What could have been hours or days later, Grace woke with a groan. Her hand moved automatically to her forehead, where she felt caked blood and a horrendous goose egg. She could imagine the riot of colors on her forehead as she gingerly pressed every inch of it. The worst was on the left side. With panicky movements, she assessed the rest of her body with her hands, breathing shallowly with fear.

The clanking of a chain as she sat up drew her attention to her ankle, where a chain was padlocked tightly. She followed the length of chain with her eyes to the center of the room, where it was attached to some sort of socket buried in the concrete. Her mind was befuddled, and she closed her eyes and blinked rapidly several times before she understood that she was literally chained to the floor.

Her hands explored her body while her sluggish brain processed the information she’d gathered. Fully dressed in the clothes she’d worn to Adelaida, she was relieved she felt no tenderness between her legs. If she’d been raped, she would certainly be able to tell. Her jeans were still on, and she had her undergarments as well. The only thing missing were her shoes. Consoled by that discovery, she lifted her head and looked around her.

She sat on a concrete block the size of a twin bed that was against and a part of the wall. A small throw blanket had been under her, and when she lifted it, dust motes flew from it, tickling her nose. The thing didn’t smell, though, so at least she could shake it out and use it if she was there long. The room was about ten by ten feet, maybe, lit only by a bare bulb in the center hanging from the ceiling and sparsely furnished. Besides the makeshift bed, a table and two chairs sat near a door made of iron bars. Her bag and shoes were on the table, and Trevor’s bag was there as well. In the corner, a bucket with no lid waited, and she assumed, since she saw no other option, that was her toilet.

Disgusted, she stood carefully and slowly. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she wondered if she had a concussion. She had no window to tell her if it was daylight, and when she looked at the door to her cell, saw no indication there either. Lethargically, she walked to the table and chairs, noting the chain was long enough for her to make a complete circuit of the room, even to the door. She reached it and grabbed the bars with both hands, pushing her face as far through them as she could. She could see nothing but the wall across from her for about ten feet in each direction.

“Hello?” she yelled, listening to her voice echoing back at her. “Is anybody there? Hello?” She slapped the bar with one hand.

Fear pushed at her mind, but logic held it at bay. She wanted to find a way out, or a weapon. Gasping, she ran her hand into her jacket, but the pocket where the gun had resided was empty. Rolling her eyes at herself, she hissed, “Did you really think they’d leave it?”

Her ankle was bruising and chafing already from the chain’s unforgiving links, so she shuffled to one of the chairs, sat down, and tried to adjust it. Sighing when the chain wouldn’t budge, she sat up and reached for her bag, praying to whatever gods were listening the water bottles and fruit were still in it. Frowning, she pulled her camera out first, shocked it was still in her bag. The water and fruit were as well, so she drank half a bottle in one gulp and pried the fruit open in the next moment. Famished, she finished the can in less than a minute, the water thirty seconds later.

Upon reflection, she grumbled, “Probably should have held on to that a while longer.”

A tremor passed through her body when her voice echoed again, and the fear roared in her mind. Where was she? How long had she been there? She jerked her head back and forth like a trapped animal looking for an escape. Where was Trevor— A sob escaped her mouth as she covered it with her hand. Her best friend was dead, stabbed in the back by some Mexican cartel member. He’d died in her arms before that asshole had knocked her out. She sniffled as she dug in his bag and found that, like her bag, his contained everything he’d put in it. She set the recorder and his notebook aside and fished inside for anything that could be used as weapon. Nothing, and there was nothing in her bag either, she was certain. Trevor’s pen had been taken.

A noise like a metal door opening on squeaky hinges reached her ears. She jerked to her feet and waited as the footsteps of two people moved closer to the door of her cell. Her pulse jumped into overdrive, and her breaths became pants as she waited. She put the table and one chair between herself and the door, her hands on the back of the other chair. If she had to, she could use the chair to swing at them. She wouldn’t let them rape her without a battle. At least one of the men would get his bell rung before they forced her into complicity.

