We ran as fast as we could and did not stop for anyone or anything. I crashed into a man carrying a basket of mangoes and elbowed through crowds of Colombians in the market square. Corporal Amherst’s boots got snagged on a pothole on the brick paved path, and allowed her hands to break her fall. I wanted to turn to help her up, but the thumping bass line of my heart beat struck me with fear. Tears welled up in my eyes: they were coming, and we couldn’t stop them.

“¡Allí!” One of the men yelled as he continued toward us. I kept running. Amherst quickly got up and continued after me. We turned a corner into a car garage and crept behind an old sofa next to a broken down 1996 Camry. Slowly and quietly, we tried to catch our breath.

“Allí fueron por ese camino!” The men raced by. I turned to Amherst and attempted to decipher her feelings through my tears. I wanted to speak. I wanted to say I was sorry for being a coward, and not turning to help her up but my tongue was cardboard. She could see my regret and spoke nothing of it.

“Was that them?” I finally muttered. “The investors?”

Amherst got up and started rummaging through tool boxes lying around the room. My eyes followed her everywhere she went like a lost puppy. Finally, she found a rag and a photo of a colombian girl. She gazed at the photo for a moment, then put it back in order to wrap the wounds on her hands from her fall in the market square. Then, she turned to me and wiped the stray hairs out of her face that had adhered to some sweat.

“Those were his dogs. They do his work.” She continued searching the garage. “We have to find the rest of the models, before the ring gets larger.” I grimaced at the thought of the task. Suddenly I had regretted accepting the internship at Cosmopolitan. I wept and wined to be back in the United States. I missed the warm showers, simple work days, brunches with the other interns, and english speaking people. The burning pain that flushed my cheek brought me back to the grim reality of where I was. Amherst drew her hand back and hit me again. She shook me and yelled at me with anger.

“How selfish can you be?” she reprimanded, “How can you weep for a life of lavish when women just like you have been taken from their homes to be trafficked in a different country? You don’t think they wanted a simple life too? They thought they were living their dream as a Cosmopolitan model, and now they’re unrecognizable as people.” The air grew thick and silent again: nothing but the sound of Amherst’s panting resonated in the room. She let go of my shirt collar and I flopped to the ground like a doll.

“I-I’m sorry” I mumbled. Truly I was tired of being sorry, and she was right; after all I had experienced I couldn’t return to the states without feeling guilty. Before my mind could grapple with what I knew I had to do, Amherst cocked a pistol and handed it to me.

“Now get up and strike me” She demanded. I looked at her puzzled.

“If you’re going to continue this with me I need to know that you can hold your ground. I can’t be looking after you all the time,” She explained. I rose to my feet, lifted my arms half-heartedly, and stood there. Oxygen filled my lungs through my nose, then out through my mouth. I lunged toward Amherst; I found myself on the ground. Again, I rose to my feet and attempted another punch. Again, I ate dirt. We continued this until my body began to bruise, and my strength grew weary.

“I can’t do this!” I cried. I begged her to stop. But this time, even as I was on the ground, Amherst continued to strike me.

“Shoot me” She commanded. “Use the pistol, and shoot me” I swung the barrel up to her forehead in aggravation.

“Do it!” She ordered. Amherst gazed into my eyes; my finger twitched in the trigger guard. She grabbed the gun, and lowered it to my side. Just then I realized that she knew I was gonna do it, and she knew she could trust me.

“¿Ay, Quien estas?” I stepped to the side to find a man standing in a doorway. “¿Qué estás haciendo en mi garaje?”

“Hablamos inglés señor” I replied. The man rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing in my garage?” He repeated. I apologized and explained that we had only been looking for shelter just for a moment.

“Are you Ricardo?” I asked pointing to the sign hanging from the corner of the ceiling: it read ‘Ricardo’s Garage’. Amherst turned around and embraced him.

“Sanchez” She squeezed him with a sigh of relief. Apparently they had served together 5 years ago in Spain before he had returned to Colombia following his dishonorable discharge. Amherst explained to him why we were there, and what we had planned to do. Señor Ricardo Sanchez sighed. He walked over to the same toolbox where Amherst had found the photo, and brought it over to us.

