by Logan Fox
The ringing had been coming from his ears. It faded, swiftly replaced by a furious beeping. He blinked, managed to focus on the truck’s lit-up console for a second before he lost consciousness.
Cora’s seatbelt light was on.
6
Clever Girl
Finn’s head snapped up. He blinked hard and gave his head a shake. Tried to give his head a shake; his neck felt too loose, too unresponsive. Whiplash. There was a lump on the side of his head where he’d struck the window.
His arm was under him. He got it out with effort and slid onto his back.
Cora.
He blinked again, and then scrambled into a crouch. The SUV’s interior light was still on, but he couldn’t see the girl when he scanned what he could see of the truck. Glass crunched underfoot as he climbed over the seat.
She wasn’t inside the car.
Fuck. They had her.
The thought pumped lava into his veins. He slapped his arm against his side, trying to will its circulation to return as he dragged himself out of the SUV through the torn-off passenger side door.
He kept low; his silhouette would be visible for several feet if he broke the skyline. Dropping quietly to the ground, he moved behind the vehicle. Bits of the SUV lay everywhere; a tire iron to one side, the spare wheel some ways off, the emergency triangle further up the shallow ridge. The SUV’s headlamps shone a white triangle over the canyon floor and illuminated some of the surrounding brush.
A screech of tires came from the road above.
Finn dropped to the ground, wincing when his neck complained.
Voices.
Shit.
He swung around, hunting for Cora. She must have been thrown from the truck when they’d rolled down the embankment. Hopefully, she’d been thrown clear and not crushed—
Cutting off the thought with a low growl, Finn hurried around the SUV.
Headlamps illuminated a knee-high boot. Then another. For a moment, it looked like they weren’t connected to the girl’s body anymore. His stomach wrenched as he ran forward and collapsed to his knees. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the glow of the headlamps.
Cora lay on her side, hoody and t-shirt hitched up to her ribs. Blood ran in a dark V from her nose and over her mouth, drenching her vest. About a foot away, lay her Taurus — pearl grip covered with dust. He crouched beside her and felt for a pulse. That wet fabric lifted as she took a faint, uneven breath. Beside him, the SUV’s engine began ticking as it cooled. The smell of blood and exhaust fumes and dust hung thick in the air, corrupting every breath.
She had a few scrapes on her face and a bruise on her wrist, but nothing life-threatening. The worst was her nose. It sat crooked, already swelling, but how badly it had been damaged, he couldn’t tell.
Debris rattled above.
Finn stiffened, breath coming too fast as he ripped his Five-seveN from its holster. He wanted desperately to drag Cora to safety, but that would expose him to whoever had come down that embankment. And there could be more of them on their way. He dashed behind the front of the SUV, feeling as brightly lit up as a fucking angel with the headlamps glowing against his body. But if he heard right, his attacker was near the trunk of the SUV. He leaned around the side of the truck and hurriedly ducked back again.
Nothing.
He turned the other way and peeked out, trying to locate the man he could hear making faint scraping noises in the dirt. If he managed to get a clear shot he could—
“You don’t have to die today,” a Mexican-accented voice called from behind the SUV. “I just want the girl.”
He gave a soft snort as he tightened the grip on his Five-seveN. He wasn’t idiotic enough to assume anything, let alone that this man had orders not to gun him down the moment he had Cora in hand.
“So if I put a bullet in her,” Finn called back, “you’ll leave?”
The man laughed. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would I,” Finn muttered to himself. He inched away from the man’s voice, hoping to stall him long enough that he could move around the vehicle and surprise him from behind. A quick glance confirmed Cora was still out cold, but her eyelids flickered when the man spoke again.
“There are more of us on the way,” the man said conversationally. “They’ll be here in less than a minute.”
But if that was the case, then why didn’t the man just wait for them to arrive? Finn couldn’t hold out against more than two men, max. Not without more ammunition and better cover. As it was, Cora lay in the open. If either of them went for the girl, the other would gun them down.
