Keep My Baby Safe Page 2

  Trevor and their companion began speaking in Spanish, and Grace wished she was as quick to learn languages as he was. He had studied the native language of every country they’d visited on assignment, and by the time they landed, he had enough in his head to hold conversations easily. He should know at least ten languages, but as soon as he no longer needed them, they disappeared from his head like magic.

  While they spoke, Grace pulled her camera out of her bag and put the strap around her neck. The gun bulged under her shirt, but unless someone was looking for it, it was unnoticeable under the baggy attire she’d chosen.

  With her movement, the man’s eyes shifted to her. In heavily accented English, he said, “I am Carlos Mantina.”

  “Grace,” she replied, keeping her last name to herself.

  “Habla Espanol?” he asked her, and when she shook her head, he sighed. “We will speak English, though it’s not good,” he said, pointing at his mouth.

  Trevor answered him in Spanish, which she understood as him offering to conduct the interview in Spanish, but the man’s eyes softened when they looked to her again.

  “I don’t want to be…ah…rude?” he asked, smiling sadly. The gleam of madness had dimmed, but his sadness had obviously caused the insanity she could see dwelling in his eyes.

  Trevor nodded, and Grace asked, “May I take your picture?” She lifted the camera.

  “No,” Carlos answered, shaking his head. After a moment of thought, he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “I will die for this anyway. Take your pictures.”

  She lifted the camera but waited. Trevor knew she preferred live action shots to posed portraits, so he began asking his questions. She snapped the occasional picture as they spoke.

  “Why do you think you’ll be killed?” Trevor asked him, his recorder on the table in front of the man. He poised a hand over his notebook, his favorite pen in his hand. His notes were in shorthand and impossible for anyone but him to read.

  Carlos stared at the red light on the recorder, frowning. Lost in thought, he didn’t speak for several moments. Grace and Trevor exchanged a glance, though neither spoke. Another moment passed, then he said, “The Tamuas Cartel wanted me to work for them as a mule. I refused, so they…uh”—he looked at Trevor—“asesinado mu familia.”

  “They murdered your wife and children?” Trevor asked, a glimmer of sympathy in his voice. Grace wondered if he’d asked for her sake or for the recorder.

  “My wife, ninos, my mama and papa,” Carlos murmured, his voice filled with despair. “I have no one, so what does it matter if I speak to you about the cartel?”

  Trevor looked at her again, his expression wary. She cast a suspicious glance at the bartender, who watched them as he polished the same glass over and over. She leaned close to Trevor and asked, “Should we order?”

  “Absolutely not,” he responded, horrified. Grace rolled her eyes and snapped a picture of Carlos as he looked up at the two of them.

  “Ask your questions.”

  “How do you know English?”

  Carlos shrugged and answered vaguely. “The priest where I grew up taught several of us. The, ah…general found out I speak good English, so they wanted me to work for them.”

  Trevor nodded his understanding. “You could speak to the Americans, work with them more easily than other mules who can’t speak English.”

  “Si,” Carlos agreed. Very little emotion registered in his voice or facial expression as he spoke, as if he’d turned off his heart so he could speak. “You know, I wanted to fight them, the cartel. There are men who fight them. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees, they say.”

  Trevor’s hand flew over the paper, and Grace knew he was writing down the quote, a wonderful caption for one of her photos, she hoped.

  “It is, ah…” He said a word in Spanish to Trevor, who finished the sentence.

  “Useless.”

  “Si,” Carlos said tonelessly.

  “Did you try to fight, or join a group?”

  A sudden movement at the bar drew Grace’s attention. Her uneasiness about this interview grew when she noticed one of the men watching them, his eyes unwavering even when she looked at him. The bartender had moved closer to the door and stared outside. Grace watched him rather than the stranger at the bar, and when he lifted a cigarette to his lips and stepped outside, her shoulders relaxed marginally until her eyes found the stranger’s. His menacing gaze pierced the calm she was attempting to gather, and she looked away before he could see her fear. Carlos was speaking, and though she wanted to interrupt, she didn’t.

  “No. No group to join in Adelaida,” Carlos replied. “Only Tamuas.”

  “What if you had joined?” Trevor asked.

  “They would pay me a few pesos to, uh to risk?” Trevor nodded. “Risk my life at the border.”

  “I assume Adelaida has its share of violence,” Grace murmured, her eyes flitting to the men across the room. Surreptitiously, she snapped a couple of pictures of them. If they noticed her with the camera, it would look like she was photographing Carlos.

  “Yes,” Carlos told her, his eyes finding hers. She couldn’t look away. “My wife was…I don’t know the word…jodido…by five men.”

  “We understand,” Trevor told him as he jotted down the man’s words. Grace had never heard the word he’d used but assumed he meant his wife had been raped.

  “My children were shot in the back of the head,” he said, his voice breaking as tears slipped down his face. He sobbed twice, loudly, then gathered himself and continued.

  “And your mother and father?”

  “They beat my father in front of me. He died a few days later,” he whispered. “My mother could not live with his death. She took his gun and walked into a group of Tamuas. Killed one before they shot her.”

  Grace’s eyes widened at the woman’s brave stupidity. She had wanted to die but refused to go alone, taking a murderer with her. Fascinated, she wish she’d met the woman. “Were they the men who killed your family?”

  Carlos nodded, his voice cracking again as he spoke. “They cut me first, to convince me. Beat me before killing my family. I refused to work for them. Mi familia esta muerta.” His sobs echoed through the empty bar.

  Grace knew muerta, and a single tear escaped her eye as she watched the man’s shoulders shake. During his story, she had been unable to take her eyes off him, and while he composed himself, she swept the room with her gaze, straightening and swiveling her head in every direction. One of the men had disappeared, and the other glanced over his shoulder at them several times. Fear sliced through her when she heard the sound of at least two cars pulling close to the building. When she looked at the bar again, the other man had disappeared as well.

