Chapter 6

Asleep in my bed later, I was dreaming of Luz.

Not in some vague, impressionistic way either—I mean vividly. Her laugh. The soft touch of her hand on mine. That second goodnight kiss, the one she initiated. I could still feel it on my lips. I remember thinking, even in the dream, how crazy it was to feel so light in a place so dark.

And then everything shattered.

No longer was I dreaming. This was real. The door exploded open and I was yanked out of bed before I could even register what was happening. I shouted, struggled, but it didn’t matter. Three men—no words, no warning—just brute force. I caught a glimpse of the hallway. Two more guys were bracing themselves against the door to the girls’ room while screams of terror tore from inside.

Luz. Marisol. Isa.

A sound that will live in my bones forever.

I didn’t go quietly, but it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. I was dragged outside, half-dressed, barefoot, the gravel chewing up my feet. Before I could catch my breath, I was thrown into the back of a familiar van—the very same one we’d all been taken in weeks ago. The same damn vehicle that smelled like fear and gasoline.

The back doors slammed shut. I heard the engine growl and the wheels screech as we peeled off down the dirt road.

I expected zip-ties. A hood. A gun to my temple. But none of that came. I sat up, breath ragged, and realized I could move freely. My wrists were untouched. No one was shouting at me. My body was shaking, adrenaline still crashing through me, but I scanned my surroundings. Two stuffed backpacks were shoved into the corner. A toolbox, battered but intact, sat beside them.

Then a voice from the front, speaking in smooth, almost apologetic English.

“You’re being released,” the driver said. “We’re taking you to the U.S. consulate in Monterrey.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“That’s why we didn’t restrain you. We don’t want to hurt you. We just had to get you out of there. You’re not useful to us anymore. Just the girls.”

He said it like he was informing me that my meal had been comped. Just the girls.

Something in me snapped.

I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh options. I just moved. My eyes locked on the rear door—thank God, thank God, there was an interior latch. I lunged forward, heart hammering. My fingers gripped the handle.

“You don’t have to—”

I flung the door open mid-sentence. Wind and dirt rushed in. The van swerved slightly, but I was already in motion. I kicked the backpacks and toolbox onto the road, leapt out after them, and hit the ground hard—shoulder first, then a roll. The road scraped skin, bruised bone, but I was up in a flash, grabbing the gear and scrambling off the shoulder.

I didn’t look back.

I disappeared into the brush, the trees swallowing me whole, adrenaline numbing the pain, one thought burning through my skull with electric clarity: I am not leaving them behind.

I stayed low, the earth cold beneath me, the night air thick and buzzing with distant noise. The headlights were long gone, but then came the flashlights—sharp, nervous beams cutting through the trees. I heard voices too. Spanish, low and fast. They were looking for me.

I didn’t move. Not an inch. I was crouched behind a thick patch of brush, just out of their path. I wondered if snakes or other undesirable critters were in my midst. Even now, my heart was still thundering in my chest, so loud I swore they could hear it. But fate smiled down upon me. The beams never got too close. They searched halfheartedly for a while, then gave up. I heard footsteps fading, a car starting, the sound of someone spitting in the dirt before silence returned to the world.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and stayed put. No sudden moves. Not until first light.

They had told me I was being taken to freedom. To the U.S. consulate. They told me I was out. Free. That they only wanted the girls now.

And that thought—the one that had been clawing at my brain since they dragged me out of bed—came roaring back. Were the girls still at the house? Or had they moved them too?

The idea of them being gone, scattered, relocated to some unknown hell ... it sent a wave of cold terror through me. But I had to go back. I had to know. I had to see for myself.

I waited until the sky started to go from black to gray, until I could see the lines of the trees and the curve of the road. Then I stood, slowly, grabbed the backpacks and what was left of the tool box, and moved deeper into the foliage. I wouldn’t risk the road. I’d follow it, yes, but from a distance.

The van hadn’t traveled far when I jumped out—maybe a mile, maybe less. I’d find my way.

I ducked behind a fallen tree and checked the gear. The backpacks—they weren’t ours. Not the ones we packed so carefully back in that house. These were stuffed with old clothes, useless scraps. I didn’t care too much. If I could get back to the girls, these two extra backpacks would be useful. If.

But the toolbox? That was something else. It felt like fate. Like some tiny amount of mercy dropped in my lap.

Inside were screwdrivers, pliers, a utility knife, a couple of rolls of electrical tape, and—God bless the person who put them there—heavy-duty wire cutters. Not cheap ones either. The kind that could slice through a steel fence like it was spaghetti.

I took everything useful and crammed it into one of the two backpacks. Don’t ask me how, but I managed to squeeze the mostly full backpack into the other empty backpack, allowing me to keep them both. I wasn’t able to zip it up all the way, but that was fine. I ditched the rest of the contents—the clothes, the junk, the empty box. Traveling light was my only option. That, and quiet.

By full daylight, I was moving again; careful and steady. I stuck to the brush, keeping the road within view but never stepping foot on it. Hours passed. My stomach growled. My mouth was dry as ash. I was filthy, sweat-drenched, running on fumes. But I kept moving.

And then I saw it. The house.

I crouched on a small rise, just far enough to avoid being spotted. I recognized the outer fence, the dirt lot, and the same guard at the front. Same slouch. Same bored look.

Relief hit me so hard I nearly dropped to my knees. They were still here.

I backed away, settled into a thicket of trees, and waited. I’d move at dusk.

I was starving. I was thirsty. I needed sleep. But none of that mattered. Because I was going back for them. And my confidence was increasing that I could actually pull this off.

From the shelter of the tree line, I watched. I let my eyes sweep slowly across the perimeter again and again, committing every detail to memory. Fence. Guard. Gate. Shadows. There was one thing in particular I was looking for. I wished for a pair of binoculars, but as it turned out, it wasn’t necessary.

Because there—just above the back corner of the house—I spotted it with my own eyes. A second camera. Tucked beneath the eave, angled just so. Not easy to see unless you were specifically looking for it. But I was.

I closed my eyes and pictured the rough sketch Luz had drawn. The camera she spotted when we went after Isa—northwest corner, angled toward the rear walkway. This second one, the one I just found, covered the blind side. Together, they created a triangle of visibility. But not a perfect one.

There was a path. A gap. A narrow line through their surveillance. And if I was fast and careful enough, I could use it.

I waited.

I waited for the light to fall, for the world to slide into that dusky in-between—when colors bleed together, when shadows stretch long and thick, but there’s just enough light left to see your hands. That was my window.

When I felt the time was right, I took out the wire cutters and approached the fence low and fast, every nerve on fire. The metal gave way with a series of dull, satisfying snips. The wire peeled back like dead skin. I slipped through. I was in.

My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my ears. I crept along the side of the house, past the blind spots, my back pressed to the wall. I froze whenever I heard footsteps—waited until they moved off again. I was just another shadow, another ghost in the dark.

And then I heard them.

The girls. Muffled voices. Pain. Crying. Luz. Marisol. Isa.

The sound hit me like a punch to the chest. It took everything I had not to rush inside, to kick the damn door down and tell them I was here.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

Once again, all I could do was wait. Because the smart move—the move that might actually keep us alive—was to strike during guard change.

I waited some more. Time seemed to stretch on interminably. But finally, the moment of truth arrived.