by Sand, A. J.
“I’m here, Jesse.”
“You used me to pay back a human trafficker? And it was far more than you actually owed her. Do you know what I’ve been through trying to help you, for Henry Junior’s sake? Our friend died over this. He was killed, Henry. So, what did you need that money for? You better fucking be dying and need an organ off the black market.”
He takes a few halting breaths. “Jesse…it’s late. Let’s talk in the morning. I’ll explain everything then.”
“Fuck you. When I get back, I’m filling Barbara in on everything. I’ll ask her if I can be in HJ’s life, but I want absolutely nothing to do with you anymore.”
****
Drew is standing in her underwear, looking back and forth between two dresses, and her still unpacked bag is vomiting clothes to the floor. Usually I find this outfit indecisiveness really cute, especially because she’s pretty much naked, but we have to leave. “Orange one,” I say, rolling over in bed.
“Which means I should wear the black one,” she says with a teasing tone. The orange dress lands on my face.
“Yes. You should wear it. As in, put it on. Now.”
“You’re not even dressed!” Drew argues. With a smirk, I hop up and pull on my jeans and shirt in thirty seconds. “You’re an asshole,” she says, laughing.
“A dressed asshole, though.” I kiss her on the forehead before I grab the keys. “Come on, baby. We’re gonna be late meeting Sandrine, and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.” Glory is eleven hours away. My plan is to get us to San Luis Potosi in six hours, where we can spend the night and then do the rest tomorrow. I grab her bag and mine, ignoring her complaints that she’s not done packing, and take them out to the car. It’s beautiful out—a sun-washed day where the light reflects off everything and stings the eyes. The duffel bag of money is in the trunk already, and instead of seeming like payment for my troubles, it seems more like the source. All of it has come from a bad place, and just how bad of a place is really starting to set in now that the fighting fog is clearing. I want some good to come of it because right now it may as well be a bag of blood.
I snap out of my thoughts when the passenger door slams shut as Drew gets in. We’re having lunch with Sandrine in Coyoacán at her favorite French bakery. I get in the car and pull off onto the highway without slowing to merge. I’ve mastered driving in this place now.
Drew cranks the radio to a station we’ve both grown very fond of, and she sings the wrong lyrics to a catchy Spanish song. I swear the girl likes anything that could be replaced with drunk cats crying. “What happens when we get back to Texas? With me and you?” she asks.
“Well, I want to be with you, obviously, Spark. So, after I figure out this school stuff, I go where you go.”
“Glory?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“No. Glory will always be important to me because it’s where I met you, and I wanted to make it a better place so you could come back there. But you don’t want to live there, so I go where you go.”
“Then we’ll figure it out in time, baby.” I should be happy. I should feel relieved. And I do. But an underlying suspicion has me on edge. It still doesn’t feel like freedom. I’m looking into the cars that pass by, looking at the ones that keep up speed with us, and the ones that slow down behind us. Maybe I’m too used to things going horribly wrong now. But I just—
There. “Do you see that black car? Like three cars down from us?” It’s the nicest one on the road, which is making it stand out for all the wrong reasons. “It keeps changing lanes every time we do.”
“Is it?” Drew turns around to look. “Oh, I see it. Dammit. Dammit. I knew this seemed too good to be true. You think it’s Ramón?”
“I don’t know. But it is following us, right?”
“Get off at the next exit and let the GPS reroute us…” Drew recommends. She’s still facing the back window. I swerve over, inciting a chorus of car horns, and then barrel to the exit, which puts us onto another highway.
“Did it come over, too?” I ask.
“I don’t see it,” she says with a nervous laugh, turning back to the front. “We’re overreacting. Ramón said he was keeping his word. I believe him.”
I glance up at the rearview and exhale harshly. Nothing. Okay, I need to calm the fuck down. “So what the hell was in that envelope you…” I trail off when my gaze hits the rearview mirror again. “Fuck.” The same black car is there. “It’s following us still.” The driver maneuvers effortlessly across lanes, speeding up. I accelerate and zip to my left. The black car mimics me and moves over. My heart sinks.
