Rocket - Chapter 2
Naida - US/Mexico Border
The taste of blood from her feeding still lingered on her tongue several hours later.
Naida crouched in the shadow of a wind-carved boulder formation, her back pressed against stone still radiating the day’s heat. The sun-warmed rock felt warm against her room-temperature skin as she tried to make sense of what she’d become. The desert ran to every horizon, indifferent and ancient and empty in a way Managua had never been empty: creosote and skeletal palo verde, scattered rock, pale moonwash that turned the whole landscape into the same silvered relief sketch as far as her new eyes could carry it, a country built for things that didn’t need to be seen and didn’t need to see anything pleasant in return. A CBP patrol road cut through the caliche two hundred meters north, tire tracks dried hard, the only line of human commerce within line of sight and not currently in use, the kind of road that existed because people were trying to cross and people were trying to stop them and the conflict was old enough now that the dirt had decided to remember it. She’d stopped running when her legs decided for her, finding the boulder gap the same way she’d navigated every dark place in the last year, by instinct and spite, the two faculties she’d kept current while everything else atrophied.
One man. One very dead man.
Yesterday she’d been cargo. Tonight she’d killed a man with her teeth. She hadn’t decided which one she was yet.
Her makeshift hiding spot was barely a gap between two massive stones, screened by skeletal ocotillo branches and brittlebush that scratched her arms every time she shifted. But the shadows here swallowed light completely, and the enclosed space felt inexplicably safe.
Safe like a coffin, whispered a voice in her head that didn’t sound entirely like her own.
The first kill had been the hardest, and the easiest. She’d used everything they’d taught her during the transport, every survival tactic beaten into her during months of captivity. The unnamed driver had thought he was getting grateful payment for his rescue services. Instead, he’d gotten her fangs in his throat and his blood down her gullet.
He was part of the machine that destroyed my life. They all were.
One dead coyote. Score one for a recently deceased; Cartel, zero.
The hunger had been satisfied by the feeding, but something gnawed at her now: the growing certainty that her old life would keep hunting her until she eliminated every last trace of it. The survivors who’d fled in panic would report back. There would be consequences.
I should have killed them all. Amateur mistake. I won’t make it again. Live and learn.
A distant rumble made her freeze. Engines again. Multiple vehicles moving slow and methodical across the caliche, but these sounded different. Heavier. More disciplined.
Here we go again. I learned, they didn’t.
Radio chatter drifted on the night wind, English and Spanish, clinical and controlled. None of the crude banter she remembered from the trafficking crews.
“Checking grid seven-seven per final GPS ping...”
“Roger that, Bravo team moving to investigate...”
They still think of me as property to be recovered. Well, putas, this cargo has fangs and now, I know how to use them.
Naida pressed herself deeper into the gap between stones, tension coiling in her chest wound past the point of release. These weren’t the same panicked pendejos who’d fled the grove. This was military-grade cleanup, complete with thermal imaging and tactical coordination.
The sound of approaching boots made her blood turn to ice. Two figures moving with precision up the slope toward her hiding spot, not the casual arrogance of traffickers, but the careful advance of trained operators who’d been briefed on what they were hunting.
“Thermal’s got nothing, but we believe she’s tucked between those rock formations, approximately thirty meters northeast. It’s either her or that fuckin’ ‘ghost cat’ we keep hearing about.”
Professional equipment. These guys aren’t fucking around.
“Movement confirmed,” the second man added. Mexican accent, but his English was precise, educated. “Subject appears aware of our presence.”
Through the ocotillo screen, she could see them clearly now: tactical vests and equipment, night vision goggles. Military bearing. The kind of people who got called when the regular crew didn’t come home.
One of them spoke into his radio: “Command, this is Alpha team. We’ve located the target. Requesting permission to engage.”
They’d already found the grove. Seen what she’d left behind.
“Permission granted,” crackled back through the radio. “Remember, subject has demonstrated willingness to kill. Approach with caution.”
