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)
“They'll find us, you know.” My voice is barely loud enough to be a whisper. “With Jesus dead, Christina will take over. His sister. She doesn't like me very much anyway, and she won't like you.”
“That right?” He glances over his shoulder, holding a tool between his teeth, and I nod.
“You think I’m not likable?”
“You think this is a joke?”
He doesn't answer me. Instead, he looks over his shoulder, at the house. “How did you know about the porch?”
I zip my lips. I know about it because the elderly woman and teenage boy who used to live here were gunned down by Jesus. The teenager robbed one of Jesus’s country homes, and the old woman tried to protect him when Jesus came. I was in the back seat of his car at the time, and we'd just been to eat in Torreon. I'm not sure why he decided to stop on that sunny afternoon—maybe because he saw the kid's car or something—but I watched them try to open the trap door as Jesus shot them.
I'm not telling angel that.
Non-angel.
Evan.
I wipe my face and try to sound composed. “Just a lucky guess. Some houses in Mexico have those,” I say.
“Is it abandoned?” he asks. He's doing something with his right hand and the bike’s wheel bar, something tool-ish. Something maybe with a wrench? I don't know. I'm not mechanical. What I do know is that the left hand is still tucked into his pocket.
“It's empty, but we still shouldn't stay here,” I murmur.
“I've almost got this straightened out.”
I nod, not that he can see me, and wrap my arms around myself. I wonder if his story is a lie. Working for that bounty hunter company. I've never heard of anything like that, not that I for sure would have, but I might have.
“Is your hand hurt?” I ask as he lifts the bike, again, just with the right hand.
“Happened before this,” he mutters. Once the bike is upright, he looks to me. “Could you gather those tools? I can't hold the bike up and do that, too. One hand and all.” He mentions the hand too flippantly.
“Okay.” I do as he asks, and as I tuck them back into his bag, I say, “Soooo…do you have a plan?”
“Once we make it to the border, we'll be fine. I've got a passport for you.”
My stomach twists. “We'll never make it. They'll find us first.”
Evan throws his leg over the bike and looks at me from underneath those long eyelashes. “I'm a good shot. Get on.”
So I do.
I don't have a choice.
15
Cross
IT'S HARDER TO drive the Mach with another person on the back. More weight to balance. More pressure on my shoulder.
I'm grateful that she didn't ask more questions back there at that house. My pride won't let me admit that I crashed a bike, and even though that's what most of America thinks—that I got ripped and forgot how to drive—I can't stand to say it out loud. It's just not true. I was pretty drunk, sure, but I wasn't drunk enough to crash. To do that I needed help.
It's weird remembering that with 'Missy King' behind me. Who thought I looked familiar. That had me sweating bullets. I wonder what she'd do if she knew who I really was. Not what she would do—what she will do. Because I can't hide myself from her forever.
I just hope she trusts me before that happens.
After we leave the farm house, she directs me to another road, one she says will take us through some rural land, and in the general direction of a city called Parral. After that, she says we should loop around Chihuahua and head for Ciudad Juarez, a border city where Merri says Cientos Cartel doesn’t have a lot of sway.
We drive a dusty back road for a while, cutting through what must have, at some point, been cattle farms. I can chart the passage of time in the way the stars and moon cross the sky. It's late—or early, rather. I'm exhausted. I know she is, too.
The road ends and we're bumping over lumpy dirt. Meredith is wearing my helmet, so the sand gets into my eyes. My shoulder aches. My neck feels tight. Finally I swallow my pride and turn around to her.
“Where to?” I ask, like I'm not lost as lost.
She points at a grove of trees maybe two hundred yards ahead. “Don't stop there,” she calls over the motor's noise. “Keep going. There's a river back here, I think.”
I can tell she’s pretty sure, which means she’s been here with Jesus Cientos or his goons. I want to know what she went through. But I’m afraid to know, and could never ask, regardless.
Finally I see something sparkling, and we come up on the river, shaded by a cluster of those short, scruffy trees that seem to grow everywhere.