9 Chapter 8 (1/2)

Mariana

The room may have been escape-proof, but it definitely wasn't soundproof. I awoke in the dark, momentarily confused. I sat in pitch blackness, a hard wall at my back and a blanket twisted around my legs. I smelled old blood and wondered if it was mine.

Am I dead? Did somebody bury me?

The events of the previous night came cras.h.i.+ng back into my mind. I sucked in a deep breath as the image of Este's bloodied corpse hit me like a punch to the stomach.

And then, the rest of the night's events came hurtling back, unrelenting, even as my drugged brain struggled to catch up. Emilio. The drive. The creepy dude in the suit. You're mine.

If I'd had anything left inside me, I would have burst into tears, but I couldn't let go. I was too tightly wound, my heart thudding loudly in my ears and my hands shaking as foreign sounds reached me through the wardrobe door.

Cars on the city streets below. Horns blaring. A truck's reversing siren, loud and obstinate at what felt like a ridiculously early hour.

A knock on the bedroom door, followed by the door opening, had me scrambling to stand up. As it was, the wardrobe had a shelf about four feet from the ground, and I only succeeded in slamming my head against it. 'Ow,' I muttered, reaching out for something to hold onto. I steadied myself on the wardrobe door just as it was wrenched open, and I spilled out onto the person on the other side.

Murphy grinned as he took in my dishevelled appearance and my sleeping quarters.

'You look like s.h.i.+t,' he said. I narrowed my eyes, flicking them up and down his outfit as I disentangled myself from him. He wasn't wearing a suit anymore. He looked like a garish tourist who belonged in Florida or somewhere similarly tropical, sporting tweed shorts and a bright blue s.h.i.+rt printed with palm trees. The loafers on his feet looked cheap and nasty, a complete contrast to the expensive leather shoes he had been wearing last night.

'You look like Hawaii threw up on you,' I retorted, rubbing sleep from my eye. I looked down at myself, barefoot, still wearing my black sundress and Este's blood all over me.

Murphy stepped back, his smile still wide and freakish, and gestured to the door. 'Time for breakfast.'

I eyed him warily as I side-stepped him, walking as quickly as I could to stay out of his reach. I'd take Emilio and his violence over this freak and his wandering hands any time.

I entered the main living area again, expecting to see cereal or perhaps some fast food on the small round dining table, but what greeted me instead made my stomach flip.

Emilio sat on the far side of the table, sipping an espresso from a tiny cup as he read the paper. He was studying the stocks this time, and I wanted to ask if I was allowed to fix a coffee for myself, but I was too distracted by the plate that lay between us.

'Sit,' he said, without looking up.

I sat across from him, trying to suck my stomach in to suppress the loud growling noise it was making. I was so hungry I'd eat anything.

Except what was currently in front of me.

'You don't seriously expect me to do that?' I asked, barely concealing the horrified tone in my voice.

He swallowed, annoyance showing in his c.o.c.ked brow. 'Did I say you could speak?'

I looked down at the table, trying to cover my rage. What I really wanted to do was stand up, throw the table on its side and scream 'f.u.c.k YOU!', but I knew if I did that, he'd punish me. Probably by letting Murphy put his hand up my dress.

I stared at the table for a few moments, as Emilio returned to his paper. When he didn't speak again, I let my gaze wander higher, eyeing off the bottle of olive oil and the plate stacked high beside it.

Surely he wasn't going to make me do that?

He folded the paper up leisurely, placing it on the table as he drained the last of his coffee.

'Right,' he said. 'Good morning, Ana. I trust you slept well?'

'Like the dead,' I replied, without missing a beat.

'No doubt. We need you looking fresh and well-rested. You've got a long day ahead of you.'

'She looks like s.h.i.+t,' Murphy said again, making me p.r.i.c.kle in annoyance. 'They're going to stop her in customs looking like that.'

Just f.u.c.k off, I wanted to say, but instead I bit my tongue and ignored him.

Customs. So it was what I had suspected.

'I'm a drug mule?' I asked Emilio in disbelief. 'That was fast. What if I go to the police in the airport?'

Emilio chuckled. 'I own the police,' he said, his gaze s.h.i.+fting momentarily to Murphy before returning to me. I choked on that inference as I whirled around to face Weird Eyes. 'You're a cop?'

He glanced at Emilio, for once not engaging with me. I guessed that he hadn't wanted me to know that.

'Murphy here is a Federal Air Marshal,' Emilio said, his amus.e.m.e.nt evident as he rolled one of the rubber-coated pellets on the plate between his fingers. 'He helps us get our product from A to B.'

'You're a drug-trafficking cop?' I asked Murphy, who continued to give me nothing.

'The drugs are an attractive part of the package,' Emilio teased, dragging out my torture. 'But he specialises in moving other possessions of mine.'

Oh.

'I bet he does,' I said sharply, imagining Murphy taking full advantage of the women he trafficked from one country to another. It was enough to make me want to stab them both more than I already did.

'Can I at least eat something first?' I asked, eyeing the pellets nervously. There had to be at least thirty of the f.u.c.kers, gleaming smugly at me from their spot on the table.

'No,' Emilio said. 'If you eat, your metabolism will start working. No food until you're on American soil.'

'If you s.h.i.+t these out on the plane ride,' Murphy added behind me, 'you'll have to rinse them off and swallow them again. We wouldn't want that, would we?'

My skin crawled at the thought.

Emilio laughed, gesturing at me as he addressed his a.s.sociate. 'She's Marco's daughter and she's never been a mule? I don't believe it.'

I eyed the pellets again, each about the size of my thumb, tightly wrapped in plastic. I might not have acted as a drug mule before, but I wasn't stupid — I knew what would happen. And I wasn't as worried about them going in as I was about them coming back out again. Ouch.

'The plane leaves in three hours,' Emilio said. 'In the meantime, Murphy, I suggest you go and buy cholita some fresh clothes and that s.h.i.+t women put on their face to get rid of the bags under their eyes.'

'Concealer,' I said. 'It's called concealer.'

Murphy whistled as he left the apartment, for once not arguing. I jumped in my seat as the door slammed loudly, and sat on my hands to stop myself from fidgeting.

I stared down at the plate in front of me, at the reality that greeted me. Plastic-wrapped pellets full of pure cocaine.

'What if one of them bursts inside me?' I asked Emilio, who was arranging a pa.s.sport and papers in front of him.

'You die,' he said casually, as if I had asked him what would happen if it rained today. 'You die, and I get very angry, and I cut you open to get the rest of my c.o.ke out.'

I s.h.i.+vered despite the warmth, imagining my lifeless body in a bathtub, dead and gutted. I imagined my blood sprayed on the walls as faceless men pushed their hands inside me and removed bloodied plastic pellets full of Colombia's finest white powder.

'They won't burst,' he said, setting the papers to one side and fixing his beady eyes on me once more. 'I am a professional. I wrap my product properly. They will only burst if you don't get them out quickly enough, if your stomach acid eats them away.'

My stomach roiled. I was thinking there was probably a lot of f.u.c.king acid in there right now. I wanted to throw up and I hadn't even begun.

As if reading my thoughts, Emilio unscrewed the bottle of olive oil and took one of the pellets from the plate, balancing it in his palm. He added a swig of olive oil to his slightly cupped hand and worked the oil over the pellet until it was coated in the slick substance.

'Open wide,' he said, standing and leaning over the table. I swallowed, keeping my mouth firmly closed.