Dirty Angels

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Javier

I was having a nightmare. I was on the fishing boat with my father, only I wasn’t a boy anymore. I was the way I was now, thirty-two and wearing a suit. My father looked old, far too old to be alive, and had a Panama hat on his head. Every fish he reeled in he injected with a syringe, some kind of red poison, and threw them back. Soon, the whole ocean was filled with floating, bloated, dead fish everywhere you could see.

He ended up catching something really big on his line, enough that the whole boat started to tip over. When he finally managed to reel it in, we saw it wasn’t a fish at all.

Luisa was hanging on the end of the line, her neck broken. The giant hook was through her throat and blood poured down from the wound, staining her body red. Her eyes were lifeless, like the dead fish that were slowly turning as red as she was.

“What part of her do you want to eat first?” my father asked me with a bloody smile.

I thought I woke up screaming. But it wasn’t my screams at all that I was hearing.

They were Luisa’s.

In a second I was in my pajama pants, a .38 Super in one hand, and I was running down the dim hallway toward the room I had put her in earlier. I kicked down the door, not even bothering to open it, and to my utter horror, I only saw Luisa’s legs on the floor, sticking out from alongside the other side of the bed. Franco’s beefy form was over her, his face grinning. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but I could guess.

Guesses were good enough for me.

I aimed the gun and shot him in the stomach, wanting the fucker alive. He howled, and before I knew what I was doing, I was running across the room and shoving him off of Luisa and tackling him to the ground. He tried to get up, but I head-butted him, breaking his nose. I pistol-whipped the same spot I did earlier, then quickly frisked the weapons off of him. I tossed them away and rolled his heavy, writhing body to the side. The rage, the living anger I had inside of me, was threatening to completely take over, something I rarely let it do, but I had to take care of Luisa first.

Then there would be no helping me.

I looked to her, my eyes wild, mouth open. She was grabbing her throat and coughing, trying to sit up, both cheeks red and swollen from where he had hit her. Her shirt was up around her breasts, and her underwear was crooked, halfway down her thighs.

Jesus Christ. If I hadn’t gotten here in time…

“Luisa,” I whispered, reaching for her. She looked at me with fear, total and utter fear, and tried to scoot backward and away from me. The bed and nightstand was blocking her exit.

I raised my palms as I went toward her on my knees. “Luisa, it’s okay,” I said as calmly as I could. It wasn’t easy. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She shook her head, panicking, her hands clawing at the sheets as if she were trying to climb up on the bed. I gently grabbed her arm, but she pulled it away and started shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face.

I was frozen in my own form of panic. I was watching her destruct. I was watching her break. And it hadn’t been me who broke her.

“You promised,” she gasped between her heaving sobs, crying into the side of the bed. “You promised.”

Her words sliced through me like the slickest blade. I had promised. I promised I wouldn’t let anyone hurt her. I promised to protect her.

I broke my promise. And by doing so, I ended up breaking her after all.

Suddenly Este was beside me, trying to make a grab for her. I could hear The Doctor behind me, peering over Franco, remarking on my shot, how long it would take for him to die. But I remained there on my knees, stuck in that moment where I finally ruined Luisa. The coldest, blackest rage had a hold on me, and after a while, it was all I could feel.

Fury became my captor. My hands were bound in shame.

Eventually, The Doctor pulled me up to my feet and poured a vial of bitter liquid in my mouth, moving my jaw so I would swallow it. I could barely stand and found myself pitching over but The Doctor held me up. He was saying things but I couldn’t hear anything above the blood roaring in my ears. Fragments of my nightmare came rushing back.

“So what are your plans with him?” The Doctor asked. His words found their way into my ear, sinking in for the first time and penetrating the fog.

I looked to him in slow surprise. I was sitting in my chair in my office, The Doctor across from me, smoking a cigar. “Oh, so you’re finally here,” he said with a nod. “Nice of you to join the real world, Javier.”

“Where is Luisa?” I asked thickly, taking in my surroundings, wondering how catatonic I had been.

