by Logan Fox
He had almost as many as she did.
Cora hurriedly turned away and went to the back of the motorhome. There was a partition here; she could close it off to form an en-suite bedroom and bathroom. The bathroom was surprisingly large; a porcelain bowl, a basin, and two cabinets — one above and one below. Opposite, a shower with a frosted door.
Inside, she paused a moment with her hand around the pendant her father had given her, crossing herself as she bent her head in a quick, silent prayer of thanks. La Flaca had been watching over her tonight more than ever before. There was a plastic cup in the cabinet; Cora filled it with water and set the necklace down beside it, with the pendant propped up against the tiles.
She stared at her reflection. It looked like someone had gone and put a poster of a domestic abuse child on the mirror in place of her reflection. Her nose was swollen, and her eyes had purple shadows under them. She went through the old people’s cabinet again, looking for toothpaste. She found a small pack of sealed facial tissues and slipped it into the pocket of her jeans. A souvenir; something to remember the old folks by. She stripped, grimacing at the state of her clothes, and stepped into the shower.
Her nose ached when the water touched it, and blood turned the runoff water pink. She wanted to shampoo her hair but settled just for a quick scrub with the old people’s bar of soap. It smelled of lavender and some kind of herb, but it got most of the dirt and blood off her.
That was important.
Tears came then, so unexpected, she couldn’t stop them. She slid with her back down the side of the molded shower unit and hugged her knees as her face contorted with the force of each sob. It was agonizing, and she managed to fight back after a few seconds.
Drying off felt good. Putting on her dirty clothes, not so much.
When she came back into the living area, Finn had his shirt back on and was sipping on a cup of coffee. The smell of toast, coffee, and antiseptic filled the air; he had a dry slice of it on a plate beside his cup, one bite taken from a corner.
“Want?” he asked, gesturing.
She shook her head. Her stomach felt too tight, her head throbbed too much. Finn put down his cup and flicked his fingers at her. His pistol lay side by side with her Taurus on the coffee table, both pointed in the old people’s direction. Rita was still wide awake, his eyes flickering nervously between Cora and Finn. Art’s head lolled against the back of the dinette table as if he would never wake up again.
Finn handed her a glass of water and two pills. She drank them without question, wincing when the edge of the glass accidentally touched her nose. Then he gave her a cold compress and pointed to the bedroom.
“Get some sleep.”
She didn’t want to obey him, but her body ached for rest. She’d tried to untangle her thoughts in the shower, but there’d been too many, and her brain felt overworked and underpaid. If she could get some sleep, she could work out everything she needed to.
Like how she was going to deal with the man that had murdered Bailey.
9
Better, But Worse
Finn could see Cora’s legs from his seat in the motorhome’s living area. He watched her sleep as he dialed Tony’s number from his cell phone. It rang eleven times before going to voicemail. He left another terse message asking Tony to call him back urgently and then ended the call.
Logically, he couldn’t trust anyone. Not until he knew Cora was safe. And a motorhome in the middle of Oxbow, Payson, was far from safe. He considered driving the RV somewhere, but places like this usually had the guests sign out when they left. Neither Art nor Rita could pull that off. Not without someone realizing something was up.
No, they had to ditch the RV. Find another means of transport. Get somewhere safe.
He and Lars had a safe house, up in Silver City’s mountains. It was a long drive, but it was better than driving around aimlessly waiting for his client to make contact.
Or he could just take the girl to Javier like he’d been instructed. He pressed his cellphone against his lip and tried to make his breathing as shallow as possible. That had been his contract, after all. Taking a soft target to Texas. Getting paid ten grand when it was done. But if he went ahead with the plan as it stood, and arrived in Texas, and Cora got hurt…He wouldn’t be getting paid, would he?
Ten grand was ten grand.
He dialed his business partner, Lars. He was working a gig too, so whether he was in a position to answer or not was anyone’s guess.
“This had better be good,” Lars answered. “I’m bored as all hell. This guy has me working as a glorified fucking cab driver.”