“Can you outrun him?”
“Not the way I want to in this piece of shit,” I say, gunning it with another lane change. “Let’s go meet Sandrine and figure out a plan from there. They clearly want something from us, but I doubt they’ll do it publicly.” Actually, I don’t really know that, but I’m working on another idea. One that is already breaking my heart. “Call Sandrine and tell her we’ll be there in a few and we’ve got company.”
All the way to the bakery, the black car is playing cat to our mouse. When we finally get to Caramel, it drives past while we park at the curb, and the windows are too tinted for me to see inside.
“Jesus,” Sandrine says, stomping on her cigarette near the doorway. “Who is that?”
“We don’t know.” I usher them both inside and seat us at a table before the hostess can. Ramón? Friends of Carlos? The police? “Where are you parked?”
“On the other side of the street. There’s a lot over there.” Sandrine’s brow furrows. “Why? You want to fool them and take my car?”
“No, I’m sure whoever it is, is circling the restaurant.” I hand Sandrine my car keys. “Go outside, get Drew’s bag—it’s pink—the guitar case, and the blue duffel. Transfer them to your car—”
“Why, Jess?” Drew cuts in, grabbing my wrist. The terrified expression on her face depresses me far more than I thought it would. “What are you doing?”
“They can only chase one of us, baby,” I say flatly.
She shakes her head as fury and betrayal burn in her eyes. “Nope. You are not going to do this. You are not.” Sandrine looks at me with a sad smile of acceptance as she stands up and heads for the door. “Sandrine, don’t do it. Please, don’t do it,” Drew calls after her. Sandrine’s steps slow for just a beat, but then she picks up her stride and walks out. “Jesse, please…I’m begging you. We can find another way. Please. I’m begging you.”
“No. I have to. Let me be what you saw: the man stopping the monsters. Even if he has to make an ultimate sacrifice. Take the money and—”
“Fuck the money.” Caramel goes dead silent for a second. “No.”
“I’m not really giving you a choice, Hallisay. They’re here for me. We both know that. And whatever is about to happen will either happen when you’re with me or they’ll do it while you’re getting away. But I can’t help you if I’m dead.”
Sandrine comes back into the restaurant and nods solemnly at me as she tosses the keys across the table. “The car is circling. We have to go,” she says, but Drew doesn’t budge.
“I hate you. I hate you so much,” Drew says to me. “We were so fucking close. So close.” When I go to the other side of the table, she breaks down in tears, wrapping her arms around my neck and crying into my shoulder.
“I’ll be okay.” I whisper because I can’t keep the doubt out of my tone. “You will always be my forever, Drew Hallisay, no matter—”
“Don’t you ever fucking talk like that,” she says, too teary to really sound angry.
“No matter where I am. No matter what I am, flesh or dust, I love you. Always will. But you have to go now.” I look up at Sandrine and there are tears in her eyes, too. “Get her as close to the border as you can.”
“Will do.” When Sandrine takes Drew’s hand she goes without any fight. She looks back at me the entire walk out of the bakery, and I wait until she’s go
ne before I let the emotions rush out of me. The pain of loss twists with my anger, and I slam my fist into the wall next to me, until I bruise my knuckles. Fuck it. If this is how it’s going to be, I’m not gonna make it easy on them. Heart racing, I push past a waitress who’s asking if I’m okay as I flee. With the black car out of sight, I hop into mine, and take off. But within a few seconds it falls in line behind me.
Then the chase is fucking on.
We’re knifing through traffic, cutting off drivers, and dashing for exits. My cell rings in the passenger seat and I answer it on speaker.
“Jesse?” It’s Drew. “Can you hold them off for a few hours?” she asks with eagerness. “I’m working on something. Please.” My girl is still fighting for me. Ramón is wrong about her. She doesn’t have too much fight in her; she just puts blind faith in her strength.
