by Ella James
We make a quick stop at a gas station and after we study the map for a few minutes, I walk Merri to the ladies’ room, counting down the seconds until we’re back on the bike. Before I pull back onto the road, she squeezes my waist.
“We’re almost there, Evan!”
I nod, glad she can’t see that I’m not smiling.
I’m a selfish ass.
As we work our way through almost an hour of thick mid-city traffic, I’m tense with wanting to get her somewhere safe, but a part of me is also glad for every minute spent without her knowing who I really am.
You need to get over it. Forget about her. The sooner the better.
I know that’s the logical thing to do, but logic means nothing to me. I can’t think straight when I’m near Merri. That she’s the one girl I can’t have: that’s a curse I fucking earned. I tell myself I’ll have to tough it out, and when I feel the hollowness inside my chest, I just ignore that shit. Nothing else I can do, right?
There are a couple ports of entry into El Paso, and we’re headed toward the one Meredith thinks will be the least busy. It’s a tiny bridge near some farm land, and by the time we reach it, my heart’s pounding hard enough to make me sweat despite my lack of bike helmet.
Merri’s grip tightens on my waist, and she presses her cheek against my back. I inhale deeply, trying to save the moment onto my hard drive. I have the sinking feeling I might need it later. For the next five minutes as we wait on a transfer truck to pass, my neck aches and my arm feels strange, but I know it’s just from stress. Nothing weird going on here. I’ve got the appropriate papers, plus our passports. As soon as we get through the checkpoint, Merri will be home free.
I try to find happiness in that.
When the wooden bridge spits us out at a rickety plywood wall topped with barbed wire and outfitted with a rusted metal tower, my stomach clenches so hard I think I might be sick.
Merri's hands stroke my back. She's feeling grateful, I realize. She lets out a little whoop, and as a black van is waved through the gate, I’m washed in cold sweat, kind of like the feeling you have when you're in opiate withdrawal.
We roll closer—close enough so I can see two dark-haired border patrol guards with automatic rifles—and I tell myself again that I'm just being paranoid. Feeling nervous because I had to ditch my gun at the last bathroom stop before the chekpoint. Anticipating what's going to come next, with Merri.
I swallow hard as we get close enough that I can see the tallest guard’s eyes. They go right past me, seeking Merri's face behind the helmet. Sweat breaks out on my chest, and I have the overwhelming urge to gas it right past him.
I slow down, though. Automatic rifles make big holes in bare skin, and Merri is behind me.
I slow down, and both guards lunge at us. Before I can even stop the bike, the larger one's hand is locked around my left arm. The shorter one shoves his gun into my face.
My arms around Evan's waist go numb as the barrel of the semi-automatic is shoved into his face. Before I can scream or even flinch, the larger guard points his own gun right at my nose.
“Get off the motorcycle!” he screams in Spanish. He waves the gun, his torso bobbing up and down as his face twists furiously. “You are coming with us!”
I blink at him. Logically, I understand why this is happening, but some part of my mind—the innocent part, the part that still has dreams and wants—is stunned to stillness. This just can't be real.
“GET OFF THE BIKE!”
I shut my eyes as the cold, hard muzzle digs into my forehead.
I know I should go with these men. I should spare Evan. We're still in Mexico, and even in a big city like Ciudad Juarez, the Cientos Cartel has sway. Enough sway to install two cartel lieutenants at a rural border patrol post. But my fingers won't let go of Evan's shirt.
“This is the girl! I have seen her before!” The muzzle slides down my forehead, bruising my temple. “Come on, bitch! Or you’ll have a hole in your head!”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, like crickets singing in the background of a Southern front porch conversation, I can hear Evan imploring the other guard to listen to him. He says that I'm his wife, and we're headed back to our house in California.
I want to cry, because I want it to be true. But my emotions have dried up. My mind is only capable of processing the simplest facts. The one that stands out is: Evan will fight them for me. He won’t let them take me; he’ll fight, and he’ll get shot. This gives me the strength to hold my hand up, signaling my gunman to lower his gun, and swing shakily off the bike. Despite my determination to surrender, my legs are weak as jelly. I collapse into the guard, who scoops me up under his arm and starts to run.
