The Getaway

by Hope Anika

Alexander immediately shook his head, but Lucia only nodded in agreement. She was a healer—that was a truth she’d known since she was a child hiking through the jungles of Belize at her grandmother’s side as they’d ferreted out those too frail—or superstitious—to seek treatment from the local el medico. She’d worked her butt off to earn her medical degree, and that she hadn’t quite made it—and never would—mattered little here and now, where she could use the skills and knowledge she’d sacrificed so much for to help others. It was, in fact, her duty to do so. Because if Sam hadn’t stopped and bullied her into letting him help them, it was quite possible they would be as ruined as the town around them. It hardly mattered that he was not a happy man—or an easy man, something that was more apparent the longer she spent in his company—he’d saved them, and for that, she was immensely grateful.

  Even if he lit her temper like a match to flame, and part of her was still tempted to give him a good shove.

  The situation was, after all, temporary, and she would figure out how to get rid of him soon enough, because they could not stay together. No matter how helpful he’d been, she could not trust him. Not with the truth. No one had believed that truth when she’d tried to tell them—not even those who should have—and he would be no different. He would hear that name—Donavon Cruz—and he would run and hide, as they all had. And that would be just one more betrayal, something Lucia simply couldn’t face.

  “Sí,” she said finally and brushed away her tears with her wet sleeve. “We will look.”

  Alexander turned to stare at her. His cold mask had been torn violently away; he looked pale and shaken and afraid. “No,” he said harshly.

  Lucia only arched her brows at him. “Sí, mijo. We must.”

  “We can’t. There’s no time.”

  He’s coming.

  As if she would forget. As if every heartbeat didn’t seem a loss of time and distance, irretrievable and disastrous. As if the knowledge of what he would do to her when he found them wasn’t even now eating at her like some kind of fatal, infectious disease. There was a reason she’d christened him Ivan the Terrible; she knew exactly what he was capable of. She’d known enough monsters; she recognized the makings. But she couldn’t sacrifice anyone else on the altar of their escape. She wouldn’t.

  “We will make time,” she told the boy, aware of Sam watching with a gaze that was sharp with intelligence and far too perceptive. She’d seen that acute intellect from the first moment he’d glared down at her through the pouring rain, and if she’d had any doubts about his acumen, his response to the tornado had disassembled them. Smart, observant; a man who took charge. Who shielded others and used his strength to bear the brunt of whatever storm descended.

  Military, she surmised. Or law enforcement—which was, truly, a horrifying proposition. But there was nothing to be done. At least, not at the moment.

  “No,” Alexander said again, more forcefully. “We have to go.”

  Lucia only blinked at him. In her embrace, Ben hiccupped a small sob. Her arms ached, bones, tendons and joints locked into place beneath his weight. Her shoulder was throbbing from grabbing Sam in the culvert, and her skin burned from the numerous cuts and scrapes that covered her. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Sam was limping as well, his left thigh bleeding through his jeans. He’d changed out of his shredded t-shirt, but she’d seen his back when he pulled off the tattered remnants, broad, muscled, scraped and raw, bloody and badly bruised. But he said nothing; he hadn’t even flinched, and now he walked beside them, his backpack lodged over one shoulder, filled with whatever mysterious objects he carried, plus their sleeping bags, packs, and the tent. Ben’s Snoopy bag dangled from his right hand.

  Around them, nothing stirred but the wind. No sirens, no screams. No signs of life other than their own. On the horizon, clouds continued to gather, another violent storm that crept ever closer.

  “This is what I have trained to do, mijo,” Lucia said quietly. “I must do it.”

  “I don’t care.” Alexander glared at her. His hands fisted, his entire being vibrated, and his voice rose. “We have to go now. We have to save ourselves.”

  “Really? You would leave them buried in that rubble to die?”

  “Yes!”

  “No, you would not. You are not…”

  “Him.” Tears glazed the boy’s eyes, and Lucia took a step toward him, her heart squeezing tight in her chest. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite,” she said.

  Sam watched, too observant to be ignored. But there was nothing to be done for that, either.

  “You said we wouldn’t stop,” Alexander hissed. “You promised you wouldn’t give up. You lied to me.”