“Yeah…I think I can. Any ideas on an estimate?”
“Two…maybe three hours of killing time. Probably not the best phrasing. Think you can manage?”
“Yeah…you’re not going to give up, are you?”
“Never. With you. Never.” And then she’s gone.
I mash the accelerator and wind my way through the cars. Swerve, weave, accelerate, cut off, and swerve some more. On repeat. We do this for at least an hour. I’m flying down the road like the rest of the drivers aren’t pissed at me. One of them even pinballs between two cars, trying to avoid me. Shit. But dangerous driving has its benefits; the sensible people are moving the fuck out of the way. The black car presses forward and lands two or three cars behind me. I swing into the fastest moving lane, Frogger across the highway, and lose sight of the car in the stream of vehicles.
Not for long, though.
“Shit!” I jerk the wheel as the black car veers into my lane from the left, forcing me over into the exit lane that lands us on a barren two-lane road. When the oncoming traffic lane clears, he drives up parallel to me, and rams into the driver’s side. Yelling, I struggle to regain control of my fishtailing car as it skids off the asphalt. I bump several feet over rough gravel before my tires deflate finally, and the car comes to a stop. The black car parks behind me just as I swing the door open to take my chances on foot.
“Don’t run. Or I’ll shoot you,” he yells, getting out of the car.
“What the fuck do you want?” I scream back. “Who sent you? Ramón?” Standard bad guy walks up to my window with a gun in my face and a cell phone in his other hand.
“Get out,” he orders. I’m sorry, Drew. Walking me back to his car, he wrenches my wrists behind my back and painfully crushes them together with a pair of flex-cuffs. The trunk pops open and he stuffs me into claustrophobic darkness. My head bumps the ceiling as the car rattles back onto the road. I can hear muffled talking, so I know that he’s on the phone with someone. I’m unsure of how far we drive, and I can’t tell if being in a trunk makes it seem too long or too short, but eventually we stop moving. When the trunk opens again, he yanks me out by the shirt. He tells me to stay put. So we both lean against the car like we’re best buddies having a chat; best buddies where one of them is restrained with flex-cuffs.
We’re in the middle of nowhere, a deserted, dusty stretch of land with patches of dry grass and a road sparse of cars in the distance. “Can you at least tell me who’s doing this?” I ask. His response is to kick at the gravel, but we’re clearly waiting for something or someone. That someone finally turns off the road, and two sets of headlights illuminate us. My blood runs hot in my ears. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. The doors to both cars open and armed men with bandanas over their faces get out. Then a woman’s high heels hit the ground. Her curvy silhouette becomes clearer as she approaches, a thrilled, wicked smile gleaming.
“Hello, Jesse Chance,” Alejandra Bautista says.
She slaps me with her gun and I fall.
****
My life is not flashing before my eyes.
No matter how hard Alejandra presses the muzzle of her gun against my temple or how insistent she is that I pray for my soul (the irony, really), I can’t recall a single thing about my life. I’m on my knees, there’s a cloth bag over my head, my blood is trickling onto my face, and all I can think about are numbers—how many times someone has pointed a gun at me, how many stabbings I have sustained. The scariest of them all? How many seconds it takes for a person shot in the head to die. And then I won’t be able to think about anything ever again. Have I lived up to my mom’s expectations? Have I saved HJ? Will Drew be okay? Drew. My Drew. Flesh or dust. Forever. But dwelling on any of these won’t matter, because whether I’m really the hero or the villain, a sinner or saint, the only thing I’ll actually be is dead.
“I want to see his eyes. Let me see them. They remind me of Henry’s,” Alejandra says with excitement, as if I’m some present to unwrap, and someone snatches the bag off me. She swivels my head from side to side, pressing her nails into my flesh as she grips my chin. Jamming her stiletto into my thigh, she says, “The things I would’ve done to you under different circumstances.” The gun sinks against my head. “Would’ve blown your mind.” She laughs at her own joke.
