“Regan.” I shake her shoulder slightly. Her sleepy eyes flicker open, and she gives me the sweetest smile this side of the equator. And everything in me rebels at what I’m about to do.
“Hey, honey,” she says, reaching her hand up to cup my jaw. I turn and press a kiss into her hand. My somber expression alerts her that there’s something happening she might not like. “What’s wrong?”
I drop my hand to her forehead, smoothing out the frown lines that have appeared, but I can’t linger. Mendoza’s waiting.
“Fighter, outside Mendoza is ready to administer some justice to Hudson. You can stay in here and it’ll all be over soon or you can come outside and watch. It’s up to you.”
Her hand falls, and she turns her face away. Outside I can hear hammering as the cross is prepared. Soon they’ll be hammering into flesh and bone. “If you stay inside, you’re gonna want these.” I place two foam ear cushions in her palm. “It’ll muffle some but not all of the noise. You can go down to the base of the hill, too. Inside the second-to-last house, there’ll be a place where they’ll be playing music pretty loud.” Not everyone in Mendoza’s paradise agrees with his methods, or maybe they agree but don’t want to be a party to it. But I made this call. Mendoza gave me the option of shooting Hudson or subjecting him to what Mendoza calls judgment. For the torture of Regan, the kidnapping of my sister, and for my own sanity, I chose judgment. Maybe this is a decision that Regan should have made, but Mendoza came to me and I made the call.
She picks up the foam cushions and closes her hand around them. “Will it be bad?”
“Yeah.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “You may have nightmares.”
She gives me a sad smile. “I’m already going to have those. Maybe this won’t be a nightmare. Maybe this will kill some of my fear.”
I shake my head. “I’m no psychologist. I’m a soldier. I don’t know if this will lessen your fear or make a mark that you can’t shake off. Some things . . .” I pause and think back to my time outside the wire in Afghanistan, some of the secret operator missions I’ve been on, and all the haunted eyes I’ve seen in the girls I’ve rescued. “Some things can’t be unseen.”
“But you’re going out there?”
I nod. “I’ve got nightmares, too. He’s one of them. I’m not sorry to see him die.”
“Me neither.” She puts her hand in mine, and I feel the foam between us. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
REGAN
Daniel warned me that it would be bad. But I should have guessed that if he was trying to shield me from it—after all we’d been through together—it would be really, really bad.
I see a cross in the center of the compound’s courtyard, and that’s enough for me to flinch. “Are they going to—”
“Yup,” Daniel answers flatly.
“Oh.” My stomach feels a little weak at the thought and at the kindling I see people stacking at the bottom of the cross. There are people gathered, people everywhere. It’s like the entire favela has turned out to see this. Mendoza’s men are armed and grim-faced as they make a protective ring on the outskirts that no one will cross.
Hudson is standing nearby, stiff as a board, gazing off into the distance. There are two armed men standing next to him, but he’s calm. He’s calm even when they begin to lead him forward. There’s another man kneeling near the base of the cross. His hands are bound behind his back, and his head is bowed. I think he must be crying, because his shoulders are shaking.
Mendoza stands over him, a fire behind him illuminating the whole macabre scene. “Recite his crimes,” he instructs the man on the ground.
“Carl Hudson has committed acts . . .” the man half speaks, half whispers. The words dribble out between heaving sobs.
“Louder,” Mendoza commands.
The bound man starts again. “Carl Hudson has committed acts of depravity for which he will be punished. He has stolen thirty-four women, raped them, and passed them around to his helpers until they were dead. Two of those women belonged to Tears of God. Those people belonged to Rafael Mendoza and had his protection. Touching any of Mendoza’s people means death. But for the other thirty-two women, we require more than an execution. Mendoza and the Tears of God require judgment.”
Mendoza raises his arms to his people. “Do we agree that Carl Hudson should die for his sins and be judged by Cristo Redentor of his final destination?”
“We do!” the crowd shouts back.
I hate the man, but I’m not sure I can see him nailed to a cross and burned. I swallow hard, and my hand sneaks back into Daniel’s.