by Anna Cruise
I pull out the last one. I don’t want to look at Cushing.
“Where is it?”
“It’s…” I swallow. “Its not in here.”
“Where is it?” he repeats.
But he’s not asking me this time; he’s asking Lydia.
“I told you—”
She doesn’t finish. He’s running his free hand over her body, the gun still pressed to her forehead. He pats her pockets, runs his hands between her legs, lingering on her crotch. She doesn’t flinch. He reaches into her shirt, tugs her bra aside, fondles her breasts, then pulls his hand out.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Bingo.”
He’s holding something small. Black.
I suck in a breath. Waiting.
He lowers the gun and Claire sighs with relief. I’m still on my knees, my hand on the now-empty bag. I don't feel any relief because I don't see how we're all walking away.
“See?” Cushing says, smiling. “We’re all good now. We have what we want.”
Silence. Deafening silence.
He holds his hand up. “I have this, and you have”—he glances at the bag—“money.”
He has to know how much is there, piled up next to the bag. He has to wonder where it came from. But maybe he already knows. Maybe the sale was a set-up. How else would he be here in OB? It isn’t a coincidence.
“Tell me what you were planning to do with that money.” His voice is like barbed silk.
Lydia stares at him. Gives nothing away. And says nothing.
“You know, don’t answer that.” The gun is still in his hand, hanging loosely at his side. “I already know.” He starts backing up slowly, until he's maybe six feet from Lydia. “So let's end this.”
A pause, and I look up at Claire and our eyes meet, briefly.
A sharp crack pierces the night, not unlike a rock hitting a windshield. Not what I know a gunshot sounds like.
Lydia grabs her chest, her eyes wide. Crimson spreads under her fingertips, like a rose unfurling on her cream-colored shirt.
Claire tries to scream but there is no sound. Or maybe I just can’t hear it because blood is roaring through my ears. Lydia drops to her knees, level with me, her hand as red as the stain on her shirt. Her mouth is open, a perfect O, but she isn’t speaking.
I don’t want to turn away from her. I want to reach out, help her, but I look to Cushing. See the gun in his hand.
He smiles.
Then he levels the gun at me and squeezes the trigger.
thirty-nine
The gun doesn’t go off.
My eyes are open but I don’t trust what I see. Cushing, holding the gun, cursing over something. Lydia, on her side now, blood trickling from her mouth, a pool of black forming on the pavement around her. Claire, holding her hand over her mouth, trying not to scream, sinking to the ground next to her sister. And Ron. Running away, his shoes the only sound as they pound the pavement.
“Goddammit.” Cushing fumbles with the gun. Checks the magazine, then tries to reload it.
It’s jammed.
“Fuck,” he says and flings the gun to the ground near the girls, the metal of the weapon scraping against the pavement.
“Lydia.” Claire is whispering to her sister, her voice desperate.
I’m frozen in place. Because Cushing has another gun out, one he's pulled from the back of his waistband. It's larger, longer, more violent-looking than Lydia's. And it’s leveled at my head. My hands instinctively go up, even though I know it’s useless. He’s going to shoot. He already tried.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again, not sounding sorry at all. “Sorry it has to go down this way.”
He squeezes the trigger and the sound is the same as before. The rock hitting the windshield. I jolt, bracing for impact, for pain, for death.
“Nash!” Claire’s voice. “Nash!!”
My eyes open. I try to feel pain, something that tells me where I’m hit.
There’s nothing.
And then I see her.
Claire crouched by her sister, Lydia's tiny gun in her shaking hands.
Cushing, crumpled on the pavement. Not moving.
I push myself up and crawl toward Claire and Lydia.
She drops the gun.
“I…”
I know what she’s going to say.
She shot him.
I reach them. Lydia is still on her side, one arm resting limply on the pavement, the other over her stomach. Even in the dark, I can see the pallor of her skin; it looks almost white.
“Fuckfuckfuck.” It’s all I can say as I run my hands over her, touching her wrist, then her neck, looking for a pulse. Her shirt is soaked through, and a steady river of red leaks from the fabric on to the pavement.
“Oh my God.” Claire is sobbing, hysterical.
A light goes on in the apartments above us. Someone steps out on the steps, calls out, “What the fuck is going on?”
There are no lights. He can’t see us. At least I don’t think he can. I cover Claire’s mouth with my hand. Even in the dark, I see the blood that streaks her cheeks, her lips: blood that was on my hand. Lydia’s blood. Her eyes are still wide—I think she’s in shock—and I shake my head, trying to tell her to shut the fuck up.
The door closes and the sliver of light disappears. We are consumed by the dark. But I'm certain the voice is inside, calling the police, reporting the noise and the screams outside his home.
“There’s a pulse.” It’s light as a thread, but it’s there. I grab Lydia’s chin and turn her toward me. “Lydia. Can you hear me?”
There is no sound, no movement. I press my hand to her ribcage, right where the blood flows freely. I gather the fabric of her shirt and push down, trying to staunch the bleeding. But the shirt is soaked through and, within seconds, my hand is, too.