She almost laughed. They’d seen his torn throat, the corpse of the man drained of blood among the creosote bushes. They thought they knew exactly what they were dealing with, yet they’d come anyway.
Mistake.
Flashlight beams suddenly blazed through the ocotillo screen, but these weren’t the harsh LED searchlights she remembered. These were tactical lights, precise and focused, designed not to destroy night vision but to illuminate specific targets.
“We know you’re in there,” the American called out. His voice carried none of the false warmth she’d heard from the traffickers. This was business. “You’re safe with us. We just want to talk.”
Stay hidden. Use it.
The voice had settled into familiarity, like a predator’s instinct whispering hunt tactics. These men weren’t here because they understood what she’d become. They were here because one of their colleagues was dead and they needed answers.
“We know what happened at the grove,” the Mexican added. “Did you know that Miguel Herrera had three daughters back home. They’ll never see their father again because of you.”
The words hit her through her chest. Three daughters. Little girls who would grow up without their father because she...
No. No, don’t think like that. He was going to...
“So?” The word came out sharper than she’d intended, defensive and raw. “So fucking what? You think I care about his kids?” But, even as she said it, her voice cracked slightly. She did care. She hated that she cared. “I saw what he did to the other girls. I saw them bleed when he was done. His daughters are better off.”
Silence from outside her shelter.
“Look,” the American said, his tone shifting to something almost gentle. “We know you’ve been through trauma. We were briefed on what happened during transport. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help.”
Help. The word made her stomach clench. She’d heard that before, right before hands reached for her in the dark, right before...
“Help?” Her voice rose, fury bleeding through the fear. “Like Miguel helped me? Like all of you fucking pendejo’s helped me?” She was talking too fast now, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “You know what Miguel did! You know what your precious fuckin’ father of the year did!”
“Easy,” the Mexican called out. “Nobody’s blaming you for defending yourself. But what you did... that’s not normal. People don’t just...”
“Don’t just what?” she interrupted, her voice climbing. “Fight back? Kill the pendejo who was raping them?”
The memory hit without warning: her fists pounding ineffectively against a man’s chest. Screaming at him to get off of her...
Breathe. It happened to the other girls. I saw it happen to them. Not me. I’m fine. I’m fine.
“Miguel wasn’t...” the American started.
“Bullshit!” The word exploded from her throat. “You think I don’t know what he was doing? That I don’t remember? It’s what they all jodido do!” Tears of blood, black in the moonlight started, hot against her face. “Save the gaslighting.”
“No one thinks you’re stupid.” The Mexican kept his voice even. “But you’re confused. Traumatized. Whatever drugs they gave you...”
“Drugs?” She almost laughed, the sound bitter and broken. “You think I’m high? You think I am making this up? You think I am hallucinating? You think that’s why I can hear your heartbeat from here? Why I can smell your fear?”
Shit! Shut up, Naida, shut up. Your rage is making you reckless. You are saying too much.
“Listen,” the Mexican called out. “We’re cleanup. Contract workers hired to figure out what happened and deal with the situation. We can get you help. Real help.”
“Contract workers?” That didn’t sound like the men who’d transported her. “Who the fuck are you people?”
“We handle recovery operations,” the American said. “When cargo goes missing, when situations get... complicated. We fix problems.”
Cargo. There was that word again.
“I’m not jodido cargo.” Her voice dropped to something dangerous. “Not anymore.”
“Of course not,” the Mexican agreed quickly. “You’re a person. A victim. And we want to help you.”
‘You’re a person.’ Yeah? Then why does it sound like you’re reading from a manual for handling livestock?
“You want to help?” Heat built in her chest, hungry and wild. “Then get the fuck away from me before I do to you what I did to el cabrón.”
“Down on the ground,” the American ordered suddenly, his patience apparently exhausted. She heard him raising some kind of weapon. “Hands visible. We’re taking you in for evaluation.”
The command reached down through months of being ordered, controlled, violated. For a split-second, her body wanted to obey, trained by brutality to comply.
Then the hunger inside her snarled.
