Karina Halle - Dirty Angels

“That woman will have to live with regret.”

“That woman,” he said, giving me a shake, “will live.” His eyes sought the ceiling, trying to compose himself, but when he looked back at me, the fire was still there. The mask had slipped. “I know you love your parents, Luisa. But is their safety—not even guaranteed—worth your own life? Do you really think your parents want you to do this? Do you think this will make them fucking proud? If they’re anything like me, they’ll be angry as hell. They will live their lives with regret instead. Is that what you want to give them? A dead daughter and a lifetime of fucking sorrow?”

I was stunned. He grabbed my face with both his hands and stared at me with crazed intensity. “Be fucking selfish! Save your own life.” He let go of me suddenly, turning his back to me, his hand on the back of his neck. “Lord knows I can’t save it for you.”

I watched his back, the strength of it underneath his navy suit jacket, wondering if it ever got tired of shouldering this world. It seemed all so easy for him to give orders, tell people what to do, and never have to give an ounce of himself.

“You gave me a reason to run,” I said to him. “Give me a reason to stay.”

He paused and slowly turned to look at me. “Give you a reason to stay?”

“Yes,” I said, walking up to him, refusing to break my gaze.

His eyes softened, just for a moment. “What can I say to make you stay?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Tell me you love me.”

My boldness shocked him more than it shocked me. He stared at me, unhinged and absolutely bewildered, like he didn’t understand. “I can’t do that,” he managed to say.

I had nothing to lose. “You can’t because you don’t.”

He opened his mouth then shut it. He gave a small shake of his head, and then said, almost chagrined, “No. Because I don’t know what that is anymore.”

I placed my hands on his jacket, running them down his silky lapels. “Well,” I said sadly, “it’s what you feel for your suits. And your money. And your mansions. And all your power.” I looked up at him. “Except you feel it for me.”

There was a knock at the door. I reluctantly broke his gaze, his lost and helpless gaze, and looked to see Juanito standing in the doorway.

“So sorry, boss,” he said nervously, trying not to look at us. “But it’s time to go.”

Javier nodded, clearing his throat. “She’ll be right there.”

Juanito left, and it was just the two of us again, and for the last time.

“I’m sorry,” Javier said sincerely, reaching for my face and gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for—for not loving me, for Juanito interrupting, for having to say goodbye. Perhaps he was apologizing for that first moment when he decided my life would be worth a shipping lane. It didn’t really matter in the end.

“I’m sorry, too,” I told him. Then I walked away from his touch and to the door, down the hall, and down the stairs to where Juanito was waiting for me in the foyer.

Waiting to take me home.

I did not look behind me. I did not look back. I kept my head high and conviction straight, even when Juanito placed the bag over my head, so I would still not see the way in and out of this place.

With his help, I got into the SUV that was running outside and told myself, for the umpteenth time that day, that I was doing the right thing.

It began to really worry me then, when the right thing started to feel so very wrong.

* * *

The drive back to Culiacán was longer than the drive to Javier’s. I wasn’t sure if it was the mountainous roads or Juanito’s driving, or the fact that every mile we passed, my veins filled with ice-cold fear. The fact that I couldn’t see didn’t help, but a few hours into it, Juanito leaned over and pulled the bag from my head.

I squinted in the afternoon light. We must have been far enough from Javier’s that it didn’t matter what I saw. I guess I couldn’t blame them for thinking that I might have ratted on their whereabouts. That thought made me wonder if perhaps Salvador was going to think I was a rat myself.

But once I entered his doors—if I even got that far—I would never leave them again. Whether I had switched sides or not, it didn’t really matter. I knew I would die in that gilded cage.

Night was just falling, the sky turning into a brilliant blend of periwinkle and tangerine that made my soul hurt, when Jaunito pulled the car to the side of the highway. He cut the engine and eyed me expectantly. “Well,” he said.

“Well,” I said back.

“This is where you get off.” He nodded to the dusty shoulder that was riddled with garbage.

“But we aren’t even near the city,” I protested. “The sign said we had another two hours or so.”

“True,” he said, “but my orders were to drop you off here. How you get into the city is your own doing. Soon, there will be checkpoints, all from your husband’s cartel. They’ll be looking at each car. I can’t risk being seen with you.”

“So then, what do I do?”

“Hitchhike,” he said.

“But that’s so unsafe,” I said. “I could be attacked or raped.”

He gave me a melancholy smile. “What do you think’s going to happen to you anyway?”

I flinched. The truth stung. “You’re turning heartless, just like them,” I warned him.

“Occupational hazard, I guess,” he said. “It may save your life if you were to turn the same.”

At that he nodded at the door, eager for me to leave his charge. I sighed my acceptance and got out. Though I had told Javier I wanted to be bound at the wrists, he assured me it wasn’t necessary to make it look like I escaped. I was grateful for that. I needed every ounce of power I could get, even if it was just an illusion.

The minute my feet hit the soil, Juanito pulled away. I watched his red lights until he did a U-turn a few meters away. Then he roared past me, heading back to Javier, back to safety.

I’d never been so envious in my life.