Unless help wasn’t on the way. Or would take longer than a few minutes to arrive.
Did he dare risk assuming that?
Something skidded over the canyon floor toward him. A pair of dusty cuffs. “Put them on.”
Finn shook his head and then clenched his jaw until his head ached. “You won’t shoot?” he called out, injecting just the slightest tremor in his voice.
“I just want the girl.”
Finn snatched up the cuffs and opened them. Then he closed them again, hoping the sound would carry to the man behind the SUV.
“They’re on.”
“Gun. Floor. Kick it over where I can see it.”
A tall order — he had no idea what range the man had. He tossed the cuffs as hard as he could, and then rushed around the other side of the SUV.
The man had anticipated him. They met halfway by the sunroof. Finn ducked his head, but with his stiffening neck muscles, it wasn’t enough. The man’s fist met his temple and sent him back so hard he saw purgatory. He slid over the ground, landing in the light thrown off by the SUV’s headlamps while plumes of dust floated around him.
Finn rolled onto his side and then froze.
The man had his gun pointed straight at Cora. Sure, he wouldn’t kill her, but what was to say he wouldn’t shoot her in the leg?
A boot landed in Finn’s ribs.
If the man had moved that muzzle even an inch, Finn would have grabbed his ankle and tugged him off his feet. But he couldn’t take the risk that finger wouldn’t contract on the trigger and end Cora.
He squeezed his eyes shut, absorbing the pain of the man’s second kick with a stifled grunt. Then he lifted his hands in the universal gesture of surrender. Another pair of cuffs — these still pristine — dropped on the ground beside Finn.
“Behind your back, nice and tight.”
Finn picked up the cuffs and slid them over his wrists, bunching his hands as much as he could before tightening the restraints. The man didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he didn’t care.
“Who are you working for?” he asked.
Instead of answering, the man only laughed.
Finn glanced at Cora again as the last cuff ratcheted into place. His heart spasmed and ground to a halt. Wide, golden eyes stared at him. Her lips parted and began trembling against the sand. She’d woken, but hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound.
Clever girl.
But there was no way out of this for her. This man had the upper hand now, and with him on the ground like this, there was no way he was getting it back. He swallowed, pressed his lips together, and turned his head as if to try and get a look at the man.
“Did Javier send you?” he asked, voice so rough he doubted the man could understand him.
“Shut it.” The man came to stand in front of him, and Finn lifted his complaining neck so he could look up at the man.
The muzzle gaped at Finn’s head. The man—a Latino with no trace of humanity remaining on his scarred face — gave Finn a broad, if humorless, smile. The man wasn’t idiotic enough to aim for his chest — Finn’s Kevlar vest could handle armor-piercing rounds.
Finn’s eyes squeezed closed when the man’s hand tightened.
Finn had been shot before. More than once. It always felt different. One time, he hadn’t felt it at all until moments afterward. That had been back in Iraq when a Haji had taken a shot
at him as his platoon had broken into a house in Mosul. Luckily, the Iraqi had missed. Instead of slamming into the back of his skull, that bullet had drilled into his thigh. One minute he’d been walking, the next he was on his back in the dirt, ears ringing. The pain had arrived a few seconds later, like someone going to town on his leg with an ice pick.
This felt like a bowling ball had just been cannoned into his chest. Which didn’t make sense, because the man had been aiming for his fucking head.
He forced himself to focus through the pain, twisting onto his side and kicking away so the man would have to take aim for a second shot.
But he was busy.
Cora was on her feet, lips raised in a bloodied snarl. Was that why the guy had missed? Had she sprung at him before he’d gotten a shot off?
Cora lifted her Taurus. Either she was still shaky from the accident, or her hands were sweaty because she couldn’t seem to get a proper grip on the weapon. She fumbled with it in panic, eyes blazing as that magnificent snarl slipped from her mouth. The man took the gun from her, seemingly with no effort. And then she just stared at her empty fingers like she was wondering how everything had gone so wrong so soon.
