The Missionary

She felt a shiver of something awful wriggle in her gut. It was something terribly like glee. The thought of Cervantes bleeding for what he’d done to her…it made a part of her happy to consider. And that scared her witless. What was happening to her? She shouldn’t wish pain on anyone, not even her worst enemy. She should pray for Cervantes. Turn the other cheek. Trust God to have a plan, even in the midst of this terror.

But…she just couldn’t. Not any of that.

She wanted Cervantes to hurt. She wanted him to hurt like she hurt. She wanted him to feel the kind of fear she felt.

She wanted him to pay for the need she felt in her veins, the horrible, itching, crawling, hot and then cold need she felt in her skin and in her blood and in her belly.

Need for the needle to pierce her vein and send the evil chemicals into her.

Need for the needle. Perhaps that was where the term came from. The word need was buried inside needle, after all.

“You gonna let us go, American. Count to thirty, slow. I see you, I hear you, she dead.” He nodded at the bathroom door. “Go in dere. Sit, wait, count, or I kill her.”

She watched in despair as Stone reluctantly moved into the bathroom and sat down. Wren felt herself dragged through the doorway, her heels scrabbling on the threadbare carpeting. She smelled Stone, faint cologne, sweat, and blood. She managed to meet his eyes briefly, saw the hate there, saw the anger and the sadness and the determination. She tried to comfort him with a single glance. She tried to pour all of her heart into that fleeting meeting of eyes.

And then she was out of sight of Stone, and she missed him so much, needed him. She knew he wouldn’t stop until he had her safe. All she had to do was stay alive.

But Cervantes wasn’t taking any chances. He dragged her down the stairwell, her feet slipping on the concrete, missing a stair or two at a time, off-balance and gasping for breath. The gun barrel wasn’t pressed against her anymore, but she still had no chance to break free. Not yet, she knew. Not yet.

Then they were out on the street and his arm was gone from her throat, but the gun was pressed against her back, his arm now draped casually over her chest, cradling her almost tenderly, like a man with his girlfriend out for a stroll on a hot afternoon. Into the mall, into the wild and bustling crowds, the ceiling high, high overhead, bright lights and sunshine streaming, voices chattering in Filipino and a smattering of other languages, even English…found a purse…only a hundred pesos…Daddy please…

A purse. A girl begging her father for money to buy a purse. She had been that girl before. Now she just wanted to be free, to survive this hell.

Wren sucked air into her lungs, trotted to keep up with Cervantes as he wended through the crowd, angling across the cavernous space as if he knew exactly where he was going. She scanned the signs, looking for one in English that would give her some kind of clue. Then she saw a sign pointing the way toward a train station, and realized what his plan was.

If she got on a train with Cervantes, she’d never be free. Stone would never be able to find her again. She wasn’t even sure how he had in the first place, but if Cervantes got them onto a train, she was as good as dead. Or worse.

It wasn’t time to fight, yet. She had to wait until he was distracted.

They left the mall and entered the train station.

This was her chance; the crowds in the station—which the signs announced to be the Shaw Boulevard MRT station—were thick and chaotic, jostling elbow to elbow. She waited, waited, let Cervantes push her through the crowd. She felt her pulse pounding, readying her for action. She tried to breathe slowly and evenly, tried to take in everything. A door, there. A bathroom? No, no way out except the way in. A security guard? Perhaps. Her best bet was to simply get away and try to lose herself in the chaos.

They approached the ticketing counter. Cervantes kept the pistol between their bodies, shielding it from view while digging in his pocket for money. Once he had the tickets he wanted, his arm went back around her and guided her down to the platform level. The bustle of people was worse here, barely room to breathe or move without bumping into half a dozen people. An elderly man in front of them moved with glacial slowness, and Wren could feel Cervantes growing impatient, trying to push around him. But the thickness of the crowd wouldn’t allow it.

And then the moment came. A woman stumbled, her three-inch heel catching on the floor and careening her into Cervantes. He cursed angrily, shoving the woman away. In that moment, a split second, the barrel of the pistol wasn’t pressed into her flesh. Wren whirled, holding the thick glass ashtray in her fist with the edge leading. She bashed Cervantes in the skull, near the temple, and felt bone crunch, give. He stumbled, blood immediately masking his face.

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