Free Gringa - In the Clutches of a Ruthless Drug Lord by Eve Rabi

              In an endeavour to well, save face , I shrug, then dish myself some vegetables, which I mimic eating. But the vegetables taste so great that after a while I give in and find myself actually eating them.
                       I breathe an internal sigh of relief when Diablo focuses on the conversation around him again. He doesn’t talk much to anyone, but just listens, his eyes darting all round the table. The only person he gives his undivided attention to - the big muscle, cute guy who defended me earlier on. They call him Troy .
                       Troy . Nice name. He’s around twenty five and bearded, but no rings around his peepers. Reminds me of Zorro, but without the mask . No Catherine Zeta-Jones either . He seldom speaks and is morose.  
                       Christa and Santana look like twins conjoined at the head. They’re looking at me and whispering. Then they burst out laughing. Christa’s drinking shot after shot of tequila and suddenly bursts out, ‘“You think I’m scared to die, you bastard? I’m not. But you shot me three times and I’m still here. Back from the dead. How many times do you need to try before you give up, eh?”’
                  Everyone cracks up with laughter. Even Diablo grunts a chuckle and his eyes start to shine. 
                  I remember those words – bitchface is mimicking me. My face is burning now and I probably look the colour of the tomato in the salad. I glance thoughtfully at the carving knife .     
                       When they finish eating, one of the guys brings out a bag of white powder. They start to snort it off the d ining table.
                  Tongue whispers in my ear, his lips brushing against my earlo be like a slug, ‘Bebe, I have Marijuanaaa, heroinaaa, amphetaminaaa, cocainaaa - anything you wan t . Whachusay, eh? Whachusay?’
                  I jerk away and shake my head.
                  ‘Why?’ He seems surprised . ‘Come on, you party with me.’
                  I continue shaking my head , but I secretly wonder if he has opium there. Fuck! I’d give anything for opium right now.  
              I can’t tell who’s doing drugs and who’s not, but I’m judgemental enough to assume they all are. 
                  Tongue leads the pack on the snorting. I watch him whip out a credit card, cut up three plump lines on the glass table, block one nostril and snort a line. He leans back and wipes his nose. Some of the men use short straws while others use rolled bank notes.     
                 Initially, I find it fascinating, almost entertaining. But after a while I’m bored and I long to get back to my room. W hen I look up and see Diablo watching me, I quickly shelve any thought of asking to be excused. So I stay and ache through their loud, drunken laughter and foul language, wanting the earth to open up and just swallow me whole. An earthquake or a tsunami right now, is just what I need.
                  Suddenly there’s shouting outside . T he men race out the door, pistols in hand .
                  Christa and Santana follow the men.
                  Diablo doesn’t appear very interested in what’s happening outside and remains seated . 
                  ‘Diablo!’ Christa calls. ‘Diablo!’
                  For a while, Diablo ignores her calls. Eventually, he r eluctantly scr apes back his chair and saunters outside.
                  The moment he leaves the room, Maria , Rosa and I cram around the window and look outside .
                  I see a man on his knees. They’re slapping and punching him.
                  The poor man – he appears terrified and sounds like he’s begging for his life. I would be too