“Lars—”
“Six hours, Milo. I’ve been on this gig for six hours. He has me taking him all over fucking town. Don’t know what the fuck he’s expecting, or if he’s just shit-scared of Brooklyn or something. I mean—”
“Lars!”
“Hey, what’s up? You sound stressed.”
“Jesus, if you’d let me talk, I’ll tell you.”
Lars remained silent on the other end of the line as Finn let out a sigh and ran his hands through his hair. “I got a gig while you were out. Transporting a girl from Phoenix to Texas.”
“With her consent, I’m hoping?”
“Doubtful,” Finn muttered. “But now I can’t get hold of the client, and…I think Texas is a bad idea.”
“Becuase who can take anyone seriously in a cowboy hat, right?”
“Lars,” Finn said, voice low.
“Why is Texas bad?”
Finn sighed again. “This whole thing feels like a setup. Some Mexicans were waiting for us on the interstate. We got away, but barely.”
“Mexicans?” Lars let out a low laugh. “Who the fuck’s the client, Milo? A cartel guy or something?”
“Tony Swan. I have his daughter with me.” Finn looked up at the girl’s sleeping form.
“Well, maybe you should ask her.”
“She’s passed out.”
“Jesus, she one of those alcoholic socialites?”
“Broken nose, painkillers, lots of running.”
“Christ, okay.” A drumming sound came through the cell phone as if Lars was tapping his fingers on the car’s dashboard. He hadn’t been kidding about the glorified cab driver, had he? “I think I have another hour left with this moron, then I can head back. If I take a flight—”
“I can’t get hold of the client. Something’s happened to him.”
“Think there was a hit on him?”
He scrubbed his fingernails through his short hair. “Fucking hope not.”
“Listen, take her to Silver City. It’s kinda on the way to Texas anyway. I’ll meet up with you soon as I can. You keep trying to get hold of the client in the meantime.”
Finn nodded, and then let out a murmured, “When in the hell did Argos turn into a fucking babysitting company?”
“Right around the same time the economy crashed,” Lars replied dryly. “Only drug dealers and gangsters making money right now, Milo. Let’s hope she’s not some gangsters little girl.”
“I’ll call you when—”
“No,” Lars cut in, sounding harried. “Look, I gotta go. My client’s on his way back. Send me this Tony guy’s number — I’ll try get hold of him. You head for Silver City and stay off the fucking grid. Keep this chick safe, and I’ll communicate with the client. If anything changes, I’ll contact you at the cabin.”
“Thanks,” Finn murmured.
“And for god’s sake, get some sleep. You sound fucking exhausted.”
Finn let out a dry laugh as he ended the call. Only Lars would insist he get sleep while on a gig. As if he really was nothing but a glorified taxi driver. He sent Tony’s number to Lars and shoved his phone back in his pocket. He had another cup of coffee and a few pain pills while Cora slept. He knew every cup would make him crash harder, but right now he had to remain alert. Going without sleep was something he’d perfected on tour in Syria what seemed a lifetime ago now.
It made him feel old — or perhaps just jaded — thinking back on those days. The amount of clinical violence he’d witnessed had left deep trenches of trauma in his mind. Trenches he’d merely filled in with dirt, stamped down, and walked away from. At least, he’d tried to walk away from them. Sometimes it seemed he’d never put enough dirt in them, to begin with. Times like that, he’d get himself into a situation where someone had to die.
That someone was never him, of course.
Cora moaned quietly. He sat forward a little, wincing, and stared into the bedroom. Her feet shifted under the coverlet, twitching and spasming as if she was running in her dreams. Or in her nightmares.
As if a spoiled only-child could ever have nightmares to run from. The worst thing she’d ever had to live through was probably not getting the right shade of pink on her hand-tailored designer dress for her sixteenth birthday party.
Finn opened the motorhome’s refrigerator. Inside, he found a bottle of water and took it to the girl. Despite the noises she’d been making earlier, her face was slack with sleep. If it hadn’t been for her bruised face, she would have looked almost angelic; her damp hair curling up around her face, and her plump lips parted.
So fragile. Spun glass, begging to be shattered. Scattered. Ground to dust.