The man stepped forward and lifted the Taurus like he was going to pistol whip her with its pearl grip.
Cora jabbed out her hand, striking the man in his right eye. The Latino let out an explosive breath, body twisting in the direction of the pain.
She surged forward and punched him just below his ear. He swooned but didn’t go down. The knee she’d been aiming for his groin missed, and she staggered as she was thrown off balance by her own momentum.
Finn squirmed onto his knees, but barely. Breath came too hard, too shallow, and black already edged his vision. It would take a minute or two — and possibly a dislocated thumb — before he could wriggle out of the cuffs.
Cora had maybe ten seconds.
The guy recovered instantly and turned the Taurus on Cora with a snarl. The girl ducked before he could find his aim, and ran away into the darkness.
“Fuck!” The Latino glanced at Finn, saw he was sitting up, and turned the gun on him.
This time, there was no warning when the guy fired. But he also hadn’t taken the time to aim.
Finn twisted with the impact and dropped. Molten fire filled his chest and then solidified. He could no longer breathe, despite how hard he gasped. Another shot, but this one puffed up dirt a few inches from his face.
He struggled, trying to move away from the guy’s next shot, knowing this one would be the bullet that ended him.
At least Cora had escaped.
Hopefully, those long legs would carry her too far for this guy to catch her. Too far for anyone to ever find her.
7
More. Are. Coming
Cora couldn’t think. Her brain felt like it was melting, her face throbbed with fire, and everything seemed too soft, too surreal. That guy was supposed to have gone down. She’d done everything Bailey had taught her to. Had felt every impact hit home. But he’d just kept coming. He’d been too easy on her, Bailey. Had he let her win all those times she’d managed to get his legs out from under him? Bright bursts of anger flashed through her, but it was hard to be pissed off at someone when they were dead.
The urge to just keep running was intense. It made no sense, doubling back. Except...she’d made a decision in the truck. One she’d still been trying to come to terms with before everything had turned into this confusing mess it was now.
If anyone was going to kill Finn, it would be her. She owed Bailey that much. He’d done nothing wrong, except give in to her needs. Her desires. He hadn’t deserved to die, and Finn had no right to kill him. So she would kill Finn. It wouldn’t bring Bailey back, but hell — maybe it would do something about the guilt pressing down on her like a lead blanket.
She ran through the dark, circling wide around the SUV so she could merge with the canyon’s deep shadows. What the hell was she going to do when she found the man? She didn’t have her gun anymore. Apparently, her Krav Maga skills were laughable at best. She wrapped her hand around the pendant her father had given her, stroking the Saint’s skeletal likeness.
Por favor1, Santisima Muerte. Give me something, anything.
And then she tripped over the tire iron lying in the dust behind the SUV. She went to her knees with a soft, ‘Oof’ just as the crack of a gun echoed through the canyon, close enough to make her ears ring.
No.
Another shot. Then another.
Finn.
Cora snatched the tire iron and ran out from behind the SUV with a furious scream.
The man who’d shot Finn turned at the sound of her scream as she swung the tire iron with every bit of force she could muster. She struck him on the side of his face so hard that the shock vibrated through her arm and made her fingertips tingle violently.
He dropped bonelessly to the canyon floor. She let the iron fall and crashed to her knees, scrambling over to Finn’s still body.
“Finn. Finn!”
Finn forced his eyes open. Cora crouched over him, terrified eyes scanning his face. Wisps of black hair stuck to the blood drying on her face. Her lips shivered when their eyes met, and then she squeezed her mouth closed.
“Finn.” Trembling fingertips touched his face, his neck. “Por favor, Señora de las Sombras,” she prayed quietly. “Por favor.”
He managed a grunt. Then, “More. Are. Coming.” Unless the guy had been bluffing, but he doubted it. A few minutes had passed since their SUV had taken its tumble down into this canyon; help couldn’t have been more than five minutes out.