“Don’t worry about her,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “She’s with Este and Juanito in the kitchen. She’s drinking tea. She’s a little bruised but she’s fine otherwise.”

Fine? He hadn’t seen her destruction the way I had. That strong, beautiful woman folded over from too many years of fear.

I couldn’t stop seeing her eyes.

“Franco didn’t get a chance to rape her,” The Doctor went on, smiling slyly. “But I still think we should let him suffer, don’t you?”

“As much as humanely possible,” I said, my jaw clenching. My hands kept opening and closing, making fists. “I want to do everything that I told him I would do.”

“Either he wanted to test you or he had a death wish. Regardless, the man is a dumb fool and we don’t need dumb fools in our family, now do we?”

I shook my head absently, not really listening. I was already fantasizing about my revenge. I looked over at him. “You can revive him, right, if he dies or passes out?”

He chuckled. “Well, I can’t revive him if you remove his head, so save that for last.”

“That is the plan.”

He got up, a gleeful tone to his voice. “Tell me what tools you need and I’ll set things up in my office.”

The Doctor’s office was in the small guest cottage on the property. It’s actually where the Doctor lived. I wanted his torture house to be as far away from me as possible. Screams were so disturbing when you were trying to eat dinner, though now I wished his office wasn’t soundproof. I decided I would leave the doors and windows open and let everyone hear exactly what we were doing to Franco.

“I want a saw,” I said. “A very rough, strong saw. The kind that really rips flesh and gristle and bone. I want a jar of acid, something to dip toes and fingers and tongues in. I want a cattle prod. I want a red hot poker. My Taser gun.”

“I see. Would you also like a rat and a bucket? Medieval torture never goes out of style.” He went over to the door. “Franco is unconscious upstairs, but I’ll get him down. I stopped the bleeding because I wasn’t sure what you wanted to be done with him. He’ll be awake and ready for you by the time you come by.”

I swallowed hard, the anger continuing its course up and down my body, firing off in electric flames. I was going to make Franco pay. I was going to make him regret he ever looked in her direction. Then I was going to make Luisa see what I do to those who hurt her. I was going to make her look at him. And then she’d know exactly what I’d do for her.

This was all for her.

Luisa

The screaming started at four in the morning, about two hours after Franco had attacked me, and continued on well into the afternoon. At first it rattled me, bringing back memories of being at Salvador’s and the torture I had to hear, and it kept me from sleeping.

Not that I could sleep at first anyway. I knew Este and Juanito were always around, watching me. I suppose their job now was to protect me since Javier was out exacting torture, but that didn’t mean I trusted them. Who would protect me from them? Still, Juanito seemed safe enough, maybe because he was young and reminded me of a boy I grew up with. And to his credit, Este didn’t appear to hold any grudges over me attacking him again.

After a while though, I was able to rest, my head on the island in the middle of the chef’s kitchen. When I woke up around ten a.m., light streaming in the kitchen, Juanito was serving me tea and toast, the latter which I refused. I had no appetite. It was then that I noticed the screams were still coming from the cottage—the doctor’s office—though they were weak now and sporadic. They no longer had an effect on me. I was able to ignore them, and perhaps, if I was honest with myself, I was starting to enjoy them.

Just a little bit.

I had been lying awake in bed, daydreaming about a life I never had, when Franco came and knocked on my door. At first I thought it was Javier, coming to stay the night with me. It was so embarrassing when he turned me down, and I hated myself for being so needy and vulnerable in front of him. I just didn’t want to be alone. I had my reasons and my reasons all came true.

Once I saw it was Franco, I screamed. I could see it in his eyes, that vile tar, that blackness, what he had come for. I expected him to lumber toward me with his injured foot, but he was fast. He threw me out of bed and onto the floor, and after he punched me a few times, my cheekbones taking most of the hits, he started strangling me with one hand. With his other hand he squeezed my breasts painfully and started to yank down my underwear.

