Holly Lin Box Set | Books 1-3

by Swartwood, Robert

  The children don’t want to take the bottles from me. Now that we’re back on land, they look ready to start crying again.

  “Are they thirsty?”

  Maria takes the bottles from me and hands them to the children. She encourages them to drink. Jorge seems more eager than Ana, twisting the cap off and gurgling half the bottle before Maria tells him to slow down.

  I return to the CRRC and slosh the gas in the canister all over the thing. I set the canister inside and open the backpack. The only other item is another block of plastic explosive. This one’s charge is a bit different. I went old school and triggered it with an egg timer.

  Back in the water now, I position the CRRC so its tip is pointed back out toward the ocean. Using bungee cords, I secure the outboard motor. I set the egg timer for sixty seconds, then think better of it and make it ninety seconds. I replace the timer and the block of plastic in the backpack, step behind the CRRC, pull the engine’s cord, and let it tear away.

  I’m worried that the lack of weight will cause the thing to tip up and flip over, but it travels at a good speed, heading farther and farther away from shore.

  I stand in the water and count down the seconds in my head, visualizing that egg timer in my mind, and right when I get to ninety, there’s a sudden boom and the CRRC erupts into flames. From this distance, it’s hard to tell what’s even on fire, but the gas works fast, devouring the manufactured rubber, and within a minute the whole thing disappears.

  I turn back to find that Maria and the children haven’t moved. Jorge now grips an empty bottle, but Ana doesn’t look like she’s even opened hers yet.

  “Let’s go.”

  For some reason I expect Maria to refuse again, or for the children to start sobbing, but they follow me without a word.

  I lead them up a trail away from the beach onto another bluff. Unlike the bluff that Ernesto Diaz’s house once occupied, this one is mostly deserted except for a brick building. I’m not sure what the brick building is for, exactly, but it’s small and rundown and empty and sits a good quarter mile from the main road.

  An El Camino is parked behind the building. I stole it late last night.

  “Do you know what this building used to be?”

  Maria nods slightly.

  “Many years ago an old man opened it to rent surfboards to tourists.”

  “What happened?”

  “No tourist in their right mind wants to come here. The man lost all his money and died broke. And the building”—she shrugs—“nobody ever did anything with it.”

  The windows and door are boarded over. Graffiti stains the weathered exterior.

  I ask, “Where do you live?”

  Maria stares at me like she doesn’t understand the question.

  “Where is your home?”

  No response.

  “Do you know where the closest town is?”

  She frowns, looking out at the main road.

  “A few miles south, I think.”

  “Do you know anybody who lives there? Friends, family?”

  Maria looks down at the children. Jorge has dropped the plastic bottle somewhere along the way, but Ana still grips the unopened bottle tightly in her hand. Both children watch me with a mixture of fear and hatred.

  “Believe it or not, Maria, I’m trying to help you. What I did tonight … I can’t explain why I did it other than I had no choice.”

  Maria looks at me again, her eyes now hardened into a glare.

  “You killed Ernesto.”

  “Yes.”

  “You killed all those men.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  The children watch me, wanting to know the same question their nanny just asked, and it causes me to pause.

  “Are these Javier Diaz’s children?”

  Maria nods slightly, unsure the purpose of the question.

  “Where is the children’s mother?”

  Maria shrugs.

  “She travels.”

  “Do the children speak English?”

  “No.”

  I speak in English.

  “I killed their father because he threatened my family, and I knew the only way to keep my family safe was to come here and kill their grandfather.”

  I glance at the children to see whether they understood any of that, but they only stare back at me with a kind of hollow listlessness that pierces my heart.

  “Tonight I intended to kill everybody at that compound. Everybody. But I couldn’t”—I shake my head—“I wasn’t about to kill them. And as you’re their nanny, I needed to get you out too. Do you understand?”

  Maria just stares at me.

  “Do you understand?”

  She blinks, nods slowly.

  “I have to leave now. I’ve brought you much farther than I probably should have. But I’m hoping you can take care of these children a little bit longer. Can you do that?”

  “You promised to keep us safe.”

  “I brought you up the coast. There’s nothing more I can do.”

  I look at the children one last time. I want to say something to them, apologize somehow, ask them for forgiveness, but they will never understand why I did what I did tonight, nor will they ever forgive me. To them, I am a monster. The boogeyman. They’ll never forget what happened tonight. They’ll never forget I was the one who killed their grandfather.

  Without a word, I leave them by the deserted building. I climb into the El Camino, hotwire it once again, and then steer past them down the dirt drive toward the main road.

  As I drive past, I see Ana sobbing again. Part of me wants to stop, tell them to get in the car, that I’ll drop them off at the nearest town. It’s the least I can do, isn’t it? After everything I’ve done—all the terrible things they’ve witnessed tonight because of me—the least I can do is not leave them here in the middle of nowhere.

