Beast, Part Four

by Ella James

  It’s tough to comprehend that my life is probably forever changed. That there’s a chance whoever hears our story won’t be as sympathetic as I’m hoping, and I won’t be raising Ad. The thought fills me with anxiety and dread.

  By the time we start walking—through the grassy field, about a quarter of a mile from the road—we have a more immediate problem: thirst. It’s been hours since either of us has had anything to drink.

  Every step I take makes me thirstier. The vast, star-scattered sky reminds me of water. The dew on the grass reminds me of water. I lick my lips and swallow to fool my body into thinking it’s not dry and gross, but my need for water drives me to a painful place.

  Ricardo walks beside me, occasionally touching my arm or my back, but rarely speaking, probably because he’s as worn out as I am.

  When it feels like we’ve been walking for several hours, he stops. He reaches out and touches my arm. “Angel,” he rasps. “Over there.”

  It takes me a minute to see that he’s pointing, not toward the road but deeper into the field.

  My heart hammers. “Someone?” I choke.

  “No. I think it’s a water trough. For cattle.”

  He reaches for my hand, and we make our way toward a large metal structure shaped kind of like a big spider. It’s got buckets arranged at different heights, and as we near it, I hear a low-pitched “moooo.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Ricardo laughs and pulls me close. “I think we found the cows.”

  “Will they like…attack and stuff?”

  He snickers. “Cows are lazy. No—they won’t attack, Angel.”

  He reaches the trough a half-step before I do and sticks his hand inside. I hear him murmur a curse, and my throat constricts.

  “It’s feed.”

  We don’t speak as we make our way around the structure, and Ricardo sticks his hand inside each trough.

  They’re filled with food.

  Cow food.

  I want to cry. Okay—maybe I do cry. Just one tiny little sob. Ricardo’s fingers, twined through mind, squeeze gently, and he tugs me toward him.

  He’s walking backward as he does, and I hear a thunking sound, followed by “fuck.” Followed by laughter as he turns around.

  “Water.”

  He bumped into a round, metal water trough.

  We stand over it. My mouth stings with the need to drink, but I think the trough looks cloudy.

  “How often do you think they refresh it?” I ask.

  “Probably don’t,” he says. “Probably just rain water.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It probably won’t hurt us in the immediate.”

  He leans over and drinks right from it, then straightens up and wipes his mouth. “Not as bad as I thought. You interested?”

  I nod, because seriously, my body isn’t giving me a choice.

  Ricardo cups his hands and dips them into the trough, filling them with water, bringing it up to my mouth. I mouth his palm, slurping as my lips stroke him. A few sips, and I’m pretty sure I feel his erection against my belly.

  I drink a little more before deciding the water tastes too bad for even one more sip. When his hands return to my mouth, nudge his fingers away. “Thank you, but I think I’ve had enough.”

  He clasps my hand as we resume walking, but a few steps later, he lets it go, as if he suddenly remembered he’s not supposed to be too friendly with me.

  The next hour or so is brutal on my tired, sore body. I wish for the shoes I left back in the sunken car. My feet are scraped and sore, and I know Ricardo’s must be, too. I don’t think he was wearing shoes when we left the prison.

  He stays half a step ahead of me, pointing out fallen limbs and, once, an electric fence. Just as I’m thinking I can’t believe we haven’t seen any police cars on the road out beside us, or any helicopters with spotlights, I hear the thumping of a chopper approaching fast.

  It scares me so much, I jump on Ricardo. He jerks me down to the ground and lies on top of me.

  “They’re going to see us!” There are no trees around, or anything else to offer us shelter.

  My heart pounds so hard, and when I try to inhale, my lungs feel frozen.

  “Ric,” I whisper.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “We’ve got this, Ang.”

  The helicopter swoops over us, its spotlight whirling through the field, but never landing on us. When the horrible, thumping sound fades, we lie still for a few more minutes before he pulls me up and we start walking again, this time faster.

