A nauseating churning in my stomach brings me back to my senses, and I snap my eyes open only to see… nothing.
It doesn’t take me long to realize a piece of fabric covers my face, feeling it corded around my neck and digging into my throat. I’m pressed into cushioned leather squeaking under my butt, and my head tosses around to the motions rocking my body.
What the fuck?
Lifting my hands in an attempt to remove the thing obscuring my view, I realize in horror that they are bound, along with my ankles. Another rocking motion and the sound of water splashing against a surface increases the nausea twirling in my belly, and it’s all I can do not to throw up. A metallic tang hits my tastebuds, and I wince at the pain in my mouth.
Then I remember… two guys attacking me on the street, one of them hitting me so hard I dropped like a sack.
I whimper as terror washes over me, afraid I’ll find myself in the hands of him again, even if I know it’s impossible. Feeling my clothes on my body, I realize with relief that I’m still dressed, and gathering from the wind tossing my hair around, I’m not in a bedroom, either.
A motor revs underneath me, and the salty air allows the assumption that I’m on a boat—a fast one, it seems, if the speed with which it hits the waves is anything to go by. Tossing and turning, I test my restraints in an attempt to get them off me, but the only thing I accomplish is toppling over from what feels like a bench and land on what’s apparently the deck.
This attracts attention, and I hear two guys talking agitatedly to each other. I immediately recognize their voices.
Shit, I’m screwed.
Approaching footsteps make me scoot back, but I don’t get far. Hands clamp around my arms and heave me back onto the bench. The fabric is roughly yanked from my head, and I blink at the blinding light.
A chubby guy peers down at me, his expression steely. His olive-toned skin lets me assume he has South-American roots, and dark shades cover his eyes . A Burberry watch twinkles from under his gray suit sleeve, one I only recognize because of Kendra’s obsession with the brand.
“Who the fuck are you?” I spit, wincing as I feel my lip split where it sports a cut.
Chubby guy, who looks like an older version of Ice Cube with a scruff of curly black hair, ignores me, pressing a bottle of water to my lips instead. I drink, washing down the taste of blood. I’m pleased to see the dried specks of blood on his upper arm ruined his four-figure Armani piece, knowing I inflicted the wound.
“He won’t be pleased, Javier,” the second guy calls over the loud wind, and I turn my head to see him peeking over his shoulder from where he’s maneuvering the wheel. This one looks similar to Ice Cube, wearing the same suit and glasses, but his figure is slenderer. His head is bald, and his features remind me of Michael Jordan.
Ice Cube rolls his shoulder, shooting me an annoyed look. “I didn’t count on her being so difficult,” he grunts.
My eyes fall to his nose, and I stifle a chuckle. “Did you smack a wall or something?”
He looks taken aback for a second. “What?”
“Your nose. It looks… flat.” Really, his nose is nearly flush with his face, his nostrils so wide I could easily stuff three chopsticks into each. My words anger him, and his fists clench at my insult.
“Javier!” Michael Jordan calls in a warning tone. “Calm yourself!” Ice Cube lifts his chin in defiance but obeys the order.
“What the fuck do you want with me? And why the hell am I on a fucking boat?” I demand. Ice Cube turns his back to me and joins his friend at the cockpit. “Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you!” I yell, but my rant falls on deaf ears. “And where’s my cap?” I shout, annoyed about my hair whipping my face. No answer, only grim faces.
In the end, I’m left with sitting here and squishing any hope of escaping. I mean, where should I go? Jump head first into the water with shackled hands and ankles trying to stay afloat in the middle of the ocean? A dark trail on the horizon is the only sign of land, and it’s still miles away. Patting down my pants, I feel for my phone, but of course, I come up empty. No surprise they didn’t let me keep it.
Michael Jordan presses his finger onto an earpiece, and I notice a transparent wire curling over his ear and vanishing under his collar. With one hand, he steers the wheel where the Aston Martin’s emblem is embedded in shiny silver next to AM37. I know nothing about cars, let alone powerboats, but the teak floor, the white leather covering the laid-out rear seating big enough to fit six people, and the wraparound windscreen with tinted glass screams opulence.
Thank God, the speedboat conquers the distance quickly, and soon, we arrive on land.
“Really? Cancún?” I scoff, recognizing the city after Kendra dragged us here for summer vacation last year.
Silent as a grave, Tweedledee and Tweedledum anchor the boat in the port and hurl me out. I contemplate screaming for help, but before I can do so, a gun cocks at the base of my spine. I’m not afraid of him shooting me. It’s obvious they have a plan for me, but anything hovering at my back petrifies me.
A van already waits, this one just as fancy with tinted windows and polished wheel rims. An uncomfortable feeling settles in my belly.
“Do you work for my father?” It wasn’t long ago that Cancún became another victim of Mexico’s drug war, and it wouldn’t surprise me if this city became my father’s new playground. I don’t expect an answer but receive a quipped, “No,” which lets me breathe in relief.
The ride in the van is endless. Night falls and settles. We stop once to get a sandwich from the gas station and for me to release my bladder, for which Michael Jordan frees my ankle restraints, Ice Cube standing guard outside the door.
And then we hit the road again while I keep track of the digital clock on the dashboard.
10:00 p.m.
Midnight.
2:00 a.m.
3:30 a.m.
At some point, I must have dozed off because when I wake again, the sun already blazes high in the sky. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I take in my surroundings.
Sharp pointed metal gates swing open as the van slows, opening up to a wide pathway made of sandstone and rimmed with neatly trimmed rosebushes. Each free square is decorated with potted palm trees, lush greeneries, and heavy stone fountains.
An enormous Mediterranean mansion comes into view, its red brick roof glistening in the sunlight. Carved pillars hold wide arcs, and elegant balustrades frame balconies on the upper floor. The lower level shows floor-to-ceiling glass and luxurious furniture inside.
“Get out,” Ice Cube snaps, stopping me from ogling the huge estate.
I comply unwillingly, groaning when I wade into the blistering heat. The distinct sound of sloshing water reaches my ears, most likely a swimming pool as big as Sam’s garden. God, what I wouldn’t give for a dive…
When we reach the entry doors made of rust-colored steel with golden carvings, Michael Jordan types an eight-figure code into a control panel embedded in the side. A green light blinks, and the doors swing inward.
Cool air engulfs me as I’m escorted through a maze of corridors. Our shoes click on the marble floor echoing off the high walls holding golden sconces. Various staircases carpeted in red lead to different wings, making the entire place look even more mysterious.
Whoever owns this place seems to have a taste for art. Diego Rivera, Rufino Tamayo, Angelina Beloff, and various other masterpieces decorate the walls. I’m not an expert on Mexican art, but the pieces look damn close to originals.
We reach our desired destination as we stop in front of another set of polished wooden doors, and my two bodyguards adjust their ties and smooth down their shirts.
“Jeez, are we meeting the Pope or what?” I can’t refrain from uttering, causing Ice Cube to give me a death glare.
“Watch your mouth, girl. You don’t want to piss him off,” he snaps in a heavy accent, and his tone makes me obey.
“Come on in,” a cool, composed voice resounds from the other side as Michael Jordan knocks, and I’m escorted into the unknown.