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Those added pounds gives me the appearance of being a big guy moving my weight around. People can notice, sense something is off, if they see a large person moving with the lightness of someone half his weight. It’s like watching an actor in a movie carry a suitcase that obviously has nothing in it. The eye unknowingly picks up on the detail, diminishing the illusion.
Of course, in a movie the only thing risked is the suspension of disbelief. For me, if Armand looks too closely, I’m risking Sean’s life, Geraldo’s life, Rosa’s… and mine.
The door by the bar opens and Armand exists. Gracias de Dios.
Heart pounding, breath unsteady, I stretch as he passes, bumping him with my arm. I turn and pat his shoulder in apology, securing the tracking device.
Armand curses and shoves me off. For all intents and purposes, I appear to be a heavyset older man with gray hair, large nose, and stooped shoulders. His eyes sweep over me and then away, as if he has bigger fish to fry.
My stomach heaves. That man… there was something vile in his eyes, something vicious. That was a man intent on murder. It’s all I can do to repress a full-body shudder. I have no idea what happened upstairs in his office, but for some reason Armand is filled with fury.
I shift the weight of the padding, drop from the stool, then follow Armand out onto the dark streets. The extra weight is cumbersome enough to make my exit labored. Was this disguise a mistake? No. That’s nerves talking. It was chosen for all the right reasons and the weight isn’t so heavy that I can’t adjust.
Outside, it starts to drizzle, warm and wet. Ahead of me, cursing under his breath, Armand lights a cigarette. The sour smoke hits my nostrils. Not a cigarette. Something stronger to soothe his frazzled nerves. All the better.
Keeping track of him for many blocks, I drop back when he stops and pivots. My pulse pounds. My hands sweat. Did he see me?
Likely not. I’m far enough away that I can only seehimthrough the reflection of a glass window across the street.
I keep my gaze on the sidewalk as Armand doubles back and heads through an alley. He’s practicing a surveillance detection technique, which means he has a reason to not want to be followed. He’s leading me to her; I can feel it.
After a moment, I move to the corner and follow. I catch up as he slips into what appears to be an out-of-business corner grocery.
The windows are painted black—the universal sign for not wanting people to see inside. In this case, me. There’s no way for me to see what me and my team are walking into, but I know enough. Armand is in there and likely Rosa. I pray there’s no one else in there, like Javier, a man trained to use a gun.
Shrugging the extra weight that aches against my shoulders, I glide around to the back door. Dropping low, I squat beside a gray steel covered basement window and quietly take off my disguise.
I press my earpiece to contact Sean, get his ETA, when a soul-shattering scream penetrates through the window. I know that voice. It’s followed by the sound of flesh hitting flesh.
I tap my earpiece, bark out, “Hurry, Sean. Rosa is here, in need. I’m going in.”
Only static answers me, and I pray Sean received my message as another muffled scream reaches my ears. Because I’ve face situations like this before—I’ve done undercover work for over a decade—I also know that waiting isn’t an option. Armand is not in control of himself. I saw it in his eyes tonight.
My heart in my throat, I pick the lock on the store’s back door, take out my weapon, then enter. A squeak and scuttling movement make me jump back.
Coño. A rat scurries across a one-time storage room that’s been turned into a makeshift kitchen. There’s a folding table and some chairs, an electric griddle with grease congealing across it, a series of plastic containers with food and numerous discarded beer bottles.
Weapon raised, I slip through the storeroom into the grocery store. Rotten and blackened food in glass refrigerators line the back wall. I clear each aisle, making sure no one will come up behind me, before sliding past a rolling bucket with a mop sticking from the top and heading toward a door I know is the basement. I know, because Rosa issues another hair-raising scream before cursing and saying, “Don’t touch me, you filthy dog!”
“How’s this for a touch?”
There’s a jarring slap.
“Or this?” Another thick slap.
Cold fury erupts in my body as I head down the stairs. I hear chains rattling. Pushing aside the anger that wants to make me sloppy and the fear that wants to make me turn and wait for backup, I keep moving. Calm and focused, every step measured and brought down with absolute quiet, I descend.
The stairs are dark, enclosed by brick, but light streams from around the corner. On the last step, I take a calming breath and send a prayer that my abilities are enough, that my training, what I’ve prepared for my whole life since being rescued will hold true. It’s not my first rescue mission, not by a long shot, but it feels so very personal.
I pivot around the corner. The basement is unfinished cinderblock, ancient and moldy.
Armand is turned from me. I aim at his back, prepare to shoot as he is still trying to unchain Rosa, but it’s not a clear shot, because Rosa is fighting back, jerking her body this way and that making it difficult. I can’t risk hitting her.
Suddenly, Armand heaves around and faces me.
The first thing I notice is the gun in his hand, the gun resting against Rosa’s head, and then, I see Rosa’s sunken and tearful eyes. Her face shows signs of bruising. Her lip is busted. My stomach flips. Sour bile rises into my mouth. I keep my gun trained on Armand.
Armand smiles, a smile as cold and confident as any I’ve ever seen. “And here is my other whore.”
