Niklas’s wide eyes seem stuck, unblinking.
Finally, he says bitterly, “I am myself.” He waves both hands down the front of his chest. “Who you see here is one hundred percent me. I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not, and quite fuckin’ honestly, I’m offended you’d accuse me of it.”
Izabel steps up into Niklas’s face, looking upward at his tall height so he can see the seriousness in her eyes. “Then say it,” she challenges. “Say you love and miss your kid sister, Naeva. Or are you too proud?” She steps up even closer; my own stomach is suddenly twisting into one solid knot, as if I somehow know that what she is about to say next will make me extremely uncomfortable. “Or better yet, Niklas…admit that you have feelings for—.” She stops abruptly. She glances at me, clears her throat, and then turns back to Niklas. “Feelings for Nora.”
That is not what Izabel had started to say to my brother…
Niklas tosses his head back and roars with laughter. He laughs for a full five long seconds, before finally lowering his head and letting the laughter fade.
“Wow,” he says, “that’s probably the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard you say, Izzy.” He shakes his head, still laughing under his breath. “If you believe that, you’re not as smart as you’re trying to make us believe—you’re doing a shitty job trying to prove your point. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“And you, James,” Izabel says, sharply, and she turns swiftly to face him. I get the feeling she only wanted to cut Niklas off before that particular conversation got too revealing. And I am glad for it.
James Woodard frowns; his chubby fingers wind around one another nervously down in front of him.
Izabel pauses, looks him over, contemplates.
Then she waves a hand dismissively and says, “Honestly, you’re the only normal person here.”
“Nora,” Niklas says, still with laughter in his voice. “Unbelievable…”
“And speaking of Nora,” Izabel goes back to making her point. “She may truly be the thoughtless, heartless human being that Niklas pretends to be; she may have more experience than anyone here other than Victor, but that woman is the epitome of one-track-mind, and her inability to feel emotions is going to be her downfall one day. She’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
Now she looks at me, and all of the moisture evaporates from my mouth.
“And you, Victor…you know very well what your biggest weakness is.”
Yes—you are.
“Your biggest weakness is yourself,” she says. But she does me the courtesy of not extending the detailed, and humiliating, explanation that she did with everyone else.
“If you go to Mexico,” Niklas says, “you’re only gonna get yourself killed, and that’s all there is to it.” He looks to me, as if expecting me to step in and say something to back him up, but Izabel quickly gets his attention again.
She lifts the hem of her black silk blouse, revealing her stomach.
“You tried to kill me once,” she says, showing him the scar from her gunshot wound, “but you failed.”
Niklas’s jaw tightens.
Izabel’s blouse falls back over her stomach. She walks back to the very center of the room, and gazes at all of us standing around her. Then she reaches up and takes an end of the sheer black scarf, pulling it slowly away from her throat. Her scar blazes at us all, affects us all in different ways: Woodard lowers his head with sadness; Gustavsson shakes his head with disbelief; Niklas’s head turns red with anger; my head feels like it is going to explode with rage. I take a deep breath as Artemis’s face flashes across my mind.
“I have been shot,” Izabel begins. “I’ve had my throat cut open. I have been…” She stops, appears to be contemplating. “I don’t need to explain anything to any of you,” she says at last. “I’m going to Mexico, and I’m going to be the one who smokes the real Vonnegut out of that hole he’s been hiding in all these years. I know what I’m getting myself into; I know what not only could happen to me while I’m there, but what will happen to me while I’m there. I’m prepared for it—all of it. And if any of you have any objections, you can, quite frankly, shove them up your ass.”
The room remains stiffly silent for several long seconds.
“Victor!” Niklas breaks that silence; his hand juts out, pointing at Izabel. “Tell her she’s not going.”
“Again,” Gustavsson says, “I agree with Niklas. Mexico is the last place Izabel should ever go alone. What happened to the plan with Nora going along?”
“I-I care about you, Izabel,” Woodard speaks up, “and that’s why I agree w-with Niklas and Fredrik.”
The entire time, while everyone else is going back and forth about all the reasons why Izabel should not go, she never once takes her eyes from mine. In this moment, all I see is her, all that I hear are her thoughts conveyed through that steadfast look in her eyes, and the last conversation we had the night I naïvely asked her to marry me.
Finally, I look up, breaking our gaze, and I announce amid the carrying voices, “Izabel will go to Mexico,” and the same voices cease to express another word. “She is right—she is the best candidate for the job. She will go on her own terms, make all of the decisions, and if anyone intervenes in any way whatsoever, the repercussions will be…unfortunate.”
Gustavsson appears to think on it a moment, and then nods, gracefully as always stepping out of the way of the situation.
Woodard is too much of a coward to step out of his comfort zone surrounded by his technology to ever consider setting one foot out in the field—he would never interfere.
