by Cassia Leo
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper frantically.
Nick takes my hand. “I know where to go. Come.”
I pause for a moment, staring at our hands clasped together. “Are you a bounty hunter?”
“What?” His reply is high-pitched, but his mouth hangs open making him appear a bit dopey. “Why would you say that? Did he tell you I’m a bounty hunter?” He throws his head back and laughs. “That is very funny. A guy who makes sunglasses is a bounty hunter? He is desperate if he’s trying to convince you of something so ridiculous.”
Looking into his shiny green eyes with the clock ticking down in the back of my mind, I try to figure out what I’m missing. Someone is hiding something from me, but I can’t decide if it’s Nick or Daimon. I don’t have time to ponder this question.
“Let’s go,” I reply with a nod.
He nods back and pulls me out into the backyard where I spot the black man who followed me for days, dead in the overgrown grass. That’s Daimon’s associate, Crow? Why was he so dispensable to Daimon?
I don’t have time to contemplate this question as Nick yanks me into my neighbors’ backyard. The neighbors Crow didn’t kill. Their yard is neatly manicured with stone pathways snaking through the space between their citrus and stone fruit trees. The air smells sweet and fruity. The warm humidity clings to my skin and fills my lungs, suffocating me.
“Where are we going?” I whisper as we tiptoe toward the other side of the neighbor’s house.
“To the marina.”
We creep along the north side of the property and stop at the front corner. Nick inches his head forward to peer into the street. His eyes widen as the sound of frantic footsteps fall on my ears. It must be Daimon racing away from Nick’s house toward my cottage. We wait a couple more seconds, then he yanks me forward and we dart toward the steps leading down to the harbor.
My whole body aches with every step I take as if every cell of my being wants nothing more than to reject this path I’m taking. Go back, my body is screaming. Go home to the one man who truly loves you.
We reach the dock and find a gentleman who’s tying up his speedboat for the evening. My heart screeches to a halt when Nick pulls a Glock 22 and points it at the man.
“Suelta la cuerda!” Nick shouts at him. The man’s wrinkled eyes widen as he drops the length of rope and slowly raises both hands in the air. Nick waves the gun toward the boat. “Metate en el barco!”
The man scurries into the boat and Nick keeps the gun trained on him as he climbs in behind him. Nick reaches up, offering his free hand to me.
“Alyssa, we have to go!”
I inch forward until the toes of my sandals hang over the edge of the dock. I gaze into the dark water, glistening with moonlight.
“Alyssa!” Nick barks at me.
I reject his offer of help and climb into the boat myself. At once, he wraps his free arm around my waist and pulls me close to him.
“Maneja!” Nick shouts as the man sits in the driver’s seat.
The man steers the boat away from the dock and punches the gas pedal. The inertia pulls Nick and me backward, and we fall back onto a cushioned bench seat in the rear of the speedboat. Nick continues to bark orders at the man, and I’m almost positive he just told him to take us to Tenerife, a neighboring island with a large international airport.
I look over my shoulder and my stomach clenches when I see him. Daimon races along the dock, frantically searching for something. Nick looks over his shoulder just as Daimon disappears behind a mid-sized sailboat, as if he jumped into the water. My heart pounds and worried thoughts race through my mind. Seconds later, another speedboat roars out from behind the sailboat and heads straight for us.
Nick shouts at the man again and our boat shoots forward, flying over the rippling seas. I sense I’m being torn in two. My body is here in this boat, sitting next to Nick. but my heart is behind us with Daimon.
I glance over my shoulder a few times, half hoping I will see his boat gaining on us, but he seems to be falling behind. This boat must be more powerful than the boat he’s driving. At this speed, we’ll reach Tenerife in thirty minutes, at least ten minutes before Daimon. Plenty of time to get a head start and get to the airport. I can’t help feeling disappointed.
I don’t love Nick. In fact, the only thing Nick has going for him is the fact that he didn’t kill my father.
