Torched: A Thriller Read Free

he’d caused as a
mortgage trader. The lives he’d dashed to pieces in the interests of profit and
notoriety at the firm.
    He spent his
days working the plot of farmland he’d slowly carved from the jungle. At night,
he cooked in the back of the little cantina. He’d leaned out, swapping the
doughy flesh he’d accumulated over eight years in a cubicle for deeply tanned
muscle.
    His days were
pretty much all the same, and it suited him just fine. He avoided American
newspapers, and he rarely used the internet. No news of the states, as far as
he was concerned, was good news.
    And nobody came
looking for him, despite the trades he’d made—despite the lives he’d
demolished. His first year had been a wreck, waiting minute after minute and
hour after hour for the knock at the door.
    Vivian knew the
feeling well.
    But nobody came,
and he was happy just to be —just to exist in the comfort of his simple
routines.
    Wake and work.
Cook and sleep.
    And then one
day, she had stumbled into his life. She remembered every detail of
their meeting; it was as clear in her memory as the day she’d put Terri and
Sheldon James through hell in the Colorado Rockies.
    She had pulled
up a stool a few seats down from his at the bar. He was sipping a Modelo
Especial; she ordered a glass of white wine.
    He smiled at
her. She looked away.
    He still smelled
of the fryer—still wore his spotted chef’s smock—but it didn’t matter to her.
She hadn’t come to socialize.
    “Chilean,” he
had said, nodding at the glass the bartender put in front of the woman. “One of
the first things I did when I took the job in the kitchen was switch the order
from that California swill we were serving to the good stuff. Go ahead—tell me
what you think.”
    She flashed a
strained smile before taking a sip. “It’s good,” she flatly agreed.
    His grin
widened. “You don’t have much of an accent.”
    She didn’t react
to that, keeping her eyes trained forward. “How about me?” he pushed. “Where do
you suppose I’m from?”
    “New York City,”
she replied, “although it’s pretty faint. You’ve been here long?”
    “Almost four
years. How about you? Where are you from?”
    Vivian had
turned away completely then, feigning interest in a Mexican game show playing
on the little television in the corner of the bar. Contestants jumped up and
down while bright Spanish words flashed on the screen.
    “Sorry,” Miguel
said, laughing. “Look, I won’t push it. We all come down here for our own
reasons, and I don’t mean to pry.”
    She smiled her
thanks and removed her sunglasses. “You—you work here?”
    “I cook. Are you
hungry?”
    El Principe was
almost empty. It was late and, aside from a young couple in the corner booth
and a few regulars nursing drafts at the other end of the bar, they had the
place to themselves.
    Vivian nodded.
    Miguel slapped
the bar. He stood and drained his beer, put the bottle in the return and walked
around the bar to the kitchen. “Give me ten minutes.”
    He disappeared
and the bartender—his name was Felipe—sauntered over. “Nice guy for a gringo,”
he said. His English was good.
    Vivian nodded,
unable to shake the uneasy feeling that had followed her into town.
    Cerritos made
her nervous. She had walked into town, feeling for the first time since leaving
Cancun that she was utterly on her own. Finding a place to stay in this new
place was different than accepting a bed from the families she had encountered
on the road. It was strange, but true. She just didn’t feel safe in Cerritos.
    She sipped her
drink and, just after Felipe had refilled her glass, Miguel brought a tray with
three steaming plates from the kitchen. “Join us, hermano?” he said.
    “Sí.”
    Miguel placed a
plate in front of Vivian, set the bartender up on her right, and he slid onto
the stool to her left. “Just leftovers, but it’s nice and hot.”
    Her mouth
watered. It had been most of a day since she’d had anything to