by Anna Zaires
He’s hurt.
Badly.
A surge of terror clears the remaining haze from my brain, and I sink to my knees, frantically pulling at his shirt. I have to staunch the flow of blood, to see if the bullet—”
“Ptichka, stop.” He catches my wrist with startling strength, his eyes boring into mine. “There’s no time. You have to hand me that gun. Put it in my hand. You didn’t do this, you understand? And then you need to walk away. Get as far away from me as—”
“No.” I twist out of his hold. “I’m not leaving you.”
He needs a hospital, but there’s zero chance they’ll take him there after this massacre.
They’ll kill him on the spot.
Innocent or guilty, they won’t care.
“Ptichka, you must—”
“Get up.” Jumping to my feet, I grab his uninjured arm, tugging on it with all my strength. “We need to go, now.”
I can’t lose him.
I won’t lose him.
A grimace twists Peter’s face as he attempts to sit up and fails. “My love, you need to—”
“Now!” I bark, yanking at his arm, and something about my tone seems to get through.
Jaws clenched, he struggles to a sitting position, and I crouch to loop my arm around his torso. He’s impossibly heavy, his large body all hard, solid muscle. My back and legs scream in protest, but I somehow manage to stand up, supporting most of his weight.
“The car,” he grits out hoarsely. “We have to get to the car.”
The car.
Just outside, parked on the side of the road.
We can do it.
We have to do it.
I take a step toward the door, and suddenly, most of Peter’s weight is gone. Glancing over, I see he’s somehow standing on his own, though his face is gray underneath the smears of blood and grime.
“The car. Come on,” I urge as we step outside. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
In the distance, I hear the wail of the sirens and the roar of helicopter blades.
They’re coming for us.
Coming to take Peter from me.
Just like they took my parents.
“The keys. They’re in my pocket,” Peter rasps, and I thank heavens for small mercies as I recall that keys in close proximity is all our fancy Mercedes needs to unlock and start.
Opening the passenger door, I all but stuff Peter inside, then sprint around to the driver’s side. My heart is pounding in a sickening rhythm, and my hands tremble as I start the car, pull out onto the street, and slam on the gas.
“Where do I go?” I ask frantically as we screech around the corner onto the main road. The sounds of the helicopter and the sirens are getting louder; it’s only a matter of time before they find us missing and send a pursuit.
No response.
I risk a glance over at Peter. He’s half-slumped in his seat, his face colorless and his eyes closed as he holds a bunch of blood-soaked paper towels against his side.
Oh no. Oh, please, no.
“Peter.” I shake his knee.
Still nothing.
“Peter, please. I need you to tell me where to go.”
He groans as I shake him harder, and his eyes open blearily.
Oh thank God.
He’s losing too much blood, but I can’t do anything until I get him to safety.
He’s as good as dead if they catch us.
Why did they come for him?
Why did someone shoot that agent when Peter was about to surrender?
I believed my husband when he said he had nothing to do with the attack on the FBI, but is it possible he lied to me? Would they have come to arrest him like that if there was no evidence linking him to the bombing?
Logic says no, but I can’t bring myself to buy into it. Peter has done terrible things, but he’s no terrorist.
Morality aside, when he kills, he does it with precision and discretion.
So why? Why did they think he’s involved? And who shot at that agent? Had someone from Peter’s crew been that stupid? If so, why didn’t they help further?
If they were willing to kill an agent, why leave Peter to fight on his own?
None of it makes any sense, but dwelling on it is keeping me from hyperventilating at the wheel. I can’t think about our infinitesimal odds of survival, or that Peter might be bleeding to death.
Or that the tiny life inside me now has two fugitives for parents.
“Slow down.” Peter’s hoarse whisper reaches me as I zoom around a Toyota going eighty in the fast lane. “Don’t draw attention by speeding. Where’s your phone?”
My pulse leaps in joy as I lift my foot off the gas.
Talking is good.
Talking is very good.
“No phone,” I answer, some of my relief fading as I glance over to find him conscious but even more pale. “I forgot my bag at—”
“Good. That means they can’t track us that way.”
Shit. That hadn’t even occurred to me.
“What about your phone?”
He grimaces, shifting in his seat as he reaches for more paper towels from a roll tucked into the side of the door. “Untraceable.”
“Okay.” My mind races. “What else? Should we ditch the car? Is there anyone we can call for help? Your bodyguards? Can they—”
“No.” He closes his eyes again, pressing the fresh towels to his side. “Too high profile for them. Won’t go against FBI.”
Right. That makes sense. Peter’s new crew are not criminals; they’re paid to protect us from the dangerous people in Peter’s past, not help us escape the authorities.
Which means they couldn’t have been behind that shot.
“Peter…” I glance over, but he’s out again, his head lolling to the side.
Ice grips my heart.
“Peter, wake up. You need to tell me what to do next.”
No response, just the frantic hammering of my pulse in my ears.
I reach over to shake his knee, but he doesn’t react, and I see that he’s no longer holding the paper towels, his hand slack at his side.
My ribcage feels like it’s shrunk to the size of a child’s, crushing all the organs inside.
