The Getaway

by Hope Anika

  What had happened to her father, her mother, her beloved abuela…to Elian…none of it could be forgotten. But those events had cast a long shadow, one she’d allowed to define her for far too long. It was time to move past them, to step into the future...no matter what that future entailed.

  “You can do it,” she told herself, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “You can do anything.”

  You have the blood of kings in your veins, nieta.

  Perhaps it was time to start acting like it.

  “Alright,” she said as she opened the bathroom door and stepped into the main room of the cabin. “I am ready. We can go to the vending machine now.”

  But Alexander didn’t respond. He stood before the television, his attention so rapt and still a ripple of unease moved through her. She moved to stand next to him and focused on the pale blond news anchor he was listening to.

  “…Mr. Cruz’s whereabouts are still unknown, however the FBI appears to have narrowed the location of the Cruz children and their nanny-kidnapper, Lucia Sanchez, to a small town in central Idaho. We’re told that local police are working with federal law enforcement to apprehend Ms. Sanchez and recover the children safely, although Ms. Sanchez has garnered unprecedented public support on social media in the wake of the release of the videos. The videos show Donavon Cruz committing multiple sex crimes on a number of young minors, including his son, Alexander.” They cut away from the blond to a scene that froze Lucia in place: a brightly lit room she didn’t recognize where a pale, slender boy—Alexander, easily recognizable, no matter his blurred features—sat nude on a narrow, wooden chair. Donavon Cruz appeared a moment later, his expression faintly mocking but also underscored by something that made Lucia’s stomach turn: lust. He was speaking as he reached up to slowly remove his tie, and he began to circle Alexander like a shark, and—

  Alexander made a harsh, strangled sound and slammed his hands against the flat screen. The TV rocked backward, and the violence of the act broke Lucia’s paralysis. She moved to grab him as he lifted his hands to hit the screen a second time.

  “Mijo—”

  “No!” he screamed, the sound shrill, heartbreaking, and he jerked from her hold with a force that nearly pulled her from her feet. He smashed his fists into the screen, and the glass fractured, and the TV slid sideways, almost off of the long, narrow dresser it sat upon. “No!”

  He raised his hands again, and Lucia lifted him from his feet and swung him away from the TV, toward one of the queen beds, her heart beating with fearful intensity. His scream echoed in her head—such pain—and he fought her like an animal, growling and scratching and kicking, drawing blood and reopening her wounds, so strong in his furious hysteria she could barely hold him.

  “Alexander,” she said into his ear, struggling for calm, fear for him flooding her veins. “Calm yourself. Alexander. Stop. You must stop—”

  He screamed again, so loud it was like a blade piercing her eardrums. His head slammed into her chest, and pain tore through her; his heels slammed into her shins, and she stumbled, dropping him to the bed. He rolled off it a heartbeat later, and before she could stop him, ran out the door.

  The rain was thick and thunderous and drenching as Lucia rushed out after him, the wooden boards of the porch slick beneath her feet. She nearly took a header as she leapt down the handful of steps to the ground. The rain was almost blinding, but she could see Alexander’s bright yellow fleece only a handful of feet away, and just beyond him—

  She jerked to a stop. A large, black SUV was parked in front of the cabin. Alexander had halted in front of that SUV, his hands fisted, and as Lucia’s heart plunged to her toes and her blood roared in her head, the driver’s side door swung open.

  “Alexander!” She grabbed the boy’s narrow shoulders and thrust him behind her. “Go back to the cabin. Now.”

  She didn’t look to see if he obeyed, her eyes glued on the man who was climbing from the SUV, a huge, hulking man she recognized instantly: Marlow. Donavon Cruz’s constant companion, the silent, menacing bodyguard he took everywhere he went. A man even more frightening than Ivan the Terrible.

  He stalked toward her through the slanting rain as thunder burst violently overhead, and she tensed, brutally aware she had nothing with which to defend herself. Her gun was still in her purse—in the cabin behind her—and the only thing in her pocket was a handful of spare change. She was battered and bleeding and being held together by butterfly bandages; she was in no condition to go up against a man like Marlow. But there was nowhere to go, and the cabin was far back off the road—nearly in the forest—and there were no other guests around, no one to hear her cry for help. And Sam and Ben…

  Were safe.