With Salvador, I had learned to stop fighting back. I learned to stop struggling. He had always told me it was his right as my husband to do whatever he wanted to me and that I had to do whatever he wanted to him. Even if I had been one of his whores, he would probably say the same thing. It was his right simply because he was Salvador Reyes.

But I wasn’t going to let Franco rape me, not without a fight. So I struggled. It was all in vain. His grip on my throat was so strong that I felt all the life drain out of me. The edges of my vision grew black as I gasped for breaths that I couldn’t take in. I thought I was going to die on that floor, completely helpless while he had his way with me.

The thought of dying like that did something to me. It made me so afraid that I couldn’t even function.

When Javier came in and shot Franco and I was free, my first instinct was to get away, to escape. All the formalities and politeness, and yes, lust that Javier seemed to show for me didn’t seem to matter anymore. He was supposed to protect me, and I was a fool to believe a lion would ever shelter a lamb, especially from his own pride.

But, of course, there was nowhere for me to go. There was no escape from the golden prison. So Esteban and Juanito took me down into the elaborate, shiny-clean kitchen where they looked me over and took care of my bruises. And as they did so, as the screams of Franco began to ricochet throughout the surrounding jungle, a dark mass against the hazy blue of the pre-dawn sky, my fear began to melt away. It began to change inside me, as if all the chemicals were taking new forms and shapes.

My fear turned into anger. And when I woke up to Franco’s waning screams of agony, I let the anger wrap around me like a cloak.

Javier had asked why I wasn’t angry enough.

It was because I didn’t let myself be.

But now, it was a part of me. The coil had unraveled. And I wasn’t letting it go anywhere. Not anymore.

I was halfway through the cup of tropical green tea—judging by the excess amount of boxes in the cupboards, I gathered it was Javier’s favorite—when the Devil himself showed up, standing in the hallway.

Javier had never looked worse. His white dress shirt was stained with blood, as were his jeans. He had circles under his eyes, his hair was messy and damp, and his gaze was blank, as if he were sleepwalking, even though he was looking right at me.

“Luisa,” he said in a rough, strained voice. “Would you like to see what I’ve done to him?”

I stared right back at him.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation.

He looked taken aback for a moment—perhaps he wasn’t expecting me to want this. But I did. I wanted to see what justice looked like. I wanted to see what his anger was capable of.

He glanced briefly at Esteban and Juanito, perhaps delivering wordless orders. I got out of my chair and joined him at his side. We walked down the tiled hallway, past large rooms that held many secrets, until Javier opened the French doors out into the blinding brilliance of the backyard.

The gardens around the lawn and the pool area were absolutely beautiful and impeccably landscaped with the most exotic and colorful flowers you could imagine. There were bushes of red bougainvillea and white gardenia, pink plumeria, blue and purple orchids, magenta and yellow hibiscus, and birds of paradise, all of them expertly blending into the lush green grass and flowerbeds. Hummingbirds and butterflies filled the air, and dragonflies darted above a pond filled with koi fish and floating white lotus.

For a moment I was so stunned by their beauty and elegance, how tenderly cultivated and cared for they were, how seamlessly they seemed to thrive, that I forgot why we were outside. But beyond the dazzling blooms and shining heat of the morning sun, there were cries of pain and a man being tortured, and I was yanked back into reality.

I wanted to say something to Javier, ask about the garden, tell him how gorgeous it was, but now was not the time. As usual, I was caught between beauty and depravity.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit fearful as we approached the cottage, the door wide open, beckoning us into the darkest places. Javier put his hand at my elbow and gently pulled me to a stop just outside.

“Are you sure you can handle this?” he asked, his eyes focusing on my bruises.

I raised my chin. “Yes. Don’t worry about me.”

He squinted at that, studying me, perhaps worrying after all.

“Very well,” he said. “Come on in.”

The first thing I noticed when we stepped inside was the strong smell of ammonia that burned the inside of my nostrils.

The second thing was how spotlessly clean the room was, considering the messy state Javier was in.

