Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

That night, Emily lay awake in her cell with a scorching thirst and gnawing hunger unlike anything she'd ever known. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, and every time she attempted to stand, the floor did the wave. She had one more day, two at best, before she died of dehydration. The last thing she'd drunk had been coffee at Charge's cabin.

Before he betrayed me. Before this slow execution began.

That was their plan. She was sure of it now. This morning in the yard, the women had not slit her throat, punched or kicked her. Instead, they'd turned their backs, as if she were too low even for them.

Too low for a cartel mule? Or a serial killer? Either way, she was "off-limits" to the other inmates, and if Emily had to guess why, it wasn't because someone wanted to save her. This situation appeared to be a well-orchestrated effort to demoralize her in every possible way while she took the scenic route to the grave.

If Ed were an institution, he would be this place . Ed had taken away her humanity and will to live, piece by piece, but his weapon hadn't been turning his back. Instead, he'd hit, beat, and sometimes locked her in the closet. He'd insulted her "weak" mind, lack of education, and bumpy upbringing, all with the desire to make her feel too small to fight back.

It had worked.

Every bit of it.

She'd played the dutiful wife and hosted his poker parties. She'd dressed in little sundresses to please him. She'd even bitten her tongue when his corrupt friends groped her ass in the kitchen while Ed was busy smoking his cigars and attempting to win their money in the living room. She'd let them do what they wanted because Ed had made it clear that his friends were more important than her, and if she made things uncomfortable for him, he'd make her life hell.

Eventually, she'd reached a point so low that if Ed had told her she was a cockroach, she would've swallowed poison to cleanse his home of the pest.

Then, one night, everything changed.

She'd heard one of his partners talking about expanding their rape business. Yes, rape. Sex trafficking was far too sterile a term because what they did to those women wasn't sex. His was an operation that abducted destitute women and forced them to take drugs so that vile, sick animals could fuck them against their will.

So when she'd heard Ed and his buddies talking about catering their business to clients who preferred their victims younger, she'd lost it.

This and this alone had become her turning point because she had something beyond herself to care about and fight for. She'd begun recording their conversations, videotaping them talking about the women they'd kidnapped, and taking notes about where they got the victims.

When she finally ran, the bravery she'd needed hadn't come from a desire to save herself—someone so broken—but from an obligation to save these little girls and women before they became versions of her. No hope. No future. That was how Emily had ended up in El Paso, working for Charge. Those women were free now, but she was once again a prisoner.

"What am I going to do?" She rolled onto her side, feeling the hard cot press into her boney hip.

Am I really going to allow myself to die here? All that pain, all the mistakes, all of the lines she'd crossed to be free couldn't be for nothing. Maybe she could get word to someone who could pull a few strings and get legal help.

Emily's eyes sprang open. Olivia…

Olivia was an operator (aka "hit man") who'd recently left suite forty-five, looking to escape the killing business. Mostly because she'd fallen in love with Flint, a fellow operator, and had gotten pregnant—a big fraternization no-no. Emily didn't know where to find Olivia, but if anyone could help, it was her.

So how could Emily get a message to this woman when she was locked up and Olivia didn't want to be found?

Emily tossed and turned for hours, each minute marking another step toward her last heartbeat. Finally, around three in the morning, the solution hit her.

The money. I've got the money. And she had the guns. Emily had about a million in cash buried on Charge's property. Where had the money come from? A long, long story involving an SUV she'd stolen from the Heroin King, but it was hers now—the money, not the car. As for the guns, Emily had briefly been in charge of suite forty-five and resupplying the group. She'd ordered a shipment of ammo and guns and instructed the dealer to leave everything in a shipping container in a railyard just north of the border. And I'm the only one who knows where it is aside from the dealer.

Emily dragged her hands over her dirty hair. She had two bargaining chips to work with. Money and guns. If she could bribe one of the guards to get a message out to Olivia, then the rest of the money and guns—which could be sold for more cash—might be useful to spring her from this prison. Or get her a lawyer. Of course, Olivia would want something for her trouble, too, but there was enough there to work with.

The first challenge was finding a guard to help. The second would be communicating with Olivia, and it just so happened that Emily had the perfect way to do it.