Page 142 of At Her Pleasure

The girl they’d intended to feed to the tiger, he assumed.

As the people were running out the supply closet door, more oxygen was being pulled into the room. The flames danced higher. They were above them, dropping lit pieces of ceiling material. Mick beat out one on his shoulder and pushed his way through a lingering handful of people, trying to help the two in the cell. “I’ve got them,” he shouted. “Go. Get the others into the truck. We have no time.”

He covered his nose and mouth with his shirt as he crouched next to the old woman, who must be the grandmother. She was trying the “come with me and we’ll run away from the monster” logic. The girl was too far into the episode, so frenzied she looked close to a seizure.

She struck out at him with flailing fists. “You’re all monsters,” she screamed.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Mick muttered. Grabbing her by the arm, he yanked her to her feet. Even with her screeching, he was far stronger and more determined. He hoisted her into a fireman’s carry, hands clamped on her wrists and leg. Fortunately, the older woman didn’t need his help. Her eyes were squinted against the smoke like his, her mouth in a determined set.

He gestured to her to lead them out, but they reached the closet too late. The fire was consuming the space, blocking their path. He smelled burning peppermint. The heat was enough to blister the skin even as they stood back from it.

When he heard the sound of glass, Mick looked up. The rotting frame of the upper windows had weakened enough to give way. Wood and glass fell into the eager fire.

He always noted exits and entry points, and though their current visibility was crap, he knew there was a rear exit to the building. Mick told the grandmother that in Spanish and took the lead. As he made his way to a wall, since they could no longer see through the smoke, he guided her hand to his belt, a mute direction to hold onto him so they didn’t get separated.

He followed the wall past the men’s cell, cursing as he hit a stack of chairs and a group of boxes, fuel waiting for the fire to reach it. The girl kept thrashing. He did his best to protect her head while moving forward.

Here. He’d found it. But hope was dashed when he tried to push the door open. A chain was holding it on the outside. He could hear the rattle as he shoved against it, see it through a meager crack. Though the sudden blast of mostly smoke-free air was welcome, the oxygen would call to the fire, like a dog whistle to a pack of hounds.

The woman had one hand on the girl, one on his belt. The girl chose that moment to bite his shoulder, hard.

I’m used to that, honey. By someone with far sharper teeth than you have.

He thought he was on fire. His clothes felt like they were burning him. The woman was coughing harder, her hand on him faltering. He backed up and kicked the door. It rocked but didn’t budge. Mick put the girl down, keeping a clamp on her arm as he kicked and kicked. It might be chained, but it was held in place by a frame that he refused to let stand. He was getting lightheaded.

Then he heard a shout, a command to wait. The man he’d first told to guide the others out appeared in that slender crack. He held a tire iron. A moment later, he broke the chain and yanked open the door, just as the older woman collapsed.

No way, abuela. We’re all getting the hell out of here.

The man was of the same opinion, stepping past Mick to pick her up. A billow of hot air and smoke shoved them into the world.

Fortunately, the need to cough lessened the girl’s screaming and struggling. They covered the distance from the back of the building to the truck in a matter of a few seconds, Mick hauling the girl, the man carrying the grandmother.

Cyn had put the semi out of range as he’d directed. But the bulk of their intended passengers weren’t in it. They milled outside the open trailer door.

No matter how convincing Cyn could be, one, she wasn’t fluent in Spanish, and two, fifteen minutes ago she’d been the enemy. They wouldn’t know if this was truly an attempt to rescue them, or just a transfer to a new prison.

Some of them had bolted. He saw them making their way across the open scrub. The cartel would hunt them down. He couldn’t do anything about that. But he could help the ones still here.

Mick turned to the grandmother. As the man holding her put her down onto her feet, Mick spoke fast. The man’s gaze shifted to the older woman, awaiting her verdict. The people closest also watched the exchange.

In every group crisis, there was always a person or persons who became the de facto leader because of his or her wisdom, or level headedness under extreme duress.

Noting that, Mick directed the stream of words at her alone. Gripping the cross around his neck, he lifted and thrust it at her. What it meant to him was the same as it would have been to others, without the skeleton. Have faith, abuela.

Through watery eyes, she gazed at him. Then the grandmother lifted a hand and pointed to Mick and Cyn. “Amigos.” At the truck. “Vamos.”

He and Cyn loaded them in as fast as humanly possible. While they did, Mick kept an eye on the sky and the road. Twilight was taking its damn time about giving way to the concealment of full dark.

The man who’d helped him got into the truck last. Cyn had piled the weapons from the Mercedes near the wheel, so Mick handed him two guns and several of the grenades. “Keep everyone calm,” he told him in Spanish. “The door will unlock from the inside. If I hit the horn one long blast, or if you think we’ve been overwhelmed, jump out and do your best to get away. Most won’t, but it’s better than none.”

The man had a scar across the bridge of his nose and the weathered look of someone who’d spent his life working in fields. He didn’t know how to use the gun, but the man next to him did. Mick gave them both instruction on the grenades. Before he shut the door, he saw the grandmother next to the girl again. She was holding and rocking her. She met his gaze before he shut them in.

He hoped he didn’t have to add them to the list of faces that haunted him.

Coming back around to the front, he found the driver’s seat occupied. “You need to keep your hands free for our defense,” Cyn told him. “I can drive.”

“Technically, you’re driving our biggest defensive weapon,” he pointed out. “How the hell do you know how to drive a semi?” Though he didn’t doubt that she did. She knew how to fight, handle a gun, conduct a business meeting, sell a client a marketing package, and raise orchids.