  I can tell his shoulder must be sore because he moves stiffly on that side. He says almost nothing to me, leaving me alone with my thoughts again—my thoughts of Mom and Ad and whether the district attorney is dead.

  My thoughts of Beast. Ricardo. Cal.

  It’s weird to be walking through a bunch of pastures with him. Total non-fantasy material.

  And then, with no warning, we’re out of pasture and it’s just desert dirt and scrubby trees. Another hour. Two? Time spreads out, and I’m so tired, I can’t tell how long I’ve been walking.

  When we hear the helicopter approaching this time, it seems headed straight for us. Ricardo grabs me, and we hide under a scrubby little tree. I clutch him as tightly as I can as it flies overhead, makes a circle, and heads back by us.

  “I hate this so much,” I whimper.

  He holds me close to him and rubs his cheek against the top of my head. I watch the spotlight as it fades into the vast, dark sky.

  “Definitely no infrared,” I say as we get moving again.

  “Yeah. That’s a good thing.” He smiles a little, and I catch his hand. I’m irrationally, pathetically thrilled when he doesn’t pull away.

  “Are you okay? How is your shoulder?”

  “It’s alright,” he says.

  “Where are we going exactly? A gas station or something? I just realized I don’t even know.”

  “Anywhere we can find a phone,” he says.

  “There’s a gas station soon, I think. I remember a few as I’m driving to La Rosa.”

  He nods.

  “What do you think is the best way to get our hands on a phone—assuming there’s no payphone, anyway?”

  “You’ll ask to borrow their phone, and find a way to come outside with it, so I can use it,” he says simply.

  “Who are you going to call?”

  “Someone I worked with at the Agency,” he says after a moment.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you really think they’ll help us?”

  “You don’t need to worry, Angel. Really.” His gaze flickers over me. “I know I’ve fucked things up before, but this time, I’ll make all this right.”

  I don’t trust him necessarily, but I’m not sure what to say. I go with “thank you.”

  Time drags as we walk. One of my soles feels damp, and stings, so I assume it’s started bleeding.

  Finally, we start to see more buildings by the roadside. We cut a little closer to the road, where a sidewalk runs now, and where street lights shine in the darkness. A mile of this, or maybe two—during which we both startle every time a car passes—and there it is: a lovely, pristine B.P. station on the right side of the road. We run across when no cars are coming, and Ricardo finds a water faucet on the back side of the building. We both drink our fill and then I leave him there and go inside.

  I go straight to the desk and ask the cashier, a thin woman with magenta hair, if I can borrow her phone.

  Her green eyes pop open wide as she looks my blood-stained self over. “You’re that woman with Cal Hammond?”

  “What?” I frown. “Cal Hammond? Isn’t he in prison?”

  “He escaped, girl. How did you miss a thing like that?” She shows me on her phone. They’re using an old picture of me, back from sophomore year of college when my hair was shorter.

  “Sorry to tell you, but I’d never wear my hair like that,”
I snark at her.

  She frowns at me. “But you’d go around like that?”

  I roll my eyes, because seriously, I’m too tired to think of an answer for her. “So what happened?” I ask. “With Cal?”

  “He broke out,” she says conspiratorially. “First thing people was saying was Cal Hammond shot the district attorney, but there’s some people used to work at the prison saying there was something more going on. The DA’s granddaughter was Uma, the girl in the car back when he had that wreck that got him sent to prison in the first place.”

  I can’t breathe. Can’t even speak. My mouth is hanging open, but I can’t get words out.

  “You okay, doll?”

  I nod slowly. “He killed a district attorney?”

  “Yep. Shot him on the prison grounds. Turned off the cameras first. People say that he was powerful at prison. Kind a leader.”

  My chest feels hot and full. My hands shake. “Wow, that’s crazy. My sister had a baby today, so I’ve been busy there and not watching the news. Then my car broke down like…miles ago. I went through hell to get here.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Boy or girl?” she asks me.

