Stealing Beauty (Stolen 1)

You’re mine. His harsh, possessive words rang through my mind.

Shameful heat flooded my system, and I shifted in my seat again. I winced and tugged at the Colombian flag t-shirt I wore, trying to get some cool air on my flushed chest.

Adrián’s cruel green eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror. “Are those clothes not good enough for you, princesa?” he mocked.

I glowered at him, but I pressed my lips together to hold in my angry retort. I remembered all too well that there would be consequences for speaking my mind.

He thought I cared about the fucking clothes I wore? If anything, I much preferred the soft comfort of the cotton shirt and jeans to my usual fancy dresses. I was never allowed to wear anything this casual. Mateo had chosen this outfit—along with practical sneakers—to help us blend in with the tourists packed into Bogotá’s Zona Rosa.

I was grateful to be out of my whore-red dress and painful stilettos. And I was grateful to be getting away from Hugo. I would go meekly to Medellín. It wasn’t as though I could escape this car at the moment, and I didn’t have the resources I needed to get out of Bogotá on my own. I didn’t have any ID on me or access to cash. I wasn’t allowed my own money, and I hadn’t carried so much as a small purse to Vicente and Camila’s wedding.

I dropped my eyes, hiding my righteous rage from Adrián, in case he decided to punish me for the challenge in my stare. He’d proven that he was cruel enough to hurt me to force my obedience. I didn’t want to cross him again.

With the brief moment of tension between us broken, he returned his attention to Mateo.

“You got burner phones?” he asked his lackey.

“Yeah. And plenty of cash to get us the documents we need. I’ve already reached out to a contact in Medellín. We’ll be able to get new passports this evening.”

“We still shouldn’t risk flying out of Colombia,” Adrián said. “We could be recognized. I’m sure my father will have us flagged if we step foot into an airport.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Mateo agreed. “We can get the documents we need, and we’ll drive on the bus road to Necoclí. From there, we can get a ferry to Capurganá. We’ll pose as tourists and catch a boat to the San Blas Islands. Once we’re in Panama, we can move more freely.”

“Capurganá is on the edge of the Darién,” Adrián countered. “My father could have men looking out for us.”

“We’ll stay at a hostel in the village. We won’t go into the jungle.”

The Darién Gap was a notorious stretch of wilderness separating Colombia and Panama. There wasn’t a single road that crossed through the jungle, and it was a haven for criminals. Drug runners like Vicente and Hugo would have plenty of paramilitary fighters occupying the area, doing their dirty work to move cocaine across the border.

The San Blas Islands, on the other hand, were an idyllic paradise for wealthy tourists. Once I made it out of Colombia, I’d be safe. If I could separate from Adrián and Mateo in Panama, I’d have my chance at freedom. Especially if I allowed them to procure a false passport for me and was able to get my hands on some of their cash.

I tried to find a more comfortable position and settled into my silence. I’d behave perfectly, until it was time to run.“Stand over there,” Mateo ordered. It was the first time he’d spoken to me directly. Up until now, he’d talked to Adrián about me as though I was an object, an illicit acquisition they were trying to smuggle back into the U.S.

After an initial moment of shock at the fact that he was addressing me like a human being, I hurried to comply. Even as I moved to obey, I didn’t reply to him. I’d remained silent all day as we’d driven from Bogotá to Medellín. We’d checked into a nice hotel on the outskirts of the city, close to the highway. Mateo had explained to Adrián that we’d have a faster escape route if we had to get back on the road earlier than planned.

I’d played my part: meek, frightened captive. They barely looked at me, much less spoke to me. The less attention they paid me, the better. I’d lull them into trusting that I wouldn’t resist them, and then, I’d run at the first opportunity.

“Back against the wall,” Mateo directed when I’d reached the spot he’d indicated: a blank space of white-painted wall in between the hotel room desk and the king-size bed.

Mateo pulled his phone from his pocket and pointed it in my direction. I automatically smiled for the camera. Putting on a perfect, polished smile for pictures was a practice that had been beaten into me years ago.