“This is mi hija, Esmeralda” He began, “She left Colombia only a year ago to pursue her dreams of becoming a runway model. I told her not to go to the United States, because the American Dream is only one of their propaganda to entice immigrants to come and work slavingly as waitresses, custodians, and the like. But she swore she knew what she was doing, and even when she got the job at Cosmopolitan, I didn’t trust it. The greed of men there is what got me discharged and I couldn’t help, but believe they’d do the same to my daughter.” He rubbed his oil stained thumb over the picture.

“When I had heard that models there were going missing, I reached out to mi hija. She never responded.” A lump formed in my throat. He continued, “I could only think the worst. So I guess what I’m asking is, do you think mi hija could be held with the rest of them?” He held back his tears. Amherst reached her hand out and rested it on his thigh.

“We will find her” She comforted him. Amherst looked at me for reinforcement, but this whole circumstance was out of my comfort zone.

“We must prepare to go” Sanchez concluded. He got up and went back the way he came into his house. We followed him and found him packing his bag. I allowed my eyes to glide along the walls, and soak up every ounce of the stories that were captured inside each picture, and trinket. The Marine Corps Medals, family photos, and Virgin Mary statue all stood stiff amongst the walls. I rubbed my hand along the ridges, bumps, and crevices of the pastel colored wall. The home feel beckoned me to stay. I longed for a nap; We have been traveling, searching, and running for so long, I wished to sleep. But before I could rest on the old woven blankets, Sanchez tossed a backpack into my hands. I took a deep breathe and followed them out into the street.

It was dusk now, and the oven-warm orange colors bathed the sky. The day’s last gleam and glisten of the sun blanketed the city streets of Cartagena. We trekked through the alleys. A tall mud plaster building stood as a blemish against the artistry of the painting in the sky. The faded blue color of its walls evoked an ominous aura.

“This must be the place,” Amherst said. “The old ledgers that I was still able to access said that the operations were from this address.” Sanchez knelt down and opened his bag. He pulled out two dresses and a suit. Amherst and I looked to one another in disbelief.

“All the things you could have possibly carried and you bring these? I thought you were holding the supplies!” She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her figures in annoyance.

“These are supplies” Sanchez explained. “You guys don’t know these Colombian investors like I do. We can’t go in there looking like this.” He handed us our red dresses and we slipped them on. Then we threw our bags in a crate near by. Sanchez led the way and opened the door. We entered a night-club. Latin music filled my ears, and thumped in my chest. The burning smell of alcohol singed my nose, and burned my throat though I had not swallowed a drop. We trudged through the crowd as best as we could trying to not get cornered into a dance group.

“This way!” Sanchez yelled over the crowd. We followed him down a hall. The music was a bit quieter and I was able to hear myself breathe again.

“Alright they’re going to start the auction soon. We are going to have to split up.” Sanchez instructed. “The auction is only for men. But when I find out where the models are entering and exiting, I will message you Amherst. Then I want you guys to take them to the hangar up the street, and I’ll meet you there.” We nodded and headed toward the other side of the room. This is abnormal. I had never seen Amherst be submissive to any man’s instructions. In the Marine Corps, as the CFO at Cosmopolitan, and even now in this endeavor, she has always taken charge. I turned to her, and saw her in a manner different than I ever had before.

“Are you alright?” I asked. Her eyes met mine. I could see through the facade and saw to her look of weary.

Finally she responded, “I used to be the greatest, but now I am smaller than the smallest.” I was speechless. It was almost like a declaration of the defeat. We stood with the rest of the women in the club by the bar and spoke nothing about what had just transpired. My spanish is broken, but I could understand that the other ladies had asked us which man we came with and how much he paid us. Amherst engaged in most of the conversation.

