Callan

by Bartel, Sybil

  “I’m good, I’m good.” I tried to brush his hands away but flinched when I bent over. My back still smarting, I breathed through my teeth. “I’m fine.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Back or ribs?”

  I stood upright, barely, and gulped the last of the water. “Both. But I’m fine.”

  Without permission, he gripped the ripped hem of my dress, turned me, and lifted the material in one fell swoop. Humiliation reddened my cheeks as I cried out in protest.

  I could feel Callan’s gaze cut to me, but I couldn’t look at him. Horrified, violated on so many levels, I wanted to hit the blond man standing behind me, but tears welled and every muscle in my body went on instant strike.

  And that pissed me off.

  I’d survived being drugged and kidnapped and thrown in a damn cargo container. I’d escaped a rapist, being sold, and I’d seen two dead bodies in the span of a single day. And now I was going to cry over my stupid dress being lifted up while some man who clearly had a medical background pushed gently on my bruised ribs and back?

  “You took quite a beatin’, sweetheart, but nothin’s broken.” The blond-haired man carefully lowered my dress.

  Tears dripped down my cheeks, and all I could think was, What the actual fuck, Emily? Bullets were whizzing by, three men with guns who had come to my rescue surrounded me, God knew what kind of psycho sex traffickers were trying to kill us, and I was crying over my dress being lifted to my stomach?

  “Talon,” the dark-haired man barked. “Cover me.”

  Quick, efficient, the blond man, Talon, swung his rifle around, knelt at the end of the container and laid down fire.

  The dark-haired man glanced at Callan. “Anders, I’ll cover from the top. Take her and get out. The others made it out with the other women, but our vehicle’s compromised. Back entrance to the port has a parking lot. You know how to hot-wire a car?”

  Callan fired another shot then nodded once without taking his eye away from his scope.

  “Good. Twenty seconds, then go.” The dark-haired man jumped up, grabbed the top of the container and pulled himself up with sheer strength.

  Callan didn’t waste a second. Ripping his black vest off, he shouldered his rifle and reached for me all in one swift, graceful movement. Fitting the vest over my head in one second flat, he fixed the Velcro straps tight against my chest.

  Then he was picking me up again.

  I didn’t have time to protest. Not that I saw much of an option unless I wanted to run barefoot, but the bottom of my feet were a scraped mess from digging my heels in when the asshole Javier was dragging me off the boat.

  One of Callan’s arms snaked under my legs, the other behind my back, and we were moving again. Except this time, he was sprinting across a paved road, heading for an open field with low vegetation.

  My hands free, I wrapped my arms around his neck. But without the shock of seeing him as a buffer, every pounding step he ran, his arm bit into my sore back.

  “You are in pain,” he clipped, not even out of breath.

  “I’m fine.” Realizing I was holding myself rigid, I tried to relax my muscles. “You came for me.”

  “Yes.”

  I waited for more. The how, the why, the where, but that was all he said. “Thank you.” Two words weren’t enough, not even close, but as he ran through a field carrying me, that was all I had.

  A burst of gunfire made me glance behind us. I almost wished I hadn’t. A half dozen men with automatic weapons were closing in on where we’d left Talon and the dark-haired man. I didn’t know them, or even if they were Callan’s friends, but I didn’t want them to die because of me. “The men we left, the shooters are closing in on them, and they’re outnumbered.” I didn’t want to go back. I wanted him to keep running, God, I wanted him to keep running, but I couldn’t not tell him.

  “André Luna is a skilled marksman. Javier Estevez’s guards are no match.”

  He knew the man’s name who’d taken me? “You know the kidnapper’s name?”

  “Yes.” Grinding the single word out, his muscles bunching, his thighs carrying so much more than his weight, Callan sped up and leapt effortlessly across a small ditch.

  When his feet landed on the other side, I bounced in his arms and my back jarred as my ribs smarted.

  Biting down to keep from crying out, I tasted grime and filth and blood on my tongue and fresh tears sprung. Trying like mad not to cry again, I clenched my jaw and breathed through my nose, keeping the distant parking lot in my sights.

  Callan held me closer. “Almost there.”

  A distinctive whistling noise sailed past our heads.

  A WILD SHOT FLEW past our right side.

  Pushing my legs to move faster, I veered left.

  Two more shots flew overhead as I hit the edge of the parking lot and ducked behind a row of cars. I needed to find an older car to steal before either of us got shot, because I knew nothing about newer vehicles. Spotting an older two-door car with tinted windows, I kept us low as I sprinted two lanes down.

  Gently setting her on the ground, I couldn’t think about her injuries right now. Swinging my rifle around, I used the stock to break the back window and reach in.

  I yanked the driver door open. “Get in and get down.”

  Without a word, she scrambled in. She tucked herself into the small front passenger seat and folded over, but not before I saw the cuts and bruises on the bottom of her feet.

  Pushing down pure rage, I got in and yanked the ignition off. Shots sounded across the parking lot as I stripped the wires then connected them. The car started, and I pulled the door shut as I threw it in reverse.

  “Where are we going?” Quiet, calm, there was nothing in her voice to indicate shock or panic.

