Page 37

Abby

SK Compound, Myanmar

Present Day

I try 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, and they 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 drag queen 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 those features were burned into my mind along with the tip of his cigar into my flesh.

Rodrigo Cardenas.

My mouth is suddenly dry, my eyes locked to his hated figure as if I’ve been paralyzed.

I watch as he splays a hand possessively over the slender thigh of the girl sitting next to him.

Paradoxically, given the pain they inflict, Rodrigo’s hands are slender and always well manicured.

I always found his obsession with personal grooming one of his more sinister traits.

I have personally watched his manicurist scrape crusted blood from his nails before putting his hands in water to soak.

Once, she did it while the girl he’d just beaten to death was still lying on the floor of his yacht two feet away.

Rodrigo might not have his father’s keen intelligence, but what he lacks in brains, he more than makes up for in sadism. Cruelty is how he made his name, and the reason, I imagine, he has managed to succeed his father, despite having none of Juan’s presence or scope of mind.

Rodrigo is exactly the kind of man Jacey would target. A sadist without his father’s genius, a son desperate to prove himself equal to the Bogotá legend his father was.

I watch as he squeezes the girl’s leg hard enough to make her wince and realize my fingers are clenched into fists.

The movement brings me back to the room, and the auctioneer’s voice, not that I need to listen to him to know what I’m seeing. I studied art for long enough to recognize a masterpiece when I’m face-to-face with it.

“Painted in Paris in 1887,” the auctioneer is saying, “three years before van Gogh’s death, this small painting depicts red and yellow poppies. It was stolen from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Cairo in 2010 and is considered forever lost.” He smiles silkily, and the audience titters.

I don’t .

I’m still staring at Rodrigo Cardenas, unable to look away.

“Of course,” the auctioneer adds, his eyes turning away from the painting and coming to rest momentarily on me, “here at Shway Kyaarpaann, we specialize in finding lost things—and offering them to select gatherings such as these.” His eyes swivel back to Rodrigo.

“Now,” he says, smiling smoothly. Who will start the bidding? ”

It’s a small, subtle comment, and a glance barely anyone notices, since they’re focused on the painting.

But Rodrigo notices.

His eyes narrow to dark slits. He stares at me across the room, his thin lips hardening. Then, slowly, they stretch into a calculating, insidious smile. He holds up his paddle, his eyes remaining locked on me.

“ Bien ,” says the auctioneer. “Bidding begins at ten million euros.”

He might be gesturing to the painting, but I have no doubt what is truly being sold off here.

Or rather, given away.

I’m a gift. A bribe. A reward.

And from Jacey’s perspective, it’s a neat solution.

Give Rodrigo his revenge.

Get rid of me.

And solidify his alliance with the Cardenas cartel.

I stare at the tiny painting, the vivid colors like an explosion of purity amid the decadent corruption all around us, my mind racing.

It’s a setup, exactly the kind of sadistic, psychopathic plan Jacey would concoct.

Jacey always knew Rodrigo was the weak link in the Cardenas operation — it’s why he targeted him in the first place. That was a conclusion I came to a long time ago, when I was lying in a cell in El Buen Pastor with nothing to do but think .

Some things don’t change, huh, Abs.

I suppress a slightly hysterical urge to laugh. I stare at the stage without seeing it, aware of Rodrigo’s eyes on me the entire time.

Jacey wouldn’t have had any trouble getting him here.

This place appeals precisely to Rodrigo’s worst traits, and those he uses to impress others.

It offers the perfect blend of glamour, elitism, and unbridled cruelty.

SK is a sadist’s playground, not to mention an opportunity for Rodrigo to rub shoulders with the elite of the criminal world.

It’s quite literally an offer too good for him to refuse.

In return, Jacey gains a steady supply of cocaine that he can distribute throughout South East Asia.

No wonder he leaped at the chance to capture me.

Offering Rodrigo revenge on the girl who humiliated him all those years ago, serving me up to him here on a silver platter to do with as he wishes, is clever business sense.

Rodrigo never knew it was Jacey who ordered us to steal his shipment of cocaine. He thought Nico and I acted alone.

It was Juan Cardenas, Rodrigo’s father, who knew the truth.

And telling him the truth set me free.

Adrenaline and fear mingle in my veins, an intoxicating brew I haven’t felt in a long time.

I have to get out of here.

The thought thuds into me with an urgency that takes my breath away. Seeing Rodrigo has brought something inside me back to life. The savage part of me that I’ve been almost scared to feel since I woke up in that abandoned mining camp.

I stare at Rodrigo across the room, my heart tripping wildly.

He’s your chance, Abby, just like his father was back in Bogotá.

“Sold!” The auctioneer bangs his gavel, smiling at Rodrigo as the audience applauds. “I think we’ll take a break, ladies and gentlemen. Sir, if you’d follow me?” He gestures toward a side door.

Rodrigo gets to his feet and murmurs to one of the security guards, gesturing in my direction. The man nods and crosses the room to me.

“You.” He takes me by the arm, not gently. “Come with me.”

Here we go. I gulp the rest of my champagne.

“Abby?” Yrsa looks at me worriedly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing important.” I force myself to smile at her. “Look after Mary, okay?”