  “A little boy. They named him Oliver.”

  She says she likes the name, and I ask again. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”

  She shakes her head. “We have a pay phone, but it doesn’t work.” She slides her hand into the pocket of her khakis and draws out a black Android. She sets it on the counter and slides it to me. “Careful with the ‘send’ button. It’s kinda shaky.”

  “Thank you.” I scoop it up, then turn away from her and flip it open; raise it to my ear. I frown and draw it down so I can see the screen. I walk around the gas station for just a moment before telling her, “I can’t seem to get more than one bar.”

  “Sometimes it’s like that in here. You can step outside if you want to. Just don’t run off.”

  “Perfect,” I ramble. “I’ve got my own baby out there waiting for me,” I tell her, hoping every false detail will throw her more fully off.

  “Aww, a baby! I love babies. How old?”

  “Mine is ten months now. Little girl. Sarah.” I step into the doorway and wave. “I’ll bring your phone right back. Thanks.”

  I grin hugely, and when I’m out the door, I run into the trees to Beast.

  CHAPTER 10

  Beast

  I have Angel call, in the slim chance someone else has Thom’s phone. My voice is probably still memorable—at least to some people. Angel could be anyone.

  I watch her face, lit by the dim parking lot lamps, as she bites her lips and waits for him to answer.

  If he doesn’t answer “Thom here,” or “Thom Ford,” I’ve told her she’ll need to end the call.

  I can tell when he picks up, because she stops breathing, then quickly says, “Is this Ricardo’s friend?”

  He must tell her yes.

  She thrusts the phone at me, and I feel a rush of nausea as I bring it to my ear. “Thom.”

  “I’m sorry, Beast. It wasn’t my idea.”

  Anger bubbles up inside me; I channel it the way I used to for my roles. “Yeah,” I sneer. “You fucking should be. I gave you years and this is how I get repaid?”

  “I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry. It really wasn’t me. I wasn’t even asked. Believe it or not, I’m not the most important person here.”

  “You guys got Juan Juarez running the show now, don’t you?”

  “He’d been talking shit to you,” Thom says. “Juan’s no longer leading the cartel. His younger brother Emanuel is. We need to get him back in charge, so we’ve got aour finger on the pulse of things. You know the mission.”

  “Yeah,” I snap.

  “We’ve gotta rearrange things so his cousin Tito takes control on the outside, and Tito’s reporting back to Juan. We had to give him some incentive. Make him feel we value him.” So in other words, I was left for dead because the Agency wants to install a more friendly Juarez Cartel head. Someone more willing to work with them. Because Juan Juarez suddenly could do more for them than I could.

  “Robert Ryan?” I spit. “Was that a ‘had to,’ too?” I’m surprised by how bitter I sound.

  “It wasn’t my call. It was Brown.” His boss.

  “You been updated on today?” I ask. I glance left and right, because there’s no way Thom’s not tracing the shit out of my call. It’s one of the risks of calling him.

  “You shot Ryan,” Thom says, “although there’s a conflicting report from prison staff that a woman did it. Annabelle Mitchell. Holt’s daughter? You must be one hell of an all-star pussy eater, Beast.”

  I guess he thinks that’s the only way I could motivate someone like Angel to help me. And what the hell—maybe it is. Or “maybe she just fucking cares,” I hiss, stepping away from her. “Do you know what the last few weeks have been like for me? Ryan, Tom? You could have just fucking had me hanged.”

  I take another few steps away from Angel, and I drop may voice a notch.

  “She didn’t do it. I did, Thom. She was with me, but I shot that sick fuck, and I don’t regret it, either. I’m calling now because I need to get her home and get some assurance that her dalliance with me won’t end up on her record.”

  He makes a thoughtful sound. “You must really care for her.”

  I ignore the statement, and his warm, interested tone. At this point, he’s not fooling me. Thom’s as cold as anyone else at the agency. He’ll use anyone he can if it helps further his goals. “I don’t want her found with me. Can you help with that?” I ask.

