She moans again, agitated and in pain.
“Do you have a morphine shot?” I ask, trying not to be impatient. Ava’s in pain and they need to fucking hurry it up, though.
Bennito shuffles toward me. “Yeah, we’ve got five needles in Garcia’s Boy Scout pack.”
Hearing his name is like a dart to my heart. I’ve lost him but I can’t lose Ava.
I bite off the plastic protective cap and jab it into the inside of her arm. She screams at the sudden pain. Bennito winces and I bite my tongue to keep my own cries inside.
From past experience, the morphine shot will give her a couple of hours of relief at the most.
“Are there more supplies on the plane?”
“I think so. Garcia arranged for it.”
Of course he did. How I will function with him gone, I don’t know. I gather Ava in my arms.
“Let’s go. We can be in Miami in under eight hours. What’s the status of the other buyers?”
Before Bennito can answer, Norse reappears with Rodrigo behind him. They both have packs on their backs. “We need to evac ASAP,” Norse informs me. “The gunfire has attracted attention. If they think Duval is dead, they’ll take the information by force.”
I table my anguish and worry over Ava’s condition. Neither will help her now. I lay her on the dining table and slice off her housekeeping uniform. Norse hands me a sundress. With Bennito’s help, we get Ava dressed.
“If we carry her through the lobby, it will garner too much attention. On the other side of the cemetery is a main road. I’ll carry Ava through the cemetery. We’ll meet you at the end. The airport is only a few blocks from there.”
“What will you say if people ask questions?” Bennito says.
“Sunstroke. Go put this gun in Duval’s hand. If the resort wants to cover it up, they can call it a murder-suicide.”
Ava whimpers as I lift her in my arms. The sound tears in my gut. Steeling myself, I nod to let the men know I’m ready.
“Did you get everything, Bennito?”
“Yeah, the real receiver was under the window, and I put a dummy receiver back into the lamp. That might stall the buyers.”
“Good.”
I set off on a light jog trying to hold her against my chest as steadily as I can, but each step brings her pain. Her moans and tears that track down her face are worse than any knife wound or bullet that I’ve ever endured. I whisper encouragement to her. “After this you will be able to survive anything—earthquakes, tornadoes, you name it. You’ve been thrown in the fire and you’ve been polished into the sharpest, strongest steel.”
She doesn’t respond coherently and halfway there she finally passes out. With a prayer upward, I give thanks because I couldn’t withstand another step of her painful sounds.
I’ve lost people that I care about, and Garcia’s death would leave an opening in my heart that would never heal. But Ava is different. Her loss would be the end of me.
There was one older couple that came to the Tears of God favela years ago. He was old and his wife was dying. He wanted to ease her suffering. He knew, and so did she, that there was no hope of recovery, and they sought only palliative medication so that her death was easy.
He was in perfect health but the night that she died, he lay beside her, holding her hand, and his heart went with her. We found them both the following morning, clutched together, passing into the next life in the only way that they would have wanted.
I suspect that is what mine would do should she die. My heart would go with hers. But she is not going to die. A gunshot wound to her shoulder that passed through from front to back will not kill her. An infection and complications from the wounds would kill her but not the gunshot itself. We have a small hospital on the island. People who are involved in dangerous things need to know how to repair their bodies without alerting authorities. We will fly to Miami, refuel, and then to the island—we should be there in ten hours. I can keep her alive for ten hours.
We run past small concrete altars and granite headstones. Some areas are well tended and others are worn and covered in weeds and dirt. Her head lolls against my shoulder as I move swiftly through the graveyard.
Death’s not taking us today.
A blur of motion on my left has me dropping to my knees. Fouquet. I release my precious bundle and crouch in front of her. I haven’t come this far to die at this man’s hands.
I charge him before he can shoot. His first bullet hits the ground and the next one pings off a granite headstone. No wonder he uses his fists. He’s a god-awful shot. I plow into him, taking him to the ground. He manages to hang on to the gun, which he pounds ineffectually into my back. I grind a knee into his shoulder and slam one meaty fist into his face. And then another and another until he’s comatose underneath me. I pick up the gun that has fallen out of his hands and shoot him in the head and the heart. I’m not leaving anyone behind that can come after us.