Anything to get rid of him. She put an arm around him gingerly and continued forward. His motions were stiff, as if blood loss had seized his muscles. Cramping was common after a traumatic injury. His body was shutting down.
They crossed the short distance with some difficulty. The sun beat down on the crown of her head and traffic sounds roared in her ears. Cars darted through the nearby midsection. People living their everyday lives, oblivious to her plight.
“Get down,” he growled suddenly.
She ducked behind her car with him as two police cruisers drove by. She watched them through the dusty back window of her Volvo. When the coast was clear, he straightened and directed her toward the passenger side. His eyes were dull from pain, forehead dotted with sweat. She didn’t guess his intentions until it was too late. As soon as she opened the door for him, he pushed her in.
Tears of shock and dismay filled her eyes. “No,” she cried. “Please, no.”
He pointed the gun at her. “Scoot over and drive.”
She shook her head. No, no, no. This was not okay. She’d read somewhere that abductions were rarely survivable. The best option was to fight before you got shoved into a car. But she was already inside, staring down the barrel of a gun.
“Please,” she said again.
He just looked at her. Waiting for her to comply. There was no hint of compassion in his eyes, just impatience. He was going to take her hostage because it was his only option. It was this or the police, and he’d rather die than get arrested.
He’d rather kill.
She scrambled across the cab and climbed behind the wheel. He eased into the passenger seat. She found her keys clutched in her hand. She wanted to open the driver’s side door and run. He aimed the barrel at her right thigh, as if he wouldn’t hesitate to hobble her. She wasn’t brave enough to test his resolve. Fingers trembling, she started the engine.
“To the border,” he said. “Then you can go.”
She didn’t believe him. Fuck you, she wanted to scream. Fuck you and your drug war or mass murder or whatever you’re into. She thought of her parents, who hadn’t wanted her to move to Chula Vista or work in a questionable neighborhood.
“It’s perfectly safe,” she’d assured them.
Perfectly safe.
The phone in her purse chimed with a text-message notification as she merged onto the freeway. Probably the receptionist from the clinic. Maybe her mother, who called once a week, or the guy she’d just met on that dating website. They were supposed to get together for a drink tomorrow night. Would she be alive tomorrow night?
Oh God. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Her kidnapper grabbed the phone from her purse, read the message, and chucked it out the window.
All of her contacts, music, notes, apps. Everything. Gone.
She wanted to protest, but she was too afraid to speak. She was trapped. Frozen with fear, jaw clenched tight.
Just get through this, she said to herself. Just get through it.
She didn’t know why she kept repeating that mantra. She expected him to kill her as soon as they crossed the border into Mexico, so she shouldn’t be so eager to get there. If she tried to wreck the car or flag down a cop, her kidnapper might shoot her on the spot. She clenched her hands around the wheel and drove south at a moderate speed, unable to think of a way to escape.
He didn’t seem anxious. He settled into the seat and rested his gun on his abdomen, pointed at her casually. His eyes were half-lidded. She hoped he’d slip into a coma, or just fucking die, but she wasn’t counting on it. He had a coarse, indestructible look to him.
When she was about twelve, her parents had hired a gardener to tear out a thorny bush in their front yard. He’d killed a rattlesnake with his shovel and showed it to her. Even after he’d removed the head, the snake’s body continued to writhe.
This man reminded her of that snake.
She didn’t get stopped at the border. There was no customs inspection, no questions, just an impatient wave-through. She’d never been to Tijuana before and it was total chaos. The traffic rules were beyond her comprehension. She slowed down out of caution and heard about twelve angry honks. Smothering a cry of distress, she continued forward.
Her passenger shifted in his seat and directed her through a series of turns. His words were slurred, his grip on lucidity slipping. Some of his instructions were in Spanish, incomprehensible. He led her into the bowels of the city, down dirt roads and narrow streets, past industrial zones and bustling shantytown neighborhoods. Then they reached the Pacific Ocean, with its fish-salt smell and stucco-facade hotels. He seemed to fade in and out, but never quite gave up the ghost.
“Turn left,” he mumbled, pointing at a road that curved alongside the coastal bluffs. They entered a secluded area that reminded her of Chula Vista’s Telegraph Canyon. Wind-carved hills and sagebrush mixed with sandy earth.
“Aquí,” he said finally. “The black gate.”
A tall cast-iron gate stood in front of a long driveway. She pulled into the space next to a security console. He fumbled in his pocket for a black, rectangle-shaped object. After a few clumsy tries, he shoved it into the chamber of the gun.
She stared at him in horror. This whole time, his gun hadn’t even been loaded.
And now it was.
“Are you going to kill someone?” she asked.
“Not you, mariposa.”
A wave of dismay coursed through her. She’d misunderstood his intentions. He hadn’t come here to lick his wounds and lay low. He’d come to wreak more havoc and destruction. He’d used her to aid his escape. She’d expedited his next murder.
“Thanks for the ride,” he said politely, as if she’d done it by choice. Then he opened the door, struggled to a standing position…and went down like a ton of bricks.