by Sophia Gray
Carter
Carter flicked his lighter, gently touching the flame to the crumbled bits of marijuana that rested precariously in the dent of an empty soda can. He inhaled the smoke and held it in, passing the can and the lighter to Billie. She took a puff and coughed hard, almost dropping the can.
“This is decent shit,” Billie managed between gasps.
Carter shrugged, exhaling the smoke smoothly. “Better than Mexican ditch weed. Not as good as what you can get in California.”
After their mind-blowing sex in the motel room, Carter realized that the tension between them had broken. On some level, he had known that a lot of his anger at her wasn't because of her mistake at the gas station. That was boneheaded, sure, but it was her first robbery, and he'd seen other people slip up like that in similar situations.
His desire for her had made the rage build up inside of him—he'd been angry at himself for changing his own plans just so he could keep her with him.
But now that things had come to a head, he knew he couldn't keep up some stupid internal struggle. It was time to make the leap.
He was with her now. Period.
Instead of wasting time and energy fighting it, now he could decide on a firm course of action based on that.
They spent an hour taking turns with the sunburn lotion, rubbing the cool gel on their red faces and arms until there was almost none left. Then they had opened the brick of weed and gotten a can of cola from the motel's vending machine, draining it and punching a hole in the side like Carter had learned back in high school.
Now they were sitting on the bed together with Carter's arm around Billie's shoulders, watching the clouds of smoke lazily drift across the room. The TV was on and they were flipping channels, trying to find a late news show with more footage from their failed robbery.
“Are you sure we should be smoking in the room?” Billie asked.
“Trust me, no one's calling the cops in a shithole like this,” Carter assured her. “Worst-case scenario, they keep the deposit when they smell the smoke. After the fucking day we've had, they're welcome to it.”
“Hey, go back!” Billie said, grabbing the television remote and switching the channel. “I think I saw us again.”
The screen showed more of the security camera footage as they held the clerk at gunpoint.
“A Green Beret,” she snorted. “Can you believe that shit? Guy looked like a stiff breeze would knock him down.”
“See? There's the kid,” Carter said, pointing to the screen. “Look, he's walking right up to me! He wasn't even trying to hide or anything. Jesus, what the hell were you looking at?”
“Hey, I can't help it if you were so sexy I couldn't take my eyes off you,” she said. “Besides, that look on your face when he took your bandana was the funniest thing I've ever seen.” She broke into a fresh fit of giggles, and after a moment, Carter joined her.
“I really am sorry about that,” she finally said, composing herself. “I can't believe I was so stupid. I know I almost got us caught or killed.”
Carter took another drag from the can, blowing a smoke ring. “Don't worry about it. My first robbery, I was third gun on a bank job. They had me collect the money from the tellers and put it in a bag. But instead of watching what I was doing, I was too busy staring out the windows for cops, even though we already had a lookout guy for that. So one of the tellers tossed a blue dye pack in with the cash. As soon as we got to the car, boom. I had that blue shit all over my face and arms for almost two weeks.”
Billie laughed. “Really? That's fun to picture.”
He nodded, smiling. “Yup. Couldn't leave the clubhouse all that time, since after the robbery, everyone in the state was looking for dudes with blue faces. That was pretty fucking embarrassing.”
“I'm surprised they didn't give you some awful nickname from that,” Billie pointed out. “You know, like your guys Hazmat and Oiler. You could have been Blueberry, maybe. Or Smurf!”
Carter chuckled. “Yeah, lots of guys have tried to give me nicknames over the years, but none of them ever stuck. I guess when you come down to it, no one could think of anything dumber-sounding than Carter.”
“So now what?” Billie took another puff and managed not to choke on it this time.
“Now we try to get some sleep,” he said. “I know that's probably easier said than done after all the adrenaline from today, but hopefully the weed should help with that.”
“No, I mean after that. Are we going to meet up with the other guys at that truck stop?”
Carter raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you remember that little detail, huh? At the time, I figured you were probably too scared. We've got a stop to make first, but yeah, we'll meet up with them after that. And they'll kick a little when they see you're still with me, and they'll kick a little more when I tell them you'll be crossing the border with us. But don't worry, I'll set them straight. I'm still their president…I mean, if following us to Mexico is really what you want.”
“Absolutely,” she said without hesitation. “Have you ever been there before?”
“Nah, but I've known guys who went down there to cool off for a while when things went bad. I've got some names and numbers...people to reach out to who will help us get set up.”
“What's it like there? Based on what you've heard.”
Carter snickered, taking another puff from the soda can. “Well, it's hotter than hell, but I guess you probably know that already. Cheap food, cheap booze. Do you speak any Spanish?”
“Not much.”
