The Missionary (11 page)

People screamed, pointed. Wren ignored it all.
 

She struck again, aiming for the same place. Cervantes fell to his knees, his gun slipping from his fingers. She kicked it away and ran, pushing through the crowd. She was in full panic, now, adrenaline bursting through her, putting speed into her movement, strength in her tired, pain-ridden body. She elbowed people away, pushed and kicked and shoved, striving for as much distance as possible. She found the escalator, made her way back up to L3, where the bridge to the Pavilion Mall was.
 

She thanked God that she’d been paying attention, so she knew exactly where to go. Run. Run. Run. She heard shouts behind her, heard Cervantes’ voice, and she poured on speed, zigzagging through the crowds at a breakneck pace, crashing into people, knocking them aside and earning curses and shouts, not heeding them but only running faster. She saw the entrance to the bridge to the Pavilion Mall, choked with people. Her eyes scanned the crowd, seeking one face, one blond head standing over the rest. She didn’t see him, and felt despair. Surely he’d followed them?
 

Shouts of pursuit echoed behind her, and she knew she had to get out of this complex, away from the mall and Shaw. Running full sprint now, Wren found a stairway leading down, toward the street level, and she tore down it, slipping and tripping, slamming into walls. She exited, and felt the humid wall of heat blast her like a fist as she stumbled out into the open.
 

Hide, she had to hide. People would see her running and talk.
 

There: a Starbucks across the street, full of locals and tourists alike. She crossed the street at a fast walk, trying to slow down and not attract attention. She realized she looked just like everyone else, here, except few had the bruises on her face and the dried blood on her nose. Her clothes were ripped and filthy, showing too much skin in places. The shirt had been a blue V-neck, scooped low, but it had been torn at some point and now revealed the dirty white lace of her bra and the tan expanse of flesh it contained. People stared and pointed, and she knew all Cervantes had to do was question a few people in order to follow her trail.
 

She hurried through the congested traffic, causing a taxi to brake hard and nearly hit her. She entered the Starbucks, the familiar sight and sound and smell of the coffee shop comforting her. She was so thirsty, so hungry, so tired. She wanted to sink into a deep red suede chair and sip a latte, nibble on a blueberry muffin. Read back issues of
The New York Times
. Pretend to do the crossword.
 

She couldn’t do any of that, though. She pushed toward the back of the crowded store, past the clang of the espresso machine wands and the hiss of the steamer, ignoring the chatter and the music, jostling a display of travel mugs and pound-bags of exotic coffee beans. Cool air washed over her skin, drying the sweat and making her shiver. The ladies bathroom door swung open and a woman stepped out, blond hair and blue eyes, wearing an open white button-down shirt over a pink tank top and cut off jean shorts.
 

The woman cast a critical glance at Wren, and then her expression changed to concern. “You all right?” she asked, her accent faintly German.

Wren wanted to beg for help, plead, weep. “I just…I ripped my shirt.”

“Looks like more than that, sweetheart. You need a doctor.”

“I’m…I’m fine.” She resisted a glance over her shoulder for Cervantes, not wanting to look as desperate and terrified as she really was. “Can I borrow your button-down?”

The woman immediately shed the shirt and handed it to her. “Sure, honey. Here. Do you need anything else? Are you sure I can’t bring you to a doctor?” She leaned in close. “You don’t have to stay with him, honey. Don’t let him keep hurting you. Okay?” The woman turned away, and as she passed, she pressed a tightly folded wad of bills into Wren’s palm.

Wren slipped into the bathroom and locked it, then sat, trembling, on the toilet. She buried her face in her hands and let herself shake, but refused to cry. If she started crying, she’d never stop. After a moment, she forced herself to her feet and peeled the dirty, ripped T-shirt off her body, groaning in pain as her injured ribs protested. In the mirror, she saw the bruises on her torso and her face. No wonder the woman had assumed Wren was in an abusive relationship.
 

If only the truth were that easy
. She wet a length of paper towel and scrubbed the worst of the dirt and dried blood from her face and around her nose. There wasn’t much she could do for her knotted and snarled hair, but she ripped a piece of her old shirt and used it to tie it back so it didn’t look as bad. Then she put on the new shirt and buttoned it, feeling more human.

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.
 

He wasn’t sure when he’d eaten last, or had anything to drink.

He wasn’t sure where they were going. He didn’t know what to do, how to get Wren out of Manila without risking another shootout with Cervantes and his army of goons.

He may have dozed off. Wren was a heavy weight against him. The bus had emptied significantly, and he no longer had even the slightest clue where they were. His best guess was somewhere between San Juan and Northern Calocoon City. His dim understanding of Manila’s geography told him a northerly route from Mandaluyong would take them into Quezon City. It was far from where they’d been, and that was good enough for that particular moment.

The bus juddered to a stop, belching diesel, and Stone dragged Wren off, held her in the shelter of a building. The late evening sun was hot, and they were both about to pass out.

Gnawing instinct had Stone turning his head around just in time to see a black sedan with tinted windows soar past them. It slowed abruptly, squealing brakes and skidding. Stone buried his face in Wren’s shoulder, and she murmured, mumbled.

“Wren, baby. Gotta wake up. We gotta move. We got trouble.”

“Cold…so cold. Tired.” She sagged against Stone, shaking her head and trembling violently.

He shook her. “Wren!” he hissed into her ear. “He’s back. He’s after us. It’s Cervantes. If you want to stay alive, I need you to pull it together.”