Niklas looks as though he would very much like to cave my nose into the back of my skull. He clenches both of his fists, then reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and retrieves a pack of cigarettes. After putting a cigarette between his lips and pocketing the pack, he lights up. After a long drag, smoke swirling around his head when he pulls the cigarette from his mouth, he looks at no one in particular and says with the shrug of his shoulders, “Whatever. I’m outta here. Call me when you fuckers have your shit together,” and then he exits the room, a trail of cigarette smoke in his wake.
Sending Izabel to Mexico is the last thing I want, but if I try to stand in her way like I have in the past, I know I will never see her again. I have to let her do this. And I have to let her do it her way.
Besides, the truth is that I have absolutely no doubts about her ability to pull off this mission. She is the best candidate for the job, not only because of her experience, but because of her skill. Izabel is more than capable of doing it, and every part of me tells me so. She has eluded death enough that, between the two of us, I believe that she is the immortal one. Yes. She will go back to Mexico, and she will suffer unimaginable trials, but she will live. Of this I have every confidence.
But when it came to the Mexico mission, it never was the possibility of death that I agonized over. It was everything else that, like Izabel said, not only could happen to her, but will happen to her, that put the fear into my heart. Will I be able to look at Izabel the same way I look at her now after she returns? Will her being violated by other men, touched, kissed, even possibly raped, change the way I feel about her, especially with the knowledge of her going into this knowing the risks and the consequences? Yes. And no. Yes, I will be able to look at her the same. And no, whatever happens to her will not change the way I feel about her. I love her too much.
“Izabel,” Gustavsson says with disappointment, “even if you manage to live through this, what happens when someone realizes who you are?” He turns to me now. “From what I understand, you think Vonnegut was one of the wealthy men who purchased girls from Javier Ruiz?”
“That’s a good point,” Woodard says. “If the bounty on Izabel’s head is as much as your sister told you, l-logic tells us that a lot of people know w-what she looks like.”
“No,” Izabel answers, “that’s not necessarily the case where I’m going. It’s not like there’ll be Wanted posters nailed to
light poles on every city block in this place. And besides, back to Mexico, back into the belly of the same beast I escaped from, is the last place anyone, whether they’re looking for me or not, would ever expect to find me.”
I step forward. “To answer your question,” I say to Gustavsson, “yes, we have reason to believe that the real Vonnegut was one of those wealthy men that Izabel saw when she was Javier’s prisoner.”
“So that raises a lot of questions,” Gustavsson says, “as to just how much business Vonnegut did with the Ruiz Family.”
I nod. “It does indeed.”
“If it’s true,” Izabel reminds us. “We’re taking what Nora told us on good faith—and I believe her—but whether she was telling the truth or not, in the end, the information could be bad. Only way to know for sure is to go and find out. And that’s what I’m going to do.”
No one says anything for a moment.
“So then this is it,” Gustavsson speaks up; he opens his hands to the room. “We leave this building today, all heading in different directions—it feels so…final.”
“It is temporary,” I correct him.
“Yes,” Izabel says, and glances briefly at me. “And when this is all over, everything will be different.” She looks at me again, for longer this time. “Vonnegut will be dead; The Order will be under Victor’s control; we’ll be able to not only work freely and out in the open, per se, but our very lives will change in unimaginable ways. Freedom. Wealth. Opportunities.” She walks toward me, and she stops right in front of me, tilts her head slightly to one side. “And power,” she says, locking eyes with me, her way of telling me that, of all things, power is what I crave.
I am not sure how I feel about that. Is that what Izabel believes, that I am a man who longs for power? Is that what she thinks of me?
Perhaps she is r—
“Victor?” I hear Gustavsson call, and I blink back into focus. “Is this it then? Is this where we part ways and ride off into the sunset?”
For a second, I feel like I had been daydreaming longer than I thought, but finally I manage a nod. “Yes,” I say. “This is it. For now.”
Gustavsson steps up and offers his hand to me.
I accept it.
“If you need me,” he says, “I’m a call away.”
“Good,” I acknowledge. “The same goes for you, my friend.”
Gustavsson turns to Izabel. He looks at her fondly. And then he takes her into another hug, in which she returns.
“Izabel—”
“No goodbyes,” she interrupts. “And none of that ritualistic ‘be careful’ stuff, either. I’m going to be fine. And I’m coming back.”
He seems to think on her words for a moment, and then he nods.
“If you get into any trouble—”
She presses her hand to his chest, stopping him.
“Go catch your serial killer, Fredrik,” she says, and he smiles.
Gustavsson leaves, and after Woodard’s awkward, but endearing goodbyes, he leaves shortly afterward.
And now it is just the two of us, Izabel and myself, alone in the building we once called headquarters. And, in many ways, home.
Izabel reaches out and touches the side of my stubbly face with her fingertips; she gazes up at me. I want to take her into my arms and never let her go. I feel like I have been deprived of something very important, a moment between us that is long overdue and aching to be felt—reuniting for the first time with the one I love and almost lost. The last time I really held her in my arms was when she and I were in that cage together. Not once since her release from the hospital has she allowed me that important moment. And I feel that even now, standing here alone with her, just days before she sets out for Mexico, I will still be deprived of it.