  A pay phone stands near the end of the drive, rundown just like the building behind me. It doesn’t look like it works, but maybe it does. I could turn the car around, pick up Maria and the children, drop them off here. At least then Maria could call somebody to come help them. Some person who could add some certainty to the children’s already haphazard lives.

  After a moment of hesitation, I make a left onto the main road and drive north.

  Eight

  I head up the coast, using the main road most of the way. The sun is starting to rise, the sky getting even brighter. I keep checking the rearview mirror, but nobody seems to be following me. In fact, the highway is mostly deserted this early in the morning.

  When I’m several miles away from my next stop, I dig the transmitter out of my pocket, flick the tiny switch on the side, and put it in my ear.

  “Atticus.”

  Silence.

  I give it a couple seconds before trying again.

  “Atticus, are you there?”

  More silence. It lasts maybe ten seconds, and then there’s a crackle of static followed by a tired sigh.

  “What did you do with them?”

  Straight to the point—that seems to be Atticus’s style, at least from what I’ve been able to gather in the limited time I’ve known him.

  “Relax. Everything’s okay.”

  Another sigh.

  “Holly—”

  “I left them behind, okay? I took them up the coast and then I left them behind.”

  “You’re saying they accompanied you on the CRRC?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was unwise, Holly.”

  “The craft’s been destroyed.”

  “And? The idea was you would disappear. Yes, you may have destroyed the CRRC, but that doesn’t matter because now there are witnesses.”

  “The woman’s not going to say anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saved her life.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself?”

  “What did you want me to do, Atticus? Kill the woman and the children? Just put a
bullet between their eyes and move on? Is that what you would have done?”

  Atticus is silent for a moment. I can’t tell whether it’s because he’s actually considering the questions or giving me the extra moment to vent.

  He says, “You could have left them behind.”

  “And then what would have happened to them? More narcos would have shown up, and God only knows what they would have done to them.”

  “Where did you leave them?”

  Now it’s my turn to be silent.

  Atticus says, “Based on where you launched the CRRC, I’m guessing that’s where you left them. And if that’s the case, you essentially left them in the middle of nowhere.”

  I smack the steering wheel with my fist.

  “Goddamn it, Atticus, what would you have had me do? I couldn’t leave them behind, and I couldn’t bring them with me. So yes, I left them in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Was it the most ideal situation to leave them in? No, but it was my only choice.”

  The highway stretches out ahead of me. A town stands off in the distance, several miles away. I check the rearview mirror once again to make sure nobody’s behind me before I turn off into a field.

  Atticus says, “Where are you now?”

  “I’m about ready to make the switch.”

  “Very good. When do you anticipate you’ll cross the border?”

  “It’s, what, a twelve-hour drive from Culiacán? I plan to head straight out. I’m going to stop by my room first and take a quick shower. I got some blood in my hair that didn’t come out in the ocean. My luck, the border guards will notice it, so I might as well cross the border looking presentable. As we discussed, I’ll purchase a burner phone and call you and set up a time and place to meet James.”

  “James is already on the road. He has everything you’ll need. A new ID, new social security card, new bank card, new credit cards, everything. We’ve liquated all your accounts, paid off all your debts.”

  I say, “Goodbye, Holly Lin. What is my new name, anyway?”

  There’s a smile in Atticus’s voice when he answers.

  “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “I still think it’s bullshit I’m not able to pick my own name. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to change my name to Madonna.”

  “Good thing the choice isn’t up to you.”

  The car bounces up and down over the rugged terrain. I’m moving at a slow enough clip that not too large of a dust cloud spreads.

  “Thank you, Atticus.”

  “Of course, Holly. Good luck.”

  I pluck the transmitter out of my ear, flick the switch to turn it off. I toss it on the seat beside me as I steer the El Camino over a rise and down into a ditch. The dirt bike is still where I left it. I park the car beside it, kill the engine, and step out.

  I strip out of my clothes, put on new ones, and throw the dirty clothes into the car.

  In the back of the El Camino is another plastic container of gas. I douse the car, including the interior, and light a match and throw the match onto the driver’s seat.

  Wearing a new pair of gloves, I climb onto the dirt bike, start the engine, and drive back up the incline out of the ditch.

  I pause at the top of the rise to glance back down at the El Camino. The fire is going strong. The car will be found at some point, but by then all trace evidence—including my clothes and the transmitter—will have long been destroyed. Maybe a connection will be made to Ernesto Diaz, but most likely not. The nice thing about committing crime in Mexico is that it happens all the time. It’s almost impossible to connect dots when there are an infinite number of dots.

  The plan now is to ride to the next town. I’ll abandon the dirt bike and steal another car and drive that another twenty miles up the highway to the hotel I’d checked into two days ago. It’s not a nice hotel, but it’s not a shitty one either. It’s an anonymous hotel, one of hundreds. Assuming it hasn’t been stolen, my car is parked in the lot. I’ll drive north and cross the border and meet James, who has my new ID and other essentials to start a new life.

  Holly Lin will cease to exist.

