She would only have a small window of time to slip out during the guard changeover. But she had to be gone before nightfall.
"Our walk will be a long one, just as you always ask. You'll have to be very good, though, and quiet. Definitely quiet. Then we can stay out longer than a half hour, all right?"
Nodding, her daughter pursed her tiny bow mouth shut tight and continued to bounce a path over the fluffy comforter, willing to do anything for more outdoor time, even stem her endless flow of chatter. Higher and higher she jumped, rattling the vase of orchids on the bedside table.
Sara tucked a knife inside the backpack, an ugly serrated knife, the riskiest of her stolen survival gear. Once clear of the house, she would secure it to her belt.
She would have preferred a larger blade but feared that would be too noticeable missing from the wooden block. So she'd opted instead for a loose steak knife in a kitchen drawer.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, thudding on the hardwood floors. Then muffled by the thick Persian runner closer to her room. Dios. She snatched up the backpack.
A knock sounded at the door.
Ice chilled her veins, like the pulse of an IV solution fresh from the refrigerator. Shoving the backpack under the bed, she raised her finger to her lips, scrounging for a smile for her daughter.
"It's all right to talk about the picnic, but keep our walk a secret," she whispered, regretting that she had to encourage her daughter to lie.
Turning, she opened the door a crack. Ramon stood in the hall, such a benign-looking man in his favored workout clothes with a tropical fruit smoothie in his hand. He battled age as fiercely as rival factions during his freedom fighter days.
She inched the door wider. "Si?"
Lucia leaped from the bed. "Tio Ramon!"
He scooped her up and twirled her high, as he did with his own grandchildren. Sara had long ago given up shuddering when he came near. At least he didn't harm Lucia, beyond the mental games of cultivating dependence. She'd also given up trying to understand the twisted logic of this man.
She hated him, but the hatred jumbled in with so many other emotions and memories of racing to hug him as a child, much like Lucia. And he'd brought in the best of care for her during her difficult pregnancy, even shipping her off to an exclusive, private clinic for the delivery.
In return, she lived under his constant control, as did his children, sisters and grandchildren. He said he considered her family, too. Her father would have done the same for Chavez women.
Ramon had only hit her once, just once when she'd asked to leave after Lucia's first birthday. He'd jarred her teeth and complacency, as well as fracturing her jaw.
He'd told her Lucia would suffer for any further betrayal of their family and country. In fact, he'd already murdered Lucas and Tomas because of her disloyalty, by shooting down their departing military helicopter. Tomas would be alive if she hadn't plotted to turn him into a traitor to their people.
She wanted to believe he'd lied. Regardless, there was nothing she could do for either of them, and she had to protect her defenseless daughter. She focused on shedding fluff for leather. Tougher. Stronger. Like Lucas.
Ramon lowered Lucia to the floor. "Enjoy your picnic, little one. It is fun to be spoiled every now and again, no? Just don't stay out too long. We need to lock down the compound tonight."
A shiver chased up her spine, but she refused to let her nerves fray. She'd held herself together the past years through sheer grit. She couldn't fail her daughter.
"I hope nothing's wrong," she asked, even though she already knew differently.
"There's no need to worry. I protect what is mine, and you've proven yourself well. You take good care of my treasures." He cupped her shoulder. "I am grateful."
He never touched her in a sexual manner. At first, she'd been afraid he planned to abuse her. But in some warped code of his, he segmented some women to mother roles and others to sexual—no crossover, as if his sex toys might somehow sully innocent children.
"Gracias." Survival, she reminded herself. "I appreciate the warning." Sara leaned, pressing her cheek to his.
"Your father would be pleased with how you've come along."
She refused to dwell overlong on reevaluating her childhood, how her father had been like this man and how that could have shaped her into a dependent person. Ruminating wasted energy. She understood Lucas so much better now. Too late.
The door clicked closed behind Ramon. Launching into action, she hauled the backpack from under her bed to finish packing.
If she could make it to the bridge by nightfall, they would be safe. She'd painstakingly sketched a map over the years, drawn from snippets of information here and there. A cook mentioning a walk on a path that way, while gesturing. A gardener referencing a fishing stream beyond the back stone wall. And other tidbits, seemingly meaningless when taken alone—until she'd compiled what she hoped was an accurate map of the landscape surrounding her luxurious prison. Why hadn't she paid more attention when Ramon had started building the place five-and-a-half years ago? But she'd been too caught up in her new life at the embassy—and her new romance with Lucas.
She'd hoped to make a more controlled break at a time of her own choosing. But this morning she'd overheard Ramon Chavez order his security forces to prepare for a rival crime lord's imminent attack.
Time had run out. She couldn't wait for the perfect moment, not with the possibility of Hector Padilla gaining control. The man's reputation for trafficking in child prostitution left her longing to gather her daughter close.