  She grabbed her companion’s sleeve. “Trevor, I think we need to get out of here.”

  He looked up from his notes, alerted by the high pitch of her quiet voice. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Carlos looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I heard them, too. Go out the back.”

  Grace jerked her bag up, tossed her camera in it, and grabbed Trevor’s arms. “Get up, Trevor! We have to go.”

  “Our car…” he began as he tossed his notebook, pen, and recorder into his bag.

  “We’ll hide and circle around or something. Go!” She shoved him towards the bar and the back door, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. Oh God, oh God! Do I get my gun out? she thought as they hurried the longest fifteen feet she’d ever walked.

  The back door was latched from the outside when they reached it, and Trevor couldn’t get it open. Panicking, he turned and stared at Grace, who grabbed his hand and pulled him behind the bar. They ducked down, and she put her hand inside her jacket, where the gun she’d purchased rested in an inside pocket. Trevor’s eyes were wide with fear, and Grace was certain her expression mirrored his. She was closest to the edge of the bar and leaned against it so she could see what was going on.

  Four men had walk
ed into the bar, each a dangerous predator. They sauntered as a group to Carlos and surrounded him. One, obviously the leader, sat across from him, a creepy smile on his thick lips. No one spoke for several seconds, and Grace thought the silence was more frightening than any scream she’d ever heard. She feared the men would hear her racing heart in the silence and sucked in three deep breaths, exhaling quietly each time.

  The leader began speaking in Spanish, slowly and quietly—calmly, as if they were discussing where they wanted to have lunch. Carlos was sullenly silent, refusing to speak. Grace watched as the man spoke again, waited for a response, then slammed his hand down on the table, causing Carlos’ untouched glass to bounce, roll off the table, and shatter on the floor.

  She wanted to know what they were saying but couldn’t ask Trevor without risking being noticed. She looked at him, but he shook his head quickly, almost like a seizure. He was pale, white as a sheet, and the basics of the conversation were clear to her. Especially when she heard ‘Americanos.’ The man was asking Carlos where they had gone. Her heart beating rapidly, she returned to her post to watch the drama unfold.

  Carlos remained resolutely silent under their questioning. The man stared at him, then nodded to the man standing behind Carlos. The second man pulled a gun and pointed it at the back of Carlos’ head. Grace covered her mouth with her hand, which shook uncontrollably. She began shaking her head again and again, wondering if she should jump up and reveal herself to save Carlos’ life. Trevor wrapped his hand around her arm, holding her still as if reading her mind.

  “Matame,” Carlos whispered.

  Trevor gasped quietly at the word, a gunshot reverberated through her bones, and she jerked her head around. The back of Carlos’ head was gone, a bloody hole in its place. Grace’s mouth opened in a silent scream as she jerked back behind the bar. Shivering violently, she grabbed Trevor’s hand. Neither of them could move. For all the terrible places they’d been, for all the war-torn bodies she had photographed, neither of them had witnessed a murder.

  After several seconds of frozen silence, she mouthed, “We have to go.”

  Trevor shook his head and pointed at the door, which was closed and probably still latched. Grace had no idea what they were going to do, but she knew remaining there was the worst plan. As soon as the bartender returned, he would tell the men they were behind the bar. She looked in every direction for a hidden escape route. There were none. They were trapped.

  As the thought became her reality, a shadow fell over her. She looked up into the eyes of a large man with a gun pointed at her face. He yelled at them in Spanish, and Trevor pulled at her to stand up. She mimicked his stance, putting her hands in the air. They were shoved towards the leader, who Grace assumed was the general Carlos had referred to. She looked everywhere but at Carlos, whose body was slumped over the table and bleeding profusely. The smell of blood covered the odors of alcohol and smoke.

  “American reporters?” the man asked, his thick lips in a sneer as he looked Grace up and down, his accent so thick she barely understood him.

  Trevor began speaking to him in Spanish, his fear clear in the tremor of his voice. Grace didn’t speak and couldn’t follow the conversation. The general listened as Trevor spoke, his eyes flickering between Trevor’s face and her breasts. I’m going to be raped and murdered in this Mexican hellhole, flitted through her brain, and the urge to let a panicky laugh escape her lips passed when the general pointed a gun at Trevor. Without thought, Grace stepped in front of him with her arms out defensively, her gun forgotten.

  “Wait! Wait!” she exclaimed, her palms facing the man with the gun. “Our magazine will pay!”

  “Grace!” Trevor growled, attempting to push her behind him. He spoke quickly to the general and turned to her. “Grace, I’m trying to get them to let you go. You can imagine what they’ll do to you! If they say you can go, you’re going.”

  “Charles will find a way to pay a ransom for us,” she insisted, her eyes wide. She shook her head. “Tell them he’ll pay for us! I’m not leaving!”

  “I did, Grace,” Trevor answered, grabbing her shoulders. “They want to take us with them. Bu—”

  Trevor grunted. He fell towards her, shock and pain on his face, and Grace attempted to catch him, her confusion quickly replaced by horror. As he fell, she saw a large knife protruding from his back. With a scream, she slipped to the floor with him and held him as his blood seeped over her hands.

  “Oh God, Oh God!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. A gurgle of blood oozed out of his lips, and he sighed before closing his eyes and dying without a word. “No, no, no!” She jerked her head up and screamed, “Why did you do that? We were doing what you told us to do!”

  The man with the thick lips stared at her coldly, a slow smile spreading on his fleshy face. He shrugged and said in perfect English, “He said we only needed one of you.”

  The butt of a pistol flew swiftly at her forehead, and Grace blacked out, still holding Trevor in her arms.

  Chapter 3

  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, pra
ying 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.