Garcia struggles for control as the back wheels dig into the ditch. I reach over the seat and push Ava’s falling body back onto the seat.
“What’s happening?” she cries as she tries to sit up. The skidding motion of the car drives her into one side.
“Put your seat belt on, Ava,” I shout and then brace my hand against the dash.
The car spins around, once and then twice. The nearly bald tires have no traction. We skid into the middle of the road. Lights flash in our lane.
Fuck, in our lane.
A horn sounds.
The lights bear down on us. Behind me I hear a muffled scream of fear and in the reflection, I see Ava with her hand over her mouth.
“The gas, Garcia. The gas,” I yell.
Just before impact, Garcia guns the engine and we go flying across the road and into the ditch. The little sedan is rocked slightly by the wind as the truck speeds past, whaling on the horn in angry fear.
“What happened?” Ava gasps.
“Tire shot out.” Beside me Garcia is dumbstruck. He hasn’t moved. “Where’s your gun, man?”
“Seat.” His breathing is labored. “Under the seat.”
I don’t have time to dwell on why his voice sounds strange. Whoever shot out our tires is out there. And that kind of shot? It had to be done with night-vision goggles, which means they have a serious advantage on us. We need to mud up. The cool mud layer will reduce our heat signal and level the playing field.
“How far do you think we are from the river?” I ask Garcia while feeling around on the floor for his gun. I locate it wedged between the seat and the console. I place it on Garcia’s lap and twist around. “Ava, pull down the center compartment and reach through to the back.”
“What about you two?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about us.” I take the butt of my gun and smash out the interior lights.
Garcia’s hand is on his door. At my nod, we both roll out of the car, making as small of a target as we can. I duckwalk to the rear and open the car door to grab the pack where we stuck the folders. After sticking my arms through the straps, I army crawl on my stomach over to Garcia, who’s already flat on the ground with his gun up.
Pucallpa can’t be more than a few hundred clicks away. If we have to abandon this car, we’ll find another one that will carry us the rest of the way.
No gunshots greet us. Whoever shot at us must be some distance away. That’s to our advantage. We’ll hear them . . . I hope.
“How many?” I mouth quietly.
“No more than one,” Garcia guesses. “Maybe two? But only one is a decent shot.”
“Only takes one bullet to kill us.”
He grunts quietly.
I tap the ground. “You stay here with Ava. I’ll go forward and see if I can spot the shooter. Snipers don’t like to get close. If I circle around, I might be able to see him.”
“I have a better idea. Be ready.”
Before I can ask him what the hell he means, he jumps up. A slight flare appears as the gunpowder is engaged thirty degrees to the left. Garcia’s body jerks once and then twice. I shut out what I know has happened and run hard toward the pinpoint of light that has already died out. I hear footsteps approaching fast, and drop immediately to the ground. The bullet whizzes over my head. The shooter is twenty-five feet in front of me, standing like a dumbass. I shoot his leg.
The muzzle of his gun swings toward me, and I surge forward and blow the top of his fucking head off. In the gauzy moonlight I see the figure jerk backward and then collapse. I’m on top of his corpse in less than twenty seconds. The sniper rifle lies to his right. I grab it and then sprint back to Garcia.
Ava’s on her knees outside the car and Garcia’s in her lap. She’s using her shirt to sop the blood gurgling out of his mouth. Even in the darkness I can see the stain on her hands, which are clenched over his chest.
“Rafe,” she cries out. “He’s been shot.”
“You dumb fuck.” I crash to my knees beside them. Ava gasps in shock but I ignore her to repeat it. “You dumb, stupid fuck.”
Garcia closes his eyes and makes an impatient huffing noise. “He’d have picked us both off if I hadn’t drawn his fire. Stupid night-vision goggles.”
I throw the pack off and paw through it for the first aid kit. His hand, warm and slick from his blood, stops me. “No,” he says. “It’s not just my lung. I’m gut shot.”
His hand drags mine to his side. When I peel away the fabric, the entry wound pulses as if it’s alive.