I shut my eyes. This can't be real. This isn't real.
I picture Evan and me, back on the motorcycle, both wearing bullet-proof vests. In my re-creation of our fate, when the faux guards pull out their guns, Evan just jets past them, through the gate that would have swung down over us. They're lousy shots and all their bullets miss us. In real life, I'm panting, probably close to passing out from fear. I've surrendered fully, accepting my fate, but I want to stay awake. I combat my near-debilitating terror by remembering the feel of Evan's warm, hard abs underneath my hands.
From somewhere close, I hear screaming. The shrieking peel of rubber on asphalt. Gunfire. Evan!
Don't open your eyes.
I tell myself the sound of whirring tires was Evan, jetting past the border.
It's time to go. Time to go to God.
I open my eyes with a plan to fight my captor. That way, I'll get shot and die without the rape I know is coming.
The guard whose gun was in my face is bleeding all over the ground, his forehead ripped open like a busted watermelon. The other still has Merri. She's tucked under his arm like a football. He is running toward another fence, behind which is a navy blue Range Rover with shiny rims. As I gas the Mach and fly toward Merri, thugs dressed in military gear pour out of the Range Rover and start to run toward her, too.
Fuck no they won't. She's mine!
I lean forward, pressing the weight of my body against the handles so I have better balance, and with my right hand, I raise the stolen semi and spray all of them with bullets.
It's a risky move. One, because I wobble on the bike and almost crash. Two because the ones that don't fall, fire back. I feel a searing pain in my right calf but I can't think about that now. One of the car's passengers—a woman with long, black and white striped hair and a bullet-proof vest—is almost to Merri. It takes everything I have to raise the gun again with only my right hand and aim at just her.
As I pull the trigger, I actually pray. Please, God.
I only have enough strength in my arm to pull the trigger once. Somehow, the woman falls.
The other thugs running toward Merri start to scream and wail, but my eyes are trained on Merri. Her long, red hair ripples in the hot wind. Her legs kick. Her hands claw her captor’s arm. He yells something.
I try to follow her as I swerve to dodge bullets. One thing they're screaming makes it through my head:
“CHRISTINA...”
“Christina, Christina!”
“Christina! No! No!”
I remember the name Christina. That's Jesus's sister.
I feel another bite of fire, this time near my throat. Adrenaline sweeps through me, and I make a bold decision. I point the bike at Merri and her captor, and I surge forward, toward them. When I'm close enough, I aim at the bastard’s head and slam on my brakes as Merri tumbles to the ground.
I open my eyes, and all I see is ground and sky, flipping like I'm rolling down a steep hill. Pain shoots through my body—stinging, tearing pain—and I realize that's because I'm rolling on asphalt.
“MERRI! COME ONE! GET ON THE BIKE!”
That's Evan's voice. Blearily, I note some of the cartel’s remaining higher-ups running toward us. I feel heat shoot through my hair and smell the bullet as I whirl around to find Evan,
wide eyed and urgent, on his bike.
“GET ON!”
He can't help me and balance the bike at the same time. He's holding the phony guard's light-weight semi-automatic rifle with his right hand in the most awkward position I've ever seen in my life. The second my butt touches his bike seat, we shoot off like we're on the back of a runaway horse. Bullets follow us, pinging against the bike's metal. Ripping, again, through the curtain of my hair. Hitting Evan’s right shoulder.
He screams “fuck,” the bike's rear tire slides a little, then we pick up speed, shooting through the gate. It takes me a moment to notice that the roaring noise behind us is Christina's blue Range Rover mowing down the barbed-wire fence. They're coming after us.
Then I notice Evan's bleeding really bad.
“Keep on going,” I scream. Blood is pouring down his back, but we don't have another choice.