“Why do you have a gun?” I shout over the roaring squeal of the boat’s engine.
“I brought it from my house after they drugged me,” Nick replies, his eyes locked on the driver as he keeps his gun pointed at him.
“Why did you have a gun in your house?”
“For protection, of course!” he shouts impatiently.
Is it normal for a man who manufactures sunglasses to apply for a gun permit? It’s not as easy to get a gun in Spain as it is in America. I know. I looked it up before I booked my flight to La Palma. You need to be able to prove a legitimate reason: hunting, target shooting, collection, personal protection. Protection from what?
Maybe Nick works in law enforcement. Or, as a bounty hunter.
I have to think this through. I begin by listing the facts as I know them:
•Daimon killed my father.
•Daimon shot someone in a gold Mercedes right in front of me.
•My parents kept me locked in a basement for eighteen years.
•My parents needed to protect me to make sure they didn’t lose their annual hush-money payment from the princess.
•My father never let me out of his sight.
•My father knew the princess would send someone to get rid of her dirty secret.
•I haven’t spoken to my mother in months.
•Daimon has been holding her hostage in the same basement where my parents raised me.
•Daimon saved my life by referring me to Highland medical clinic.
•Daimon arranged the attack so that he could save my life and gain my trust.
•Nick showed up on the island at the same time as me and he carries a gun.
•I am pregnant with Daimon’s child.
•Daimon risked his life to save me when I came out of the clinic yesterday.
•Daimon loves me.
•I love Daimon.
Everything Daimon told me adheres to the truth as I know it. Then it must stand to reason that he told the truth when he said he killed my father in self-defense. It must also be true that Nick is a bounty hunter.
“We should arrive at Tenerife in fifteen minutes,” Nick shouts at me.
I stare at him in silence as I try to formulate a response that will pacify him. He can’t know I’m onto him, but I’m just so angry—at him and myself.
“Did you hear me?” he shouts as I continue to glare at him.
How could I be so stupid? Because Nick had me convinced he accepted me as I was, discoloration and all? He preyed on me at a time when I was vulnerable. Still reeling from Daimon’s possible death, I was prime for him to sweep in with his sword and shining armor and rescue me.
I am not a damsel in distress.
Chapter Four
Alex
Nick narrows his eyes at me and I keep my gaze locked on his gun, bracing myself for him to make a move. As soon as his arm twitches, I land a lightning fast jab to his bicep, sending his Glock whizzing through the air and into the ocean. I throw another jab at his left cheek and he dodges it.
“You bitch!” he roars as he grabs my right arm.
I drive my knee up toward his crotch and he jumps sideways, so the blow lands on his hip. He attempts to retrieve a set of handcuffs from his pocket, but I karate chop his forearm and he drops the cuffs onto the floor of the boat.
I twist my arm around until he’s behind me and I attempt to elbow him with my left arm, but he’s standing too far to the right for me to reach him. I stomp on his right foot then throw my head back to headbutt him just as he doubles over from the pain in his foot. The b
low to his head dazes me for a moment. Just long enough for him to tackle me.
He lands on my back as I’m laid out halfway across the bench seat, the other half of my torso hanging over the back railing of the boat. I reach back, trying to get a grip on his nostrils or poke him in the eyes, but his head is flailing. He grunts as he squirms on top of me, trying to push me farther over the railing. At least, I think that’s what he’s trying to do until I hear the sound of his shoe scraping around the floor of the boat. He’s trying to get the cuffs.
My left arm is pinned between the railing and my abdomen. He has a firm grip on my right wrist. My only leverage here is to attempt to roll over, so his back is pinned against the railing. Or, if I can wrench my wrist free, I can try to throw him overboard.
“You don’t need to do this, Nick!” I shout. “I’ll go with you freely! If you just tell me where you’re taking me!”
His laughter shrieks in my ear. “You think I’m going to fall for that? Aha!” he exclaims as the soft clink of handcuffs breaks through the roaring airstream.