“¡Hola y bienvenido estamos apunto de comenzar!” A man announced over the loudspeaker. We turned our attention to the stage; one by one women were brought to the center of the stage in a crimson gown with an opaque white veil covering their faces. A man rambled in spanish, padels went into the air, and bids were placed. Then one woman trudged onto the stage struggling to fight off her escort in glad defiance. The crowd roared and cheered. One man offered over 15 million colombian pesos which is the equivalent of 5,000 dollars. I nudged Amherst to see if she had heard from Sanchez yet, but she had not. I squirmed in my dress waiting for a message from Sanchez. I could see him in the balcony. He was yelling with a man who was dressed in a stately manner, seated in a reserved section, and wearing a profound dagger-shaped pendant around his neck. I watched them bicker, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed through people until I got to the foot of the stage. I watched as the next model walked off the stage steps, and I inconspicuously followed behind them.

“¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?” A man grabbed my arm and pulled me into a room with other women. I watched as one of them were pulled to the door, had a veil thrown over their face, and escorted to the stage. Immediately, I messaged Amherst who had been frantically searching for me. She ducked through the crowd and made it to me.

“What happened to Sanchez?” She asked in between breaths. I shrugged and we locked the door behind us. We began to calm the girls down and coax them into following us. One of them, who had just entered the room from her auction on stage, ran toward me and embraced me.

“Mikki! I’m so glad you’re here!” She sobbed. I stood there like a living statue. “You probably don’t know me, but I know you. I used to see you around the office at Cosmopolitan. You were always there with a smile.” She turned to the rest of the girls. “Esta bien, son Americano; son aquí a ayudarlos!” She cried. The other models murmured in skeptical agreement, and followed us to the hangar up the street. We had not heard from Sanchez yet, and I was beginning to worry. Behind us I could hear a brawl from within the night-club: they knew he had left.

“¡Rápido señoritas, rapido!” I begged them to move faster. We made it to the hangar, and Sanchez walked in as soon as we arrived. His eyes were bloodshot red, and his clothes were stained with blood. The ladies shrieked at the sight of him.

“What happened to you?” I pleaded. He staggered past me, and dragged his feet up to one of the models. Each step was slower than the first. She turned around to meet his gaze, and fell into his arms.

“Esmeralda” Amherst whispered. This girl who had recognized me before, had worked with me in the States all along. A crashing sound severed the warmth of the moment. A Chevy Suburban crashed through the vinyl siding of the hangar walls. Three men jumped out with M27 machine guns, and began shooting one of which was the man from the night-club. The dagger-shaped pendant swung violently as he jumped out the truck.

“El Jefe!” The women cried out and ran to the nearest aircraft at the instruction of Senor Sanchez. Some did not make it that far. Amherst went to hold off as many of the men as she could. The plane began to pull out of the hangar and into the runway.

“Do you know how to fly this thing?” I yelled to Sanchez over the jets. “It’s not a fighter jet.” He did not respond. I looked to the ladies who had made it to the aircraft. So many of them weeped for the loss of the young girls still lying in the hangar.

“He will not take these tears any longer.” I looked at Esmeralda earnestly for an explanation. “Every woman he has sold, that man, El Jefe, collects their tears and wears them around his neck in that despicable dagger-shaped pendant. Our containment was comprised of constant weeping and gnashing of teeth.” We were at the center of the runway now; ready to take off. I could feel the long awaited American soil underneath my feet. We were kissing the brink of freedom. I peered out the window to see the Suburban barreling toward our plane.

“El Jefe, El Jefe!” The women cried out in terror. But it wasn’t him, I could see past the vehicle to see El Jefe himself on the ground with the very dagger he had worn pompously in his chest: it was Amherst. Sanchez began to propel the plane forward for ascension. I pleaded for him to stop, but it was moving too fast. I was stricken with fear for feeling powerless. Cowardice had once again consumed me. I tried to move, but everytime I picked up my feet it felt as though they were dried in blocks of cement. I struggled with Sanchez in the cockpit to slow the plane down. I could see the very cowardice in his eyes that my own possessed. Quickly, we slowed the plane down long enough to allow us to pull Amherst in. The plane sped up to ascend again, and everyone had a moment to catch their breath. I began to tend to Amherst’s wounds when suddenly the plane took a nosedive. The moment was surreal. The concept of sound and gravity no longer existed. Sanchez screamed about the United States’ injustice to immigrants, and it wasn’t much longer until we were a the ground. My long awaited desire to kiss the soil had come, but this time I was in the soil: we perished.