“It's easy to pick up some of the basics. Most of the cops and judges down there can be bought with half a can of beans, so there's no need to worry about being recognized and extradited. Things have gotten dangerous over the past couple decades since the cartels have basically taken over the whole country, but as long as we hook up with the right one when we get there—pay a little tribute, maybe do a job or two for them as a good-faith gesture—then the other ones should leave us alone.” He looked at her again quizzically. “You're sure that sounds like a life you want?”
“As long as I'm with you and as many miles from Cactus Hollow as possible, then yeah, it sounds kind of perfect,” Billie said. “Besides, we've made a pretty damn good team over the past couple days. I think we can handle whatever comes our way.”
“Fair enough,” Carter said, passing the soda can to her. He didn't know it was possible to find her even sexier, but she'd just proved him wrong. He'd never met anyone so hungry for adventure, and it turned him on.
“So what's this stop we need to make before we rendezvous with Hazmat and Oiler?” she asked, lighting the pot and inhaling.
“There's a guy I know who lives on a patch of desert south of Fort Stockton. He's an old dude...kind of a survivalist type. He was the one who fed me the inside info about the bank in Cactus Hollow so we'd know when to hit it. I promised him I'd pay him a visit after we did the deed, so I could give him his cut from it. Of course, since Hazmat's got the actual cash from that job, I'll need to front it out of what I've got with me. Should be more than enough, though.” Carter finished off the last hit in the can, shaking the ashes out onto the floor.
“I guess we're going to have to steal another car to get down there, huh?” Billie suggested playfully.
“You got it.”
“Can I please choose this time?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Sure,” he agreed, smiling. “But now that I don't have to hold a gun on you all the time, I'll keep on doing the driving. Now seriously, we need to get some rest. We've got a big day tomorrow.”
“I'm not tired yet, though,” Billie pouted.
“I might have an idea or two about how we can tucker each other out,” Carter said, reaching over to switch off the light.
Chapter 33
Panzer
Harbaugh sat at Panzer's desk, staring at printouts and photos from three criminal records. The first one had been provided by the Odessa Police Department, based on the footage
from the gas station's security cameras. The second and third were the result of Harbaugh grilling Panzer on pictures of the biker's known associates until the sheriff identified two men who might have been his companions in the bar two nights ago.
Jesus, Panzer thought. Only two nights ago. Feels like about a month since all this shit started.
“Winslow, Carter,” Harbaugh mused, flipping through the pages for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Thornvale, Jack, also known as 'Hazmat.' Scudder, Lane, also known as 'Oiler.' Formerly members of the Hobgoblins motorcycle club, now on their own.”
“Are you fixin' to do anything other than sit there, fartin' into my desk chair and mumblin' the same shit over and over?” Panzer asked testily. “Seems to me like the longer you sit there, the farther away that Carter asshole's gettin' with Billie.”
Harbaugh gave Panzer a wolfish smile. “What do you expect me to do, genius? Run around half of Texas in the middle of the night with a flashlight, going door to door and asking if anyone's seen them? No, I've done plenty. I've alerted local law enforcement in every town and county along their route. I called a few people and put a price on their heads. Ten thousand dollars to the man who brings them in or brings them down, I don't care which.”
Panzer's jaw dropped. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” he yelled. “You'll have every skip tracer, bushwhacker, and bounty hunter from here to the Rio Grande out gunning for them!”
“That's the idea,” Harbaugh said coldly.
“But those crazy shitheads ain't gonna care about Billie's safety like peace officers would,” Panzer insisted. “They're psychos, they're sloppy, and half of 'em are either drunk or on meth. They're liable to shoot holes in her just to take these bikers down!”
“And why should I give a fuck?” Harbaugh asked. “Because you used to pick dandelions and go to the state fair together, or some such baloney? Sheriff, let me tell you a story. I grew up on the south side of Boston. Most of the boys I played with as a kid grew up to be felons. They're all behind bars now, though, and guess who put them there? So stop covering for lawbreakers, or else take off that damn star and give it to someone who can do the job. But either way, I'm going to see these punks dead or in cuffs within the next twenty-four hours, so you'd better stay the hell out of my way.”
Harbaugh got up and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Panzer felt like he'd just had a piano dropped on his head. He picked up the remote control and hit the Play button, watching the security camera footage from the gas station.
Yes, that was definitely Billie. Even with her mask on, Panzer had known her too long not to recognize the way she stood and moved.
And he didn't want to admit it—not even to himself—but yes, based on the way she was acting, it was clear to him that she wasn't a hostage anymore.
On the screen, the ten-year-old approached Carter, but Panzer wasn't watching him this time. He was watching Billie, studying the way she ignored the kid. Behind the holes in her mask, Panzer could clearly see that her eyes were lovesick and locked on the biker.