  His eyes glittered; he looked desperate and wild, but Lucia only stared back at him, unable to sacrifice one for another. Ben clutched at her, his fingers digging into her arms like claws.

  “Please,” Alexander said, his voice cracking, and the plea in him made her throat fill. “Please, Lucia. We have to go.”

  His panic was so piercing, it felt like a blade between her ribs. “Mijo—”

  “No!” he yelled and took an abrupt step toward her, his gaze so turbulent Lucia knew he wanted to hit her. Again. He never had—not yet—but he was damaged and despondent and filled with rage. Sometimes it was all he knew.

  She drew herself up, but suddenly Sam was there, his large hand landing on Alexander’s shoulder, stopping him in place.

  “Easy,” Sam barked, an order that made Alexander jerk violently. He tried to wrench away, but Sam held tight. “Get a hold of yourself, son.”

  “I’m not your son,” Alexander snarled, his body trembling, his hands clenching, unclenching, clenching again.

  “For which you should thank your lucky stars,” Sam retorted. “Because if my boy ever raised his hand to a woman, I’d tan his goddamn hide.”

  Alexander shuddered. Lucia watched emotion chase across his face: pain, shame, defeat. She wanted to protest, but she knew Sam was right. The boy could not be allowed to simply lash out—no matter why he did so. So much torment. Which left her torn between the rage that lived ever-present in her heart and wanting to wrap him in her arms.

  “You don’t abandon someone who needs help,” Sam continued in a hard voice. “If you sacrifice them to save yourself, you’re already lost. Understood?”

  Lucia expected another explosion, maybe even more violent than the first; Alexander did not respond well to touch. But the boy only shuddered and stood stiffly beneath Sam’s hand. Finally, he nodded.

  “Good,” Sam said. He squeezed Alexander’s shoulder and then released him. “You stay here with your brother. Don’t touch anything; most of the electrical wires are probably live. Lucia and I will take a look for survivors.” He slid off his pack and walked over to what remained of a small, grassy patch of ground, bare of glass and debris. He set down the pack and Ben’s Snoopy bag and turned to look at them.

  “Move,” he ordered.

  Definitely military. Ay, yai, yai. Because that was just what she needed. Because he couldn’t possibly be something far more simple and easy to manage, like an accountant. Or a dentist.

  Destiny is not for the weak. But Lucia was beginning to think that destiny could suck it.

  She sighed and moved to set Ben down. He clutched at her, a soft whimper breaking from him.

  “Easy, monkey,” she told him softly. “You are going to stay with Alexander for a little while, okay?”

  His brown gaze was huge, dark, awash in tears. He wouldn’t let go. “But what if a dinosaur comes?”

  “Monkey,” Lucia said gently.

  “Or aliens. Or the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man!”

  “I’ll protect you,” Alexander said and tugged at him. “C’mon, Benny.”

  Ben went reluctantly, his tiny fingers clutching at her in protest. Lucia handed him his Snoopy bag and told Alexander, “You must change out of those wet clothes. And put your coats back on, it is getting cold. There are snacks, too. Pl
ease eat something.”

  “Chicken nuggets,” Ben whispered.

  “Maybe later, monkey,” Lucia replied, although it was doubtful. She smoothed his hair and kissed his cheek and then stood to face Sam. “You have a plan?”

  Because he seemed like the kind of man who would have a plan. Unlike her.

  “You go left, I’ll go right.” He turned to survey the debris fields. “If you find someone, call out. Don’t try to get them by yourself.”

  Which made her bristle, even as she understood it was good advice. In addition to intelligent and difficult, Sam was arrogant. An alpha. A man who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed.

  Bad enough, but worse was what Lucia couldn’t put her finger on, something about him that made all of the volatility she felt surge to the surface, a scalding geyser of fear and fury and pain, one that had the ability to obliterate everything else, including her common sense. Reason. Whatever this man stirred within her, it was dangerous, and she’d already made enough stupid mistakes; she didn’t need to make any more.

  The sooner they ditched him, the better.

  Sam limped away, and Lucia looked at the boys. “Stay here.”

