by Hamel, B. B.
I moved quickly and silently, keeping as hidden as I could, toward my Mom’s house. I crouched down behind some bushes across the street and watched the house for a minute.
There was no movement near the windows that I could make out. It seemed quiet, like a normal suburban house during the day. Then again, my Mom’s car was in the driveway and Jeff’s motorcycle was in the street, which meant they were both home early from work. The phrase “quiet, too quiet” rang through my head, and although I knew it was a cliché, I also knew there was some truth to it.
I moved closer to the house, keeping low. As I got nearer, my heart sank as I noticed the front door.
It was left slightly ajar. Not by much, but it looked like someone had pulled it shut behind them in a hurry and hadn’t made sure it had caught.
I stared at it, wracking my brain, trying to remember if that was a common problem or not. I couldn’t remember a single time that it had happened to me in all the times I had been in and out of that house. Then again, it wasn’t my childhood home, so I wasn’t sure if that was normal or not.
I pulled the gun from my pants and flicked off the safety. I slipped a silencer from my pocket and slowly twisted it into place. Our handlers did one thing right, I thought ruefully. At least they fucking armed us well.
I crept up the driveway, keeping low behind the car, and slipped along the wall toward the front door. I stopped just outside of it, straining to hear something.
There were voices inside, but not nearby. I guessed they were toward the back of the house, in the living room. I couldn’t make out any words, but they were hushed and insistent.
My heart thudding rough in my chest, I pushed open the front door and stepped inside, moving silently.
There was nobody in the front hall or within my sightline. I pushed the door closed behind me but left it slightly ajar again, making sure it made no noise to tip them off.
Where the fuck is Trip? I wondered. I needed some backup, especially considering I didn’t know what I was walking into. There was no way this should be happening, not with him watching the place.
And yet, as I got farther into the house, creeping along the hall, the voices became more distinct.
My mother was crying softly. Jeff kept saying something, over and over, and it sounded like he was trying to be reassuring.
And above all of that, most important of all, were two male voices, both speaking Spanish.
“Where the fuck is he?” the one man said.
“He’ll be back.”
“That fucker better be right.”
“He’ll come. He can’t stay away.”
I slowly, agonizingly slowly, looked around the corner and cringed at what I saw.
Jeff and my mom were sitting on the couch. Their hands were bound in front of them with duct tape. My mom was crying softly, and Jeff was doing his best to keep her calm, speaking quietly into her ear.
Standing in front of them, one looking at his phone and the other looking out the back window, were two Mexicans. I recognized both of them: muscle for El Tiburon. They weren’t particularly high up in the organization, and were definitely nowhere near my level, but two of them were a problem.
I took a deep breath and moved across the hall, getting into the kitchen. I needed a better angle on them if I was going to take them out without hurting Jeff and my mom. I waited for a minute as the one started talking on the phone, probably reporting back to the cartel. They didn’t seem to hear me, so I crept forward, crouched low behind the counters.
I slowly raised myself, gun held forward, hands braced on the countertop. I had a clear angle on the guy with the phone. Juan, I remembered suddenly as I lined up the shot. He was ten feet away, an easy distance for me. But I needed to be fast if I was going to get them both.
Just as I was about to squeeze the trigger, my mom looked up at me.
Her eyes were shocked. Jeff followed her gaze and looked equally surprised.
I fired, the bullet piercing Juan’s temple. He crumpled to the ground without another word, blood spraying onto the wall behind him.
The other guy moved fast. I lined up my next shot and fired, the gun jumping in my hand as the bullet exploded toward him. I missed my mark and hit him in the shoulder, spinning him backward toward the sliding glass door. I fired twice more, missing both.
“Mother fucker!” he yelled.
“Drop the gun, asshole,” I called back in Spanish.
He was suddenly firing back, the loud roar of his pistol filling the small space. I shot back, one bullet shattering the glass behind him. My mom and Jeff immediately dropped to the floor, my mom’s screams filling the short silences between gunshots.
I dropped down into cover, cursing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Having a fucking shootout in a suburban house was pretty much the perfect way to get us all caught and fucking murdered. If the cops got me, I was going to get shanked in prison, and my family was going to get lynched not long after.
They couldn’t protect them from El Tiburon. Castillo had money and men everywhere. His reach was long and powerful. Only I could fix everything.
I came up again, firing. The guy was using the couch as cover but was shooting wildly, barely aiming. He must have been in pain because his shots all went way wide of their mark. I carefully put two bullets into the couch, right near his face, forcing him back and down.
And then three more shots rang out, and the shooting was finished.
Standing near the broken back, glass sliding door was Trip, his gun smoking.
“Clear,” he called out, coming into the room and sweeping the space.
I stood and came out from behind my cover.
“Where the fuck were you?” I yelled.
“I was taking a piss. I swear I wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes.”
I put the gun away, back into my waistband, and ran over to Jeff and my mom.
“Camden?” Mom said, her eyes wild. “What’s happening?”
“Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“We’re okay. Who are they?” Jeff asked, angry and terrified.
“Listen, we have to get out of here. We don’t have much time.”
“You just killed them,” Mom said softly.
“They were going to kill us.”
“We need to call the police,” Jeff cut in.
“No police. If we call the cops, I’m going to prison and you’re all going to die.”
They gaped at me, clearly at a loss, as I ripped the tape from their wrists.
“What did you do?” Jeff asked.
“Cam, we need to leave,” Trip said, looking out a window. “Curious neighbors are gathering.”
“Mom, Jeff, I lied about what happened in Mexico,” I said, helping them up. “I got caught stealing and running scams, that part’s true, but I was caught by a drug cartel.”
More lies. Lies on top of lies.
“A drug cartel? Why?” Mom asked.
“They recruited me. They wanted me to work for them.”
“They’re Mexican drug dealers?” Jeff asked.
“Me and this guy,” I said, nodding at Trip, “were both members of the cartel. But something happened and now we’re wanted men.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. Somebody tipped me off that the cartel planned on killing the two of us, and so we ran.”
I hated lying. But what else could I do? I wasn’t allowed to tell them the truth, and the off chance that my handlers could help one day was worth keeping their secrets.
“This is insane,” Mom whispered, her eyes wide.
“I know. I’m so sorry I brought this down on you.”
“We need the police,” Jeff said again.
“Jeff, forget the fucking police. We need to run, and we need to run now.”
“What about Lacey?”
“We’ll get her on the way.”
“Where are we going?”
“Alaska. We know some p
eople there that can keep us safe for a while, at least until I can get in touch with my handlers and get this shit figured out.”
“We can’t leave here,” Mom said. “This is our home. This is insane.”
Trip walked over. “I’m sorry, folks. But what he’s saying is the gospel truth. We need to go right this second. There are two people out there on phones, and I’m guessing they’re calling the cops.”
I looked at my mom, pleading. “You have to believe me, Mom. I would never have done any of this if I had any other choice. You have to trust me.”
She stared at me quietly for a second, took a deep breath, and seemed to gather herself.
“Okay. I’ll go.”
“What?” Jeff said. “No, Lynn. We’re waiting for the police.”
I looked at Jeff. “My mom is coming. You can stay and get murdered if you want, but I’m also getting Lacey and getting the fuck out of here.”
He clenched his jaw. “I always knew you were a low-life piece of shit.”
“Yeah, maybe. But right now I’m your only ticket to a continued life.”
He didn’t respond, and so I nodded at Trip. I walked over to Juan’s body and grabbed the phone from his hands, careful not to step in blood, and then led my mom out the back door. I snapped the phone and tossed it away. We crossed through the back fence, cut through the neighbor’s yard, and were out on the opposite street.
Trip followed with Jeff, both moving right behind us. My mind was swirling with possibilities.
“Do you have cellphones?” I asked Mom.
“Yes.” She looked at Jeff and he shook his head.
“Smash it.”
“Smash my phone?”
“They can potentially track us.”
She pulled it out of her pocket and held it out to me. I ripped out the battery and threw it away.
“We need a car,” I said to Trip.
“Around here.”
I followed him down the street, made a right, and saw the black car up ahead.
“Good thinking.”
“Always be prepared,” he said, grinning.
He unlocked the doors and I helped my mom climb in. She was white as a ghost, probably still in shock, but she wasn’t hyperventilating or screaming. Actually, she seemed like she had her shit together, or at least as much as was reasonable.
Jeff, however, looked angry. I knew he was going to be a problem, and sooner rather than later. But I couldn’t deal with him, not yet. Trip climbed into the passenger’s seat and I got into the driver’s side.
“We need to get my stepsister,” I said.
Trip nodded. I started the car and pulled out.
It was silent for the first part of the trip. I could sense the terror rising in the back seat. I wanted to yell at Trip, scream at him, beat his face until it was a bloody pulp. I wanted him to spit blood and teeth into my hands.
But I needed him for the moment. The piece of shit had fucked up and put my family in a lot of danger, but he had also shown up when I needed him.
As far as I knew, they’d never seen someone get killed before. I could only imagine what was going on inside their heads.
“Cam,” Trip said softly, turning up the radio slightly. “We need to talk about this plan.”
“What’s wrong?”
“They got to that house pretty fast, didn’t they?”
I nodded. The same thing had occurred to me, though I wasn’t sure what it meant.
“So what?”
“So they’re not messing around.”
“Juan was on the phone just before I shot him.”
Trip raised an eyebrow. “With Mexico?”
“I think so.”
“Then they probably know we’re here.”
“Think they have other people in the area?”
“Maybe. But do we really want to find out?”
I was silent then, chewing it over. We pulled into the Salty Whale’s parking lot a few minutes later, and I cut the engine.
“Be careful, Cam.”
“I will.”
“What’s happening?” my mom asked.
I looked back at her. “I’m getting Lacey. Then we’re hitting the road.”