  Lucia closed her hands into fists.

  You have the blood of kings in your veins, nieta.

  She turned her gaze to the darkened windows of the SUV, and spoke to the man she knew was watching. “You hide behind your men like a frightened child.” She could feel the cold weight of his stare. “Come out, cabrón.” She lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Surely you have no need of your bodyguard against me. Surely you are man enough to face one small woman. Surely you are not…afraid.”

  Marlow smiled grimly. He was almost to her, but Lucia didn’t move.

  The passenger side door of the SUV swung open.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The .22 was cold in his bloody hand.

  Alexander’s heart beat like a jackhammer as he stared down at the gleaming silver weapon he’d dug from Lucia’s bag. He could see his reflection shimmer against its surface, wavy and warped, even through the thin film of his blood; he didn’t remember cutting himself. The TV, he thought, but that realization fell away as he weighed the gun, his hold so tight the metal cut into his palm.

  There’re other ways.

  Sam’s words echoed in his head, but Alexander wasn’t going to listen. Not after what he’d seen. Not after that video of him—

  No. Don’t think about that.

  But—

  He recorded me.

  And the whole world had seen it.

  The horror inside him was crushing, every part of him breaking, crumbling, ruined. He would never be the same. Nothing would ever be the same. Destroyed. Something he would never, ever escape.

  Something Ben might see.

  Tears slid from his eyes, hot, salty; Alexander blinked them away and tightened his grip on the gun, the rush of his blood like the roar of some great, infuriated beast. The contents of his stomach surged, but he shook his head and swallowed against it, unwilling to allow anything to stop him. No, it was time.

  Finally time.

  Adrenaline speared through his veins, making him jerk, his hand closing convulsively on the .22. He could hear Lucia’s voice but not her words, and he knew he had to hurry, because his father was going to kill her.

  He felt strange as he pushed himself to his feet and left the cabin, the gun foreign and heavy in his hand. Almost as if the storm that surrounded him on the outside—the raging wind and crackling lightning and terrible explosions of thunder—had burrowed through his skin to press against his bones, making them tremble and quake, turning his chest into a churning mass of chaos and pain and hate.

  It was the hate that steadied him. The hate was familiar, the calm in the center of that frenzied storm, a place he knew intimately. A place he knew how to exist within. And so he focused on that: the emptiness, that hollow chill of darkness absent sound and scent, where nothing existed but the deep, steady rhythm of his own breath. Beyond the calm, the storm howled like an enraged animal, and he knew it would overtake him. Swallow him. But first—

  “…surely you are not…afraid.”

  Lucia’s words rang through the air as Alexander stepped out of the cabin; the rain slapped his skin like tiny, stinging needles. Marlow was storming toward Lucia, and the passenger side door of the SUV was opening, and Alexander’s father stepped out into the downpour.

  Alexander
’s hand tightened around the gun, his feet suddenly locked into place where he stood, atop the small wooden porch on the front of the cabin. He lifted the gun, his hand flexing around it, trying to remember what he’d seen of weapons in the movies. He’d made sure it was loaded—two 10-round clips—and found and disengaged the safety.

  “Get in the car, Alexander,” his father said, his gaze on the .22 Alexander held. He began to walk toward Alexander, and he didn’t look afraid.

  Alexander wanted him afraid.

  Lucia turned and saw the gun and moved immediately to intercept him. But in that moment, Marlow caught up to her. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her back, and she rammed into him, her skull smashing into his chin before she whirled around and punched him in the throat. Then she kicked him, hard, in the knee, and he stumbled. But she couldn’t avoid his fist when it shot toward her, and it crashed into her face like a hammer. She slammed into the ground. Marlow lifted his big, booted foot and stepped on her, and held her there with his weight on her spine. He leaned on her when she struggled, and she cried out, and Alexander aimed the .22 at the SUV and fired.