No. Never again.
She tried to burst through the ocotillo screen like she had in the grove, but these branches were thicker, more entangled. Instead of flowing through them, she caught her shoulder on a particularly nasty thorn and pitched sideways into the gap between rocks.
Pain exploded down her arm as the spine tore through fabric and skin, and she hit the stone wall with a grunt that was more surprise than injury. Blood welled from the scratch, dark against her skin in the moonlight.
Shit. I don’t know what I’m doing. Jodido embarrassing.
The contractors didn’t waste time on surprise. The Mexican’s tranq dart took her in the thigh before she’d fully regained her balance, the impact sharp and immediate.
“Ow, what the fuck?” There was something sticking out of her leg. She grabbed it, pulled it free, stared at it. What the hell was this?
“Sweet Jesus, that was enough to drop a horse. She should be unconscious,” the American said.
Why didn’t that...?
“Command,” the Mexican spoke into his radio, his professional calm fracturing. “Tranq was completely ineffective. Target should be unconscious. She’s not even wobbling.”
She held up the dart, turning it in the moonlight. “So this was supposed to knock me out?” She tossed it aside. “Didn’t work. I’ll give you a participation trophy for effort... “
The Mexican began loading a second dart, his movements cautious now. “Command, requesting authorization for heavier sedatives.”
“Negative,” was the response that returned through the radio. “Target needs to be coherent for questioning. Switch to restraint protocols.”
Restraints. I don’t like the sound of that.
Before either man could implement whatever those protocols involved, she moved, not with the clumsy desperation of her first attempt, but with newfound purpose. “Sorry cabrons, I’m not into S&M.”
The enhanced speed she’d discovered in the grove kicked in, making their reactions seem sluggish and predictable.
The Mexican’s second dart sailed wide as she twisted aside, the projectile striking stone and shattering harmlessly. She was between them before either could adjust, close enough to smell their trained fear curdling into raw animal panic.
How did I...
The American swung his weapon toward her face. Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist and squeezed.
The sound of bones breaking was like stepping on dry twigs. He screamed and dropped the tranq gun, his composure cracking completely.
Holy fuckin’ shit.
The strength that had felt natural in the grove still surprised her. She hadn’t even had to try.
“Jesus Christ!” The American cradled his shattered wrist against his chest. “She’s dusted! Has to be PCP! Command, we need immediate backup!”
The Mexican was backing away, speaking rapidly into his radio: “Target has confirmed abnormal strength levels. Requesting extraction and heavy countermeasures.”
But Naida was learning fast. She could see everything now: the way the American’s pupils dilated with pain and terror, the rapid pulse in the Mexican’s neck, the slight tremor in his hands as he tried to maintain distance while facing something outside his operational parameters.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” the American gasped.
“What’s wrong with me? You pendejo’s were briefed... let me count the ways....”
She looked between them, trying to think of something threatening to say. Her mind raced through half-remembered movies, threats she’d heard in the trucks.
“My abuela used to say...” She paused, catching herself mid-bullshit. “ A la verga. Some days you’re the chupacabra, other days you’re the goat.” Her smile felt wrong on her face, too wide. “Today I’m the goat-sucker, and you’re the goat. Just like el cabrón.”
The Mexican’s hand moved toward his sidearm, a real gun this time, not a tranquilizer. “Command, she just threatened... Request immediate authorization for lethal force.”
“Negative! We need intel on what happened to Miguel. Capture alive for questioning. Lethal force only if necessary for operator safety.”
“Then send more people,” the Mexican shot back, “because two of us aren’t going to be enough for this.”
Naida tilted her head, studying them with predatory interest. “How many people like me have you dealt with before?”
“People like you?” The American managed through gritted teeth, still clutching his shattered wrist.
“People who fight back,” she clarified.
The contractors exchanged glances, uncertainty creeping into their tactical bearing. This wasn’t how their recovery operations usually went.
“Most trafficking victims are...” the Mexican paused, choosing his words carefully. “Compliant. Broken down. Submissive. You’re different.”
