Free Torched: A Thriller by Daniel Powell Page B

middle of the
Rocky Mountains with an antique snowmobile and a couple pair of sweatpants!
You’re in Mexico , Vivian. There are people all around you. And I mean
that literally. You’re standing on a very influential drug dealer’s property.
    “Hey, there’s an
idea! Maybe you can ask him for help.”
    “Who? Where am
I? I need a clue— something , Terri. Whose property is this? Please!”
    “He’s a relative
of Shorty Guzman. Sinaloa family. I’ll leave it at that. The man is bad news,
as they say. Those gators? Consider them employees. They help the Guzmans take
care of the evidence.”
    Vivian swiped a
tear away. She had no idea what Terri was talking about, but she knew it was
related to the drug trade. There was danger near the border, and it seemed that
she was right square in the middle of it.
    “Give me some
credit, Vivian. Fair is fair. You have almost nine hours before things get
uncomfortable for Miguel. That’s what you gave us, almost to the minute.”
    “Terri,
please…is there any way we can work this out? Any other way?”
    Terri’s shook
her head. “Look, even if I wanted to help you out, we can’t cash in any more
favors. We can’t step foot on that property again, and neither will the
authorities. You can be sure of that. But hey—if you get out of there, you
might just make it. The hardest part is always that first step, Vivian.”
    Vivian studied
her surroundings. The sun was a blinding torch, the landscape on the far side
of the canal a scorched desert. It broke her down. “Fuck you, Terri!” she
hissed into the screen. “Fuck you and your family, for all that you’ve done to
me!”
    “Good luck,
Vivian. God speed.”
    The feed
terminated, replaced with a blinking avatar indicating her location.
    Vivian sat down.
She put her face in her hands and began to cry.

SIXTEEN
    She wept until
she had exhausted her tears and the feeling of helplessness lifted, replaced
with a raw, purple anger. Vivian stood, cupping a hand to her forehead to shade
the light.
    The terrain was
arid and there were very few trees or shrubs. What did grow there appeared too
small to support even her petite figure, so she nixed the prospects of going
over the canal almost immediately.
    Besides, what
would she use for rope?
    She pawed
through the dilapidated shelving and paint cans, searching for useful items. By
the time she was done she had two: a metal irrigation key and a stubby, rusted
landscaping knife—the same sort she’d used to cut sod when they put the yard in
all those years ago in Cape Coral.
    The irrigation
key was long, made to turn sprinkler valves sunk deep in the ground, and she
liked the weight of it in her hand.
    While she knelt
there, executing her search, she heard movement on the other side of the wall.
She climbed up onto a chunk of concrete and peered over the ledge.
    It was an
iguana. Two , in fact.
    She was so
relieved that they weren’t gators that her epiphany was slow in coming. But
when it dawned on her, she couldn’t hide her smile.
    It was a shot. A
long shot, maybe, but it might give her a chance.
    “You can do
this,” she whispered. She crept around the side of the structure, where the
iguanas watched her with flat, bemused eyes. She took a careful step toward
them and they skittered away, tales swishing pebbles behind them.
    “Shit,” she
said.
    Still, it was
the best idea she had come up with. She would just have to be patient.
    She hid behind
the wall, huddling in the scant shade it provided, and hunted through the
broken concrete until she had seven baseball-sized chunks. She waited, the
minutes sliding away, listening for more of the creatures on the other side.
    When another one
finally approached, she crept to the corner of the wall. Steeling her nerves,
she darted out into the light and fired the missile at the iguana.
    Missing high,
the concrete exploded against the wall and the iguana vanished in the bush.
Forty-five minutes and three tries later, she still had