  I gunned the engine of the small car then spun the wheel as I got to the end of the row. “Airport.” Throwing it in drive, I floored it.

  “Where are we?”

  “Tamaulipas, Mexico.”

  She turned in her seat to look at me. “You came all the way to Mexico to get me?”

  I would have gone wherever I needed to go to get her. “Put your seat belt on.” I touched the communication device in my ear to turn it back on and heard gunfire. “Luna, we are out of the parking lot.”

  “Copy th—” A loud burst of fire cut off his words. “Head to the airport.”

  “On my way.” I drove through the eerily deserted streets feeding into the port and was about to turn off the communication device again when Tyler spoke.

  “We’re compromised,” Tyler said over a loud engine noise. “We trailed strays and they caught up to us. Roark’s taking off. Stand by for pickup det—” Static blasted my ear. “Do you copy?”

  “Jesucristo,” Luna swore before another round of fire.

  Static warred with gunfire through the communication device. “…six hours,” Tyler said. “Do you copy? Roark can be back in six hours.”

  “Negative,” Luna replied. “We don’t have enough ammo to hold position. Switching to plan B. Repeat, plan B. Anders, do you copy?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirrors then answered in his dialect so there would be no miscommunication. “Copy.”

  Gunfire erupted from Luna and Talon’s position as Talon let out a war cry. “Take that, you motherfuckers!”

  The static hit a high pitch, and Tyler cut in. “Wheels up. Comm out.”

  The static and the noise from the plane’s engine cut out only to be replaced by heavy breathing and muffled gunfire. “We’re right behind you, Anders. Use alternate route two. Repeat, route two. We’ll take route one and retrieve the SUV from the airport, then meet at location one.”

  “Copy.” I swung the car around and headed north on the route Luna had made us all study in satellite images and on maps. We would be taking a highway that skirted the coast, but not until we were all in the same vehicle.

  “Call if you run in to trouble, otherwise, see you in twenty.”

  “Understood.” I c
hecked the rearview mirrors again. No one was following us yet.

  “Switching to cell,” Luna added. “Comm going off.”

  “Copy.” The background noise cut out, and I removed the earpiece and pocketed it. I glanced at Emily as I wedged my rifle between our seats.

  Sitting upright, her back ramrod straight, she stared straight ahead. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re driving to the border crossing in Texas instead of flying to Miami.”

  She glanced behind us. “Are they following us?”

  Not that I had seen. “No.”

  “How do I get across the border?”

  I should have been relieved she was thinking straight and asking questions, but her body language and monotone were more than concerning me. “I have your passport.”

  “Huh.” She did not take her eyes off the road.

  I glanced at the dashboard to check the fuel gauge as she asked another monotone question.

  “How far are we from Texas?”

  “Four hours.” The image of her bruised back played in my head, and I fought to keep my anger in check.

  “Do we have enough gas?”

  I should have taken her hand. I should have asked her if she was all right. I should have pulled over and tended to her wounds, but I did none of it. She was clearly not okay, and death was too good for the man who had taken her.

  My jaw ticked, and I turned the air conditioning up in the vehicle. “Yes, but we are not driving this vehicle all the way. We will meet with André and Talon and drive together.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  I did not know what her response meant, and I did not question it. Ignoring traffic rules at empty intersections and skirting around vehicles at others, I sped toward the motel that was the meet-up location. Leaning forward, I removed the handgun at my back. Making sure the safety was on, I placed it within easy reach in a cupholder between us.

  “Is that one mine?”

  I glanced at her, but her expression gave nothing away. “Do you know how to shoot?”

  “Point and pull the trigger.”

  There was more to it than that. I rephrased my question. “Have you ever shot a gun?” I checked the rearview mirrors again. Still nothing.

  “No.”

  Cars were backed up at an intersection ahead, forcing me to slow down. If I thought it would not draw attention, I would have bypassed the traffic and driven on the side of the road. Instead, I considered her answer as I slowed to a stop. The males on the compound were taught to shoot from an early age, but no female was ever allowed a gun.

  I made a decision. “I will teach you.”

  She made a noncommittal sound that was neither yes nor no.

  Easing through the intersection, I pulled my cell phone out and turned it on.

  The movement caught her attention. She glanced at the phone. “Does my family know about…?” She trailed off.

  “Yes.” I did not offer her the phone. I would have her call once we were safely across the border.

  Her hands twisted in her lap. “How much do they know?”

  “That you were taken.” I could not ask if she was forced against her will. I could not hear the answer right now. I would turn the vehicle around and kill them all.

  She looked out the side window and her voice got quiet. “He was going to sell me.”

  My jaw ticked. “I know.” I wanted to pull the trigger all over again.

  She shrank in on herself, crossing her arms defensively over her abdomen.

  I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I had never taken the Lord’s name in vain, but right now I wanted to curse a God who would take a woman who smiled like my angel and put her in the hands of violence.

  Inhaling, I could no longer ignore the extent of her injuries. I needed to know if she would be okay for four hours until I got her safely over the border. Choosing my words, I lowered my voice. “Your injuries, I need to know if—”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “Yes, I’m still a virgin.” She spit the last word out like poison. “That’s why that asshole took me. That’s why I was his victim. Because I’m a fucking virgin.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “And he could sell that.” She thumped her fist against her chest. “Sell me.”