  “Well… It’s kind of hard to say right now.”

  “What if I could help you out. Take care of something on the outside while I’m here?”

  I imagine his lips curling up into a smile. “That might be easier to organize. I’ll talk and let you know.”

  “Fuck no,” I say. “I’m throwing the phone away in two seconds. This is your only chance, if you want to get rid of E.J.”— Emanuel Juarez.

  I can almost hear Thom thinking through the line. His fast reply lets me know for sure he just lied to me. His boss doesn’t call all the shots. Thom is not an entry level fucker. “I need you down at San Diego Bay by ten o’clock tomorrow night. Drop your girl off somewhere in L.A., and I’ll have someone take her home. And Beast? She better know nothing.”

  I snicker. “Obviously.” I rub my eyes. “I’ll need a car and a gun that doesn’t belong to Ryan. You can pick me up if you want. Or leave me something somewhere that doesn’t sound like a setup.”

  “Where are you now? At that little B.P. station?”

  “You’re pretty fucking good,” I say. Of course, he’s got the FBI’s firepower behind him.

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  “No way.”

  “Two.”

  I lower the phone and turn back around to face Angel. She’s standing with her arms folded across herself, looking tired and beautiful and stressed.

  A second later, Thom is back. I take another step away, and turn around, putting my back to Angel.

  “I’ll have a car for you at Desert Campers and RVs in an hour,” he says quickly. “Black Honda Accord. Desert Campers is two miles down from where you are. Same side of the road. Keys will be atop the right rear tire, firearm in the glove box. Drive down to San Diego not tonight, but tomorrow. Can you kill some time tonight? Lay low, stay out of sight? Maybe drive somewhere outside the city? I’ll include a fake ID and credit card. More detailed instructions will be under the car’s passenger seat.”

  “Where will I leave Annabelle?” I ask.

  I hear her shift behind me and imagine a nervous expression on her face.

  “I’ll leave you instructions for that, too.”

  “Make it somewhere public. Somewhere I can trust that you won’t fuck with her.”

  “How about a hospital?” he asks. “Cedars Siani, main entrance. I’ll leave some cash with one of the bell hops and she can call her
own cab.”

  “Thom?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you double-cross me when it comes to her, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  I hear smile. “Duly noted, Beast.”

  “It’s Ricardo, asshole.”

  *

  Annabelle

  “So what are we going to do?” I ask after I emerge from the gas station. We’re standing in some trees, about ten yards behind an air pump machine on the rear side of the parking lot.

  The conversation he just had seemed intense, and I’m worried about him. He talked quietly, and he turned his back to me, but I could tell he was making some kind of deal.

  “Right now, we’re going to a car,” he says matter of factly. “We’re going to stay out of the metro area tonight, and then tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at Cedars Siani Hospital, you’ll get some cash from a bell hop, and you can get a cab home. It’s a public place, so you’ll be safe.”

  “Where will you go?”

  I can tell I’m right to be worried, because he doesn’t look me in the eye. In fact, he turns away and starts walking away from the gas station, moving deeper into the trees.

  I hurry to catch up, and when I do, he still won’t look at me.

  “If I go home, what will you do?”

  “I’ve got something to do on my own,” he says after a moment.

  “What kind of something?”

  I can hear traffic on the road that runs alongside us—a reminder that we’re still in danger. Both of us.

  “What I do is not your problem, Angel. All that matters is getting you home to your mom and your sister. Focus on that.”

  He still won’t look into my eyes.

  My stomach twists. “It’s the FBI, isn’t it? You’re doing something for them. It’s the only way you could get us out of trouble this bad.” I let out the breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Bea— Ricardo, I want to know. Maybe it’s not ‘my problem’, but it matters to me. What will you have to do, and what do you get in return?” He pulls back a limb for me, and I pass by in front of him, but he doesn’t answer. “Will you have to kill someone? Will they give you shelter, or clear your name or something if you do?”