And I do not understand why.
“Victor,” she says, and I almost cannot look at her because it hurts too much. “Do you have faith in me?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Do you trust me?” Her voice is almost a whisper; the sad, but determined look in her eyes is killing me because it feels like goodbye.
“Yes, Izabel, I trust you. And I trust in you.”
She pushes up on her toes and kisses me, letting her sweet lips linger on mine for an excruciating moment—I want more but I know I cannot have it. Her fingertips graze my face, and then slowly fall away. My stomach aches, my chest tightens.
“Good,” she says.
She wraps the black scarf around her neck again. And then she walks toward the door.
“Izabel.”
She turns. She looks at me, waiting patiently.
“How is Dina?” I just want Izabel to stay a little longer.
“She’s dead.”
“Oh.” I blink. And then I nod, understanding. I do not have to ask how Dina Gregory died—I know that Izabel did it swiftly so that her mother would not feel any pain.
“I am sorry,” I tell her.
Izabel nods. And she waits, because I am not exactly hiding the fact that I have more to say before she leaves.
I stumble over the words in my mind, wanting to tell her all of them, but not quite knowing how. I glance down at my feet, and then back up at her again. For the last time? That is what it feels like—the last time—and I cannot bear it.
I gather my composure.
Finally I say, “The stars will die before we do, Izabel…”
She smiles.
“I know they will,” she whispers.
After a second, her smile fades, and so does my nerve to finish what else I had intended to say.
“That question you asked me,” Izabel speaks up, “when you came to Dina’s.” She pauses. Looks at the wall. Then back at me. “If you still love me when I return…ask me again.”
And before I have a chance to respond, to tell her that I will always love her, she exits the room. And my life.
Izabel
Tucson, Arizona
The car parked on the street outside my house isn’t Victor’s this time—it belongs to the coyote who I paid to take me across the border. Usually it’s the other way around, and I had to pay a lot more to get into Mexico than an illegal immigrant wanting out. “Your situation is unique,” he had said during our negotiations, parked behind a convenience store at two a.m. yesterday morning. “Why don’t you just use your passport and catch a plane?”
“Because I have to get in this way,” I had said.
He smiled with intrigue, his dark eyes backlit with greed and expectation.
He looked me over. Young, white, American girl with a plan and a purpose. A girl, who clearly by my decision to go dangerously into Mexico by way of a coyote, knew that I not only had bigger balls than him, but also a much bigger bank account.
“Fifteen thousand,” he said, and I knew it was non-negotiable.
But money was the least of my concerns—I went into our negotiations expecting to pay no less than twenty thousand.
“Fifteen for the ride,” I agreed, handing over an envelope stuffed full of cash. “And I’ll also be needing a few other things.”
He cocked a thin brow.
I explained what else I needed, and by the time our meeting was over, he had half of his money up front (twenty-five thousand), and I had a very eager and willing coyote at my disposal.
I close the curtain and slip back into my room. There’s blood on my clothes from an earlier meeting, and I intended to change, but decide against it at the last minute. The blood will only help me to play the part—I just have to make it appear to be mine. No need to pack a bag or grab a toothbrush or anything like that, because kidnapped victims bound for sex slavery compounds don’t have such luxuries; they’re lucky to still be wearing shoes by the time they’re brought through the gates of one of the last places they’ll ever call home.
I swallow a birth control pill, and get to work on braiding a month’s worth of the little pills into the roots of my hair.
A knock echoes lightly through the house. At first, I t
hink it came from the basement, but when I hear it again seconds later, I confirm the source to be at the front door. Maybe it’s the coyote. He told me to call him Ray, but that’s his real name as truthfully as mine is Lydia. I had chosen the name on a whim, thinking a lot about the good friend I lost escaping Mexico the first time. I guess it’s my way of honoring her, of avenging her murder.
Before I go into the living room, I peek out the window of my bedroom and look into the street. Ray’s old beat-up car is gone, and there’s no other vehicle anywhere I can see that wasn’t there before.
The knock sounds again.
I grab my gun from the bed, head down the hallway, crouched low, and take a right into the kitchen instead. Quietly I slip out through the laundry room door, and make my way around the side of the house. Always on high alert, especially while I’m still in the United States, out in the open for Artemis to find me. She is still on the run, as far as I know.
Looking around the corner of the house, I glimpse a woman standing at the front door. The porch light is not on so it’s hard to make out anything more than her being female—the long hair and petit frame easily give away that much.
Pointing the gun at her just five feet away I say, “What do you want?”
The woman’s hands come up slowly, as if she knows I have a gun, and then she turns her head toward me.
“I just want to talk,” she says. “Well, actually I want more than that, but I can assure you I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You couldn’t,” I say with confidence.
She nods, raises her hands higher. “Yeah, I’m fully aware of that.”
I move in closer, feeling the cool, smooth concrete underneath my bare feet; my finger hugs the trigger.