“MERRI!”
I’m still half a football field away from the mansion, but I can see shadowy figures in the smoke.
“MERRI!”
The figures are moving in a group, but I can see from here there’s not that many of them. A dozen? Fewer? Where the f**k is Merri?
The blaze is growing. It has climbed up the left side of the mansion and is eating into the middle.
I pick up speed and try to prepare myself for the possibility of going in. I will, if I can’t find her. And Lizzy and Suri.
Fuck—there’s three of them. I’m near enough to the shadows now that I can see them grouped in a circle.
Someone must be hurt. Otherwise they would be moving farther back. Escaping the smoke that’s so thick here, I’m wheezing.
Not Merri, I tell myself as I come up on them.
“MERRI!” She could be one of the onlookers. She would stick around if someone needed her.
I’m almost to them—maybe ten feet away—when the crowd splits up. One half headed toward the blaze, the other clump of figures moving toward me.
I’m confused. Are they firefighters?
And then, from a small distance, I hear her shrieking, “No!”
I can tell it’s Merri because I’ve heard her voice in every intonation this past week. I’m sure it’s her because the sound makes all my muscles tense.
“MERRI!” I run around the group in front of me, into smoke so thick I can’t see a thing. “MERRI, WHERE ARE YOU?”
“No, Cross, NO!”
It sounds like she’s moving farther away, but I can only see smoke and shadows, black against the brilliant glow of fire. I sprint forward, running into sparks now that are falling from the building, and I hear her shriek again.
With all my strength, I hurl myself into the flames, thinking that I’m running into fire when really the fire is somewhere above me. The first floor, right in front of me, is smoking like a chimney but not burning.
I’m gasping for air, trying to climb inside a broken window with only one working arm, when something grabs me hard from behind and I’m slammed onto the ground.
Before I can get my breath again, I hear a low laugh, and something sharp touches my throat. A second later, a large body drops down over mine.
I note a slew of Spanish words before I see the face, and when I see the face, I don’t think it is real. The man sitting on my chest, holding a knife to my throat and leering at me through a cloud of black smoke… It’s Jesus Cientos.
His blade draws blood. I can feel it run down my neck, onto my shoulders. He presses harder as he glares at me, and I know I’m dead. Then the knife is gone, and he’s slapping me with both hands.
The slaps turn into punches. I try to fight, but he’s got backup—several of his men emerge from the smoke and hold me down. Somewhere near the back of my consciousness, I can hear him giving orders. Talking about the house. The fire. The girl.
I’m trying so hard to stay conscious, I can barely translate.
“…convenient.”
“…whore.”
“…David.”
“…explosives.”
I shut my eyes and wonder: Where is Merri? I remember her voice fading as she neared the flames.
What if Merri’s inside?
I’m opening my mouth to try and make some kind of deal when all of a sudden, all the weight is off me and I’m thrust up to my feet. My lungs are shit. I’m coughing and my knees won’t work.
“Take him,” someone says.
A stronger voice—one I think belongs to Jesus—says, “No. I want to make him watch.”
For a couple of seconds, everyone around me is speaking Spanish: so many voices I can’t translate, especially since I’m coughing out everything I just inhaled. Then something cold and hard is pressed into my neck and someone shoves me forward. We’re marching into the smoke.
I can hear the roar of flames devouring the brothel, even if I can’t see much. Then the smoke clears just a little, and it looks like we’re in hell. I can barely make out bookshelves, partially charred and burning; over to my left, smoke is pouring from an area that I think might have been the bar. The walls are burning—or maybe that’s the curtains. I don’t know, because it’s hard to think with so little oxygen. I’m coughing like crazy. The heat singes my skin, and I hold out my arms as the inferno around me starts to spin. I hope to Christ I don’t pass out before we get to Merri.
I’m shoved once more before the gun pressed into my neck is slammed violently into my eye, and through the blood pouring down my cheek, I can see Jesus looking blurry and angry, framed by smoke. He says something about David. I think I say I’m sorry. I just want to stay on my feet until they take me to Merri.
I pass out for a minute I guess, because when I wake up, we’re standing in front of a burning staircase. I’m irritated. Why are we here? And that’s when I hear Merri screaming.
When I see Cross, I start screaming again. I can’t help it. Maybe screaming will help hasten my end, because as soon as I start, I black out and fall down to my knees. I grab onto the railing when the black spots clear enough so I can see. I just want to make sure he’s gone now—that I really am hallucinating.
But when I glance into the inferno of the main floor, there he is: bleeding from the head and being hauled toward the stairs on Tito’s back.
“NO, NO, NO! No…no!” I flop against the railing, pulling my hair over my mouth because maybe it will filter some of the smoke. I end up clutching at my hair and shaking, unable to move. I really don’t think I can breathe this time. I can hear my lungs trying and the sound is terrifying.
“Cross.” I start to sob. If I’m going to die, I want to feel his arms around me one more time. And then suddenly, I do. I can feel his body behind mine; over the roar of the fire, I can barely hear him whispering my name.
I hear screaming from somewhere: angry yelling. I can make out ‘David’ and the Spanish word for whore. Cross grunts like he’s been hurt, and I can hear the fire crunching through things around us. It’s so hot.
“Cross,” I hiss, “I’m sorry.”
I can’t think straight enough to remember what for, but with the hand that’s not chained to the statue, I grasp around for him, finding something I think is his shirt and holding on.
“Merri…I’ve got to get your hand out of this thing.” I feel him tugging on my bruised and bleeding hand, the one clasped in the cuff, and I can’t help but whimper.