Shattered Pieces (Undercover Elite Book 1) (8 page)

Johnnie

Cash wastes no time throwing me into third world culture. It is evident that my time growing up in Puerto Rico is going to be put to good use. He had warned me not to reveal the level of my fluency in Spanish, saying that it would give me an edge on eavesdropping if they thought my knowledge of the language was limited.

I stare out the bus window and watch as black smoke lazily blows by, the smell of diesel filling the air. It’s almost nauseating in its intensity and it’s evident this country isn’t the least bit concerned with being eco-friendly. I am already becoming accustomed to the smell assaulting my senses but warding off the headache and nausea caused by the fumes is proving to be a bit more challenging.

The Mayan woman sitting next to me stares with no reserve. It is something else I have learned to accept—the staring. For so much of my life, I didn’t fit in anywhere but it was okay because it was all I knew. I grew up being the only white kid in the neighborhood so I was used to people gawking at me. Ever since I could remember, I was always a head taller than any of the other kids in school. Much of my time growing up was spent feeling clumsy and awkward. The bus stops and jolts me out of my thoughts. Getting through the maze of people on the bus is going to be a trial. There are so many crammed in the tiny space that there is even one guy hanging out of the bus door, holding on to nothing but the bar that’s meant to help passengers as they board. People carry cages with chickens in them and mothers sit breastfeeding infants with their whole breasts exposed, completely comfortable whipping a tit out in public.

I begin attempting to weave my way through the crowd, thinking that this is the perfect atmosphere for a pickpocket. For that reason, my money and passport are in a small, zippered pouch attached to my ankle. “Con permiso, con permiso,” I say as I try to maneuver my way through the throng.

I have arrived in Antigua, a small town in the mountains of Guatemala. I now have the task of finding the doctor’s home where I will be staying with his family. It is here that I will hone my language skills with a tutor; I never pass up the opportunity to improve my Spanish, no matter how fluent I am. Though I am here undercover with Cash, I will still utilize my study time and the tutor I’ll have access to.

“Rubia, Rubia,” a little boy yells. It means ‘blondie’ so I assume he’s talking to me. I just nod. I know from experience that the family I’ll be staying with will hear about my arrival long before I find their home. It is the way things work here. It’s a lot like the inner city or a small town.  People know more about you than you know about yourself. I am just as grateful for my knowledge of Spanish customs as I am my knowledge of the language. Where many people would suffer from culture shock, I won’t because I spent some time growing up in Puerto Rico. I wonder if that was one of the reasons Cash chose me as the only female on the team. I am looking forward to meeting the rest of the guys. I’m sure Cash is waiting to see how I fare on this first job.

I spot the tienda, the Spanish word for
store
, up ahead. This is where Cash told me to make myself known in a roundabout way. By the end of the day, every resident of this small town will know about the American staying at the local doctor’s home. Even though I haven’t really done anything of importance concerning the mission yet, I am glad things are going as planned up until this point. Tiendas are watering holes of sorts in small communities like this. Any chisme (gossip) always filters through the neighborhood store. I am certain this is the reason Cash told me to make an appearance here first.

I approach the women fanning themselves behind the small counter. They eye me curiously. “
¿
Dónde está la casa del doctor?” (Where is the doctor’s house?) “
¿
Dónde está la casa del doctor?” the older woman repeats back to me.

I still haven’t figured out why they repeat everything back but it’s a common practice in Spanish culture. I learned a long time ago not to get frustrated and not to worry if my Spanish was incorrect when they did it. It’s just another custumbre, a custom that goes with the Latin American culture.

“Ahí está, para abajo del calle.” (There it is, down the street.) I look and see the muchacha (young girl). Every house has one—a young girl who helps the wife with all the household chores.

“Muchas gracias y mucho gusto,” I answer the ladies who are still fanning themselves, trying to combat the heat and humidity. I make sure to be pleasant. Things like please and thank you will go a long way here in this place where I am considered the outsider. I will need to gain these people’s trust in order to be successful on this mission.

People here aren’t in a hurry to do anything and I have no doubt I am going to need these ladies in the future in order to stay abreast of current events. It is very important not only for my success, but for my survival as well.

The muchacha greets me with a broad smile as if she already knows me when I make my way to the gated home.

“Hola, Juanita. Mi nombre es Marisol.” (Hello, Juanita. My name is Marisol.) Cash decided using my real name would be okay since the translation from Johnnie to Spanish is Juanita.

I smile at the young girl standing before me. I can tell right away that I’m going to like her. This is a good thing because I’m going to be spending most of my time here with her. I find myself hoping they’ve given me a bedroom of my own. Being forced to share one with her will severely limit my communication with Cash and I’m missing him already. It figures… I’m missing a man who stalked and abducted me. At least I can justify it and say that he did it for all the right reasons. Marisol’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Vamonos, necesitas a encontrarse a la familia.” (Let’s go, you need to meet the family.)

Marisol leads the way down the hallway to meet La Jefa, the female boss of the family. The Mother, in the Latin culture, is indispensable. She runs all things when it comes to the household. She is honored for her ability to bear children and is held in high esteem for the part she plays in the grand scheme of things.

“Señora Esther, quiero presentarte Juanita.” (Mrs. Esther, I want to introduce Juanita.)

“Mucho Gusto, Juanita.” As quickly as she appeared, she walked away. Over her shoulder she speaks once more to Marisol. “Ensenas a ella su cuarto.” (Show her to her room.)

