The Missionary (10 page)

His heart rate ratcheted up to a blitzing hammer when the two men approached him, eyes hard.
 

“Why you watch us, American?” one of them asked, his hand lingering near what was the butt of his gun, no doubt.

Stone shrugged, barely glancing up from his brochure. “I wasn’t watching you.”

“You lie.”

Stone turned his gaze to the speaker, a young man with slicked back black hair and small gold hoops through his ears. Stone decided to gamble with the truth. “I heard there was…I heard I could find some friends here. Know what I mean?”

“Maybe I know. Maybe I don’t.” The young man glanced at his friend, and the two seemed to have a silent conversation. “Some kind of prends, dey be esspensib. You know? Cost money. Maybe you show me dollars.”

Stone glanced around, then dug his stash of US dollars from his pocket. “Seen enough?”

With a nod, the young man set off toward the elevators, gesturing for Stone to follow him with a flick of two fingers. Stone rode the elevator with the two other men in awkward silence. His heart was hammering and his palms were sweating. Something was off. His senses were jangling. He tensed, preparing.
 

When the elevator stopped on the fifth floor, the one who’d spoken gestured for Stone to precede him into the hallway. As he did so, Stone snuck a sideways glance, just in time to see a flash of metal. Stone’s instincts kept him alive. His body arced away from the blade, spine bowing outward and his hands curling around the extended wrist. With a twist of his arm and a pivot on the ball of his foot, he wrenched his opponent’s knife arm to bend against the joint, then slammed the butt of his palm against the elbow, breaking it with a loud
crunch
. The knife fell to the carpet, and Stone dropped his shoulder, jerking the man toward him so his momentum carried him up and over Stone’s head. With a soft grunt, Stone lifted the man clear off the ground, keeping the momentum going so the knife-wielding thug flew a foot or two and then crashed into the floor. Before the first opponent had hit the carpet, Stone was scooping up the knife and lunging into the elevator. The entire process had taken less than ten seconds, so the second man wasn’t ready for Stone’s lunge. Stone held the knife so the blade was horizontal and jabbed upward with all the force he possessed. The blade bounced off a rib, sending the man backward but not seriously injuring him. Stone lashed out with his other hand, slamming his fist into his opponent’s diaphragm. This bought Stone enough time to lever the knife upward again, this time passing cleanly between ribs to puncture a lung.
 

Stone let him drop and turned back to the first man, dragging him into the stairwell and kneeling on his throat. “Which room?” The thug struggled for breath, writhing and gasping. He shook his head, and Stone dug the tip of the knife against the man’s throat. “I won’t ask again. Talk.” He eased his weight off enough to allow speech.

“Six…nineteen.”

“How many are in there?”

“Don’t…don’t know. Tree men? Only da one girl.”

“Will they hurt her in the room?” He dug the knife-tip in farther, drawing blood.

“I don’t know!” Fear brought his words in a rush, nearly incomprehensible. “Depends on da buyer. Cervantes won’t touch, he hab his own girl. Don’t use da ones he sell. Buyer? Maybe do what he want. Not here, I tink. He take her somewhere else.”

Stone rose off his prisoner, intending to tie him up. As soon as his weight was off completely, however, the thug rolled away and drew a pistol. Before he could squeeze off a shot, Stone was on top of him, knife scraping between ribs and slicing through muscle. He watched as the man gasped for breath, but his punctured lung wouldn’t allow it.
 

Stone turned, forcing the weight of guilt away. He buried it, swallowed it. He didn’t have time for guilt, didn’t have the luxury of it. Wren needed him. He would spill as much blood as it took to save her from the fate awaiting her.
 

He dragged the dead man on the elevator into the stairwell with his friend and then wound his way through the corridor until he came to room six-nineteen. He heard voices on the other side of the door, male voices. The slap of fist on flesh and a soft female whimper of pain.
 

Rage blew through him, setting him on fire. He couldn’t just kick the door down and barge in with guns blazing. That would get Wren killed for sure. He had to be smarter about it.
 

Stone hefted the bloody knife, testing its weight, considering.