“Fuck.” I swipe my hand across my mouth and taste the metallic flavor of Garcia’s life. “No, we’re going to save you.” I wrench open the kit and grab the gauze. “We’ll glue you up and drive into Pucallpa and get the bullet out of you.”
“No,” he repeats. “I’m not going to make it. We both know it. Take her and get out.”
“No man left behind, brother. Not happening.” I twist out of his grasp and press the gauze to his wound. It’s soaked and ruined immediately. The fountain of blood keeps coming.
Ava’s crying but she tries to help, our hands fumbling to pack the wound tight and stop the blood.
“I’m going now. See my girl.” Garcia smiles. “Here, I’m it for her. I can see her.”
He clasps my arm and pulls me close, death giving him strength. “You’re right,” he gasps into my ear, his breath cold when it should be warm. I press harder against the wound even though I know it’s useless. My throat tightens.
“What about?”
“Everything. Her. You. What we fight for. The moment. Savor it.” Each word is labored. I clench my teeth from striking out, from weeping, from running back and putting a dozen more bullets into the shooter’s face.
“I got him,” I say, knowing that’s one thing Garcia would have wanted.
“Never doubted you, Brother.”
And then that’s it. His fingers tighten momentarily against my arm and then he’s gone. No breath, just a dead, lifeless weight.
I shove the med kit back in the bag and then pick him up.
“Get the door, Ava,” I order. She scurries to obey, my voice harsher than she’s probably ever heard before. I slide Garcia into the backseat and then strip the car of all of its supplies. Garcia had gotten us a lot of shit. Guns, extra ammunition, clothes, water, cash.
In a fair world, Garcia would have died on the island with a beer at his side and his fishing pole between his legs. But we don’t live in a fair world—haven’t since we were born, and not even then.
“Can you carry a few things?” I ask.
She nods, still sniffling and looking a hundred times lost, hurt, and confused. I’d like to take her in my arms, but that’s the last thing I should do.
My mother told me I was a killer, that I killed from the moment I was conceived, and I haven’t stopped. I want to laugh off the curse, but the dead body of my friend reveals the truth. Even if Ava truly wanted me, not the man who can save her friend but me, I would still need to walk away. For her own safety.
Garcia’s a dark reminder of my own cursed existence. I can’t forget again.
I give her two of the AKs and another pack. It’s lightweight and we won’t be walking for long. I’ll steal a car soon.
I take the rest of the stuff and then lead Ava away, back toward the dead sniper’s body. I’m taking his night-vision gear.
“Stay here,” I say, pointing to a small patch of dirt.
“I think I should go with you.” She shivers but it’s not from the cold. She rubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.
“No.” I don’t give her any chance to argue, just turn on my heel until I reach the dead sniper. I pull off his headgear that’s splattered with brain matter and blood and slip it over my eyes. I can barely see the car from here—only the engine and Garcia’s body make faint heat signals, and both are fading fast. I release two shots into the rear of the car and the second one hits. The gas t
ank explodes. Ava screams. I wipe moisture away from my face and return to Ava’s side.
My madre said I was cursed. That I should keep the devil’s wand to myself lest I hurt any other innocents. I’d kept to myself for most of my life because I hadn’t wanted to hurt those who didn’t deserve it.
Garcia was right in one sense. Ava didn’t belong with me, because men like Garcia and I are just one bullet away from death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AVA
Rafe’s being distant. I can’t blame the guy. His best friend just died in our arms a few hours ago. Since then, we’ve stolen another car from a pair of boys, driven into Pucallpa, abandoned the vehicle, and now we’re heading to a hotel to meet up with someone else. Of course, I assume we’re heading to a hotel, because Rafe won’t talk to me.
He’s shut down entirely.
And part of me wants to remind him that I’m here and I’m scared, too, and I want to comfort him. If he was visibly upset, I could handle that. If he was angry, I could get angry, too. But stone-cold silence? I don’t know what to do with that. He’s been so cheerfully competent this entire time, even when I’m ready to fall apart.
Now, I feel like he’s falling apart and I’ve got no idea what to do.
“Come on,” Rafe says at one point, startling me out of my woe-is-me attitude. I perk up, but he only takes my elbow and steers me toward a building.
