bruises. He turned her around and she let out a scream and tried to pull away, but el Coyote was too strong. Her foot slipped, sending a carelessly tossed liquor bottle crashing against something beyond where she could see.

Glass sprayed toward her feet. She cringed and slipped again, trying to avoid it. Fuck!

“Get over here!” el Coyote raged, trying to force Layla down onto his cock. “You’re going to fucking give me what I—”

Layla felt a pair of hands pushing her aside, breaking el Coyote’s grip on her hips as an ear-wrenching scream fill the room.

She caught herself on the bedpost and turned over her shoulder to find Marisol standing a few paces back from where Layla had been only moment before, a broken and bloody bottle in her hand. But it wasn’t Marisol who was screaming.

Geysers of blood spurted from the pulpy mess of what had once been the biker’s cock, each one eliciting an unintelligible scream from the man who once possessed it. El Coyote scrambled back from Marisol on the bed, his eyes still locked on where his erect member had been only moments before.

“You fucking took my cock!” was all he seemed able to say, everything else coming out as screams of abject horror and pain. There was a note of disbelief there, too—like none of this could possibly real. Like he’d never once considered the possibility that one of his whores would ever take their revenge.

Marisol wasn’t moving. She was staring at el Coyote, dead-eyed, slack-jawed, the bottle held loosely in her hand. She regarded him like he wasn’t even there. She’d shut down, retreated to the place inside herself where she was safe from all this. She couldn’t even savor her vengeance.

Adrenaline pumped through Layla’s body, her heart pounding in her chest as she moved without so much as a moment of deliberation. Only one thought crossed her mind.

He’s making too much noise.

She darted forward, grabbing the jagged bottle from Marisol’s grip and crawling onto the bed after el Coyote. He was still in shock, eyes wide and fixated on the stump spilling gouts of blood all over his sheets. It was more blood than Camel had ever spilled. Some part of Layla felt deeply satisfied.

He let out another scream just before Layla ran the wicked edge of the broken bottle across his throat, reducing his cries to nothing more than a gurgle. His head lolled and she grabbed his face. “Look at me, you son of a bitch.”

She stared into her would-be rapist’s eyes as his blood fled him in an arterial spray, then seeped much more slowly from the gash in his neck. Within moments a crimson river frothed, then began to leak from between his lips. He was drowning. Good.

I just killed someone, came a quiet, almost unnoticed thought. But as the room quieted around her, the silence seemed to bring that whisper of a thought to a deafening roar.

“Oh my God,” she whimpered, scrambling away from the biker’s corpse. “I just—oh, my God!”

“We have to get out of here,” Marisol whispered. She’d come out of her stupor and was staring at Layla now, a strange look on her face. Layla couldn’t tell if it was revulsion or gratitude. Maybe it was both. The teenager grabbed her by the arm and began to pull her toward the door. “Layla, we need to run!”

Layla nodded, tearing her gaze from el Coyote’s body as she turned with Marisol to leave the horror of what she’d done behind. They had so many other things to worry about, and this might only be one sin she’d have to commit in order to stay alive.

The two of them fled el Coyote’s private cabin, heading back toward the villa proper where the rest of the girls were being held. Layla allowed Marisol to lead the way, trusting her to know exactly where they could find the other women.

She led the two of them through a long hallways before stopping just before an intersection where their hall ended. Both of them warily peeked beyond, hoping that none of Pablo Nuñez’s men were still patrolling the house.

When the coast was clear, Marisol turned back toward Layla and whispered, “We have to split up, mami.”

“No! We can’t!”

“There’s too many rooms for us to do together. If we wanna get all these perras out of here, then we need to split up.”

“I…” Layla began, glancing down both empty hallways before looking back into Marisol’s eyes. “Okay. But if anything happens, you gotta yell—”

“So you can get caught when you try to save me?”

Layla opened and closed her mouth a few times, then blew a frustrated snort through her nose. “Fine. But we need to hurry.”

They each took a separate side of the hallway, peeking into different bedrooms and waving for the girls occupying each to follow. They made promises of safety and freedom, and soon Layla had at least four other girls who had agreed to come along, most of whom didn’t know a word of English. Hope seemed a universal concept somehow. Their faces lit up the moment they saw her beckoning from the door.

It wasn’t until she reached the last door when everything went wrong.

Without warning, she heard a scream rise up from one of the other girls. Layla turned toward it, her heart leaping into her throat.

“Well, it looks to me like I’ve got a few escaped putas trying to make a break for it,” came the smooth, almost alluring voice of Pablo Nuñez. He held Marisol by a handful of her hair and more than six of his personal guards stood behind him. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”