We ran as fast as we could and did not stop for anyone or anything. I crashed into a man carrying a basket of mangoes and elbowed through crowds of Colombians in the market square. Corporal Amherst’s boots got snagged on a pothole on the brick paved path, and allowed her hands to break her fall. I wanted to turn to help her up, but the thumping bass line of my heart beat struck me with fear. Tears welled up in my eyes: they were coming, and we couldn’t stop them.

“¡Allí!” One of the men yelled as he continued toward us. I kept running. Amherst quickly got up and continued after me. We turned a corner into a car garage and crept behind an old sofa next to a broken down 1996 Camry. Slowly and quietly, we tried to catch our breath.

“Allí fueron por ese camino!” The men raced by. I turned to Amherst and attempted to decipher her feelings through my tears. I wanted to speak. I wanted to say I was sorry for being a coward, and not turning to help her up but my tongue was cardboard. She could see my regret and spoke nothing of it.

“Was that them?” I finally muttered. “The investors?”

Amherst got up and started rummaging through tool boxes lying around the room. My eyes followed her everywhere she went like a lost puppy. Finally, she found a rag and a photo of a colombian girl. She gazed at the photo for a moment, then put it back in order to wrap the wounds on her hands from her fall in the market square. Then, she turned to me and wiped the stray hairs out of her face that had adhered to some sweat.

“Those were his dogs. They do his work.” She continued searching the garage. “We have to find the rest of the models, before the ring gets larger.” I grimaced at the thought of the task. Suddenly I had regretted accepting the internship at Cosmopolitan. I wept and wined to be back in the United States. I missed the warm showers, simple work days, brunches with the other interns, and english speaking people. The burning pain that flushed my cheek brought me back to the grim reality of where I was. Amherst drew her hand back and hit me again. She shook me and yelled at me with anger.

“How selfish can you be?” she reprimanded, “How can you weep for a life of lavish when women just like you have been taken from their homes to be trafficked in a different country? You don’t think they wanted a simple life too? They thought they were living their dream as a Cosmopolitan model, and now they’re unrecognizable as people.” The air grew thick and silent again: nothing but the sound of Amherst’s panting resonated in the room. She let go of my shirt collar and I flopped to the ground like a doll.

“I-I’m sorry” I mumbled. Truly I was tired of being sorry, and she was right; after all I had experienced I couldn’t return to the states without feeling guilty. Before my mind could grapple with what I knew I had to do, Amherst cocked a pistol and handed it to me.

“Now get up and strike me” She demanded. I looked at her puzzled.

“If you’re going to continue this with me I need to know that you can hold your ground. I can’t be looking after you all the time,” She explained. I rose to my feet, lifted my arms half-heartedly, and stood there. Oxygen filled my lungs through my nose, then out through my mouth. I lunged toward Amherst; I found myself on the ground. Again, I rose to my feet and attempted another punch. Again, I ate dirt. We continued this until my body began to bruise, and my strength grew weary.

“I can’t do this!” I cried. I begged her to stop. But this time, even as I was on the ground, Amherst continued to strike me.

“Shoot me” She commanded. “Use the pistol, and shoot me” I swung the barrel up to her forehead in aggravation.

“Do it!” She ordered. Amherst gazed into my eyes; my finger twitched in the trigger guard. She grabbed the gun, and lowered it to my side. Just then I realized that she knew I was gonna do it, and she knew she could trust me.

“¿Ay, Quien estas?” I stepped to the side to find a man standing in a doorway. “¿Qué estás haciendo en mi garaje?”

“Hablamos inglés señor” I replied. The man rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing in my garage?” He repeated. I apologized and explained that we had only been looking for shelter just for a moment.

“Are you Ricardo?” I asked pointing to the sign hanging from the corner of the ceiling: it read ‘Ricardo’s Garage’. Amherst turned around and embraced him.

“Sanchez” She squeezed him with a sigh of relief. Apparently they had served together 5 years ago in Spain before he had returned to Colombia following his dishonorable discharge. Amherst explained to him why we were there, and what we had planned to do. Señor Ricardo Sanchez sighed. He walked over to the same toolbox where Amherst had found the photo, and brought it over to us.

