The American pulls his hand from inside his trench coat and places his gun on his leg for all to see. His finger remains on the trigger. Javier glances down nervously at the gun once.

Lydia is digging her fingernails into my ribs. I reach down carefully and move her hands away, feeling her body relax now that she realizes what she’s doing. Her breathing is rapid. I drape my arm around her shoulder and pull her into my chest. She’s not used to seeing people die. Not yet. But one day she will be. Cupping one side of her head within my hand, I press my lips against her hair to calm her.

Javier gestures with the dismissing wave of two fingers and says, “Clean this mess up,” to the other gunman standing behind the American. The gunman seems more than happy to oblige, not wanting to end up like his comrade. Every eye in the room is on the American. Not that they weren’t before, but now they are more obvious, much more observant.

“You’ve made your point,” Javier says.

“I wasn’t trying to make one,” the American corrects him.

Javier nods in acknowledgment.

“Three million American dollars,” Javier says. “Do you accept the offer?”

It’s obvious that the American has done more than take Javier down a few notches. He may not be running away in fear or cowering in the corner, but it’s clear that he’s been put in his place. And this is not easy to do. It worries me what Javier might do in retaliation when he feels he has the opportunity. It worries me only because I need that American to get me out of here.

“What are they saying?” Lydia asks, frustrated that she has a long way to go before she will be able to decipher anything said around this place.

I don’t answer, but I squeeze her shoulder once to indicate that I need her to stop talking.

“Three and a half is my price,” the American says.

Javier’s face falls and I think his nostrils just flared. He’s not used to being second best.

“But you said—”

“The price went up,” the American says, leaning his back against the chair again and tapping the butt of his gun softly against his black pants. He offers no more explanation and doesn’t need to. Javier already seems accepting.

Javier nods. “Sí. Sí. Three and a half million. Can you have it done in one week?”

The American stands up, his long black coat falling about his body. He is tall and intimidating with short brown hair buzzed around the back and slightly longer and spiky on top.

I pull Lydia away from the door and shut it softly.

“What are you doing?” she asks as I rush over to the rickety chest of drawers that holds all of the clothes that she and I share.

“We’re leaving,” I say as I shove whatever I can down inside a pillowcase. “Get your shoes on.”

“What?”

“Lydia, we don’t have time for this. Just get your shoes. We can make it out of here with the American.”

I stuff the pillowcase half-full and move to help her since she’s slow to understand what exactly is going on. I grab her by the arm and push her against the bed.

“I’ll help you,” I say as I kneel in front of her and go to slip her bare feet into her shoes.

But she stops me.

“No…Sarai, I-I can’t leave.”

I let out a heavy breath. We don’t have time for this but I need to make time long enough to convince her that she needs to leave with me. I look up into her eyes. “We will be safe. We can get out of here—Lydia, he is the first American I’ve seen in years. He’s our only chance.”

“He’s a killer.”

“You’re surrounded by killers. Now come on!”

“No! I’m afraid!”

I shoot up from my kneeling position and thrust my hand over her mouth. “Shhh! Lydia, please listen to me—”

She places her fingers over mine and peels my hand from her lips.

Tears stream from her eyes and she shakes her head rapidly. “I won’t go. We’ll get caught and Javier will beat us. Or worse, Izel will torture and kill us. I’m staying here.”

I know that I can’t change her mind. She has that look in her eyes. The one that says she’s been broken and she will probably always be broken. I put my hands on her shoulders and look at her.

“Get under the covers and pretend that you’ve been asleep,” I say. “Stay like that until someone comes in and finds you. If they know you knew about me leaving and didn’t tell anyone, they will kill you.”

Lydia nods in a nervous jerking motion.

“I will come back for you.” I shake her by the shoulders, hoping she’ll believe me. “I promise. The first thing I’ll do when I get over the border is go to the police.”

“But how will you find me?”

Tears choke her voice.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But the American will know. He will help me.”

That look in her eyes, it’s hopeless. She doesn’t believe for a second that this insane plan of mine is going to work. And I probably wouldn’t have either nine years ago, but desperation makes a person do crazy things. Lydia’s face hardens and she reaches up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. It’s as if she knows this is the last time she will ever see me.

I kiss her hard on the forehead.

“I will come back for you.”

She nods slowly and I push my way through the tiny room with the pillowcase slung over my back.

“Get under the covers,” I hiss at her as I push open the window.

As Lydia hides under the blanket, I climb my way out the window and into the mild October heat. I crouch low behind the house and make my way around the side and through the hole in the fence surrounding the south side of the compound. Javier has gunmen everywhere, but I’ve always found them rather dense and lacking in the guard-the-compound-from-escapees area because rarely does anyone try to escape. Mostly the guards all stand around talking and smoking cigarettes and making vulgar gestures to the other girls who are enslaved here. The one standing at the entrance to the armory is the one who tried to rape me six weeks ago. The only reason Javier didn’t kill him is because that one is his brother.

But brother or not, he is now a eunuch.

Weaving my way in-between small buildings, I make it to the tree-line and stop in the shadows cast by the nearby house. I stand up straight and press my back against the stucco and make my way carefully around to the front where the twelve-foot barbwire fence starts at the front gate. Outsiders are always made to park their vehicles just beyond it where they are escorted into the compound on foot.

The American would not have been allowed in any differently. I’m sure of it. I hope.

A large swath of light from the post covers the space between me and the area of the gate that I need to get to. There is one guard posted there, but he’s younger and I think I can take him. I’ve had plenty of time to work these things out. All of my teenage life. I stole a handgun from Izel’s room last year and have kept it hidden under a floorboard in mine and Lydia’s room ever since. The second I saw the American enter the house I had pulled back the floorboard to retrieve it and shoved it in the back of my shorts. I knew I’d need it tonight.

I inhale a deep breath and dash across the light in the wide open and just hope that no one spots me. I run hard and fast with the pillowcase beating against my back and the gun gripped in my hand so tight it hurts the bones in my fingers. I make it to the fence and breathe a sigh of relief when I find another shadow to hide within. Shadows move at a distance, coming from the house I just left. I feel sick to my stomach and could actually vomit if I didn’t know I had more important things to do and fast. My heart is hammering against my ribcage. I spot the guard out ahead standing near the front gate and leaning against a tree. The hot amber of a cigarette glows around his copper-colored face and then fades as he pulls his lips away from the filter. The silhouette of his assault rifle gives the impression that he has the gun strap tossed over one shoulder. Thankfully he isn’t holding it at the ready. I walk quickly along the edge of the fence, trying to stay hidden in the shadow cast by the trees on the other side of it. My worn out flip-flops move over the soft sand making no sound at all. The guard is so close that I can smell the funk of his body odor and see the oil glistening in his unwashed air.