Unleashed

by Sophie Jordan

  My chest tightens as the shore grows farther and darker, impossible to distinguish from the sky. The oar falls limp in my hands.

  “Davy!”

  The sound of my name snaps me to attention, unlocking me from the frozen moment I’ve been stuck in. The one where I can’t wrap my head around the unknown I’m diving into and the familiar I’m leaving behind—even if that familiar is gone. A thing of the past. A life that doesn’t exist anymore.

  “C’mon, row, Davy,” Sean’s deep voice encourages.

  Nodding, I tighten my hands around the wood and work faster, struggling to match Sean’s even strokes. The oars cut through the water silently. It’s still too dark to see anything, but I guess we’re making progress, inching closer to the other side of the river. I visualize it in my head, letting the image motivate me.

  Suddenly a low drone purrs over the river, distant but growing in volume. I still. My hands freeze. Sean turns his face in the direction of the sound. We all look that way, to the north.

  Gil finally speaks, his voice the barest whisper but still somehow jarring out across the great expanse of water. “What is that?”

  I shake my head, unable to say it. That something or someone is out on the river with us. It can’t be. It can’t.

  “Move! Move!” Sean’s hoarse cry fires through me like a bullet. I tighten my grip and row, pushing my oar through the water savagely.

  The boat lurches just as light flashes across the river. Water laps at the sides of our boat, splashing inside and soaking my pants.

  “It’s a patrol,” Gil hisses.

  “Keep going.” This from Sean. And I obey. Because what choice do we have? We’re sitting ducks out here. Once they see us—

  The light spills over us, pulling away for an instant before jerking back and shining full on us. One giant spotlight. Bright and glaring and unremitting.

  Indecipherable sounds choke loose from Sabine. Sean’s movements become wild, his arms churning fiercely as he rows.

  His eyes lash me. “Come on, Davy, keep going!”

  I shake my head and push harder, muscles screaming in protest.

  The spotlight fixes on us as a disembodied voice blares over the water. “Halt! This is the United States Border Patrol. You there, in the boat, halt!” The command follows in Spanish, although they can likely guess what language we speak by the direction we’re fleeing. We’re trying to get into Mexico. Like so many carriers are doing these days. I look over my shoulder and see another boat. Several figures crowd its deck, easily outnumbering us.

  “Don’t stop,” Gil urges, grabbing onto the sides of his seat as he gawks at the bigger boat bearing down on us, pushing waves ahead of its hull and rocking our boat.

  “Not a chance,” Sean pants.

  “What do we do? They’re getting closer!” Sabine cries, her shrill voice adding to the chaos of the moment. “We’re not going to make it!”

  “Don’t panic,” Gil warns, but there’s an edge of hysteria to his voice that seems counter to his advice.

  I swing back around and face forward, not looking anywhere except straight ahead. I refuse to look at the other boat. Sean is opposite me in his seat, and I lock on to his face as I row. His blue-gray eyes glow, caught in the harsh light ambushing us. The boat’s motor is a loud, angry beast now, breathing down our necks.

  He nods at me, communicating something. What precisely, I’m not sure, until he shouts, “We’re going to have to jump!”

  My chest clenches even as I acknowledge it’s our only chance. I cast a grim glance at the water to my right, a frenzied froth now from the waves of the bigger boat behind us.

  “What? Are you insane?” Sabine demands.

  He looks at her. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes.” Even with her voice rising in panic, she looks mildly affronted.

  “Then we’re jumping. It’s the only way.”

  I stare out at the swift waters. So dark and fathomless.

  Sean points to his right. “That’s the shoreline. Let’s try to stay together—”

  “What about our supplies?” Gil looks down to where our packs rest.

  Sean shakes his head and grabs his pack, rifling through it. He tosses out a few heavy items. A can of green beans hits my foot. “I’ll swim with this one.”

  “It’s still too heavy,” I protest, thinking of the rest of the things still inside it.

  “I can manage.” He grabs my bag and slides out the four-pack of flashlights. “These are waterproof.” He thrusts one at each of us. “If we get separated, these can help us find one another on the other side.”