Same old Billie, he thought. Always going for the bad boys.
He hated the idea of her giving herself to yet another wild and reckless man who was no good for her. He hated her for ignoring common sense and spitting in the face of danger, while the people who really cared about her were worried sick.
But more than that, he hated the thought of her being hurt or worse just because this federal shitbird happened to have a hard-on for the goon she'd hooked up with this time. Maybe she'd made a mistake by laughing off Panzer's love for her all these years. Maybe it was a mistake she'd never make right or apologize for, no matter how much it broke his heart. But it wasn't a mistake she deserved to die for.
Billie, he pleaded silently, I hope you and that biker of yours have a trick or two up your sleeves.
Chapter 34
Billie
The next day, Carter and Billie walked to a big box store that was close to the motel and stole another car. Billie teased him about choosing a hot pink Corvette that would have been about as subtle as a fishing lure, but in the end, they decided on an older Mercedes.
Billie unscrewed the license plates from a few other cars so they could switch them up and keep the cops off-balance, and when she was done, Carter showed her how he hotwired the car so she could do it herself if it came to that.
“This'll be a pretty useful skill in Mexico,” Carter told her with a wink. “The cartel boys are always willing to fork over a few bucks for stolen cars. We probably won't need to, though. Once we meet up with Hazmat and Oiler to split up the shares from all our jobs, we should be able to live pretty well down there.”
They rode for most of the day, singing along to the radio. They only stopped twice—once to get gas and switch out the license plate again, and once to grab some fast food from a drive-through.
As the small towns and highways gave way to desert roads, Billie daydreamed about what it might be like to live in Mexico. She imagined the cool blue waters of the Gulf, Spanish-built cathedrals, adobe homes and haciendas, and dusty street markets filled with colorful characters.
And how long would they be there? Certainly long enough to rub elbows with some of the cartel people, based on what Carter had told her. Probably long enough for her to get a decent tan and pick up some of the language.
Finally, Carter took the car down a narrow side road and drove for another hour until they found a rusty chain-link fence. It seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon.
Carter parked the car next to the fence, cutting the engine. “We'll have to walk from here,” he said. “Don't worry, it shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get there.”
“Is it safe to leave the car here?” Billie asked.
“Sure. No one ever drives out this way, since most people don't even know there's anything out here. And planes and helicopters tend to steer clear of the air around here, too. Something, uh, tends to fuck with their instruments when they do, ha,” he said with a strange smile.
They walked across a rocky patch of desert for almost half an hour until Billie saw something metal glinting in the distance. “Is that what we're looking for?”
Carter shaded his eyes with his hand, following her gaze. “Yeah, that's it.”
But as they got closer, Billie kept rubbing her eyes, convinced she must be seeing some kind of mirage. The structure they were approaching was a corrugated metal shed that looked roughly the size of a port-a-john.
“You're kidding, right?” she asked. “That thing barely looks like it'll fit both of us inside. Are you sure someone actually lives there?”
“Trust me,” Carter said. “It's a lot bigger than it looks.”
Billie rolled her eyes. “If I had a nickel for every time a guy's told me that before...”
Carter laughed. “Come on. You'll love this.”
They walked up to the tiny building, and Billie saw that the door looked like reinforced steel, with no handle to open it from the outside. There was a small intercom next to it, and a security camera was mounted above it.
Carter blew a thick layer of dust off the intercom, then pushed the button.
“Is this the part where the little guy with the funny mustache pops out and tells us that no one gets in to see the Wizard?” she asked.
“You're not far off,” he replied.
A moment later, there was a blast of static from the intercom, followed by a quaking, raspy voice.
“Well, is that Hazmat there with you, or is it Oiler? Either way, they're a damn sight prettier than you let on when you described 'em.”
Carter chuckled. “I had to split off from the other two. This is Billie. You'll like her.”
“And you brought it?” the voice crackled.
“You really think I'd show up empty-handed, old man?”
A creaky laugh emanated from the intercom. “I guess you'd better be comin' in, then,” the voice said. There was an odd meta
llic clanking and grinding sound on the other side of the door that lasted about twenty seconds, and then Billie heard a series of locks clicking and rattling.
Then the door opened, revealing a man who looked like he was in his seventies. He had a pair of goggles pushed up over his thinning white hair, and his beard was long and scraggly. He wore a set of long underwear and a pair of threadbare bunny slippers.
“Pleased to meet'cha, Billie,” he said, extending a liver-spotted hand. “My name's Buzzard Malloy. Reckon you oughtta hurry up an' come inside—there's a coyote that prowls 'round out here. I calls 'im Beauregard. He likes me 'cause I feed 'im, but he ain't been properly introduced to y'all yet, hah!”
Chapter 35
