The zesty scent filtered through a small crack underneath the door and the light that accompanied it was the only light she had since arriving. Between the clatter from the other side of the door and the constant dripping from a broken pipe in the ceiling, Rothman settled into the sound providing her the only source of entertainment while she waited. Not that she wanted entertainment. She wanted saving. She wanted that tall woman, the bad ass who had almost saved her in Arizona, Angela wanted her to come here now, to kick through those doors and rescue her.
She regretted having dismissed Hatch's attempt. Angela wished she could go back in time. When she thought about the fire and her chance of escape, she could not understand why she resisted Hatch’s help. She was out of her mind back then.
Thinking back on it, it was more of an outer body experience where she watched her actions, not fully in control of herself when it was happening. She regretted it, nonetheless. That wall of fire separated Angela from the only person within a thousand miles who seemed remotely capable of saving her. Angela knew well enough that it was unlikely the Nighthawk woman or anyone else would ever find her again. She passed the insufferable ticking of time by listening and watching.
Angela took in her surroundings like a sponge took in water. Not that any of it had proved useful so far. But if she survived, she'd get to finally tell her father that the four years of Spanish he made her take finally paid off. She kept quiet that she was able to understand the men who had been escorting her through this hellish nightmare. They spoke more freely than they would have, had they known she could understand them.
Sometimes she wished she didn't understand the things that they said. Most of the time, it was never good. Hope was fleeting, and she held on to her last thread of it with a death grip, hoping that something she heard would serve to benefit her.
She'd been treated like an animal since crossing the border. They fed her, or better yet gave her what could be construed as food. The slop was better than starving, but the last thing that had been on a metal tray slid under the door looked like it had come from a pig's trough. Angela had eaten it, every last bit, and took the time to lick the tray clean. Gross? Yes. But she needed to keep herself strong.
They were feeding her to keep her healthy enough to look presentable for sale value. She ate to be strong enough to fight back or escape when the time presented itself. Even in her starved state, the food turned in her stomach and the aftertaste in her belches almost brought it back up.
After every meal, she felt woozy and slept for an unknown amount of time. She was also aware that they drugged the food, so each time she ate, she worried that her chance of escape would have alluded her, but skipping the meal was a luxury she couldn't afford.
She always awoke after the meals with a knot in her stomach, just as she did a few minutes ago. She pushed the tray back under the door, which were Pencil's instructions. When you finish, the tray must be returned under the door. The door cannot be opened if the tray does not come back out. You will not receive water if the tray is not out of the door. Pencil's words were served with a side of onion soup, which is what the man's permanent body odor reeked of.
Angela, of course had to test the rule. She kept the tray, hoping to bash it over their heads if she could ever figure out how to undo the ropes from her wrist. The same ropes that forced her to eat off the tray like an animal. In the battle of No Tray No Water, the kidnappers won.
As of yet, nobody had bothered to clean the filth from her skin or offer her a change of clothes. She found a corner in every cell as her makeshift bathroom. If she ever survived, she would never tell anybody about the things she had to do, the smells she had to endure. Angela focused her mind on the scent of citrus, on the smell of freshly peeled oranges wafting underneath the door. She scooted closer, trying to blanket herself in the freshness of it.
Angela nicknamed the two Mexicans guarding her Pencil and Bigfoot. Pencil was a man of epically thin proportions. He was tall but made to look even more so by his lanky build. Every time he smiled, he revealed the discolored gold tooth in the front of his mouth. Upon first seeing it, Angela wondered if the gold was even real. She hated the way his buggy eyes poked out from the bony features of his face. She hated more the way he looked at her with those eyes.
Pencil's stare unsettled Angela. She felt as though she could read the thoughts running through the wiry man's mind, and she didn't like what she found.
His shorter and stouter partner she had named Bigfoot. Not so much for his size and bulk, but more for the thick wooly hair that poked out from his collar and extended down the length of his arm. The effect made him look more beast than man. While his thinner counterpart had a gold tooth, Bigfoot was missing most of his teeth and had a smile that would make a pro hockey player jealous. The scars decorating Bigfoot's face and hands spoke to the violence he'd both delivered and endured.
He was a nasty man. The words he spoke about the things he wanted to do to Angela made her sick with worry. It had been Bigfoot who'd delivered her the water after she tested Pencil's rule. He removed the bottle cap and spit in it before recapping it and giving it to her. He then made her drink it in front of him while he looked on and laughed himself red. Before all of this was over, she hoped to see him dead.
Her heart leapt at the sound of approaching feet. She'd come to recognize their tandem gait. Other people traversed the hallway, but nobody except for the two guards ever stopped or even slowed their pace while passing the door. The other people that moved by seemed to do so with purpose. Pencil and Bigfoot sauntered slowly as if time didn't matter.
What made Rothman's heart skip a beat wasn't the fact that they were coming, it was the hurry in their approach that had her concerned. They were stepping with a purpose. And with men like this, their purposes were never well intended.
Their shadows danced underneath the gap in the door. Rothman turned her ear and quieted her breathing. Her shoulders ached and her wrists were nearly worn to the bone. The cord securing them was a lot less painful than the cuffs they had used on her before, but the tenderness was unbearable. Long confinement in awkward positions didn't agree with her joints and muscles.
Angela heard the tension in the man's voice. Pencil's matched his look. He spoke in a choked squeak. Bigfoot, on the other hand, sounded like the low rumble of a diesel truck, but it was Pencil who spoke first. His panic-babbled Spanish was difficult at first for Angela to pick up, but she honed in on keywords and phrases and was able to make out most of what he said.
"I don't know how she did it," Pencil's voice was frantic. He was unhinged. He always had a nervous edge to him, but something was different, Angela could tell.
"One woman burned down the club and took five of our girls?" Bigfoot's voice rumbled. "I know one thing, if I was there, she'd be in a room with the red head there."
Pencil squeaked a laugh. "Maybe so. Doesn't matter. Not our job."
"I know, I know," Bigfoot said. "The orders just came in. Somebody paid a good price, and we've got to get our package in there cleaned up and ready to go."
Keys rattled against the lock. The shadows of her two captors crept inside as the door opened. Angela Rothman looked up into the light silhouetting their faces, and for the first time since crossing over into Mexico, she had her first glimmer of hope.