by Nicole Fox
Kovolov starts laughing, taking two steps and pistol-whipping her across the temple. She cries out and crumples to his feet, where he kicks her right in the stomach. Selena pulls herself into a tight ball to protect her midsections and he kicks her in the back.
I’m on him in less than a heartbeat, pulling a knife from my belt and jamming it into his neck just as one of his goons grabs me like I weigh nothing, tossing me across the room. I’m back up, barreling into the guy as he waves his gun. We wrestle for it and he manages to flip me over, his big body pinning me down. The only way I’ll get away is if I shoot him, so I focus only on the gun, not on the way sharp pain slices through my shin, not the way his free hand crushes my shoulder.
I catch a break when his face gets close enough that I can head-butt him, my forehead smashing his nose with a satisfying crack and a not-so-satisfying spray of blood. He yowls in pain and his grip releases. I grab the gun, flip it to face him, and take the shot. He falls into a bloody, silent heap at my side.
I’m up, my legs barely holding me, and I aim at the one guy left. He’s got a knife to Matt’s throat as I aim the weapon.
“I’ll kill him,” he says.
“Go ahead,” I say. I shoot the gun and as the big guy falls, his knife slices the throat of Matt Russell. They both fall.
Selena is weeping, still in a fetal state on the floor. I reach down and pick her up, taking the weapon and our fake identities to the door. Ralph, white-faced with fear, opens the door for us.
“You better pray you never see me again, motherfucker,” I growl as I take my girl out into the hallway.
My shin and shoulder scream but I run. I run, carrying Selena in my arms, until I find the truck. I drive us miles away, finding a travel station where I can buy us new clothes. Selena is nearly vegetative as we await our turn in the truckers’ showers. I wash her and dress her in a tie-dye dress and flip-flops I bought in the gift shop. I wear a T-shirt and Bermuda swim trunks. We look ridiculous but I don’t care, because once we’re free of our bloody clothes, I load her back up and we head to the border.
I drive and drive, across the thin strip separating Baja from the rest of Mexico. Down the coast, until I find a tiny little town with one little motel. We stop and check in, and though it’s been hours, Selena still hasn’t said a word.
I carry her up the stairs to our room. It’s nicer than I would have expected, open to a veranda with a view of the water. A soft wind blows through, calling me out. I stand for a long time, my mind empty.
When my body feels like it might break, I wander back in and fall asleep the moment I lie next to Selena.
***
Selena
I wake up and my first thought is, Wow, this must be how it feels to wake up from a coma. My second is wordless, sheer panic. Where am I? What happened? Am I okay?
The room I’m in is simple. The walls are off-white and the furnishings are dark wood. Sheer white curtains blow inward from a balcony. The smell of water and the sound of birds tells me we’re near the ocean, but other than that, I’m lost.
Finn sleeps next to me, snoring lightly. His face is still healing from his beating by Sergei’s henchmen, and a new bruise blooms on his cheek. As moments start coming back to me, I push a shaking hand to my temple, cringing at the pain of a bruise there. My hands go to my abdomen, also tender and bruised.
I realize I’m in some kind of sundress, ugly and brightly tie-dyed. Where did this come from? Finn is in swim trunks. What the heck?
As I make my way to the small bathroom, I look bruised and pale, but otherwise no worse for the wear. After cleaning up a bit, I tiptoe out to the balcony and suck in a surprised breath to see the ocean glimmering in the morning sun, spread out ahead of me like an invitation.
After watching the water for what feels like a very long time, I slip out of the room to figure out where we are. A young woman at the front desk speaks Spanish at first, and when I shake my head, wide-eyed, she switches to broken English.
“Mexico,” she says. “Playa Tortugas.”
“Ah,” I say. “Thank you.”
“There is coffee,” she says, holding out a hand to indicate a setup of coffee and light pastries.
I thank her and load up what I can, and then head back up to the room. When the door clicks shut, Finn sits up with a start. He looks around the room, unfocused, but settles when he sees me.
“I grabbed coffee and toast,” I say. “The pickings were slim with no money.”
“Mmmf,” he grunts, flopping back on the pillows. “I forgot where we were.”
“I didn’t know where we were in the first place,” I say, setting the food and drinks on the nightstand and crawling onto the bed with him. He wraps his arm around me, my head on his chest. “Mexico, apparently.”
“Yes,” he says. “We made it.”
“At what cost?” I ask.
“I killed Kovolov and his two men; they killed your husband. We probably can’t ever go back to the States,” he says. It’s a very matter-of-fact statement, totally free of emotion.
“Oh,” I say.
“Oh?” he asks. He takes a big breath. “I’m sorry, Selena. I’m sorry that I pulled you into a doomed plan, that I took you away from your home.”
“What … what happened?” I ask. “I’m having trouble putting thoughts together.”