  I let the oar go and take the flashlight. It’s slim and not much longer than my hand. I stick it into the pocket of my jacket where I stashed my knife, glad the pockets zipper shut.

  “Ready?” Sean’s eyes fasten on me as he asks this, searing and intent, and I realize I must not look ready.

  I nod hard, just once. His hand clamps down around mine, and the clasp of his fingers feels good, reassuring. I’m glad for this. Glad that I can still feel some comfort from him. This hasn’t been stolen from me entirely at least.

  He jumps first, pulling me with him. The sudden plunge into water is a shock to the system. Briny, loamy water rushes into my mouth and nose. Still overly warm from the hot day, it’s a far cry from the chilled swimming pools back home that I was used to.

  Our heads all pop up close together. Gil and Sabine immediately start for shore. Sean still holds my hand, which makes swimming difficult. After a few strokes, we let go of each other to make better progress. Even with the burden of a bag strapped to his back, he quickly outswims me, even passing Gil and Sabine.

  My shoulders burn as I try to catch up. Water slams into my face, filling my mouth. Choking, I keep going. The growl of the boat sounds like it’s right above me. The water grows more turbulent, and I know without looking that the boat is closer now. Panicked, I plunge underwater and swim below the surface as long as I can hold my breath.

  When I next pop up, I’m beside Sabine. Gil is just in front of us. Sean still leads, but his body is half-turned as he looks back at us, shouting for us to get moving. He could probably be to shore by now if he hadn’t been stalling for us. This fills me with fury. I won’t be responsible for his life. Not again. I can barely take care of myself.

  Suddenly it’s like I see myself from far above. A speck swimming for her life in a river with three other teenagers, men with guns behind us. How? How did I get from studying for my final exams and begging for an extra hour on my date with Zac to this?

  “Go!” I shout as I cut my arms through water, pulling my body forward bit by bit.

  He shouts something, but I can’t understand him. The roar of the boat engine is louder now, muffling everything else. And then there’s a pop, followed by a whistling hiss.

  “They’re shooting!” Sabine screams, and her movements become more frantic.

  Of course they’re shooting at us. They don’t care about retrieving us. A dead carrier is probably preferred.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I dive below, swimming as long as I can, my arms pulling me. I stay under until my burning lungs can’t take it anymore; then I fight my way back to the surface.

  My head breaks free with a ragged gasp and I drink oxygen deep into my starving lungs. I keep moving, spotting Sabine and Gil far to my right now, just a little ahead of me. Sean is farther ahead, still idling, looking back to us, lingering. Holding back for us. Placing himself in jeopardy for us.

  More bullets. Sharp pops that smack water inches from me. I surge and suck in another deep breath, preparing to go under yet again for another plunge. Hopefully the next one gets me closer to shore. I can’t be far now. As I’m about to go down, my lungs gathering air to the point of bursting, pain punches me like a jackhammer, directly in the back of my shoulder. My breath expels from me in a screaming rush. I sink, swallowing a mouthful of river.

  I come back up, sputtering, unable to move my left arm wi
thout agony. There’s so much noise. The growl of the boat motor is deafening, on top of me now, churning the water into a stew of angry, lathering waves. The sound competes with the swish of water slapping over my face. More bullets whistle. Men’s voices congest the air.

  “Get the hook. Grab her!”

  I fight to ignore the pain, my arms stroking, but I’m too slow, going nowhere. I dunk under and let the water take me. Too weak, too hurting.

  When I come up again, the boat is farther away. I search for the others. For a moment I think I spot a head, a small dark smudge in the distance against the light from the patrol boat. The boat drifts in that direction, closing in on that person now.

  I tread water for a moment, my legs working hard, unsure of my next move. My free arm swirls widely around me, helping keep me afloat. My other arm throbs, useless at my side.

  I peer at the patrol boat in the distance, struggling to keep my chin above the waterline. They probably count me as gone now. Dead. Part of me yearns to head after the boat, knowing it’s giving chase to one of my friends. But I can’t. I have to seize my advantage and head for shore. I can try to find the others from there. That’s what Sean would tell me to do. That’s what he would do himself. Turning, I face the shore again and start swimming, using my legs and one good arm. It’s slow going. And painful. I stop several times and float, tilting my face back against the water and storing my strength.