“This is mi hija, Esmeralda” He began, “She left Colombia only a year ago to pursue her dreams of becoming a runway model. I told her not to go to the United States, because the American Dream is only one of their propaganda to entice immigrants to come and work slavingly as waitresses, custodians, and the like. But she swore she knew what she was doing, and even when she got the job at Cosmopolitan, I didn’t trust it. The greed of men there is what got me discharged and I couldn’t help, but believe they’d do the same to my daughter.” He rubbed his oil stained thumb over the picture.

“When I had heard that models there were going missing, I reached out to mi hija. She never responded.” A lump formed in my throat. He continued, “I could only think the worst. So I guess what I’m asking is, do you think mi hija could be held with the rest of them?” He held back his tears. Amherst reached her hand out and rested it on his thigh.

“We will find her” She comforted him. Amherst looked at me for reinforcement, but this whole circumstance was out of my comfort zone.

“We must prepare to go” Sanchez concluded. He got up and went back the way he came into his house. We followed him and found him packing his bag. I allowed my eyes to glide along the walls, and soak up every ounce of the stories that were captured inside each picture, and trinket. The Marine Corps Medals, family photos, and Virgin Mary statue all stood stiff amongst the walls. I rubbed my hand along the ridges, bumps, and crevices of the pastel colored wall. The home feel beckoned me to stay. I longed for a nap; We have been traveling, searching, and running for so long, I wished to sleep. But before I could rest on the old woven blankets, Sanchez tossed a backpack into my hands. I took a deep breathe and followed them out into the street.

It was dusk now, and the oven-warm orange colors bathed the sky. The day’s last gleam and glisten of the sun blanketed the city streets of Cartagena. We trekked through the alleys. A tall mud plaster building stood as a blemish against the artistry of the painting in the sky. The faded blue color of its walls evoked an ominous aura.

“This must be the place,” Amherst said. “The old ledgers that I was still able to access said that the operations were from this address.” Sanchez knelt down and opened his bag. He pulled out two dresses and a suit. Amherst and I looked to one another in disbelief.

“All the things you could have possibly carried and you bring these? I thought you were holding the supplies!” She rubbed her forehead with the tips of her figures in annoyance.

“These are supplies” Sanchez explained. “You guys don’t know these Colombian investors like I do. We can’t go in there looking like this.” He handed us our red dresses and we slipped them on. Then we threw our bags in a crate near by. Sanchez led the way and opened the door. We entered a night-club. Latin music filled my ears, and thumped in my chest. The burning smell of alcohol singed my nose, and burned my throat though I had not swallowed a drop. We trudged through the crowd as best as we could trying to not get cornered into a dance group.

“This way!” Sanchez yelled over the crowd. We followed him down a hall. The music was a bit quieter and I was able to hear myself breathe again.

“Alright they’re going to start the auction soon. We are going to have to split up.” Sanchez instructed. “The auction is only for men. But when I find out where the models are entering and exiting, I will message you Amherst. Then I want you guys to take them to the hangar up the street, and I’ll meet you there.” We nodded and headed toward the other side of the room. This is abnormal. I had never seen Amherst be submissive to any man’s instructions. In the Marine Corps, as the CFO at Cosmopolitan, and even now in this endeavor, she has always taken charge. I turned to her, and saw her in a manner different than I ever had before.

“Are you alright?” I asked. Her eyes met mine. I could see through the facade and saw to her look of weariness.

Finally she responded, “I used to be the greatest, but now I am smaller than the smallest.” I was speechless. It was almost like a declaration of defeat. We stood with the rest of the women in the club by the bar and spoke nothing about what had just transpired. My spanish is broken, but I could understand that the other ladies had asked us which man we came with and how much he paid us. Amherst engaged in most of the conversation.

