“This is the girl! I have seen her before!” The muzzle slides down my forehead, bruising my temple. “Come on, bitch! Or you’ll have a hole in your head!”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, like crickets singing in the background of a Southern front porch conversation, I can hear Evan imploring the other guard to listen to him. He says that I'm his wife, and we're headed back to our house in California.
I want to cry, because I want it to be true. But my emotions have dried up. My mind is only capable of processing the simplest facts. The one that stands out is: Evan will fight them for me. He won’t let them take me; he’ll fight, and he’ll get shot. This gives me the strength to hold my hand up, signaling my gunman to lower his gun, and swing shakily off the bike. Despite my determination to surrender, my legs are weak as jelly. I collapse into the guard, who scoops me up under his arm and starts to run.
I shut my eyes. This can't be real. This isn't real.
I picture Evan and me, back on the motorcycle, both wearing bullet-proof vests. In my re-creation of our fate, when the faux guards pull out their guns, Evan just jets past them, through the gate that would have swung down over us. They're lousy shots and all their bullets miss us. In real life, I'm panting, probably close to passing out from fear. I've surrendered fully, accepting my fate, but I want to stay awake. I combat my near-debilitating terror by remembering the feel of Evan's warm, hard abs underneath my hands.
From somewhere close, I hear screaming. The shrieking peel of rubber on asphalt. Gunfire. Evan!
Don't open your eyes.
I tell myself the sound of whirring tires was Evan, jetting past the border.
It's time to go. Time to go to God.
I open my eyes with a plan to fight my captor. That way, I'll get shot and die without the rape I know is coming.
Cross
THE GUARD WHOSE gun was in my face is bleeding all over the ground, his forehead ripped open like a busted watermelon. The other still has Merri. She's tucked under his arm like a football. He is running toward another fence, behind which is a navy blue Range Rover with shiny rims. As I gas the Mach and fly toward Merri, thugs dressed in military gear pour out of the Range Rover and start to run toward her, too.
Fuck no they won't. She's mine!
I lean forward, pressing the weight of my body against the handles so I have better balance, and with my right hand, I raise the stolen semi and spray all of them with bullets.
It's a risky move. One, because I wobble on the bike and almost crash. Two because the ones that don't fall, fire back. I feel a searing pain in my right calf but I can't think about that now. One of the car's passengers—a woman with long, black and white striped hair and a bullet-proof vest—is almost to Merri. It takes everything I have to raise the gun again with only my right hand and aim at just her.
As I pull the trigger, I actually pray. Please, God.
I only have enough strength in my arm to pull the trigger once. Somehow, the woman falls.
The other thugs running toward Merri start to scream and wail, but my eyes are trained on Merri. Her long, red hair ripples in the hot wind. Her legs kick. Her hands claw her captor’s arm. He yells something.
I try to follow her as I swerve to dodge bullets. One thing they're screaming makes it through my head:
“CHRISTINA...”
“Christina, Christina!”
“Christina! No! No!”
I remember the name Christina. That's Jesus's sister.
I feel another bite of fire, this time near my throat. Adrenaline sweeps through me, and I make a bold decision. I point the bike at Merri and her captor, and I surge forward, toward them. When I'm close enough, I aim at the bastard’s head and slam on my brakes as Merri tumbles to the ground.
Merri
I OPEN MY eyes, and all I see is ground and sky, flipping like I'm rolling down a steep hill. Pain shoots through my body—stinging, tearing pain—and I realize that's because I'm rolling on asphalt.
“MERRI! COME ONE! GET ON THE BIKE!”
That's Evan's voice. Blearily, I note some of the cartel’s remaining higher-ups running toward us. I feel heat shoot through my hair and smell the bullet as I whirl around to find Evan, wide eyed and urgent, on his bike.
“GET ON!”
He can't help me and balance the bike at the same time. He's holding the phony guard's light-weight semi-automatic rifle with his right hand in the most awkward position I've ever seen in my life. The second my butt touches his bike seat, we shoot off like we're on the back of a runaway horse. Bullets follow us, pinging against the bike's metal. Ripping, again, through the curtain of my hair. Hitting Evan’s right shoulder.