Jack Wilder - The Missionary

She dug the money the woman had given her from the pocket of her shorts and counted out $20USD. Enough for a bottle of water and something to eat, at least. Assuming Cervantes wasn’t just beyond the door waiting for her.

Wren hesitated with her fingers on the door handle. Her heart was pounding so loud she could no longer hear the café’s music. What if he was out there, waiting? She couldn’t, wouldn’t let him take her again. She’d fight to the death, if she had to.

Where was Stone? Had he followed her? Had he stopped to deal with Cervantes? Was he even alive?

She knew in her gut that Cervantes wasn’t dead, wasn’t going to stop. He’d find her.

Wren pushed through the door, tensed for the worst.

10

Stone slid between people, scanning faces. Shaw was insanely busy, people streaming in all directions. Ahead, he saw a commotion, a cluster of onlookers crowded in a circle around someone. Stone used his height to peer over their heads, caught a glimpse of Cervantes climbing to his feet, his face a mask of blood.

“She went that way,” someone said in Filipino, pointing toward the escalators. “She looked like she’d been through some shit.”

Cervantes had ripped off his shirt and had it pressed to his temple. He was sagging against a pillar, clearly in pain, dizzy and disoriented. Stone wished he could finish the job, but Wren was his first priority. He’d have to deal with Cervantes, but he couldn’t do anything at the moment. Stone pushed through the crowd toward the escalators. Where would Wren have gone?

Out of the mall. Out, away. Somewhere familiar, probably. Stone headed toward the mall’s entrance, scanning, searching. Outside, he paused, watching the crowds and cars move in an endless stream.

There: a Starbucks. Probably the most familiar place of all for a lost and afraid American girl. The first place Cervantes would check, too, most likely. Stone ran across the street, dodging traffic and nearly getting hit a few times before reaching the sidewalk, leaving stopped cars and shouted curses in his wake. He jerked the door open and sucked in a breath of the familiar coffee shop air. He didn’t see her in the dining room, didn’t see her in line or waiting for a drink. Maybe she wasn’t here.

Then the bathroom door opened, and there she was. She’d cleaned up a bit, found a new shirt. Good girl.

She still looked battered and in pain and terrified, but she was scanning the shop with wary, alert eyes. Stone’s gut twisted at the sight of her. Bruises darkened her face, and she looked sweaty, even though it was cool—almost cold—inside Starbucks. He saw her reach a hand to her forearm and scratch absently, then notice what she was doing and stop, shaking her hand as if flinging away the need to scratch.

He slipped through the crowd, willing Wren to glance his way, to see him. He dared not call out, knowing she’d bolt, and that would make a scene. He needed to get her away from this area without drawing any more attention than necessary. He closed to within three feet before she spotted him.

Her entire being lit up, as if merely seeing him was salvation. She flew through the air and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck. His arms clutched her waist and he buried his face in her hair.

A moment passed, and then another, and then he felt her body jerk and shudder, a sob ripping from her. “Stone…oh God, Stone. Don’t—please don’t let him—”

“I’ve got you, Wren. You’re safe, baby. I promise.” Baby? Stone thought. Where did that come from? “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Wren sobbed again, and then drew a deep breath and seemed to physically force herself to stop crying. “Did you…did you see him? In the mall? I hit him with an ashtray, but I’m not sure how good I got him.”

Stone chuckled. “You got him good.”

She lifted her chin to look up at him. Her eyes were wet, brown and wide and afraid and relieved. “Is it horrible that I’m glad I hurt him? He’s…he’s evil, Stone. You don’t even know…”

“That’s a perfectly normal emotional response,” he said. “And I do have a pretty good idea what he’s like.” Stone refused to think about that mission. He was positive it was Cervantes he’d seen, there at the last, watching them fly away.

He pulled Wren out of the Starbucks, his gaze roving the street for any sign of Cervantes, mind racing. Cross the street, just move, keep moving. Find a cab, put distance between them and Cervantes. He walked quickly, almost carrying Wren with one arm. A jeepney hauled past them, then braked at a stop. Stone tugged Wren into a jog and pushed her onto the flamboyantly colored vehicle, which was crowded well past any logical capacity. He held her against his front, shielding her from the view of anyone on the street.

She was panting, pressing one hand to her side, sheened with sweat.

“Are you hurt?”

She nodded. “Ribs. He…he kicked me. A few times. Not broken, I’m pretty sure, but it hurts.”

“Did he…hurt you in any other way?” He hated asking, but he had to know, if only so he’d be aware of her psychological mindset.

Wren shook her head. “No. He was…saving me. For whoever bought me.” She scratched her left forearm again, then stopped with a curse under her breath. “They…forced drugs on me. Not sure what. With a needle.”

“Probably heroin. How are you feeling? Symptom-wise, I mean.”

“I don’t…I don’t know. Achy. Nauseous. I think I have a fever. It’s…it’s awful. Sometimes it feels like bugs are crawling on me. Under my skin. A million…a million bugs with sharp little feet crawling inside me…I want to scratch, and I want them out, I want…oh God, I hate it. But it’s the drugs. I know it’s the drugs, and I can’t…I won’t let it take control. I can’t be addicted. I didn’t want this.” She had her head leaned against Stone’s chest, and she was whispering quietly, fiercely. “Make it stop , Stone. Please.”

“That’s the heroin, babe. The fever can do that too. It’s gonna be okay, Wren. I promise. I’ll get you through it. I won’t let anything happen.”

“But…I need it. You don’t understand. I don’t want the drugs, but I…my body—my body needs it.”

Stone held her with one arm, gripping the railing with the other as the jeepney wound through the Ortigas Complex, jerked to a stop, disgorged passengers and absorbed others. He was listening to her, but part of him was on high-alert, watching for Cervantes or someone who might work for him. The problem was that Cervantes would have a massive network of informants, paid and otherwise.

They rode the jeepney for several stops, and then Stone pulled Wren off and boarded another one, letting it take them farther away. The second jeepney took them northward, and then they transferred yet again, this time back onto Ortigas Avenue, heading northwest. Wren clung to him, sweating and mumbling, shivering, scratching.

He had to get her off the street so he could help her through the worst of the withdrawal. He wanted to go back to the hostel, but he wasn’t sure exactly where that was, for one thing, and for another, the group had already left, making the hostel no better a place to go than anywhere else.

Another transfer, this time to a regular bus line heading north. Wren couldn’t even walk. He had to lift her bodily up on to the bus. As they swayed with the motion of the bus, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, intending to find someone to help them. He swore when he discovered that the battery had died.

Stone couldn’t remember how long he’d been awake at that point, how long he’d been scouring the city, how long it had been since he’d raided the brothel. He’d been exhausted when she had gone missing; he was dead on his feet now.