Two men appeared, one with a large key he used to open the door. The larger of the two stepped over the threshold and leered at her. His eyes were so dark they were black, and they looked soulless as he watched her. His clothes were well used but clean and looked like the clothes one might wear when working outside. His hair was dark, his skin brown, and his teeth a gleaming white. In different circumstances, Grace thought she might find him handsome. He crossed his arms over his stocky chest and waited for the other man to join them.

His companion carried a tray into the room. He was the opposite of the first, scrawny and ugly, his pockmarked face rat-like in its intensity. His clothes were newer but cheap, the clothes of a workman. These two men were not leaders in the cartel, but she didn’t know what their ranks could be. Trevor had done the research, learning everything he could about the organizations. She’d skimmed his information, remembering the basics such as where they were going and how to get away. The order of power in a cartel had not concerned her until she was faced with what she was sure were the bottom-of-the-barrel members.

The rat man put the tray on the table, and Grace glanced down at it. A white hand towel lay folded next to two large pitchers filled with water. Also on the tray was a plate filled with rice and beans. Her stomach rumbled, the fruit cup having been nowhere near filling. The rat man looked at her when he heard the noise and grinned.

Grace stared at him, hoping her face was expressionless. She worried that any show of fear would be her undoing. “Where am I?” Her voice wavered, but she lifted her head as if speaking to someone who would automatically answer her.

The rat man’s smile didn’t change. He shook his head and said, “No hablo Ingles.”

“Does he speak English?” she asked, jutting her chin toward the stocky man at the door. The man’s eyes didn’t move from her face as he shook his head.

“No.” The rat man turned and walked out of the cell, leaving the stocky man behind and the door to her cell open.

Grace stared at him, wondering if she could manage to bash his skull in with the chair. Wouldn’t matter, she grumbled internally. The chain secured her to the floor. I could seduce them, she thought, grimacing as her stomach revolted. I’d rather die…and probably will. Her mind flew through every idea of escape, and she discarded each one as futile. More than anything, she wanted to cry as she looked around the room, anywhere but at the stocky man glaring at her as if she’d kicked his puppy.

You will not cry, you will not cry, she told herself, listening for the return of the rat man. Her family popped into her mind unbidden. Her sisters, her mother, her nephew…she’d never see them again, she was sure of it. A single tear slipped down her cheek, but she wiped it away hastily when she heard the rat man’s footsteps.

He walked back in carrying a tripod with a video camera attached to it. He set it up five feet from the table, turned it on, and began making adjustments as he stared at the LED screen. Grace worried she would wet herself. Were they going to videotape themselves raping her? Or torturing her? Her eyes moved so quickly in their sockets as panic set in that when he finally turned to look at her, he hesitated.

He put his hands out, palms down, and shushed her, as if he were trying to calm her. Grace’s breathing was so rapid she feared she’d hyperventilate and pass out.

“What are you going to do to me?”

He gestured to the chair she gripped like a vise. “Sentado.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, her body rigid as she prepared to swing the chair if they moved closer to her.

The man hesitated a moment, thinking, then said, “Sit.” He gestured to the chair again.

“Why?” Her voice was shaking, just like her insides. “Why do you want me to sit?”

The stocky man moved with surprising speed, reaching her before she could react and lift the chair. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, using the hair to propel her movements. Grace barely had time to scream before she was sitting on the chair, her hands massaging her scalp after he released her hair. He mumbled at her in Spanish as he put his beefy fingers on her shoulders, forcing her to drop her arms. He stood behind her and held her in place.

“What are you going to do to me? Let me go!” She fought his hands frantically, scratching and jerking, using all her strength to free herself from his grasp. She screamed and screamed, but nothing but her echo answered her.