This can’t be happening.
It can’t end like this.
“Peter.” My voice cracks. “Peter, please… I need you. You can’t do this to me.”
He can’t die and abandon me. Not after fighting so hard for us.
Not after making me love him.
“Wake up, Peter.” I shake his knee harder. “Please wake up.”
But he doesn’t.
He’s too far gone.
32
Sara
Feeling like the car walls are closing in on me, I grab his wrist and search for a pulse.
It’s there.
Weak and erratic but there.
A sob of relief burst through my throat, and the road in front of me blurs.
He’s still alive.
Passed out but alive.
With a herculean effort, I pull myself together. I can’t fall to pieces, not while there’s still a sliver of hope.
First things first.
I need to treat Peter’s wound. It can’t wait any longer. Then the car. I have to assume they’re looking for it, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re spotted on the road. That means I need to find us another ride.
The question is how.
If Peter were conscious, he could probably steal one for us, but I don’t possess such a skill set. I need to come up with some other solution, something that won’t slow us down too much.
My heart skips a beat, then races faster. Maybe I should bring him in. Right now, before the authorities know we’re here.
Before more SWAT agents show up and shoot him dead for killing so many of their own, all the while claiming self-defense.
They’d have to treat him at the ER if I brought him in. They’d have to save him. And when the cop
s arrive, they won’t be able to kill him with all those witnesses around. They’d have to let him recover before carting him away.
Before locking him up in Guantanamo Bay or some other dark hole for the rest of his life.
Even if he’s found innocent in the bombing, they’ll never let him out—and sooner or later, they’ll take their revenge.
If I bring Peter in, I’ll never see him again. But if I don’t, he’ll bleed to death.
Even now, it might be too late.
No, God, please no.
Choking down the suffocating fear, I switch into the exit lane and pull off the highway, heading toward the hospital. It’s just a mile down the road, and when I get there, I find a parking spot under a big oak tree, between an SUV and a van.
“We should be well hidden here.” My voice shakes as I turn to Peter. “Now I’m going to look at your wounds, okay?”
He doesn’t respond, but I don’t expect him to.
Reaching over his lap, I lower his seat to a reclining position. Then I lift his shirt and examine the gunshot wound on his side.
There is an exit hole, and given its location, there’s a good chance the bullet missed the most vital organs.
If I disinfect the wound and stop the bleeding, he might make it without a hospital.
Holding my breath, I swiftly examine the rest of him. I find a gun strapped to his left ankle, but it’s not an injury, so I ignore it. I then discover that a bullet grazed his left arm and another went through his right calf.
Both wounds are bleeding sullenly, but neither appears to be life-threatening.
I exhale, trembling as I squeeze his limp hand in relief.
I know what to do now.
I just need a little luck on our side.
Leaning over him, I smooth back his blood-crusted hair. “Hang in there, darling, please. I’ll be right back, I promise. Just hang in there for me.”
I can do this.
I have to do this.
Pulling back, I sit up straight and flip down the mirror to look at myself. As expected, I’m just as much of a mess, my face pale and tear-streaked, with smears of blood and bits of gore all over my skin and clothes.
Good thing the staff in ER have seen worse.
“Be back in a few,” I murmur, giving his hand one last squeeze, and jumping out of the car, I run across the parking lot to the ER entrance.
Nobody pays me any attention as I walk in, and I keep my head down, angling my face away from the cameras in the corners. As far as I know, my picture isn’t on the news yet, but it’s best not to risk it.
Inside is the usual ER pandemonium, with several new arrivals mobbing the admitting nurse, demanding to be seen right now, and a half-dozen nurses and doctors clustered around two patients strapped to gurneys, one screaming about the bloody mess that is his leg, and the other in the midst of what appears to be a major seizure.
At the back is a staff-only entrance. The nurses wheel the screaming patient there, and I follow them in, pretending I’m with him. One nurse tries to shoo me away, but someone yells for her, and she disappears down the hall, forgetting all about me.
At the back are folded-up scrubs, linens, bandages, and other first-aid supplies. I quickly change out of my clothes into a nurse’s scrubs, wipe as much blood as I can off my face with a pillowcase, and stuff whatever I deem useful into a bag I fashion out of a sheet. Then I cover my haul with more bunched-up linens and head out, pretending I’m carrying soiled sheets to be washed.
No one says anything as I reenter the ER reception area and head to the exit, making sure the bundle in my arms is blocking my face from the cameras blinking in the corners.
Getting back to the car, I find Peter still unconscious.
“All good, I’m here now,” I say as I place the bundle of supplies at his feet. “Everything will be okay.”
He can’t hear me, but that doesn’t matter. It’s myself I’m trying to convince.
He’s too heavy for me to undress properly, so I push up his sleeve and cut apart the leg of his jeans to get to those wounds.
When I’m satisfied that the wounds are sufficiently disinfected and no bullet fragments remain inside, I stitch up and bandage them, starting with the wound at his side. As I work, I thank the powers that be for my residency stint in ER.
I’d treated my fair share of gunshot victims there.