9

Wren sat on the edge of the bed, fighting to stay calm. Three men filled the room with her, one of them her captor—she’d learned from other men that his name was Cervantes; the other two men she’d never seen before. Both were older than her captor, maybe middle-aged. One wore a business suit, the other a pair of wrinkled chinos and a red-and-blue-striped polo shirt. They eyed Wren with obvious lust as they discussed terms. She couldn’t understand their words, but they held up fingers and argued, clearly bickering over price. That thought made her shiver with horror. They were discussing the price of her body, how much she was worth.
 

She steeled herself for the worst. Part of her wanted to charge at them, knowing they’d kill her. That part of her welcomed death over rape. Not just rape, but a lifetime of sexual slavery. But then, just before her body left the bed, her instinct for survival kicked in. If she stayed alive, maybe she could escape eventually. Maybe someone would rescue her.

As she battled with herself, she began to feel a gnawing, prickling need deep inside. Hunger for something. Need. Not for food, but for…the drug. The needle. She hated it, but her body was beginning to crave it.

The arguments grew worse, loud and angry, verging on violent.
 

Wren spotted a glass ashtray on the bedside table, and when the men weren’t looking, reached out and grabbed it, stuffed it between her thighs to hide it. The glass was cold on her skin.
 

One of the men let out a disgusted groan and turned away, clearly incensed, waving his hand in dismissal. He spat out something in Filipino, then stomped toward the door and jerked it open. He stopped, though, surprised by something on the other side. The bark of a pistol echoed, and red spray burst from the back of his head. He staggered, fell, blood gushing across the carpet in a flood.
 

Cervantes’ face contorted in shock, and then twisted into fury. He reached behind his back and pulled out a gun, darting to the side of the room closest to the window. The second buyer dropped to a crouch in the corner as the deafening explosions of gunfire filled the room, bullets digging into the floor where Cervantes had been. Cervantes fired his own pistol, and then cast a glance toward Wren. She was frozen, the crash of guns terrifying her into momentary paralysis.
 

A shape filled the doorway, a huge figure in khaki shorts and a gray Navy T-shirt, a pistol clutched in his hands.

Stone.
 

Relief flooded through Wren, but it was short lived. Cervantes leapt over the bed and wrapped his arm around Wren’s throat.

He jerked her off the bed, while Stone kicked aside the dying man in the doorway. He glanced at the second buyer, cracking off a single shot before returning his stare to Wren. She heard the slump of a body hitting the floor, and her gaze was drawn to the red painting the wall, trailing messily down to the carpeting.

She felt dizzy, whether from fear or from how tightly the arm was clenched around her throat, she wasn’t sure. She fought for breath and for calmness. She had the ashtray clutched in one fist, and Cervantes hadn’t seen it yet. Stone was watching her—watching them—tensed, crouched, one finger on the trigger, the other palm cupping the butt of the pistol. He looked perfectly at ease with the fact that he’d just killed two men.
 

Wren felt something cold against her temple.
 

“We goin’ now. You move, she die.” Cervantes’ voice was low and calm.
 

“Let her go, Cervantes. Let her go now, and you won’t die.” Stone’s eyes were hard, brown shards exuding mercilessness. “If you make me chase you, I’ll make sure you die slowly. If you hurt her, I’ll make sure you stay alive long enough to regret every single breath you’ve ever taken. If you hurt her, you’ll beg me to let you die.”

Cervantes laughed. “Big words, American. You sure you want her back?” He licked the skin of her neck slowly, then laughed again, an low, nasty sound. “You know how many times I fuck her? She beg me to stop, and then—and then she beg me to fuck her again. Jus’ like she beg me for da drugs. She not your innocent little girl no more. She
mine
. She a
whore
now.”

Stone’s face shifted, and even Wren was afraid of the rage and the promise of death she saw in his expression. She wanted to tell him it was lies, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. And…she realized, in some kind of nebulous way, that maybe Stone should believe it. Maybe if he believed it, he’d make Cervantes pay.
 

She felt a shiver of something awful wriggle in her gut. It was something terribly like glee. The thought of Cervantes bleeding for what he’d done to her…it made a part of her happy to consider. And that scared her witless. What was happening to her? She shouldn’t wish pain on anyone, not even her worst enemy. She should pray for Cervantes. Turn the other cheek. Trust God to have a plan, even in the midst of this terror.

