Sabine protested through gritted teeth as she attempted to wrest herself from the hands who held her fast. “Let me go!” Her demands went unheeded, and a small Negro boy of about nine or ten motioned for her to get in the back of a utility wagon; two brawny men silently tied her hands to the seat ahead of her. Manuel Colón sauntered over to the rig and smiled cordially in the lantern-lit darkness. He summoned the small boy, who immediately darted off to follow his command, and he draped an arm casually over the side of the wagon. “So.” Dark eyes set in round, tanned features perused her face and body appreciatively. With an inviting smile he lifted a finely manicured hand and caressed her cheek. Instinctively she shrank from his touch. “¿Habla español?” The question came in the lisping accent of Castilian Spanish. Sabine stared at him blankly, for the foreign words meant nothing to her.