  “We should go now,” Alexander said, watching Sam retreat. He pulled Sam’s pack to him and began to remove their things from it, separating them. “While he’s busy.”

  It was not a bad idea, and for a moment, Lucia considered it. Sam would be distracted, and losing him within the debris fields would not be difficult. But she could not in good conscious walk away without at least a cursory search for survivors. There were simply some things she could not do, and abandoning someone she might be able to help was one of them. She would look, and she would do what she could, and it would have to be enough.

  Then they would deal with Sam.

  Chapter Seven

  “First, I’m sorry. I know you’re fresh out of Baja, that it was a shitshow of epic proportions, and this was the last thing you needed. I owe you an explanation, and you’ll get it. I promise. Second, thank you—because I need you to stash that package I asked you to retrieve until I figure out what the hell is going on. The feds are on me like flies on shit; no way can I get out of here to meet you. They found the car, so I hope you’re on the move. I’ll check in again soon. Don’t call me; I’ll call you.”

  Famous last words. Sam squeezed his phone and snarled softly.

  As he continued to make his way through the shattered remains of Canyon Falls, Idaho, he wondered if he was cursed. First Baja and now this…whatever the hell this was. Because it wasn’t clean, and it sure as hell wasn’t simple. And now that Mother Nature had decided to throw her hat into the ring, it was an official natural fucking disaster.

  So far, he’d found no signs of life. No moans or groans or cries for help. Nothing but the occasional body and complete, mass destruction. Dead birds dotted the landscape. Trees had been snapped in half, their trunks splintered like broken teeth, their tops shredded into green, pulpy mush. The concrete was scoured, as though someone had taken a giant Brillo pad to it, and electrical wires hummed and hissed as he gave them a wide berth. He hoped the boys listened and left them the hell alone; one touch would be enough to kill.

  The day was growing colder, darker, and the storm to the west was almost upon them. The wind wasn’t bad—yet. But it was only a matter of time, Sam thought grimly. And before that time came, he needed to have Lucia and the kids someplace warm, dry, and secure.

  Yeah. Good luck with that.

  “Fuck,” he muttered and pinched the bridge of his nose. His shirt clung to the dried blood on his back; he felt like someone had taken a paring knife to him and peeled a layer off. It burned like hell. His head still hurt, he could have eaten a small horse, and his thigh was throbbing like an obnoxious dance song. In that moment, he would have given anything for a goddamn cigarette.

  Just one.

  But it was not meant to be. Half a block down, four gas pumps stuck out from their concrete moorings at odd angles, but any station that had once existed was nothing more than rubble. Nothing had been left whole. Most of the debris was almost unrecognizable, and finding a whole, pristine pack of smokes would be akin to finding the proverbial pot of gold.

  A miracle.

  Something he’d never before been granted, and it was highly unlikely one would find him now. No, he was on his own. Which—had it been just him—would have been a pain in the ass, but easily doable. The fact that he was suddenly responsible for Lucia and two young kids made it a full-blown fiasco.

  Not that Lucia would agree. Sam had a feeling she would tell him to shove his presumption of responsibility up his ass; in point of fact, he was pretty sure she was already planning her escape. It was inevitable, and only the search for survivors had circumvented it—at least, momentarily. Because the oldest boy—Alexander—wanted nothing more than to be gone.

  We have to go now. We have to save ourselves.

  The kid’s horrified desperation left a bad taste in Sam’s mouth. He’d seen that kind of raw terror before, but only in the worst of circumstances: on the battlefield, in an Afghan village dead from disease, at the end of his Glock. Never had he thought to see it in the eyes of a ten-year-old boy—especially a ten-year-old boy who, by all accounts, should have had a permanent residence on Easy Street. But there was no mistaking that panic. That level of fear.

  It always smelled the same: sour sweat and bitter breath. Sam knew it well.

  You said we wouldn’t stop. You promised you wouldn’t give up. You lied to me.

  The kid had been pissed. Sam wasn’t certain he would have belted Lucia, but he sure looked like he’d wanted to. And those words…they troubled Sam. Because nothing about them shouted “kidnapping victim!” In no way could they be construed as a stolen child pleading with his captor to return home. The boy wasn’t afraid of Lucia...he was afraid for himself.

