high as she could toward the top of the wall. She scrambled down the other side and high tailed it toward the back door that led to the kitchen, plucking a few roses from the lush grounds on the way. She stuck her dirty feet into her red stilettos, glad she’d selected pumps so her soles were covered, and entered the kitchen, calling for a vase.
She wrapped a paper towel around her hand to staunch the blood, but it was still welling up. As she arranged the flowers, she heard her name being called in that mellow basso voice that in other circumstances she might have yearned to hear. “In the kitchen!” she called back in Spanish. His English was broken at best, another reason, she was sure, he’d selected someone proficient in Spanish as his latest mistress.
Arturo entered, smiling indulgently when he saw her trimming rose stems, but his smile faded when he saw the bloody paper towel on her hand. He took her hand and removed the towel to look at the small wound. “I’ve told you before to have the maids cut the flowers for you, precisely for this reason,” he scolded. He gently wrapped a fresh paper towel around her hand, pressing on her cut to try to staunch the blood. His dark brown gaze, which could go brandy hot with lust and the next instant take on the cold glare of a snake, traveled down her form, pausing on a couple of snags on the tight silk.
She ducked her head over her task, muttering, “They never get the right ones. I snagged my dress on the bushes. I was going to change before you came, but you’re early.” She put the last rose in the vase with her free hand and stepped back, eyeing her handiwork as she pulled gently away from his touch. She’d learned early on that resistance only made him more brutal.
He slipped the towel off her hand. The blood had slowed to a dot. “Good. I will send María into town for more of your medicine. You’re out?”
She nodded, cupping his cheek with a faux tenderness and gratitude he seemed to take as genuine. At least so far.
Mollified, he embraced her, muttering, “Pobrecita, idiota,” and kissed her ruthlessly on the mouth. She did what captive women have been doing since time immemorial: She stifled an urge to kick him in the balls and kissed him back, running her hands through thick hair graying at the temples.
She had one imperative: to survive one more day and to protect her daughter until they could escape . . . And with her second breath she gave a plea to the only other person on the planet who really loved her and Jennifer. “Emm, I hope you haven’t given up on us. . . .”
In downtown Amarillo, Emm, Curt, and Ross sat near the back of the dark little bar, each nursing a glass of wine. The exchange of information had begun slowly, with Emm sharing what she’d learned in the library. “Girls had been disappearing in Maryland long before Jennifer, and I found at least one victim who was originally from the Baltimore area but was found in the Texas Panhandle . . . Baltimore could be a hub for this particular group.”
Sinclair shared what the lab had deduced so far from the warehouse of confiscated items. “We traced clothes, purses, shoes, even some of the makeup, but other than your sister’s custom weed pipe, most of the things were cheap knockoffs sold in any city in the nation. We’re trying to trace them but haven’t found anything of interest yet.”
“So that’s why you hired Dr. Doyle?” Emm asked.
“Partly. It’s a massive amount of evidence and I just don’t have manpower enough to thoroughly vet everything. She’d also already been retained by the DEA to assist with the Los Lobos cartel on the drug-smuggling end of the spectrum, so it just made sense to share her fee.”
Curt’s eyes narrowed. “You think this Los Lobos gang is the one behind the human trafficking in Baltimore?”
Sinclair shrugged. “I can’t make that connection yet, but we have confirmed they’ve broadened their focus in the last few years
She wrapped a paper towel around her hand to staunch the blood, but it was still welling up. As she arranged the flowers, she heard her name being called in that mellow basso voice that in other circumstances she might have yearned to hear. “In the kitchen!” she called back in Spanish. His English was broken at best, another reason, she was sure, he’d selected someone proficient in Spanish as his latest mistress.
Arturo entered, smiling indulgently when he saw her trimming rose stems, but his smile faded when he saw the bloody paper towel on her hand. He took her hand and removed the towel to look at the small wound. “I’ve told you before to have the maids cut the flowers for you, precisely for this reason,” he scolded. He gently wrapped a fresh paper towel around her hand, pressing on her cut to try to staunch the blood. His dark brown gaze, which could go brandy hot with lust and the next instant take on the cold glare of a snake, traveled down her form, pausing on a couple of snags on the tight silk.
She ducked her head over her task, muttering, “They never get the right ones. I snagged my dress on the bushes. I was going to change before you came, but you’re early.” She put the last rose in the vase with her free hand and stepped back, eyeing her handiwork as she pulled gently away from his touch. She’d learned early on that resistance only made him more brutal.
He slipped the towel off her hand. The blood had slowed to a dot. “Good. I will send María into town for more of your medicine. You’re out?”
She nodded, cupping his cheek with a faux tenderness and gratitude he seemed to take as genuine. At least so far.
Mollified, he embraced her, muttering, “Pobrecita, idiota,” and kissed her ruthlessly on the mouth. She did what captive women have been doing since time immemorial: She stifled an urge to kick him in the balls and kissed him back, running her hands through thick hair graying at the temples.
She had one imperative: to survive one more day and to protect her daughter until they could escape . . . And with her second breath she gave a plea to the only other person on the planet who really loved her and Jennifer. “Emm, I hope you haven’t given up on us. . . .”
In downtown Amarillo, Emm, Curt, and Ross sat near the back of the dark little bar, each nursing a glass of wine. The exchange of information had begun slowly, with Emm sharing what she’d learned in the library. “Girls had been disappearing in Maryland long before Jennifer, and I found at least one victim who was originally from the Baltimore area but was found in the Texas Panhandle . . . Baltimore could be a hub for this particular group.”
Sinclair shared what the lab had deduced so far from the warehouse of confiscated items. “We traced clothes, purses, shoes, even some of the makeup, but other than your sister’s custom weed pipe, most of the things were cheap knockoffs sold in any city in the nation. We’re trying to trace them but haven’t found anything of interest yet.”
“So that’s why you hired Dr. Doyle?” Emm asked.
“Partly. It’s a massive amount of evidence and I just don’t have manpower enough to thoroughly vet everything. She’d also already been retained by the DEA to assist with the Los Lobos cartel on the drug-smuggling end of the spectrum, so it just made sense to share her fee.”
Curt’s eyes narrowed. “You think this Los Lobos gang is the one behind the human trafficking in Baltimore?”
Sinclair shrugged. “I can’t make that connection yet, but we have confirmed they’ve broadened their focus in the last few years
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