It’s a seedy-looking hotel with a boxy storefront. Lovely. I wrinkle my nose as we head inside and the smell of sour air-conditioning meets my nose. Rafe doesn’t stop at the front desk, but heads for the stairs, dragging me along. We pass grubby doors with dirt halos around the doorknobs. Rafe seems to know what room we’re looking for and pauses in front of a door. He knocks twice, pauses, knocks three times, pauses, and then knocks once. A moment later, I hear chains coming off the door, and we’re greeted by a young man about my age, with a head of dark, curly hair, wearing a baseball cap turned backward. He gives me a curious look, then turns to Rafe.
“Where’s Garcia?”
“Dead,” Rafe says flatly. “We got ambushed. Snipers. Night vision.”
The man’s face falls, and he looks devastated. He flicks a glance at me, then moves to Rafe. “What? But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rafe says. He slings a pack on the bed. “Shut the door and lock it. You know which hotel the exchange is going to be at?” He is cold and terse with the new guy.
“Yeah. Chatter says it’s still at Manish Hotel Ecológico. One of the bungalows.” He turns and looks at me, his mouth crooking up, only to wobble. “Hey, Ava.”
I’m a little startled he knows my name, but then I remember that Rafe and his boys have been watching me since this mule thing started. “Hey,” I say softly.
“I’m Bennito.” He swallows hard, then his jaw clenches, and he looks at Rafe.
I do, too. He’s busy rifling through the things we’ve brought—guns, ammo, cash. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to ignore us.
Both of us. And that hurts.
My stomach growls and Rafe picks up a gun, unsnaps the cartridge to check the bullets, and then snaps it back in again. “She needs to eat.”
“Room service?” Bennito asks, gesturing at the phone. “I got you the adjoining room. Wasn’t sure . . .” His throat works. “Garcia’s shit is in there, but . . .”
“It’ll come in handy,” Rafe says in that emotionless voice. “And not room service. I don’t want anyone knowing we’re here. Take her to the corner, get her something to eat.”
Now both Bennito and I look concerned. “Is it safe? Will they recognize me?” I ask.
“Here,” Rafe says coldly and takes the baseball cap off of Bennito’s head. “Now you have a disguise. Just go around the corner. Bennito can call if there’s trouble.”
“’Kay, boss,” Bennito says. He stuffs a gun in his waistband and tugs his shirt over it, then looks at me. “Shall we go?”
My mouth works silently. This all feels wrong. Stupid and wrong. He’s letting me leave to go to the goddamned corner store? After a week of practically peeing together in the jungle because it wasn’t safe to be alone? I feel oddly betrayed and hurt.
His friend died, you selfish idiot. Maybe he needs a moment.
Right. Maybe I’m too busy thinking about me right now. “We’ll be back,” I say softly. “You want anything?”
He shakes his head.
Okay then.
It feels so bizarre to go down the street with Bennito. Like I haven’t just been pawned off to a stranger. Like we’re not in danger out here. But no one on the streets notices us. If anything, I suppose we blend in, because we look scruffy as all hell.
We get to a run-down corner store and my stomach rumbles again. “Get whatever you want,” Bennito says, and runs a hand over his mouth. “I think I’m gonna buy some cigarettes.”
I nod and absently head down an aisle. I’m starving, so everything looks good. I grab some beef jerky, some chips, and a stack of chocolate bars. God, I definitely need chocolate. It’s good depression food. I pick up some junk for Mendoza, too, because I know he’s got to be hungry.
I pass a toiletries aisle and grab a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, a comb for my ragged hair, and some lip balm, because my face is a mess. I grab a bottle of lotion, too, even though the thought of trying to repair my hands feels like going after the sea with a spoon. They look awful. Like I’ve been trying to catch bees with my hands or something.
I spot condoms, and pick through the selection. I don’t suppose condoms matter, since Rafe was a virgin. He’d probably be too large for anything they made anyhow. I hesitate, and then spot a bottle of lube and grab it.