I can feel Evan panting underneath my arms as he fights against the pain. We swerve around a mechanical arm and through a crack in a second, half-opened gate, passing a few cars that must be sitting, waiting for this interior gate to let them through.
I hear the roar of the Range Rover behind us, then hear metal crush metal and turn around in time to see the blue SUV bash into a white Mercedes Benz. Horns start honking but I don't care right now.
We're through. They're not. And Evan's blood is dripping in my lap.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The pain brings tears to my eyes as I call over my shoulder, “Take the gun!”
I would pass the damn thing to her but I know I'll lose my balance if I try. The shoulder hurts like a motherfucker, and I know that for once my history with pain makes me lucky, because if I weren't used it, I could never stay upright on this bumpy ass road.
As it is, I try to breathe through my teeth and tell myself that if I can’t keep it together, terrible things will happen to Merri.
Her left arm tightens around my waist and her right one comes around to take the gun. It's easier to drive once she has it. I pick up speed, back up to ninety, but I quickly drop down to eighty, then seventy. My vision is blurring, every time I inhale, smearing the yellow lines in the middle of the road.
I feel like we’re on fast-forward. The scrubby bushes that line the highway are trembling furiously. The clouds in the vast, blue sky are racing overhead. My pulse comes in uneven bursts. I know it's because of the bleeding, but there's nothing I can do about it until we get into El Paso.
As it is, I’m worried we’ll get stopped by cops. Or maybe that would help, I think hazily—they might help get me to a hospital—but they also might ask to see our passports.
I feel Merri’s helmet bump against the back of my head just as her breath warms my neck. “Do you want me to drive?”
I struggle to swallow so I can answer her, but I can't get my throat to work. I'm shaking so bad now. I don't want to do it, but I brake and pull over on the side of the road, where I barely stumble off the bike before I'm violently sick. Merri's arms are around my back, and I'm so fucking disgusted with myself.
Time to phone West for another rescue, says a little voice inside my head.
You'll bleed out by then, a morose voice answers.
I can't stop the groan that comes out of my mouth. It's muted by the thumping of a helicopter. I look up, feeling like I'm living in a nightmare. The blades are slow...so slow. The helicopter lowers in the parched field out in front of us, kicking up dust.
“Is it them?” I hear myself ask. I don’t even know who ‘them’ is. I can’t think straight anymore. All I can do is look at Merri.
Her eyes are so wide. Her words sound very slow; unreal. “It's the border patrol.” Her grip on my left arm tightens, and I struggle to keep the black to the edges of my vision. Her lips move, and I try to pay attention. She frowns, and I try to shake my head. I feel her hand on the side of my face.
“Evan, do you have those passports?”
I nod—so slow. I feel like I’m underwater. I raise my right hand to my chest, where the pouch is still strapped below my shirt.
Got to stay awake. Got to stay awake until I show them our passports. I’m going to need to explain this to Merri.
“Evan.” I feel her hand on my back. “Are you okay?”
“Never...better, honey.” Before the black takes over everything, I reach under my shirt and get the passports out.
“Give them these,” I hiss, “and tell them we're married.”
I hold onto Evan’s blood-soaked back and stroke his wild, dark hair. The passports are lying in the grass at my feet. Out in front of us, only twenty or thirty feet away, are two border patrol officers, each carrying an automatic rifle. I don’t know who they are or what their agenda is, but there’s nothing I can do except pray they’ll help us.
Evan hasn’t passed out yet. It takes a lot for him to pass out. Right now he’s got his left arm wrapped around my right knee and his face is pressed against my side. Every so often he’ll mumble something that sounds upset, but I can’t understand him.
The skin of his arms is cold and clammy. There’s an exit wound just below his collar bone—I’m able to see it because his shirt is ripped open there—and that’s good I guess, but he’s still losing a ton of blood.
The agents are running, and I steel myself for the possibility that they’re in the cartel’s pocket. They’re close enough for me to see their faces. One is short and broad, with red hair and freckles, and the other one is slim, with buzz-cut blond hair. Both are frowning. Both lower their guns as they get closer. I scramble for our passports as I let emotion wash through me.
