I opened my eyes slightly. My head was drooped to the right side and down. I breathed quietly. I looked around my vision took a while to focus. My head hurt in the back and wounds stung. The cuts and bruises ached now. I lifted my head slowly trying to figure out where I was.

Paint was peeling off the walls. There was an old couch The windows were closed and locked. But I could tell outside that it was daytime. There was an old satellite Television and a few video recordings stacked. I tried to raise my hand up to feel the back of my head when I realized I couldn't. I tried to move. But only the metal railing to the stairs shook. But it wouldn't break either.

A door slid open and I turned my head hearing this. The man I recognized. Juan. That's all I could remember.

He glared at me with a smoke in his mouth. A towel over his shoulder and shirtless. He had shaving cream on his chin and cheek line and a razor in hand. He must've been shaving outside.

"¿Qué estás mirando?", he asked. (What are you looking at?)

I swallowed staring at him. I didn't say anything. I leaned my head back slowly and silently staring at him. Who was he? I knew he was a zettas. A man part of the notorious drug gang and a branch of the Gulf Coast Cartel which controlled Nuevo Laredo. He had that tattoo. In fact he had several. Just scattered.

He didn't like my stare. In truth though I wasn't staring at him. I was just trying to keep my eyes open and was staring up at the ceiling. Maybe he didn't like the fact that I wasn't staring at him directly and making eye contact. Or maybe he thought I was. Either way it annoyed him.

"¿Qué? Nunca había visto un afeitado hombre?", he asked in a snappish tone. (What? Never seen a man shave before?)

I was sweating and though the fan was on it wasn't doing anything to the heat of this room. I turned my head away closing my eyes for a moment swallowing hard. I could taste the dried blood on my teeth. I felt sticky.

"No es que me dirás .... pero ¿Dónde estoy?", I managed tightly, (Not that you'll tell me....but where am I?)

Juan stared at me his eyes hardening, he leaned against the back of the couch. He had that smoke in his mouth and I watched it drift up lazily. He smirked shaking his head and crossed his arms. His hair covered belly was a bit stout and stuck out. It was his arms that were well built. No wonder his head lock had been so tight. I felt bruises on my neck.

Juan looked at me, "No importa", he replied. (It doesn't matter)

I moved my head slightly shifting uncomfortably, my throat was dry and I swallowed yet again. I didn't really need to know what to do or what to ask, "¿Ahora que? Sólo tiene que esperar?", I asked. (What now? I just wait?)

"You speak very good spanish, did they teach you that at your fancy schools?", asked Juan aggressive suddenly he seemed agitated at something.

I clenched my jaw glaring as he spoke the word of school as if it were a hideous thing. He noticed. But my throat was too dry and couldn't get anything out. He squatted down to my eye level. I could smell the alcohol coming from his mouth and taste the awful smoke coming from his mouth.

"Go on....say it", he whispered.

I swallowed saliva building up in my throat and felt it stick to my mouth and corners of my lips, I stared at him my eyes halfway open. I opened my mouth croaking out.

"Because of people like you....there can never be any fancy schools here", I said.

Juan grabbed a handful of hair and slammed the back of my head against the metal railings. He leaned forward his lips curling up like a vicious dog about to bite.

"Where....are....the...drugs?", Juan hissed word for word.

I shut my eyes feeling the wound in the back of my head painfully increase in tension. Spit flew from between my teeth as he pressed.

"I already told you....I...don't...know!", I hissed back.

"You took them. You know where they are", he snapped not liking my answer.

"I don't know! My job is to book it! I don't know where it is!", I yelled.

Juan was silent and he struck me with his palm slapping my cheek to the side. He snatched my chin. "Do you know who my bosses are?", he asked.

I was silent my nostrils flaring at he held the sides of my cheeks tightly.

He whispered, "They are my bosses. Do you know what they do if they lose their stash?", he hissed.

"Tough luck, sucks for you", I managed.

He struck me again, "They are angry... I can't go back empty. If you don't tell me where the drugs are I will do things to you. Things you won't like", he whispered.

I stared at him strands of my hair falling loosely, "Your a newbie to this business....you don't know what the hell your doing", I whispered.

Another slap.

"I get what I want", he hissed standing.

I heaved trying to catch my breath as he shouted, "Carlos! Conseguirme Carlos! ¡Maldición! ¿¡Dónde está ese niño!?". (Carlos! Get me Carlos! Damn it! Where is that boy!?)

A boy stumbled into the doorway clearly rushing and was shoved inside the room. He caught his footing and jumped as Juan shouted at him and struck the back of his head.

"Ven aquí chico! ¡Idiota! Puto que tomó en cambio de nada!", yelled Juan. (Get over here boy! You idiot! Fucking took you in for nothing!)

The boy muttered an apology afraid and Juan pressed a pistol in his hand barking orders, "Mira éste. No deje esta habitación y no toque nada! ¡Regreso más tarde!", (Watch this one. Don't leave this room and don't touch anything! I'll be back later!).

Juan stormed out shutting the door grabbing his shirt. I hung my head leaning it back lightly my chest going up and down. My shirt was covered in sweat. Luckily they hadn't the brains or care to remove the vest.

The boy sat down on the arm chair of the couch with the gun in hand. He was chewing something. Tabacco I think. A scrawny kid. Not a lot of meat on his bones. He had a dirty white shirt on that looked like a men's large and his jeans were too big for him even though he rolled them up. His hair was oily and uncleaned. His sneakers looked old and worn down.

He sat there for a few moments. Chewing and staring at me. The turned his head spitting out that gunk in a piece of paper he had taken out. Then he rummaged in his pockets pulling out some tiny package. I could recognize the druggist paper fold as he unwrapped it.

He poured it on the back of his hand and then raised it up snorting. He sneezed shaking the leftovers off. He scratched his chin shivering slightly as the crushed up powder cocaine took effect giving him the feeling of being high.

His eyes dilated slightly and his breathing quickened. His lower eye lobe twitched and so did hi pointer finger on his right hand. He then took out a cigarette and lighter igniting the tip and took a drag breathing out of his nose.

I swallowed. I stared at what was in the room. There were large packages. White packages wrapped in plastic covering the contents. My heart pounded. I knew what they were.

They were drugs. Huge loads....like the two that I had taken out of the river. But here there were several more. And likely many more around here in this complex where ever I was. He didn't even try to conceal it. The packages were just waiting here. Sitting here...to be brought over and sold off to the highest bidder and addicts on the streets of the United States.

Addicts who couldn't quit. And kept paying thousands for stuff that was so worthless and crappy.

But that was my least concern. The only thing that filled my mind was...

What was he going to do to me?

I didn't know where his stash went. It was probably stored away with millions of pounds of other packages and stashes. I didn't know where it was.

So....what was he going to do to me?