Finn gritted his teeth, fumbling for the pistol he’d left on the coffee table. He shoved the unwanted thought from his mind and hurriedly shook Cora awake so she would move out of her corpse-like pose on the bed. She came to with a confused, “Hmm?” and then scrambled up when she saw him. She blinked, swiped at her eyes with the back of her hands, and took the water bottle from him.
She looked better than she had an hour ago but worse than when he’d first met her. Pity she couldn’t have remained that girl in the hayloft — cheeks bright with passion and hay in her hair. Everyone had to grow up. Lose their innocence. Realize the world was a joke told by an alcoholic comedian who left you waiting for a punchline that never fucking arrived.
“We’re leaving.”
She nodded at him and downed half the water.
Finn headed back to the motorhome’s living area. The old man was still out, but his wife sat rigid and unmoving in the dinette booth, watching Finn. What was he going to do with them? Just leave them tied up and hope the visitor of earlier came back in time to release them? He wasn’t about to have them call the cops when he and Cora were only a few minutes away from the motorhome. They needed a head start if they were going to make it anywhere.
Dawn would arrive in an hour — then they had to wait another four hours before their friend came to fetch Art for their fishing trip.
If the man showed up at all.
Grabbing Art’s shoulder, Finn shook the man until he came to.
“Bags.”
The man took a few seconds to come to full waking and then moved his eyes to the back of the motorhome. He tried to say something through the duct tape, and Finn ripped it off. Art moved his lips, eyes watering, and then gestured to the back again with his chin. “Under the bed.”
Finn went to the bedroom. Cora was putting her hair up into an elastic band. There was a lot of it — thick and black — so it looked like a daily struggle keeping it at bay. She moved silently out of his way when he came inside. He grabbed the foot of the bed and lifted, almost sending the bed crashing into the wall. There was storage space under the mattress — two duffel bags and a pair of suitcases sat inside. Finn pulled out the duffel bags and emptied them on the bed.
“You check if any of the lady’s clothes fit?” he asked, giving Cora’s dusty, blood-drenched clothes a long look.
She grimaced as if the thought of wearing anything that didn’t have a designer label on it was sacrilege, and then began going through the RV’s built-in closets. She pulled out a pair of jeans, checked the size, and put them back. “Too small,” she muttered.
Finn glanced down, noticing perhaps for the first time, Cora’s body. Her hips were wide, her ass plump and rounded. She was far from the skinny things he usually saw at her age. And with her hoody off, he could see the suggestion of muscles on her arms and shoulders. Nothing bulky by any means, but she kept in shape.
What the hell else did a rich girl have to do with her time? That, and getting frisky in haylofts, obviously.
Cora pulled out a clean sweater and a t-shirt. Then she paused with her hands in Rita’s underwear drawer. “Do you mind?” she asked quietly, glaring at him over her shoulder.
He let out a huff of a laugh that made his chest ache. “Toss a few things in there. Don’t know when we’ll be stopping again.” He left an open duffel bag on the bed for her, taking the other with him as he went into the living room.
Cora hadn’t bothered to close the partition; when she called out after him, and he turned back, she had her vest over her head with her back to him.
“What do you mean, we’re not stopping? I thought you said Texas is like really far?”
Finn stopped moving. Not because Cora was partly naked. Not because he’d just realized that she had no fucking clue where Texas was, and that raised a whole new bunch of questions…
There were faint, crisscrossing lines all over her back. That coffee-colored skin of hers was laced with scars. He tried to dismiss them immediately — skin grafts, surgery, fuck — maybe she’d had a riding accident.
Except he knew what torture looked like.
She turned to face him, pulling a white tee over her head. She’d kept her bra on; it was black and shone through the shirt, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Hello?” she prompted, giving him a wary look. And then, as if realizing what he must have seen, she hurriedly dropped her eyes and tugged the light-blue sweater over her head.
“We’re not going to Texas,” he managed. He cleared his throat, turning to the RV’s kitchen so he could loot the cupboards.
“But Javier’s in Texas,” Cora said, coming out of the bedroom with the duffel bag slung over her shoulder. “So...explain to me why we’re not going to Texas?”