I have to headbutt him again, even if it means I may knock myself out. I bow my face forward and throw my head back. This time I hear an audible crunch when the back of my skull makes contact with his nose.
He releases me immediately, and I flip over onto my back. My hands grasp the railing for support as I lift my leg and land a hard blow to his crotch with the bottom of my foot. He flies backward, landing on top of the driver. The boat swerves wildly to the left and I hold on for dear life as I watch Nick nearly get thrown overboard.
The driver shouts at us as he gains control of the boat. Nick’s nose pours blood as he gazes into the water, then at his empty hand. He lost the handcuffs. I stand up straight to face him and his hand disappears behind his back.
Disarm. Disable. Disengage.
Those are the three tenets of combat my father pounded into me. The only way to disengage on a speedboat is to throw your opponent overboard… or kill them.
Sorry, Nick.
“You’re going down!” I shout as he pulls his hand out from behind his back brandishing a shiny knife.
I kick my leg out to disarm him, but he’s quick. He lunges toward me and I feel the knife go in and out of my side. The same side where I was stabbed just a few weeks ago. The pain is beyond excruciating. But I maintain enough wits to grab his wrist, twist his arm around, and bring my elbow crashing down on his forearm.
The gruesome crunch of his arm breaking is enough to make me sick to my stomach. But I can’t help but laugh as he drops to his knees and howls in pain as his arm hangs limply at his side. He reaches for the blade he dropped, but I land a hard knee to his jaw.
He’s dazed for a few seconds and I take the opportunity to pick up the knife. But he’s not giving up. He lumbers to his feet and lunges for me, his good arm outstretched. I move out of the way easily, but he manages to reach up and grab a fistful of my hair, pulling me down on top of him as he falls onto the bench seat.
I elbow him in the gut, and he responds by locking his good arm around my throat. He knows what he’s doing because my eyes begin to prickle and I can’t breathe. I wrap my fingers tightly around the handle of the blade and drive it into his thigh.
He releases his grip on me while shouting curses, but I don’t wait for him to come at me again. I reach forward, twisting my fingers into his hair to get a firm grip before I slash the knife from one side of his neck to the other.
His body goes limp immediately as blood spurts out of his throat and all over my face and chest. I grab his legs and struggle a bit, but I manage to get him overboard in a few seconds.
I turn around to face the driver and the boat begins to wobble beneath me. But I don’t think it’s the boat moving. I’m going to pass out.
He’s shouting at me in Spanish. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he’s pointing at the pool of blood on the floor of the boat. He’s angry. His eyes flit toward the knife in my hand then back to the woozy look on my face.
Suddenly, he reaches for the knife, but I throw a quick jab to his throat and an elbow to his temple. He’s out.
The boat begins to slow as I heave him out of the driver’s seat. I sit down in his place, one hand on the steering wheel, the other applying pressure to my knife wound. I need to get to Tenerife fast or I’m going to pass out and die in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
I push down the gas pedal, but the boat doesn’t seem to be moving fast at all. Maybe he’s running out of gas. Or maybe… Maybe I’m already dead.
Chapter Five
Daimon
If two speedboats with varied horsepower set off into the water at the same time, at full speed, the one with more power will always win. This boat has doomed me. But I cannot give up. I may arrive in Tenerife minutes behind Nick and Alex, but I should get a signal on my phone by the time they reach the shore ahead of me. Then I can call an associate in the city to head them off.
I glance back and forth from the dark, shimmering water ahead of me to my phone in my hand, waiting for the moment my cell is close enough to the island to get some reception. At last, a single bar appears on my phone and I begin dialing the number for Antonio.
It takes a few seconds before the call is connected and the ringing begins. Pressing the phone to my ear, I look up and a stalled boat materializes in the dark waters just ahead of me. I swerve to the left to avoid a collision, sending a wave of water cascading into the other boat.
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, this is Foxtrot-Mike- Lima, responding. Over,” Antonio says, answering the phone.
