Down Among the Dead Men

98

It had taken Vargas and Ortiz longer than they expected to find the cages. Vargas had misinterpreted Cristo’s map and had taken a left when he should have gone right. So he and Ortiz had doubled back, finally finding two small caves fronted by iron bars and locked with chains and padlocks.

At first he thought no one was inside of them. But as he and Ortiz drew closer, he saw them: several women in each, huddled in the shadows at the back of the cells. They were dressed in frayed and dirty street clothes-probably the very clothes they’d been wearing when they were snatched off the street-some of them drugged, others mumbling incoherently, and still others crying softly, bewildered looks on their faces.

As Vargas and Ortiz approached the bars, several of the women recoiled, retreating to the very back of their caves.

There was the distinct smell of feces and urine in the air, and in a corner of each cave a small bucket overflowed with waste.

The two men looked at each other in surprise and disgust. And though he had listened to Cristo’s story, Vargas couldn’t have imagined anything like this.

He knew that human beings were often the cruelest creatures on earth. History had proven this time and again. But to see it firsthand, the stark reality of it, was as painful as a dagger to the chest.

Turning again, he noticed that Ortiz was staring intently into the two cages, looking at all the faces, studying them-and he knew exactly who Ortiz was looking for.

“You won’t find her here,” Vargas said. “It’s been too long. Either she’s been shipped off to one of the brothels or she’s dead.”

Ortiz nodded and his face hardened. “We don’t have all night, pocho. Let’s get these fucking things open.”

Then he pulled the SIG from his belt, pointed it at the first lock, and fired, blowing it off the chain. The shot echoed loudly in the tunnel, several of the women flinching and yelping in surprise, but Vargas was pretty sure the roar of the crowd upstairs had kept the sound from escaping the immediate area.

Ortiz aimed again, blowing open the second lock, then he and Vargas threw open the cage doors, expecting the women to jump to their feet — but no one moved. Just stared at them with wide, frightened expressions on their faces.

Then Vargas removed his mask and looked in at them, smiling. “Come,” he said. “Come with us. You’re free.”

And as his words sank in, several of the women rose to their feet, tentative but hopeful looks on their faces.

“You’re free,” Vargas repeated, gesturing for them to step out of the cages. “Come. We’ll take you out of this place.”

Then the smiles came, the looks of relief, as they began helping one another to their feet, the drugged or injured women carried along by the healthier ones as they stumbled out, moving faster with each step.

“Stay together,” Vargas said.

Vargas and Ortiz led them through the tunnel, moving as quickly as they could, but as they rounded a corner, Vargas saw Cristo running in his direction, a frantic look on his face.

“ Senor Vargas! Senor Vargas!”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Cristo was out of breath, could barely get the words out. “…Elizabeth,” he said. “They have Elizabeth.”

“Who does? El Santo?”

“Marta and Jennifer. They put her in the sacrificial robes.”

“What?”

“Come quick! They take her to the altar!”