“Ma’am, I’m Agent Frank Burns with the United States Border Patrol,” the blond says. “Identify yourself.”
I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, I start crying. It’s adrenaline crying, so the tears come easily and quickly overwhelm me. Sobs punch through me, and Evan groans as I jar him. The idea that I hurt him makes me cry harder.
When they’re so close I can see sweat beads on their faces, I thrust our passports at Agent Burns and grab Evan closer. “You’ve got to help us! We were coming through the checkpoint and…oh my God, these people shot my husband! He’s bleeding really bad, please! You’ve got to help us now!”
Agent Burns glances over Evan and I, then opens one of the passports and frowns at it. My heart rate does double-time and I get a dizzying head rush. As his bushy eyebrows draw together, he sticks the passport between his teeth and opens the other one, like we’re at a traffic stop and we have all the time in the world. After a long look at the second passport, he shoves them both into his partner’s hand. Behind them, the ragged hum of the helicopter’s blades shifts its tone a little and I worry it will leave.
The redhead takes both passports and opens the top one. I sob harder, letting myself get lost in the fear that they won’t help us.
I’m confused when the redhead cracks an ironic little smile. “Carlson?” His eyes search his partner’s face as my heart thuds in my chest. Carlson. Why did he say that name! Do they work for him? Oh my God.
Agent Burns turns his brown eyes to me and wiggles one eyebrow. “Cross Carlson, huh?”
I blink at him, not having any idea what he means.
He nods at Evan. “He wouldn’t by any chance be the son of California’s Governor Carlson, would he?”
The governor of California? His son? My brain is moving in slow motion. Are they asking me if Evan is Drake Carlson’s son?
I shake my head. Tears are pouring down my cheeks.
“Is he…” I shake my head again. I have my mouth open to say of course he’s not, and then I picture Drake’s face. It was harder and older and his eyes weren’t blue, but Drake had such a pretty mouth. Like Evan’s.
“Oh my…yes.” I hiccup a sob before I can get another breath, and then I’m nodding frenziedly. “Yes, he is. He is, and that means you have to help us! You have to take us to a hospital! Right now!”
The redhead frowns, looking me up and down
like I’m a bug he wants to squash. “And you’re the wifey?”
“I’m his wife,” I grit. The words feel like barbed wire in my throat. “Now will you help me get him to the helicopter? We don’t have time to wait!”
Agent Burns looks me right down to the bones. “If you weren’t who you are, we’d bring you in for questioning, Mrs. Carlson. You look a hell of a lot like a woman who’s wanted for murder in Guadalupe Victoria. Tied up with the Cientos Cartel. I bet that’s why they shot your husband.”
I nod my head, playing on the confusion that’s bursting in my chest. Confusion about Evan, but the guard takes it as confusion over what he’s saying.
I flick my eyes to his again, and he shrugs. “Bring ‘em in, Arnie.” My knees are shaking with relief when he turns back toward the chopper. Evan moans, and the redhead, Arnie, comes around to Evan’s other side. Evan is—
No, not Evan.
CROSS!
The man clinging to my leg is Cross Carlson, playboy, black sheep son of Governor Drake Carlson.
He moans as he’s hoisted to his feet and draped over Arnie’s broad back. The agent starts toward the helicopter, but I can’t seem to get my feet to move.
Cross Carlson. My Evan is a Carlson.
I hold my head, feeling like I’m going to pass out. When I think about the governor sending someone to find me after two years—sending his own son—I almost want to give myself to the cartel.
It’s NOT ENOUGH, I want to scream. It’s not enough that Drake sent someone to save me now! That he finally realized the mistake he made with me. It’s not enough! After what happened before I left Jesus…
“Damnit!” I sink down into the dirt, holding my chest and gasping as I struggle not to totally break down. I want Evan…but he’s no one! “Cross Carlson…” I sob the name. I don’t want him! I don’t want a Carlson anywhere near me!