  The sound was deafening; he almost dropped the weapon when it jerked in his hand. The SUV’s windshield shattered, and Marlow flinched. But Donavon Cruz halted, and a sudden, intense power surged through Alexander, the intoxicating realization that he was the one in control. For once. And he turned the .22 on his father and took aim at those pale green eyes, so like his that sometimes he hated his own stare. But in that moment those eyes…they weren’t glittering, sharp. Hungry. No. They were flat, uncertain. They wavered. And heat made Alexander’s joints weak, a molten wave that burned like white fire in his chest, and something deep inside him lifted its head. Howled.

  Another burst of adrenaline washed through him. The calm cracked; the storm hissed in his ears. But it felt…good. Welcome. As if he was finally…free.

  “Put that fucking thing down,” his father growled at him and began to stride toward the porch, slicing through the thick downpour like a sharp blade. A look Alexander recognized slid over his father’s features, one that made the boy’s heart hammer painfully hard in his throat.

  Shoot him.

  The gun was warm from being fired. He could do it. He just had to pull the trigger again—

  Getting closer, angrier, his big hands curled, ready to yank Alexander from his feet—

  Another vehicle pulled up; for a moment the headlights were blinding. In that moment, Alexander’s father tore the gun from his hand. His other arm was captured in a grip so tight, he felt his bones ache.

  Terror sheared through him, and he stared at his father, unable to move.

  Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? What was wrong with him?

  Weak. He was weak.

  “You do not touch him,” Lucia snarled, and lunged up from beneath Marlow’s foot. He kicked her, a vicious jab to her bleeding wounds, and Alexander flinched, and his stomach turned. But when she hit the grass, Lucia rolled over and hooked her leg behind Marlow’s. She jerked him from his feet, and he looked surprised as he body slammed the ground.

  “Bitch,” Donavon Cruz growled, his voice so soft only Alexander heard him. And suddenly he was yanking Alexander from the porch with that brutal, bruising grip on Alexander’s arm and dragging him toward Lucia.

  The heavy, frantic beat of Alexander’s heart made him dizzy. His father held the .22 in his hand, his knuckles pressing white against his skin. Like he meant to use it.

  Alexander stopped and twisted violently, and suddenly, he was free.

  “No,” he said. And then he yelled it. “No!”

  When his father reached for him again, Alexander leapt back. He remembered the knife—Misha’s knife—that Sam had given him, and he pulled it from his pocket. He had it open a heartbeat later, the fine, well-honed tip aimed at the man he faced.

  “Try it,” his father invited, his fingers flexing around the .22, his pale eyes glinting.

  Alexander’s hand tightened around the knife.

  “Do it,” his father murmured and smiled. “Cut me.”

  A violent tremor shook Alexander; again his hand squeezed the knife. His father didn’t think he would do it.

  Didn’t think he could do it.

  Just a fucking game to get him off.

  Like everything else.

  “No? Perhaps this will help.” Alexander’s father turned and pointed the .22 at Lucia, who froze, her gaze flitting between the gun and the large form of Marlow slowly pushing to his feet over her, his face ugly with retribution. “Perhaps you need more incentive.”

  Alexander took an involuntary step toward her. “No.”

  Donavon Cruz cocked the .22. His pale eyes gleamed as they traced Lucia’s bloody and battered form. “It’s a shame there’s no time to play. Look at how brightly she bleeds.”

  “No,” Alexander repeated, and terror nearly choked him. “Please. I’ll go with you. I won’t fight. We can go right now. Just don’t hurt her. Please. Don’t.”

  But Donavon Cruz only laughed softly. Alexander’s hand flexed around the knife, and he suddenly understood that it was up to him. That he had to act, or his father would kill Lucia. There was no doubt, and, Alexander realized, no bargaining. His father would not let her live.

  Not for any reason.

  He gripped the knife tightly and lunged in front of Lucia, ignoring her protest and smashing himself against her until the end of the .22 was pointed at his thin chest. He stared defiantly at his father, knife in hand, waiting. Ready.

  “There’s your spine.” A sharp smile. “I’ve been waiting for you to find it.”

  Alexander leaned over and spat—very precisely—at his father’s feet.