“They pistol-whipped you, kicked you in the stomach. I raged and killed everyone. The end,” he says. “I couldn’t watch them hurt you. Couldn’t bear it. I got you out, carried you to the truck. We stopped at a travel station, used the truckers’ showers to get cleaned up. That’s where I got your dress. Sorry it’s ugly.”
“Oh,” I say again. I look down and let out a broken laugh.
As I lie there thinking about everything, the floodgates open and the laugh becomes a cry. I just let it all out. The stress, the fear, the worry. I let it all out and Finn lets me cry, because I think he knows what this has cost us. We are now in Mexico under fake identities. We are probably wanted criminals. We will never call the United States home again. I’ll never see the lights of Manhattan, never walk the streets of Brooklyn. I’ll probably never talk to my parents again. Finn’s business is gone.
After a good sob, I will my breathing back under control and the room around us is quiet and tranquil once more.
“I’m sorry he’s dead,” Finn says quietly.
“I’m sorry too, I guess,” I say, because I’m not sure what’s appropriate here.
“How did you feel, when you saw him?”
“Shocked. Worried. I mean, I saw how out of it he was. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it out alive, no matter what happened. And I don’t love him anymore, but he was part of my life for a long time and I didn’t want him dead. You know what I mean?”
“I do understand,” Finn says. “I spent a lot of time being pissed about what Becca did but never once did I wish bad things on her.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He just … started up somewhere new. Started a new life. Got a new job. Do you think he lived looking over his shoulder all the time?”
“I’m sure he did. He sure as hell wasn’t expecting the Russian mafia, though,” Finn answers as he trails his fingers along my bare arm, giving me goosebumps.
“No, probably not,” I agree. “Do you think we could be traced to the bodies? Will that guy rat us out?”
‘Yes and yes, unfortunately,” he says. “He’ll give up anything for money. And he’s not going to take the fall for three deaths. He might not know who you are, but he sure as hell has my name.”
I sit up and look around the small room. I’m not sure what comes next. At the least I probably need to shop for some new clothes. As Finn maneuvers himself up off the bed, I can see he is in pain. The sharp set of his jaw gives him away, as does the slight limp in his step as he makes his way to the bathroom.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.
“Shoulder’s jammed. Probably a stress fracture in my shin,” he says as
he shuts the door. “I’ll be all right as long as I take it easy.”
Take it easy we do, for the moment. We spend the morning on the balcony, drinking our coffee and watching the water shimmer as families gather on the sand. It looks like a happy place, an easy place to make a life.
“Will we stay here?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I think we should go south. Find a town that’s quiet but not too quiet. We’ll find some work. Get a place to live.”
Our gazes meet and I sigh. “We can go wherever we want, I suppose.”
“We should keep moving, just to be safe,” he says. “No one’s coming after us right now, but still …”
“Kovolov’s family will,” I say. “His sister. His father. I think she manages business in this part of the world.”
“Well, we’ll stay smart and mobile. We’ll pay attention. We’ll live quiet, unassuming lives. It will be okay,” he says.
“Yep. It will be okay,” I repeat. “Just the two of us.”
He reaches out and puts a hand on my stomach. “Just the three of us. We’re a family now. I’ll take care of you both.”
That causes my belly to tingle with excitement. “Just us three,” I agree. “That sounds great.”
Epilogue
Finn
“Me do, Dada,” my son says, grabbing the fishing pole from my hand.
“Careful of the hook,” I say, trying to at least wrestle the swinging line so he doesn’t end up jabbed. “It’s sharp.”
“Ouch!” Seamus says by way of telling me he understands, in his almost-three-year-old way, what sharp means.
“That’s right, honey,” Selena says. “Sharp things can hurt you. Ouch!”
She pretends to prick her finger, making a sad face. Little Seamus puckers his lips and she holds out her finger so he can kiss it. She pulls him close for a hug and he wriggles away, running off, dragging the pole behind him in the sand.
“I’ll get him,” I say, jogging off after the little guy. I catch him easily and throw him over my shoulder, eliciting waves of laughter that warms my heart.
When I deposit him with his mom, I look at my watch. “I’ve got to go close up the shop. Meet you at home for dinner?”
“Yep,” Selena says. “We’ll clean up here.”
She stands and I pull her close, kissing her as thoroughly as possible as she tries to hold onto Seamus’ hand to keep him from running headfirst into the ocean.
I make my way up to the street and down the two blocks to our small coffee shop. Isobel, our day manager, welcomes me with a bright smile.
“Good day, boss?” she asks.
“It was,” I say. “You?”
“The usual crowd,” she says. “Nothing to write home about.”
“That’s fine with me. The usual crowd pays our paychecks,” I say with a smile.
She takes off her apron and heads off to fill out her timesheet as I count the drawer. Isobel and the rest of the community here in this tiny, Honduran beach town know us as the McMills family—Roberto and Elena. Those are the names on our most recent round of fake passports. Our son Seamus is the only one who is known by his real first name.
