I'm yanked off the ground and dragged so fast, I can't catch my footing.
The men who arrived grab me, and I'm forced into their Jeep while kicking and screaming. The guerrillas' responses are only to laugh.
The man who sits next to me straps me in the seat belt and tells me to stop moving, or he will shoot me.
Fear convinces me to freeze.
A blindfold is tied tight over my eyes. My anxiety shoots up. I try to calm my nerves, but the blackness doesn't help.
The terrain is bumpy and the journey once again long. When we finally arrive at our destination, I'm pulled out of the SUV, and the blindfold is torn off. Strands of my hair catch and rip out of my head.
But I don't cry. I won't give these men any of my tears. And pain is something that has become too familiar to me.
"Santiago!" the thug next to me yells.
Santiago? Oh no. Please, no.
My fear comes true when he steps out of a tent, and his men drag me over to him.
He speaks in English. "Vanessa. I've been waiting for you."
Santiago Gómez is the leader of the Colombian drug cartel and the most ruthless man I've ever laid eyes on. I've accompanied Carlos to too many dinners to count where Santiago was present. Even though I was in the presence of men who were paid to protect Carlos, and thus me, I never let my guard down.
The one time I begged Carlos not to ever make me go to another event with Santiago again, I paid dearly. Carlos tugged my head back so forcefully, he gave me whiplash. In Carlos's mind, I suggested that Santiago was someone more powerful than him, and that wasn't acceptable.
For two months, I had to wear a neck brace, and Carlos told everyone I got hurt in a car accident.
After that, I never mentioned my fear of Santiago again. But every time we had to be in the same room as him, my stomach quivered in fear.
Carlos Garcia is a leader of the people to all of Belize. Behind closed doors, he's a monster. Santiago Gómez is as vile as Carlos.
My current predicament finds me staring into Santiago's dark, cold, evil eyes. I swallow the thick knot in my throat and try to stop my lip from quivering. "Wh-what do you want from me?"
A sinister grin appears, and my stomach flips. "Take her shackles off," he orders his men in Spanish. In English, he says, "You won't be needing those."
Confusion and terror mix, swirling in my veins so fast, I get dizzy and have to work hard to continue standing as his man roughly grabs the bruised spots on my wrists to unlock the cuffs.
Why don't I need these?
What is he going to do to me?
To torment me, he takes his hands and holds my face. "You know a lot, don't you?"
"No." It comes out as a whisper instead of sounding confident.
His eyes turn to slits. The tip of his finger slides down my cheek and neck then through my cleavage.
The ability to hold my tears back is gone.
"But you do. I've eaten dinner with you, no?" He raises his eyebrows and waits for me to acknowledge him.
"Y-yes."
"So, you've also had dinners with Torres?"
My insides quiver in fear. Admitting anything to Santiago puts me in more danger.
"Answer me," he screams and spit flies into my face.
"Yes."
"And Global Leaders? Them, too?"
"Yes."
His face comes closer and his stale breath flares in my nostrils. "You know what side of the fence that pig sits on?"
There's a war going on. I didn't want any part of it. Neither side is good or moral. And I don't want to be caught in the middle. But there's no way around it.
"Yes," I choke out.
His next words create a new nightmare. "You will have dinner with me. Everything you know, you will tell me. But I will not have a dirty woman at my table." He turns to his men and growls in Spanish, "Take her to the river with the supplies."
For the first time since being captured, I'm out of my restraints. But there's nowhere to run. Running would be a mistake anyway. Santiago and his men would kill me in a minute.
I'm led to the river. The man sets a bucket down containing soap, shampoo, conditioner, razors, shaving cream, and a comb.
"Undress. Go," the man says in Spanish and points to the water.
I do as he says, and my skin crawls as he eyes my body. I quickly grab the bucket and step into the water.
When I'm rinsing my hair, there is a commotion.
"Stop hurting me, you thug!" a woman's voice says in Spanish.
"Clean up," the man who brought me directs me, and I obey, continuing to wash my hair.
"Strip," the new man yells.
The woman soon joins me, and when I see her face, I'm shocked.
"Zoe," I whisper. She's the most famous Latin pop star in the world. Six months before my kidnapping, she went missing. I know her. I've met her several times at embassy parties.
She hugs me. Our bodies are naked, but I don't care. A tear falls down her cheek. "Vanessa. What are you doing here?"
"Don't touch! Clean up now," one of the men yells, and we quickly let go of each other.
"We'll talk in the pit later tonight," she murmurs.
"The pit?"
"Yep. Home sweet home," she sings.
"I... I have to eat dinner with Santiago." I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Lucky you," she sarcastically says. "I have to sing to the thugs again."
"What do you mean?"
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, every now and then I have to put on a concert. Dress and all."
"Dress?"
She snorts. "Yep. I'm sure you'll have one, too."
"They have dresses here? In the jungle?" I ask in disbelief.
"Yep. Santiago thinks he is cultured. How warped is that?"
"Stop talking. Wash faster," the man yells.
Zoe grabs the razor out of the bucket and shaves her armpit. "Thank God I had most of my hair removed via laser."
I look down.
How long has it been since I had a good wax?
Zoe hands me the shaving cream. "I think you might need a few of the razors. Good thing they just restocked the bucket."
"I'm not shaving for those bastards."
Something crosses in her eyes. She lowers her voice. "You don't have a choice. Hair isn't allowed. Santiago won't have it. And the last thing you want to do is rile the beast."
"Seriously?"
"Yes. Here, let me hold your ankle, and you can do your legs."
I groan but pick my leg up to allow her to help me.
"What did they do to your ankles?" she cries out.
"It's from the shackles. My wrists are the same." I hold them out.
"Give me the soap. Let me help you clean them. You could get an infection from these wounds."
I do as she says, and she cleans them and then holds my calf so I can shave. When I've gotten my legs and armpits, I do my bikini line and throw the razor back in the bucket.
"Nope. Pick it back up. It's commando time."
I ask the question I'm most fearful of. "Are they going to rape me?"
She shakes her head, and her eyes widen. "They haven't done that to me. But they love to stare, and every now and then cop a feel to watch me squirm. And sometimes they make me sing for hours naked."