“Change of plans.” Finn glanced up at her. She narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her chest.
Jesus.
“I’m not taking you somewhere unless I know you’ll be safe. That’s my job. Pro—”
“Yes, babysitting me. I get it.” Her words cut through his effortlessly, but it was the flash of pain in her eyes that made him close his mouth. “I heard. My father’s still not answering?”
Finn shook his head.
Cora looked away from him, pressing her thumbnail against her lip as she bit the inside of her mouth. “Where are you taking me?”
“A safe house in Silver City. You know where that is?”
She glared at him, and for a moment he thought he’d misunderstood a whole lot of things about her. First off, that she perhaps hadn’t led as sheltered a life as he’d thought. But then her shoulders sagged, and she gave her head a reluctant shake. “Is it far?”
“Closer than Texas,” he said.
Finn glanced over his shoulder at the couple still duct-taped to their dinette. Rita had decided to rest her head against the wall. She had her back to them, but she could have been awake. Finn stepped forward, tugging the duffel bag from Cora’s shoulder and herding her into the bedroom. Her eyes went wide, and she tripped over her own feet as she tried to keep away from him.
“Fuck it, I just want to talk,” he grated.
Cora blushed brightly, avoiding eye contact as he slid the partition closed behind them. “What?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself as she peered warily across the small room at him.
“Who’s your father pissed off?”
Cora gave him a half-hearted shrug.
“Listen, I don’t normally need a lot of info for a gig like this...” Finn gestured toward her. “I take a soft target — that’s you — to a new location — that was Texas — and I get paid for it. If shit goes down on the way, I handle it.” He patted his holster. “But I’m getting the feeling
your father’s not just a crooked businessman. And I hate to stereotype, but unless I’m seeing things, you have a touch of Latino blood in you.”
Her face solidified the longer he spoke, and then she let out a brash laugh. Leaning forward, she murmured, “You want to know if my father’s part of a cartel?”
“That would help me figure out our next move, yes.”
She straightened, studying him for a moment before looking away. “He works for El Calacas Vivo.”
For a moment, Finn just stared at her. Then he burst out laughing, immediately cutting off the sound as a flash of agony tore through his chest. “Fuck,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut and will the pain to subside. When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes and stared across the room at Cora.
She wore a slightly annoyed expression.
“You’re fucking kidding,” Finn said. “That’s one of the biggest cartels in Mexico.”
“You asked.”
“So other than, possibly, your uncle—”
“He’s not my real uncle,” she cut in.
“Other than your not-real-uncle possibly having betrayed you somehow, I’m up against every other cartel that knows of your existence?”
Her eyes went wide, and then she gave a small nod. “I guess.”
“You—” Finn clamped his jaw shut, ran an urgent hand through his hair and turned away from her with a frustrated growl.
No wonder the girl was armed with a fucking Taurus. No wonder her father had been so vague about who he was. He probably would never have been involved in this gig if Tony Swan hadn’t suspected Cora’s bodyguard of betraying them. It would have been Bailey in that SUV with her.
Would there still have been a roadblock, if that was the case? Or had Bailey been in on the whole thing?
“And Javier? Who’s he in all of this?”
Cora pursed her lips, looking even more reluctant now. “He also works for the cartel.”
Finn’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. It wasn’t like he had intimate knowledge of cartels or anything, but ECV’s recent influx of heroin into the southern states of America made news at least once a week for the past month. Which meant he knew they were one of the biggest cartels, had two leaders instead of just one, and that they were adding at least six figures a year to America’s war on drugs budget. ECV didn’t get as much airtime as their closest rival, Plata o Plomo, though — POP had a signature public execution style that left the newspapers running short on red ink whenever they made the front page. Fuck, what if it was Plata o Plomo that was after Cora? If they’d sent the letter to Tony Swan to flush him out of his impenetrable safe house, then that would have left Cora as easy pickings. Especially if they got rid of her loyal bodyguard first and had him replaced with a guy they knew Tony Swan would have issues trusting with intel.