I struggle to maintain control over the boat with one arm as I turn it around. “Foxtrot-Mike- Lima, this is Alpha-Whiskey-Echo. I need a safe house near Puerto de la Cruz. Over.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, I can confirm a safe house at one-eight-three Calle Verde. Repeat: We have a safe house at one-eight-three Calle Verde, just two clicks south of Puerto de la Cruz. Over.”
I slow my boat down as I approach the other speedboat, aware this could be a trap. But the closer I get, I see I’ve stumbled upon something much worse. The entire backseat of the boat is covered in blood and Alex is slumped over in the driver’s seat.
“Foxtrot-Mike-Lima… I need emergency medical dispatched to the safe house. Over.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, emergency medical en route. Foxtrot-Mike-Lima, over and out.”
“Alpha-Whiskey-Echo, over and out.”
I remove my long-sleeved black shirt and use it to tie the two vessels together, then I hop inside the other boat. An older gentleman, probably the boat’s owner, is passed out on the floor of the vessel. I don’t know if he’s injured, but I can’t be bothered to check. I go straight to Alex and lift her into a sitting position.
The fluttering of her eyelids tells me she’s alive, but when her eyes fall closed again, I know I don’t have much time. She’s barely holding on.
My first priority is to get her to the safe house, but I can’t lose my head. I have to cover our tracks. The first thing I do is undress her down to her underwear and toss the clothing overboard. This is to get rid of the bloody evidence, since I have a strong feeling a lot of this is Nick’s blood. Also, if they find her clothes in the water, they’ll assume she went down with Nick.
As soon as I remove her shirt, my heart clenches at the sight of the knife wound in her side, less than an inch from her previous wound. I am not a praying man. I don’t think I’ve uttered a single prayer since I was an altar boy, but I close my eyes and point my face toward the heavens as I pray.
Please, God, don’t take my Alex or my child. I am not a good man. I know I don’t deserve Your mercy. But she does not deserve to suffer. Please don’t take her.
I wipe down Alex’s body to remove most of Nick’s blood. Then I lay her down in the back of the other speedboat. Back in the other boat, the older gentleman begins to stir.
“Desculpa me!” Forgive me, I shout at the man. Then I shoot him in the head and he falls limp on the blo
ody floor of the boat.
I dig into the right knee-pocket of my cargo pants for a small flash grenade. I untie the two boats and pull my shirt back on. Then I slide into the driver’s seat and drive away. When I’m about forty meters out, I pull the pin on the grenade and chuck it into the other boat. The explosion sends shrapnel about thirty meters in all directions. I don’t stick around to watch the boat sink.
The speedboat glides like a bullet over the ocean, never slowing until I’m a few meters from the shore. I slow it down a bit as I approach, then I ride a small wave and hit the gas to drive the boat as far up the sandy embankment as possible. A couple sitting on the beach stands as I lift Alex into my arms and jump down into the sand.
They shout at me in Spanish, asking if I need help. I respond with a roaring, “No.” Please don’t try to help me unless you want to get killed. I can’t leave any witnesses, I think to myself.
I carry Alex across the beach and toward a small parking lot where an SUV is pulling out of a parking space with a surfboard tied to the roof. I gently set Alex’s cold, wet body down on the pavement, then I rush the driver’s side door.
I whip my gun out of my waistband and shoot out the window. The SUV screeches to a halt.
“Get out!” I shout at the driver in both Spanish and English.
A guy with wet brown hair pulled back into a ponytail jumps out of the car, holding his hands in the air. I tell him I won’t shoot him if he helps me put Alex in the backseat. Once she’s lying safely in the back, I pistol-whip him across his right temple to keep him from contacting the authorities for at least a few minutes.
I drive the car through the quiet streets until I reach the safe house at 183 Calle Verde. It’s a warehouse. I pull the car next to a truck bay secured with a rolling steel door. Hopping out of the car, I shoot out the lock on the door and force it open.