She tugged his cuffs with shaking hands.
“Check. Pockets.”
Her eyes flashed to his, wide and confused.
“His…pockets.” It hurt to speak. It hurt to fucking breathe.
The girl nodded, and gingerly approached the Latino lying in the dust a few feet away. She slipped a hand in his jacket, feeling around as a grimace slowly spread over her face. She pulled out a small bunch of keys, dropping it a few times before her shaking fingers could take hold of it.
“Hurry.”
She moved faster, biting down on her bottom lip. The panic faded from her eyes. Determination wrinkled her brow as she unlocked his cuffs.
Blood surged into his hands, making his nerve endings sting. He pumped his fists and then ran his fingers up his waist until he found the carrier straps for his Kevlar vest. He peeled the Velcro apart, and cold air surged into his throat as the garment fell away from him.
He turned on his side, coughed hard, and then wheezed for more air.
The girl scrambled away from him, slid on loose sand, and landed on her ass with a fervent, “Gracias.” Her breath hitched. “Gracias.” Who the hell she was thanking, he didn’t know.
Finn fumbled for his gun, realized it wasn’t there anymore, and snatched a knife from his boot. The Latino hadn’t moved, but Finn’d only been alive this long because he always made sure people that were meant to be dead were, in fact, dead.
Wakened by the anticipation of bright red blood, his beast growled somewhere deep inside his mind.
He slit the guy’s throat, ear to ear. Behind him, Cora let out a scream they probably heard all the way in fucking Mexico. He swung to her with a hiss, and she clapped both hands over her mouth and kicked away from him over the canyon floor until her back thudded into the SUV’s roof.
Finn quickly searched the body as blood pooled in the dust, reflecting the stars. Time was ticking, but any intel he found could prove invaluable. The Latino had a shitty burner phone on him, some ammunition, and a hotel keycard. The burner would be useless to him, especially if they were tracking it. Finn tossed the phone and slid everything else into his pocket as he swiped his knife over the guy’s shirt. Shoving the knife back in his boot, he rose in a rush and scanned the dirt for their weapons.
Cora still had her hands over her mouth but got unsteadily to her feet when his eyes touched her.
Finn found his Five-seveN on the other side of the truck and shoved it back in its holster. Cora gingerly extracted her Taurus from the Latino’s dead fingers and stuck it behind her belt.
On the road above, a car sped by. A second later, it slammed on brakes.
Finn turned to Cora and whispered, “Run.”
1 Please
8
Sic
Steaming tamales filled the ranch with the fragrance of corn masa and pulled pork. The smell drifted out to where Zachary West sat on a rocking chair on the decaying stoop of his ranch, the shade of a honey mesquite casting a web of shadows on the steps in front of him. This was the only time of day he allowed himself some respite. An hour to eat dinner, watch the sunset, maybe play a hand of cards with one of his lugartenientes1.
He shared the stoop with a pair of pitbulls — one black, one brown. Both rescue animals. He’d picked them up at the pound a few months ago and brought them back to his ranch. Although, ranch perhaps wasn’t the right word. The strip of land he’d strategically acquired had a house on it. Long and rectangular, single story. A few disused sheds and a barn in the back. A six-car garage. All as run-down as the land itself. Its previous owner had sold at half of premium, so fed up he’d been with finding illegal immigrants half-dead — sometimes long dead — on the fringes of his land where it hugged the curve of the Rio Grande.
It wouldn’t have raised any red flags – an American citizen with no criminal record purchasing a strip of land adjacent to the Rio Grande – but he preferred to distance himself from the sale and had purchased the property through a shell corporation.
It was just one of many deals that kept his money laundering outfits far removed from their legitimate business partners. He washed his money more than once, and could never understand why the other cartels were satisfied with nothing more than a quick rinse cycle. The black pitbull, Blue, lifted his head and pricked up ears disfigured from the years he’d spent as a fighting dog.