“¡Hola y bienvenido estamos apunto de comenzar!” A man announced over the loudspeaker. We turned our attention to the stage; one by one women were brought to the center of the stage in a crimson gown with an opaque white veil covering their faces. A man rambled in spanish, padels went into the air, and bids were placed. Then one woman trudged onto the stage struggling to fight off her escort in glad defiance. The crowd roared and cheered. One man offered over 15 million colombian pesos which is the equivalent of 5,000 dollars. I nudged Amherst to see if she had heard from Sanchez yet, but she had not. I squirmed in my dress waiting for a message from Sanchez. I could see him in the balcony. He was yelling with a man who was dressed in a stately manner, seated in a reserved section, and wearing a profound dagger-shaped pendant around his neck. I watched them bicker, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed through people until I got to the foot of the stage. I watched as the next model walked off the stage steps, and I inconspicuously followed behind them.

“¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo aquí?” A man grabbed my arm and pulled me into a room with other women. I watched as one of them were pulled to the door, had a veil thrown over their face, and escorted to the stage. Immediately, I messaged Amherst who had been frantically searching for me. She ducked through the crowd and made it to me.

“What happened to Sanchez?” She asked in between breaths. I shrugged and we locked the door behind us. We began to calm the girls down and coax them into following us. One of them, who had just entered the room from her auction on stage, ran toward me and embraced me.

“Mikki! I’m so glad you’re here!” She sobbed. I stood there like a living statue. “You probably don’t know me, but I know you. I used to see you around the office at Cosmopolitan. You were always there with a smile.” She turned to the rest of the girls. “Esta bien, son Americano; son aquí a ayudarlos!” She cried. The other models murmured in skeptical agreement, and followed us to the hangar up the street. We had not heard from Sanchez yet, and I was beginning to worry. Behind us I could hear a brawl from within the night-club: they knew he had left.

“¡Rápido señoritas, rapido!” I begged them to move faster. We made it to the hangar, and Sanchez walked in as soon as we arrived. His eyes were bloodshot red, and his clothes were stained with blood. The ladies shrieked at the sight of him.

“What happened to you?” I pleaded. He staggered past me, and dragged his feet up to one of the models. Each step was slower than the first. She turned around to meet his gaze, and fell into his arms.

“Esmeralda” Amherst whispered. This girl who had recognized me before, had worked with me in the States all along. A crashing sound severed the warmth of the moment. A Chevy Suburban crashed through the vinyl siding of the hangar walls. Three men jumped out with M27 machine guns, and began shooting one of which was the man from the night-club. The dagger-shaped pendant swung violently as he jumped out the truck.

“El Jefe!” The women cried out and ran to the nearest aircraft at the instruction of Senor Sanchez. Some did not make it that far. Amherst went to hold off as many of the men as she could. The plane began to pull out of the hangar and into the runway.

“Do you know how to fly this thing?” I yelled to Sanchez over the jets. “It’s not a fighter jet.” He did not respond. I looked to the ladies who had made it to the aircraft. So many of them weeped for the loss of the young girls still lying in the hangar.

“He will not take these tears any longer.” I looked at Esmeralda earnestly for an explanation. “Every woman he has sold, that man, El Jefe, collects their tears and wears them around his neck in that despicable dagger-shaped pendant. Our containment was comprised of constant weeping and gnashing of teeth.” We were at the center of the runway now; ready to take off. I could feel the long awaited American soil underneath my feet. We were kissing the brink of freedom. I peered out the window to see the Suburban barreling toward our plane.

“El Jefe, El Jefe!” The women cried out in terror. But it wasn’t him, I could see past the vehicle to see El Jefe himself on the ground with the very dagger he had worn pompously in his chest: it was Amherst. Sanchez began to propel the plane forward for ascension. I pleaded for him to stop, but it was moving too fast. I was stricken with fear for feeling powerless. Cowardice had once again consumed me. I tried to move, but everytime I picked up my feet it felt as though they were dried in blocks of cement. I struggled with Sanchez in the cockpit to slow the plane down. I could see the very cowardice in his eyes that my own possessed. Quickly, we slowed the plane down long enough to allow us to pull Amherst in. The plane sped up to ascend again, and everyone had a moment to catch their breath. I began to tend to Amherst’s wounds when suddenly the plane took a nosedive. The moment was surreal. The concept of sound and gravity no longer existed. Sanchez screamed about the United States’ injustice to immigrants, and it wasn’t much longer until we were a the ground. My long awaited desire to kiss the soil had come, but this time I was in the soil: we perished.