Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“From my cock,” I hear the guy say with a chuckle.
With a final glance above me, at the hatch door, and just a breath of nervous hesitation, I wrap my right arm around the woman crouching behind me and bring her head to my shoulder.
She's still shaking. I lean against her, just a little, and she wraps an arm around my waist and buries her face in my throat.
It's okay, Merri. It's okay.
Beneath my concern for the woman I'm supposed to be saving, I'm tense with wondering if the dude will come and find us, but then I hear him say “fuck it,” and I hear a stomp that I assume is hombre putting out his cigarette.
Hail Mary, that would be some effing awesome luck.
And then his car door slams, the engine purrs, and he drives off.
Merri
I'M STILL SHAKING minutes after Tito drives away, and my savior’s arm is still around my back. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a big, deep breath, grateful that I'm not alone in this. I'm grateful for all of half a minute, and then I shove the stranger away.
I reach around him to throw the trap door open, and as soon as the moonlight beams down on us, my terror and fear bubble up, and all of a sudden, I'm furious.
“Do you know what you did tonight? You killed Jesus!”
The guy frowns, looking pensive as he holds onto the walls to keep his balance in the cramped space. “It’s been mentioned.”
“Do you know what this means for me? It means I'll never, ever, ever get out of this country in one piece! Neither will you! We're fucked! I'm sorry I don't curse usually, but when there's only one word that works you have to use that word and we are fucked! Royally fucked!” I storm up through the trap door and fall onto the porch, belatedly realizing that I'm crying again.
The guy is right behind me. His hand is on my back. I swat it off and stumble to my feet.
“What's your big plan? I hope it involves a helicopter or a tank because otherwise we're going in an unmarked grave!” I cover my face, crying again, almost hysterical. “And the clinic...”
It's my fault. It's all my stupid, selfish fault.
I shove him in the chest. “What's your plan?” Before he can answer, I throw up my hands. “What's your fracking name?”
“You said fracking.” His eyebrow arches.
“Yes, I did. So the frack what?”
“I love Battlestar.”
“I don't see how that matters.”
I turn away from him, because all I can think about in this second is that if I'd just gone with Jesus, probably no one would be dead. There's a chance he might have killed me just to make a point, but there’s a chance he might not have. Jesus liked me. He might have forgiven me, and there would have been no blood shed. No dead kids. No one in danger.
“It doesn't matter,” the guy says with a shrug of his shoulder. “But it's cool.”
“Who are you?” I put my hand on my hip. “I want to know, for real this time.”
He reaches down into his boot to get the gun, pointing it at the ground as he raises up to face me again. “Evan. Does that help?”
“Not at all.” I slump down on the stairs. “Who do you work for, Evan?”
“I already told you—a company that finds missing people.”
And at that, he turns away, scanning the yard for something, then cursing. He lopes down the stairs and through the mess of junk, and I realize as he reaches the bike that the metal piece that holds the front wheel onto the rest of the frame is bent.
“Motherfucking hell.”
I'm right behind him, not sure if I'll cry this time or sock him in the nose.
“Can you fix that?” I snap.
I want him to say 'no', to tell me that we're screwed. That we're fracked. I want to give up hope, because it would be so much easier to just give up when I know there really isn’t any hope.
Instead, he crouches beside it, running his hand along the metal rod. He flicks a glance at me. “I'm sure I can.”
“Of course. What can't you do?”
He grins a little. “Nothing. Actually,” he says, as he stands the bike up, “I couldn't slow us down a little while ago without knocking us both off. I'm sorry about that.” He looks like he might say something else, but instead he opens a big, leather pack attached to the back of the bike and starts to pull out tools.
That's when I notice something: he doesn't use his left hand—at all. He spreads his tools out on the ground, laying each one down with his right.
The night breeze plays through my hair and my eyes fill up with tears again. How long has it been since I've felt a breeze? Since I've seen the moon without the barrier of a window? I look up at it, feeling so many things, and wondering how long do I have to see it now, before the cartel finds us?