I had known I would be dealing with Marisol more so than the doctor and his wife. My biggest challenge is going to be doing any kind of surveillance on them with so many people here in the house. It remains to be seen how effective I’ll be here. I am certain Cash has already done his homework on the black market baby ring. He has his reasons for having me here and part of me is glad he has chosen a relatively easy task for my first time on the job.

Cash

I make sure she is safely settled in and she isn’t even aware of my surveillance. I am already regretting my decision to have her stay at the doctor’s home but there is really no way around it. The only way she is going to be able to be my eyes and ears is to be in that house. No one is going to think anything of an American being there for language classes. It’s a good plan but I still miss having her in my arms.

The thought of cornering her in some alley and fucking her brains out when she least expects it brings a smile to my face. I settle in to read her journal. If I can’t have her, I’ll settle for the next best thing—her thoughts in the form of words.

Rhonda would get a job in a club and it never failed that the owner would fall in love with her. Beauty was the only thing that my Mother had given us and the only thing that she ever would. Until the day of her death, her life left a wake of destruction. She never gave back and everything that she touched, she ruined. Had it not been for the grace of God, she would have all but consumed me. In the end, she did consume my sister. Rhonda would never overcome the trauma that she had endured as a child and it would literally be the death of her.

From the time Rhonda woke up in the morning, until she passed out at night, she was drugged in one way or another. Nothing helped though. No matter how many drugs she did, nothing erased the pain of what my Mother had allowed to happen to her. The pedophile had left his mark and my Mother had ensured it scarred even deeper when she didn’t believe Rhonda. My sister had gone to her and told her what he was doing, expecting protection only to be turned away. It was the ultimate betrayal and Rhonda would never recover from it. She carried the pain of what had happened to her from the first time she suffered, as well as the second, third, fourth and so on.

Her thoughts jump around in a choppy mishmash and I know enough to deduce the entries are from different dates. I also know that, at the time Johnnie wrote these entries, her brain was more than likely a jumbled mass of confusion. It’s enough; I don’t need organization. I need to get in her psyche and the journal is enabling me to do so. I continue reading.

I could hear Bucky’s tirade in the bedroom as he screamed at his wife, smashing an ashtray against the wall and shattering it.

“What the hell do you mean she doesn’t want to turn a trick,” he screamed at his wife. “Where is the damn john?”

“He is in the bedroom, putting his clothes on to leave,” she answered him.

I was scared but I can have a sarcastic streak and I thought, ‘Well I guess I killed the mood.’ I knew I was in trouble with Bucky but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bring myself to sleep with that man for money. I have always been an open book and faking it is not in my nature. The man had seen the disgust in my face and said, “You don’t want to do this. I can tell and you are no turn on for me.” Once again, my sarcastic nature and my big mouth had gotten me in trouble. “You are damn straight I don’t want to,” I said as I made my way out the door. Well, needless to say, that was when the proverbial shit hit the fan. I stood in the hallway and looked at the door, debating escape options as I listened to Bucky’s insulting tirade continue. ‘This is not good. Oh shit, this is not good,’ I thought. To this day, I still cannot tell you how I steered clear of an ass whipping that night, but I did. Little did I know I would pay the very next day.

We all went to work the next night as if nothing happened. It was when we got home that Bucky blindsided me.

“Sit down, Johnnie.” He motioned toward a chair at the dining room table. As soon as I sat down, the doorbell rang and Bucky’s wife went to answer it. A man walked in and seated himself at the table. He introduced himself as the bail bondsman that Bucky had used to get me out of jail when a raid hit one of the bars where we worked. Yes, you heard me right. I had been locked up at 13 years old. I used Rhonda’s old license as ID to get out of jail but in Bucky’s eyes, he had paid for it. I don’t quite see things the way that others do at times and I am very quick to let them know.

“Well, how do you figure you paid for it, Bucky, when I give you every dime I make working?” I ask. I have always been willful, had a tad of a temper, and definitely had some fight in me. Right now, those attributes were overriding any fear that I might have felt.

Bucky leaned in with clenched teeth and hissed, “Let me tell you something, little girl. The money that you make doesn’t even begin to cover what I spend to keep you up.”

Suddenly, the bail bondsman pulled out a gun and pointed it at me.

‘Oh shit,’ I thought, ‘This changes things.’

“That was my money that was put up and don’t even think about skipping town!” the bondsman hissed in my direction.

Bucky looked at me with a sly look. “I want you here so I guess that means you are staying, little girl.”

I know that it sounds strange but Bucky and I bonded that night. Nobody had ever wanted me that bad and even though it was a threat, I knew that a part of him loved me and was not going to let me leave…

I could feel myself shaking I was so pissed. This guy, Bucky was nothing more than a fucking pedophile. I promised myself right then and there that if I ever got my hands on him, I’d kill him for doing that to my woman.

There was another emotion I was feeling and I couldn’t shake it. I was jealous. I was jealous that she openly admitted she had bonded with that monster. I hated him for deceiving her and I hated him for the fact that he misled her into believing she had bonded with him.

This new information only confirmed what I already knew… she wasn’t able to bond with people under normal circumstances. I had done the right thing when I forced her into my home. I knew I would need to keep an eye on her not only for her physical safety, but for her emotional safety as well. I’ll be damned if I am ever going to let her bond with another man. I want her in my arms and I damn sure miss her being in my bed. I can’t ever remember a time I have missed any woman but I sure as hell miss her. My arms ache for her. We have barely started and I already want this job to be over so I can have her back in my bed where she belongs.

I jump up and throw on some jogging pants and a t-shirt. I feel the need to go and make sure she’s okay. I also feel the need to pin her ass down to take her body and why wait? I don’t want to fucking wait anymore. I miss her and I need to have her now.