Trafficked -- Beaten -- Trapped
When eighteen-year-old Stacy Degray sets off to visit Felipe, a charming guy she met on the internet, she has no idea that she is being lured to his home country Malaguay to be auctioned off as a soldier's bride. All...
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I firmly clutch the grip of the gun, the kickback tearing at my shoulder as bullet after bullet leaves the barrel and finds its mark on the target. Sweat pours down my face, but I barely notice. Shooting has become so routine that every move is automatic, my mind occupied with more pressing matters. Devon's words chime on auto repeat in my head, their meaning still so terrifying that shudders race down my spine.
We found some stuff about the Coyote on the computer but nothing about the US target. You have to keep digging, Stacy. The lives of many Americans depend on this. After you told me what you overheard, we finally made the connection between the recent rumblings and this upcoming attack. This type of unrest in the terrorist community hasn't happened since 2001, so whatever the Coyote is planning, it's big.
Oddly, his words were calming. My life regained a purpose, providing a respite from the all-consuming thoughts of losing my baby. I'm determined to stop this unknown terrorist. Maybe this will be my way of redeeming myself so that my next pregnancy won't end in disaster. It was apparent that God was punishing me for my poor choices and didn't want a child to grow up with a mother who isn't able to protect it.
The next time I pull the trigger, a low click indicates that the magazine is empty again. I slide the release button and my free hand catches the heated metal container without any effort. Dropping the gun on the table next to me, I reach for the towel to wipe the burning sweat out of my eyes. My gaze settles on Miguel and Tomás; they are huddled by the boxing ring, watching me with a conspiring frown. Any fool can figure out that they are talking about me.
As I reload the gun, Miguel walks over. The magazine snaps back into place. I'm about to raise the weapon when he places his hand on my arm.
"Don't you want to take a break? You've been shooting for hours."
It's the only thing that holds me together. "No, I'm fine." Any other activity is accompanied by so much mental anguish that I avoid it at all costs.
"You're not fine." He takes the gun out of my hand before I can slide the first bullet into the chamber. "Stacy, we need to talk about this."
Witha drawn-out sigh, I scrape the tip of my shoe over the bottom of the table legto avoid looking at him. "What do you want to talk about?" It's a rhetorical question. We have been tiptoeing around the issue for days.
"The doctor said it happens sometimes. Something could've been wrong with the baby, so nature took care of it. It doesn't mean it'll happen again."
I swallow down the lump in my throat. He has no clue why I've been blaming myself, totally oblivious to the stress I've been under. It's what likely caused me to miscarry. With no immediate relief in sight, the next pregnancy is prone to fail again.
"I want to start using protection," I blurt out. Tears pool in my eyes.
