Author's note: This is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious and over the age of eighteen. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter 2
Dana awoke with a pounding in her head and a feeling of nausea deep in her stomach–an experience which was no doubt worsened by the gentle but constant rocking of the bed upon which she found herself. She forced her crusted eyelids open, but regretted that decision almost as soon as it was made. The light stabbed her retinas through her wide-open pupils, searing the back of her brain with the intensity of a supernova. She snapped her eyes shut and covered her head with the heavy comforter blanketing her aching body.
Where in the hell am I? What happened? Why am I feeling like such shit?
Slowly opening her eyelids, Dana stole a glance from beneath the duvet. The stabbing in the back of her brain returned as she focused her vision. The setting was unfamiliar, but the rocking motion revealed all she needed to know.
Fuck! I'm still on the goddamned boat! And I'm still naked! Where the fuck are Harris and Espinoza?
Dana crawled out of bed and shuffled across the room to a window. She pulled the curtain to one side and peered out.
We're docked somewhere, but I don't recognize the port.
Dana ran through a quick inventory of the various marinas from which she had ever gone boating. It wasn't a long list.
Coconut Grove? No. Bayside? Definitely not. Black Point? No way. Miami Beach? Nope. Fort Lauderdale? I don't think so.
The sun was already high in the sky, and her field of vision was populated by old fishing boats and small dinghies. The few pleasure craft she saw were all smaller sized, although there were a few larger sailboats occupying slips. Off in the distance she saw a tall lighthouse attached to an old stone fort overlooking the harbor.
I have no idea where in the fuck I am.
Dana made her way to the door and checked the handle.
Unlocked–great.
She turned the handle, pulled the door open, and peered out into the hallway. She didn't see anyone. She took one step through the doorway and then changed her mind. She returned to the bed, put her head beneath the covers, and cried.
An hour later there was a knock at the door. Dana poked her head from beneath the blanket and listened. The knock repeated. Dana held her breath and laid motionless. She feared that her pounding heartbeat would give her away, but the door remain closed.
* * * *
Dana was unable to go back to sleep. Despite her best efforts, she was also unable to formulate any kind of a plan. She knew that she was aboard a private yacht owned by a very dangerous drug kingpin. She was naked, hung over, unarmed, and without any means of communicating with the Miami P.D. Also onboard were an undetermined number of men–all armed–who worked for the drug lord. She had no idea where she was, but the available evidence suggested that she was no longer in the U.S.
Crespo would never take the risk of docking in an American port.
Her concentration was broken by another knock on the door. She froze. This time, the knock was accompanied by a voice.
"Senorita? Are you awake?"
Dana recognized the man's voice.
I can't hide beneath these blankets forever.
"Come in," she answered.
The door opened and her host slipped through the door.
"Good afternoon, lovely lady," the dark haired man said. "How are you feeling?"
"I've been better."
"I'm not surprised. Last night you drank nearly an entire bottle of my best Tequila."
"This doesn't feel like a mere hangover."
"You don't remember much, do you?"
"I remember you violating my ass."
"Ah, yes–that is a memory we both share. It's one that I will always cherish."
"'Cherish' isn't exactly the way I'll look back on it."
"Do you remember much of what followed?"
"I'm a little fuzzy on the details."
"You sampled a little of every substance that was offered to you. At least half a dozen of my guests enjoyed your company. In fact, more than one tried to take you home as they departed. You finally passed out around four a.m. That's when I put you to bed in my stateroom and posted a guard outside your door."
"No wonder I feel like shit."
What have I done?
"Unfortunately, we don't have much time for you to recover. I let you sleep as long as I could, but we're expecting guests in an hour. Take a shower and get yourself cleaned up while I have the chef fix you something to eat. I'll be back in thirty minutes with your food."
"The chef is still here?" Dana's eyes opened wide.
He can get me a phone, at least. And he has a gun. There may be a way out of here.
"He didn't go back to shore?"
"My personal chef always travels with me. He prepared all the delicacies I served in the VIP room, and some of the food for the lower level, as well. The rest was done by some line cook out of Miami. He packed up and left just before we departed."
Dana's heart sank. A lump formed in her throat, but she forced herself not to cry.
I won't–not in front of him.
The man turned to leave.
"Can I ask one more question?" Dana said.
"Of course."
"Where are we?"
"Marina Hemingway."
"And that is ...?"
"I'm sorry. Havana Harbor."
"Havana? Cuba?" Dana's jaw dropped.
"Of course."
The man walked out of the stateroom, closing the door behind him.
A flood of tears streamed down Dana's cheeks.
What happened to the surveillance and pursuit? They were supposed to be watching me. Not only am I outside the U.S., but I'm in the one place in North America where there is absolutely no hope of rescue.
* * * *
Dana took a long hot shower. There was an assortment of soaps and shampoos in high-end packaging to choose from, but none of the products were familiar to her. Every surface, fixture and accessory in the shower spoke of luxury and class, but the dim memories of the previous night left her feeling like a filthy whore. No matter how much she scrubbed, she could not cleanse herself of the shame and guilt that stuck to her like raw sewage.