  “You will be punished,” his father hissed, the same chilling voice he used when Alexander was in the chair, the one filled with a thousand unspoken nightmares. “Move.”

  Alexander squeezed the knife. Inside him, a fire was spreading, licking at his bones. “No.”

  Eyes glittering, his father pressed the .22 into Alexander’s sternum, and Alexander’s heart pounded like a drum in his skull, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was making his stand. If his father shot him, at least it would be over—

  “Hands on your head, Cruz.”

  That abrupt, barked command broke between them, as sharp as the crack of thunder. A man materialized from the torrent beside them, and in his hands was a gleaming steel handgun twice the size of the .22. It was aimed at Donavon Cruz’s head.

  Marlow froze, but Alexander’s father didn’t so much as flinch. “Stand down, Agent Kent. I have this under control.”

  “Put that fucking gun on the ground,” the man demanded. “Now.”

  “Turn around and walk away, Agent. This doesn’t concern you.”

  The man took another step toward them, and for one brief moment, his gaze clashed with Alexander’s, and Alexander saw the same black, churning turmoil that roiled within him. His heart squeezed with sudden, painful intensity.

  “On the ground, you piece of shit,” the Agent said flatly. “Right now. Or I will shoot you.”

  He wasn’t kidding. The realization made Alexander go very, very still. The hair across his frame rose, bristling.

  Marlow reached into the interior of his coat, and the Agent snarled, “Don’t.”

  Alexander’s father stilled; his eyes narrowed on the man. He raked the young agent with his gaze, and the look that crawled across his features made Alexander wish he was brave enough to plunge the blade he held so deep into his father’s belly that it came out the other side.

  “It takes one to know one, I suppose,” his father murmured, and the man took another step closer, and Alexander’s hand tightened around the knife until his knuckles ached.

  “On the fucking ground,” Agent Kent whispered. His eyes were dark, his gaze focused absolutely on Donavon Cruz. His gun didn’t waver; his hands didn’t shake.

  He wanted to kill him.

  The thought jol
ted through Alexander, but before he could react, his father turned to him and—

  Boom!

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sam smiled as he turned off the main drag through Blue Ridge and onto the narrow side street that would lead to their rental cabin. The smell of McDonalds surrounded him in a grease-scented cloud, and in the backseat, Ben continued to chatter away, somehow managing to simultaneously hold a conversation and consume his Happy Meal. He was feeling much better, and according to the doctor at the emergency clinic, was on his way to a full recovery, something for which Sam was eternally grateful. Next to Ben sat a bag from Ernie’s Electronics, filled with the parts Sam would need to create a wireless signal jammer. It was still raining to beat hell, but things were looking up.

  Finally.

  “I’m glad you feel better,” Sam said. “Maybe we can—”

  The words snagged in his throat at the sight that greeted him in front of the cabin they’d rented. Two vehicles—one of which was a red Ford Bronco with an Eagle County Sheriff Department logo emblazed on its side—were screeching to a halt in front of the cabin, their headlights shining brightly in the steady downpour, illuminating the people who stood in front of the cabin— Alexander and Donavon Cruz and Lucia, who was on the ground, under some asshole’s foot; and that goddamn .22 was in Donavon Cruz’s hand.

  Sam slammed on the brakes, and the Jeep shimmied to a stop.

  “Whoa!” Ben exclaimed, and Daisy yipped loudly. “I dropped my nugget! Daisy—no!”

  “You stay here,” Sam told him in a hard voice as he climbed out of the Jeep. “I’ll be right back.”

  Then he ran through the rain, toward the unfolding scene.

  Alexander was on the porch; Donavon Cruz stood on the ground beside him, one hand wrapping the boy’s arm, one holding Lucia’s .22. Lucia was only a handful of feet from them—on the fucking ground—and she was pushing herself up, but the big brute who stood over her—on fucking top of her—another goddamn Ivan?—gave her a hard kick, and Sam felt his skin tighten and his focus narrow, and he knew which bones he would break first. But then Lucia rolled over, caught the guy’s legs with one of hers and swept them out from underneath him. He slammed into the ground and bounced.