  Panting, she valiantly fought tears, but a different kind of floodgate opened. “But he didn’t get to do that because you killed him. So here I am, in a stolen car in Mexico with filth and grime and the blood of dead men on me. Literally on me. I’ve tasted death and survived being locked in a cargo container like an animal. I escaped rape, and I escaped being sold to the highest bidder before being turned into a prostitute, or worse, a drugged-out prostitute. So yay me. Or yay you, because you rescued me, and it’s a damn good thing I didn’t jump over the side of the ship when I had a chance, because then who would you have rescued? You would’ve come all this way and for what?”

  She answered her own question. “The other girls. You could have rescued them. They were younger, so that would have been good because they were really young and one kept crying in the container. I was only trying to reassure her, but apparently we weren’t supposed to talk, and they heard me talking, so I was separated from the rest and kicked around for having a mouth and daring to call those pieces of shit assholes, because that’s what they were, fucking assholes. And I’d do it all over again because it got the asshole who took me out of the container away from the other girls. I would have endured whatever I had to if it meant that little girl didn’t get sold. But I didn’t have to endure it, because the moment he forced me down, that asshole Javier magically appeared and shot the wannabe rapist in the head. That’s why I’m covered in blood spray, or maybe it’s from when you blew off Javier’s head, but who cares, it’s their vile, disgusting blood and not mine.” She paused to suck in a breath. “So that’s what happened. Any other questions?”

  They had not violated her.

  Air filled my lungs.

  If life was measured in gratitude, in that moment, mine was complete. I saw the blood spray on her skin. I saw the discoloring of her face, the bruising, her matted hair. I smelled the scent of a body gone too long without bathing. I smelled the stench of another man on her. I heard the fragile grasp on sanity in her voice.

  None of it mattered.

  None of it compared to the breath going in and out of her lungs.

  None of it took away from the sound of her heartbeat.

  No words, I reached for her hand.

  HE HELD MY HAND.

  Not one word. Not one single word out of his mouth after all the words that had vomited out of mine.

  He just… held my hand.

  So I silently sat there while he drove to a motel and pulled into a small, fenced-in parking lot.

  Smelling worse than a public restroom and hungrier than a bear, I tried to count my blessings. I listed all the things I would never take for granted again. Number one was a shower.

  He was number two.

  A giant, muscled, god-like, infuriatingly quiet man.

  He should have been number one.

  He deserved to be number one.

  But I wouldn’t call it until after I had a shower. A long shower. The motherfucking mother lode of all showers. A five-day shower. Or a year. A whole year in the bathroom. People had no clue how underrated a tiled room with a drain and plumbing was.

  Or stepbrothers.

  They were underrated too, like mercenaries and soldiers.

  His thumb rubbed across the back of my hand. Absently, on purpose, I had no idea. But I didn’t think this man did anything accidentally. Like the way he’d backed into a parking spot one-handed, constantly scanned the rearview mirrors, and moved the rifle to his lap.

  The engine idled, the air that came through the vents was barely cooler than the oppressive heat outside and there wasn’t a soul walking the streets.

  His deep voice, so deep it was quiet, broke the hum of the small car engine straining under the workload of the air conditioner. “Close you
r eyes if you are tired.”

  “No.” I was never sleeping again. Bad shit happened when you slept, voluntarily or otherwise.

  He nodded once like he understood. “You can call your family once we cross the border.”

  “Oh, can I?” I didn’t ask it nicely at all. And I didn’t want to call my fucking family. Especially Phoebe. I hated her guts right now. I blamed her. For everything. Because it hurt too much to blame myself. I didn’t want to be the weak person who let my bully of a sister push me into drinking and clubbing instead of letting the selfless man next to me show me whatever the hell he’d wanted to show me.

  “Your muscles tensed,” he observed.

  Of course my muscles tensed. Now I would never know what he wanted to show me. I didn’t deserve to know. He needed a new stepsister, one who was a hundred times stronger than me… like Phoebe. An unladylike sound escaped my chapped lips, and I pulled my hand away. “I don’t want to talk to my family.” Or anyone. Especially not a blond-haired, blue-eyed hulk of a man who smelled like heaven and looked like salvation.

  He nodded once. “Understood.”

  “Do you?” He couldn’t possibly. “You understand being betrayed by a sister who is the one person who is supposed to have your back your entire life?” The second the words left my mouth, I knew how truly fucking selfish I was.

  He didn’t say a thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  Silence.

  I turned back toward the window.

  Then, like a prophet, he spoke. “Life is not what happens to you. It is what you chose to make of it.”

  His words punctuated the noise in my head and left a chasm. A big, fat gap in my pity party where I could choose self-indulgence or reason. But I was fresh out of reason. I was anger and hurt and rage and trauma and so much self-pity, I was disgusted with myself. I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve been thankful.

  But I was sitting here being mad, for so many reasons, not the least of which was that I would never get to shoot that asshole Javier myself.