The smile broadens across his face and he wears it proudly. “Hell yes, ma’am, it was a badass moment.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “So that’s what you do, go around defying death and rescuing women in distress.”
“Someone’s got to do it.”
I size him up. He’s a really big man—all muscle and might. He stands close to six feet two inches, anyway. His dark brown hair is cut military-style, and his green eyes seem to hold more laughter than violence. He has boyish good looks with a rugged man’s charm, and there’s a hint of tattoo showing on his neck where the bandana had been.
I need to change the subject. “Will the alligator die?”
“Why would he die?”
“You tied his mouth shut.” I still don’t know how he managed that feat.
“I tied it in a slipknot. He’ll get it undone soon enough.” He reaches down and grabs the oar before taking a seat. “Sit, we still have to get the hell out of Dodge.”
He starts to row and I peer off behind us. The light of the moon is brighter and lower than when we were first running. And with the turns, bends and land islands (for lack of the correct term), I can’t see any flashlight beams cutting through the shadows. But I can still hear the dogs. Their barks echo across the swamp.
I turn back decisively to try and figure out my . . . companion.
His powerful arms row the shoddy boat swiftly. On the downstroke, I notice streams of blood pressing out and escaping the cuffs of his shirt.
“You’re bleeding!” I exclaim.
“Yeah, Godzilla got a pretty good mouthful.”
“Oh my God, you were bit?” I freak. “We need to look at it!”
His features pinch in a look that says, don’t be ridiculous. “Why would we need to do that?”
The blood follows the direction of the woodgrain on the oar.
“I think you’re bleeding more than you want to admit.”
“I’ve bled worse, trust me,” he quips as if all of this is nothing. “Don’t look at me like that—I’d look at it just for you, but we don’t have time yet. Later,” he promises, and that’s the end of that.
“So, you really are a bounty hunter?”
“Tried and true.”
“Tell me your name again.”
“Ryder. Ryder Axton,” he reiterates. “And you are Rachel Farrington.”
“What were you doing there? In the house.”
“I was taking in Eduardo Miguel, who’s a fugitive wanted in connection with the murder of Drew Jameson and the disappearance of federal witness Rachel Farrington.”
“How did you know I was in there? Could you see me?”
“No, ma’am.” He goes serious. “I heard chains.”
“Oh.” I drop my head and automatically massage my wrists where the cuff had held me.
“My original plan was to capture Miguel. But rescuing you became my mission instead.”
“You know they’ll want to kill you now,” I warn.
“Let them come, I don’t give a fuck,” he states happily. “I love a good fight.”
I’d like to laugh at his light humor, but I can’t even crack a grin. The thought of them catching us makes me shudder.
“Did they hurt you? Did they . . .?” There’s caution in his question, like maybe he wants to know but doesn’t want the answer all at the same time.
I suck in a deep breath. “No. I’m actually—physically—okay. I thought I was going to get a lot worse. They hardly talked to me at all. The only one who really did was a man named Pedro—I think he had a mental disability. They used him to feed me and fetch my waste. He obviously didn’t like what they were doing with me.”
“Keeping you hostage, you mean?”
“That’s what I thought at first. I was . . . surprised they weren’t beating me or . . . raping me.” I switch my position on the boat seat uncomfortably. “They spoke in Spanish mainly and figured I didn’t. I never let them in on the fact that I understood everything they said.”
“That was smart of you. What did they say?”
“They were keeping me unharmed so they could ship me off to a . . .”—I crush my eyes closed at the idea of their horrible plan—“buyer. One of my guards hit me, but another one stopped him. Said someone in Mexico City was going to pay big money for me. They said something about the money helping Eduardo Miguel pay back a debt and make nice with some other leader.”
“That would be Cruz. El Carnicero.”
“Yes, that was the name they used,” I confirm. “Maybe Drew stole drugs from Eduardo Miguel, who owed them, or the money for them, to El Carnicero. I saw him—Eduardo Miguel—shoot Drew. Just . . . point blank. It’s the worst thing anyone could ever watch.”
He stays silent for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry you’ve gone through this.”
I nod a little. “I didn’t really even know Drew. We had English Lit together, that was it. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was just going to a party on campus, but I was late so I took a shortcut down the alley.”
“You were alone?”
“Stupid, I know.”
“Yeah, that was stupid. Don’t ever do that again.”