Still, my hands are shaking by the time I’m done, and I realize the adrenaline high is beginning to wear off.
That’s not good.
There’s still a lot that needs to get done before I crash.
“I have to step away for a few more minutes, okay? So just hang in there for me, darling,” I whisper, stroking Peter’s face. Leaning in, I press a gentle kiss to his jaw and pull away, telling myself that all I need now is a little bit of luck.
A little luck and a lot of reserve.
My legs are unsteady as I head toward the ER again. This is the least sure part of my plan, one that relies on too many exogenous factors. By now, our faces might be splashed all over the news, the manhunt kicking into full gear. All it would take is one nosy stranger, and a police/FBI swarm will descend upon us.
Maybe this is a mistake.
Maybe I should just get back in the car and drive, praying that, by some miracle, no one has put out an APB on our vehicle.
I’m about to turn back and do exactly that when a blue older-model Toyota screeches into the parking lot, stopping right by the entrance. “Help!” an elderly woman shouts, opening the door, and I rush over to her, helping her get her semi-conscious husband out.
By the looks of him, he’s just had a stroke.
Two nurses run out of the ER, rushing over to help, and I unobtrusively step away, letting them usher in the patient and his frantic wife. The car is left unattended, the driver’s door open, and when I peek inside, I see the keys left in.
Bingo.
The ER staff usually send out someone to move the vehicle in such situations, but if they come out and find it gone, they’ll most likely assume it had already been moved by someone.
It won’t occur to them to report the car stolen until the patient’s wife returns and can’t find it.
I feel terrible as I slide behind the wheel and drive the Toyota toward our car. I can only imagine how stressed out the poor woman will be when she has to deal with a stolen car on top of her husband’s stroke. But there’s no choice.
Not with Peter’s life on the line.
I park the Toyota directly across from our Mercedes, jump out, and hurry over to our car. Opening the passenger door, I look my husband over, wondering how I’m going to move two hundred pounds of unconscious male from one car to another.
Oh, well.
Here goes nothing.
Grabbing his ankles, I pull with all my might.
He moves an inch. Maybe.
Fuck.
I put my entire back into it, digging my heels into the asphalt.
Another three inches.
Maybe I should forget this stupid idea and just drive our car. The stroke victim’s wife will be happy when she finds her Toyota in the parking lot and—
My husband lets out a low groan.
My pulse leaps into overdrive. “Peter.” I scramble into the car, leaning over him. “Peter, darling, please wake up.”
He mumbles something incoherent, his head turning to the side.
“Please, Peter, I need you.” I shake him gently. “Please, wake up.”
His eyes open, unfocused.
“That’s it, darling.” My breath hitches in joyous relief. “You can do it. Look at me.”
He blinks, and I see his gaze slowly focus in on me. “Sara? What—”
“We’re in a hospital parking lot,” I say quickly. “I procured us a car, but I can’t move you without your help. Can you walk over there for me?”
His jaw tightens, and he grimly nods.
“Good, let’s do it. Come on.” I bring the seat up to a si
tting position and help him out of the car. He’s unsteady on his feet, leaning heavily on my shoulders, but somehow, we make it across the row.
His face is greenish-white by the time I help him into the car, but he’s clinging to consciousness with every shred of his iron will. “The weapons,” he rasps, plopping heavily onto the passenger seat. “Under the back seat. Get them.”
We have weapons?
I’m not nearly as surprised as I should be.
Leaving Peter in the Toyota, I sprint back and try to raise the back seat of the Mercedes. It takes some ingenuity, but I finally get it open—and gape at the arsenal inside.
In addition to handguns and assault rifles, there are grenades and what looks like a rocket launcher.
There’s no way I’d be able to carry all this across the parking row without someone spotting me and raising an alarm.
Then an idea comes to me.
Grabbing the first-aid supplies, I run back and put them onto the back seat of the Toyota, then yank the sheets out from underneath them and hurry back to the Mercedes. The weapons are heavy, so I have to make three separate trips, but I get everything over to the Toyota—wrapped in sheets.
“All done,” I tell Peter as I slide behind the wheel, panting from the exertion, but there’s no answer.
He’s passed out again.
I lean over and make his seat flat again, both so he can rest and so that he wouldn’t be visible in the windows.
Then, taking a deep breath, I pull out of the parking spot and head for the cabin.
33
Sara
Remembering Peter’s admonition about not speeding, I drive carefully, obeying every traffic rule and speed limit. Peter’s phone is locked and I can’t wake him, so I use a combination of road signs, the ancient GPS built into the Toyota’s dashboard, and my own knowledge of the area to get us to the dirt road he mentioned.
I don’t think about my parents or the man I killed so ruthlessly. I can’t—not while I need to hold it together. Instead, I focus on getting us to our destination without stopping. By the time we turn into the woods, though, my bladder is on the verge of exploding, so I pull off onto the shoulder and go behind a tree, camping style. The elderly lady kept a little bottle of hand sanitizer in the car, and I use it before I resume driving, trying not to think about what will happen once we actually get to the cabin.