I stood there for a long time, just a black figure against the darkening sky, the passing cars anonymous with their blinding lights, my hair and dress billowing around me in their wake. It wasn’t until I summoned the courage to stick my thumb out that one car eventually stopped.

To my utmost relief, it was a middle-aged woman driving. I got in and kept quiet while she scolded me for being out on the highway. I didn’t give her much of an explanation as to why I was out there—I was saving that for later—and I kept my face turned away from her so she wouldn’t see the faded yellow and blue bruises that still colored my skin from Franco’s assault.

She made good company, talking about her newest grandchild and how scandalous it was that he wasn’t baptized yet, and how all the neighbors were flapping their lips. I wondered what it must be like to live a totally normal life. To fall in love, get married, have children and grandchildren. To drive to the supermarket and drink instant coffee and watch daytime television and go to church and take every fucking day for granted.

Because of her normality, we sped past the one checkpoint we saw. The armed men didn’t even slow us down. We just kept driving through, their eyes trained only for people like Juanito.

When we finally arrived in the city and I asked her to drop me off at one of the busy plazas, I told her she was lucky to have all that she did. She only stared at me in disbelief. Then I thanked her and got out of the car. She drove off, shaking her head and talking to herself, and I wondered if I was going to be news in the morning, and if she’d be flipping through her morning paper and realize just who she had given a ride to.

Now, it was time to play a part, a me from another timeline, a timeline where Javier was the brutal captor and that was it. I closed my eyes, inviting the other persona in: frightened, relieved, jubilant at their escape. I looked around the plaza for someone who would know who I was, who would hear the underground tittering from the Sinaloa Cartel, who would first have to hear my story.

I found a musician—a narcocorrido singer—sitting by the side of a fountain, playing murder ballads on his accordion. The man, with his slicked back hair and soulful voice, glanced up at me as I hugged myself in front of him, shivering for show, and he immediately knew who I was. I was sure he had sung many songs about narco wives. Perhaps even one just for me. Sing me a song about Luisa, the one who was taken, the one who wasn’t wanted back. The one who found her freedom in another man’s bed.

It didn’t take long before I was wrapped in a blanket and being escorted into a police vehicle, flashing lights illuminating the plaza in red and blue. A few onlookers were watching, camera phones out, recording my apparent rescue as they would the murders that littered the city.

Once in the vehicle, the officers extra courteous, I was driven in a different direction than I thought we’d go. Then I realized that after my kidnapping, Salvador must have abandoned his old mansion for another one, for security’s sake.

It made no difference to me; they all held the same horrors.

Soon we were driving past checkpoints—some operated by other police, some by men with black ski-masks and automatic rifles—and then through the heavily guarded gates of my husband’s newest palace.

Once we came to a stop, the police escorted me out of the SUV and straight up the polished steps of Salvador’s front door. One officer went to knock but the door was already opening, slowly, ominously, like a scary movie.

Salvador stood on the other side, backlit from the foyer, his ugly face cast in sinister shadow. He stroked along his mustache and gave me a smile that even a crocodile would be ashamed to wear.

“Luisa, my princess,” he said cunningly, opening up an arm for me. “Welcome home.”

I looked to the police officers, wondering if I had enough strength to turn back, to run, to plead for their help. But they were paid handsomely by my husband, and their job was about indifference to anything but money. There would be no help from them. There would be no help from anyone.

I was on my own.

I gave Salvador a stiff smile as I walked into the house.

He slowly closed the door behind him and shot me a sly look over his shoulder. “This took me by surprise. I must say I never expected to see you again.”

“I know,” I said, putting on the face of the scared yet sympathetic wife. “And I understand. When I saw I had a chance to escape, I took it. You’d be shocked at how immature Javier’s men are. They are nothing like yours.”

He smiled briefly at my compliment. “I’m surprised you came back here.”

“You are my husband,” I told him, hoping he bought the sincerity. “Where else would I go?”

He studied me for a moment, his jaw ticking back and forth. “I guess you’re right.” He took a large step toward me, his cowboy boots echoing on the floor. “It’s too bad that you’ll soon wish you hadn’t.”

My face fell. His lit up. “Sometimes,” he went on, “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” He chuckled to himself. “I realized what I had wasn’t even worth bargaining for.” He shrugged and pulled at his chin as he looked my body up and down. “But that doesn’t mean you aren’t worth something. Get on your knees.”

I opened my mouth in protest and almost said something I’d regret. Talking back to Javier had become a bad habit, one he had encouraged.

“I said on your knees, cunt!” Salvador yelled at me. He grabbed me by my hair and thrust me down to the floor, my knees taking the brunt of the fall. I heard his zipper go down but I couldn’t make myself look up.

He made me look. He made a fist at the top of my head and yanked my hair straight up, my nerves exploding in pain. I looked past his rancid cock and right at his face. It was evil incarnate. He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “You hesitated, Luisa, and a woman never hesitates. Looks like I’m going to have to retrain you all over again.”

The next thing I knew, his knee came toward my face. There was pain and spots and all the world went black.

Javier

The saying goes, if you love something, let it go. I always thought it was better to just shoot the damn thing so it’d never go anywhere.

But now I understood. Now that I didn’t have a choice.