  All of me aches with a bone-deep burn. Weariness nips at me, ready to sink in its teeth, but I refuse to let that happen. I know a watery grave will be my reward if I do.

  Nausea rolls through me, and I fight that, too. Stopping, I take another moment to rest, dropping my head back. Water laps over my ears. My gaze blurs. Thousands of tiny stars dance against a blanket of dark night, and I rather deliriously wonder why they’re moving like that. Are they all shooting stars? A smile curves my lips at the whimsical thought.

  A buzzing fills my head, pulsing in rhythm to the throbbing pain in my shoulder. With my good hand, I try to reach there, to assess the damage. I feel only slick wetness. I can’t distinguish water from blood. I lower my hand and shove away the fact that I’ve been shot. There’s nothing I can do about it right now. Nothing. Nothing to be done about the fact that there’s a bullet lodged in my shoulder and I’m hours from a hospital, stuck in a river. A fugitive. Alone.

  If someone had posed this scenario to me before, I would have declared I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving. But that was before. Before I’d proven just how resilient I could be. And didn’t people get shot in the old West and survive? I’ve seen enough of those spaghetti westerns with my dad on Sunday afternoons to know. They lived. I deliberately ignore the fact that that was television and I’m dealing with the real world. A world that has not been kind to me lately.

  Gradually sound fades away. I don’t hear anything anymore. No distant shouts. No growling boat. It’s like someone hit the mute button and I’m alone in the world. Floating in endless space. Just me and dancing stars. Water crashing against my face.

  I reach for the familiar music that so often fills my mind, remembering too late with a pang that it’s abandoned me. Its absence heightens my loneliness, deepens the ache. I need a song. Crave it desperately. Just one song now more than ever.

  Sputtering against the water, I sing a few verses, but my voice escapes broken and hoarse, terrible and off-pitch. I force myself to push through, waiting for the cadence to fill my ears, a six-string orchestra to sweep through and lift me.

  It doesn’t happen. My voice stops, quivers, and gives up on the lyrics. Darkness edges my vision.

  “Please,” I beg, but I’m unsure who, specifically, I’m pleading with. “Please,” I ask no one again. Help me. “I need . . . please . . .”

  Someone.

  Water creeps over my head, and my vision blacks out.

  * * *

  Agency Interview

  AGENT POLLOCK: Thank you for coming in to see us today, Mitchell. May I call you Mitchell?

  MITCHELL HAMILTON: I didn’t realize I had a choice. Your guys practically hauled me from my house. I guess you couldn’t just interview me there? You had to drag me into this little room? Is this an intimidation tactic?

  AGENT POLLOCK: Are you intimidated, Mitchell?

  MITCHELL HAMILTON: What do you want?

  AGENT POLLOCK: Your sister—

  MITCHELL HAMILTON: You took my sister away.

  AGENT POLLOCK: So you haven’t heard from her? She hasn’t tried to contact you?

  MITCHELL HAMILTON: Why? Did you lose her? (laughter) God, I hope so. Because I’m not going to lie, that would be pretty great. I hope she runs far away and never looks back.

  AGENT POLLOCK: You do understand aiding a carrier in any way is a crime under recently added statutes to the Wainwright Act? If you have any communication or contact with your sister and fail to report it, you face legal action.

  MITCHELL HAMILTON: I understand that you can go to hell.

  FIVE

  I TASTE DIRT.

  Grit coats my lips and lines my teeth in a grainy film. My tongue, the roof of my mouth—nothing is free from it. Coughing, I move my tongue, trying to work up some saliva. I shift my weight and then groan as my nerves wake to the pain.

  My eyes crack open and wince at the blinding light. It only adds to my agony. Like needles stabbing into my corneas. I jam my eyes shut again and take slow sips of breath, as if that will somehow chase off the pain hammering into every pore.

