I swiped at my face, tears and snot glistened on the back of my hand. “I don’t have it. The man I came with, has it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Leo...Leo Salvatore.”
The senior official gestured to one of the men, who left the room. Guessing he’d sent the man off to verify Leo, I stared down at my linked hands, wondering how this had happened. I thought back to when I was packing my bags. Rosana had helped me. I balked at the thought that she would’ve planted the drugs. If Leo planted it, he would’ve needed the key to open my bag and I hadn’t left it alone, had I? Covering my face, I sobbed into my hands.This can’t be happening.
“I’m American, Miss Gianna, and I’ve been working in this country for close to five years, you should know this doesn’t look good for you.” The senior official looked down his nose at me and the thought of him helping me disappeared along with my exhale.
I wasn’t clued up with world travel, but common logic would tell someone that smuggling drugs were an illegal offense. What if they imprisoned me here? Fear kickstarted my heart and I choked on more sobs. I looked up when the man returned.
He handed the senior official a clipboard and spoken in Japanese before moving away to take his place next to the other man.
“We have a little problem, Miss Gianna.” The senior official drew closer and his expression alone told me I wouldn’t want to hear his next words. He held out the clipboard which held several sheets of paper. “There is no Leo Salvatore on any of the incoming flights for today.”
My heart dropped to my toes. I bunched my dress in fists so tight, they would need to saw off my fingers to get it open. “That...that can’t be.” I swallowed the thick ball of dread stuck in my throat. “He was on the flight with me.” I stared at the official, too shocked to blink. “What about the immigration office that stamped my passport, wouldn’t they have a record of that?” I asked, hope blooming on the horizon. I’d seen that in a movie once. Would it work?
The official shook his head. “There is no record of your arrival.”
“W-what?” I choked out. Did I just step into the twilight zone? “How is that possible?”
He shrugged. “Without a passport to prove you exist, there’s nothing we can do. But.” He paused and locking his hands behind his back, he paced the room. My heart rate right now was close to that of cardiac arrest, waiting for him elaborate. I was just about to jump out of my seat and demand an answer when he stopped pacing and looked at me. “That shouldn’t be your major concern at the moment—”
“What!” I cried out.
“You were caught smuggling drugs, Miss Gianna that’s a far graver offense than a missing passport. You’re to be arrested.”
A rapid search started in my brain as I searched for something logical, trying to remember everything I’d ever learned. “What about the embassy, can’t I contact them.”
“You can.” He crossed his arms and a forefinger tapped his lip as if he were deep in thought. “Once you’re arrested and processed they will make contact with the embassy.”
“No!” I sagged in the chair. “Please, you’re American, can’t you help...you know in your personal capacity.
He scowled at me. “I don’t help criminals, Miss Gianna.” He turned his back on me. “Take her away.”
“Please,” I begged between the tears. “Don’t do this, you’re making a big mistake.” The two officials from earlier gripped my arms once more and dragged me out. I grabbed onto the doorframe, screaming, “Please, don’t do this. My husband is rich, he’ll pay you.” I was grasping at straws because I had no idea if Salvatore would pay up if he knew his wife was a criminal. My nails digging into the metal frame, I held on. “Please,” I sobbed, my chest heaving from the exertion, my body wound tight with desperation to hold on.
He merely stared at me and I wasn’t sure if his smile was one of amusement or sympathy. The two officials holding me yanked so hard, I felt my nails rip and my left shoulder pop. I screamed, not from the pain but being dragged to a destination I might not survive. I was beyond embarrassed as people stared. Dropping my gaze to the floor, my heart in my hand, and the tears staining my white dress, I let the men lead me away.
I lost track of time, with all the shunting from office to office and the rapid Japanese surrounding me. My brain refused to function, and the tears dried up somewhere between leaving that interrogation room and being shoved into the back of a van. The second we stepped outside a blast of hot air hit me in the face. Nausea curled in my throat, and I fought to stem the need to hurl because if I did, something told me I would be transported with it in the van or on my clothes.
Driving away from the airport, the darkness of the city enveloped me. It swallowed me whole as we traversed busy streets filled with pedestrians, cyclists, and a massive throng of traffic even at that late hour. All this I saw through the tiny hole that represented a barred window. We’d driven for so long, I’d lost track of time. They’d stopped twice to allow me to use the restroom at gas stations, given me a sandwich, an apple, and bottled water. While my stomach craved further sustenance, I was grateful they hadn’t left me to starve.
When the vehicle finally stopped, my scratchy eyes felt like hell had taken a dump in them, my mouth resembled arid cotton wool, my shoulder ached, and ripped nails burned. With all the rolling around on a seat that was nothing more than a long piece of wood nailed to the floor, my ass was numb, and my body felt like I’d been trampled by a couple of elephants.
The clunking of a bolt sliding back filled the interior, the echo pounding in my ears before the doors were flung open. A few seconds later, a white light hit my eyes. I picked up my hand to block the offending brightness but was yanked by my wrist and I forced my stiff legs to carry me or risk being dragged on my knees. Glancing around, I took in the tall electric wire fencing. Behind that, rows of buildings illuminated by scattered lighting stood out like something you’d see only in horror movies. Was this a prison? If the man standing next to me wasn’t holding me up, I would’ve crumbled to the floor as fear ate a greedy path up my spine.
A woman who looked to be in her late forties, her hair pulled tight in a severe bun at her nape, her lips in a no-nonsense sneer and dressed in what looked like either a dark green or brown uniform, stepped toward me. Her eyes roamed my body from head to toe. “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?” Her accented English was perfect. She circled me and a creepy feeling stole over me. Instead of a prisoner, the way she examined me, I felt like a selection of prime meat. And when she gripped my chin lightly and turned my face from side to side, I knew it wasn’t a normal prison. Steadily the anxiety grew. “Welcome to your new home.” She tipped her chin toward the gate. “Let’s go.”
Glancing behind me in a last-ditch effort of hoping for assurance, I followed her.
