Dirty Angels by Karina Halle
Whoever the man at my door was, it was apparent this was the last place he wanted to be.
“You wanted to see me?” he said so formally that it cut worse than his blade.
“You weren’t going to come say goodbye?” I asked him. He remained at the door. I remained near the bathroom. Neither of us moved.
“I was,” he said, an air of defiance to him. “At the door.”
“Oh,” I said caustically. “How very kind and proper of you.”
“Luisa,” he warned.
“So after all you’ve put me through,” I said, folding my arms, “you’re just wiping your hands clean and pushing me out the door.”
Indignation flared in his eyes. His hands clenched and unclenched, but he managed to keep his voice hard and steady. “This was your choice. You chose this.”
“Because it’s the only choice I have,” I said. “Isn’t it?”
Our eyes fastened on each other. I wanted him to come closer. I wanted to see something that wasn’t there.
“Can’t we go back in time?” I asked, my voice softer now. “When I believed I meant something to you?”
He swallowed and looked away. “You were always my captive. I was always the man holding the knife.”
And again that knife was buried straight in me. I took in a sharp breath, willing the pain away. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Esteban said getting feelings out of you was like getting blood from a stone.”
“Esteban doesn’t know shit,” he snapped, glaring at me. “What the hell do you want me to say? Do you think anything I say will make any difference to you? To me? To this fucking situation? Huh?”
“You could tell me not to go.”
“I did!” he cried out, marching across the room. He grabbed me by the shoulders, his reddening face in mine. “I told you not to go. I told you there could be another way. You could go free, away from certain fucking death. But you’re like this…”
“This what?” I goaded, watching his eyes spark and flame. “What am I?”
“A martyr,” he said, spitting out the word. “You wear your nobility like a goddamn crown. I am so sick and tired of it, especially when I know there is a strong, unapologetic woman in there just dying to come out. I’ve seen her. I’ve fucked her. I want that woman to win.”
“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
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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.
I suppose I could have said something. I could have told Luisa what she wanted to hear. But that would have been a lie. I didn’t love her. I couldn’t. That was something that was no longer applicable to the person I’d become. There was no place for it in my life; it didn’t fit, it didn’t work. Love didn’t build empires, it ruined them.
What I felt for Luisa wasn’t love. But it was curious. It was something, at least. It was deep and spreading, like a cancer. Yet, instead of only bringing pain, it brought purpose in its sickness. Her lips soothed me, her heart challenged me, her eyes made me bleed. My bed was where we held our exorcisms. She brought me peace. I brought her fire. Now the flame was out—gone forever—and there was a war raging inside me.
I went a full week pretending that nothing had happened. Pretending that nothing was eating me from the inside out. I wore my mask every day. I worked with Este on our next targets, our next hand in this game. A trip to Veracruz was becoming more and more possible. But that city no longer stirred fear in my heart, no longer played on bad memories. Those memories meant nothing to me anymore. There was something so much scarier raging just below my surface.
One night I woke up from a nightmare. I think it was the same as I had before, with my father and I fishing, Luisa on the end of the hook. It was hard to remember; the dream shattered into fragments the moment I woke. But the feeli
And then I realized with certainty that I had been a coward this whole time. I was in my bed, safe and comfortable in the life I had created for myself. I wanted for nothing. And yet she, she was with Salvador. She had been there a week already and I couldn’t imagine her state, if she was even still alive. She wanted for everything.
I didn’t go back to sleep. Even though it was the middle of the night, I slipped a robe around me and left the house. I went to sit by the koi pond, the lotus blossoms looking ghostly in the moonlight. I stared at their white purity until the sun came up. Then, in that glow of dawn, I saw more clearly. The flowers were magnificent, but they weren’t as the Chinese scholar had said. There were imperfections on their surface. There were stains. Their beauty didn’t come from the fact that they were untainted, their beauty came from their resilience. They were proud to have grown from mud.
Even if my beauty queen was already dead, I knew what I had to do. There would be dire consequences for my actions, but there already were. What was the difference if I stirred up a little more trouble? At this point, it was pretty much expected of me.
Later that day, I told the men I was going away on a business trip to Cabo San Lucas. Este, being my right-hand man and all, insisted he come along for the journey, but I told him I needed to do this alone. I would be safe and I wouldn’t be long—two or three days, at most. And if I happened upon the wrong people at the wrong time, then that was that. I knew Este would slide right in and replace me anyway.
I was a nervous flier. It was a quick trip across the water, but it still took a lot of composure to not drink all the alcohol available in first class. There was a man in the row across from me who stared at me like he might have recognized me. I only smiled back. Though this was risky, I also knew that most people would never do or say anything to me. Besides, my face might have been out there once or twice but Salvador was right—I wasn’t on anyone’s radar.