“No big deal. Just a random check before . . . crossing the border.” The woman’s voice was fading in and out. “I need to make sure . . . vessel’s serial number matches the engine’s.”
The border.
Ensenada.
Shit.
The rocking motion suddenly made sense. I was on a boat, probably the same one he’d taken me out to. We were at Ensenada, the port of entry into Mexico, about 70 miles south of San Diego, and the lady was most likely a customs officer.
My heart picked up.
This is it. Your chance to escape, Skye.
Get her attention. You have to get her attention!
I screamed and screamed, but I couldn’t make a sound. Whatever he’d given me had paralyzed my vocal cords.
I heard footsteps above, which made me think I was probably in some kind of storage space below the deck.
“Just to verify, you’re Damian Caballero?” the woman asked.
“Damian,” he corrected. Dah-me-yahn. Not Day-me-yun.
“Well, everything looks like it’s in order. I’ll take a pic of your hull identification number and then you can be on your way.”
No! I was losing my window of opportunity.
I couldn’t kick or scream, but I found I could roll, so that’s what I did. Left to right, side to side. I rocked, harder, faster, not knowing if I was knocking up against anything, not knowing if it was making any difference. The sixth or seventh time I did it, I heard something grate above me, like wood scraping against wood.
Oh please.
Please, please, please, please.
I put everything into it, even though it was making me dizzy.
Something crashed. A loud thud. And suddenly it wasn’t so dark anymore.
“What was that?” the woman asked.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“It sounded like it came from below. Mind if I take a look?”
Yes!
“What do you have in here?” Her voice was clearer now.
She was close.
Really close.
“Ropes, chains, fishing equipment . . .”
I was starting to make out faint lines running vertically above me, inches from my face.
Yes. I can see! My eyes are okay!
I heard a lock turn and then the room flooded with glorious, blinding light that made me want to weep.