I have a feeling even if those things were for sexual pleasure, Alejandra still would’ve had me tied up, bloody, and facing a loaded gun. This bitch is that maniacal, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of my fear. Plus, I’m not going out like a bitch. “Is this about my dad? Are you trying to punish him for screwing you? You think my father gives a shit about me. Look, I’ve been there. I’ve spent my entire life…there. He doesn’t. You can’t get even with—”
“Shut up!” she yells, backhanding me with the assistance of her gun. The pain rattles my jaw, and I spit out the blood pooling in my mouth. “This isn’t about your father, guapo. It’s for him.”
What? Frigid fear suddenly pours into my veins, and I can’t hide it anymore. “What the hell does that mean?” My voice comes out in an elongated breath. “What are you talking about?”
The gun whips across my face again, and more blood settles in my throat. “I’m talking about you shutting up.” She turns to her henchman who brought me here. “Where’s the money?”
“There was nothing in the car.”
Alejandra’s head snaps back in my direction. “Is it with your whore?” She hits me again. This time it’s palm not metal, thank God. “I should shoot out your kneecaps,” she threatens.
“Señora, we have shovels. We can dig a hole and make him suffer,” the man who brought me here says. There’s always an overachiever in the group.
“Oh, yes, I can bury you up to your neck, alive.” She snaps her fingers. “Go bring them and start digging.”
The men return with shovels, and I try to block out the sound of the metal blades breaking through the dirt over and over again. It goes on for close to two hours, I think. My breathing is shallow and I’m trembling, but I do my best to take in what could be the last hours of my life. My life. It hasn’t been horrible. I got to go to college. I got to get back with Drew. I got to connect with my brother. Those things make me happy. I’ll die happy.
“I’m going to put you in that hole…” Alejandra says, laughing. As the men continue to dig, the sounds of other car engines roar. Three more sets of headlights drench us in light as they race toward where we are. “And I’m going to watch the ants have at your fl—” There’s a pop, and she topples onto me so hard it pulls a muscle in my neck.
“Get down, Jesse! Get down now!” someone calls out as whizzing bullets snap through the air. Under the weight of dead Alejandra, I tip to the side and lie as flat as I can. All around me I hear the thud of bodies falling to the ground. The sickening sounds seem to last forever, and then suddenly it’s quiet. With a groan, someone lifts Alejandra’s body off me. I look around and pretty much everyone who came with her is dead or dying. Everything in my stomach lurches toward my esophagus.
“I’m surprised you have not shit your pants,” Ramón Vegas says, laughing. “We are already seeing each other so s
oon,” he adds as he leans down over me, his black suit bunching. Smoke is still curling off the muzzle of his gun. Next to him is the man who put me in the trunk, and all of Ramón’s goons. “Welcome aboard,” Ramón says to Alejandra’s soldier, shaking his hand, a wide smile on his lips. “You will be handling fighter recruitment now.” Shit. He wasn’t kidding about leadership changes.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I choke out. It would be my luck, jumping from psycho-bitch frying pan into sociopathic fire.
“No. Can’t.” Ramón sighs his disappointed look away. His new worker helps me up and clips the flex-cuffs off me.
“The shovels. I had to drag out the time so that Mr. Vega and his people could get here before she killed you,” he explains. I vomit right then; they all find it hilarious.
“I made a deal with Drew,” Ramón says. “She called me and told me not to kill you, and she would pay me fifty grand for not killing you. I told her I wasn’t trying to kill you, and she gave me the plate number of whoever was actually after you. I made a few calls, and long story short, I ended up making this man here an offer of employment.”
“I don’t think Drew meant for you to kill all these people…”
“What did I tell you about my business? Did Alejandra seem like she was someone to reason with? She had one of my recently dearly departed men call her to tell her where you were dropped off when you left Acapulco. Obviously, the intent was to kill you only.”