Selena has a part-time job managing the books for a local school district. She likes having something to focus on besides our son, who can be a bit of a handful.
Our son. I think of him no other way. I watched Selena’s belly grow. I felt him kick and move inside of her. I watched him enter the world, his lungs so strong, his cry so loud. I named him—Selena felt that was important, so I would know he was really mine.
She and I have been through all of this together. Middle-of-the-night feedings, diaper changes, the first fever. We have been together through it all. They’re both mine. Blood doesn’t matter.
I’m a different man than I was in New York. Quieter, more relaxed. I still work out, still train on weapons. I keep several guns stocked and ready, should someone ever find us. I’ll fight to the death to protect my family, and I do live with one eye to the rear, always checking my back.
After I finish up at the shop, I make the short walk to our little cottage on the water. The smell of spicy fish and rice makes my stomach grumble the moment I walk in the door. It’s quiet, though. Too quiet for a house that has a toddler in it.
My hackles rise instantly, and I unsheathe the knife I always carry on my belt as I tiptoe toward the kitchen, ready for the worst.
What I find, though, is Selena, clad only in a cleavage-baring bra and thong, high heels on, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs the pot on the stove.
***
Selena
“Put that knife away,” I say.
Finn does as told with a wry grin. “It was too quiet in here. I thought I’d find you drawn and quartered.”
“Well, it’s quiet because our son fell asleep in the stroller on the way home from the beach and he’s been knocked out ever since. Which left me time to get creative about wardrobe for the evening.”
“Well, I approve of the creativity you’ve shown for sure,” he says, pulling me close, his big body hard with muscle that never ceases to turn me on.
“I figure the food has about six more minutes,” I say. “You’re a little later than I thought you’d be. I was hoping you’d have time for a little appetizer before the main course.”
“Let’s see what I can do in six minutes,” he says with a grin.
He picks me up and puts me on my back on the kitchen table, pushing my legs wide and burying his face there. He pushes my tiny panties to the side, easily finding all the parts that matter with his tongue, an evil glint in his eyes as he does it.
“Time me,” he says, his tongue aggressively assaulting my swollen slit.
This is a game we play sometimes. He’s quite proud of his oral skills and he likes to see how fast he can make me come. It doesn’t take long at all, and as my pussy clenches, he whoops for joy and fumbles with his jeans so that they fall to the floor. He climbs up and shoves inside of me, making me cry out.
“You’ve got three minutes, stud,” I challenge.
“No problem,” he says. “Appetizer round, though. More later.”
Afterward, we dine on a meal I learned from one of our elderly neighbors. Seamus wakes up midway through, so we get him set up with his dinner, which he mostly gets into his mouth. This is an improvement from the days when much of his food ended up on the walls or floor.
The little guy looks a lot like me. Dark hair, olive skin. He’s got my eyes, my curiosity. I can’t imagine my life without him.
Seamus’ favorite movie is on. He snuggles up between us on the couch, a sippy cup in one hand, his favorite blanket in the other. As the movie wears on, his head sags until, finally, he falls asleep with his head of dark curls on Finn’s lap, the big man’s hand resting on the little one’s. It melts my heart.
After we put him in his crib, we head out to the back porch. It’s small, only big enough for two lounge chairs, but it’s ours. We stretch out, glasses of wine in hand.
“Thank you for being such an amazing dad,” I say.
“He makes it easy,” Finn says. “You do, too.”
“I feel like … do you ever feel like things worked out just like they should have? I mean, do you ever have regrets?” I know I’m not making any sense.
“I have no regrets,” Finn says, his voice rough.
“None?” I ask.
He reaches out and grabs my hand, toying with the small diamond band on my left ring finger. “Not a one,” he says. “You?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t regret being with you, marrying you.”
He gives me a soft smile. “I wish we could have had a real wedding. With family and friends.”
“Not me,” I say. “It was perfect.”
We got married about six months ago on the beach, just us and Seamus and the priest. The sun was setting and the colors were spectacular. I wore a filmy white dress. Finn wore a white polo and khaki shorts. We were both barefoot. Seam
us tried to eat sand. All in all, it was an amazing memory.
“Do you ever worry that we’ll never be able to set down roots for him?” Finn asks. “That they’ll find us? That we’ll always be running?”
“I don’t worry about it,” I say. And I mean it. “If we have to run, we’ll run. We’ve already been in three beautiful places. And we’ve done just fine in each one. We have each other, and as long as that’s intact, then everything else is irrelevant.”
Finn is a different man these days. He’s definitely less intense, but the edge of worry never quite dulls. He’s always looking for the monster lurking around each corner. He stays quietly connected to a few old contacts, who let him know the chatter out of the Kovolov organization. If there is any indication that they are getting close to finding us, we are ready to move at a moment’s notice.
