CHAPTER 1
MARTINA
I never planned on running for my life at twenty-two years old, but here I am on the streets of Tijuana, hiding in the shadows, peeking over my shoulder every few minutes.
I could easily blame this shit-show on my brother, Eduardo, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair. If I stood up to him six months ago, had some backbone and didn’t fall for his lies—again—I’d still be enjoying my mother’s homemade empanadas in her bungalow two blocks from the Strand in Mission Beach.
Who knew going to a boarded-up bar in Imperial Beach to save my brother from losing body parts would result in me being sold off to settle his gambling debt?
Another part of the problem rested with my fearless nature. Most of my girlfriends never would’ve even entertained the idea of walking into the seedy bar at midnight, but not me. My energy level and love of adventure baffled most.
My mother enrolled me in martial arts classes when I was six with the hope I would expend the pent-up energy that drove my teachers crazy. Then she added gymnastics to my after-school activities. I became proficient in both, although it didn’t do anything to quiet my quest for adventure.
Roller coasters with death-defying heights: I’m in. Skydiving: yes, please. Dare me to do something crazy; I’m your woman.
Adrenaline junkie would be me—or as my mother would say—"You f’ing crazy.” Then she would bless herself with the sign of the cross and kiss it up to God. Her way of trusting God to put me on the right path. I never had the heart to burst her bubble, but my path was riddled with detours and potholes.
The night in Imperial Beach ended with my brother’s tear-stained face as two gorillas bundled me into the back of a van headed for Mexico. He left without a scratch, and I ended up held against my will as a courier for the cartel.
The original deal centered around working to pay off Eduardo’s debt, but six months later, I was still strapping drugs to my body for my weekly trips over the border. Exchange the drugs for money, then head back to Mexico accompanied both ways by a cartel underling young enough to make us look like a loving couple.
No. No. And hell no.
With no end in sight, I formulated Plan A. Unfortunately, the guard I trusted turned out to be a prick who promised to look the other way when I made my escape, but then laughed in my face, threatening to rat me out if I didn’t join him in his bed. A roundhouse strike to his temple followed by a swift kick to his nuts (thank you, Sensei Choi) rendered him unconscious, changing Plan A to a sketchy Plan B— running off in the black of night.
I’d made it as far as Tijuana, but I still needed a passport and money to pay for a counterfeit passport. I reasoned The Gateway to Mexico would offer an assortment of menial jobs. Plus, I wasn’t picky. Dishwasher, taco maker, bartender in adive bar—anything where I could stay under the radar and be paid under the table. And I was supremely qualified, as I’d done all those jobs while trying to find myself after high school. What started as a gap year became a gap life, but one thing I know for sure—being a drug mule wasn’t on my bingo card.
A cacophony of noise and neon lights made Avenida Revolución the busiest street in Tijuana, and the perfect place to blend in. I discreetly stay behind or next to large groups, knowing my captives are looking for a single female. I keep my pace fast enough to appear confident, but slow enough to not look desperate or draw attention—or like I’m running from one of the most notorious cartels in Mexico.
By now, my defection would be noticed, and one thing about the cartel: they hate to lose. Struggling to keep my paranoia in check, I sneak a peek over my shoulder every few minutes.
So far, so good—until…
The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle like a sixth sense. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know Eduardo is close by. Even as children, we could sense what the other was thinking and doing almost telepathically. My sweet mother always said it was the power of twins. She claimed, as toddlers, we had our own unique language and would always have an unbreakable bond after sharing the womb for nine months.
Unfortunately, Eduardo twisted this bond and used it as a weapon, relying on guilt, constantly reminding me of his perceived belief that I owe him because we are twins and bound at birth. Our unique language translated into tantrums shattering the bond, but one oddity remains: my ability to know when he is near.
Mom said he’s artistic and impulsive like our father (who ran off soon after we were born), but I know the truth.Like our deadbeat, non-existent father, Eduardo’s talents are manipulation with a heavy dose of selfishness.
Where I’m strong, resilient, and a bit headstrong, Eduardo relies on his good looks to get him out of trouble, or into trouble. Then he whines, cajoles, or cons his way into more trouble, until he ultimately falls behind and runs to family for help—usually me. An endless cycle of immature behavior that never ends well for anyone, and least of all me.
Sending Eduardo to find me, lure me in, and lower my guard while one of the cartel goons waits in the shadows would be typical. As much as Eduardo claims he loathes them, he can’t break away because he is always in their debt. Bad bets, gambling debts—they basically own him, body and soul.
I pick up my pace, but his presence moves closer. My heart races, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I startle when a door slams open, and a group of drunk men stumble out, along with loud, thumping music. The flashing neon sign overhead advertises The Tropics, promising a night you won’t forget. They bump into me then surround me. I consider using them for cover, but instead, I barrel through them and into the still open door. The door closes behind me, and I stop to take in my surroundings.
Loud, driving music beats inside my chest, keeping pace with my raging heart. I’m enveloped into the swirl of mostly men seated at tables or crowded around three different stages where women dance and gyrate in skimpy costumes, including a fringe-wearing cowgirl, a G-string-wearing patriot depicting the American flag, and a salacious schoolgirl in a uniform my Catholic nuns would have forbidden.
Yup, I landed head-first into a Tijuana strip club. It’s slightly more upscale than the others on the boulevard, but my mind still spins with different scenarios. I could hide out in the dressing room, don a costume as a disguise and get up on stage,or beg the owner for a job so I could earn enough money for a fake passport, then disappear over the border.
I move deeper into the crowd, and my body relaxes slightly. The energy is potent, along with the swirling smoke, sweet perfume and music vibrating the floorboards beneath my feet. I work my way around and through the crowd of bodies until I reach the back of the large room. Nobody notices me or looks at me, and I relish the anonymity. Basic rule of strip clubs—never make eye contact.
I take in the long bar on one wall where bartenders, mostly female, scurry around to keep up with the demanding crowd, and Plan C is born. Move to the edge of the bar, try to pick out the boss, then ask if they need help. First, I desperately need the bathroom. Running for your life is hard on the bladder.
I eye a group of six dangerous, leather-wearing men blocking my path. The music changes. The men stand and focus on another set of women in various costumes taking the stage.
Keeping in the shadows of the flashing strobe lights, I easily slither my five-foot-five, one hundred and fifteen pounds of scared shit past these broad, bulky men. Since their eye level is a good eight inches above me, I quickly ease past them, then down the long hallway in search of a bathroom.
Two seconds later, a large hand clamps onto my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”
