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"Hey! Remember what I told you. Want me to come in and shut that big mouth of yours with tape?" Abigail threatens from outside.
"Where have you been? You can't keep me locked up forever, you damn bitches. It's inhuman," he spews with a slurred voice.
"Talking about humanity, coming from your lineage? We're treating you far better than what your father and you do to others," Abigail retorts sharply.
Mikel stays silent for a moment. Nervous and overwhelmed, he can't believe his luck. First, those damn bounty hunters kidnap him, and now, somehow, he ends up in the clutches of these two crazies who seem clueless about what to do with him.
"Have you considered what I told you?" he insists, desperate, unzipping his pants to relieve himself in the bottle. This time, he does it in the bottle; he's not so sure he'll get out of there quickly, and he can't stand his own stench.
"We're still working on it," Gretel responds, glancing at Abigail.
In truth, they hadn't even thought about it. The idea of negotiating with Teodoro Blanco isn't something they entertain. Just because they don't belong to the world of criminal gangs doesn't mean they're unaware that handing over Mikel won't fetch them a bag of money but a shovel to dig their own graves.
After threatening Mikel again, warning him of a gag if he screams, and emphasizing the need for silence to think, the two enter the house and head to the living room to finalize their plan.
"I don't think those phones are entirely secure," Gretel says when Abigail places them on the table.
"Why not? They're unregistered," Abigail says, confused.
"That just makes it impossible for the police to trace our names. They'll triangulate the signal, look for nearby repeaters, and narrow down a location," Gretel argues, focusing on her phone's screen as it lights up.
Abigail sees "Pol" written on the phone, making her uneasy, although Gretel remains silent, pressing the button to blacken the screen.
"This neighborhood is huge. Even if they pinpoint the call to the area and decide to search all the houses, they'll need a warrant. That takes time, not to mention the number of personnel needed if they want to do it quickly," Abigail concludes, tired of dealing with her company's lawyers and others, well aware that bureaucracy slows down any action.
Gretel gazes at Abigail without blinking, releasing a deep sigh until her lungs completely deflate. Despite the harshness of their predicament, Abigail's presence provides a sense of security.
"But you're right," Abigail continues. "What you're saying is valid. We need to buy time. So, as a precaution and to throw them off, we can drive half an hour away and make the call from there. It'll give them misleading information, but we can't forget they're the police. Tired of dealing with people who think they're smarter than them. We need to wrap this up quickly, Gretel. If we give them enough time, they'll find us one way or another."
Gretel isn't thrilled about that. She prefers the optimistic and determined Abigail because it's contagious and makes her believe they can pull it off.
"Positive thoughts," Gretel says, getting up. "Come on, I'll drive."
Abigail watches her walk ahead and smiles. Gretel has something that has completely captivated her in just a few hours. She doesn't know what it is, and she doesn't care. The only thought disturbing her is the idea of somehow ending up back with her foolish husband. What if he finally realizes the stupid mistake he made by leaving a woman like her and returns, regretful and begging for another chance? Gretel could easily succumb, as so many others do, and what's brewing between them wouldn't even get a chance to begin.
The executive is frightened by her own thoughts. In the rare moments she allows herself not to dwell on the overwhelming problem at hand, her mind conjures up plans with Gretel. She envisions going on trips with her, visiting a museum, having dinner at her place, or daily visits to the churro shop she talks about wanting to open. Abigail doesn't know why she thinks these things or why she smiles when she does. She's getting carried away with Gretel, a woman she knows because she fled her home when her husband announced he was leaving her for someone else. It's all complete madness; that's what her mother would say if she were alive, but Abigail can't help it. She likes Gretel.
Chapter 12
Sergeant Cruz Ortega finally arrives at the bar owner's home, where she's arranged to meet him after calling and informing him that she needed to ask him a few questions. The man grumbles, insisting he's already spoken to the officers and shared everything he witnessed.
"I need you to explain it to me too," she said sharply, although she couldn't care less about what the man saw outside because she already knows. She wants to hear about what he witnessed inside.
"I was about to go to bed. With all this mess, I haven't had time to lie down."
"I promise it'll only take a few minutes," Cruz concluded before hanging up.
When the man opens his door, he gives her a look indicating his displeasure with her visit. Sergeant Cruz couldn't care less. As a civil guard, she's accustomed to those glares and much worse, often accompanied by muttered insults. The man lets her in, and she wrinkles her nose involuntarily at the unpleasant smell of the apartment. It's a mix of fried food and dirty laundry, a rancid and sticky odor that infiltrates your nostrils, lingering for hours even after you've left. They enter the living room bathed in a yellowish light. The bar owner hasn't raised the blinds and doesn't seem inclined to do so, as he just sat in a chair and gestures for Sergeant Cruz Ortega to do the same.
For a few seconds, she stands there, observing everything quite unabashedly. The man looks her up and down with disdain, wishing she would start talking and leave. Even he is surprised to have an attractive woman in his house and still want her gone.
"Do you mind?" she insists, pointing at the chair.
The analytical mind of Sergeant Cruz interprets the invitation to sit in a chair rather than on the couch as a hostile act. The man doesn't want her there; he's uncomfortable with her presence and has no desire for her to stay longer than necessary. She's glad to take a seat in the chair; the sofa is stained, and she's sure the smell would cling to her clothes and haunt her for the rest of the day, just like the scent that has already invaded her nose and reached her brain.
"Do you remember seeing the three men who were assaulted in the parking lot inside your bar?" she asks to start the conversation.
"Yes, they arrived around eleven or so. Sat at a table in the back," he responds wearily.
