Colombians don’t usechingarto mean fuck.
“Pinche pendejo.” Fucking asshole.
Pinchemeans the cook’s assistant or scullery maid, but in Mexican Spanish it means fucking. That’s one of those words they usually don’t translate right on subtitles. It means more than just damn.
“No mames.” Don’t suck.
It basically means, come on. The first guy’s refusing to get up, so pissy pants storms off. Besides this measuringhuevos,they’ve switched mostly to English. I assume they believe I don’t understand what they’re saying. Perhaps they believe that since I’m newly arrived from Colombia, I must not speak that much English.
Shitty stereotype if ever there was one.
Many families with means—not rich but with some money—send their kids to private school. I learned English before I ever left Colombia. The situation isn’t entirely different in Mexico. I guess they don’t know that much about me because they seem to assume I’m not well-traveled or well educated.
I pay close attention to what they’re saying.
“The boss won’t be happy that you fucking tased her. You didn’t need to do that once you got her guards on the ground.”
I’ve been observing the men trying to figure out their dynamic. The one who just spoke seems to be the leader of this operation, even though he mentions some guy who outranks them all.
“Yeah, well, I had to make sure the bitch came with us without screaming her fucking head off.”
“Yeah, well, hurting her wasn’t part of the deal.” The first two words are a sarcastic mimic.
“She’s fine, isn’t she?” The asshole who tased me walks over and grabs my hair. “Estás bien, ¿verdad?” You’re all right, aren’t you?
I refuse to respond. I hit my tracker when I finally felt like I had enough control over my fingers to press the button. It’s on the underside of the clasp on the bracelet Pablo gifted me right after we arrived here. He gave it to me in case something like this should ever happen. I wondered when he did it if he was tempting fate.
Now, I don’t think that’s the case. I think he was smart and cares about me and wanted to be sure he could do everything to protect me. Hopefully, it’s transmitting, and he got the alert. He explained everyone in his family wears a tracker. They don’t watch each other’s daily comings and goings, but in case something like this should happen, then they’re prepared.
The alert not only goes to Pablo, but to Enrique, Luis, Alejandro, andTres J’s. So, if it’s not Pablo who leads the charge, then it’ll be one of them. I just need to hang on long enough for them to get here.
I listen to the men continuing to bicker amongst themselves in English about why I refuse to speak and how they should handle that. It dawns on me that they have a Boston accent. It’s not quite as bad as “pahk the car in Hahvahd Yahd,” but it’s pretty damn close when they speak English.
The guy in charge—Cabrón Uno—comes to stand before where I’m seated on a sofa. There are too many of them for me to make any type of run for it. I’m outnumbered six to one, so they haven’t bothered to restrain me. I count my blessings as he speaks to me in Spanish.
“This can all be over, and you can go back to your boyfriend’s place if you just tell us what you know.”
I stare at him blankly as if I have no clue what he’s talking about.
“Give us the formula, and then we’ll send you on your way.”
I cock an eyebrow but remain quiet. Like hell they’ll just let me go now that I’ve seen all their faces. If Pablo or another Diaz doesn’t show up before they give up on me, then I’m dead. I don’t believe they’re holding me for ransom, but maybe they are. Nobody’s said anything about that.
“Make her talk. We don’t have all day. The boss wants the formula.”
The guy who’s been giving me a hard time since the beginning, the one who yanked my hair a moment ago—Cabrón Dos—leans forward and gets in my face.
“You really want to make this harder on yourself? We have ways of making you talk.”
What type of corny-ass shit is that? I merely stare at him, unflinching. I know he’s the type who wants to see me cower, but I refuse to give in to that. When his hand lands across my face, I force myself not to flinch. I tensed as I saw his hand move through the air, but I was prepared. It hurts like a motherfucker, but I don’t react. Instead, it’sCabrón Unowho does.
I barely contain my reaction when that man grabs the shitbag who slapped me. He drags him over to the dining room table and pulls a knife from his belt that’s practically a fucking machete. Before I can anticipate what’ll happen next, it’s slicing through the air. Then it’s slicing through the man’s hand, taking off everything from the knuckles forward. It’s just a stump with a thumb attached to the man’s wrist.
Blood geysers everywhere. I watch as the amputee struggles to stay on his feet as he howls in pain. A third guy rushes forward, but he hesitates before helping my tormentor.CabrónUnonods, and the new guy wraps a shirt around the stump, trying to staunch the blood.
He’s going to need to see a doctor.
I’ve been told I have a dry sense of humor.
