Page 81

Abby

SK Compound, Myanmar

Present Day

Itry not to daydream about Dimitry when I’m sitting in the gray depression of the open-plan office. Sometimes, though, the memories of sun-drenched days and sweetness are the only way I stay sane amid the despondency around me.

Nobody plans to become a master of lies, scheming innocent victims out of what little savings they have. People comply because of the children they left behind, the families they fear for, and the faint dream of escape.

We do it because if we don’t, we will die.

“You.” The supervisor beckoning me is a new face in the compound. And for once, it’s a woman. “You speak Spanish, yes?”

I nod. “Si.”

“So. We have some VIP guests in the casino tonight, andthey speak Spanish. You will join the girls entertaining them.” She glares at Lucky, Mary, and Yrsa, all of whom work at desks near me. “You will all come.”

We glance at each other, seeing our own fears reflected.

Entertaining? What the fuck does that even mean?

I’m jolted out of my thoughts by Mary’s scared whisper. “What do you think we will have to do?” she asks as we follow the supervisor out of the office and back to the dormitory. “Do you think they’re going to make us... you know? With the men?”

So far, the one positive thing about our scam farm work is that it has nothing to do with the sexual end of whatever is going on here. I’ve heard the stories, of course, of other dormitories entirely devoted to webcam girls and boys. Of others yet which house women and men who attend to every whim of the wealthy guests who visit the exclusive grounds beyond our fence. From everything I’ve heard until now, it’s unusual, though not unheard of, for those in the scam farm business to cross over into other areas.

Unusual.

Not unheard of.

I exchange a wary sideways glance with Yrsa and Lucky. I know they’re thinking the same thing and are trying to prepare themselves.

But Mary is a devout Christian. She’s the mother of a three-year-old little girl and a widow still mourning the death of her husband.

Her face is rigid with fear.

“Let’s hope not,” I say, trying to smile comfortingly.

An hour later we have been transformed from our call center drabness to sparkling, styled glamour queens. My black sequined dress has a slit from ankle to hip that would make my mother bury her head in her hands. My breasts are pushed indecently over the top, and my makeup would put a dragqueen to shame. My three friends have been similarly glammed up.

Never has a makeover felt less exciting. None of us are smiling as we follow the supervisor across the compound and through the wire gate which divides the scam farm from the small city beyond.

It’s like stepping into a different world.

Fountains set amid elaborate gardens shoot multicolored jets into the air. Small clusters of elegantly dressed men and women wander down the mosaiced pathways holding crystal glasses. Music floats out from the various bars and open-air restaurants surrounding us.

“Fucking hell,” Yrsa whispers beside me. “What is this place?”

“An invitation-only version of Vegas for the criminally rich,” I whisper back, and she giggles, then quickly hushes when the supervisor glares at us.

We walk through the foyer of what looks like a luxury hotel, then take the elevator up to the top floor. It opens onto an opulent room. A dozen men in tuxedos sit in a semicircle around a stage, most with their backs to us. Some have women sitting beside them or standing obediently behind their chairs. Going by their detached, unenthusiastic expressions, the women are clearly residents like us.

On the stage, an auctioneer is gesturing to a painting on an easel beside him. He addresses the crowd in Spanish. “This is a particularly rare item,” he says, but suddenly, I’m hardly listening.

My eyes are locked onto a man at the far end of the semicircle.

He lounges in his chair with a thin-lipped smile so familiar it’s sickening. His face might be slightly heavier, the cartel ink on his neck more elaborate, but the mean arrogance of thosefeatures were burned into my mind along with the tip of his cigar into my flesh.

Rodrigo Cardeñas.