“This one was with the batch we smuggled in from Texas,” the man with the flashlight said in Spanish.
She would recognize that slimy voice anywhere.
Simone.
“How many?” Hector stood and zipped his pants.
That sound… God, the ghastly sound of his zipper would forever haunt her.
Stiff and sickened with grief, she edged alongside the pipe, heading toward the door.
“Two dozen. It’s getting harder to smuggle them through the border towns. We need new routes.”
Realization slammed into her, redoubling her heart rate.
All those cries she heard over the past two years, the screams that had woken her from sleep…
They were real.
There had been other children, and she’d ignored them.
She’d let them die.
She would be next if she didn’t get the fuck out of there.
Rising on silent feet, she swayed through bouts of dizziness. Nausea threatened. Her nerves stretched, overtaxed to the point of breaking as her bladder quivered to release.
Push through it and go!
Instinct took over. Self-preservation shoved her toward the door. All pain and thought vanished as her mind narrowed to one imperative.
Survival.
She moved on impulse, out the door, down the hall, around the bend. The compulsion to look back tingled between her shoulder blades, but she ignored it, kept going, started running.
As her legs flew into a sprint, everything came flooding back.
The lifeless eyes. The jerking body. The sound of the zipper.
She gagged, and the violent hacking doubled her over.
Keep going. Run!
If she’d stayed in the sewer room, she might’ve picked up something valuable from their conversation. She might’ve heard names and locations of the men running the operation.
She might’ve been killed.
How did he sneak the children into the prison? What did he do with the bodies? Did he bring them in on a schedule? Could she track it and figure out a way to stop him before he did it again?
The questions fell behind her as she ran into the stairwell. But she couldn’t outrun the toxicity of what she’d just witnessed. It boiled inside her, bubbling in her stomach. She made it to the second flight of stairs before her guts emptied in a spew of vomit and tears.
Her knees crashed onto the step, and she heaved great sobbing waves of anguish, puking all over the stairs.
When there was nothing left, she pushed away from the mess and wiped her mouth.
What was she going to do?
How would she look Hector in the eyes and pretend she couldn’t see the bloody, gruesome wasteland of his soul?
She needed Martin and Ricky. Her heart demanded she run to them, tell them what happened, and let them console her as she fell apart in their arms. She was desperate for them. They would take this burden from her and make it easier to breathe.
Her chest constricted.
They were leaving in a few hours. If she unloaded this on them, they would sabotage their departure. They would find a way to stay and keep her safe.
Her mind spun through the horrid details of Martin’s childhood. After everything he’d been through, he would never let a monster like Hector La Rocha live. If she told him about this, he would go on a killing spree and get himself killed.
Even if she could convince him not to retaliate, how could she put this on their shoulders and send them off without a resolution?
They had come to Jaulaso because they already knew Hector was evil. Telling them what she just saw didn’t gain anyone anything.
She only had a handful of hours left with them. She didn’t want to spend it rehashing the horrors of what she’d just witnessed. She had the next three years to do that.
But if she didn’t tell them, she would be tainting their final moments with dishonesty. She would have to slap on a smile, pretend nothing was amiss, and send them off with kisses and hope.
It was an impossible decision.
She forced herself to her feet and returned to their cell. The short walk didn’t give her enough time to shake the trembling from her body.
The deepest shivers would never go away. She would never escape what she saw tonight.
But she could do something about it.
The seed of an idea sprouted as she silently opened the door and slipped into their cell.
Darkness slammed into her, pressing in on all sides. She felt it on her skin, the contamination of Hector’s depravity infecting her pores.
“Tula?”
Ringing invaded her ears, disorientating her as she stumbled in the blackness.
“Tula? What are you doing?” The distant voice was smothered by a heavy fuzz of violence.
Grisly images flashed behind her eyes. Long black hair. Pools of blood. Tiny fingers. The zipper.
She swayed in the nightmare, drowning in the pain, trying to keep her head above her and her feet beneath her.
“Tula? Tula?” Warm arms came around her, competing with the coldness. “Are you okay?”
Martin held her up, his presence a beacon in the dark. Then Ricky pressed in behind her, his mouth falling to her neck, anchoring her to him.