  About time.

  Nine

  I park ten blocks away from the hotel. I’m wearing gloves, but I do my best to wipe the car down anyway—the steering wheel and gearshift and door—though part of me knows it won’t matter. The car will either get stolen again or it will remain abandoned for days and then stripped for parts. Doubtful the owner will ever find it. The old Holly Lin would worry about such things—maybe the owner needs the car for work, to get groceries—but the new Holly Lin (the Holly Lin that will soon no longer exist) has become much more selfish.

  It’s early morning and the sun is rising, the city starting to wake up and go about its day.

  I keep my head down the whole way to the hotel, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible while also keeping an eye out for any danger.

  I note the car I drove into Mexico is still in its spot. It’s not stolen—Atticus had arranged it for me, with clean tags and registration—but once I drive it back into the States it will be swapped with the car James is currently driving toward the border. He’ll take it and probably have it demolished. Not that it’s been used in any crime, but better safe than sorry.

  The do not disturb sign is still on my door. Good. It’s been that way the past two days. I’m sure the cleaning people love the fact they get to skip the room.

  I unlock the door and enter quietly, the SIG now held at the ready. I check the bathroom, then check the window overlooking the parking lot to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with. When I’m confident everything is secure, I chain the door, set the gun aside, and begin to strip out of my clothes.

  I keep the gun in the bathroom while I take a shower. The water is warm and pulsing and I’m so exhausted I could fall asleep under the spray, but I stay focused, washing my skin and hair clean, then step out of the shower, steam thick in the air, and wipe at the mirror to look at myself.

  Less than a week ago I had come face to face with a man who I had believed was dead. Zane, my boyfriend, my lover, the man who I thought my father had killed, had turned out to be a complete and utter asshole. He had taken David and Casey Hadden because I had messed up his operation and he wanted a flash drive, and I had to go to some pretty extreme lengths to retrieve that flash drive. Zane, unsurprisingly, was planning to kill the kids anyway, but I had managed to kill him. Not before he kicked the shit out of me first, which explained the bruising on my face and the broken rib. The rib will heal eventually, as will the bruises on my face. If I’m lucky there won’t be any scars, but if there are scars, then so be it. They won’t be my first, and they most certainly won’t be my last.

  I dry off and put on shorts and a T-shirt and light hoodie, socks and sneakers. Atticus had given me a fake ID for entering the country. My alias has everything: social media profiles, a job history, credit history, even transcripts from school. My name is Samantha Lu. I’m a graduate student on vacation using my time off to study the Mexican culture or some such bullshit.

  Once I’m dressed, I wipe down the room, even though, again, I doubt anything will come of it. I’m paid up for two more days, and I plan to keep the do not disturb sign on the door. I’ll leave the keys on the bed along with a nice tip. If anything else, the cleaning people will be happy.

  I keep the SIG secured to the back waistband of my shorts. I throw the backpack over my shoulder and exit the room, looking up and down the hallway. Nobody around except the cleaning cart propping a door open several rooms away.

  The car outside is a Honda Civic, maybe ten years old. Completely anonymous. When I had originally crossed the border, the CRRC was hidden in the trunk along with a suitcase. The weapons I had—the two pistols and garrote and knife—were hidden underneath the car. There hadn’t been much concern about being stopped and searched on my way into the country—nobody gives a shit what goes into Mexico—and I was waved through with ba
rely even a glance.

  Now I know leaving Mexico will be a piece of cake. Even if they search the Civic from top to bottom, nothing will be found. Most likely, I’ll just be waved through like before. I’ll meet up with James, swap out the car, get my new identity, and start my new life.

  I keep thinking about Maria and the children. The girl holding that water bottle, having not even cracked the cap yet.

  For all I know, they’re still at the place I left them. Or maybe they’ve walked to the closest town. Or maybe somebody came and picked them up and gave them a ride home.

  Or maybe somebody came and raped them, left them beaten and battered by that abandoned building to bake as the sun rose higher and higher in the pale sky.

  You promised to keep us safe.

  I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.

  The woman and the children are fine. They’re not my concern, anyway. I did all I could for them.

  I put the Civic in gear. I go two blocks when I spot the kid from the other day. He’s an early riser, apparently, already on the street corner hawking his fireworks.

  I stop the car, power down the passenger side window.

  “Hey, kid.”

  He smiles at me, already a natural salesman as he runs through his pitch.

  “Good morning, senorita. Would you like to buy some fireworks?”

  “Not today. But those firecrackers you sold me? They came in handy.”

  I toss him some pesos and power back up the window and keep driving down the street.

  A stop sign looms at the corner. I pause for traffic, and as I wait I glance at the rearview mirror and see the kid still on the sidewalk with his fireworks. He can’t be more than thirteen years old, much older than Jorge and Ana, much older than even David and Casey Hadden. For a moment I wonder if the kid has a loving family, whether his parents treat him right, and what inspires him to get up so early every morning to sell fireworks on the street.