Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(11)

I wish I had called my sister or my mom the day I was taken. To tell them I love them one last time.

One last time.

Will they ever even know what happened to me? The true but dreadful answer is, probably not.

I thought I’d defied death that night in the alley.

When my mind settles on the actual idea of it—death—not feeling anything, wondering if there really is an afterlife and the what-if-there-isn’t-one question, my belly fills with this sick sensation. We have no control over it. We can’t wipe death from our existence. We can delay it, we can defy it for a time, but it will have its way.

The great equalizer. We are all mortal.

My skin crawls as my soul or brain or whatever pleads for a better answer. There isn’t one.

It’s the one thing we who are living are guaranteed—to die.





I play games in my mind to stop fixating on my demise—I put together word associations, I focus on a mental chess game, softly sing my favorite songs, and quiz myself on class materials.

I think about friends—Tobi and Veronica, who I was supposed to go dancing with Friday night, and then about my little sister and Mom, who I love so much the mere conjuring of their faces hurts like hell. I thought playing my memories like a movie would be soothing and comforting, but it isn’t. It doesn’t hold the insanity at bay—realizing these days will be my last memories of this life causes my lungs to constrict and my stomach to lurch with anxiety.

I’m ripped out of my thoughts by a couple of men’s voices. They’re coming closer. Adrenaline sets my nerves afire, and my body begins to shake.

“It won’t be long now.” The man with the thick accent speaks in English, and it’s close to my ear, as if he’s knelt on the floor in front of me.

“Until what?” Until I’m dead! I hate how my voice shakes! It isn’t right for my body to betray me like this. I want to be stronger.

I want to spit in his face!

“You’re brought home,” he replies.

Home? “What?”

“You must eat your food.” It’s then that I smell what could only be a fast food burger and fries.

He’s unhappy because I haven’t been eating? It’s almost ludicrous!

“No,” I manage, softly yet defiantly.

“No?” His voice drops to an almost whisper.

Swallowing the terror, I tell him, “I will not eat your food. I was tricked because of whatever drug you put in my drink. I won’t do it again.”

I can’t eat their food. I did at first, but as the time goes by, it feels akin to suicide. Or maybe I don’t want to accept it. Or depend on them for my survival—I’d rather starve first. At least that’s something I can control.

“You will keep your strength up.” His tone turns commanding.

“Take off the cuffs. I’ll find my strength.”

He slaps me hard. His hand is so large it covers half my face. The sting is electric.

Fuck you, I think, tasting the copper tinge of blood as it covers my tongue. I spit the blood at him. So, let it begin.

Angry footfalls run into the space we occupy. I listen to the physical scuffle and curses in Spanish.

“We’re supposed to be calming her!” a new voice growls out in Spanish. “The boss will cut off your hand for striking her if you caused damage!”

Damage? I don’t understand what they mean. Is there really some deal going on between my captors and my mom or law enforcement?

“Our boss is a powerful man and has negotiated both your ransom and his freedom. But we must release you unharmed and well,” the new guy tries persuading me softly, now in English.

I hear the crinkle of the fast food bag as he presses it into my hands.

“I’m sick,” I lie.

“You fear poison or drugs?”

“I don’t trust you,” I say truthfully.

He barks at his partner in Spanish, “Now you f*cked up! You idiot! Get out, get out and never come back in here.”

They leave me to myself.

Would they really send me home? But why? I saw the murder. I’m the only witness. How does it work in their favor to send me home? But if they really intend on killing me, why the blindfold? I’ve read enough novels and seen enough television dramas to know that a blindfold means I might live long enough to report what I’ve seen.

I curl up in a ball on the musty mattress and scrape my nails against my thumb cuticles.

Even if my mom gave Miguel a million dollars—which I know we don’t have—how would it help his case?

Getaway money?

Could make sense. If someone gave him a million, he could take off to a foreign country where he couldn’t be extradited. Maybe that’s exactly what he’s doing.

Drip, drip, drip.

Maybe they sent a photograph to my mom and she knows I’m alive. That gives me a sense of relief.

But why didn’t he just go straight to Mexico and not bother with me?

It doesn’t make sense. None of this does.

I’m not eating their shit.

I roll and face the wall and fall into a deep sleep.





Gentle Spanish lullabies wake me.

Pedro.

“Toma.” He puts a cold can into my hands. “Toma,” Pedro repeats.