My arms are full of crap when I return to Bennito’s side, but he doesn’t comment, just gestures to the counter. I throw it all down and give Bennito a challenging look when he spots the lube. Again, no comment.
Jesus, I wish someone would talk to me.
We exit the store a few minutes later, and Bennito buys me something to eat from a street vendor. I don’t know what the food is, but it’s hot and warm and I gobble it down quickly, because I want to get back to the hotel room and to Rafe. We buy Rafe some street food, too, and I cradle it in my good hand as we skirt around mototaxis and walk back to the hotel. There are chickens in the streets, and the entire area strikes me as a bit run-down, despite it being a city.
When we get back to the hotel room, though, Rafe’s in the shower in his room. I stand awkwardly in Bennito’s room for a moment, holding Rafe’s rapidly cooling food. Should I go in after Rafe? Take him in my arms and hug him despite his prickliness? Or is he the kind that will hate that? I wish I knew.
Bennito clears his throat. “So you still have the contents of the bag?”
I’m thankful for the distraction. “Yeah, but it’s just junk. Some colored folders with papers in them.”
He cocks his head, clearly curious. “Can I see them? There has to be something there for them to keep tracking you. Otherwise, there’d be no point.”
I shrug and set Rafe’s food down on one of the tables, then dig through his bag until I find the folders.
Bennito takes them with a hmmm in his throat, and immediately starts flipping through the printouts. “These are web page printouts.”
“So?” I’m not following.
“So maybe there’s something embedded on these websites that corresponds. Maybe it’s a code.” He rubs a finger across one of the sticky notes, thinking. “Give me some time and I’ll figure it out.”
I nod and look over at Rafe’s room. “I . . . guess I’ll go see how he’s doing.”
“Did you, ah . . .” Bennito clears his throat. “Did you need to stay in this room? There’s two beds. The other only has one.”
It’s sweet of him to offer. Maybe he thinks my relationship with Rafe is a lot less consensual than it looks. “I like sleeping with Rafe,” I tell him, even though we haven’t done it much. I don’t plan on let
ting Rafe escape my clutches all night. He needs to talk to someone, damn it. It’s not natural to get so quiet. Not after what happened. I’m still in shock myself and I barely knew the guy.
I give Bennito back his hat, take my bag of junk food and toiletries, and sit down on one side of Rafe’s bed, shutting the door between the rooms. With my comb, I detangle my hair slowly as Rafe showers. My curls are a rat’s nest but with some careful work of the comb, I’m able to get my hair to something decent. It’s a riot of natural sleep-waves, but at least it’s not snarled and matted.
Rafe’s still in the damn shower, so I lean back against the ugly headboard of the bed and pull out a chocolate bar. I’m starting to feel . . . I don’t know. It’s a mixture of depression and shock and loss and despair, and pity. Pity for Rafe, who has to be torn apart, and pity for myself, who could use a hug, and the person I want one from most has shut me out.
I think of Rose. My best friend, the only person in the world that I’m truly close to. My parents have always been distant workaholics, happy to pawn me off on daycare or a nanny or a babysitter so they could do their own thing. We’ve never been close, but Rose and I? We’re close.
Like Garcia and Rafe were close. My throat closes up and hot tears start to flood my eyes. What if I can’t save Rose? What am I going to do? A day or so ago, I felt in control. Like I could get the guy and save my best friend. Now I feel like all that control has disappeared. Rafe’s pushed me away, and all of my hopes for saving Rose hinge on him.
I think of Rafe, and how he must be feeling at the moment. Does he feel like Garcia’s death is my fault? Like I’m to blame? Unhappy, I shove a piece of chocolate in my mouth. Rose and I would always split a chocolate bar, because she couldn’t afford the calories, but she had a major sweet tooth. Whenever she was sad, she’d want chocolate. I guess it’s a habit I’m picking up. Unfortunately, the taste of chocolate reminds me of my missing bestie, and I put the rest of it aside.
I allow myself a bit of surreptitious weeping, but by the time the shower turns off, I’m done. I’m composed, too, and I want to be there for Rafe. However he needs me, in whatever capacity he needs me, I want to be there for him.
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