King’s (The King Trilogy #1)(3)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I heard the sound of more crunching. Heartless bitch.

“You can ask for me, Jamie Henshaw.”

I scribbled down her name, holding back a terrible scream. “Fine. Got it. Please call my cell if you hear anything else.” I knew she wouldn’t, but I asked anyway.

“Will do.” Crunch. “And again, our deepest sympathies.”

“Why? He’s not dead.” I hung up the phone and swallowed the icy blizzard of rage threatening to undo me. But I had to keep my head straight. I was no good to anyone if I lost it.

I opened up my laptop and booked the first available morning flight to Mexico City. Though Justin had disappeared from the south of Mexico, just outside Palenque in the state of Chiapas, I would stop at the embassy first, gather up any details and then continue on, so I could meet with the local authorities. I could only hope my high school Spanish would get me by.

The next evening, I arrived in Mexico City, and as soon as I passed Immigration and Customs, I grabbed a cab and left a message for the cracker-eating bitch. I let her know I was staying a few blocks from the embassy off the Paseo de la Reforma, so I’d see her first thing in the morning. I then checked into my room, ready to pass out. It was already ten o’clock at night, and I hadn’t eaten in almost a day, but that didn’t stop me from hitting the mini-bar. My nerves called for something strong. Whiskey.

I kicked off my red patent leather heels, plopped down on the sofa chair, pounded down a shot, then opened my laptop. Some might think me callous and uncaring, but at a time like this, checking work email was the only thing helping me hold the line. My sanity teetered on the precipice of self-destruction and hysteria. But I refused to allow my imagination to gain a foothold, because I knew the only thing it had to offer were images of Justin screaming as his throat was slit or he was beaten with a lead pipe. The people in this country who made it a business to steal human beings for profit were no strangers to torture and violence. I remember once flipping the channels when I’d been in Buenos Aires on a business trip for a global launch of a new perfume line. (That was my specialty, high-end fragrance campaigns.) But I’d never forget the images on the evening news. Bodies lit on fire, dangling from an overpass in Mexico City. I spoke enough Spanish to understand that they’d been victims of a kidnapping, but their families either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the ransom.

So yeah, maybe I was in denial or being heartless, but keeping my mind from wandering was the only thing preventing me from falling to my knees, helplessly weeping for Justin. If I were to be of any use, I had to stay strong.

That meant more whiskey.

I scooted off the bed and dug through the mini-fridge. “Shit. Really?” There was tequila, vodka, and rum, but no more whiskey. I grabbed the bottle of rum—what the hell did I care at this point?—and drank it down. “Okay. I guess I do care. Tastes like shit.”

I called room service, ordered more reinforcements, spread out on the bed, and went back to my emails.

Email from my global V.P., Jim, in New York. Please give status on Project Windpipe. That was the code name for our holiday, celebrity singer fragrance pack. Four Grammy winners for the price of one. Plus a pair of slippers.

We will still hit the schedule. No issues, I replied.

Email from my best friend, Becca. We grew up together, and our moms were close. Where the hell are you, Mia? Your mom says you went to see your brother? Can’t believe you didn’t take me. Hate you. Mean it. Call me when you get back. – Love, Becca

I didn’t want to lie to Becca, so I dropped her email in the trash file. It was better to say nothing and face her wrath later on.

Email from Sean. I gawked at his note. Are you in NY? Hungry? I’m starved. That was his code for “Let’s hook up.”

“No, I won’t be in New York this week for a booty call,” I mumbled aloud and took another sip of my rum. It was my own damned fault he sent me those notes. Every time I went to New York, I ended up calling him after whatever business dinner I attended. We’d usually meet at his place, tumble in the sheets, and leave it at that. We never saw each other any other time.

There was a knock at the hotel room door. “Finally.” Reinforcements.

I slid off the bed and yanked open the door. “Thanks, I really—”

Two men dressed in black, wearing ski masks, pushed their way into the room. The one closest to me cupped his hand over my mouth and threw me to the floor, pinning me beneath him.

“Do not scream,” he whispered with a thick Mexican accent, “or I will cut your throat.”

I get that at times like this, I should’ve been thinking about how to survive. And maybe I was, but I quickly realized that two large, armed men against one unarmed, hundred-and-thirty-five-pound woman didn’t have much of a chance of surviving. Especially given that the man standing had his gun pointed at my head.

Instead of fighting, I reverted to praying they wouldn’t violate me or, worse, drag me off into the night. I couldn’t help Justin if I ended up just like him.

I nodded several times, his hand smothering my whimpers of panic.

“Good.” I felt his hot breath in my ear. He smelled of tequila and sweat. His free hand slithered up my torso and brutally fondled my breast. “You like that, Mia?”

Oh God. He knew my name. This wasn’t some random assault.

I clenched my eyes shut and shook my head no.

“I do,” he breathed into my ear. “And if you’re not on a plane home by tomorrow morning, I’ve been given permission to take anything I want before I kill you. Nod if you understand.”

I nodded and felt the sting of salty tears trickling from the corners of my eyes.

“Bien, mujer. Espero que no nos encontramos pronto.”

I didn’t understand, but I assumed it was one final threat.

Before I could respond, the two men were gone, the door of my hotel room shut. I rolled over on my stomach and sobbed into the palms of my hands. As soon as I was able to stand—I don’t know how long it took—I was checked out and in a cab back to the airport. I figured I would be safer there until my flight.

Oh, God. Justin. What are you mixed up in?

~ ~ ~

From the moment I fled that hotel room in Mexico City, I knew the situation was far worse than Justin simply being taken by narcos for ransom. Someone didn’t want him to be found. But why? It was the only thought I’d had on the long flight back to San Francisco.

I unlocked the door to my sparsely decorated, fourth-story apartment—I traveled a lot, so what was the point of owning plants or having tons of fancy furniture no one would see or use?—and threw my bag on the living room floor. I needed sleep. I needed to clear my head.