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“Destination,” the woman on the other end replies.
“Tijuana.”
“At once, Mr. Donatello. It will be ready when you are.”
“Time to go to Mexico,” I tell Alessandro.
“What’s the plan?”
“Get Anna back for good.”
Thirty-Three
Anna
* * *
I’m exhausted and in desperate need of a shower. That’s not going to happen any time soon. The water’s off. I found that out when I arrived. None of us can wash. The only water for drinking comes in bottles and there’s not enough for one each.
I’m not sure how many women have been crammed into this dormitory. I gave up counting when I got to fifty. There are twenty-five mattresses on the floor, no beds.
I’ve spent today trying to work out how to escape. I couldn’t do it this morning. After a baking hot journey in the back of the van, I was unloaded straight into the factory, shoved along at gunpoint with a group of women, none of whom looked me in the eye.
There were no clocks in there, so I don’t know how long we worked. All I know is that I’m covered in dirt and every muscle in my body aches. My job was to load boxes onto pallets. For hours on end.
Guards with guns walked amongst us the entire time. I looked for exits but I couldn’t see any. When we were given three minutes to go to the bathroom after what seemed like an entire day of work, we were escorted there. Bathroom was a laughable term for a pit dug outside the factory. Boards had been placed across it, and the smell was indescribable.
I know why my father’s doing this. He’s trying to break me. Make me agree to marry into the cartel.
I won’t break. I would rather die.
That is an option I’ve been considering. Inside the boxes are pills. I don’t know what they are, but I bet if I took enough of them it would do the job. I could snatch a few and end it all.
Is there any point in keeping going when Marco’s dead? I’ve no prospects back in the States. I’ve nothing to go back to.
I have to escape. I won’t give up. Even if there’s nothing worth going for, I have to try. Something will come up, as Mr. Micawber always said.
What was it Marco said to me? Bad odds are always better than zero odds.
I know what I could do. I could tell the world the true story about my father. That would be something worthwhile to live for. They all think he’s a decent politician. Wait until they find out he’s running a drugs factory down here.
A day spent in the factory is enough to exhaust me to the point of collapse. I refuse to sleep, though. I have to get out of here. The longer I stay, the weaker I’ll get.
I’m in the dormitory and it’s late. Most of the women are asleep. A few are talking quietly in a language I don’t recognize. This room is above the factory floor. The windows are covered with barbed wire. There’s no getting out this way.
“You,” a male voice says from the doorway, pointing at flashlight into my face. “Come with me.” I make my way through the snoring bodies, trying not to step on any of them, getting cursed at when my footing is off.
Outside the dormitory is a narrow corridor that ends in a locked door. Beyond it, the stairs that take us down to work. We eat and sleep up here.
I get the feeling some of these women have been here for years. I’m yet to meet one who’s willing to talk to me. They just shake their heads whenever I try to make conversation.
The guard motions me toward the door. I pull it open. It’s unlocked. I walk down and find my father standing in the middle of the factory floor. “How do you like your new career?” he asks, looking in disgust at the sight of me. “You’re filthy.”
“You don’t provide showers.”
“Why waste water on workers? Ready to put this show of defiance to bed?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