But…she just couldn’t. Not any of that.
 

She wanted Cervantes to
hurt
. She wanted him to hurt like she hurt. She wanted him to feel the kind of fear she felt.
 

She wanted him to pay for the need she felt in her veins, the horrible, itching, crawling, hot and then cold
need
she felt in her skin and in her blood and in her belly.
 

Need for the needle to pierce her vein and send the evil chemicals into her.
 

Need for the needle. Perhaps that was where the term
came from. The word
need
was buried inside
needle
, after all.

“You gonna let us go, American. Count to thirty,
slow
. I see you, I hear you, she dead.” He nodded at the bathroom door. “Go in dere. Sit, wait, count, or I kill her.”

She watched in despair as Stone reluctantly moved into the bathroom and sat down. Wren felt herself dragged through the doorway, her heels scrabbling on the threadbare carpeting. She smelled Stone, faint cologne, sweat, and blood. She managed to meet his eyes briefly, saw the hate there, saw the anger and the sadness and the determination. She tried to comfort him with a single glance. She tried to pour all of her heart into that fleeting meeting of eyes.
 

And then she was out of sight of Stone, and she missed him so much, needed him. She knew he wouldn’t stop until he had her safe. All she had to do was stay alive.

But Cervantes wasn’t taking any chances. He dragged her down the stairwell, her feet slipping on the concrete, missing a stair or two at a time, off-balance and gasping for breath. The gun barrel wasn’t pressed against her anymore, but she still had no chance to break free. Not yet, she knew. Not yet.
 

Then they were out on the street and his arm was gone from her throat, but the gun was pressed against her back, his arm now draped casually over her chest, cradling her almost tenderly, like a man with his girlfriend out for a stroll on a hot afternoon. Into the mall, into the wild and bustling crowds, the ceiling high, high overhead, bright lights and sunshine streaming, voices chattering in Filipino and a smattering of other languages, even English…
found a purse…only a hundred pesos…Daddy please…

A purse. A girl begging her father for money to buy a purse. She had been that girl before. Now she just wanted to be free, to survive this hell.

Wren sucked air into her lungs, trotted to keep up with Cervantes as he wended through the crowd, angling across the cavernous space as if he knew exactly where he was going. She scanned the signs, looking for one in English that would give her some kind of clue. Then she saw a sign pointing the way toward a train station, and realized what his plan was.
 

If she got on a train with Cervantes, she’d never be free. Stone would never be able to find her again. She wasn’t even sure how he had in the first place, but if Cervantes got them onto a train, she was as good as dead. Or worse.
 

It wasn’t time to fight, yet. She had to wait until he was distracted.
 

They left the mall and entered the train station.

This was her chance; the crowds in the station—which the signs announced to be the Shaw Boulevard MRT station—were thick and chaotic, jostling elbow to elbow. She waited, waited, let Cervantes push her through the crowd. She felt her pulse pounding, readying her for action. She tried to breathe slowly and evenly, tried to take in everything. A door, there. A bathroom? No, no way out except the way in. A security guard? Perhaps. Her best bet was to simply get away and try to lose herself in the chaos.
 

They approached the ticketing counter. Cervantes kept the pistol between their bodies, shielding it from view while digging in his pocket for money. Once he had the tickets he wanted, his arm went back around her and guided her down to the platform level. The bustle of people was worse here, barely room to breathe or move without bumping into half a dozen people. An elderly man in front of them moved with glacial slowness, and Wren could feel Cervantes growing impatient, trying to push around him. But the thickness of the crowd wouldn’t allow it.
 

And then the moment came. A woman stumbled, her three-inch heel catching on the floor and careening her into Cervantes. He cursed angrily, shoving the woman away. In that moment, a split second, the barrel of the pistol wasn’t pressed into her flesh. Wren whirled, holding the thick glass ashtray in her fist with the edge leading. She bashed Cervantes in the skull, near the temple, and felt bone crunch, give. He stumbled, blood immediately masking his face.