The rat man stepped forward and backhanded her, and her cheek exploded with pain. Her frantic fighting stilled briefly, and she opened her mouth to scream again when she saw the knife poised near her eye. He spoke to her, and though she didn’t know his words, she understood his meaning. She froze, and while the rat man held the knife close to her face, the stocky man produced duct tape and bound her to the chair she sat in. He wrapped the tape around her chest five times and around her wrists as well, which were in her lap. He knelt and wrapped the tape around her thighs and the seat of the chair, securing her in place.

The rat man removed the knife, and instantly, Grace began to fight again, screaming like a madwoman in the hopes someone would hear her. The stocky man put his hand over her mouth and jerked, pushing her tender lips hard against her teeth. She tasted blood and halted her fighting before he smashed her mouth again.

The rat man scurried to the video camera and turned it on, checked to make sure the angle was as he liked, and returned to her side. With a calm, collected voice, he spoke into the camera while Grace’s eyes darted about like a rabbit’s in a trap. When he finished his little speech, none of which Grace understood, he turned to her and grinned evilly.

“We begin.”

To Grace, the words sounded like a death sentence, and she renewed her fighting. The stocky man released her mouth and she screamed nonsense, spewing blood from her cut lips. The rat man punched her in the cheek he’d slapped earlier, and Grace fell silent for a moment as she tried to recover. Head lolling, she felt the rat man force her face to look at the camera as he spoke again. He laughed, as did the stocky man, at whatever he’d said to their audience.

“What do you want from me?” Grace asked, but neither answered. Her voice was slurring a little because of the hits and the busted lips, but she yelled anyway. “What do you want?”

The rat man spoke in rapid Spanish to his partner behind her, who jerked the chair back on two legs. Grace screamed and tried to wiggle free again, forgetting the pain as she realized what they were going to do to her when the man picked up the hand towel and attempted to drape it over her face. She threw her head from side to side, shrieking, and the stocky man let the chair fall to the floor.

With her breath knocked out of her, she felt the stocky man drag the chair so the camera could see her face. He knelt by her head and grabbed either side of it, staring upside down into her face. All her movements were jerky because she could move so little, and she screamed continuously, even when the stocky man slapped her face again.

The rat man moved to her left so the camera could see his movements. Grace fought, kicking her feet and squirming, screaming and cursing, as he draped the hand towel over her face. In the sudden almost darkness, Grace froze in fear. She had read about waterboarding, the effects of the torture, and how it felt, but she never imagined she would experience it firsthand. She continued squirming, trying to turn her head, but the stocky man’s hands were like small brick walls on either side of her face.

They let her panic for several seconds before Grace felt the slow trickle of water on her lips. She pressed them together tightly and inhaled quickly through her nose before the water flowed into it. She held her breath, refusing to give in to them, refusing to inhale. But after an eternity without oxygen, Grace let her breath explode out of her. She immediately inhaled, but rather than oxygen, she sucked water through her nostrils and into her lungs. The damp cloth tightened around her face, and she felt like a clamp had been added to her face, a clamp made of cloth and water.

Panic gripped her as she felt like she was drowning, and she fought the grip of the stocky man on her head to no avail. The water seemed like an endless cascade over her face, and the towel covering her was like wet velvet, heavy and impenetrable. She opened her mouth to push at it with her tongue, but the water sloshed into her mouth as well as her nostrils. She choked and attempted to cough but couldn’t.

Just as unconsciousness reached for her, the blackness of death—or what she thought was death—closing its hands around her, the towel was removed. Grace hauled in a rapid breath, then heaved water out of her mouth when the stocky man forced her face to the side. She coughed and hacked, tears invisible as they coursed through her wet hair.

After she’d caught her breath, she heard the man speak into the camera again. Her brain was too frightened, too frenzied with fear to listen to him, even if she had understood the language. The stocky man still knelt by her head, and just as her heartbeat settled into a more serene rhythm as her breathing normalized, he grabbed either side of her head and the towel was placed over her face again.

Two more times, they repeated the torture, each time giving her fewer precious moments to catch her breath before stealing it from her again. The last session, they waterboarded her until she lost consciousness.