“Puta, sí I am.”
“You adapted too fast. Got violent too quickly. Most people in your situation are still in shock.”
“Maybe they didn’t have the right jodido motivation,” she suggested.
“And what’s yours?”
She thought about the shallow grave, the bloody note, the months of being treated like livestock. About hands on her body and the taste of blood when she’d finally fought back.
“Revenge,” she said simply.
The words hung like a promise and a threat. Both men took involuntary steps backward, their training warring with instinctive recognition of someone who’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross.
“That’s...” the Mexican started, then stopped himself.
She tilted her head, waiting.
“That’s dangerous,” he finished. “People motivated by revenge don’t stop until they’re dead or everyone else is.”
“No me digas.” Her voice dripped contempt. “And I’m already dead inside. Sucks to be you.”
She was moving before they could react, her enhanced reflexes making their trained responses seem comically slow. The Mexican was fumbling for his sidearm when her hand closed around his throat, lifting him clear off the ground with enhanced strength.
His feet kicked uselessly in the air as she held him at arm’s length, studying his face with cold curiosity.
The American was backing away, speaking urgently into his radio: “Command, we have lost control of the situation. This has gone all kinds of sideways. Request immediate backup.”
Lost control. Pendejo, you never had control.
“Where would your backup come from?”
“Nogales,” the Mexican managed, clutching his throat. “There’s a cleanup crew in Nogales. After what happened in March. More experienced with... unusual situations.”
Another border city, a cartel hub, more contractors, more people who believed they could handle her.
She released the Mexican, letting him drop to the ground where he gasped and clutched at his throat, holding her hand open in front of her face for a long uncertain second as if it had just done something she had not asked it to do, as if the easy mechanics of lifting a two-hundred-pound man off the ground by the windpipe still belonged to a body she was negotiating with rather than living inside, every joint and tendon answering questions she had not yet learned how to phrase. “Tell your bosses I’m done being merchandise. Tell the pendejos that Naida learned how to bite back.”
“You don’t understand,” the American said, cradling his broken wrist. “The organization doesn’t just forget about losses like this. They’ll send more people. Better people.”
“Let them,” she said, backing toward the deeper shadows. “I’ll kill every last one who comes for me. You know I can. El cabron’s the proof.”
“We’re just contractors,” the Mexican protested. “Hired help. We don’t make policy.”
“Then make sure your employers get the message,” she said. “Naida is dead.” She paused. “And good riddance to her. You know? I crawled out of my own grave this evening... let me tell you. What came out of that grave isn’t interested in being anyone’s property.”
The American was speaking into his radio again: “Command, situation is completely FUBAR. Talking about revenge, recommend immediate escalation to Nogales command.”
“You know what else? I don’t think I need two of you to deliver a message.” She grabbed one of the contractors by the throat.
The sound of his neck breaking was quick and clean, a mercy she hadn’t intended, but her control was still developing. The body dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
The remaining contractor stared in horror at his dead partner.
“Now,” she said, her voice quiet and terrible. “Tell them what happens when they come for me.”
Naida melted back into the darkness, leaving one survivor to the radio and the reports, his voice already shaking through whatever debrief he was about to deliver to whatever bosses had thought their cleanup crew would be enough. Dawn was still hours away, she could feel it the way she felt the dead man’s blood still moving in her veins, a clock she couldn’t turn off, every cell in her new flesh adjusting to the count and reporting back to whatever new center had taken over the work her mortal body used to do without consulting her. The desert wind came up from the south, carrying Nogales the way the river carried what it had been told not to carry: exhaust, cooking fires, a city full of people who didn’t know what was coming, the diesel haze of a border town that had been bleeding cargo north for so long it had forgotten any of the cargo had names. She wasn’t sure she did either, she wasn’t sure what tonight had made her into and wasn’t sure she would recognize the answer if it came back tomorrow looking like a person she used to know. She just knew which direction to walk.
© 2025 E L Frederick | Published by Veridian Studios