“We need help.” My voice is so hoarse, I don’t even recognize it. “Call 911.”
Claire chokes back a sob and fumbles in her purse. She takes out my phone, the phone we used to track Ron and Lydia. “Please don’t die,” she whispers. Her fingers are trembling so violently, the phone clatters to the pavement. “Please don’t die.”
“Call,” I bark.
I glance down at Lydia. Her eyes are slightly open, unseeing. At first I think it’s because she’s in shock, too, but when I move my hand back to her throat and press down, desperately searching, I know.
“No. Nonononono.” I shift my hands so they’re over her breast and start pumping. I stop, tilt her head up, and lower my mouth over hers and blow a few quick breaths.
She will not die.
She cannot die.
I won’t let her.
But even as I blow and pump, and even as Claire sits next to me, still as a statue, I know.
We both do.
forty
Claire won’t let me stop.
Even after I know – after we both know – she begs me.
“Don’t stop.” Tears stream down her face, streaking through the dried blood caked on her cheeks. “Don’t stop.”
My hands hurt and I have no breath left.
And Lydia is dead.
I lift my hands off her chest and sit back on my knees. I see everything in razor-sharp focus: Lydia’s lifeless body, the bricks of money still stacked next to Ron’s bag, the gun Claire fired. And the police officer laying motionless on the pavement just a few feet away from us.
Everything clicks and I know we have to move.
I stand up and hurry over to Cushing. He’s on his side, turned away from me. I flip him over, careful to only touch his clothes. He’s heavy and I struggle before he flops on to his back. His eyes are open, wide, like he’s surprised. There is a small scrape on his cheek, probably from when he hit the pavement, but no blood. I scan his torso and see it – a single bullet wound straight to his chest, the splattering of blood seeping through his clothes. Probably hit him straight in the heart.
The gun is still in his hand. I keep it there.
Carefully, I reposition him the way he fell, then look at Claire. She is draped over her sister. Hugging her. Shaking her.
“Get off her!” My voice is low but my tone is harsh.
I use the hem of my shirt to pick up the gun Claire used on Cushing. I wipe it clean before putting it in Lydia’s hand. Her fingers are clenched and I wrench them open, jamming the gun into position.
“What are you doing?” Claire is hysterical.
I don’t answer. I straighten and sprint toward the money. I shove the wads of bills back into the bag and close the flap.
“Come on.”
Claire hasn’t moved. “She’s dead,” she moans, rocking back and forth on her knees. “My sister is dead.”
I lean down and grab her arm. She pulls away from me but I just grab her again, harder this time. “Come on.”
She stares at me, her eyes wild and confused and haunted.
“We have to get out of here. Now.”
It’s the only way. There are two dead bodies and two guns. And, if I’m right, no witnesses. We need to leave because we don't know who's coming. We don't know if we're safe. Because even though Cushing is dead, his isn't the only name on the drive, and we don't know who else knows about it.
We don't have the time or the luxury to do the right thing.
She tries again to rip free of my grasp but I hold on tight and yank her to her feet. “Come on.”
She can’t walk. She can barely stand. In the distance, a siren whirs. Panic floods me and I don’t think, I just act. I sling the bag of money over my shoulder and scoop her up. She beats my back with her fists but I don’t put her down. The only thing that slows me is when I stop a few feet from Cushing’s body. Just long enough to lean down, balancing Claire as I do, and pick up the flash drive resting on the pavement, a few feet from where he lay.
“I can’t leave her,” Claire sobs into my shoulder.
But she doesn’t fight, doesn’t resist as I carry her through the alley and back to the street. Her tears soak my shirt and my own throat is tight and all I want to do is put her down and break down and scream. But I can’t. I have to get us out of there.
I find the silver Mercedes where we left it.
And a pair of eyes peering out at me from beneath it.
“What the fuck happened?” Ron gasps from beneath the car.
“Get in the fucking car,” I say, fumbling for the key in my pocket as I prop Claire up against the car.
Ron slithers out from beneath the car. “What happened?” he repeats.
I find the key fob and punch the unlock button. I yank the driver's door open, jerk the seat forward and guide Claire into the backseat. Her movements are stiff, her expression zombie-like.
I push the seat back and look at Ron. “Get in.”
He sprints around the back of the car and climbs into the passenger side as I slide into the driver's seat. I jam the key in the ignition, put the car in drive, and make a hard U-turn away from the curb.
My hands are slick with sweat and blood. My fingers tremble against the wheel and nausea threatens my stomach.
“Where’s Lydia?” Ron asks.
I can’t bring myself to say the word. Dead.
He glances between me and Claire, a look of horror crossing his face when he sees the blood on my hands and the blood on Claire’s cheeks.
“How…how'd you get this car?” Ron asks.
I laugh because it's a ludicrous question, given what we are driving away from. But it sounds hollow, tinny, strange to my own ears.