  Afraid. A pale word for what Sam had witnessed. The kid was fucking terrified. Frightened of something so horrific, it made him blind, deaf and half dumb. That took some doing.

  That took something worse than death.

  Goddamnhellfuck.

  Dread cloaked Sam like a dark shroud. Not just because he was currently an accessory to felony kidnapping, tromping through a decimated town in fruitless search of anyone still breathing—or because the storm headed toward them was both metaphorical and quite goddamn literal. No, the heavy, thick darkness that slid through his veins was due to the inescapable realization that nothing was what it seemed: not Lucia Sanchez, not this crazy kidnapping, and sure as hell not the story Tony had fed him.

  Sam wanted the truth, no matter how unpalatable. He wanted to understand the fear he saw in Alexander Cruz, and he wanted to know why Lucia had been so desperate to get him away from his father that she’d used a death trap on wheels for her escape. Why her grand plan was nothing more than a tent, two sleeping bags, and a handful of Little Debbie snack cakes.

  What the hell did she think she was doing?

  Because she wasn’t dumb. Sam didn’t know her well, but he knew that. He could see that. He’d dealt with enough stupid people to know the difference. But the rage he saw in her could make smart people do dumb things; was that what happened? Had she reacted instead of acted? The fire in her eyes said she was more than capable of following her temper down the rabbit hole. And he knew she was strong; he’d seen that strength first hand in the aftermath of the storm. She’d been shaken and terrified, but she’d just gritted her teeth and gone matter-of-factly on, keeping the boys calm and moving forward. Even the carnage they’d found in Canyon Falls, which had damn sure shaken her, had been dealt with in a pragmatic fashion. This is what I’ve trained to do, mijo. I must do it.

  Which meant what?

  “Fuck,” he said again.

  Because he couldn’t get past What made her that desperate? Why had she done something so fucking stupid? Because she wasn’t stupid. Even if what she’d done was.

  So much for my
beer, he thought. His alpine meadow. His fly rod.

  Some fucking peace and quiet.

  Because he wasn’t walking away until he had answers. Until he understood why. And beyond that requirement, not much else mattered. He was a man sworn to protect, and those boys damn sure needed protecting. From what—or whom—was the question, one he would answer, even if he had to squeeze Lucia Sanchez until she popped like a balloon. He didn’t want this problem, but he couldn’t bail, not anymore.

  There were too many unanswered questions, too many inconsistencies, and too damned much at stake. His instincts were howling, and the sense of duty Magnus had drilled into him made them impossible to ignore. Whether or not he was up for the task was moot. That he was exhausted and numb from his existence only seemed to bring things into vivid clarity. He was here, and he was the man for the job.

  He didn’t have to like it.

  But he wasn’t following orders—not Tony’s, not Donovan Cruz’s, and not the Feds’. He might have drawn the short stick, but that didn’t mean he was going to let anyone poke him with it. This was going to happen his way, and to hell with anyone who disagreed.

  “Fuck.” He stepped over an unhinged refrigerator door. There was no sign of the icebox it had come from, but rows of jelly, pickles and condiments sat tucked within the interior shelving, unbroken and pristine. He found it bitterly ironic, when the entire town lay in shambles around him.

  Irony, the sole constant in life. In his life, anyway.

  The wind lifted, cold, sharp, scented by rain. Far off, thunder rumbled. Around him, debris fluttered into the air, a whirl of despair and inexplicable loss. He’d walked down streets littered with the dead, into villages where nothing but ash remained, through killing fields stained red with blood, but nothing left him as hollow and hopeless as this aftermath. Searching for life seemed useless.

  “Sam!”

  The sound of Lucia abruptly calling his name made his heart slam into his ribs.

  “Coming,” he shouted and turned in the direction of her voice. He zigzagged around piles of rubble, dented appliances and fallen walls. When he glimpsed her behind what remained of someone’s home, his pulse leapt. A response he neither wanted nor appreciated. On top of everything else, the woman had to go and be fucking alluring as hell.