Savage Hearts

I took up smoking to have an excuse to mingle with the other members of my gun club. I only smoked outside the shooting range and have never had the urge to light up anywhere else. I had assumed I must be immune to the addiction, but maybe I simply haven’t been under enough stress to trigger a craving.

For a moment, I consider hitting the bodega a few doors down from the hotel but dismiss the idea with a sharp shake of my head.

I need to be strong, calm, and focused. I haven’t let myself look further into the future than this summer or imagine who I’ll be or what I’ll do once I’ve finished this, but even in the short term, I can’t afford to let my body be weakened by chemicals or addiction.

I just need to take a deep breath, calm down, and think rationally.

I fetch a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and take a long drink, focusing on the cool flow of liquid down my throat. I relax my shoulders and jaw and let my weight settle evenly between my feet.

Once I’m steady in my body, I let my mind focus on the problem at hand.

Who knows I’m in Costa Rica? Horatio—the man from my gun club who put me in touch with Carlos—and anyone in his organization that he might have mentioned the deal to. Horatio isn’t forthcoming about his alliances, but I’m pretty sure he’s involved with one of the Cuban gangs running South Miami. Anyone affiliated with him would be bad news. Ditto for Carlos and whatever organization he’s affiliated with, which means there is a nearly one hundred percent chance that the man following me is dangerous and that whatever he wants isn’t something I’m going to be eager to part with.

So what does he want?

More money? Does he plan to rob me or kidnap me for ransom or something even more menacing?

If Carlos had a meaningful conversation with Horatio, he should have learned that I’m a loner, not well-off, and don’t have any obvious ties to people with money. That would lead me to rule out kidnapping, but criminals knowing I have no one waiting for a postcard from my trip to South America presents its own problems.

I’ve done what I can to play down my looks—choosing modest, loose-fitting clothing, always pulling my hair back in a tight braid or bun, and limiting my makeup routine to a tube of Chap Stick—but I’m still attractive. When I first joined the gun club, a couple of the regulars tried to start something, but I quickly made it clear that I wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship. I’m not vain enough to believe one of Carlos’s friends took one look at me and decided I was worth pursuing, but they might have taken a look and decided I was worth selling.

The cartels traffic in people as well as drugs and, from what I’ve heard, make a better living at the former. The majority of the people sold into sex slavery are young girls living below the poverty line who have slipped through the cracks in the foster system—or in some cases been forced into the skin trade by their own parents—but I’m not quite twenty-two. Not a girl, but maybe young enough to fetch a decent price on the international slave market.

I move toward the balcony, surveying the street outside through the filmy glass doors.

There’s a lock on the inside I’ve already bolted, but it’s not strong enough to withstand a firm shoulder from someone as large as Carlos. And even if it were, all an intruder would need to do is break one of the glass panes and reach inside to open the door. I’m on the third floor, but there is a fire escape with a ladder that leads to the ground. It would be as easy to come up as it would be to go down.

I noted the flaw in the room’s security when I checked in, but it didn’t worry me before. Now that someone is watching me, however, it would be smart to look into a more secure situation.

Unfortunately, The Allegro Hotel is laid out around a center courtyard. All of the rooms have balconies, so asking for a room change wouldn’t accomplish anything. And assuming my tail has figured out which room I’m in once, he could certainly do so again.

I’m going to have to change hotels, but not tonight. It’s already ten-thirty and I don’t want to be out on the streets alone later than this. The search for another temporary base will have to wait until the morning. I’ll just have to prepare for a potential break-in as best I can and hope I get lucky tonight.

After brushing my teeth and changing into gym shorts, I drag my large, traveler’s backpack in front of the glass doors, giving anyone trying to come in through the balcony something to stumble over in the dark. Then I unpack my smaller pack and put my new toy together. The familiar activity is soothing, giving my mind something to focus on aside from the unease humming through my nerve endings.