“I mean, I saw it on the street when I was running,” he says, realizing how absurd the question is. “That's why I slid underneath it.” He shakes his head, like he's trying to physically remove the memory of what just happened, and turns to the window.
Against every instinct, I don't floor the accelerator. The last thing I want to do is attract the attention of police or anyone else who might remember us. I take a couple of deep breaths and force myself to stop at the red light.
I take another deep breath.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
Claire's eyes are glassy and she's leaning awkwardly against the backseat, tears streaking her face.
“Where are we going?” Ron asks.
The light turns green and I accelerate slowly away from the line. Just three friends out for a drive.
“Away from here,” I tell him. “Away from all of this.”
forty-one
“Okay, so you guys are pretty much set.”
Neither Claire nor I say anything.
We’re back at the house, gathered around Ron’s laptop. Sunlight streams through the east-facing windows. We haven’t slept.
Ron clears his throat. “Uh, passports. Tickets. Cash. I think that’s everything, right?”
It isn’t everything.
We lost everything the night before.
The plan. The purpose.
And Lydia.
The only thing we still had was fear.
And each other.
“Show me the tickets again.”
Ron hands them to me. His hands shake a little as he does so. He’s scared shitless – of what he’s gotten himself into, and of me now – and just wants his out.
“We’re on the same flight. Same seats.” They are questions but I don’t ask them as such. They are more like demands.
He nods nervously. “Yes.” He points to the sheet of paper. “Right there. You’re in coach – didn’t want to draw attention to you in first or business class.”
“And tell me again why we’re flying to”—I check the print out again—“Cebu.”
“Right,” he says, nodding again. “Lydia…” he falters on her name, then takes a deep breath and continues. “Lydia wanted Asia. The Philippines is a good choice.”
I interrupt him. “I know that. She had Claire going there and me going to Thailand.”
He frowns, but then rearranges his expression to a more neutral one. “Cebu is safe. The Philippines is a huge chain of islands. Cebu is modern enough to have what you need but cheap enough to live for a while on what you’ve got. And there are plenty of small islands where you can go and lay low for a good long while.”
“Internet access?”
“Decent. Not great, but decent. You’ll have a hot spot, which should work in most situations. Some of the islands might be a little dicey, but overall, you should be connected. And your electronics are all encrypted.” He points to the three new laptops on the counter.
One is no longer needed.
I brush the thought aside. It’s not easy and I don’t want to, but I need to.
I look back at Ron. I don’t want to trust him. I have no reason to trust him. Not after the way he bailed last night.
But I remind myself of the things he has done for us. How, when we got back to the house last night, he insisted on moving forward and taking our new passport pictures. How, in the middle of the night, he arranged for someone to drop off those passports. How, while we waited, he rearranged our itineraries so we would be traveling together instead of going our separate ways, as Lydia had instructed.
Of course, me holding a kitchen knife to his throat probably encouraged him along a little.
“So, your flight is tonight. Red-eye out of LAX. Philippine Airlines.” He rattles the information off, sounding like a seasoned travel agent, and I wonder if he’s done this before. “Direct to Manila. You’ll have a short layover there – a little over an hour – and then on to Cebu.”
I glance at Claire. She isn’t paying attention.
“And the passports are good?” These are on the counter, too, and I pick one up.
He nods. “Should be.”
“Should be?”
He clears his throat again. “No, no. I mean, they are. My guy is the best. Specializes in documents. These look like the real deal.”
I open the passport. It’s Claire’s. The new Claire, with her reddish-blond hair, shorn just above her shoulders. The C
laire I forced into the bathroom after coming back to the house, half-carrying her up the stairs. The Claire I climbed into the shower with, fully clothed, rinsing her sister’s blood from her body, gently wiping the streaks of red from her face. The Claire I held for hours as she cried, her body racked with sobs. The Claire with the dead eyes, a haunted expression etched on her face. The Claire who has lost everything.
I reach out and touch her hand. She looks at me.
“You ready to do this?”
Her eyes close briefly, then reopen. She gives a slight nod.
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
She hasn’t lost everything.
Because she hasn’t lost me.
I think about the future, the immediate future, and I force myself not to dwell on what I’m leaving behind. My house, my job, my friends, my family. I've had a few moments where I consider staying, thinking maybe I can sort it out and make sense of it all. Maybe telling the truth would set things right.
But I know that even if it made sense to some people, it wouldn't keep us out of danger. So I push those thoughts out of my mind.
Instead, I only think about Claire. And me.
Running to keep us safe. Maybe even to keep us alive.
It’s all I have to offer her.
I just hope it’s enough.
the end
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acknowledgements
To Kelly Walker at Indie-spired Design, for creating such a beautiful cover. As usual, you knew exactly what I wanted, and designed exactly what I needed.
To Melissa Pearl, for always believing in me. Everyone needs a cheerleader like you. <3
To Matt R. – your computer and tech expertise was spot-on. Always helps to have a friend who is former CIA when writing a novel like this…