  I’m not dead. There’s that. I focus on that. Cling to that. I didn’t drown. After several more moments, I reopen my eyes and suffer the brightness. I have to get up. Get moving. Staying here, facedown in the dirt, equals death. If I don’t get up now, I’m never getting up.

  With a long groan that sounds more animal than human, I press down with my palms and push up. My shoulder screams out at the abuse, reminding me just how not okay I am. I swallow back a whimper, the thought skittering through my head that death might be preferable to this. I ease pressure off my left hand and use my right hand to push myself the rest of the way up. Sitting upright, I pant like I just wrestled an alligator.

  As the haze of pain clears, I gingerly touch my shoulder. My fingers meet slick blood. Dropping my hand, I assess my surroundings. The river flows only a few feet away from me, the brown, sunlit waters swimming in a swift current. I made it across.

  Looking left and right, I peer over weeds that reach past my waist, squinting at the horizon, hoping to see Sean, Gil, or Sabine. I’m desperate for a glimpse of them . . . even as I know how unlikely that is. They wouldn’t be standing out in the open. It’s too risky. A hawk flies overhead, its screech echoing on the skies.

  How am I going to find them?

  Panic noses in, and I shove it back before I can swing into full-scale hysteria. That won’t help. Sucking in a deep breath, I fill my lungs with warm air. Bracing for pain, I stand. And it’s every bit as hard as I feared. With my good hand stretched out for balance, I secure my footing and exhale slowly. It’s not so bad. I can do this.

  I stagger a few steps and stop myself just short of falling over. Gasping, I stop, knees slightly bent to help steady me. You got it. You got this!

  I start walking.

  Progress is slow. I scan the horizon, holding a hand over my eyes as I search among the scrub and cacti, hoping the others are near. My pace drags to a crawl. Exhaustion weighs me down. It feels like lead weights encircle my ankles. I clutch my injured arm close, holding it at the elbow. Pain vibrates through me with each step.

  Sweat trickles down my spine, and I’m unclear if it’s just really hot or I’m feverish. My shoulder burns so much that I weep as I walk, silent tears trickling down my cheeks. Dully, I realize crying is probably a bad idea. Just a waste of fluids that I need. My lips are so dry. No matter how many times I lick at them, they stay chapped. It seems rather soon for me to be this dehydrated, and I know it must be a result of blood loss.


  I don’t know how long I walk, but the grim reality is there. I’m all alone. Still, I push, lifting one leg after another. To stop is to die.

  I work on convincing myself that my shoulder isn’t that bad. For all I know it’s just a scrape and there isn’t even a bullet lodged in there. Maybe the bullet grazed me. It’s a faint hope, reed-thin, but I cling to it. I might just trick myself into believing that I’m not going to die out here.

  My friends probably think I’m dead. My chest hollows out at this. I stop and gaze at the sparse brown terrain. That’s why there’s no sight of them. They moved on.

  I know they made it across. They had to. At least Sean did. He’s strong. A survivor. And he was so far ahead of the patrol boat, only holding himself back for us. They’re probably all together now. They’re probably halfway to the refuge by now.

  This thought fills me with some comfort. I guess it’s enough knowing they’re okay out there. It will have to be. I can be at peace with that knowledge.

  Still, I’m not going to stop. To quit. My legs keeping moving. I count my steps. Lift shuffling foot after shuffling foot. Left. Right. Left. Right. Fear drives me. Fear of dying out here alone. It’s stronger than my pain. Stronger than the exhaustion.

  For now anyway.

  I realize that fear as a motivator isn’t working anymore when I start to hear my brother’s voice.

  Davy. Davy. Come home. We miss you.

  It’s like he’s right beside me, but when I turn to look for him, I see nothing. Just bleak, relentless horizon. Is this the hallucination stage right before death?

  I laugh brokenly. Or maybe I’m already dead and caught up in some hell reserved just for killers.

  Gnats buzz around me, attracted to the coppery-sweet scent of blood soaking through my shirt. I swat at them in frustration. One of my swipes is especially savage and throws me off balance. I stagger and fall, landing on my knees on the hard-packed earth. Pain jars through me. I hover there for a moment, swaying.