Portia
We drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat-up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.
My wrists are bound behind my back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I’ve managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?
After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn’t realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke.
They’re speaking Spanish.
That’s the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most important question is what am I to them? Their enemy’s wife or the cartel’s princess?
I’m going to guess the former since I’m riding naked in the trunk.
Someone pops the trunk and although dawn has hardly broken, I have to squint after the complete darkness of the trunk. I hear seagulls overhead and smell fish. As I start to move, the man who punched me, reaches in to lift me out.
We’ve arrived at a harbor. A crappy, run-down little harbor nothing like the ones tourists go to.
The boats at the docks look like they had their best days a century ago.
I smell dead fish and cigarette smoke as I stand shivering in the cold morning air, my feet bare on the gravel, my body naked.
Someone lights a match, and my attention is drawn to the sound. It’s my uncle.
Without a glance, he walks past me toward another man I don’t know. That man gestures with a nod and my uncle walks to a sedan with tinted windows. It’s parked just beyond a busted street lamp in the shadow of a building. I can just make out the shape of two heads in the backseat.
The door opens and I see a pair of khaki slacks. I squint my eyes to see who it is and my heart pounds, the alarm in my head sounding the warning to run. The man inside places a hand on the car door to help himself out. The watch. I know it. And I feel the blood drain from my face as Fernando Mancini steps out of the vehicle. Both he and my uncle turn to me.
I make a sound and I realize when my body tries to move, to run, that I’m still bound at ankles and wrists while two soldiers hold me still.
From here I see Fernando’s gaze slide over me, watch his grin widen as he takes me in.
The hands tighten on my arms as I draw back.
Stealing my attention, I notice another man leering at me. This one bigger, with stains on the belly of his shirt, lazily walking toward us. I have no reason to think Fernando or my uncle will protect me if any of these other men try to touch me.
The opposite, in fact.
The man looks me over; places the cigarette he’s smoking between his lips and reaches behind him.
When he pulls out a hunting knife, I open my mouth to scream or beg. But he bends down to cut the zip ties at my ankles then puts the knife away.
The sound of a truck engine has us all turning to the lone road that we must have traveled to come to this decrepit place. We watch as the truck pulls up. It’s beat up and the logo on the side too faded for me to read. But it doesn’t matter because when it comes to a stop and the container door is lifted, I see them, realizing what this is. I finally realize what’s about to happen. It makes me fight again, twist against the two soldiers holding me. We all
watch, including my uncle and Fernando.
The other man in the car is still a mystery. I can still see the outline of his head from here.
We just stand there and watch the women and girls lifted off the truck. I count a dozen. All in various states of dress, some with bound wrists. All looking terrified as they’re led single file down to the waiting boat which has just started its engine.
One tries to run and a soldier punches her. Just punches her right in the temple. The force off it knocks her sideways. Someone else screams as she staggers, stumbles, tries again to run. The soldier doesn’t punch her this time. He takes his gun out, cocks it, and shoots her in the stomach.
I don’t scream but the others do. In my periphery, I see my uncle take a drag off his cigarette while Fernando watches the scene with cold indifference.
The woman drops to the ground and the others behind her are made to step over her body. She’s still alive, curled around herself, clutching her stomach. Blood expands in a circle around her, as the man who pulled the trigger, nudges her with his foot and then laughs.
She’ll bleed to death. And it will be excruciatingly painful.
Fear clogs around my throat as every will to fight them slowly dies away.
Where are you, Callahan?