The third thing was what made me fall ever so slightly into Javier. His hands went to my shoulders, and he held me up, and I willed myself to stay conscious, to take it all in, even though it was all too horrible to take.

On a metal table in the middle of the doctor’s office, lay Franco. He was completely naked—but he wasn’t complete. His feet and hands were gone, bloody, cauterized stumps in their wake. His genitals had also been removed in a choppy, ragged manner. His torso was covered in hundreds of festering burn marks. Remarkably, he was alive. His head was propped up in a vise-like clamp that pressed down on his head and up on his jaw, his eyes staring at me, dull and milky.

The doctor was standing over him with a syringe poised at his heart, ready to inject him with the drug that would prevent him from losing consciousness. Judging from the amount of needle marks on his chest, this had been done many, many times.

The closest thing I had seen of torture myself was when Salvador was about to perform the “double saw” on an informant. It was enough to see the man, hung naked from his feet, upside down, with the saw positioned between his legs. I knew that was one of the most gruesome torture techniques, and I thanked my lucky stars I had gotten out of there before I saw any blood spill.

What Javier did didn’t seem that much better. And because Franco was still alive, I knew it wasn’t over yet.

“Take a good look at him,” Javier said in my ear. “Look at his face. Look at the monster that he is.”

I did. And I didn’t just see Franco. I saw Salvador too. I saw Salvador’s men. I saw Bruno. I saw all the men who ever wronged me, all the faceless cartel men out there who were wronging women left and right.

And I tried to imagine seeing Javier there, too. After all, he had kidnapped me, tortured me, humiliated me, and in the end, broke his promise to protect me.

But I just couldn’t. The man had a hold on me that I couldn’t even begin to understand.

“Franco,” the doctor said to him. “That over there is Luisa. Do you remember what you did to her? What you wanted to do to her? Javier warned you, did he not? You were a dumb fool for breaking the rules—all along you knew this was the price you’d have to pay.” The doctor looked at me, his voice chillingly glib. “Luisa, if you can perhaps give him a smile. It will be the last thing he sees.”

I wasn’t sure how it was possible, but I managed to plaster a smile on my face. It might have even reached my eyes.

“How beautiful,” the doctor commented. Then he reached over, and with two quick twists of a lever on top of the clamp, it tightened around his head. There was a crunch as all the teeth in Franco’s jaw shattered, blood pooling out of his mouth and onto his throat, then a faint, wet pop as his eyeballs fell out of his sockets, dangling by their optic nerves.

That was all I needed to see. I turned around, glancing up at Javier who was watching me with an unreadable expression.

“I’m ready to go now,” I said quietly.

Javier nodded and looked over me at the doctor. “Keep him alive for a bit longer. Then remove his head. With the knife, not the saw.”

“Yes, Javier,” the doctor said, a trace of awe in his voice.

I stepped out back into the sunshine and heat and the birds that called out their beautiful song from the nearby trees. Had all that just happened? How did so much ugliness co-exist with this?

“You must be tired,” Javier said to me, gently leading me back the way we came, down the groomed gravel path that took us past the pond and gardens and back to the house.

“I’m okay,” I said. Truth was, I felt like a million tons of caffeine was moving through me. It must have been the adrenaline. I was amazed I wasn’t throwing up.

As we passed by the pond, Javier nodded at the lotus blossoms.

“Those are my favorite, you know,” he commented. It was as if everything in the cottage had been a dream.

“The lotus?” I asked. Despite everything, I couldn’t help but admire them again. “They are beautiful.”

“Yes, they are.” He stopped and stared at the flowers for a few moments. “I love the lotus because while growing from mud, it is unstained,” he said, as if he were reading something aloud. He glanced at me. “A Chinese scholar once said that. I agree. It represents everything that I am not.”

We started walking again. We were almost at the house when I said, “You must feel your soul is dirty then.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Oh, my darling. No,” he said, opening the French doors for me. “I don’t even have a soul.”