Beth woke slowly, her stomach clenching, and she lay very still. She hated throwing up, she’d do almost anything she could to keep from doing so, including not moving when she had absolutely no idea where she was. The room was dark and smelled like mold, and whatever she was lying on was lumpy and uncomfortable. She could hear a sudden burst of laughter, loud male voices talking in Spanish so fast that she couldn’t follow it. But then, with her brain spinning, she probably wouldn’t be able to follow English. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through her mouth, slowly, carefully.
Where was she? For that matter, where was Dylan? She should sit up, look around, but she was afraid if she did she’d end up hurling. She took shallow breaths and counted to calm herself, as she tried to piece together what had happened.
They’d been drugged. That had become obvious in the last moments she remembered, as she crashed onto the table. Since she refused to open her eyes she had no idea whether she was still in the hotel room or if she’d been moved. She suspected it was the latter. The surface beneath her felt different, and the men’s voices came through an open door. It didn’t seem likely that people would be congregating in the hall outside her hotel room.
Unless something awful had happened to Dylan. Her eyes flew open at that, and she had to shove a fist in her mouth to stifle her groan. The room was in total darkness, but there was enough light coming from the open door to tell her that this was another room entirely, and there was no sign of Dylan anywhere.
Her veil was gone, and the front of the habit was open to the sultry air. Except that there was no opening at the front of the nun’s robes, and she reached up and found someone had ripped the dress open while she’d been unconscious. She lay very still, taking stock of her body. Her muscles still ached, her feet still hurt, and there was a new throbbing in her upper arm, as if someone had yanked her or even dragged her. But below the waist felt the same, thank God. No one had raped her while she was unconscious.
Though if she was going to be raped, that was definitely the way to go, she thought, trying to be rational. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known Callivera was an unsettled country. If she’d wanted safety she never would have left Philadelphia.
Words were becoming clearer from the rapid Spanish in the other room. There were at least three men, probably more, and none of the voices sounded familiar. There was no missing “La Luz” and the reverential tone, answering one question. Somehow they’d managed to catch up with them, and she was a prisoner once more.
She felt despair bleeding over her, but she fought back. Giving up hope wasn’t an option. Not until she was dead.
What had they done to Dylan? If he was telling the truth about his family’s abandonment then they would have no use for him. Had they left him behind? Had they killed him?
And then a name came through the rapid Spanish that almost put the finish on her barely-controlled nausea. Alcista. The Bull. The rarely-seen leader of the Guiding Light, known for his insatiable appetite for food, drugs, and sex. And he was coming here.
She started counting again.
She remembered the stories now. The Bull liked sex and he liked an audience, that much she remembered. He usually stayed in the more populous northern part of the country, but the escape of three important prisoners was bringing him down south. The voices of the men sounded more excited than worried, like a visiting rock star was coming to town. If they’d been part of the rebel encampment they’d be a little more concerned about retribution.
Concentrate, she told herself, her mind growing clearer, though the advent of Alcista was doing nothing for her stomach. She needed to find out what had happened to Dylan. And whether MacGowan had walked into a trap.
For some reason she wasn’t particularly worried about MacGowan. If ever a man could take care of himself, MacGowan was that man. In fact, maybe she didn’t need to worry about anything. MacGowan would make sure Dylan was all right. MacGowan would rescue her. MacGowan . . .
MacGowan was only human, even if he seemed larger than life. Father Pascal would tell her to be patient and kind, turn the other cheek, the Lord would provide. Father Pascal had been slaughtered for his goodness. Maybe she couldn’t afford to wait.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position, though her arms were trembling with the effort and her stomach gave an unfortunate lurch before settling back down. The room was deserted – no Dylan - and she was sitting on a mattress on the floor. She drew her knees up and rested her forehead against them for a moment, taking in calming breaths. Her stomach seemed to have finally settled itself, and when she raised her head the barren little room had stopped spinning.
There was a boarded-up window in one wall, and it looked as if the door had been ripped off its hinges. She heard another rough burst of laughter, and she cringed. It had been early evening when they’d brought her the drugged food, and she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. Hours? Days?
A squat figure appeared in the doorway, blocking out the fitful light, and it was too late for her to dive back down and pretend to be unconscious. “You awake, gringa?” he said in Spanish. “You won’t have too much longer to wait. Alcista is coming, and you’ll have a chance to see what a real man is like.”
She couldn’t understand every word, and she hoped she was wrong, but the threat was very clear. “Where are my friends?”
The man scoffed. “That kid? We left him behind. He’s no use to us. And your good friend left you. They tell me MacGowan knows better than to risk his life unnecessarily.” For a moment she didn’t recognize his pronunciation of Finn’s name.
She didn’t bother arguing. She might imbue Finn with all sorts of noble qualities, but in the end he was a pragmatist and she was nothing but trouble. He would cut his losses and get Dylan out of there. There was nothing he could do for her.
She swallowed, wishing she weren’t still wearing the torn nun’s habit. It was stifling in the airless room, and she wished she were wearing her own clothes. Callivera was a Catholic country, and the torn nun’s habit probably didn’t help. Then again, the Guiding Light was probably not big on religion, considering what happened at the mission.
And she couldn’t let herself think about that. “What do you intend to do with me? My corporation will pay ransom, but not if you hurt me.” A lie. The Pennington Foundation would pay any amount of money to get her back, no matter what condition she was in.
The man shrugged his heavy shoulders. “That’s not up to me. Alcista will decide, but I think he will want to make an example of you. You’re heard of Alcista, have you not?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve heard of him.”
The man’s laugh was low and evil. “Then you will know he is muy hombre, and he likes blondes. Someone like you, so fair, so superior, he likes to bring them down. Me, I’m thinking he will put on a good show for us when h
e gets here this morning.”
Morning, she thought. So, maybe twelve hours or so since she’d been taken. MacGowan said the freighter was leaving at midnight. There was still time.
Unless she’d been unconscious for so long that midnight sailing had come and gone, and she’d been left behind.
“My people will pay more money if I’m returned unharmed.” It was worth trying again, but the man was unimpressed, and she heard voices in the background, laughing, calling out rude suggestions to him.