I checked my gun. I had some bullets left but not a full clip. I slipped it back into my pants.
“Be back in a minute,” I said to Trip. He nodded.
I climbed out of the car, my mind a mess of conflicting emotions.
What could I possibly say to Lacey to convince her that I wasn’t joking? Our parents had just seen me kill a man, which made it simple to convince them that something was going on. But Lacey was still blissfully unaware, although I had told her some of the truth earlier.
I was probably going to have to drag her out of there, I realized.
I grinned to myself. That might actually be pretty fun.
Chapter Five: Lacey
I leaned up against the old bookshelf, making sure that my elbows didn’t accidentally cause a paper avalanche, and began to read. It was an older book about a huge scoundrel and the lady he wanted, and although I wouldn’t have told my friends about it, I had to admit that I loved a good trashy romance every once in a while. After a long day at work, nothing beat some sexy guy taking what he wanted.
It was a great escape. It hadn’t been the easiest of days at the bookstore, and my conversation with Camden kept running through my mind. I couldn’t really believe his story, that he was involved with a Mexican drug cartel and that they wanted to harm us, but I also couldn’t imagine that he’d make it up.
So why only tell me the truth and not our parents? That part didn’t make sense. Well, the whole thing was absurd, but that part kept sticking with me. He was so frustrating, such a selfish prick, that sometimes I couldn’t stand him. And yet he was the only person I thought about all day long, even if it was about how much I wanted to slap his handsome face.
But reading that romance novel made the world suddenly light. It wasn’t going to solve any of my problems, but it sure was entertaining and absorbing. So absorbing that I didn’t notice him approach until it was too late.
“Lacey.”
I looked up, startled, quickly shutting the book. “Camden?”
“We need to talk.”
“What do you want? I’m at work.”
I frowned at him, but the expression on his face brought me up short. He looked as serious as he did when he first told me about the cartel and the trouble we were all in, and it took my breath away for half a second.
“Something happened.” He paused and looked at the cover of the book I was reading, a smirk covering his face. “Nice book.”
I glanced down at it. “Shut up, okay?” I felt a blush rise to my face.
“I had a feeling you’d be into something like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re much dirtier than you pretend.”
I felt a thrill run through me. “What do you want, Camden? I’m busy.”
He sighed, gathering himself. “You need to come with me.”
“No, thanks. I still have an hour on my shift.”
“Something happened with your parents. They’re outside in the car.”
I paused. “Are they okay?”
“They’re fine. But . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “You won’t believe me.”
“Then don’t bother.”
I moved past him, heading toward the back of the store. I heard the floor creak as he followed me.
“You’re not safe here, Lace. We need to go right now.”
“Go where?” I didn’t bother looking back as I idly straightened up the books, heading for the second floor.
“Away from here. The Mexicans caught up to us. I have to pull your parents out.”
“Oh, the Mexicans are here,” I said, rolling my eyes. “How convenient.”
I went to step up onto the staircase when he grabbed my arm, his grip firm and pulling me back. I stumbled and nearly tripp
ed over a stack of unfortunately placed books and slammed directly into his chest. It was like hitting a brick wall, if that brick wall were made of muscle and smelled incredible.
“I’m not fucking around,” he growled, his hand tightening. “We have to run.”
I looked up at him, shocked. He’d never talked to me that way before, let alone grabbed me. I almost didn’t recognize the man that was staring back at me.
“Let me go, asshole,” I mumbled, trying to get away.
He held me tight. “We walk out together or I carry you. I’m not joking around.”
“Don’t be such a dick.” His grip was almost painful, but part of me liked it. I liked how close I was standing and how intense he looked. I knew he was just messing around with me, and was probably going to admit to the joke any second, but I wanted to drink him in while I had the chance.
Because in two seconds I was going to slap the shit out of him.
“Okay,” he said, and suddenly he wrapped his arms around me.
“Camden, what the fuck!” I said as he lifted me up off the floor. I struggled slightly, kicking my feet, but still careful of all the books all over the place.
“Calm down, Lace,” he said as he walked toward the front, my body thrown over his shoulder like it was nothing.
“Put me down, you psycho!”
I punched his back a few times, shocked he’d actually grab me like this. While I was outraged, there was a part of me that was beyond excited. I could feel how wet I was already, which only made me more angry and embarrassed.
“I told you I had to do this.”
“You can’t just pick someone up whenever you want.”
He grunted and adjusted his grip, throwing me farther over his shoulder. I let out a gasp and a small yell and started to punch him in the back even harder.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole.”
“Stop punching me,” he grunted as he moved fast toward the front door.
“Is everything okay?”
I looked up at the owner of the Salty Whale, Mr. Ellsworth. He was an old man, easily in his seventies, maybe his eighties. He wore the same dress slacks and dress shirt every day, and his hair was a shock of white cotton puff dropped on his wrinkly head. His eyes were narrowed at Camden and me as Camden blew past him.
